Work Text:
[Image ID: A photoset, with a blond man (Garrett Hedlund as Clint Barton) in a peacoat looking down on the left and Sebastian Stan as Bucky Barnes looking up on the right. Other pictures include the Winter Soldier file, knitting needles with white and blue knitted fabric behind them, a lit menorah, and a close-up of part of a sweater that says "Meowzel Tov" with two white cats on either side of a fully-lit menorah. The center image is the title (...And a Happy Hanukkat) in gold font on a blue cableknit background.]
Bucky heaves against the restraints, but it’s futile. Pain spikes up his legs as his ankles fracture and then reheal, over and over, as he tries to kick free of the metal shackles pinning his legs to the exam table. Metal rings encase both arms from shoulder to wrist.
He screams his frustration and pain through a raw throat as his shoulder joints tear and knit back together with every heave of his body, hands and feet slick with blood as the metal cuts into his skin again and again. He tries desperately to find some weakness, some flaw, some escape, but there’s nothing.
Hydra has him again.
“Quiet, Soldier,” the chief Hydra doctor croons as two more huddle around, enjoying the show. “The more you struggle, the messier this will be.”
They’re all wearing goggles, surgical masks and caps, and waterproof aprons, so they’re sure as fuck prepared for this to get messy. Bucky spits a mouthful of blood at the chief doctor nonetheless, red spattering across his Hydra-grey surgical getup, and his eyes narrow.
“Start with the tongue,” he hisses vindictively, and a fourth Hydra doctor moves in, scalpel at the ready.
Bucky’s focus narrows to that slim blade. He can’t look away as it gets closer and closer. His mind flashes with images of everything he’s losing — Steve’s steadfast friendship, Natasha’s stealthy affection, Sam’s friendly rivalry, Bruce’s quiet companionship, Thor’s booming laughter, Tony’s sarcastic caretaking, and — most of all, Clint.
Clint’s easy camaraderie, his sunshine smile, the way he sits shoulder-to-shoulder with Bucky, quiet and undemanding, Lucky and Alpine draped across both their laps, when Bucky is having a bad day. Clint has been the brightest thing in Bucky’s life since he recovered from Hydra’s programming, and Bucky has been too scared to really see where it could go, and now it’s too late —
And he shouldn’t have let thoughts of Clint get a handhold, because he’s hallucinating now, his gaze sliding off the blade to the goggles of the scalpel-wielding Hydra doctor, and as he meets his glance for a moment he thinks he sees the sunny sky-blue of Clint’s beautiful eyes.
The blade flashes, almost faster than Bucky can track it, and a line of red appears on the throats of the three other doctors. Their eyes widen behind the protective goggles, nitrile-gloved hands coming up to try to stem the flow, but it happened too quickly for them to even cry out.
There’s four rapid thuds of a silenced weapon, so quick it almost sounds like one long stutter of noise, and in his peripheral vision Bucky sees the four guards slump to the floor.
“Heya, Bucky,” Clint says, ripping the mask and goggles off his face. There’s a bruise at the crest of his cheekbone and his lower lip is swollen and bloody. “This place sucks, wanna get out of here?”
Bucky is still healing as they make their way through the complex, and he tries his best just to keep up with Clint, trailing behind him with a gun in his metal hand because his right hand won’t stop shaking.
And to be honest, his assistance is hardly needed. He takes out the occasional stray goon here and there but Clint is a man on a mission, taking point with his blue eyes narrow and cold, his aim as deadly and true as always. He armed Bucky with three guns and a knife before they left the medical lab, but he switched his own weapon out for his bow and arrow and he’s wreaking absolute havoc, taking targets out faster than even Bucky can spot them, tearing through the Hydra base like a bloodthirsty demon with Bucky limping ineffectually in his wake.
They make it to an exterior door, an icy gale smacking Bucky across the face and clearing his head a little as they push through. The snow is drifted waist-high but Clint has brought a snowmobile, of all things, and he settles Bucky on the back of it and presses a detonator into his trembling hand.
“On the count of fifteen,” he growls, and then they are moving, skimming over the snow as Bucky clings to Clint’s waist with his natural arm and counts in his head. When he hits fifteen seconds he presses the button. Nothing happens for a moment and then there’s a series of booms behind them, growing louder and louder as the complex implodes from the center out.
The shockwave passes over them and Bucky spares one look behind him at the smoking crater, slabs of concrete and rebar jutting from the snow in jagged peaks like some kind of modern art installation.
