Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Your boyfriend is causing problems for the team.” 

Bucky looks up from where he’s been cataloging the weapons locker in the back of the quinjet. He quickly runs possibilities through his mind. 

“Is this about the backtalk he gave Coulson at yesterday’s debrief? ‘Cause you gotta admit, the paperwork really was a little excessive, and you know it was funny to see Coulson turn that shade of red.” 

Natasha shakes her head and Bucky frowns, putting down the inventory list to concentrate. It’s unlikely that she’s referring to what he and Clint were doing last night — they’ve been working really hard at keeping each other quiet when they know the team’s going to be around. Especially after that time last month when Steve told them mid-stake out to keep it down. And while sure, it’s awkward for their teammates to hear what they get up to, it’s not like they’ve compromised anything. 

They haven’t screwed up a job too badly since they started screwing each other. They always manage to get back on track and finish the job, even if the original mission plans get derailed for other railing related reasons. 

“This isn’t about — ” 

“No, James.” Distaste turns the corners of Natasha’s lips down. “This isn’t about your inability to keep it in your pants around your fellow sniper. This is about the hotel reviews.” 

“The what?” 

One would think Bucky’s the dumbest human in the entire world for the weight of Natasha’s sigh. She pulls her phone out, flicking to a logged in profile on a website called “Tripadvisor.”

Bucky sees the username for the account and winces. 

He flinches again as he starts to read, and by the time he reaches the last line of the third review, he can barely see the words for how scrunched closed his eyes are and how far back from the phone he’s leaning. 

There are many ways to describe Clint. 

Tactful is not one of them. 

Tactically-minded? Sure. Incredibly hot in tac pants? Absolutely. Technically talented tongue tactician? Memories from last night confirm this to be true. 

But tactful? Or discreet? Or always thoughtful before making rash decisions that may or may not compromise his identity and the location of their super secret SHIELD mandated missions? 

Not so much. 

“You can see why this is an issue.” 

Bucky hands the phone back to her. “Yeah. I can talk to him if you want me to. I assume you’re going to pull the profile?” 

“Already have, this is just the backlogged file.” 

“Does Coulson know? Or Fury?” 

“Luckily for Clint, no. I decided to take pity and take care of things before it got up the ladder.” Natasha turns to leave, pausing at the hatch. “Just… make sure he doesn’t get any other ideas, okay, James? I’ll cover for him this time.” 

Bucky is well-versed in Natashaisms and can read between the lines — the click of her nails on the edge of the entryway before she walks through says clearly, I’m not going to stick my neck out for your special brand of idiot, and the flip of her hair on the way out lets him know that he’s down a favor and should probably stop at her favorite Russian bakery the next time he’s in Brooklyn. 

When he’s sure she’s gone, he lets a grin creep onto his face. 

No, Clint’s not tactful in the slightest, but damn, Bucky wouldn’t want him any other way. 

Chapter Text

“But don’t you think — ” 

Clint flips backwards off the support beam, and Bucky’s words die in his throat. Clint’s got his recurve in his left hand, and as he falls, his right extends to catch onto one of the ropes that dangles from the ceiling. Combined with his momentum and the way the rope is still swinging from a flyby of one of Tony’s drones only seconds before, it’s enough to carry his body cleanly onto a platform set into the wall ten feet down. 

Bucky wants, just a little bit, to throttle him. 

Alternatively, he wants this training session to end so that they can get back to their apartment before Tony gets mad at them for defiling the training room again. 

It’s really not Bucky’s fault that Clint is so incredibly competent. What’s Bucky supposed to do, ignore him? Not fall head over heels for him every single time he so much as hits a bullseye, or does something as amazing as trip over his own feet? 

Bucky may have spent 70 years being trained into a cold and deadly assassin without wants of his own, but Hydra never accounted for the hot mess magnetism of Clint fucking Barton. 

Clint crouches and fires off two arrows. “Don’t I think what? That the reviews are fucking hilarious?” 

Bucky unsticks his tongue from the roof of his mouth. “I know you think they’re funny, that’s not the question.” 

“Then what’s the question, hot stuff? You’re still at 14, by the way. Kinda shameful for me to be passing you like this, Mister Super Soviet Soldier Spy.” 

