Brave Enough to Burn
One of Clint’s best ideas ever was becoming a professional dog walker. What’s not to like? He gets to play with dogs every day and he gets paid for the privilege. If he had ever imagined that playing with dogs professionally was a thing when he was a kid, it would have been his number one dream job. Well, number 2 – right after professional superhero. But who’d want him as a superhero? A guy with no special powers whose number one claim to fame is being really good at shooting arrows.
Luckily, dog walking is a job that even a guy who was raised in the circus is qualified to do – so long as his sealed juvie record stays sealed.
It’s a beautiful summer day, the sun is shining, the skies are blue, and Clint has three dogs with him, not including Lucky. He stops to get an ice cream, because it’s that sort of day, though chocolate sauce and sprinkles are denied him by a chronic lack of pocket change.
He’s trying not to think about when the other shoe will drop. It’s a good day, and he’s determined to keep it that way as long as possible.
Of course, that’s when the other shoe does drop. Noisily. With robots.
Living in New York there’s always a chance you’ll run into some superhero – or super villain – action. It’s a risk you take every time you step out your front door.
But rent’s really low, so there are up sides.
Naturally Dr McCrazyPants (probably not his real name, but Clint’s pretty sure supervillains are scraping the bottom of the barrel these days) has chosen this exact time on this exact day in this exact park to unleash his masterplan.
Clint’s unsure what the details of that masterplan might be, but it definitely involves robots.
With flamethrowers.
Fuck.
*
Robots again. Bucky’s not judging these guys on their originality, but if he were, he might think that they should possibly mix it up a bit. This is the third lot of robots this month. Can no one genetically engineer a giant slug monster, or something?
On second thoughts, a giant slug monster sounds horrendous. He’ll keep the robots, thanks.
He punches the head off one and reaches down its neck to rip out some components that seem important.
The flamethrowers are new, he’ll give them that.
It’s Steve who spots him first, while Bucky’s busy playing ‘my robotic limb is better than yours’.
“Winter Soldier!” he shouts, his Cap voice in full force. The first few times Bucky had heard him talk like that, he’d had to bit his lips to keep himself from laughing out loud in front of all of the brass. “To the right!” Steve continues. “In the park!” Bucky’s not sure he’s using enough exclamation marks.
Bucky reacts automatically, though. It’s instinctive to follow Captain America’s commands after all these years, even if he is just Stevie dressed up in a Hallowe’en costume.
When he makes it round the corner into the park, it takes him a second to get his bearings, because there’s one of the robots, sure enough, flamethrower at the ready and pointing directly at a tiny ball of fluff that seems to be… growling and barking at it.
Bucky hears the distinctive whine of the flamethrower gearing up to make pooch en flambé, but before he can do anything, there’s a guttural yell from the far side of the clearing.
“Mr Fluffles! No!”
Out of nowhere a blur of purple, bad ideas and good intentions that sometimes answers to the name of Clint, flings itself at the robot.
Bucky’s heart stops. The robot stops. The dog stops.
Then motion comes rushing back with a series of sickening sounds.
A whoosh of air, a surprised cry, a sickening crunch and a pained grown, followed by that whine from the flamethrower again, as Clint is thrown across the clearing into a tree and the robot takes aim.
Bucky almost doesn’t make it in time. The flamethrower flares into life before he can reach the robot – he knows his bullets will only bounce off, and ricochets are a bitch – he hears another shout of pain and a canine yelp of fear.
The crash as Bucky’s metal fist punches straight through the chest plate of the robot resounds through the park. And he keeps hitting as sparks fly around him, until it hits the ground and shakes the trees with the impact.
He tears his arm out of it and runs back to Clint, who is curled in a ball on the ground. The shirt’s burnt off his back, the skin underneath is red and blistered, second degree burns at least. The air hands heavy with the stench of burning flesh. What does it say about Bucky that that doesn’t make him wretch anymore?
He opens his mouth to say Clint’s name, then realises that the Winter Soldier wouldn’t use that name, wouldn’t necessarily even know that name.
Clint’s not making any noise. That’s not good. If he’s not in pain, that means the burns are full thickness. But he should still be feeling something. There are parts of his skin that aren’t burnt at all, the edges. Then Bucky notices the expression on Clint’s face, screwed up, his eyes tight shut, clearly in pain, but silent.
Most people, when they’re in pain, they make noise. They scream, they sob, they moan. It’s a survival instinct to call for help. All that’s coming from Clint now are those muffled grunts Bucky knows all too well. He understands about not shouting out and smothering your pain instead. He knows what it takes to bury that instinct to cry out deep down inside you. The fact that Clint knows that too… his hands clench into fists at the thought of what he’d do to the people who taught this man that drawing attention to his pain would make it worse.
“Ambulance is on its way, Frosty,” Stark says over the comms. “How bad does it look?”
Bucky forces the calm over himself, forces his brain to assess this as ‘wounded civilian’, not ‘hurt Clint’, and he reels off his assessment as he kneels next to Clint on the ground.
He rests his hand on Clint’s cheek and blue eyes snap open, alert and suspicious. Bucky pulls his hand back placating.
Clint mutters something.
“What?” Bucky asks, signing as well, because Clint’s aids have got to be out of action.
“Mr Fluffles,” Clint says. The words don’t register in Bucky’s brain for a moment, until he remembers Clint’s battle cry from before. The dog. The damn dog.
“I’m sure he’s fine,” Bucky says and signs.
“Gotta find him,” Clint says and he’s pushing himself to his feet.
