Chapter Text
Life had been almost quiet in the two years since the Battle of New York. Clint had gone back to work at S.H.I.E.L.D. because being an Avenger wasn’t a 24/7 sort of job. It wasn’t that he minded, not really. He mostly worked with Nat, and Fury really didn’t question any of their methods so it was okay.
He was heading to the Triskelion to report to Hill when his phone vibrated in his pocket. He had so many little tricks to keep anyone from knowing about his deafness. Not that he gave a fuck if they knew, it was the reactions that always annoyed the shit out of him. With the aids Fury had sourced somewhere (the cagey Director refused to say where), his hearing was pretty damn good. He still read lips, of course, but he had learned how to mask what he was doing.
He stopped his vehicle just outside of S.H.I.E.L.D. property and checked the text from Nat: Fury has been attacked. He may die. Watch your six.
He texted back quickly: You too. You need me, I‘m there.
Her reply was almost instantaneous: Do your thing. Trust Hill, no one else.
“Oh well fuck,” he muttered, diverting away from the known entrances to the Triskelion. He was Clint Fucking Barton and had found ten different ways in and only six of those Nat knew about. He was all about covering his own ass. He parked the S.H.I.E.L.D. truck on a side street and mentally cheered for his foresight in picking which bow case he’d brought along today. He grabbed what had once been a hardshell, rectangular guitar case before he’d retro-fitted it. His collapsible bow fit perfectly along with his quiver and arrows. Okay, so he also had spare knives in it too. He’d never been a damn Boy Scout, but he’d learned to be always prepared.
He locked the truck and slid the backpack on, carrying the guitar case as he worked his way into the crowd of pedestrians. Ducking into a coffee shop he knew had no surveillance, Clint swapped out clothes in the men’s room and swapped the hardshell case for the soft backpack style one he kept for extreme circumstances. If Fury was near-death and Nat was telling him to trust no one, he would deem it extreme. His phone was stripped down so he couldn’t be tracked. A second set of clothes and the now empty backpack were tucked in the case before he made his way out the back door.
Back out in the crowd, Clint made his way over to the nearest subway station. Despite his height, with the non-descript clothes and watch cap he was just another sucker trying to get someplace. Ducking the security cameras here wasn’t as easy, but it didn’t matter, not for this bit. He bought a ticket with one of his many alter ego’s that S.H.I.E.L.D. knew nothing about and made like he was boarding the train. He edged out of camera range and waited for the chaos that was public transportation in D.C.
Clint ducked into one of the service doors, thanks to a nifty tool Nat had given him that unlocked just about every damn thing. From there, it was merely a matter of making his way through service tunnels until he reached the one that would lead him to the power plant and eventually into the Insight Bays. Well, not totally. He wasn’t a moron. It seemed like hours, but he’d timed it so he knew it wasn’t that long, before he climbed through a small service space and was able to look out into the bays.
Things looked far busier than usual. Busier than they should have been, even with the helicarriers due to launch soon. That paired with Fury’s attack made him very wary. Clint made his way up, knowing that these spaces weren’t on any blueprints. (Thank you Nat!) He made his way topside, still out of sight, to see what he could see. Something was up and he really didn’t have any idea what it could be. Other than Really Fucking Bad.
He got comfortable, well as comfortable as possible, and watched. Hours later, he climbed back down and out of the service spaces, taking a different route back out than he’d used to get in. He made his way to one of his hidey holes and checked the news. All hell was breaking loose apparently. Cap, Nat, and yes, even him, were on the list of Fugitives. What the actual fuck?!
Clint laid out what he had at hand and assessed. The phone was useless, at least for now. He had plenty of weapons and two more alternate identities. Cash too. This wasn’t the first time he would be on his own and probably not the last either.
