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Large amounts of snow are normal for this time of year, so high up in the mountains, so Bucky’s prepared when the first storm rolls in. Temperatures drop twenty degrees overnight, but he’s got a stock of firewood and extra gas cans for the generator. The truck’s got chains on the tires, just in case, and if the truck won’t go, he can make it down to the small valley town within two hours on four feet, in an emergency. They’ll live off canned soup and whatever animal they can take down in the woods during the quiet, same as last year. The only difference is that Mimi is five now, and thinks she can sneak up on him.
She’s careful on soft feet, but the whole world is muffled by the falling snow, and Bucky pricks his ears at the faint crunch of a predator moving in.
His fur is caked, and half-melted snow flies off him when he shakes his ruff and gets up from his sprawl in a drift. It’s starting to flurry harder--small, pinging flakes that build up fast and compact.
The house is still visible in the distance. Gold in the windows, smoke snaking out of the stove pipe from the dying fire. It’s almost full dark. They should go in.
He waits, though, staring off, tries not to loll his tongue or flick an ear back as Mimi slinks closer.
When she jumps on his back, he staggers, flops down onto his side with a yelp, and Mimi growls, sharp baby teeth buried ineffectually in his thick winter coat.
He chuffs, licks over the white-gray fur between her ears.
She howls in triumph, a baby awooo that makes him nudge her under the chin and breathe there. She’s a warm, happy weight, paws too big and eyes bright blue.
And then she squirms off of him, yipping, and takes off across the clearing towards the house. She bounds, disappearing up to her ears before popping up again, and Bucky lets pride and love swell through his chest before he races after her.
*
Three days later, once the storm has dissipated, sun breaking through the cloud cover to shine ice over the three feet of snow its left, Bucky pauses in the middle of the field behind the house. There’s a harsh rasp of unfamiliar breathing coming from the porch.
Bucky herds Mimi behind him, shielding her with his bulk.
He can’t see anything yet. It doesn’t smell like a bear, but no one comes this far up the mountain uninvited except Steve, and Steve knows better than to try it in this mess. Usually.
Something moves. Something shifts up and over, like they’re rolling, and a groan carries across clearing.
Bucky turns and noses Mimi, a silent stay here that only has a thirty percent chance of stopping her, and then lopes forward, using the rut they’d tamped down with their paws and bodies earlier that day--the drifts of snow barely reach his sides, but Mimi gets swallowed up without a trail when it’s this deep.
The groan comes again, more pained, and then Bucky hears, “Shit, goddamn it,” and a hiss, a sucked in breath through clenched teeth.
Bucky keeps low to the ground, slinks up around the steps, the railings he’d put in when Mimi started to crawl, then jump . The man is big and blonde and gray-faced, too-cold, even in the winter jacket wrapped around him. This close, Bucky can smell old blood. Faint.
The man’s eyes are shut tight, and Bucky purposely leans his weight into the creaky step. It pops even louder than usual, frozen underneath.
“Christ.” The man’s eyes flutter open, blue and blurry. “Fuck me,” he says. “You’re a wolf.”
*
Clint admits that trying to trek through a snowstorm was a bad idea. Even worse, though, was the thought of freezing to death in the cab of his truck, wedged into the branch of a fallen tree. The first bad idea he had, the one that took him through the Rocky Mountains on his way to Iowa, was the one that really sucked.
Who the hell wants to go to Iowa for Christmas, anyhow? He should’ve stayed with Nat. He should have listened to Nat when she told him to fly, if he was so determined to be miserable. He should’ve taken up Tony’s offer to pay, after Clint looked at his dismal savings and the cost of last minute holiday flights.
Should’ves won’t get him out of this hellscape, though, and he’s pretty sure he’s got a concussion, and a dislocated shoulder.
The house had been a weird blessing, and he was half convinced it was some kind of fever dream, brought on by the deliriously cold snow he’d been slogging through--the wood railing was solid under his hands, though, and his boots made satisfying clomping sounds as he staggered up the steps.
He doesn’t know how long it’s been or how far he’s gone. It was dark when he’d left the truck, and now the snow has stopped and weak sunlight filters through the clouds, beams not bright enough to warm any part of his body, even though the glare makes his head feel like it’s splitting apart.
His hands are numb, and he thinks maybe a throb in his shoulder is the only thing keeping him awake. The door is too much to fumble open.
When he sees the wolf he thinks fuck it and thinks it’s probably a decent way for a moron like him to die.
*
Bucky has questions that the man, nearly unconscious, obviously can’t answer, but that isn’t the important thing. The important thing is that they need to get him warm before he dies. Up there, he’d be frozen in their yard till Steve could get through, and he’s pretty sure that’d be psychologically damaging for Mimi.
