Chapter Text
Clint was expecting the knock on his door.
He was expecting a delivery, even.
He was not expecting to see the big, earnest, familiar face on the other side instead of one of the Travers’ boys with his next load of river stones for the kitchen.
He hid his surprise well, he thought.
The farm was one thing - he’d burned that location completely during the Ultron debacle, the entire team knew about it now. And possibly the entire internet, Clint wasn’t sure. He hadn’t been back since.
Only Nat knew about this place. His home, his sanctuary, the place where Clint retreated to lick his wounds and hide from his self-appointed responsibilities.
It was a cabin, small, and rustic, that had started as a basement and grown upwards to include a main room, a bathroom, a bedroom, and running water. It was thick and sturdy, had multiple exit points, and was highly defensible deep in the Smoky Mountains. It wasn’t in his name. It wasn’t, in fact, even in one of his other names. It was actually bought and maintained under a name Clint had lifted from the Social Security office in the nineties, and he’d only ever used it to buy the acreage. It wasn’t - shouldn’t have been - connected to him in any way.
Except that Natasha knew about it.
Clint sighed.
“I need a favor,” Captain America said, and Clint knew, then and there, that he was fucked.
Could you say no to a goddamn American icon?
Clint raised his coffee mug along with his eyebrow as he took in Cap’s appearance. Baseball cap, an old jacket over an equally old t-shirt worn thin and stretched across his chest, three or four days’ worth of scruff on his face, and a dumb, hopeful look to match. Clint hadn’t even known Captain America was capable of skipping a shave. It was damn near unconstitutional.
And a really shitty disguise.
So it wasn’t Captain America he was talking to, it was Steve Rogers.
Clint was even more fucked.
Steve had trusted him after everything, after Loki, after the helicarrier-
Anyway Clint owed Steve.
“Yeah, alright,” he said.
Steve blinked in surprise. “You don’t want to know what the favor is first?”
Clint shrugged. “I owe you one,” he offered, still sipping his coffee. It was early February, the nights still bitterly cold enough to make sleeping near the woodstove necessary, but spring and more tolerable weather hopefully not far off. The hot mug was keeping his fingers warm, but the cold was seeping through his socks. “And Nat musta told you where to find me, so must be somethin’ she thinks I should do.”
Steve blinked at him again, surprise and relief warring on his features, before the relief won out and his shoulders slumped, tension released in a flood.
Ok, now Clint was starting to worry.
After Loki, after Sokovia, after everything , Clint had come back here. To regroup, to rethink, to retire - hell, he hadn’t quite figured it out yet. Clint had been with S.H.I.E.L.D. a long time, and he’d been a shady character before that, and he’d been in the game long enough to know he was too fucking old and too fucking normal to be in it anymore. There were superhumans and demigods and mutants and flying suits and he was just one guy with good aim and a knack for getting out of trouble. He wasn’t much of a match for flying robot aliens or whatever the fuck came next.
The brainwashing was kinda shitty too.
So now he was in east Tennessee finishing up the cabin he’d been building, on and off, since Natasha had knocked him out of Loki’s cold, blue grasp, and trying to figure out how to finish up his career or whatever.
Steve flashed him a smile, one part grateful to two parts nervous, and turned his head to make a jerking motion towards the woods stretching out behind him.
One second, two, and then another figure stepped out from the trees, in the same shitty hat-ragged shirt-stubble disguise and Clint nearly choked on his tongue.
“You brought the goddamn Winter Soldier to my house?!”
More surprised blinking from the leader of the free world. “No, I- how’d you-”
“I see better from a distance,” Clint interrupted, the familiar phrase slipping over his tongue without thought, “and I can see his fuckin’ arm from here.” The glint of a silver wrist between the dark red of a long-sleeved henley and the black of a leather glove had been enough to give him away.
