Chapter Text
"Agent Barton," Maria says, nodding. "Please, sit."
Clint turns the chair around backwards, folding his arms over the back rest. "Hey, Maria."
"That's Commander Hill," she says, unphased. "Now, Barton. You're going to be leading a team into Madripoor. There's a Hydra base there, and we need you to gather as much information about their activities in the area as possible before destroying the operation. You have a week."
"Who've I got?"
"Romanoff, Preston, May, and a new recruit. He's going along on a provisional basis."
“Yippee.”
"I'm briefing you about this separately." She looks somewhat pained as she rubs at the bridge of her forehead. "I'm not sure he's field-ready yet, but he insists, and, well. Now's as good a time as any to test his loyalty."
"A new recruit and we’re testing his loyalty, too?" Clint snorts. "You're sending this kid to Madripoor with me and you're not even sure he's loyal? What if he's Hydra or something?"
"Then you and your team handle the situation however you see fit, and he was never part of the operation," she says. "If he goes rogue, you take him out and say you encountered him there."
Clint sits up a little straighter, frowning. "So who is this, exactly?"
"This is restricted information, for you and your team only," Maria tells him. She's so serious that Clint doesn't joke about SHIELD's inability to keep secrets these days. He knows he, at least, can keep his mouth shut. So can Romanoff, and May. Preston probably will. Clint doesn't know her that well, but if Maria trusts her, so does he. Mostly. "You are not to tell any other members of the Avengers Initiative. Any of them."
"Okay," Clint says slowly. "I swear on my job I won't tell."
Maria sighs heavily, and reaches for a remote sitting on the table. With a press of a button, the overhead projector turns on, and -
"Oh," Clint says, eyes wide. "And we're keeping him secret why, exactly?"
"Because he requested it as part of his conditions for working with us." Maria does something like a smile. The expression is intimidating, whatever it is. "I get the feeling he thinks it's more a case of us working for him than the other way around, but ..."
"But we're not turning him down. Nope, okay. Got it."
"Now," Maria says. "Let's get back to the details of the mission. Preston will be handling logistics, but otherwise strategy is up to you. Here’s a map of the area."
-
Clint gets his own jet. It’s big and shiny and black, and the exterior is completely free of SHIELD insignia. SHIELD's logo does appear in the cockpit and all over the interior, though. Clint hopes no bad guys get a good look inside.
Hands on his hips, he stares up at it. The back’s open so they can board if they want - Clint doesn’t have a cool car to drive in, but he might see about renting or buying a cheap motorbike in Madripoor. “Tasha, I get my own jet.”
“Uh-huh,” she says. “For one mission.”
“It’s really not your jet,” Agent Preston says. “Really, really not your jet.”
“It’s mine for now.”
“No,” Preston says.
“Nat -”
Natasha folds her arms and shakes her head, and Clint sighs heavily. Agent May isn’t there to back him up - she’s already on board doing a pre-flight check of the instrument panels. He’s a little too scared to ask their new recruit, so Clint gives up. The jet’s his in his heart, even if he can’t call it that.
“When we get to Madripoor, can I ride my bike in while we’re taking off?” Clint asks.
“Is this what he’s always like?” Agent Preston asks.
“It might actually be worse than usual,” Natasha says. “I think power’s going to his head.”
“That’s a great sign in a leader,” their new recruit says. Clint has no idea where the fuck he snuck up from, but he doesn’t let his surprise show. He’s better trained than that. That doesn’t mean he’s any less freaked out.
“Okay, okay, no riding the bike into the jet during a daring escape. Got it.” Clint holds his hands up palms-out to show they’re empty. He resists the urge to step back. “I promise.”
Preston holds a hand to her ear listening to something on a Bluetooth headset. “Okay, thanks. Looks like the plane’s ready for takeoff.”
“So we should probably get on it,” Clint says. “Everybody ready?”
-
Agent Melinda May is one of Clint’s personal heroes. He doesn’t tell her this. He does trip over his own feet going up to the cockpit to see how she and Preston are getting along. Fine, as it turns out.
“I don’t know if Commander Hill remembered to mention it, but I’m only with your team for this mission. Then I have to get back to the US.”
“Oh,” Clint says. “Yeah, no, she didn’t say, but okay. That’s cool. That’s good. You’re great, we’ll do fine.”
May looks skeptical.
Clint does not say this is his first command. He doesn’t say he’s sort of terrified they’re all going to get killed by the new recruit. Instead, he says, “You’re really cool.”
“Barton?” Preston says. “Get out of here and let us fly this thing.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Clint says, and scurries away. As the door closes, he can hear both of them laughing.