Also: probably morally wrong.
Mimi says, “Is he dead?” and Bucky chokes back the ‘almost’ at the last second and just hmmms .
The faint scent of blood’s from a crusted over cut along the hairline, bruised and swollen. He might need stitches, but that’ll have to wait.
He strips the guy out of his wet coat, struggles with the shirt underneath until he gives up trying to save it: flicks out a claw and rips it off instead. Pants come next, which he’s necessarily more careful with, given the length of the guy’s legs and the low odds that any of Bucky’s would fit him all the way over his ankles, and then he says, “Blinders,” and waits for Mimi to press her palms to her eyes before getting him down to the skin.
There’s bruising around his shoulder, but when Bucky flexes and feels it, it seems okay. A dislocation or jam, maybe--whatever it was, the guy must have fixed it himself before passing out on Bucky’s deck.
The wool blankets he piles on him are warm, but probably not warm enough. He’s worried about the fingers and toes--they look bloodless, but still pink up a little when he chaffes them briskly. And he knows enough about hypothermia that he’ll have to start with the guy’s core.
Bucky sighs and gets to his feet. Builds up the fire as high as it’ll go, and then settles Mimi in an armchair with a few books, Mr. Squidy, and a bowl of crackers.
He says, “I’m gonna have to go furskin, Barracuda. You okay with napping here?”
She says, “Mmm mmm,” and bares her teeth in a smile full of Cheez-its.
They were gonna go hunt rabbits before dark, but odds are they’ll be heating up leftover stew for dinner instead.
The man groans again, but doesn’t move from his nest on the floor, as close to the hearth as Bucky could get him. He’s still not shivering. Bucky doesn't like it; he doesn’t like any of this.
He makes sure Mimi has a cup of water on the table by her elbow, and then he shifts.
*
When Bucky first worms his way under the blankets, the guy’s like a block of ice along his back, even through his thick coat of fur. The shared warmth spreads, though, and it’s a relief to hear him groan and stretch; any movement’s a good sign. Bucky’s a decent sized wolf--he’s got about a hundred and sixty-five pounds of mass to shift, after all--but Tall and Broad here still manages to fling an arm and a leg over and lay on him like a blanket.
He’s not sure how long it’s been, but it’s long enough for him to start goddamn panting, and for Mimi to wake up and crouch down in front of him.
“Daddy?” she says, head cocked. She’s got a pillow crease on her face, dark hair mussed up in knots at the back, so at least she slept a little.
Bucky huffs.
He’s pretty sure the guy’s sweating now, all over him. Bucky wriggles out from under all 6 feet plus of dead weight and shakes out his fur. He wants to go dive head-first into a snow drift, but it’s probably dinner time.
He pads into his room to shift and pull on some pants, a worn t-shirt and socks. Washes up, makes Mimi wash up, just before telling her that they can’t go out hunting again. She has an inconsolable fit that lasts five full minutes before she pulls out the puppy eyes.
Mimi says, “But Daddy ,” face red and swollen from crying, while he starts reheating the stew. “You promised!”
“I promised that before we had company,” he says, pointing to where the guy has now starfished out all over their den floor.
Mimi immediately loses the big eyes and bares sharp teeth with a disgruntled growl, and Bucky silently and reluctantly agrees that Steve’s got a point--they’re gonna have to move out of the mountains for kindergarten. Steve says feral-ness is only cute when she can’t do permanent damage. Bucky would argue that Mimi is always cute, but he takes the point.
He’s gonna have so many awkward parent-teacher conferences in his future.
Speaking of. He turns down the stove and radios Steve.
Steve says, “What’s wrong?” and Mimi shouts, “Somebody died , and Daddy’s making me eat vegetables ,” while Bucky just makes a face at her.
Bucky says, “Nobody died.”
Steve breathes way too heavily into the receiver. “Buck.”
“We had an incident,” Bucky says. “Not sure, but you may want to keep an eye out for a disabled vehicle.”
“I’ll let Sam know,” Steve says, a resigned note in this voice. “We need a helicopter?”
Bucky stares at the man on his floor. Other than the fact that he’s slept through several of Mimi’s temper tantrums, he seems… okay. Color in his cheeks. The cut on his head is still worrying, and he should probably try and wake him up soon. “I’ll let you know,” he says. It’s a lot of hassle, and the town probably can’t afford it.
“Not reassuring.”
Bucky smiles. “Wasn’t meant to be.”