Clint hadn’t missed the news coverage, either, of the Soldier’s attack on DC, of his street fight with Captain America. Clint had been gone at the time, off chasing what turned out to be bullshit leads on A.I.M. activities that had amounted to nothing but meant that Clint hadn’t been in a position to provide cover for Steve during the fight. Plus, he’d gotten a full sitrep from Nat after he’d gotten back.
And now Steve had brought him home like a goddamn found puppy he wanted to keep.
“What the fuck , Rogers?” Clint asked, his hands itching for a bow, a gun, an anything , but not stupid enough to make any sudden moves. There was no way to casually reach for the pistol he’d tucked into the back of his jeans, not with Steve so close and the Winter Soldier so unkillable.
“He’s not the Winter Soldier,” Steve said in a rush of expelled air, reading the tension in Clint’s arms correctly. “He’s Bucky Barnes.”
Either there were two silver-armed motherfuckers running around - and Clint could believe anything at this point - or this situation was even more bizarre than he’d first thought. And he knew bizarre. He’d been part of a circus.
“Bucky Barnes is the Winter Soldier?” Clint asked, flatly, as the man in question made his way to the house, climbing the incline from the trees with perfect ease. Bucky Barnes had died falling from a train in the Alps in 1945. Clint had read the file. This entire situation was impossible.
Then again, aliens coming through a portal above New York City was impossible, so he was willing to leave some space for impossible things.
“Bucky Barnes was the Winter Soldier,” Steve emphasized, and wasn’t it just fucking like the guy to adopt a former assassin-
Clint cut that line of thought off. In retrospect, this wasn’t out of character. Especially in light of his history with Steve, or Clint’s personal experiences with the blond man.
As the Winter Soldier, or Barnes, or whoever the fuck got closer, the sense that the entire situation was surreal grew until it overwhelmed the feeling of unease Clint had been harboring since Steve had turned up on his porch.
Abruptly, he relaxed.
Either he was dreaming, or the Winter Soldier would kill him. Wasn’t much he could do about it either way.
Turning his mug up, Clint was surprised to find it was empty. Shouldn’t dream-coffee be bottomless?
“He found me after Christmas,” Steve continued, words tumbling out on top of each other as he hurried to explain, Clint unable to drag his eyes away from the graceful, lethal figure gliding up the hill towards his house. “Confused and - Hydra had fucked with his memories, dug around in his brain until he didn’t know who he was, barely knew who I was. He’d finally managed to sort himself out enough to figure a lot of it out, but the shit Hydra did… I think he wanted me to kill him, Clint, but Wanda managed to straighten him out.”
Clint’s gaze flicked back to Steve’s earnest blue eyes. “You let the Scarlet Witch dig around in his brain?”
Barnes - or whoever - was close enough now that he could hear Clint’s words, and Clint caught the huff of sound he made, something that could have been amusement or exasperation or anything, really.
Steve opened his mouth to respond, looking affronted, before shutting it with a snap. “Yes,” he answered, begrudgingly.
“Did that work?” Clint asked, and if the question sounded idle, it was only because Natasha had improved upon the training Clint had received from S.H.I.E.L.D. when it came to asking questions.
“Yes!” Steve answered, hotly, but by then the third member of this little soiree had made it onto the porch, looming menacingly just behind Steve’s left shoulder, and Barnes made another of the little noises - this one definitely amused, Clint thought, and he wondered if making the Winter Soldier laugh was an offense punishable by death - before Steve amended his statement. “Mostly.”
“The Witch mostly fixed your brain?” Clint asked, waiting to see what Barnes would say.
“She doesn’t like it when you call her that,” Steve muttered mutinously, but Barnes’ lips twitched into something that was almost a smirk.
“Wha’s not fixed was prob’ly broken before she got ahold of me,” Barnes offered, and his words were pure Brooklyn - all dropped r’s and drawled a’s. “Triggers are all gone, anyway. All’s left is a lotta combat experience and a lil’ bit of James Barnes.”
