Clint damn Barton
He all but drags himself to consciousness. The air around him is thick with the headiness of smoke, making him cough and splutter. He’s on his side, and his whole body is screaming with pain. There are embers burning through the dust, ash raining down from the sky. The Hummer is turned on its side, belly blown to bits, and he’s sure he can see what’s left of one of his men dangling from the passenger seat.
He squeezes his eyes shut, gritting his teeth and steeling himself to move. He tries his legs first - there is the telltale sting of open wounds, but nothing bone-deep. He feels relief flood through him, just for a moment. He moves his hips next, then works his way up to his shoulders. He freezes. Bile rises is his throat and his vision swims.
Pain hits him like the floodgates opening to a dam. He doesn’t scream, but he comes close. He thinks he’s delirious. He twists his head around and looks, even though he doesn’t want to. One of his eyes is swollen shut, but he can see very, very clearly out of the other.
His left arm is gone. He’s bleeding profusely and somewhere amidst the panic he knows he should try stop it. Apply pressure. Wrap it up. Instead of doing any of that, he screams. In hindsight, he wishes more than he’s ever wished for anything that he’d stayed quiet and let himself bleed to death. Instead, he screams and screams and screams.
Boots crunch in the sand and despite being in the desert, he feels cold.
Hands grab at him, drag him through the dirt and agony tears through him. Through the haze of terror and searing pain he thinks he sees his arm lying in the dust.
He’s not screaming when he wakes up, but he sure as hell is panicking. He shoots into a standing position, scrabbling for a knife or a gun or anything, but as soon as his hands close around a handle he’s calming down. He’s breathing too hard and too fast and his head is spinning, but all he can do is close his eyes and sink back down to the ground.
He presses his back against the alley wall, drops the knife and buries his face in his hand. There’s nothing to do about the nightmares - flashbacks? - that come every night. Each and every one of them are a play-by-play of some event in a past he doesn’t remember, something that led to him being where he is now.
He shakes his head and huffs out a breath, which forms a cloud in front of his face. The night is freezing and he’s not sure where the day went, but it’s time to move again. He stands, slinging his backpack across his shoulders and heading off down the alleyway, an address shining in his mind.
The walk to the apartment building takes half an hour and by the time he gets there it’s pitch black out. He goes in through the front door, taking the stairs up to the top level. He wanders down the hall till he finds the apartment number he’s looking for and raps his knuckles against the door. He shifts his weight to one leg, waiting for the occupant to let him in.
The door swings open only a moment later and the smell of coffee hits him like a train. The shorter, blond-haired man looks up at him with one eyebrow raised. He’s got a black eye and a bruised cheek decorated with butterfly stitches and his face lights up in a grin the moment he takes the sight of Winter in. There’s not too many people who have that reaction to seeing him.
“Nikolayev,” Clint Barton greets, glancing around the hallway subtly before stepping aside to let him in.
Winter snorts, brushing past him and setting his bag down. “God, I can’t remember the last time I used that name,” he says, heading for the couch.
The coffee table is covered in files and forged documents, along with coffee mugs and what looks like the specs for a new quiver of specially made arrows. Clint hobbles after him, favouring his left leg. “It’s the last one I remember making for you, anyhow. What have you been up to? It’s been at least a year.”
“Mercenary work again, mostly,” Winter offers up, reaching down to undo his boots.
Clint snorts. “Same group you got me into trouble with?”
“That was entirely your own fault, Barton. You didn’t have to buy the damn building.”
Clint just flops down on the couch beside Winter, kicking his feet up on the coffee table and huffing out a sigh. “What’re you looking for this time? Place to lay low? A new apartment just opened up a level down. Or is it some more papers?”
“Papers,” Winter sighs, taking a moment to look around the apartment. It hasn’t changed at all since last time - still in complete disarray.
Clint nods, finding some paper and a pen from the mess on the coffee table. “Got anything in mind?”
“I wanna come back to Brooklyn,” Winter decides, though he hadn’t actually thought about it till now. It feels like the place to be. The decision makes him uneasy.
Even Clint looks a little suspicious, but he doesn’t say anything. “Alright, American then? What background are you going for? Got a name?”
Winter shrugs. “Run wild. I’m gonna crash out in your spare room for tonight. How backed up are you with orders? How long’s this gonna take?”
Clint’s jotting things down, hand flying across the paper. “For you, I can get this done in two days. Help yourself to the fridge, I went shopping yesterday,” he offers, before settling into the couch and grabbing a laptop from the floor.
Winter just nods and gets up off the couch, knowing when to leave the man to his work. He and Clint has met seven years ago when Winter (known as soldat at the time) had stumbled his way into America with a blank slate of a mind. Clint had been working the same job he was now, had made up some papers and an identity for Winter without being asked, had handed them to him after a few days of Winter recovering on his couch.
The rest is history.