“Bucky,” Steve says, drawn out, like he wants to start something. He hates winters up here; hates how cut off they are, when the snow gets too deep for even snowmobiles. He gives up, though, and just says, “Mimi, eat your veggies,” before signing off.
Bucky arches an eyebrow at her. He says, “Go wash your hands and we can have ice cream.”
*
Clint’s warm. That’s the first thing he notices. His arms and legs ache. His shoulder, when he jostles it, feels only slightly less than excruciating. But his fingers curl and relax, and he counts off all ten of them with his eyes still closed.
His head is pounding, but he’s not sure if it’s from dehydration or from his head hitting his steering wheel.
The light is blessedly dim, when he finally forces his eyes open; he has no idea where he is, but there’s a fire crackling merrily in a hearth, and a little girl in footie pajamas is staring at him.
“Hey,” he croaks.
She scowls.
And then a matching broody face appears next to her, someone crouching down, only the face is older, and has more of a beard. Both have blue eyes and dark, disapproving brows and Clint feels vaguely like he’s in the middle of a goldilocks story, only he’s absolutely sure he didn’t make it to wherever he is, currently, under his own steam.
Is there a third bear? He isn’t sure he wants to know.
The last thing he remembers is the log cabin mirage, a heavenly fortress among miles and miles of snow and pines, and the wolves descending. A wolf.
The little girl flashes a fang at him, and the man cups the top of her head with a sigh.
Crap.
He’s so going to get eaten.
*
Bucky says, “You’re fine,” when he sees a little bit of panic bleed into the man’s expression. Mimi has no tact. “Do you know where you are?”
“Uh.” Blue eyes narrow as his gaze darts from Mimi and back to Bucky again. “In the middle of nowhere?”
A reluctant smile tugs at the corner of Bucky’s mouth. “Sure. Do you know why you’re here?”
The man slowly and carefully folds up into a sitting position, holding a palm to his forehead. The blankets pool at his waist; his chest, other than the dark bruise blooming out from his shoulder, is pale and leanly muscled.
Bucky moves back. Mimi does not.
“A tree jumped out in front of my truck.” He winces a little when his fingers graze the cut at his hairline. “I forgot to charge my phone--”
“Wouldn’t work out here, anyhow,” Bucky says, nodding.
The man makes a pained face. Bucky doesn’t know if it’s because of the phone thing, or his head, or the way he’s jerked his arm. He says, “Pretty sure I was gonna die. Until, uh, I guess you found me trespassing on your porch? How long was I out?”
Bucky frowns and says, “Most of the day. How’s your head?”
“Hard.” He grimaces. “I’m Clint, by the way.” Eyeing Mimi warily, he says, “She’s, uh, not gonna rip my throat out, right?”
“She’s five,” Bucky says.
Clint says, “That’s not an answer.”
Bucky rolls his eyes. “Mimi, back up a little.”
Mimi looks like she wants to shove her face up into Clint’s face and sniff him, which honestly isn’t the worst thing she could do, but is also, Bucky admits, kind of off-putting to a stranger. Bucky doesn’t normally enforce boundaries like that, mainly because there’s usually no one out here she has to be wary of.
Yet another point to Steve. He’s going to be so smug.
Mimi says, “We had to make sure you don’t die. So I couldn’t catch any rabbits.”
“I’m… sorry?” Clint glances up at Bucky, like he’s going to explain that any differently for him.
Mimi’s right, though. She’s gonna be mad about it at least until morning, but she looks slightly mollified by Clint’s apology. Bedtime shouldn’t be too much of a circus.
“You should eat,” Bucky says. He eyes Clint’s shaky hands, the gingerly way he’s holding his arm to his belly. “Think you can handle some stew?”
“Sure,” Clint says. He’s got circles under his eyes, and the bloom of color he’d woken with is slowly leaching from his cheeks. It’s worrying, but Bucky mainly thinks it’s from strain and exhaustion.
He says, “We should bind your arm. And get you some clothes.”
Clint grabs at the blankets over his groin with a fist and a fast moving blush. “Uh.” He darts a look at Mimi, who’s got Mr. Squidy tucked under her arm, three fingers in her mouth, and a mulish look in her eyes that makes Bucky think he was wrong: bedtime is totally going to be a circus.
Bucky says, “Clothes. Food,” and adds, pointedly, “Bedtime for bonzos.”
Mimi says, “Playtime.”
“Two books.” Bucky’s success at parenting is mostly down to knowing how and when to bargain. He doesn’t know how he ended up with a kid that’s almost exactly like Steve.
Mimi narrows her eyes at him, but she looks less mulish and more shrewd. “Chocolate milk.”