He slumps down on one of the sofas in the main cabin. The interior decorating is fancy enough that he wishes he could text a picture of it to Tony Stark just to show off, but nobody’s supposed to know where they're going at the moment. Nobody else he knows would appreciate how cool this jet is. Steve'd probably get frustrated at the waste of financial resources and time involved in redecorating an outdated jet.
The new recruit sits down on the sofa opposite him, and rests his elbows on his knees, leaning forward.
“Whoa, hey, hi. We should’ve been introduced better. Clint Barton. Call me whatever.”
He gets a lazy salute in reply. “Barton works?”
“Barton works. I’m guessing I shouldn’t call you Bucky?” Clint makes a face, almost apologetic.
A shrug. “Doesn’t matter.”
“Agent Barnes it is.”
“That works.” He does another lazy one-shouldered shrug. “Don’t know if I get the Agent title, though. I’m not really officially working for you guys. Barnes, Bucky. Whatever’s easier.”
“It’s not weird?”
“Not unless you make it weird,” Bucky says.
“Okay, so I’m just gonna … you want a drink?” Clint pushes himself to his feet. The plane has its own bar, which might just be his favorite thing, even if he sort of suspects it’ll be like taking shit from a hotel refrigerator - convenient, but coming right out of his bank account later. There’s not a lot of options in midair, though.
“They got a liquor cabinet on the plane?” Bucky asks.
Clint beams at the selection, hands hovering in front of him in indecision before settling on whiskey. Partly he just wants to look cool. He pours himself a glass. “Apparently this is what I was missing out on working solo all these years.”
“You think you were missing out working solo? Try working brainwashed.”
“I’ll take a pass,” Clint says. His three days under Loki’s control don’t seem like much in comparison. As bad as it was, and as many good people as he killed - it’s not the same. He holds up an empty cup. “What do you want?”
“Whatever’s good. Don’t remember what I liked.”
“Gotcha,” Clint says. That’s the other thing: for all that he spent three days jerked around like a puppet, somewhere in there he knew who he was. From what he’s read of the Winter Soldier files, that wasn’t the case for Bucky.
Natasha disappeared somewhere to sleep shortly after they got on the plane, but she wanders out maybe ten minutes later. Somehow a casual chat turns into the fiercest arm wrestling competition Clint’s ever been involved in his whole life.
He feels like he should be doing something more leader-y then getting his ass kicked by a hundred year old brainwashed assassin, but he mentally writes it off as team bonding and considers it a successful first day.
He’s never had a team of his own before. Worked in groups, sure, but he’s better alone and at a distance. Maria trusts him with it, though, and thus, by proxy, so does Coulson. Unless she didn’t tell him, but SHIELD’s been working on communication and transparency a little more these days. Hopefully he knows and approves.
If two of SHIELD’s highest ranking officials trust him with this - well, they’re goddamn idiots, but their confidence does feel nice.
-
Day one in Madripoor consists of following Preston around as she secures a hotel for them, because - “You didn’t really think we were staying on the plane, did you?”
“I never run missions like this anymore,” Clint says. “I get dropped off and I get out on my own. I thought I had a plane!”
“So we’d just go back to the airport every night…?” May asks.
Clint shrugs.
“I haven’t stayed in a hotel in ages,” Bucky says. “It’ll be nice.”
“I guess,” Clint says. “Yeah, it’s better than just not sleeping until you find a way home.”
“See? You’re catching on.” Bucky punches Clint in the shoulder, then walks off toward a noodle stand by the side of the road.
“I’m not sure if I should be scared of that guy or not,” Clint says.
“You said the same thing about me once,” Natasha points out.
Clint considers that. “And I’m still scared of you. Not sure how that helps.”
“I wasn’t trying to help.”
They waste maybe three hours getting food and sorting out hotel arrangements. Clint complains loudly when the women get a big old suite and him and Bucky are stuck in a shitty room with two tiny beds. Bucky’s blase about their room, though, seeming pleased as punch just to have a bed. Clint doesn’t press the issue, even if he is the team leader and thinks he deserves a little more respect.
The mission’s already getting away from him.
He gets himself lunch, sits down in the hotel room, and goes over logistics. He’s got a big map of the city, and a SHIELD-issued tablet with a secure connection to look up information.
What they know is that Hydra’s got a solid foothold on the island, and has for years. Part of the money comes from selling research chemicals overseas, because the drugs are new and obscure enough that no one’s gotten around to outlawing them yet. What they’re selling is probably only tangential to their actual goals, though.