Bucky narrows his eyes, waits a breath, then releases a spray of bullets along the line of the ceiling. Three drones drop to the floor, out of commission. “We’re even now.” 

Clint thumbs through his quiver and pulls out an arrow. He covers the band near the fletching that indicates which type it is. “Not for long.”  

Bucky dashes across the training room floor, whipping behind a boxy grey obstacle. “It’s like I told you last week, though — I know you know it’s a tactical error to leave a digital footprint that our enemies could use to track our movements.” 

“’S’long as it’s after we leave the area, I don’t see what the problem is with it. And — 19.” 

The room shakes as the identity of Clint’s chosen arrow is revealed to be of the explosive variety. 

Half a second later, the overhead lights switch off, sending them into night mode. They’ve got five minutes until the drill ends.

Bucky sighs and feels along his belt for another magazine. “I mean, come on — theAmazingArrowman? Hawksdoitbetter? Purpleisthenewblack? WhoNeedsSuperStrengthWhenYou’veGotASuperBoyfriend? If someone is ever able to get into our network by hacking into your accounts, we would have serious issues. It’s not like you’re leaving a lot of room for mystery.” 

There’s a rush of air in front of him, then a press of a warm body as Clint leans in close. “Thought you didn’t like me to leave a lot of room.” Invisible lips ghost along Bucky’s jaw, vanishing before he can so much as inhale. “Besides,” Clint says, the glee in his voice both unfair and uncalled for, “if someone’s able to get into our network by hacking into my accounts that I access via Tony’s servers, we’ve already got issues.”  

Well. Bucky can’t argue that logic, can he? 

He cocks his head and listens for the passing of more drones. A buzz at eleven o’clock signals that the window has opened to let more in — he counts to four and fires once. The sound of three metal objects hitting the floor cheers him, just as Clint’s groan of frustration makes him smirk. Clint always goes for the drones when they first enter the room, and it’s rare for Bucky to beat him to it.

“Twenty. I told you that Natasha’s not going to cover for you this time, remember?” 

“Sure she is — she took the profiles down already. SexiestBowman on Booking.com lives no more. Natasha likes me. She thinks I’m funny. And cute. Like a puppy. Nobody wants to hurt a puppy.” 

It’s times like this when Bucky remembers that Clint’s only been on the team for a few months, no matter how seamlessly he fits into Bucky’s life. 

He has so much to learn. 

Namely that while Natasha does, in fact, think Clint is funny and cute in a bemused, older sister kind of way, she’ll find it infinitely more entertaining to watch the events of Clint’s fuck up play out. 

“Light in the east corner in two — ” Bucky ducks around the obstacle and squeezes his eyes shut as Clint’s illuminarrow explodes, the initial bright blast searing through his eyelids as he rolls to a stop. 

He props up on his elbows, rifle ready to start picking off the drones that flock to the light like gnats at night. “I think you’ll find Natasha doesn’t find puppies quite as cute as you do.” 

There’s a brief lull in their conversation, broken only by the tally of their downed drones and the pings of practice arrows and bullets flying through the air. 

A minute later, the lights come up to signal the end of the simulation, and Clint is cawing his victory on the way down from his final perch. 

He turns a cartwheel before holding the door open for Bucky, and Bucky doesn’t even bother to resist the pull of his flushed face, sweaty and smirking. He knocks the butt of his rifle along Clint’s hip and presses his lips into Clint’s grin. “You’re gonna regret this.” 

Clint’s face is joyful when he leans back, and the mirth in his eyes makes it impossible for Bucky to prevent his own lips from ticking up into a smile. “Regret what? Beating your ninety-year-old ass or leaving hilarious reviews for the places we stay even though Nat thinks I shouldn’t?” 

“Both, you sweet, sweet, summer child.”

Clint laughs and follows Bucky out of the training room. “We’ll see. Or, well, hey — I bet you can’t make me regret that simulation by the end of tonight.” 

Bucky doesn’t bother to rein in his amusement, and he lets a dangerous promise tinge his tone. “Sweetheart, I’ll have you regretting that simulation by the end of the hour .” 

Their afternoon training session was set to last exactly forty-five minutes, so they both know exactly how long they’ve got until the hour’s up. It might be close, but Bucky’s worked with less time before. 