Technically, Mimi already had her treat, but he did promise her fresh rabbit for dinner. This is a good compromise if it means no screaming.
“Done.” They shake hands, and Clint watches them like they’re crazy, but also a little like he’s impressed.
He clears his throat. “So, um. Pants?”
*
“Clint Francis Barton, of Iowa,” Bucky tells Steve, holding Clint’s license. He feels zero guilt rifling through his wallet.
“Sam says his truck’s a mess. No idea how he even made it up to you.”
Bucky doesn’t know enough about the guy to call him a stubborn asshole, so he doesn’t say it out loud. He’d been extremely reluctant to take over Bucky’s bed, though, and it wasn’t until Bucky pointed out that he’s got a kid, and a stranger, and he’s not gonna leave anything to chance, that he’d agreed to move out of the front room.
Bucky’s gonna sleep on Mimi’s floor.
Steve says, “I’ll run a check on him, but he’s probably not getting out before Christmas. There’s another storm rolling in. Doesn’t even make sense to clear a path yet, unless you think it’s an emergency.” He sounds pissed off about it, but Bucky knows that’s mainly about him, and how his hands are tied.
“Nah,” Bucky says. “We’ll be fine.”
“You say that like I’m not going to worry,” Steve says.
“Well. Don’t do anything dumb, Rogers. At least not in the middle of a storm.” Bucky doesn’t want to have to go dig him out. Wolves can get frozen too, if they’re stupid.
Steve snorts. “I’ll wait until after to do something dumb.”
“Steve.”
“I’m not gonna miss Christmas with my best girl,” Steve says, plainly affronted.
Bucky doesn’t bother arguing. Yet.
Clint’s asleep, Bucky checked after reading to Mimi, but Mimi is singing loudly about dinosaurs and drumming her sippy cup against the wall.
Outside, the wind howls. It cuts, razor sharp, through their clearing, slams against the cabin and makes the walls creak. They’re solid there. Cold radiates through the thick window panes, but there isn’t any real draft.
Tomorrow, before the next storm sweeps through, he’ll take Mimi out for rabbits, and then maybe a tree.
*
Clint wakes up with a warm weight on his legs. He yawns, winces on a stretch, arm still sore but infinitely better than the day before. When he blinks his eyes open, a fuzzy gray puppy with bright blue eyes is staring at him. Triangle ears are alert, telescoped forward. Her muzzle is resting along a bright orange stuffed squid. She’s got big paws and a fluffy tail. She’s adorable. Clint decides that Mimi is much more terrifying as a human child.
“Mimi.”
The puppy flattens out on the bed and stuffs her nose under her squid with a whine.
“Mimi,” the guy says again--and, oh god, Clint never got his name? He can’t call him daddy. Can he?--”what do we say about wearing fur in the house?”
Mimi pokes her head out and snaps her teeth.
He hooks a thumb over his shoulder and says, “Beat it. Go change.”
Mimi growls but slinks off the bed, mouth full of stuffy. She snuffles her dad’s legs when she pads past and he ruffles the fur behind her ears. The sternness of his mouth is belied by the crinkle lines around his gray-blue eyes.
Clint really can’t call him daddy. That would be totally inappropriate.
He looks like a hipster lumberjack, with his close-cropped beard and man bun, worn jeans and a heavy flannel over a gray thermal. It’s, unfortunately, really doing it for Clint. Sweet dad, broad shoulders, personal hero. Ugh. Clint’s the worst. This is not going to end well for him.
The guy folds his arms over his chest and says, “I’m gonna have to take her out running today.”
Clint bobs his head. “Sure, sure. I just, uh. I don’t want to intrude here. I mean, is there any chance--”
“I radioed the sheriff station. They found your truck,” he says, shaking his head. “There’s bad weather moving in again today, too.”
Clint slumps back onto the bed and stares at the ceiling. “So I’m stuck here.” He doesn’t exactly feel disappointed . What was waiting for him? An empty, rundown farmhouse and bad memories. An innate need to torture himself over the holidays. The single box of Christmas ornaments he’s sure they still had in the attic. Nat had called it seasonal wallowing; she hadn’t been impressed.
“Sorry,” the guy says.
Clint sighs and rubs a hand over his face. “Don’t be.” He’s the one crashing their own holiday plans. Mimi and her hot dad. Werewolves. If Clint had any luck this would be the beginning of a sweet supernatural rom com, but Clint absolutely never has any luck at all.
*
The snow drifts are well over Mimi’s head, but she bounds through them enthusiastically, not bothering to stay on the path Bucky cut with his own body. It’ll be easier going once they get into the thick of the woods, the canopy of evergreens leaving thin spots along the ground. More likely to find rabbits there, and if they get down close enough to the spring, they might find a beaver too.
