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Clint stumbles back to the apartment at about 3am. He'd been sent on his merry way by Sam and Nat, tipped into a cab and dropped at his doorstep. It's been a good evening, he's drunk enough to feel good, not so drunk he'll regret it in the morning.
It’s been a good day. He’s got another couple of classes at the archery centre, so his wages are going up, and he got to walk Ms Fenchurch's dog, who is basically a giant ball of excitable fur. His jeans are still covered in fur. A good day.
And now he just needs to find his key in his pockets.
Clint pats himself down, hands heavy and bleary, tugging against him even as he pulls them up.
He’s found a likely shape in one of his jacket pockets when he notices the door.
Isn’t locked.
Huh...
He eyes it for a moment, and a wave of almost sobriety rolls over him as he notices what seems to be a smear of blood on the frame.
The door to his apartment is ajar. It’s the middle of the night. There's blood. Nothing good ever starts this way.
He still has his archery gear, because he’d gone straight to the bar from his session that evening, so he crouches down and pulls out the bow, hooks the quiver round his waist. He might be a disaster, but there is one thing at least that he can do really fucking well.
Whatever bastard’s decided to fuck with Clint Barton’s stuff has got another thing coming. They’re going to meet the pointy end of an arrow.
He tries to be stealthy as he pushes open the door, but the haze of alcohol and his fucked up hearing mean that he can't judge it particularly well. He thinks he manages it okay, though.
What he sees when he opens the door makes him pause for a second.
Blood. There’s actual blood on the ground, like... drag marks of blood. And little doggy paw prints going across it.
Clint’s blood goes cold. What the fuck is going on? Why him? Why tonight? It had been a good day.
Better him than Simone down the corridor, though, with her kids.
He follows the drag marks, there are a few of them. One big one, and then a collection together, like... like a bloody trail of fingers. The trail leads to the bathroom door, which is ajar, the light on, casting a glow out into the main room. The night-time lack of noise pollution means that he can make out the noises on the other side of the door. Voices, splattering water, and a groan of pain.
Clint spins into the room, an arrow nocked on his bow.
Barnes is crouched by the bath, pale and bloody, stripped to his tank top. Crouching over him is a huge man in dark clothes, wearing what seems to be a hood... or a mask. Barnes' face is contorted in pain.
Clint releases the arrow as the man turns to him. It’s not a killing shot, aimed at the guy’s arm, but the man moves fast. His reflexes are insane. There’s barely a few feet between them, but he’s moving down, bringing up his arm with something... on it...
A big round colourful something.
A big round colourful shield.
Oh fuck. Clint just shot Captain America.
The arrow tings harmlessly off the shield, ricocheting off to crack one of the tiles over the basin. Well, there goes his deposit.
They stay there for a second, caught in a weird tableau. Clint with his bow, Captain America, eyes wide behind his shield, Barnes slumped and bleeding with Lucky in the corner, tail down and pacing back and forth.
What the fuck is going on?
“Uh...” Captain America says. “Could you put the bow down, son?”
Clint looks at the bow for a moment, as though he’s never seen it before. His brain isn’t able to make sense of the shape of it. It’s like a foreign object in his hand.
When the world resolves back into things instead of just shapes, he lowers it carefully.
He opens his mouth to say something when Barnes gives another pained grunt and turns to look at him, eyes wide and actually scared. Fuck, the guy looks scared. Mr Murder-Eyes looks genuinely scared of Clint right now.
Clint puts down the bow, and hurries across the room.
“How can I help?” he asks.
*
It’s almost an hour later by the time they have Barnes stitched up, bandaged up, and they carry him to bed. Barnes passes out on the way. Which Clint is grateful for, because the painkillers don’t seem to have had much effect.
Clint’s got Captain America in his apartment. What is his life?
"Did something happen at his job?" he asks, turning away from Barnes, on the bed, to the Captain, by the door.
Captain America’s head jerks up sudden, almost looking guilty, his hands moving behind his back. Clint considers it for a second, but it’s Captain America, what’s he going to be hiding?
“Yes,” Captain America says. “He stepped in to help and was... caught in the crossfire.”
“Fuck,” Clint says. “I mean, I knew his job was dangerous, but...” He sighs, his eyes drift back to Barnes. He looks pale and way too still. It's making Clint's heart clench a bit. Apparently he's gotten a bit fond of the guy. Lucky follows them in and jumps on the bed to lie down next to Barnes’ still frame. He’s getting bloody paw prints on the covers. Clint really should wash him.
“Are you two... friends?" Captain America asks. He says it carefully, like 'friends' means something more, and Clint shifts uncomfortably. He scratches his hand across the back of his neck and frowns when he feels wetness on his fingertips.
“Uh... yeah. I mean...” Clint shrugs. "We haven't lived together for long, but he seems cool, though."
Captain America nods, and Clint has the very unpleasant feeling that he is being judged.
“He gave me a doorbell," Clint says. "I mean, I'm deaf and he installed this doorbell that flashes and stuff. That was... cool."
He's suddenly very aware of every dirty thought he’s ever had about his roommate, ever time he’s been maybe a little bit less than appropriate. Every lingering glance. Captain America’s looking at him and Clint is thinking about jerking off. Oh fuck.