So. Clint’s team will figure out what Hydra’s up to, try to gather information on other Hydra facilities in the region, then eliminate as many targets as possible. After that, they’re to return to the States, unless he finds compelling evidence for why they should stay in the region.
May’s only with them for the week, so Clint’s hoping they don’t have to stick longer than that. He has faith in his and Natasha’s ability to handle anything thrown their way, but Maria assigned a full team for a reason, probably.
Unless she was fucking with him, which is possible but unlikely.
Bucky turns up again while Clint’s still planning, a plastic bag in hand. “Here.”
“What’s this?”
“Noodles,” Bucky says. “The noodle guy was really nice. Gave me a discount when I said I was getting this for a coworker who was working late.”
“Huh.”
“Natasha says you’re not so great at eating real food. Something about protein bars?”
Clint tries to be subtle about reaching for the protein bar wrapper left on the table and hiding it, but Bucky spots the movement and raises an eyebrow at him.
“Yeah, no. You’re in Madripoor, you’re gonna eat local,” Bucky says.
“Who even are you?”
Bucky takes a moment to answer. “Is that a trick question?”
Clint looks up, trying his best not to look too horrified once he realizes what he just asked. He might succeed; it’s hard to tell since Bucky won’t look at him. “Aw, hey -”
“I’m figuring it out,” Bucky says.
Clint taps a hand against the table until Bucky looks at it, then he gestures toward the other chair. “C’mere, sit down and look at this map with me.”
-
Clint’s still not used to delegating, but he sends May to confirm the location of the Hydra base. Natasha gets sent out to scout the area for intel. Preston gets to stay at the hotel to monitor communications.
“And where are you going?” Agent Preston asks him.
“No idea.” Clint rubs at his face. “Don’t tell anyone, but this is my first time leading a team.”
“Commander Hill might have mentioned that to me.”
“I’m really good once stuff starts exploding,” Clint says. “And setting things up so they’re ready to explode. I’m great at that. Shooting. Arrows. Explosions.”
“You’re doing fine,” she says. “I swear.”
“You’re a nice lady.”
“I’m a SHIELD agent.”
“Okay, sorry,” Clint says. “You’re a very competent agent.”
“I’m married.”
“That’s not - aw, man.” Clint paces maybe six steps away. “I’m gonna go gather intel. Should I gather intel? That’s what I’m doing. I’m the leader, so I can do that.”
“Uh-huh,” she says. “You know, you’re not the worst person I’ve ever had to work with?”
“That’s comforting,” Clint says. “Call me if anything exciting happens.”
He’s almost to the door when she speaks up again. “What are you going to have Barnes doing?”
Clint stops in his tracks. “Oh, shit.”
“Remember to keep an eye out for him,” she says. “We still don’t know if he’s actually loyal.”
“Yeah.” Clint rubs at his forehead and turns back around to look at her, leaning against the wall by the door. “I know what it’s like, being - forced to do things. Having someone mess around inside your head. I want to give him the benefit of the doubt, but it’s weird, right? They had him for that long, and …”
“Yeah,” she says. “I know.”
“Tasha - Agent Romanoff - she turned out fine.”
“Lightning … well, wait, does lightning strike twice? Someone was telling me it actually does strike the same place. But you know what I mean.”
Clint laughs. “Yeah. No guarantee it’ll happen again. Right.”
“So just - keep an eye on him.”
“I know, I know.” Clint shakes his head. “Sorry I’m not too good at this.”
“You’ll come around.” She shrugs, casual as can be. Clint can see why she was put on the team. Patience like that is a gift he sorely needs and barely deserves. “Or you won’t. Long as you don’t get any of us killed, I’m fine with it either way.”
-
The first night, May proves Hydra is in the area, and that they’ve set up shop in a big factory down near the waterfront. Natasha manages to discover that they also have an office downtown, not too far from the hotel.
All Clint learns is that Bucky’s got impressive alcohol tolerance. He also learns that there are a number of folks working in Hydra’s factory who don’t know anything about it and just need the money, which is upsetting but unsurprising.
Day two, Clint wakes up with a hangover and the rest of his team already off doing their own thing. He heads out alone and is eternally grateful for how many expats live here, not to mention the fact that near everyone else speaks English anyway. There’s probably something bad to be said about that - Madripoor’s been so riddled with international criminal interests for so long that it’s made English a necessity - but for now Clint is glad.
He gets an old man to make him a hangover cure that’s hideously noxious, and from there gets advice on where an interested party might look for a well-paying job if morals aren’t an issue. One of Clint’s least favorite things about himself is how good he is at looking both pitiable and marginally competent, but as long as it comes in handy he’s not going to try and change. Not that he’d try and change anyway, probably.