Both Bucky and Mimi have heavy winter pelts from spending hours shifted in the cold leading up to the storm season. It’s essential , Bucky knows, even though he gets lectures from Steve about being a recluse, and wearing their wolves too much.
Bucky sighs and watches Mimi take a long leap and roll under an evergreen at the edge of the clearing. Next year they’re going to have to be domesticated . It’s probably going to suck.
While Mimi snuffles out burrows, Bucky keeps an eye out for bears and thinks about Clint.
Clint, who they left curled up on the couch under a mound of blankets, with a mug of coffee and a vaguely lost expression on his face.
They don’t do much for Christmas out there. They get a tree. Bucky has a small box of ornaments and a faded length of red ribbon and colored twinkle lights. Santa buys presents at least three months ahead of time, because of the high likelihood of bad weather, and Uncle Steve brings up any last minute wishes the day of.
And now they have Clint, who looks shook up and sad, and Bucky’s not sure he knows how to make anyone who isn’t Mimi feel better anymore.
The sun is warm, but weak, beams barely breaking through the masses of striated white-gray clouds that streak across the horizon. They’ll get the tree today, and Bucky thinks it’ll probably start snowing before nightfall, and if they’re lucky, it’ll be clear again for Christmas day.
They have a tin of cocoa, and box of hershey bars, and enough powdered milk to last another year, thanks to Steve’s constant worrying.
It may not be the Christmas that Clint was looking forward to, wherever he was headed, but Bucky’s gonna try and make it matter, anyhow.
*
The snow starts well before nightfall, so the tree Bucky drags back is picturesque for a hot minute, covered in snowflakes, before warming up and dripping puddles all over the floor.
Clint’s dozing on the couch, eyes at half-mast. He must still be really exhausted, given that Mimi’s singing Jingle Bells at the top of her lungs, mostly off-key, and he hasn’t even twitched.
The fire’s crackling merrily, their box of well-loved homemade ornaments is open in the middle of the room, and a couple rabbits are roasting in the oven, slathered in butter and rosemary.
It’s not bad, Bucky thinks, for a few days away from Christmas Eve.
The little cabin smells like pine and warmth and home, and Clint apparently feels comfortable enough in their wolf den to sprawl out with his belly showing. It makes Bucky’s teeth itch, and he runs his tongue absently along his gums.
They’ll decorate when he wakes up. They’ll eat dinner, and MImi’ll go down with a single story, and maybe he’ll have time to wrap presents after Clint shuffles off to bed too.
It feels almost too full for Christmas. For this time of year. The summer months bring Steve up nearly every weekend, but winter has always been subdued--Steve says he hibernates, but Mimi has too much energy for that to ever be true.
It’s not until Clint yawns, stretches, and almost falls off the couch that Bucky realizes he’s been staring.
Bucky’s pajama pants are too short for him. He flashes both ankles, and Bucky’s cheeks burn at the sight of the pale, knobby bones. Christ. You’d think it was spring thaw, the way his wolf is feeling.
He rubs a hand over his face with silent groan.
“Everything okay?” Clint says. To his credit, he doesn’t seem put off by the fact that Mimi has segued into Frosty the Snowman at an even higher pitch.
“Sure,” Bucky says, shrugging a little. “Dinner’s almost ready. Hope you like rabbit.”
*
“So, uh, Mimi’s dad,” yeah, that works, good job, Clint , “what can I do to help?”
Mimi’s dad gives him a look, like Clint’s the crazy one in this situation, and says, “Bucky.”
Clint blinks. “Uh. What?”
“My name. It’s Bucky,” he says, which is the least likely name Clint could have thought up for this guy. Bucky. Huh.
The rabbit had been pretty good--Clint’s not real picky about his food, anyway--and now Mimi’s massacring a cookie like she’s a cartoon character, and Mimi’s dad-- Bucky --has his brow furrowed over a tangle of twinkle lights.
Clint gestures toward the mess and says, “Need help?”
Bucky sighs, tosses the bundle at him. “Knock yourself out.”
There’s a record player in the corner of the room playing classic Christmas songs, a fire crackling by his back, and it’s disturbingly charming. They had mugs of hot chocolate after dinner, along with the cookies, and the tree has dried up enough to waft evergreen all over the cabin. It’s a real Rocky Mountain holiday, and if Clint’s head didn’t still hurt, and if the ache in his shoulder was a little less sharp, it might even be nice.