He presses his frozen face into the back of Clint’s neck and breathes him in, and when he breathes out again, slow and shaky, the tight bands of panic that have been around his chest since Hydra grabbed him start to fall away.
Bucky still feels dull with shock and the remnants of whatever they drugged him with as Clint skids the snowmobile to a halt. His muscles are locked in place, his joints gone stiff with pain and cold, and Clint tucks a shoulder under his metal arm without hesitation, easily taking his weight to help him off of the snowmobile and into the waiting car.
Clint hasn’t said a word since he gave Bucky the detonator, and Bucky can’t think of much to say either, as Clint settles him into the passenger seat and fishes a six-pack of high-calorie liquid food supplement out of the back seat, dropping it in Bucky’s lap.
Bucky pops the top of the first can. It’s slushy, but not frozen through, which means it probably took Clint a couple of hours to infiltrate the Hydra base. The first sip makes Bucky gag a little, too reminiscent of his tube feeds when Hydra had him, but after the first few mouthfuls it goes down easier, and he can almost feel the nutrition hit his system, jump-starting his sluggish healing.
He closes his eyes, feeling his thoughts start to clear a little more as Clint drives sedately down the poorly-plowed streets.
“Team okay?” Bucky finally thinks to ask.
Clint nods, jaw still tight with tension. “We got it narrowed down to fifteen locations, and Stark’s drones could only infiltrate seven of them without tipping anyone off. We split up to cover the rest; I called the others back once I found you. We’re about thirty miles outside of Yakutsk, we’ll have to lay low until the quinjet can swing by and pick us up tomorrow.”
Bucky tries to make the math work out, but that’s nine locations, and only seven other Avengers, including Clint. “Bruce went in undercover?”
Clint’s jaw relaxes a little, a smile quirking the corner of his mouth. “Bruce. Thor — with strict instructions not to open his mouth and just to stand around looking Übermensch-y. Sam and Steve, separate bases with photstatic veils. Stark shaved his goatee and dyed his hair to make himself less recognizable. Coulson. Hill, even.”
“Hill?” Maria Hill seems to look at Bucky with barely-veiled suspicion at all times. “And Stark — shaved? ”
“Well.” Clint never takes his eyes off the road but his hand reaches down, his big scarred fingers curling unerringly around Bucky’s, giving them a squeeze. “Let’s just say we were all pretty anxious to get you back.”
They pull up to an apartment complex on the edge of the small mining town.
Clint gets out of the car, casually shouldering his pack, and maintains a steady chatter in Russian as he walks beside Bucky, animatedly telling some story that involves a goat and a violin and a bucket of corn.
The apartment they enter is just one room and a bathroom, the bed paces away from a portable refrigerator and hotplate, obviously designed for an itinerant worker to sleep in and pretty much nothing else.
Clint locks the door as Bucky roams through, checking the entrances and exits, making sure it’s secure.
Clint sets a saucepan on the hotplate and pulls down a few cans from the cabinet, popping the tops and dumping them in.
“Sorry I can’t risk goin’ out for anything better,” he says. “There’s enough day laborers living here that we shouldn’t be noticed, but I’d rather not take any risks.”
“Anything is fine,” Bucky says. Exhaustion is starting to pull at him. He manages to wash his bloody hands in the sink and sits on the edge of the bed, every bone in his body aching. He should shower, but he’s not sure he’s going to be able to stay upright long enough.
Clint throws him a bottle of water from the fridge, and he opens it and drinks the whole thing in several long gulps. Clint gives the stuff in the saucepan a stir, and then tilts his head consideringly. He reaches up, pulling down one more can, and Bucky jumps to his feet, the haze of fatigue falling off of him.
“You’re hurt.” Bucky is already at Clint’s side, pulling the Hydra uniform jacket he had donned off his shoulders to get at the patch of blood he spotted underneath.
Clint just stands still, startled but cooperative, as Bucky frantically pulls off layers, uncovering the surgeon’s garb and then Clint’s tac vest underneath.
Clint winces a little as Bucky pulls the tac vest off, his hand pressing to the laceration cutting through his side and curling down towards his lower back. “I didn’t feel it,” he says, craning around to try to see.
“It’s deep and a little jagged,” Bucky says through a throat tight with anxiety. “It’s not bleeding that much anymore but it’ll still need stitches. I’ll get the med kit.”
He moves toward Clint’s pack, and Clint’s eyes widen. “I’ll get it!” he yelps. He tries to pull the pack from Bucky’s hands, but Bucky’s got a solid grip.