So it is that Clint finds himself down at the loading docks of Hydra’s factory, helping move boxes.
“What’s in these, anyway?” Clint tries asking the guy on the other side of the massive crate he’s carrying.
“I don’t know and I don’t care.” The other guy shifts the crate a little. “They’re not paying us to know. You’re new here, right?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Don’t ask questions. You’ll be okay. Do the work and go home to - your family, your hotel, apartment, prostitutes, whatever. Whatever you’re doing here. Do the work and go home.”
It takes a moment for Clint to remember to say, “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind. Thank you.”
He works hauling boxes back and forth for six hours, learns literally nothing of value to the mission - besides the location of a strip club, which is important information for Clint but maybe not anyone else - then goes to find dinner.
“Agent Barton?” a voice in his ear says, and he near jumps out of his skin before realizing it’s just Agent Preston calling.
“Yup.”
“Agent May found some valuable intel. If you could return to base, that’d be great.”
Clint finishes walking up the block he was on, turns right, and circles back around, backtracking almost a quarter mile just to get headed in the right direction again. It only takes twenty minutes or so to walk to the hotel - he refuses to catch a taxi or bus on principle - and by the time he does, everyone’s waiting.
“Agent Barton.” May nods to him, and Clint’s heart might go a little aflutter at being acknowledged, only he’s the team leader, and he’s being professional this time. He reminds himself that he’s not going to hit on or fall into bed with any of the women on his team, just this once, not when he’s technically their superior officer or whatever. He’s not sure precisely how that works in SHIELD - if he’d get punished for fraternization or have some other charges brought against him - but he doesn’t want to find out. “Welcome back.”
“Hey.” Clint waves to his team. Natasha rolls her eyes; Agent Preston waves back. Bucky nods, watching him intently. “So I got close to infiltrating the factory today. Lots of pictures of their cargo, and I’ve got the registration of all the ships they were loading onto right up here.” He taps the side of his head. The pictures aren’t in his head, they’re on his phone, but he hopes everyone else will figure it out. “Should we - okay, wait, Agent Preston. I want you to relay that information to SHIELD. Once I write it out or whatever.”
They’re still waiting on him to say something after that. Clint hesitates. “Okay, uh. Let’s just - go around the table? Agent May, Preston says you found out something good. Lay it on us.”
May holds up a small cardboard box. “I managed to secure some of what they’re selling.”
“Oh, nice,” Clint says. “Wow. Nice. We can send that someplace for testing, right? We should send that someplace for testing.”
“I’ll handle it,” Agent Preston says, and Clint gives her a high five because it seems appropriate. He holds a hand out for Agent May, too, but she just stares at him, and eventually he lets his hand sink down and coughs, trying to pretend that the only reason he had his arm up was to cover his mouth.
“So we’ve got their drugs, still don’t know what they’re doing. But that’s good. Proof it’s them, right? Okay. Anybody else got anything? Agent Romanoff.” Using her last name feels weird, but Clint’s trying to be professional.
“I met a factory shift manager at a bar not far from the facility,” she says, and holds up a credit card-sized rectangle of plastic. “I’ve got a key to get in through any of the staff entrances. The entry would be logged under his name, but if we still need a way in …”
“We still need a way in,” Clint says, giving her the thumbs up. “Or I guess we don’t. But we did. Now we don’t. And, uh. Barnes? You get anything?”
Barnes shrugs. “Access codes. Might be out of date. Should be able to get in and shut down the cameras if you get me to a computer terminal.”
“Oh, that’s awesome. Okay. Great. So you can get us into their computers.”
“Sure.”
“They won’t have changed the codes?” Natasha asks, leaning forward, elbows on the table and her chin in her hands.
“Hydra’s been in enough disarray lately that they’ve worked so far.”
“They might be using them to track your location. Seeing what you access.”
“Maybe,” Bucky allows. “But I’ve gotten rid of enough of them that it doesn’t matter. If they want to come for me, I’m happy to kill whoever they send, too.”
Agent May crosses her arms. “You’re not operating alone. If you endanger yourself, fine, but there’s more than just you working on this mission.”
Clint doesn’t know how he’d categorize any of the expressions that flit across Bucky’s face, but Bucky ends up blank and nodding. At least Clint’s not the only one who keeps forgetting about teamwork.
Agent Preston gives Clint a look, and he remembers that conversation from before. “Hey, Barnes.”
“Yessir?”
“Just - Agent May is right.”
“Sorry,” Bucky says. He shakes his head. “I know. It’s been - a while. Sorry.”
-
Clint tries to convince the others to get a drink with him in celebration, but none of them are having it.