He cracks open a can of soup and chucks it in the microwave, eyes skimming over the mess of folders on Clint’s benchtop. If any branch of the law found reason to raid Clint’s home, they’d hit the jackpot. There’s stolen information, files and files of top secret stuff, folders and filing cabinets of fake identities and who knows what else. He’s the best of the best at what he does, but Winter’s not exactly sure what that is.
As he’s spooning soup into his mouth half-heartedly, he heads over to the window and ducks through it to the fire escape. He looks over the city below and in front of him and takes a deep breath. The best thing about changing identities is forgetting that you ever had a real one. You forget the things that happened in your past, because you have a new one. You get to move into a new town, make new acquaintances and tell them what you want, because you’re making up your life as you go.
Winter gets to forget that he can’t remember anything past seven years ago, anyway.
He finishes his soup, climbs back inside and rinses the bowl in the sink. Clint’s tapping away on the laptop, oblivious to what’s happening around him. Winter makes sure the front doors locked and grabs his stuff, heading to the spare room. He strips his clothes and slides under the blankets, wondering what nightmares will come to him tonight.
*
Consciousness comes to him in fragments, flitting away and then returning, hitting him like a brick. He forces his eyes open, winces as the lights - fluorescent, painfully bright - shine right in his eyes. He’s - where is he? He tries to look around, but the moment he does he realises he’s restrained - strapped down to a metal slab. He closes his eyes again, tries to breathe evenly.
He’s been here for a while.
Sometimes it takes him a few hours to remember everything, but this time it takes him a few moments. He clenches his remaining fist, glaring at nothing behind his eyelids. At least there’s no one in the room this time. He tests the restraints half-heartedly, knows there’s no point. He’s not sure how long he’s going to have to lay here before he either falls asleep again or someone comes in. He never does.
He gets his answer approximately half an hour later when a door swings open and footsteps echo through the room. There’s more than one person and they’re talking in Russian, which is the only language he’s heard since he got here. God, how long has it even been? Long enough to know that no one’s coming for him.
They undo the straps, force him to stand. He doesn’t bother fighting - he gave up hope that he could ever stop them from doing something they wanted to do to him ages ago. They half walk him half drag him out of the room, down a hall and into another room. He keeps his eyes glued to the floor. They don’t like it when he tries to look around.
He’s chained by his ankles, the restraints connected to the concrete. He’s handed a gun and left alone. He stares at the weapon blankly and waits. The door opens again ninety-seven seconds later and the sound of a struggle follows. The same men as before are dragging in someone with a sack over their head. They must be gagged, because they don’t make a sound.
The person is handcuffed to a chair and told something is Russian, something that makes them stop struggling and start shaking. He - he’s forgotten his name? He’s not sure when that happened. He stays looking at the floor, waiting.
“Soldat?” is asked of him.
Maybe that’s his name. That’s all they use to address him with. He knows what to do, in this situation. He looks up, raises the gun, aims and shoots. The person in the chair is dead instantly, and then he’s being unchained from the floor and taken to another room. He catches sight of the Chair, can’t help the flinch. The hand on his bicep tightens and he grits his teeth.
He’s sat down and restrained methodically. This happens every day, but he’s not used to it. He never will get used to it, he thinks. Sometimes he forgets this happens until he’s actually in the Chair. Something is barked in Russian, and the Chair flickers to life, whining and whirring.
Electricity crackles in his ears and metal clamps over his head. He screams. He always does.
He’s tangled in the sheets and blankets when he wakes up, fighting against them and breathing hard. Sunlight streams in through the open curtains, undulating clouds making patterns on the carpet. He focuses on the movement, slows his breathing back down to normal. He’s drenched in sweat again, whole body shaking.
He huffs out sigh of annoyance and gets up, shoving the blankets off of him. He heads straight for the shower, taking his backpack with him. He washes the dream away, shaking it from his mind. He only ever gets bits of his past when he dreams. He’s not even sure they’re real, despite how vivid they are. Sometimes he’ll dream of torture, of being cut and sliced and burned and he’ll wake up and run his fingers over scars that match the dream-wounds.
After his shower he takes all his dirty clothes and heads downstairs, chucking them all in a washing machine before returning to Clint’s apartment. Clint’s bedroom door is closed, signalling that he’s finally getting some sleep, so Winter settles down on the couch and pulls out the two handguns from his backpack.
He clears a spot on the coffee table and goes hunting for cleaning supplies. Clint has them in the same cupboard as his pots and pans and Winter rolls his eyes before returning to the couch. He buries himself in carrying out maintenance of his weapons, thoroughly cleaning the guns and after that, the knives as well.
His stomach growling rouses him from the methodic polishing of a blade. He scowls for a moment before packing everything away and getting started on breakfast. Clint still hasn’t come out of his room, so Winter just figures he’d been up for a couple of days. Winter puts the coffee pot on and grabs out a frying pan while he puts away the weapon cleaning supplies.