Clint looks positively delighted by the challenge, if the way he starts sprinting to the elevator says anything. 

Bucky walks behind him at a more sedate pace, sidestepping the gear Clint throws over his shoulder. He only narrowly dodges Clint’s belt, but his payment for having to duck around a shoe is watching Clint get tripped up by his own pants as he falls through the opening elevator door. Yeah, Clint’s gonna regret a lot of things soon, and getting to that point is going to be pretty fucking perfect.

Chapter Text

Coulson glares at Clint. 

Clint smirks at Coulson. 

Bucky sighs and fights back his grin. 

He is not entirely successful. 

“Do you have something to add, Barnes?” 

Bucky shrugs and opens his hands in apologetic dismissal. “I had no idea he was doing this.” 

Coulson’s eyes are like daggers, and if Bucky hadn’t spent decades dodging literal daggers from friend and foe alike, he might be intimidated. 

It doesn’t help that Clint is slouched back in his chair like he’s not at his third formal review in as many months since he joined the Avengers, like he could care less about the fact that Coulson looks as though he’s about to pop an artery, like he hasn’t just created his own website for rating hotels and motels that could double as a pattern-tracking system for Avengers’ undercover ops. 

It also doesn’t help that Bucky finds the website completely hilarious and indescribably clever, and that when they received the summons to Coulson’s office that morning, Bucky forced Clint to show him why they were in trouble, which caused a considerable delay in their response time once Bucky realized he need to show Clint just how perfect he found him. 

It also doesn’t help that Bucky has just noticed evidence of their delay in the way that the hair on the back of Clint’s head is pressed to the side because of how the wall had — 

“You mean to tell me,” Coulson says, incensed, and Bucky guiltily snaps his eyes back, “that during the month since we terminated all of Barton’s access to websites related at all to hotels, a time period in which you have been on seven missions together, you never noticed him creating this website. You are attempting to tell me — me, your handler, who you claim to respect — that despite living together and spending an honestly concerningly codependent amount of time around each other, you have never noticed what your boyfriend does online?”  

“Ew, Coulson, gross,” Clint says before Bucky can so much as open his mouth. “We’re consenting adults, what we do online together shouldn’t be our boss’s concern.” 

Clint’s tone is lewd, his expression that of a disgusted teenager, and Bucky finds himself almost thankful that Coulson’s as level-headed and professional as he is. Otherwise he’s pretty sure Clint would be strangled. Or at the very least immediately dismissed from the team.

Bucky speaks up before Coulson loses it. If anyone could cause a composureless Coulson, Clint could. He leans forward in his chair. “No, sir. Despite our… proximity, I never noticed. You did say that we hired Clint for his subtlety.” 

Coulson takes a deep breath, eyes closed, and Clint takes advantage of the opportunity to smile gratefully at Bucky. 

Bucky winks back, then quickly schools his face into what he hopes is an appropriately contrite expression. 

It’s just that it’s been so hard to stop smiling since he discovered Clint at that Motel 7 in Colorado. Clint’s one part dumbass, two parts class clown, and three parts competence, but one hundred percent undeniably, certifiably good . Even when he’s in the middle of trying to flap the unflappable Coulson, ruffle Natasha’s feathers (Bucky’s seen her smile more than ever since Clint’s been around, too) or prove to Steve that shield throwing success is more about accuracy than super soldier strength, it’s hard to be upset. Clint does it all with a grin and a heart of gold, so no-one can ever be really mad at him.

So it’s been understandably tough for Bucky to fold himself back into the compliant, order-following soldier that Coulson thought he was hiring when Bucky formally joined the team after being de-brainwashed a couple years ago. Really, it’s only natural progression. Steve and Nat and everyone else have been trying to get Bucky to ‘lighten up’ for ages. No-one could have anticipated that Clint would lighten him to the point of insubordination, but it’s not like anyone is going to complain about Bucky being happy. 

Coulson opens his eyes, still pinched at the corners. “That we did.” He turns to Clint, steepling his fingers in front of his chest — and yeah, with the hair and the glare, Bucky can totally see why Clint made him watch an episode from that animated show The Simpsons. It’s an uncanny similarity. Coulson clears his throat. “Barton. Are you aware of how we found out about this website?” 