“Huh.” Clint mused, before turning on his heel to go into the kitchen and refill his mug. It was getting colder standing there in sweatpants and socks, and there was more coffee in the kitchen. There was always more coffee in his kitchen. “You comin’?” Clint called over his shoulder, where Steve and Barnes were still standing at the entryway watching him walk away. Casually - oh so casually - Clint pulled the gun out of his pants and placed it back on top of the refrigerator. After his cup was full he held the coffee pot up in question, and Steve shook his head, but Barnes gave a short, jerky nod. As the two of them made their way across the room to take seats at the unfinished bar, Clint pulled a second mug - his only other mug, actually - down from the cabinet above the pot and filled it up with the Barton Special.
Barnes accepted the mug suspiciously, and raised it to take a swallow. After the first sip he looked down at the drink in surprise.
Steve snorted in amusement.
“If you don’t want it, give it back,” Clint said, taking the seat across from them. “It’s kinda an acquired taste.”
“You fuckin’ kiddin’ me?” Barnes pulled the mug possessively closer. “It almost tastes right .”
“I don’t think rationed, reused grounds is really a good basis for comparison, Buck,” Steve added, voice tinged with some kind of fond amusement that made Clint feel squirmy. He wasn’t good with feelings .
Clint had learned to make coffee in the circus - it was dark, it was bitter, and it would keep you awake for days . It wasn’t coffee if it wasn’t trying to climb out of the cup and strangle you. Fuck all of that pumpkin spice bullshit.
“What’s the favor?” Clint said, instead, diverting the conversation back to whatever it was Steve had brought the fucking Winter Soldier to his door for.
Every baby assassin knew about the Winter Soldier. He was a something between a nightmare and a legend. Not for his kill count - which was impressive, but not outrageous. Nat’s count was probably higher.
Hell, Clint knew his was.
But the Soldier was a ghost - he came, he saw, he killed, he killed everyone who saw, and then he disappeared, like smoke. No evidence, no proof, no calling card. Just whispered rumors and boogeyman stories. And his targets were high-profile, hard to isolate, the sort of assassinations that made history books. Had made history books, if the rumor mill was even a little bit true.
Hawkeye was the man who never missed, but the Winter Soldier left no survivors.
Except for the time he’d dragged a bruised and bleeding Captain America out of the Potomack, but who was counting that?
“Well,” Steve started, and the word was drawn out and uncomfortable in a way that only reinforced Clint’s suspicion that whatever it was, he wasn’t going to like it. Before he could finish his sentence though, Barnes’ head whipped sideways, towards the long gravel drive that led to Clint’s property.
A few seconds later he heard it - the crunch of wheels on gravel. Even Clint’s top-of-the-line Stark tech hearing aids weren’t as good as the Winter Soldier’s ears, apparently.
Probably his damn river rocks being delivered.
Still, Clint motioned towards the closed door on the other side of the room, the one that led to the bathroom and bedroom set up. And to the stairs down to the basement, which had its own exit. If it wasn’t the rocks, at least Steve and Barnes could go out that way. The two of them exchanged a look before getting up and slipping silently through the door, closing it behind them.
There was a narrow, vertical window in the room, just wide enough to let in a little light. And let out a well-aimed arrow. They’d be able to see and not be seen.
Clint snagged his gun and wandered out to the porch, looking for the vehicle headed his way. Sure enough, a familiar, beat up red Ford pickup rounded the bend, back end loaded with the dark, charcoal-colored river rocks, wide and flat and dull in the morning sun. In the front seat, Clint could see the sandy brown hair of the two Travers boys, Justin and Tim.
They’d brought Lucky back, Clint noted with some relief, a welcome furry head hanging out of the passenger side window, tongue lolling out of its mouth. Not that he’d really been worried about his dog. The boys watched Lucky whenever Clint was out on ‘business’, and while the dog was always happy to see them, he was always happier to be home. The truck was pulling into his yard within just a few more seconds, Justin backing it up next to the porch and a tarp that Clint had laid out in the grass just for this occasion.