“No. Fuck. Stop!” Bucky says, grasping Clint by the shoulders as gently as he can. “I’ll find him. I’ll find the fucking dog, just get down.” Clint can’t see his mouth to read his lips, though, and his hands are taken up with holding him back, so the words are lost.
Or they’re lost to Clint, anyway.
“What’s this, Winter Soldier?” Stark asks, and Bucky realises his comms are still on. “Are we doing pet rescue now, too? Is there a cat in a tree somewhere you need to get down?”
“Shut up, Iron man,” Bucky growls. “You get Clint to a hospital. I’ll find the damn dog.”
“This is the infamous Clint?” Stark asks. Bucky’s gonna kill Steve because he sure as hell didn’t tell Stark about Clint.
“Don’t even think about starting,” Bucky says. His tone must be severe because Stark backtracks almost immediately.
“Hey, no. Cheer up, Marshmallow. He’s gonna be right as rain. I know people. You just find the pooch. Cap and I have got this.”
Bucky growls again, but Tony’s dropping down into the clearing, so he lets go of Clint and turns to the park. It can’t be that difficult to find a dog answering to the name of Mr Fluffles.
*
When Clint wakes up, he’s in the fanciest hospital room he’s ever seen and there are doctors and nurses telling him things about burn treatments and a busted up shoulder, and staying away from killer robots from now on. You can always count on doctors to give you the best advice.
It all looks very expensive and Clint is hideously aware of his pretty much non-existent health insurance.
He’s about to ask when the door to his room bursts open and a man walks in. It’s not a man Clint’s expecting, though he’d be hard pressed to know who he’d expect in a place like this… Natasha, maybe, Kate, perhaps. It’s neither of them. Who it is, is Tony Stark.
Clint gapes at him.
“Hi there, Lois Lane,” Stark says cheerfully. “Good. You’re awake!” He barely looks up from the phone in his hands as he makes his declaration.
“Uh,” Clint says, the soul of eloquence as always.
“The doctors say you’ll be in for another few days at least.” Clint feels his heart speed up at the thought of paying for another few days of this place. Another implies that he’s already been there for days. Screw having a roommate, Clint’s gonna need to win the lottery to get out of this one.
“That’s really not… I’ll be fine,” Clint says, sitting up. His back throbs.
“Yeah, no. Not that I don’t get the sentiment, Turner, hospitals are horrible.” Stark makes a face. “But you’ve just undergone experimental burn treatments and your bones were… Look, if you don’t stay here, the Winter Soldier’s going to kill me and Captain America will give me the sad eyes while he does it. Have you ever seen Cap’s sad eyes? They’re a menace. Good thing he’s on our side, or he’d have world domination in the bag. They make you feel this big.” He holds up his fingers, a few millimetres apart.
“Stark!” Clint says to cut through the bullshit coming out of the guy’s mouth. “I’d love to stay, but seeing as how some of us don’t have a spare million in pocket change to spend on a new car or, I don’t know, a hospital bill, I don’t think that’s really going to be possible.”
“What?” Stark blinks at him. “Oh, you’re worried about the bills. Don’t. It’s handled.” He waves a hand dismissively.
Clint mouths ‘handled’ to himself, then repeats it out loud. Stark actually pauses to look at him.
“You were injured as a direct result of a conflict between the Avengers and one of their enemies. All fees and costs resulting from your injury are covered by the Maria Stark Foundation.”
“Oh,” Clint says. That’s… amazing.” His chest feels lighter all at once. “What about my job?”
“Which one? The archery or the dog walking? We spoke to your colleagues at the archery centre; they’ve got you covered. You’re officially on paid sick leave.” Clint’s pretty sure the centre doesn’t do paid sick leave. “And I think one of your friends was handling the dogs.”
The dogs. That sparks something in Clint’s memory. Something important.
“Can I just ask, about the archery thing?” Stark says.
“Got a feeling I couldn’t stop you if I tried.”
“How do you get into that? I mean, it’s pretty niche. Maybe if you went to boarding school, one of the posh ones, I can see that being an option, but you don’t seem like the boarding school type.”
“Run away to the circus,” Clint says, deadpan. Stark eyes him curiously, then nods.
The memory comes back to Clint in a flash.
“Mr Fluffles!”
“Mr what now?” Stark asks. “I’ve been called some weird pet names before, but that’s a new one, even to me. I guess my hair has grown out a bit.” He swipes a hair over the mess of dark hair on his head.
“No, the Pomeranian,” Clint says.
“Oh. The dog. In the park.” Realisation washes over Stark’s face. “He’s fine. They’re all fine. In fact–” Stark cuts himself off and taps at his phone for a second before turning to the TV screen behind him.
Clint follows his gaze as the screen comes to life, a picture appearing on it. It shows the Winter Soldier, definitely him, from the black leather, shiny metal arm and dark hair falling over a face mostly covered with a black mask and goggles. Clutched in his arms is a tiny Pomeranian that Clint recognises instantly. He really hopes Mr Fluffles didn’t pee on him.
Although… that would be hilarious.
The Winter Soldier is holding Mr Fluffles.
“That’s a pretty photogenic dog,” Stark says. “Of course, I’m sworn to keep this picture private. Can’t have it getting out that the Snowdrift’s only icy on the outside. It would ruin his rep. But you don’t count as public.”
What does Clint count as then? He’s not sure what that’s supposed to mean, but the picture’s adorable.
“You want a copy?” I can send you one.”
Clint’s not sure he’ll need blackmail material on the Winter Soldier, but he’s certainly not going to say no.