Clint frowns, shaking his head. “No. Thought the encryptions would give me until at least November, and I didn’t even use a purple color scheme.” 

Yeah, no purple, but he did title the damn thing “Hawkguy’s Motels n’ More: a Rating Website for the Selective Sniper.” 

“Someone who accessed your website informed Mr. Parker that he was grateful that SHIELD,” and here Coulson unsteeples his fingers to provide air quotes, “‘got their stick out of their ass and is finally providing useful information for their contract workers’.” 

“Aw, Spidey,” Clint sighs. “I probably should’ve told him about the website before he went and spoiled things. Kid never can resist being responsible. But who could have…” He furrows his brow, then his eyes widen with indignant enlightenment. “Damn, I told Wade to keep it under wraps! That fucker. I’m gonna have to shoot him next time I see him.” 

It won’t do much, but Bucky can admit that sometimes it’s nice to have a friend you can unload a few rounds into when he frustrates you. Deadpool doesn’t mind so long as they buy him takeout after. He and Clint have had some good bonding moments over pizza and bloody kneecaps, and Bucky’s been taken to all the best taco trucks in the Bronx since they started hanging out with the immortal asshole.  

Coulson stares at Clint, who belatedly sits up. “Oh, right,” Clint says, scrambling. “The fact that Deadpool finds my site useful is a…bad thing.” 

“Very.” 

“Because,” Clint shoots his eyes at Bucky for help, but while Bucky isn’t as sadistic as Natasha, he’s not opposed to watching Clint squirm. “Because it’s bad for Deadpool to know that the Hilton in Hell’s Kitchen has good sight lines for the surrounding area?” 

Coulson’s eyes narrow. 

Clint tries again. “Because it’s bad that Deadpool knows we were in Montana during that explosion last week? Or, um, that the Travelodger in Tallahassee is right around the corner from an understaffed gun supply shop?” 

There’s a twitch in Coulson’s right eyelid.

“Oh, damn, right, you don’t want Deadpool to know that we were the ones who finally put that dick Francis down. Wade might get jealous if he realizes that Francis  — what a dumbass name for a dumbass dude  —  was the one holed up in that apartment in Jersey across from the Econo Inn. But I mean really, I think he’s been a lot calmer lately since he started hanging out with Spidey. We probably don’t have anything to worry about.” 

Oh yeah, they probably should have called Deadpool in for that hit. Guy’s got a weird thing about vengeance, though Bucky supposes he doesn’t really have room to talk with the amount of Hydra blood on his hands. 

He focuses back in on the argument and finds himself at just the right angle that he can see Coulson’s fist clench in the reflection of the glass behind his desk.

At Coulson’s continued silence, Clint tapers off. “Or maybe all of it? Deadpool knowing all of that is bad?” 

“You’ve gotta admit,” Bucky hedges, “Deadpool isn’t known for being particularly good at keeping secrets.” 

Clint hums like it’s all finally making sense. “Right, yeah, I guess I did meet him at that merc bar. Wouldn’t take too much for this to end up in the wrong hands.” 

“One could argue that Deadpool’s hands are the wrong hands,” Coulson points out through gritted teeth. 

“Huh,” Clint says. 

If Bucky didn’t know how stupid smart Clint actually is, how he single-handedly gave Bucky the assist he needed to take down the final Hydra cell in the western half of the United States just three months ago, or how his idiot blonde act is just that — an act to fool his audience into low-expectations — then Bucky might be frustrated with him at this point too. 

But the thing is, Bucky does know that Clint is way smarter than most people — Clint included — give him credit for, so what he feels in his chest is more along the lines of exasperation, if exasperation is something sweet that bubbles up like joy and warms him from the inside out. 

Coulson is very clearly feeling no bubbles. 

“Barton.” 

And oh man, that’s his serious tone. To be fair, Coulson’s always serious, but this is his serious serious tone. This is his ‘ there are lives at stake and/or severe bureaucratic consequences on the line and/or the laundromat shrunk my suit jacket so I had to come to work in just a button down and tie and if you say anything, so help me Barnes I will end you ’ serious tone. This is the one you don’t mess around with. 

“Sir,” Clint says with an impish quirk of his eyebrow. 

