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The view here… it’s entirely different than New York. Instead of staring down at people the size of ants and the spot where the Twin Towers used to stand, the view is of a giant statue of a motherfucking black panther.
Talk about an ego.
But hey, the coffee here is better, Clint duly notes as he drinks his second mug of the morning. The sun’s midway through its arc in the sky, and never before has Clint been more grateful to be able to sleep in. Sure, he misses Lucky and Katie, but this is the priority right now. Being here. With his team. His family.
The one guy who isn’t his family shows up next to him. This Bucky guy.
Clint’s read his file. Three or four times. Trying to find a cathartic way to cope with the hurricane that Loki had caused in his brain. Unsuccessfully. He only felt worse for the other guy and felt like his own misery was fucking child’s play.
Hell, who fucking cares if Loki piddled around in his head for a couple of days? Barnes’ brain had been put through the goddamn blender over and over again.
And so naturally, instead of commenting about the view or how nice of a day it was or how gracious the Wakandan people were, the first words out of Clint’s mouth are: “Sorry your head’s fucked up.”
Bucky, who hasn’t immediately walked away in the most offended of manners, just lifts his own mug to his lips with the one hand he has left. (Okay, so he hasn’t actually had both arms in about seventy years, but that’s not the point.)
Meanwhile, Clint is staring at the ground with wide-ass eyes and running through his head ninety different ways to apologize—
“Sorry ‘bout that guy controllin’ you.”
And now Clint is staring out at the giant statue of the black panther and wondering who the fuck decided that babbling about that kind of shit was appropriate.
“Steve said somethin’ ‘bout it,” Bucky says after taking another sip of coffee. From the steam coming off of it, Clint’s amazed the guy can even speak. “Said that you think your shit is your fault. I think my shit is my fault too, but, y’kno, it’s done now.” He sighs. “It’s like I’m finally fuckin’ free.”
Clint swallows hard. Because he still hasn’t felt that kind of freedom since… hell, not even since his childhood. Free of each and every memory that chains him down.
“But I’m really not. It’s all just fake.” Bucky shakes his head and sighs again. His head hangs, and his hair hides his face. “Hell, the sun looks fake. All of this looks too nice. Not like a dream. Just like it’s too damn easy.”
“Like you aren’t actually free?” asks Clint softly.
There’s a pause.
Then: “Yeah.”
Clint nurses his own coffee for a moment. “I know what you mean.”
“Is there not a whole lot to do in Wakanda?” asks Clint, drifting past the kitchen table where Lang, Bucky, and Sam are tossing cards around. “ ‘cause I feel like there are better options than cards. Like a dune buggy tour or some shit? Something more tourist-y.”
“Cards is safer,” says Bucky a bit stoically before taking a trick.
Alright, Hearts, Clint can tell from the way the cards were being shuffled. He takes a couple bites of a banana he grabs and watches the cards make their rounds. Looks like Lang is cleaning up nicely from what Clint can tell. A quick check at the scoresheet Sam’s keeping proves it. Of course the thief is winning. Probably has cards up his sleeves.
Still, who’s Clint to make that kind of judgment?
After a couple more rounds, Clint finishes off his banana and tosses it in the trash; it lands perfectly just as he asks, “You guys ever play Euchre?”
Lang looks at Clint like he’s grown a third eye, and Sam’s only comment is “The fuck is that?”
But Bucky. Bucky’s grinning. “Where you from, Barton?”
“Waverly, Iowa,” says Clint without a pause, taking up the cards before Sam has a chance to argue. (And it’s not like Lang would argue, he’s probably got enough cards up his sleeves to make up for anything and everything that could happen, even if he has no idea how to play Euchre.
“Indiana,” says Bucky. “Dad taught me how to play it when I was real little.”
“And you remember how to play?”
Barnes hands over the tricks he’d taken and says, “Hell, I taught Stevie back when we were kids. Course I remember.”