Only Barnes goes, “You eaten anything today?”
“Uh.”
“Besides protein bars,” he says, voice flat but amusement clear enough in his eyes.
“Well -”
“C’mon,” Bucky says. “I swear, I got the worst habit of picking up strays. Look, I spent seventy years traveling the world and hardly ever got to, y’know, sample the local cuisine. Least, not as far as I remember. So this time around?”
“This time around you’re … eating?”
“I ate,” Bucky says, disdainfully. “Just don’t fucking remember it half the time, and the other half it was MREs. This time around I’m doing it right.”
“I don’t get why I gotta -”
“Because you’re gonna fuck yourself up eating nothing but protein bars. C’mon. Unless you’re busy, which I kind of doubt. I mean, maybe you are, how should I know?”
Clint winces. His lack of leadership ability’s pretty obvious, but getting called on it still doesn’t sit well with him. “Well. No.”
“Then c’mon.” Bucky shoves his hands in his pockets. “I need to work on teamwork, you need to get to know your team. I’m the weakest link. Let’s get food.”
-
Clint's gotten his dick sucked plenty of times. During missions in progress, even. He hasn't gotten his dick sucked by a dude during a mission before, per se - nor immediately after, even, only like a week later, and unrelated to the mission, so it’s only after a mission in the way that Tuesday comes after Monday - but. That's a thing that's happened.
It's also not the first time he's had an ex-brainwashed not-ex-assassin suck his dick, but it's the first time said assassin's been a dude. It's a unique combination of events, even if none of the details are special on their own.
Plus, Bucky Barnes turns out to be super good at it. Clint's always really easy after a mission so Bucky might be getting extra points, but there's definite talent involved in the way Bucky uses his tongue.
"I kinda want to come all over your face," Clint says. It’s not his best line, but he’s had a couple drinks and it’s late and Bucky’s got a really pretty face.
Bucky lifts an eyebrow at him, managing to look threatening even on his knees.
"Trade ya?" Clint tries to offer, breathing ragged. "I come on yours, you come on mine, make it even -"
Bucky starts laughing, and the sound and movement against him is enough to get Clint off. He was real close already, but seeing somebody so damn cheerful and amused to be down there's a turn on and Clint is fine admitting that to himself.
Also, Bucky swallows, which Clint is fine with.
"You're such a fucking moron," Bucky says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
"I was serious about the trade, though," Clint says.
Bucky laughs again, getting to his feet and undoing his pants. "Yeah?"
"Mmhm."
-
It's just - convenient, is all. Clint's single. Bucky's - something. Probably single; Clint's not asking. Dinner and a blowjob, no big deal. Clint has a type: competent, smarter than him, could totally kick his ass. Bucky fits all those criteria neatly, but that doesn’t mean anything because it’s not going to be anything.
The mission’s going to end, Maria’s going to realize how stupid it was to put Clint in charge of a team, and they’ll go their separate ways. Maybe before the mission ends they’ll hook up again, maybe not, if Bucky realizes what a mistake he’s making. Either way, Clint’s happy.
Bucky sleeps in his own bed.
Which - “You asshole,” Clint says. “You’ve still got clean sheets.”
“Yup.”
“Ugh.” Clint groans, throws the shitty hotel quilt aside, and hopes for the best. He tries not to sleep under the covers in hotels, most of the time. Getting tangled in the sheets is an issue if someone tries to murder him in the night, and he just doesn’t quite trust the laundry service. There’s no chance they’re the first people to have had some sort of sex in this bed.
After a brief period of time worrying about the provenance of the bedsheets, Clint finally gets to sleep. His alarm wakes him up in the morning.
“Christ, Barton,” Bucky says. “Your alarm’s the worst fucking thing.”
“Mmph.”
“Why are we even up this early?”
“Fuck if I know,” Clint says. “Wanna break into the factory tonight?”
“Yeah,” Bucky says. “Probably a good plan.”
“And today we … shit, I guess I’ll just have everybody keep doing what they were doing. I don’t know.” Clint rubs his hands against his face and swings his knees over the edge of the bed. After a moment’s thought, he sniffs at his armpit, nose crinkling up immediately. “I’m gonna shower. You wanna call room service, get some breakfast?”
“Room service,” Bucky says, somewhat wonderingly.
“It’s on Stark’s tab at this point, I’m pretty sure. Maybe? I don’t know who the fuck’s bankrolling us. Maybe it’s embezzled from the government.”
“As long as we can afford room service, I don’t care who’s paying,” Bucky says.
“You think they got those room service massages?” Clint tugs off his socks, which he never took off last night. That they lasted even while he slept is a surprise - he usually kicks them off and loses them in his bed someplace.