“What? —” Bucky pulls back. “Clint, I’ll do it, you can’t reach, and —”
“You can stitch it,” Clint says hurriedly. “Just — just let me get the kit out. You can stir the soup —”
“What the hell is wrong?” Bucky looks down at the pack in his hand, and his stomach sinks.
He drops the pack and stumbles back over to sit on the bed, staring numbly down at his hands, eyes stinging. “I — they didn’t use the words on me yet, Clint.” He swallows, his throat feeling like he’s trying to swallow down a jagged rock. “You can still trust me.”
“Oh, fuck,” Clint breathes, his eyes wide and horrified. He goes over to the hotplate, clicking the dial to off.
He comes down and sits on the bed, shoulder pressing into Bucky’s, dropping the pack at his feet.
“I’m an idiot,” Clint says gently. “Jesus Christ, Bucky, of course I still trust you. It’s — it’s so stupid, there’s just somethin’ in there that’s a little embarrassing, an’ I didn’t want you to see it. That’s all.”
“What? —” Bucky starts, and then stops. If Clint doesn’t want him to know he shouldn’t ask, but what in the hell embarrassing thing did Clint bring to a Hydra base?
“I — God, I’m an idiot,” Clint says, and he’s already unzipping the pack. “I’m makin’ a big deal outta nothin’. It’s just, I had a lot of time on the transport over here, an’ I wanted to finish it by the first night, but it’s so stupid, it’s totally okay if you don’t like it, I mean I made a lot of mistakes but I learned a lot, I had only made scarves before this and one pair of socks, and sweaters are way more complicated, so I’ll be able to do better the next time —”
Bucky has no idea what in the hell Clint is talking about, the words seeming to swim around in his head as he blinks down dazedly at the bundle of something Clint has dumped in his lap.
“I mean it’s really cheesy, I know, an’ there’s dropped stitches all over the place —” Clint is still explaining, as Bucky straightens it out. The wool is startlingly soft against his callused fingertips as he smooths it, the jumble of blue and white and gold resolving itself into a design. White cats wearing kippot frolic on either side of a brightly-lit menorah, and underneath in golden writing it says, “MEOWZEL TOV!” The O’s are little Stars of David.
“You knit me a sweater?” Bucky says, bewildered. “You knit me — a Hanukkah sweater?”
“It’s so dumb, I know,” Clint says dejectedly. “I know it’s not really even a significant Jewish holiday, and no one says ‘Mazel Tov’ for Hanukkah anyway, but —”
“They look just like Alpine,” Bucky interrupts, his confusion turning to wonder as he traces his fingers over one joyous little cat.
“Yeah.” Clint’s fingers trace over the cat on the other side of the menorah, mirroring Bucky’s. “That’s why I chose it. An’ I thought the blue would — I mean, your eyes are really, um, striking when you wear blue. And I know you feel cold a lot, even when the heat is up, so I thought. Y’know. You might like a sweater.” He’s blushing a little, patches of color high on his freckled cheekbones. “The socks are for you too,” he adds.
“I can’t believe you made this for me,” Bucky says, still trying to wrap his mind around it. He knows from his childhood how much work goes into this kind of thing. He imagines Clint buying the yarn and learning the stitches, counting the rows and squinting at patterns, maybe even unraveling his work from time to time trying to get the complicated design right. It’s … staggering.
“I wanted you to have something nice,” Clint says, his blue eyes wide and earnest.
He rubs a hand over the back of his neck and then swallows hard, looking down at the sweater again, studiously avoiding Bucky’s gaze.
“I was so fucking scared when they took you, Buck,” he confesses softly. “And I just kept tellin’ myself that if I finished the sweater in time, then I’d have to find you. I couldn’t finish the sweater and not be able to give it to you, right? So — so that’s why,” he concludes with a shrug. “When it comes down to it, I’m just a dumb superstitious hick, and —”
Bucky doesn’t even realize he’s going to do it or maybe he would have had second thoughts, but before he knows it he’s pressing forward, kissing the rest of the words off of Clint’s lips.
Clint makes a startled little mmph and then he’s kissing back, leaning his weight into Bucky eagerly, mouth soft and sweet and tender.
They kiss and kiss until Bucky feels drunk with joy. Clint is making quiet little noises, his hands wandering all over Bucky’s body like he has to touch him to believe this is happening, and Bucky touches him right back, tracing his fingers through the silkiness of his hair, cradling the curve of his jaw, running a palm down the strong arc of his spine.
His fingers accidentally graze Clint’s injury and Clint hisses in a sharp breath.