Stuffing his feet into his boots, Clint ambled down the stairs towards the vehicle, grateful for the hoodie he’d pulled on before he answered the door for Steve. The bed was weighed down with the heft of the rocks, and Clint looked the load over with a practiced eye. The countertop that he’d been sitting at with Steve and Bucky moments before had about an inch deep lip around the edge, waiting for him to fill and level it with the rocks and then seal it against moisture, and he figured this load ought to be just about enough. Both boys climbed out of the truck, Lucky bounding down ahead of Tim, who’d been nearly in the drivers’ seat, shoved over by the heavy retriever. Clint knelt on the grass to greet the animal enthusiastically.
“There’s my boy, how’s it goin’ Luck? You behave yourself for these troublemakers?”
Lucky was all butt wiggles and panting dog breath and sloppy kisses, and Clint was nearly bowled over by both his enthusiasm and how much he’d missed the dog. After a few minutes of well-deserved scratches, Clint stood back up, brushing his hands off on his jeans. Justin and Tim were both standing at the back of the truck expectantly, Tim lowering the tailgate when he noticed Clint’s attention.
“I’ll give you both an extra fifty bucks if we can get all this unloaded in less than half an hour.” Clint needed both boys gone as quickly as possible, and while they always helped him unload whatever they delivered - their dad owned the local lumber mill and the quarry, and Clint was a reliable customer - it never hurt to give them a little extra incentive.
“Without breaking any of the stones,” Clint added, as their eyes widened and Tim scrambled into the back of the truck. Justin had just turned eighteen, if Clint remembered right, and Tim was going to be sixteen pretty soon. They both played football for the local high school, and Justin was due to graduate this spring. He’d had high hopes for some kind of college scholarship - he was a good player - but he hadn’t been quite that lucky, and Clint figured he’d spend a few months of screwing around over the summer, then buckle down to work at the quarry and take business classes at the community college in town.
Clint could just about smell the disappointment wafting off of the kid, but there wasn’t much he could do for him.
“Alright Mr. Bailey,” Tim piped up, referring to the false name, Charles Bailey, that Clint used to do business down in the small town closest to his home. The teenager moved further onto the bed of the truck, ready to hand the large, flat rocks over to his brother and Clint, who would set them down on the nearby tarp. It was a system they’d established pretty easily when Clint had used the rocks in his bathroom shower. The sun was rising higher over the horizon, finally breaking over the treetops, but it was still cold as hell. Didn’t matter though, because within just a few minutes all three of them were still sweating from exertion.
When it was done, it had taken 35 minutes to unload the rocks and arrange them into piles sorted by size on the tarp, but Clint still handed both boys fresh, crisp fifty dollar bills before they climbed back into the cab of the truck, clapping both of them on the shoulder in thanks and waving them off, the two of them grinning at their unexpected luck.
With a sigh, Clint turned and headed back into the house, whistling for Lucky, who had plopped himself down in a patch of sun while Clint and the teenagers did all the hard work.
Time to see what kind of trouble Captain America had brought to his door.
Besides the Winter Soldier.
When he got inside, both men were just making their way out of the bathroom, most of the tension that had been around their eyes gone with the departure of the unknown element. Before Clint could say anything though, Lucky bounded through the door and headed straight for them, all wagging tail and happy dog smiles.
“Lucky!” Clint called, but the stupid mutt ignored him - the dog never fucking listened to him, if he was being honest - and didn’t so much as slow down as he ran full tilt towards the world’s most infamous assassin and his best, stupid friend.
To Clint’s utter shock, the dog barely gave Steve a sniff, and instead ploughed face first into the Winter Soldier’s crotch, sniffing and squirming, and making that stupid whining happy noise that had first convinced Clint to bring him home, despite his unreliable lifestyle and aversion to adulthood.
If asked under torture, Clint might have admitted to being lonely and a sucker when he saw the dog scrounging around town, all one-eyed and pitiful looking, just a couple of months after he’d moved into the cabin properly.