Bucky’s voice is firm and slightly terrifying. “You’re not paying room service for a massage.”
“I want one,” Clint says. He goes to take off his boxers, hesitates thinking maybe he should wait until he’s in the bathroom, then decides he doesn’t care since Bucky’s already seen his junk. “It’s my god-given right as a SHIELD agent.”
Bucky makes no pretenses about staring at Clint. Dude’s straight up ogling, and comparatively Clint feels sort of unworthy, but he’s not going to judge Bucky’s taste. “I’ll give you a fucking massage later if you don’t pay someone for one.”
“Well, if you insist.”
“I do.”
“Later, though,” Clint decides with a weary sigh. “I just decided I want to go over tonight’s gameplan with everyone. I know when the factory - when all the civvies leave, at least. The folks who don’t have shit to do with whatever’s going on there.”
Bucky says, “So what’s the goal for tonight?”
“Let me think about it.” Clint shakes his head. “I swear, I’m going to take this shower if it kills me. I’ll think about it in the shower.”
“Yeah, yeah, go. Get clean. You stink.”
“You’re one to talk.”
“What?”
“You don’t stink.” Clint holds his hands up, palms out. “Sorry. I was lashing out.”
-
They get into the building with an ease that’s more surprising than Clint wants to admit. Considering he’s got Natasha and Agent May and the Winter Soldier along - and the fact that he’s also one of SHIELD-or-whatever’s top agents, even if he doesn’t like to think about or brag about that - it’d be more surprising if things went pear-shaped.
Clint’s just used to things going wrong. They usually go wrong.
Tonight isn’t for wrecking shit or killing people, though. They’re all at their very stealthiest. He sends Natasha and Bucky in first, and Clint keeps himself up on a roof, ready to go in after anyone who needs help and there to give warning should anyone suspicious approach the entrance. There’s a building with a decent angle on the factory and he hangs out up there.
He has Preston hang back, in case everyone dies or gets kidnapped or something. She’s going to be working plenty hard tomorrow when they give her the data that the team gathers, anyway, doing most of the analysis.
Clint may not know a goddamn thing about leadership, but infiltrating buildings is something he can do. Or tell other people to do, as the case may be.
Sitting around on rooftops is a secondary specialty. He’s more comfortable up here than he was earlier, at least, even if he ends up not having to do anything.
There’s occasional radio chatter with the team - Natasha declaring that they’re in, Bucky warning the other two that some staffer is burning the midnight oil, Agent May reporting when she’s gotten more samples of whatever Hydra’s making. Natasha finds honest-to-goodness paper files and takes pictures. Bucky finds a computer, isolated from any outside networks, with actual useful data on it.
“These fuckers,” Bucky growls at one point, under his breath, but it’s still picked up on his mic.
“Shh,” Natasha says, from wherever she is. “Focus.”
Clint doesn’t ask. He maintains his current position and continues to observe the surrounding area. There’s a stray dog rooting around in a pile of trash on the street that he sort of wishes he could pet, but even the dog isn’t enough to make him miss the approach of a semi truck.
“We got company, guys,” he says, watching as the truck pulls around out of sight, toward the loading docks. He wishes he had a view of those, and actually gets up, creeping from his position toward the other end of the roof to see if he can see the truck. The corner of it just barely peeks out from the recessed area, but that’s enough verification. “Cargo shipment of some kind. You might want to get out. They’re unloading at the east side of the building.”
“I’m going to perform reconnaissance,” Bucky says.
“Nope,” Clint tells him. “We don’t know who it is, what they’ve got or how many of them there are. I want everybody out.”
Not a single person dies that night.
-
“I’m never gonna get to sleep,” Clint says. He’s flat on his back staring at the ceiling. “I keep thinking someone’s going to have followed us back here to kill us. Or they’re gonna - I don’t know. Turn off the hot water at the hotel as revenge for the break-in.”
“See, murder attempts I’m fine with. I understand that,” Bucky says. “But the hot water? That just sounds cruel.”
“And you’d know from cruel.”
“Mmhm.” Bucky laughs, albeit briefly. “I had enough of cold water in the forties. Like hell I’m going to put up with that now.”
Clint is goddamn exhausted. After the mission, he took the whole team out to breakfast. It’s still on SHIELD’s dime, so it wasn’t a huge commitment, but he’d kind of wanted to just sleep already at that point instead of spending forty minutes huddled around a table at a weird little Madripoor diner eating soup and deep fried dumplings.
Clint tries rolling onto his right, then his left. Neither’s that comfortable. His stomach’s the worst. He ends up on his back again. The ceiling hasn’t gotten any more interesting since he started trying to get comfortable.