“Shit.” Bucky pulls away, nudging Clint’s nose with his. “Sweetheart, I’m so sorry.”
“No, don’t worry ‘bout it,” Clint mumbles, leaning back in. “I wanna kiss some more —”
“We gotta take care of you first,” Bucky insists, putting the sweater carefully aside and starting to dig through Clint’s pack, and Clint sighs, tilting his head back.
“Yeah, probably better patch me up before Nat kicks my ass tomorrow,” he says morosely.
“What?” Bucky pulls the medkit from the pack. “Why?”
“Oh.” Clint is blushing again. He lies down on his stomach, putting his face in his folded arms as if he’s just giving Bucky access to his injury and not blatantly hiding. “What? Nothing.”
“Clint,” Bucky warns, pushing Clint’s undershirt out of the way, tracing metal fingers up Clint’s spine just to watch him shiver.
Clint presses into the touch, and then heaves a dramatic sigh into the pillow. “So, maybe I promised I was just gonna do recon, and wait for the rest of the team before making a move on the base.” All Bucky can see are the tips of his ears and the back of his neck, which are slowly turning pink. “But, Bucky, they were gonna cut you. Honestly, what else could I have done?”
Bucky thinks it over as he sprays the wound down with antiseptic and topical anesthetic. If he had been thinking clearly he would have realized it earlier. Clint is a fucking badass, of course he is, but sending any one agent against a whole base of well-armed Hydra operatives is too much of a gamble.
There’s a lot Bucky could say. He could yell at Clint for his recklessness, or tell Clint that Bucky’s not worth Clint risking his life for. That Bucky would have healed, and a more few hours of torture is nothing in the grand scheme of his life experiences, not when weighed against the risk of losing Clint. From the tension in Clint’s spine he seems to be expecting something along those lines.
Instead, Bucky keeps his silence as he places a neat row of sutures, closing up the laceration, and then carefully puts a bandage over the top of it all. Then he puts a hand on Clint’s tense shoulder, and says what’s in his heart.
“I think I’m in love with you.”
“What?” Clint turns over, eyes wide. “Really?”
“Yeah.” Bucky swallows, his stomach fluttering with anxiety. “It’s okay if you don’t feel the same way, but back in that base I realized that I’ve felt this way a long time, and I thought I’d never had the chance to tell you, and —”
“Bucky,” Clint says, sitting up and capturing Bucky’s lips again in a swift, fierce kiss. “Of course I feel the same way,” he murmurs. “I single-handedly took out a whole Hydra base, against orders, for you.” He smiles, soft and slow and warm, his beautiful eyes crinkling at the corners. “And I knitted intarsia colorwork for you, which, to be honest, was significantly more difficult.”
And it’s so ridiculous, Bucky can’t help but laugh into the next kiss.
They meet the quinjet in an abandoned field the next morning.
Bucky walks up the ramp and into a bear hug from Steve. Nat thumps him on the shoulder, Sam affectionately gives him shit for getting grabbed, Thor practically cracks his spine as he lifts him up and spins him around, and Banner nods from a respectful distance. Coulson spares a smile in the midst of talking into his cell phone, and Hill salutes him from the pilot’s seat before initiating the pre-flight procedure.
“Welcome back, formerly-brainwashed sniper bros!” Tony chirps, already popping the cork on a bottle of champagne and pouring it into Solo cups. He’s dyed his hair back to brown, but it’s distinctly unsettling to see him without his usual goatee. “We missed you.”
“Tony, this is a government vehicle,” Coulson says repressively, and Tony waves him off, handing out the glasses.
“Tch, we’re celebrating,” he says. Duty done, Coulson holds out a hand outside of Hill’s sightline and Tony sneaks him a cup, getting just a flicker of a wink in return. “To the triumphant return of Barnes, who — holy shit, are you wearing a cat sweater, Barnes? A Hanukkah cat sweater?”
“Clint made it for me,” Bucky says proudly, snagging two cups and handing one to Clint as he sits down on the bench seat next to him. Clint smiles his sunshine smile and slings an arm over Bucky’s shoulders, pulling him close and pressing a kiss to his temple.
“Oh ho ho," Tony crows. “I see we have more than one thing to celebrate!”
“Finally,” Nat sighs, but she’s smiling with such affection that no one is fooled.
“Well, then, I think there’s only one thing to say,” Steve adds with a grin.
He lifts his glass as everyone leans in for the toast, and you’d think they had practiced the way they all manage to chorus in unison.
“Meowzel Tov!”