A twenty minute lesson and two games later, Bucky and Clint sweep the floor with Scott and Sam’s asses for a second time. Money is handed over (because why not gamble a little bit while Clint and Bucky had the upper hand?) and some beers are drained and some more are opened. It had been too easy. Not because Scott and Sam were new but because Bucky and Clint could Shoot the Moon with a good hand and a knowing look.
“Damn, I haven’t played that in a couple years. And I don’t think I’ve ever played that well.” Clint laughs at the cards still splayed out from the last hand where Bucky had managed to pull three tricks in the first three rounds for the final nail in the coffin.
“That’s the benefit of havin’ a good partner,” Bucky says with a wink and a smile, but that smile is quickly hidden by the beer bottle being lifted to his lips.
“Think we could beat Steve?” asks Clint with a smirk as he takes a card between his fingers and flicks it at Bucky.
Barnes catches it flawlessly. “Let’s fuckin’ find out.”
“Barton.”
Clint nuzzles his face closer into his pillow.
“Barton.”
He tucks his chin tighter against his chest, trying to hide his face.
“Barton.”
The fetal position is actually quite comfortable.
“Clint.”
“Shaddup,” groans Clint as his tired limbs refuse to move. “Tryin’ ta sleep.”
There’s an annoyed sigh and then hands are on him; Clint almost flips out (because when there are hands on him, they’re from someone trying to strangle him or beat him or—) but doesn’t because he knows that voice.
Barnes hauls Clint’s sore ass off the couch and slings one arm across his shoulders. “You’re almost as heavy as the goddamn train I fell off of, you piece of shit.”
(Clint won’t comment on that one. It’s easier to pretend that he’s incredibly groggy to the point of almost seeming drugged.)
It’s not a quick walk to the room that T’Challa has offered Clint, but Bucky gets him there fast enough. He opens the door with a couple of quick taps at the keypad and then hauls Clint in before it slides shut again.
And then he unceremoniously drops Clint onto his bed, which just causes more groaning.
“Get some goddamn sleep, Barton.”
Clint is up at two in the afternoon only because the nightmares kept coming back and making him feel like he couldn’t get enough goddamn air in his lungs. He had hoped the couch would alleviate that, but when Bucky moved him, that plan was shot to hell. But at least his back isn’t sore. And there isn’t an awful crick in his neck.
He’s heading to go find Wanda when he passes a room and white coats catch his eye because they always do; it’s that kind of shit that reminds him of when the doctor told him he was hard of hearing. So he pauses in the doorway and there’s Bucky sitting there with Steve, talking to some guys in white coats. It’s serious, no one has a smile on, it’s all very hush hush. Clint wishes he could hear what was going on.
But then again, doctor-patient confidentiality.
He lingers in the doorway for a moment. Maybe a moment too long. Because Bucky looks up at just the right moment, just too fast so that Clint can’t step out of the way and now he’s been spotted, but he starts walking like he hasn’t even slowed down because he’s on his way to see Wanda and not stop and spy on Bucky because that would be wildly inappropriate and unnecessary and stupid—
“Is this a power walk?” asks Wanda with a raised brow as she matches Clint’s pace and purses her lips for a moment. “Are we power walking?”
“Yep, yep,” laughs Clint. “Definitely power walking.” He swings his arms a little more just to emphasize his point. “Yes, definitely power walking. I’m trying to channel my inner suburban mom vibe.”
Wanda puzzles a look at him, a little out of breath. “What?”
“Just agree with it. I’ll teach you about suburbia when you’re older.”
It’s a joke and she knows it and he knows it but he can’t get Bucky out of his head.
“Where are we going?” asks Wanda with a bit of a laugh, probably because this seems so ridiculous.
Clint’s almost breathless. His mind is somewhere else. “I have no idea.”
It takes him another week before he kisses Bucky.
And it’s stupid and rushed and fast. He doesn’t mean to, it just happens. Just like everything else in Clint’s damned life.
It’s just sparring. It’s not even in the locker room like a high schooler drunk in love. It’s not even pinning him down on the mat and sucking at his skin.
One punch. Blocked.
Another punch. Right in the ribs.