Bucky groans. “Go to sleep.”
Clint makes a whiny noise, mocking Bucky’s own. “Can’t.”
Clint hears rather than sees Bucky sit up in the other bed, shifting against the sheets. “You want to call in that backrub early, maybe? See if that helps?”
“What?”
“I owe you a backrub. When I threatened you about room service.”
“Huh,” Clint says. His body feels heavy, weighed down against the mattress. The ceiling’s a boring white. The texture of the paint pisses him off for no real reason. He wishes it were smoother. There’s a spot where it looks like maybe a long time ago the room above them had a leak and it got painted over.
He squints one eye open and watches Bucky walk over. Bucky’s in nothing but his boxers; dim light that’s snuck through the curtains gleams against his metal arm and makes his eyes bright in the darkness. “C’mon, roll over. On your front.”
“Ugh.”
Bucky pushes at his arm. “You want a massage or not?”
Clint considers this, and, with great effort, turns over, crossing his arms and resting his forehead against them. “If anybody’d told me a month ago I’d end up in Madripoor getting a backrub from the Winter Soldier, I would’ve … probably believed them, I guess.”
Bucky doesn’t say anything to that, just places his hands flat against Clint’s back. The metal one’s noticeably colder. “There anyplace that hurts?”
Clint shrugs halfheartedly.
“Fine, whatever.” Bucky laughs softly, and gets to work kneading his hands against Clint’s back. His right hand is dry and warm; the left at least seems to absorb heat quickly, no longer quite so cold, and slides smoothly even without lotion.
Bucky’s got skilled hands. Strong and deft and fucking spot-on at finding places Clint didn’t even realize were sore, and rubbing the discomfort away with expertly-applied pressure. Clint’s pretty into giving girls backrubs as an unsubtle preamble to getting into their pants, and he’s only very rarely on the receiving end. It’s nice.
Clint sighs and lets himself relax. “I keep thinking somebody’s gonna - bust in and try to kill us.”
“This might come back to haunt me, but I’m going to say we can handle it.” Bucky ceases his attentions for just a moment, rising to his knees on the bed and then straddling Clint’s back, easing back to sit on his legs. Clint doesn’t much mind, and gives the thumbs up, so Bucky gets back to work.
Clint does sigh heavily, though, thinking about what Bucky said. “Aw, no, don’t say that. You said it but - don’t say that. We’re doomed now.”
“I’d say I’m not that superstitious, but …”
Clint wonders if it’s possible to melt into nothing because of a massage. He’s not even that worried about getting killed by Hydra agents. Dying mid-massage is far from the worst death he can imagine. “You kind of came back from the dead.”
“A little, yeah,” Bucky says. A few shameful times in his life, Clint’s paid for massages at less-than-reputable spots that promised happy endings, and those weren’t as nice as this. Bucky’s stronger, for one, willing to really chase after and murder the knots and tension. No lingering sense of guilt, either.
“Hard to get too picky about superstition when you’ve fought a mythological figure,” Clint tells the mattress, more mumbly than usual. “And when you got a ghost story assigned to your team.”
“Mm.”
“Sorry. Should I not bring that up?” Clint’s usually really good at not talking about things. It’s kind of a skill. If a problem can be avoided so long that it goes away, that’s his tactic of choice. When shit needs to get done, he can do it, but he’s pretty sure he should ease off mentioning Bucky’s time with Hydra.
“Ehh.” Bucky sighs heavily. “It’s not like I didn’t earn that reputation.”
-
Preston and May spend the whole morning looking over the data the team stole last night, while Clint hovers around uselessly.
“Clint, stop it,” Natasha tells him a few hours into it. “Let’s go bring lunch back for everyone. Where’s Barnes?”
“Still asleep,” Clint says. He doesn’t mention that Bucky’s asleep in his bed; that’s definitely more information than the team needs. “Or he was when I left the room, anyway.”
“Hm.”
Clint puts on his biggest smile, which impresses precisely no one. “So what do you guys want for lunch?”
“Anything but protein bars,” Preston says.
Clint holds up a hand in protest, then lets it drop. His shoulders slump. “Are you guys all just talking behind my back, or what?”
“What?” Preston asks.
“I - never mind.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” May says.
“Fuck you guys. Natasha, c’mon, let’s find something gross.”
-
The fourth night, they get in a little quicker, now that the team is familiar with the interior layout. There are some areas they didn’t get to last time.
Clint, again, keeps an eye out from on high.