Bucky swallows. Clint may be fluent in ASL, enough various military lingos to direct an army, and three different Arabic dialects, but he’s apparently not yet fluent in Coulson. 

Well, it’s been good while it lasted. 

When Coulson speaks, his voice is deadly calm, his expression as smooth as Bucky’s reload of his rifles, his gaze as sharp as the blades of the throat-slashing knives at Bucky’s hip and calf. 

“Barton.” 

The air in the room chills. 

Clint sits up. 

The glass wall behind Coulson’s desk turns opaque as a list of names begins to file down, quickly filling the space over Coulson’s head. 

“Sir?” Clint asks. 

Bucky scans the names as photos flash between them — candids and grinning faces, each more youthful and happy than the last. He doesn’t recognize any from his time as the Winter Soldier, nor any other ops he’s gone on in the past few years; what is this? 

He cuts his eyes over to Clint and finds him looking back, expression worried. This isn’t collateral damage, is it? They’re not about to find out that Clint’s stupid motel reviews have caused legitimate harm — that would crush Clint. 

“Those aren’t — ” Clint starts, queasy. “I didn’t, no, there’s no way — ” 

“These,” Coulson says, leaning forward onto his desk, “are SHIELD’s newest recruits. Fresh from the career fair. They’re in need of a trainer.” 

He gives them a moment to process, then Clint’s face twists with new understanding. 

“Aw, recruits, no.” 

Bucky frowns. Clint probably wouldn’t make the worst trainer in the world, what with his experience on special-ops teams in the Army, and there’s no arguing that he’s good at his job and that the recruits would be learning from the best, but — 

“It’s an eight-week-long program, eight hours a day, seven days a week.” The barest hint of a smirk makes its presence known on Coulson’s face. 

“Eight weeks?” 

“The trainer will need to be with their group for the entire program; no outside missions during that time.” 

“The entire time?” Clint looks an inch away from passing out. 

“Due to the intensive nature of the experience, the trainer would also be bunking with the recruits here at HQ for the duration. Standard 10 person dormitories.” 

“But, I — ” 

Bucky’s stomach twists as Clint’s squawking grows inarticulate. This would be punishment for both of them. 

“And there will be, of course, a great deal of paperwork to file. Previous trainers have typically spent 1-2 hours each evening completing daily ratings.” Coulson’s smile grows, the sadistic asshole. “And that’s excluding the end of program reviews that all 25 recruits will require. It’s ever so important to leave feedback, wouldn’t you say?” 

The room is silent. 

“Coulson.” Clint’s voice is more full of remorse than Bucky’s ever heard it, and that’s including last month when they arrived at an outpost nine hours away from civilization, only to discover he’d forgotten the lube. “Please don’t make me — ” 

“You’ve learned how to leave good reviews, haven’t you, Barnes?” Coulson turns his twisted smile to Bucky. It’s horrifying. “Do you think you’ll have any trouble with the paperwork? After all, you’ve had such a great example.” 

Bucky’s heart freezes in his chest. 

No. 

“But sir, no, that’s not fair .” Clint stands, all traces of insolence gone from his posture. “James didn’t — it was me — he didn’t even know about it at first — it wasn’t his fault , you can’t — ” 

“Can’t I?” Coulson has played the winning hand, and his expression shows it. “Agent Barnes would make an exceptional trainer, and I find myself confident in his willingness to do what’s necessary for our organization.” 

Bucky’s not sure if his heart has kicked back on. Coulson’s right; no matter how frustrating, he’d want to do right by any recruits. His mouth opens and closes. He doesn’t even know what it’s trying to say.

“But he doesn’t deserve — ”

Coulson speaks right over Clint’s protests. “And you needn’t worry, Barton. We’ll keep you in the field. In fact, there’s a month-long op coming up in Uruguay next week. Deep cover, rainforest surveillance, complete communications blackout. Level 10 priority. You’ll be plenty busy.” 

And no, Bucky was wrong. This is Coulson’s winning play. 

Clint’s knees buckle as he collapses in his chair. His hands come up to cover his face.

It takes a moment, but eventually Bucky finds his voice. “Sir, surely there is some other way this could be resolved.” 

Clint looks up at Coulson through spread fingers. “ Please.” 