This is like that class in school where the teachers tried to talk about sex.
“Where’s your partner?” Clint asks, suddenly, desperate to change the subject. “I thought you and the Winter Soldier were like a package deal.”
Does that sound like he was implying that Captain America and the Winter Soldier are gay together? That's not what he meant. Well… it wasn't like he hadn't wondered about it, y'know?
“He’s... around,” Captain America says, his face looks uncertain. “It was a difficult fight.”
“I met him once,” Clint says. He’s babbling. In his defence, he's still drunk, it's the middle of the night, his roommate is unconscious and he's talking to Captain America. Captain America, who's smiling.
“Really?” he says. “What was that like?”
“Got the impression he didn’t like me very much,” Clint admits. Captain America chuckles.
“A lot of people say that."
“Well... he threatened to kill me,” Clint adds.
“He does that,” Captain America agrees. “Don’t worry. I’m sure he got over it.”
“Right...” Clint turns back to Barnes instead. “Are you sure he doesn’t need a hospital.”
“He’ll be fine.”
“That was a lot of blood,” Clint continues, thinking about the towels in the bathroom that are never going to be the same colour again. He’s probably gonna have to buy new towels.
He isn't concentrating, so the red-gloved hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently, comes as a shock, making him jump half out of his skin.
“He’ll be fine,” Captain America says, his voice firm and comforting. "He's a tough guy. It'll take more than this to slow him down. Believe me."
“Well, if you can’t believe Captain America, who can you believe?” Clint asks. The hand tightens slightly again and then Captain America pats him on the shoulder.
“Take care of him, alright?” the Captain says. He sounds genuinely concerned. Does he do this for everyone who gets injured around him? It's a full service job.
“I will,” Clint says. As he says it, it sounds like a vow.
“Good man," the Captain says, before turning to leave. He pauses in the doorway, maybe he looks back, but Clint doesn't turn round to see. He's watching Barnes' chest rise up and down.
“Captain America just saved your life," Clint tells him. "What the fuck is your life?"
*
Clint wakes up in Barnes' room, drooling onto his covers, head pillowed on his arms. He's still sitting next to the bed and his back is bent so uncomfortably he wonders how he'd managed to sleep at all.
He blinks as he straightens up and looks around. The bed is empty and Barnes is...
Crouched over by the closet, fumbling around.
“Wha’?” Clint asks, his question cut off by a moan. Barnes stiffens, becoming very still, then straightens up and closes the closet door.
“You shouldn’t be up,” Clint says. “You were shot. Captain America sewed you up.”
Barnes turns to him.
“I’m fine.”
“You were shot... I saw... there was blood.”
“And Captain America sewed me up,” Barnes says, echoing Clint’s words back to him. “I’m fine.”
“You’re a fucking liar. You were... there’s blood all over the apartment. I need new towels. You were shot. With a gun.”
“It wasn’t that bad,” Barnes says.
“Barnes..." Clint says. He’s not sure what to do. Because Barnes looks fine, apart from the bandages. He’s standing straight, there’s not even a glimmer of pain on his face.
“I’m fine,” Barnes says. “Go to your own bed, Clint.”
“But I saw... there was a hole in you.” It had definitely looked bad.
“You were tired last night, it was dark. Probably looked worse than it was," Barnes says. Clint gapes, opens and closes his mouth. He trusts his own eyesight. He sees things clearly, and last night Barnes had had a bullet hole in his leg. "Go to bed, Clint," Barnes repeats.
Clint can’t restrain his yawn, and he is too tired for this. So he's going to stand up and go to bed and Barnes can sort out his own goddamn life.
He heads into the main room and blinks, because there's no blood on the floor anymore. The only way he can tell that anything had even happened is that the floor is cleaner than it's been in years. He gapes, because sure, his hearing's ropey, but Barnes had been in bed and he's pretty sure Captain America left, so who the fuck cleaned his floor.
The bathroom's probably clean too. Did they buy him new towels as well?
Clint resists the urge to find out. Apparently superheroes come with their own clean up service.
Why Barnes, though? Why did he merit the special treatment?
Clint’s brain isn't awake enough to deal with this. He turns away from the bathroom and heads towards his bedroom. Maybe this is all just a weird, weird dream and in the morning it'll turn out that he's drunk on Sam and Nat's sofa. After all, Captain America. In his apartment. That's crazy.
He pushes open the door to his room when a hand taps him on the shoulder, so he turns.
“Thank you,” Barnes says, pulling his right hand away from his chin at the same time to reinforce the words with sign. Clint shrugs, a little edgy at the idea.
“No problem, Barnes. I mean... what else was I gonna do? Let you bleed out? And... you know, Captain America. He probably had it covered already. I probably just got in the way."
Barnes shakes his head.
“Seriously, thank you... and you can maybe call me Bucky? I mean, we do live together.”
“Bucky?” Clint asks.
“It’s a nickname.”
“Right," Clint agrees. "OK then... Bucky."
Bucky smiles. It’s not a big thing, but it’s sincere and Clint finds himself smiling back in spite of how tired and confused he is.