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The butt of the gun hits him square in the mouth. Clint's skin splits over his teeth, copper sharp blood exploding into his mouth, and black spots sink into his limited field of view. His left hand comes up to grab whatever it can, fingers getting stuck in hair or clothes or something and he yanks.
There's a man's voice shouting, more pain as a fist connects to his ribs and Clint tries to push it back. How the son of a bitch got the drop on him in the first place is a mystery, and Clint's going to beat it out of him. As soon as his head stops spinning.
The man's wearing a mask but his long, dark hair is free which is a stupid mistake. Clint hangs on for all he's worth. Natasha will give him so much hell when she finds out that he's using fifth grader techniques to take down an assassin, but it's the only leverage he's got right now.
Clint twists his wrist and dodges a wide punch. Something's definitely broken, pain lancing through his chest, but if he stops now, he'll be dead. He reaches for the knife tucked into his bracer, but cold metal fingers lock around his wrist and yank. A tendon pops, his fingers going numb, and he bites back a shout.
He sweeps the man's legs out from under him, going down when he does, hand still locked the man's hair. He yanks down hard, the man's head bouncing off the roofing, and throws a punch with his fucked up hand, hard as he can.
He screams, the pain enough to draw blackness over his vision, but the man's eyes close and his body goes limp.
Clint rolls off of him onto the ground, cradling his right wrist to his chest. He fumbles for his comm in his ear and makes an emergency call. It's all he can do to stay conscious. When the pickup copter shows up, he kicks the still unmoving man in the stomach, taking what enjoyment he can at the wet cough that follows.
It takes four months for his wrist and ribs to heal.
---
Clint sees the man again two years later. He's smaller than he was before, hunched in on himself, mask gone but hair still too long. His eyes are the same though, dark even without the greasepaint.
Steve calls him Bucky and stays within reach, eyes distant every time he looks at him. Bucky doesn't apologize for breaking him in half and Clint doesn't ask for one. He knows the story, has read the dossiers. The man on the couch has the same eyes and the same metal hand, but he's not the same man at all. Clint, of all people, understands this.
Clint steps around Steve and offers his right hand, healed and whole and working again. The fingers that close around his arm warm and flesh.
"Clint Barton," he offers. The man looks over his shoulder at Steve, nods, and clears his throat.
"James Barnes," he says. It's a start.