Reciprocated: two quick jabs, one blocked, one landing squarely at Clint’s jaw.
But Barton’s right back at it, going for the metal arm, knowing he has to take it out first—
Bucky’s faster, that son of a bitch, and he lands a shot right at Clint’s eye and damn if that doesn’t sting like a bitch.
Clint goes to take that same shot, hoping that his aim rings true as ever—
—and it fuckin’ does because Clint grabs the back of Bucky’s neck and pulls him in close and kisses him—
—which is a stupid ass idea because then Barnes is kissing him back and holy shit what the fuck is even happening
“That took long enough,” laughs Bucky, his forehead still pressed against Clint’s. Their noses barely brush. He’s almost panting, probably from the fight, maybe from that kiss, Clint isn’t sure, but Clint’s just as breathless in the same way.
“That okay?” asks Clint, worried he may have broken some kind of rule, worried he may have upset Bucky, worried over every little goddamn thing—
“Yeah.” And Bucky kisses him again, softly, sweetly, and it feels like finally.
This is the first time Clint’s grateful that he feels like he can’t breathe.
Bucky brings him coffee in the morning. Before he’s even put his hearing aids in. And Clint’s never moved this fast with anyone. And maybe there’s a rush just because they both know the value of life and death, and right now, just because it’s quiet in their lives, it doesn’t make that threat any less real.
“Thank you,” says Clint, not even able to hear his own voice. He sees Bucky say something back, but he doesn’t get enough of it for it to make sense. Then, after Clint’s had a sip of coffee and Bucky’s curled up beside him again, looking about ready to go back to sleep, Clint has a thought: when has Bucky ever been up earlier than him?
Sure, it’s only been a week. Sure, they’ve only stayed in the same bed for four of those nights now. None of it has been sex. Just company. And trust. But Clint still knows that Bucky’s like him, Bucky’s not a morning person.
So why the fuck is Bucky up so early?
Clint’s about to ask that question when he remembers he won’t hear the answer. He sips his coffee and debates putting his aids in, but Bucky’s already rolled over and using his hair to shield his eyes from the light that’s coming in through the curtains that didn’t quite get shut last night. Clint’s still mulling over asking the question until he feels Bucky shift so that his back is pressed to Clint’s side for warmth.
Not today. Not this early in the morning. Instead, Clint sips his coffee with one hand and rubs gentle circles into Bucky’s back with the other.
There’s a little tug at Clint’s ear. Surprisingly, it’s not Lucky. (Nor Bucky’s teeth, but that’s rare to begin with.) “Wha?” he asks quietly, blinking awake to see the tv still on. Dried drool is caked at the corner of his mouth. The smell of coffee is stale in the air. He looks up to see Bucky standing there. He’s saying something. It’s muted, like everything always is. Constantly.
Clint reaches for his aids. He remembers taking them out— the sound of the explosions in the movie was bothering him last night, otherwise he probably would’ve fallen asleep wearing them. Maybe then he would’ve woken up and taken them out and actually slept in a bed like a normal human being.
After he tucks them into his ears and turns them on, he blinks up at Bucky. “What’s up?” he asks oh-so-casually like he hasn’t just slept on the couch all night. He rakes his fingers through his hair and pretends like he’s plenty awake right now even though he’s pretty sure he looks like absolute shit.
“Wonderin’ why you’re deaf.” Bucky squints at Clint. “You don’t talk ‘bout it. But there’s some shit there. Which’s why you probably don’t talk ‘bout it.”
He almost takes his aids out right there and curls back up in a ball. Benefit of being deaf: you can’t hear people bitching.
But that’s not the way to deal with problems.
“Got beat around a lot as a kid.” Clint shrugs. He picks at the dry drool that’s still on his face. “It got better with a little surgery when I was younger. It wasn’t perfect ‘cause we couldn’t afford the best doctors or anything. And it’s not like my dad wanted them to do too much surgery. Didn’t want them to figure out it was ‘cause he was beating me and my brother.” He won’t look up at Bucky. They haven’t talked about their pasts. “And a year or so back, sonic arrow went off too close to my head, which fucked up my ears again. The aids fix most of it. Still easier if I can try to listen and lip read.”