His routine didn’t change, even when Nat didn't make contact again. The second day, he spotted a group that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. Nat had told him tales of the Winter Soldier and had said she hoped Clint didn’t see him forced into service. She’d made it clear that she knew more about the man than she was letting on. Clint had left it at that first mention (knowing not to ask questions) and was rewarded with more information over the years. Yeah, if her physical description was accurate (and with Nat it always was), the Winter Soldier was making himself at home at the Triskelion.
Didn’t that just make an already fucked situation worse.
He nearly reached for his gun when he saw just who was escorting the Winter Soldier around. Fucking Rumlow and what looked to be his entire STRIKE team. Clint never liked Rumlow. Bastard thought he was more badass than he truly was. He always got pissy when Clint kicked his ass in training. Probably why Rumlow was a dick to him. Oh well, boo hoo. He snuck through the lovely passages and managed, again thanks to some tech genius gadget from Nat, to access the system and see just how fucked everything was. He was able to tap into the cameras and watch just what areas Rumlow, his minions, and the Winter Soldier frequented. It really shouldn’t have been a surprise that the Insight Bays were their top choice.
Day three, he watched Cap fight his way out of the Triskelion. He decided that was his cue. He couldn’t move right away. Using up all his patience and quite a few hours, Clint made his way around, thankful for his foresight in lifting a STRIKE uniform and gear a while back. He knew it would come in handy. Shouldering the soft case holding his own weapons, he picked up a gun. There was no need to alert them to his presence. His plan was to help Cap if he could but, mainly to steal a quinjet. Was it stealing though? He was still an agent, despite whatever asshattery had got him listed as a fugitive. He wasn’t planning on keeping it. He’d return it. Probably. Maybe.
Clint was crossing the deck when the Winter Soldier came around the quinjet he’d been aiming for. Damn it! From what Nat had said, the man was much like Steve. That meant he wasn’t just a shoot and kill target. Clint ducked into the closest quinjet, hoping it was still empty. It was, so he moved up to the console, using Nat’s fun little tech toy and starting up the quinjet, bypassing the usual protocols. He was almost done when he caught sight of someone else boarding. He whirled, gun pointed at … oh fuck … the Winter Solider guy. Fuck.
“What are you doing?”
Clint blinked, momentarily distracted though his gun never wavered. “Huh. Didn’t expect Brooklyn.”
“You aren’t HYDRA.”
Clint didn’t say anything, not sure what HYDRA’s protocol was for identifying yourself. There was no fucking way he’d bring himself to do the ‘Hail, HYDRA’ bullshit, that much he was sure of. “Why are you, Brooklyn?”
Brown eyes narrowed. “Why do you keep calling me that?”
Clint chanced a glance out and damn it, there were HYDRA fucks all over the deck. “Uh, because that’s one helluva Brooklyn accent, pal.”
“No, it’s not.”
“Are we really doing this right now?” Clint said, incredulous. “You sound just like Cap. He’s as Brooklyn as it gets. I need to borrow this quinjet, so can we wrap this up?”
“Cap?”
Clint didn’t dare show how relieved he was when the quinjets console flashed letting him know it was ready to go. “Uh. Yeah. Cap as in Captain America. Also known as Captain Steve Rogers. I know Nat said they did horrible shit to you, but surely you know who it is you’ve had a hard on for days now … right?”
The Winter Soldier shook his head as if shaking off a thought or maybe was simply confused. Many people got confused by Clint, he was used to it by now. “Who’s Nat?”
“Natasha Romanoff or Romanov depending on her mood. She’s uhh my best friend.” He considered it, because damn it, now he was totally intrigued. “Her before name was Natalia Alianovna Romanova. Why, you know her?”
The guy paled and Clint took a half step forward before he remembered why that was a bad idea. He pushed past Clint and started typing something on the console. “Don’t make me harm a friend of Natalia’s. Just go.”
“Valid and highly intelligent advice.” Clint sighed. “Too bad I don’t do well with taking advice. I’m borrowing this quinjet. Don’t make me boot you off it.”
The guy sighed again. “Of fucking course a friend of hers would be as stubborn as she is. Just don’t get yourself killed. She’d figure it out and hunt me down. I have enough problems.”