He cracks a few eggs into the pan once it’s warmed up, sipping at a mug of coffee. There’s not much else in Clint’s cupboards despite his claims of recently going shopping. He finds a loaf of bread and tries to hunt down a toaster, but there isn’t one, so he resolves by making french toast. Clint has a whole draw full of spices and herbs, even though Winter knows the guy doesn’t cook.
He’s just finishing up with the french toast when Clint’s door opens and the man comes stumbling out wearing nothing but boxers. He’s rubbing at his eyes and yawning and there’s pen on his face, but as soon as he sees the food he looks like he’s had three cups of coffee already. He high-tails it over to the kitchen, eyeing up the coffee pot, clearly deciding if he can steal some from the guy who kills people for a living.
Winter snorts. “It’s your building, man, go for it,” he says, grabbing another plate and piling it up with the rest of the food.
Clint grabs the pot and instead of grabbing a mug just taking a sip straight from the thing. Winter rolls his eyes, pushing the plate over to him. “Thanks, man,” Clint mumbles out from around half an egg.
“How far along are you with the papers?” Winter asks, checking the draws for knives and forks. Clint clearly doesn’t bother with them.
“I’m finished with the online half and I’ll be able to send away the stuff for physical copies in about two hours. Should be back by tomorrow. Also, your name is James Barnes and you’re a personal trainer who just moved back from DC. You’re turning twenty-eight in a month,” Clint rambles, taking bites of french toast in between breaths.
Winter - James - raises an eyebrow, giving up on the knives and forks. “A personal trainer?” he asks. “A one-armed personal trainer?”
Clint shrugs. “You’re built. I took it and ran.”
James rolls his eyes. “Where am I from?”
“American - Brooklyn born and bred, my man. You can spit out some story about wanting to get back to your roots. Where did you find cinnamon in this place?”
James gives him a stink-eye. “You have a draw of herbs and spices.” Clint just looks at him, so James figures he’s either forgotten or didn’t even know how they’d gotten there in the first place. James finishes up his breakfast and reaches for his coffee. “I’m going new-identity shopping today. Do you need anything?”
Clint shakes his head. “Nah, I’m just gonna hunker down and get some other orders through at the same time as yours. Don’t kill anyone who comes by, okay? I’m expecting a few people.”
“I’d have to be paid, first,” James shoots back, putting his dishes in the sink and heading back to his room for his wallet.
If Clint says something back, James doesn’t hear it. When he leaves the apartment, Clint’s already put another pot of coffee on and is pouring over the mess of papers on the bench. Shaking his head, James pulls up his hood and heads down the stairs and out onto the street. He’s headed to a clothes department first and as he walks there he creates a past for James Barnes in his head.
He was born in Brooklyn and he’s twenty-eight in a month, which makes his birthday fall on March tenth. The personal trainer thing was a good idea on Clint’s part - James just had to make up everything else. He had left Brooklyn to get out and see the world, headed to DC for a job up there. He’d found himself not enjoying it too much so, what? He’d moved back? And now he was unemployed and currently job hunting.
He needs to find a flat, as well.
James looks up at the clothes store he stops in front of, narrowing his eyes. He has no idea what kind of clothes James Barnes wears. He sighs and walks in, very conscious of the fact that he looks homeless right now. Whatever.
“Can I help you, sir?” comes from his left.
James looks over at the employee, frowning. “I’m just browsing, thanks,” he says, a Brooklyn accent sliding over his words. It had previously been laced with Russian, as his ‘Winter’ identity had been the ‘Russian guy you’d call if you needed someone to get their hands dirty for you’.
“Alright, I’ll be over here if you need anything,” the employee says with a smile far too bright to be real.
James just nods and wanders over to the men's clothes, eyes taking in the choices. The hell would James Barnes wear? He heads over to the jeans, first - that was always a safe choice. He picks out a few that would hug his legs but be comfortable around his waist, throwing in a cheaper pair he wouldn’t mind getting ruined.
He finds a few tops as well, and a jacket for good measure. He figures sneakers would be something a personal trainer would own, so he gets a pair of those and then heads to the checkout. The employee ringing up his items doesn’t look at him once, and he gets out of there quickly.
Next, he heads to an Apple store. Thanks to his last job his pocket is practically burning, so he splashes out on a phone. He wanders around the city, picking up things James Barnes needs, including a haircut. It’s nearing five when he’s finished, so he returns to Clint’s building, arm straining under the weight of the bags.
He dumps his shit on the ground the moment he gets inside and flops down on the couch a second later. Clint doesn’t look up, just carries on with whatever he’s doing. “Barton, do you have a razor somewhere?” James asks.
Clint just points at the bathroom and James groans before getting up again and forcing himself to have a shave. James Barnes likes to be clean shaven, he decides.
He has dinner - pizza with Clint - before heading to bed and crashing again for the night.