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Disclaimer: I don’t own DC or Marvel/Avengers comics or characters or movies and am making no money off of this fic.
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Memento Vivere by luvsanime02
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“I don’t remember.”
The silence is so deafening, Clint can hear the echo in his head, tone holding the exact same numbness as Bucky’s words from a moment - a lifetime - ago.
I don’t remember. I don’t remember. I don’t remember.
“Well,” Clint says, just to say something in an attempt to drown out the words, “that’s alright.”
It’s not, and that was a poor choice of words, but Bucky doesn’t call him out on it. Clint wishes he would, because then Clint could say something breezy in response, and it might almost feel like everything is back to normal again.
Almost.
Bucky smiles, and for the first time, Clint feels like flinching from the sight. There is no humor in that expression, not even the dark, sardonic humor Bucky’s known for. There is only a mask, the smile just another layer built upon yet another layer, and deep down, under all the layers, there’s nothing. No joy, no sadness, no fear. Nothing.
Ten years. Of laughter, of fights, of tears and sweat and blood, and meeting each other’s eyes after a mission and knowing everything is shit right then but it’ll get better, and-
I don’t remember.
The words won’t leave him alone. They repeat, over and over. Clint feels motion sickness while standing still next to Bucky’s hospital bed. Not that he needs to be in the hospital, really. Physically, Bucky’s fine.
Physically.
“We’ll figure it out,” Clint says, because there’s nothing else he can say except goodbye, and Clint refuses to give up on them.
“Sure,” Bucky agrees, looking at Clint like he’s a stranger, and Clint doesn’t know what to do next. Something. Anything.
“I’m gonna get some coffee,” he blurts out, because Clint needs to get out of this room suddenly. He knows it’s not the best reaction and can’t bring himself to care. Bucky clearly doesn’t. “Want some?”
There’s a pause, and Bucky’s still watching Clint while not looking directly at his face, waiting. For what, Clint doesn’t know. He can’t read Bucky right now.
“No thanks,” Bucky replies, and Clint nods, not happy with the answer, but Clint’s not happy about anything right now, so it seems fitting.
“Okay, well, I’ll be back in a bit.”
Bucky watches Clint stroll out of the room, and Clint has to force his legs to remain steady, to not drop him into the nearest chair so that Clint can shake uncontrollably.
No, he has coffee to get, and a plan to… plan. Whatever. He’ll think about it later. Right now, Clint’s trying to focus on following the smell of burnt coffee that’s a staple of any hospital and tells himself firmly that he’s not running away, no matter how much it feels like it at the moment.
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“I don’t remember.”
It’s worse than some cruel twist of fate, Jason thinks.
Fuck fate, anyway.
Clint’s sitting in a hospital bed looking like he got run over a couple of times, which is nothing new, sadly. What is new, horrifyingly real and impossible to ignore, is the frown on Clint’s face when he looks at Jason. It’s one of polite confusion, like Jason is a stranger.
Jason very carefully takes three deep breaths and watches Clint notice but not care. Not really.
And why should Clint care? He doesn’t remember Jason. Of course he’s not going to remember the months and months of effort Jason has put into gaining control over his emotions, his anger.
Yeah, Jason’s angry right now, and the breathing exercises are not helping. They never do.
Jason wants to hurt someone. He’d be hurting them right now if he only had a target to hurt. He can’t blame Natasha. It’s not her fault, and she did the best that she could under the circumstances. Jason’s lucky Clint didn’t kill him, didn’t kill her, and memory loss isn’t such a bad thing to deal with in the face of what could have happened. What did actually happen. Hell, Clint’s memories might still come back, even. They don’t know.
Jason isn’t very optimistic about the possibility. More tellingly, neither is Natasha.
So no, Jason can’t blame her. This whole shitstorm isn’t her fault. The only one Jason can really blame - the one who Jason wants standing in front of him so he can kill the son of a bitch - is Loki, but Thor fucked off with his brother, so Jason is left here, in the aftermath, useless. Not that he was any help when he was actually needed, either.