“I gotta say, you aren’t seeming like the big, bad terror everyone has been making you out to be.”
A light laugh. “I hit my head, not feeling myself. Just keep your ass alive. I’m about to have too many hunting me as it is. I don’t need Natalia on my ass too.”
Clint winced. “Yeah, that is never a good thing. So, thanks?”
“For what?”
“Not killing me on sight, I suppose.”
Another laugh. “Like I said, hit my head. You need to leave. Do whatever, just damn it, if she really is your best friend, you’ll not get yourself killed.”
The Winter Soldier was almost to the doors, hauling Clint by his arm. Damn it, Clint couldn’t just let him leave alone. He wasn’t built that way. “Wait.”
The man didn’t turn. “Why?”
“You said you’re about to have people hunting you. Why?”
“Do you always ask a million questions?”
“Yes.”
A heavy sigh and he turned to face Clint again. “I’m about to prove that their mindfuck didn’t take the last time, that’s why.”
“At least tell me, I mean if you remember, who you really are.”
Clint worried he’d gone too far and was about to be shot. But, the man just sighed and pulled off his mask enough so Clint could verify what he was saying. “Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes. You?”
It took him a moment to get past the fact that James Buchanan Barnes was fucking hot. Damn it! Damn it all to hell and back. Ugh. Why?! Not fair. He wasn’t just some nameless enemy combatant now. This was how he’d ended up recruiting Nat instead of killing her. Then it hit him. Oh fucking hell. He knew that name! Nat had dragged him to the Smithsonian exhibit. Fuck, just fuck.
“Clint Barton, S.H.I.E.L.D. agent and when aliens invade, Hawkeye.” Clint waited a beat, replacing the half mask he’d been wearing as part of the uniform. “We can both stay on here, help each other fuck with HYDRA’s plans … just giving you options.”
“I have to make it look good.” James gave Clint a nod as he put his mask back on. “If you don’t get yourself dead, tell Natalia I didn’t want to shoot her, but she gave me no choice. You need to go.”
Damn it, Clint didn’t have it in him to not try one more time. “Yeah sure, but you could tell her yourself. Because, I’m not going anywhere.”
“Probably gonna get myself dead, so yeah. You tell her.”
Clint was stubborn, but he sorta respected the guy for what he was doing. “Do you ignore everything you don’t want to listen to or am I special?”
The doors closed a moment later and Clint smiled wryly when he realised that James (because damn it, he had a name now. A real one, not some HYDRA code name) wasn’t shooting him or shoving him out of the quinjet.
With that in mind, Clint cautiously moved to stand with James. It only took a moment to clue in that his new friend had cleared him to not just access all the systems in the quinjet, but a backdoor into S.H.I.E.L.D. too. As James took off, Clint input a code Nat had made him memorize. He wasn’t sure what it did beyond totally fucking any system. Because Clint rarely made wise decisions, he took a moment to study his new friend and mentally berated himself. Just my luck, find a hot guy and he’s determined to get himself killed. Fuck my life.
--**--
James engaged the cloaking and hauled ass away, still very confused by Clint Barton. He didn’t need any more complications. All he needed to do was get away. He knew enough to know that the longer he was away, the more he would remember. Now would be the fun part. He didn’t know America any longer. Why oh why hadn’t he knocked Clint out and stolen the quinjet like he’d planned? Oh yeah, because he had clearly lost his fucking mind.
His goal was to get the blond off the quinjet before he did something regrettable. He touched down in the woods outside the city. “Okay, this is where you leave.”
“Ha. Ha. No. You’re stuck with me. Sorry ‘bout your luck.”
James was very, very confused. “What the fuck?”
Clint was leaning on the pilot seat, looking far too pleased with himself for it to mean anything good for James. He pointed to the screen where the news was still announcing Agent Clint Barton a rogue S.H.I.E.L.D. agent and danger to everyone.