Hell, who was he kidding? He’s well fed and warm, with a hot dad and a kid that might or might not kill him in his sleep--this is the best Christmas he’s had in a long, long while. Possibly ever. He doesn’t know if that makes him pathetic or not.
Mimi says, “You can help me decorate the tree, too,” with crumbs all over her face.
Clint’s not a brave enough man to say no.
*
Bucky manages to get the lights on the Christmas tree in time for Mimi to decorate before bed. Clint happily helps her, which is a sight to behold: too short pj pants, one of Bucky’s sleep shirts, baggy everywhere but riding up along the belly. His hair’s a mess, and the bandage on his hairline has been downgraded to a butterfly.
He looks comfortable, if a little rough, and Mimi even lets him lift her up to get to the higher branches, when she starts tottering too precariously on her step stool.
Mimi hates strangers. Mimi’s got a personal bubble with teeth. Sam calls her ornery . Mimi’s got Bucky’s innate prickliness and none of his manners and good sense. Mimi puts an arm around Clint’s neck, leaning in and up to put on the star at the top of the tree, and she doesn’t even use her claws to hold on.
Pride and a ridiculous amount of fondness for Clint warm Bucky’s chest, which is stupid.
They’ve only known him for barely a couple of days. Wolves can get easily attached; Steve likes to say it’s the dog in them. Instinct. Chemo signals. A predilection for unconditional love. It’s stupid , dangerous, and as soon as the snow stops long enough for Steve and Sam to dig them out, he’ll be gone.
Mimi’s going to be impossible to live with, right after.
Bucky should probably be mad about that--about letting it happen, even if the circumstances were unavoidable. But Mimi’s put a bow on Clint’s head, and Bucky has to hide a grin behind his mug of cocoa.
Once Mimi’s satisfied with the star positioning, Clint drops down onto the sofa next to Bucky with a sigh.
Bucky says, “You did offer to help,” instead of apologizing for Mimi’s demanding attitude. He doesn’t think he should have to.
Clint just grins, though, a little tired around the edges, and bumps their arms together. If he keeps leaning in, a warm weight against Bucky’s side, well. Bucky’s certainly not going to complain about it.
*
Steve radios mid-day Christmas Eve and says, “I’ve got a guy here who wants to hear from Barton.” His tone is long-suffering, bordering on irritated, which isn’t all that unusual for Steve, but is mainly reserved for assholes and politicians.
Clint’s head pops up from the other side of the couch. “Tony?”
“Hey, sunshine. How’s my favorite human disaster?”
Clint’s expression seems to be caught somewhere between fond and alarmed. “No helicopters.”
“What’s a little harrowing rescue between friends?”
“Tony,” Clint says, stumbling over the back of the couch instead of rounding it, somehow making it look graceful even as he almost falls on his face. “It’s a blizzard. I’m fine. Let’s stay in our respective places, where we’ll both be fine until the wind stops howling.”
“Well, you’re no fun,” Tony says. Blatant concern bleeds into his voice on, “You sure you’re alright, Barton?”
“Peachy, Stark,” Clint says, and he even grins at Bucky. “No need for a white knight.”
Steve says, “See?” and the crackle of the CB cuts off, like Steve’s mad enough to flip it off without saying goodbye.
Huh.
“Did you say Stark?” Bucky says. Tony Stark, genius playboy, philanthropist, with assholic tendencies. No wonder Steve sounded so harried. Bucky’s delighted .
Clint wrinkles his nose, eyes crinkled in amusement. “He’s not that bad.”
Bucky doesn’t care. Bucky cares about the fact that Steve has to deal with him, and that’s hilarious.
Clint says, “I teach archery to his kids.”
“Archery,” Bucky echoes, an eyebrow raised.
“And tumbling,” Clint says. His hand’s halfway up to his butterfly bandage before he makes a face, curls his fingers up and lets it fall back to his lap. “My best friend’s head of his security.”
“Uh huh,” Bucky says.
“He, uh,” Clint shrugs, “sort of gets attached .”
He must, Bucky thinks, if he was offering to fly halfway up a mountain in a blizzard to get him. He must think Clint’s worth it, even though Clint looks sort of lost. Baffled. Like getting attached to him, specifically, is crazy.
Bucky’s wolf has been trying to convince him to drag down a stag for Clint all day.
Instead, he offers Clint a cookie from their dwindling supply and says, “I have a crossbow.”
Clint squints at him, tilts his head. “It’s still snowing.”
Bucky says, “Yep. You know. But after,” like an idiot.
Clint’s smile blooms across his face like sunshine, and the answering glow in Bucky’s stomach makes his cheeks heat.