Deep breaths. Clint’s looking more worried now, but like he’s expecting Jason to strike out at him or something, and the very thought makes Jason feel sick, makes him remember nights spent listening to his dad move around their shitty apartment and waiting, wondering if he would pass out before the yelling and hitting started.
Jason knows what Clint’s childhood was like, too. They both had awful dads. Point is, Jason never wants Clint to look at him like he’s an actual threat, like he’d really hurt Clint if given the chance.
Jason has to resist the urge to flinch.
“Okay,” Jason says, because he has to say something, “well, that’s shit. That really fucking sucks. But we’re going to ignore how much life sucks right now, and I’m going to find you some coffee, okay?”
Clint smiles and nods, just a little, but it’s his polite smile. A fake smile. Part of Jason is furious Clint is using that on him, that he thinks Jason doesn’t know him well enough to tell the difference after four years, but most of him is just tired. He’s so tired. Maybe the coffee is actually a good idea.
Jason doesn’t have any others right now.
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“I don’t remember.”
Bucky wants to put his head in his hands and laugh, but it would be hysterical laughter, and Jason already looks wary enough. Beside him, Clint looks like he wants to cry, is actually blinking back tears, and that quells any urge to laugh inside of Bucky, if not the hysteria.
Fuck.
“Yeah,” Bucky says, sighing, because of course, “I kind of figured you’d say that.”
Clint snorts, seems half a second away from falling apart, arms crossed tightly against his chest, and Bucky wants to help, wants to hold his hand and tell him everything will be okay, but Bucky doesn’t know that for sure.
It took a damn long time for Bucky and Clint to come back together, even longer for them to find a place to belong, a place that includes Jason, even if he doesn’t remember that right now.
Still. “Who did we all piss off?” he mutters, not really expecting a reply. Clint’s half-hearted shrug and Jason’s raised eyebrow speak volumes. Yeah, their luck is shit. His luck’s shit. Has been since the war, if not earlier.
But seriously, again? Bucky is so tired of having to fight to keep the people he loves, and now he’s got to do it all over again.
He will, though, obviously. For himself, for Clint. Especially for Jason.
Who’s still waiting for them to do something so that he knows how to react, because people who grow up in households with parents who drink learn very quickly not to show a reaction until they know which one they’re supposed to have. Anything else gets you screamed at or hit. Or both.
Bucky really wishes he didn’t understand why Clint’s retreating into himself, why Jason’s deceptively lounging back in the hospital bed but really ready to kick out at anyone who moves too quickly towards him.
“Oh?” Jason replies, eyes scanning Clint and Bucky, back and forth. “This some kind of contest we’re having or something?”
Bucky can’t even bring himself to fake humor right now. “If it is,” he admits, “we’re all losing, so don’t feel too badly about it.”
“What did you lose?” Jason asks sharply, instincts homing in on Bucky’s expression, searching for weaknesses to target. Anything to level the playing field, to give him some kind of advantage. Bucky meets his gaze directly and doesn’t let himself flinch.
“Everything,” Bucky says, too honest. “More times than anyone should have to lose anything.”
Jason sits up in the bed, stops pretending that he’s not tense as hell. “And I’m everything,” he sneers, disbelieving. Of course, Jason doesn’t think he’s worth anything most days, let alone being someone’s everything.
“You are to us,” Clint says, finally speaking. His voice is only a little louder than a whisper, but it holds more weight than if Atlas himself were carrying the words on his shoulders, the poor bastard.
I don’t remember.
Bucky wonders how many different ways the three of them could have quit on each other by now, and how many ways they could still lose each other, how easy it would be to walk away, stop caring, stop fighting for each other.
“Why don’t I get us all some coffee,” Bucky says, “and we can talk.”
Jason nods after a few excruciating seconds, and Clint’s shoulders relax, and Bucky leaves Clint to sit in a chair beside Jason while he scrounges up some crap coffee from somewhere in this hospital.
Nothing to do but quit or charge ahead, and Bucky’s never been much of one for quitting. Thankfully, neither are Jason or Clint. With the three of them being stubborn assholes together, they’ll get through this, no matter what.