Tomorrow they’re going to bring the place down. Only - he hears someone else’s voice very distantly over their channel. He thinks one of the team’s microphones is picking it up. Maybe Preston is getting herself a snack or something, only then there’s shooting.
“We’re fucked,” Natasha says helpfully. “I got him before he could call for backup, but someone has to have heard. Security guard.”
“We want to blow this joint tonight?” Bucky asks. They’re on the team channel and Clint doesn’t feel like figuring out how to address only Bucky, so he doesn’t make a joke about blowing Bucky tonight, no matter how badly he wants to. Also, it probably wouldn’t be appropriate during an active combat situation.
“We’re not prepared -” May starts. Then there’s more gunshots. Up on the roof, Clint gets his bow ready and pulls out an arrow. He keeps low, not standing up, but watches the street even more carefully than before.
“Do you need backup?”
“Got it,” May says. “For now. We need to get out.”
A truck careens toward the building; Clint shoots a tire out and watches it crash. A gaggle of people in body armor pour out of it - one has to be dragged out from the crumpled vehicle. Smoke rises from the hood. Another one is limping. There are six of them, and Clint aims for the ones who aren’t injured first. He nails one.
“What’s the situation outside?” May asks.
“Not great. Got your back, though,” Clint says, keeping his voice low. Another arrow pierces a second man’s through the visor. By the time he gets a third, they’ve got an idea of where he is, and he’s not fast enough to get another off before they’ve aimed at him and the bullets are flying.
So he moves. The new angle worses his ability to aim without exposing himself to enemy fire, and they’re behind the wreck of the van now, popping up to fire at his shadow. Clint would rather not be stuck in a standoff here, both sides trying to wear the other down, especially not when there’s one of him and - well, two of them, at this point, since their last man’s still lying on the ground injured. He could get that kill shot, but it feels cheap.
Maybe if it would distract the others, though. He goes for it. The others are suitably distracted.
He lets them be, because them turning around gives him a chance to get his ass away from the edge of the roof and to the fire escape. He should stay up high, but he doesn’t want to leave his team inside.
He gets down to the ground, and sees - Bucky.
With a gun. Pointed at him. A dim streetlight halfway up the block is the only real light, besides that reflected from the clouds and smog overhead, and a sullen orange gleam reflects off the metal of Bucky’s arm.
The two remaining survivors from the Hydra van are talking in excited German, one of them addressing Bucky intermittently. Bucky’s responding. Clint wishes his German were better.
He’s got enough to piece together when one of the men from Hydra asks, “Aren’t you going to kill him?” The sound of a safety being disengaged in response needs no translation.
One of the bodies is maybe three feet to Clint’s right, arrow sticking out of his skull. The smell of blood is strong. Clint’s got an arrow ready, but he doubts he’ll be able to match Bucky in speed. He keeps an eye on Bucky’s hand, though.
Right as Bucky’s index finger starts to shift, Clint draws the string on his bow -
“Down,” Bucky says in Russian, and Clint wants so bad for this not to be a betrayal. It’s stupid of him, but he swings his shot wide to the right and drops to the ground, takes aim at one of the men from the van. Lets go.
Bucky takes his shot. The sound of it rings in Clint’s ears as the bullet passes maybe two feet overhead, if he’s being generous in his estimate.
Someone chokes, then hits the ground. Bucky spins around, gets the last of the two on the ground.
“Sorry,” Bucky says. “We need to go back in.”
“Aye aye, cap’n,” Clint says. His heart pounds against his ribs. “What’s the situation in there?”
“I have three more places I wanted to plant explosives -”
“There shouldn’t be any,” Clint says. “Those weren’t your orders.”
Bucky doesn’t break his gaze. “I wanted to be sure we could take it out. No matter what. I didn’t want - if something like this happened, I didn’t want security fucking us over.”
“You disobeyed orders.”
Bucky spreads his arms wide. “All right. Then follow yours.”
“What?”
“You’re supposed to kill me if I’m disloyal, right? I assume that’s part of the arrangement here.”
“Jesus,” Clint says. Forcing a choice this way is so cliche. That Clint has a reputation for giving second chances, and for playing a little fast and loose with the rules himself, doesn’t make it less annoying to deal with from someone else. “Don’t be cheap.”
“I’m already past my sell-by date,” Bucky says. “It’s fine. If you want to destroy that place, three more charges. I didn’t get the northeast corner. Came outside to try and avoid the personnel inside, and, well, you saw. So fine. Do it now; don't draw this out.”
“I’m not killing you. Fuck. Come on.” Clint takes a deep breath, and turns his back on Bucky, walking too-deliberately toward the building.
It takes a few moments before he hears footsteps jogging to keep up.