Mimi says, “We should play Trouble.”
Clint slowly breaks his stare with Bucky, keeps his mammoth grin, and looks down where Mimi’s clutching Mr. Squidy, eyes tracking the rest of Clint’s cookie like a shark. He says, “We should,” and, “What color do you want to be?” and then proceeds to let Mimi break every rule of the game to win.
“I like him, Daddy,” Mimi says as he tucks her into bed later that night--after they’ve left the cookies out for Santa, the bundle of carrots they’ve saved just for his reindeer. Through the doorway, the soft glow of multicolored twinkle lights from the tree light up the side of Clint’s face. The fire behind him makes his hair look dark. Bucky pulls the patchwork quilt all the way up to her chin and busses Mimi’s forehead.
“I know, Barracuda,” he says. “I like him, too.”
*
Christmas day brings a hot orange sun slowly peeking over the horizon, making the snow glitter across the open field behind Bucky’s house at sunrise. Clint shrugs on his jacket and opens the door onto the little porch--the air is cold on his bare ankles, and he crouches down to tug up his socks. When he goes to straighten again, he hears a howl in the distance.
He pauses, leans into the doorframe. He could have sworn he managed to wake up even before Mimi--the house is stone quiet, the pile of presents from Santa under the tree undisturbed.
In the distance, he sees a speck. A dark loping shape, plowing through the snow. He can just about make out something red being towed behind it, and in seconds it becomes clear--just as another howl rends the air--that it’s a large gray wolf pulling a goddamn sleigh.
Clint whistles softly.
It’s not Bucky. Clint’s seen Bucky: dark, thick fur, big but stocky. This wolf, Clint can tell as it mushes closer and closer, is lighter and much, much bigger. A sleek, lean, tall monster that easily clears the four foot drifts.
He’d be afraid, but the bright red sled filled with what looks like presents kind of ruins the effect.
Mimi streaks by him yelling, “Uncle Steve!” as the wolf pulls up, tongue lolling, and wiggles out of the harness to bound up the porch steps.
He’s even bigger up close, and Clint tenses, forcing himself not to move as Uncle Steve licks all over Mimi’s face.
He takes a giant step back when the wolf prances over and nearly knocks him over anyway as he shoulders his way into the house.
Bucky, yawning wide, hair endearingly messy, says, “Merry Christmas, Rogers. How many hours did it take you to get up here?”
Steve woofs, shakes wet snow off all over the floor, and then disappears into Bucky’s bedroom.
Mimi says, “Daddy, Uncle Steve brought presents ,” and then she finally notices the tree, squeals, “Santa came!” and Clint has to rub a hand over his mouth to hide a delighted grin.
Bucky says, “Wait for Uncle Steve,” smiling this soft fond smile, and Clint has no idea how this is the best Christmas morning he’s ever had, but it kind of is. This is terrible .
Especially since five minutes later, Steve walks back into the room clad in too-tight sweatpants, a t-shirt nearly bursting at the seams, and bare feet. “Barton!” He extends a hand that almost engulfs Clint’s entirely. “Sam’s got your truck back to town. He thinks he can get a snowmobile all the way up here to pick you up by the afternoon.”
“Great,” Clint says. Great . Tony’ll probably have him back home for Christmas dinner. Alone. In his apartment. Only slightly less pathetic than the farmhouse, but only because Nat will most likely show up by midnight with a six pack and a plate of cookies.
Clint helps himself to coffee while Steve and Mimi dig into the presents like little kids. Bucky leans against the counter next to him, and Clint’s arm is hot along his. It could be an accident, the way Bucky presses in further, but neither of them move.
Clint says, “So are all of you werewolves around here?” So far he’s sort of been glossing over the whole fantastical creatures thing, but he’s starting to think this is some kind of conspiracy.
“Sam’s a pigeon,” Bucky says, all casual, and Steve flips him off without turning away from Mimi and the giant wooden dollhouse he apparently made for her. There’s tiny hand carved furniture involved.
Steve’s impressive. If he hadn’t already met Bucky, he might have been intimidated. Clint’s always had a thing for muscles and competence.
“Not actually an answer,” Clint says, “but I’ll take it.”
*
Bucky silently curses Sam’s entire existence when the buzzing roar of a snowmobile echoes through his clearing.
Clint’s been building a lego castle with Mimi for the past hour. It’s both more intricate and more substantial than he’d think a grown man would have the patience for. Bucky is endeared .
Steve says, “You got a little…” and mines at his chin like an asshole.
“Shut up,” he says.
Steve grins. He says, “I can tell Sam to leave. I don’t think Clint’s noticed yet.”