Steve turned wide eyes on Clint, who shrugged.
Barnes reached down, tentatively, with his non-cybernetic murder hand, to scratch behind Lucky’s ears. Lucky promptly tilted his head sideways for better access, and then planted his not-inconsiderable weight on Barnes’ feet, preventing him from moving.
“Your dog’s got terrible taste in people,” Barnes finally said, after several minutes of soft scratches and whining noises, both Steve and Clint staring at the pair of them in disbelief.
Clint snorted. “Yeah man, I already knew that, he likes me.”
Barnes knelt down on the ground, still scratching Lucky, who whined even louder in happiness and did his best to lick him in the mouth, his entire body wiggling in excitement.
Rolling his eyes, Clint headed back to the kitchen for his coffee mug.
“So what’s this big favor, Cap?”
Whatever hesitance Steve Rogers had been harboring before Clint went outside seemed to have vanished in the face of his murder buddy on the floor with an overgrown puppy trying to lick him to death.
“Bucky needs a place to lay low for a while.”
Clint sighed.
He was so, so fucked.
Steve kept rambling, but Clint wasn’t really, truly, paying that much attention. It was something about Africa and something about Sokovia - which was the point where he’d checked out entirely because Clint didn’t even want to think about Sokovia - and something else about the United Nations and finally he interrupted just to stop the flow of words.
“Cap, I already said yes.”
Steve blinked at him in surprise, and Barnes made the same quietly amused huffing sound Clint had heard on the porch.
“But,” Clint continued, now that he had Steve’s focus, instead of the word vomit that had been going on for the past ten minutes, “why me? Why here? Why now?”
The look on Steve’s face shifted from surprise to guilt and Clint sighed again.
“The team and I are going to Luxembourg, there’s been some talk with some of Natasha’s sources, rumors about Hydra resurgence, and it’s worrisome enough that we need to go check it out. We might be gone a while.”
Clint shrugged, sort of gestured at the partially finished space around him. It wasn’t like he had anything better to do. “Ok but why here ? No offense, but couldn’t Tony set you up with something a little more… more?”
A muscle in Steve’s jaw jumped and he averted his eyes, turning back to look at where Barnes was still crouched on the floor with Lucky. “Tony’s got other things on his mind. He’s not exactly-”
“Someone sent him footage of me killing his parents,” Barnes said flatly, interrupting whatever Steve had been about to say.
Clint blinked at him. “You killed Tony’s parents?” He’d thought Tony’s parents had died in a car accident - in fact he was pretty sure he’d read that in Tony’s S.H.I.E.L.D. file. Plus, the timing was oddly convenient that Tony had been supplied with that sort of information just as Barnes had decided to come in out of the cold.
“The Winter Soldier killed Tony’s parents,” Steve said, before Barnes could answer, but Clint didn’t turn to look at him.
He was still looking at Barnes, who had finally raised his gaze to meet Clint’s eyes, and some unspoken communication passed between them. Clint knew all about the sort of guilt he could see floating behind the steely grey gaze.
Clint hadn’t made the choice to kill all those people under Loki’s influence, but it had still been his hands that had drawn the bow.
Steve seemed oblivious to the moment, and kept speaking.
“There’s no one in New York that Bucky can call if something happens. Natasha and I are going to be off-grid with Wanda, and I want someone I trust to be available if something happens. I know you have ways of getting in touch with Natasha, if something comes up. And our current safe house isn’t exactly hard to find. Buck’s had to keep a pretty low profile.”
Oh that’s right, the Winter Soldier was still a wanted fugitive. Good to know.
Clint pinched the bridge of his nose.
“The Winter Soldier is an infamous assassin,” he said, instead, wishing he’d never gotten out of bed this morning. He could hear the capitulance in his own tone, though, and they all knew it.
“Bucky Barnes is a war hero,” Steve countered. “The Winter Soldier is a myth.”
“You already said yes, Barton,” Barnes added, smirking.
This was going to be a disaster.