The names and photos behind Coulson slowly begin to vanish, one by one. Coulson flicks his eyes between Bucky and Clint through the entire torturous process, blinking slowly. 

Bucky’s a sniper, a soldier; he’s been kept frozen in a semi-consciousness state for years at a time, made to endure hours of torture; he’s a master of waiting, a pro at being patient. 

No minute has ever felt longer. 

“Gentlemen,” Coulson says when the final name vanishes. His tone is eerily reminiscent of Natasha. “This is your final warning. Your last chance.” 

Clint heaves a lungful of air and lunges across the desk to grab Coulson’s hand. “Thank you, thank you , sir, I promise I won’t do it again. I swear, not a single other review, no matter how great, no matter the comedic value, I promise I won’t.” 

Coulson pulls his hand back, grimacing slightly. “I know you won’t.” His gaze turns to Bucky, and the smile that flashes across his face next is his most devious yet. “Barnes here won’t let you.” 

Bucky wraps his hand over Clint’s shoulder and backs them up towards the door, shaking his head fervently. “No, sir, I will not.” 

And he doesn’t. 

Even when Clint tries to find a workaround at a particularly shitty motel in Virginia. 

Bucky catches him scribbling frantically on a comment card one night when he’s supposed to be getting an extension for their stay, pencil flying across the paper in barely legible words. 

“Come on — it’s paper , Coulson will never know!” Clint makes a valiant attempt to stuff the card into the crooked ‘Feedback Welcome’ box in the lobby, but Bucky snatches it out of his hands, shredding it into pieces. 

“Not. A. Chance.” 

“But — ” 

Bucky grabs the entire stack of comment cards — appreciating again the complete absence of staff, which has admittedly been incredibly convenient this trip, as they would definitely have been caught last night dragging that body through the lobby of any decent establishment — and takes them outside. 

“Not even one ?” The door jingles closed behind Clint, and some of the resident pack of feral raccoons look up from their current nest in the dilapidated laundry room. One chitters indignantly at Clint and Bucky before they turn back to their food as one, content to ignore the intruders. 

Bucky stalks around the building, thankful for the lack of lighting in the parking lot. The burnt out streetlamps are sketchy as fuck and might make their car a target for potential thieves, but more importantly, they make it so that he can’t be seen by only other guest, a nosy old lady in Room 117. 

He picks up one of the lighters that he’d noticed abandoned on the ground, and sets the comment cards on fire. 

Clint wilts. 

Bucky is grateful as hell for Clint Barton. Clint’s an amazing teammate, an incredible sniper, the perfect counterpart to Bucky both in the field and out. He can make shots that seem humanly impossible, can see patterns in enemies’ plans from miles away, can predict exactly what Bucky wants — and needs — from him at any given moment. He’s a source of joy, of pride, and of unparalleled happiness for Bucky, who is entirely sure that there’s no-one else who will ever understand him quite like Clint does. 

However — 

No matter how grateful he is for Clint, no matter how much he cares for him, nor how much humor he would find in whatever comment Clint wanted to leave — 

There is no goddamn way Bucky’s getting stuck on recruit duty. 

The last of the flames peters out between them, ashes swirling up in the air. 

Clint sticks out his lower lip, almost as pitiful as that one-eyed mutt that’s waiting for them at the vet back in New York, rescued fresh off the streets last week. 

Bucky had tried to resist Clint’s puppy eyes then; he finds himself equally unable to now. “Alright, alright. We’ve got three hours until we gotta get back to that base. Lemme make it up to you.”  

He links his hands through Clint’s and pulls him towards their room. At least the sheets in there are clean, even if that’s only because they’ve gotten into the habit of bringing their own. 

He swipes the key card — it takes seven tries before the lock clicks — but finds himself held back from entering. 

Clint’s eyes are alight with mischief. “Hey, if I’m not allowed to review motels, whaddaya say I review you while — ”

Bucky yanks him through the door and slams it shut. “If you so much as finish that sentence, so help me, Hawkeye, you’ll be wishing you were in Uruguay right now.” 

The walls in the motel are so thin, Bucky’s pretty sure the raccoons and the old lady in 117 can hear Clint’s responding laughter. 

They can also probably hear what happens next.