“ Shut up .” He’s not going to trick Clint into staying when he doesn’t have to, even though every instinct he has is telling him to. His instincts also want to wrestle Clint to the ground with his teeth and pant all over him, so. So they really can’t be trusted.
Five minutes later, Sam says, “I hope you appreciate how cold I am,” stomping the snow off his boots in the doorway.
Clint has wide eyes and a startled expression, and Bucky watches with warmth in his belly as his smile wavers, darting a look from Sam to Bucky and then back again.
“I guess you’re my ride,” Clint says.
“Give me a minute, man,” Sam says, shrugging off his coat, snow pants, hat and gloves, making a wet pile by the door that spills into the kitchen. “I need coffee.”
*
Mimi cries. It’s not unexpected. Even with Steve there, hugging her into his neck, she’s nearing epic temper tantrum levels--scream-crying no at the top of her lungs, sobbing so hard her face is red, and she might throw up.
The only unexpected thing about it is that Bucky kind of wants to join her.
Bucky’s an adult, though, and instead he presses his lips together and finds Clint’s things--his pants and boxers, mainly, his socks and shirt lost causes. Clint changes in the bathroom and grimaces when he steps out and Mimi starts screaming even louder.
He says, “You’re killing me, squirt,” and deftly catches her when she launches herself out of Steve’s arms and into his.
Bucky does not tear up. He maybe a scowls a little, and bares his teeth when Sam calls him grumpy bear, but this isn’t the worst thing that’s happened to them.
Bucky’s raised a cub all by his lonesome on the top of a mountain for over four years, they don’t need anyone to keep them company now.
The thing is, though, Bucky’s well aware, particularly from the way Mimi’s howling, throat undulating like a wolf, even though her teeth are still human, that they might want some.
*
The sun is nearly blinding, glinting off the half-melted, glittery snow drifts. There’s a soft breeze, and a hawk loudly screeches as it slices through a sunbeam overhead, diving for the tall pines.
Clint says, “Thanks for saving my life,” and it sounds both overdramatic and not dramatic enough. He means thanks for saving his literal life, with the hypothermia and everything, and thanks for making him, fuck, appreciate the joy of the season or whatever. For giving him a home when all he had to look forward to were ghosts, and the echoing coldness of a ramshackle farmhouse.
Bucky ducks his head, red staining his cheeks. “Sure.”
Sam shoves a helmet into Clint’s hands and says, “C’mon, Barton. Before we lose daylight.”
Suddenly, it occurs to Clint that he has no idea where he is, and no idea how to find this place again. He says, “Wait,” and, “How can I find you again?” and Bucky gives him a queer little look, like he can’t imagine why Clint would want to.
Clint feels honest to god panic, thinking about how this might be the last he ever sees of them. How is that fair?
“Uh,” Bucky says. “I’m signing Mimi up for kindergarten next year.”
Clint has no idea what that means.
Steve throws his arms up in the air and yells, “Yes!”
“Man,” Sam shakes his head, “I really don’t want to have to see your dumbass face every day.” He clasps Bucky on the arm though, and then leans down to give Mimi, now clinging sulkily to her dad’s leg, a poke in the belly with a huge grin.
Clint still has no idea what any of this means.
Bucky must sense his total cluelessness, says, “We’re in Colorado.” His smile is just a shade bashful. “I might even have a working phone soon.”
Clint knows his answering grin is probably goofy.
Sam says, “This is just embarrassing,” and walks off to the snowmobile. “Just so you know,” he shouts over his shoulder, “I had to talk Stark out of sending a jet. We might want to get moving before he decides we’re all trapped under an avalanche.”
“Okay, well.” Clint heaves a sigh. You only live once, right? Clint’s survived his dad, foster care, and the circus. He’s survived teaching Peter how to swing on the trapeze and shoot arrows backwards and upside-down, which Peter is not particularly good at. So leaning forward, ducking down to catch Bucky’s mouth--he’s a little off-center, but he manages to slide a hand around the back of Bucky’s neck, and Bucky doesn’t pull away.
Bucky says, “Huh,” against his lips.
He says, “I think we can do better than that, Barton,” and his teeth are suspiciously sharp when he tugs Clint back down by the collar of his jacket, but Clint isn’t going to complain.
Clint can totally visit Colorado. It can’t be that far. Hell, he’d move here if that wasn’t a completely crazy thing to do for a guy after three days.
Bucky’s mouth softens under his and Clint sighs into it. Relaxes his shoulders. Cups his hands over Bucky’s warm cheeks. Merry Christmas , he thinks. And a happy New Year.