Bucky’s quiet as he absorbs this. (Clint wonders if his aids went out because he probably forgot to turn them off last night and didn’t charge the batteries, obviously.) But Bucky eventually says, “Steve says I wasn’t supposed to ask.”
Clint laughs. He thinks about Mean Girls for a minute because his brain flickers to the line where “You can’t just ask someone why they’re white” just because Bucky doesn’t really know how the world works now, and political correctness is not in his favor here, but Clint’s not mad. It’s just funny that Steve told him not to ask.
“Sorry,” says Bucky with a shrug before he crashes into the couch to the left of Clint. Half of that crash might just be because he’s still off balance. Only one arm and all.
Almost immediately, Clint’s leaning on Bucky, and Bucky has his hand in Clint’s hair, rubbing at a spot near the back of his ear. Clint is the one who speaks up and says, “Steve told you not to ‘cause it’d be like asking you how you lost your arm.”
Bucky winces, which only makes Clint laugh. “Sorry,” Bucky says again.
But it’s not important right now.
They aren’t… dating? They’re seeing each other. Dating is a strong word.
“I think you are cute together,” comments Wanda with a smile as she sits and knits. She’s making T’Challa a scarf to thank him for his hospitality. And for not killing anyone. (Her kindness is unrivaled. Her methods… Well, they could use improvement.)
“But are we dating?” asks Clint, feeling very much so like some high school girl trying to figure out if the quarterback of the football team is in love with her or not. Which is cliché. But fuck it, he needs help.
Wanda shrugs but doesn’t miss a loop or purl. “It depends on what you are feeling.” Her eyes are on her work, but her heart is in her words. “A relationship does not always need to be defined in a black or white way, Clint.”
“Black and white,” corrects Clint softly, putting his head in his hands as he leans back on Wanda’s bed.
Now she stops knitting. “That makes no sense, it cannot be both black and white!” she protests loudly (well, loudly for Wanda), which means she’s probably already gotten into this fight with someone a few dozen times. Probably Scott. That guy doesn’t seem to know when to quit. Clint respects him.
But debating over a well-known phrase is a problem for his future self because Clint has bigger things to worry about.
“What if he thinks I’m too fucked up?” asks Clint quietly as he listens to Wanda’s needles pick up again. “He doesn’t even know half my shit.”
“Do you know half of his…?” She won’t finish that sentence and Clint knows it, but he also knows what she’s trying to get at.
With a sigh, he mutters, “No.”
“Then you are both alright,” affirms the girl as the needles click click click away to work on a beautiful red scarf. “If you care about him as much as I know you do, then I am sure he cares about you also.”
Clint sucks in a deep breath. He looks around the room, wondering if talking to her was a good idea. “What if I’m in love with him?”
The needles stop again. The bed shifts slightly so that Wanda blocks out the light of the windows as she looks down at Clint. “Really?”
Now he doesn’t look at her. He’s staring at the door. Clint’s trying to shuffle through his messy thoughts and emotions.
“Maybe.”
There’s a long list of reasons why Clint has abandonment problems. Most of which he can probably blame on his parents. And Barney. The circus, too, maybe, even if it’s a slight stretch.
Maybe this is another reason.
Because Bucky’s eyes are so serious right now that Clint wants to just laugh his ass off. He could just burst at the seams because Bucky has never looked so stoic before. Clint is used to that little hint of a smile at the curl of Bucky’s lips or his posture being like that of a gangly creature or him having that little glint of humor in his eyes. But none of that is happening right now because it’s like Bucky has turned into an entirely new person right in front of Clint.
“What?” he asks exasperatedly, incredulously.
It’s like Bucky has to steel himself in order to say it again. “I’m goin’ back under.”
Clint breathes for a long minute. He’s looking at the floor between them. Then he’s looking basically anywhere that Bucky isn’t. He runs a hand through his hair and then down his face and then drops his head altogether. He wants to ask “What?” one more time in hopes of hearing something different this time, but he knows he won’t.