“You need a clean getaway, I’m now listed as a fugitive, and hey, I have a quinjet. Bonus points for all of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s data being fucked up. Win for both of us?”
James’ eyes narrowed. “Do you always make questionable decisions, or is today just special?”
Clint laughed. “Always. At least, according to Nat. So, wanna get the fuck outta here before we’re both caught and tossed in some high security prison that even I’ll have trouble escaping?”
“How do I know this isn’t a trick?”
“Nat.”
All things considered, it was a valid reason. A very valid reason. But, still … “How so?”
Clint rolled his (damn it why had he noticed!?) gorgeous blue eyes. “I let you go off alone, she finds out and makes my life miserable. Which, she will because she knows every fucking thing. Plus, you made me promise to tell her about the shooting thing, so she’ll kick my ass for letting you do the stupid thing you just did and then again for letting you leave now. Hmf. And I thought we were friends now.”
James looked down and sighed. Clint was offering the chance to actually have help to get away and, despite questionable choices, he had been briefed on the man and knew he was formidable. He couldn't ask for better backup. This backup, he was fairly certain, wouldn’t shoot him in the back either. “Are we?”
“Sure, why not? I like lethal, fellow assassin friends. Makes life interesting.”
James decided why the fuck not and settled in. “I’m thinking we need to get you a dictionary.”
Clint smiled wryly. “Because I don’t know what interesting means?”
James tilted his hand back and forth in a ‘so so’ sort of motion. “Not quite sure your definition is the usual one, is all.”
Clint was laughing. “Fair enough. Where to?”
“Not here.” James shrugged. “There wouldn't be clothes onboard that would fit me, would there?”
“Probably not perfectly, but I did spot some tac pants on one of the shelves. You could check those until we are away enough that I can duck into a shop for you. I might have a hoodie in my bag that will work too.”
“Are you always this nice?”
“Yeah, no. I’m a bastard before coffee. Or when I don’t get enough sleep.” Clint tapped his chin as he lifted them off again. “Or when I have to deal with too many people. Huh. I’m mostly a bastard, I guess.”
James stood and made his way back to the shelves, laughing. “If you were, Natalia would have shot you long ago.”
Clint laughed. “Who says she hasn’t tried? But seriously, where to?”
“Seriously,” he replied dryly. “Not here. I know Eastern Europe, not the Eastern Seaboard.”
“Awww, Jamie, you’re a smart ass.”
James turned, tac pants in hand. “No one calls me that. I don’t remember shit right now, but that much I do know.”
“They do now!”
He didn’t bother arguing, focusing on the not his usual style pants, though they were similar damn it. The pants looked almost the right size, so he stripped off his gear and laid it aside, within reach if needed, but damn it felt good not to be wearing that crap. The tac pants were only slightly big in the waist. He could deal with that. He made his way back up, boots in hand, and nearly grinned at the sight of Clint blushing. Ha! So he wasn’t the only one who noticed how hot their ‘new friend’ was. Good. Or bad. Probably very bad. “Uhh, I should warn you. They have trigger words, or whatever you want to call them. So, if they find me and start saying random words, fucking run would you?”
“Pfft. You are the one that needs a dictionary now. That’s not how this friend thing works. At all.”
James groaned. “You weren’t lying about the questionable decisions thing, were you?”
“Yeah, no. But, pot calling the kettle black there, eh?”
He ignored that and focused on something pertinent. “So, where are we headed?”
“I was thinking Eastern Europe,” Clint replied cheerily, then he scowled. “With a stopover to get you clothes.”
James smirked. Ha! Served the blond right for being a distraction to him earlier. “How will we do that with no money or identification?”
Clint pouted. “Awww, no, don’t go hurting my feelings. Nat alerted me when Fury was shot, I’ve got a go bag with almost everything we’ll need.”
James was questioning his own decision making abilities, but he could admit that (if he used Clint’s definition of the word) things were certainly going to be interesting.
--**--