“It’s… It’s for the best.” Bucky says it like he’s trying to convince himself, but Clint knows better than that. Barnes has yet to back out of a decision once he’s made it. Including dating Clint. “I don’t know what else they left in my head, and I don’t wanna risk someone else findin’ that book and findin’ those words and… and ruinin’ it all again.”
(Clint hurts because maybe that “all” also has him in there somewhere.)
But he still can’t find the words. It’s like every time he takes one step forward, something happens and drags him a mile backwards by his goddamn ankles. Clint’s getting sick of it. He wants to snap and tell Bucky he shouldn’t fucking do that because you’d be fucking leaving me but that’s not an appropriate response because this isn’t Clint’s life. This is Bucky’s choice. And for a man who hasn’t been able to make choices of his own in seventy-some years, Clint’s not about to be the guy who says, “Don’t do that because it’d hurt me.”
At the same time, Bucky’s still silent, expecting something from Clint. Anything, really. And Clint doesn’t know how to react. He wants to say everything that’s on his mind, but he’ll tumble over his words and sound selfish and rude and maybe lose Bucky forever—if he isn’t losing him forever as is.
Bucky sighs and leans forward more, towards Clint. “It’s just ‘til someone figures how to get this shit outta my head. Then I’ll come right out of it, get my brain all fixed, and be good as new.” Now he looks sad. Just fucking sad as shit. Like this is his only option. Like he can’t find a way out.
Maybe even this isn’t his choice.
Clint still hasn’t said a goddamn word. But then he sighs, “Okay.”
Bucky doesn’t perk up or look surprised in anyway. He’s still sad. Tired. Defeated. He reaches over and takes Clint’s hand. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, rubbing his thumb over the back of Clint’s hand. “I don’t know what else to do.”
“I know,” says Clint because it makes sense, as much as he hates to admit that, even if only to himself. “I just… I just got you, and now it’s like you’re leaving already—”
“I’m not goin’ anywhere,” promises Bucky fiercely. “I’m just goin’ into cryo—“ The word seems hard to say, like he’s choking on it. “—until someone can fix me. Then I’ll be back out, same as always. Won’t change, won’t age. Just won’t be awake. Can’t hurt anyone.”
Clint feels like Bucky’s trying to keep ahold of him. And it takes him a few seconds to realize why. As much as Clint is terrified of Bucky leaving him, Bucky won’t be going anywhere, won’t be carrying on with the rest of the world. Won’t be able to move on.
Bucky’s just as terrified of Clint leaving him. Because Clint very well could.
“And I’ll be here when you get back,” promises Clint softly. He realizes that makes no sense because Bucky isn’t going anywhere, he’s just… he’s just not gonna be here. “And I’ll try to make sure I don’t get too old while you’re under.”
Now Bucky laughs. The good kind of laugh. The best kind of laugh. The kind that makes Clint feel better about this whole thing because Bucky’s still Bucky. And he will be when he comes back.
T’Challa is kind enough to track down an old polaroid camera when Clint asks. And Clint abuses the shit out of it. He’s got easily fifty pictures of him and Bucky in a couple littles piles on his nightstand.
Bucky, of course, thinks they’re fucking ridiculous but doesn’t want to start a fight about it because he keeps reminding Clint that they aren’t going to forget about each other and that it’s fine and that it’ll just be a few months or so of separation and it’ll all be fine by the end of it.
Clint’s just having a hard time convincing himself that even though he keeps saying “I know, I know” every time Bucky has to remind him.
He knows the separation of the cryo and the words, that cryo doesn’t cause the forgetting but that the machines do and that the words do. But still, he can’t shake the association.
He comes back from the shower to see Bucky going through the pictures with a fond smile. “These are good. Only half of ‘em are blurry.”
“Shut up,” Clint laughs as he rubs a towel across his hair, more than ready to jump in bed after a long day. “I’ve got perfect aim with almost any weapon, but I don’t think a camera classifies as a weapon.”
Bucky gestures using a picture and says, “Depends on what you’re takin’ a picture of.”
Clint pauses. Shrugs. “Fair.”
With that debate settled, he hauls himself into bed next to Bucky, who’s still going through the pictures. “Some of these are just me,” he comments quietly. “Are you secretly takin’ pictures of me? ‘cause that’s weird.”
“It’s so I have pictures of you,” clarifies Clint as he takes one aid out and leave the other in so he can just focus on Bucky. The near silence in the other ear is somehow comforting. “And so you have, like, before and after pictures. It’s a thing, I promise.”
Bucky shakes his head and laughs quietly. It makes him seem normal, rifling through pictures rather than using a rifle. The one arm thing is the only reminder of what happened. That, and the significant lack of Stark tech. (Clint misses his old phone.)
“I’m gonna get some sleep,” murmurs Clint before kissing Bucky’s cheek and sliding under the blankets. “Turn the light off when you’re done, yeah?”
“Yeah, yeah.” His words are absent-minded as he continues to flip through the pictures.
Clint pulls out his second aid and curls one arm under the pillow and stretches out under the blankets so that his feet are touching Bucky’s. He closes his eyes and hopes to fall asleep quickly. He wants to spend as much time with Bucky as he can, but at the same time, he knows Bucky isn’t going anywhere. Clint’s the only one moving forward here.
Their legs are intertwined as Bucky decides they need to be closer together. He shifts to leech more off of Clint’s warmth. And he’s still not going to sleep because the light is still on; Clint can see because the room still isn’t quite dark through his eyelids.
It’s probably been twenty minutes (although it’s hard to keep track of time without an actual clock and closed eyes), and Clint still can’t get to sleep. It’s not even because Bucky still has the light on. It’s definitely not because it’s too quiet. (The deaf thing doesn’t always suck.) But maybe he just wants Bucky going to sleep beside him.
So he waits it out, and ten minutes later, the light is out; Clint feels the bed shifting and feels Bucky’s breath against his neck as the super soldier curls around Clint, their legs still entangled together, their bodies now pressed closer than ever. And when Bucky presses his face against Clint’s neck, it’s wet.
Clint pretends to be asleep.
He wants to call Tasha.
Hell, he always wants to call Tasha.
But he can’t fucking call her, so he resorts to talking with Wanda, who isn’t Tasha, but she’s still sweet and sympathetic but she doesn’t say “Get your head out of your ass, Barton” like Tasha would and that kills Clint because Wanda is so nice even after all the pain and suffering she’s been through, she’s still so good. Hell, she’s a better person than Clint could ever be.
“If you want to tell him, then you should,” she says softly while pouring milk on her cereal only because Clint stopped her from doing the milk first and then the cereal because that’s sacrilege. (Earlier in the week, Clint scribbled out the “Crunch” on the cereal box and wrote “MURICA” and then drew a bunch of stars and flags on it. It made Bucky laugh.)
It’s four in the morning, and Clint has his head on the kitchen counter as he idly stirs his cereal, which has been soggy for the past hour. He only called Wanda fifteen minutes ago. He stares at a small droplet of milk that didn’t quite make it into the bowl. “I don’t want it to be like I’m trying to get him to stay though.” The words end up coming out like a dog’s whine.
“But he is not going anywhere, Clint.”
Clint stirs his cereal in an annoyed way, if that’s possible. “You know what I mean.”
Wanda puts the milk back in the fridge and is in what Clint has dubbed her “thinking silence” for a few moments. (Tasha never has to think about these things. She just knows.) Then she says, “He should understand that it should not change anything.”
He scoffs. “Oh yeah, telling my boyfriend-not-boyfriend that I’m in love with him might not make him reconsider his important decision to not put himself in a goddamn cryogenic freezer for who knows how long.”
“He is not the kind of man to change his mind easily,” reminds Wanda before putting a spoonful of Cap’n Crunch MURICA in her mouth.
Maybe that’s what Clint’s more afraid of. That him loving Bucky will make the separation harder. At least on him. Maybe not on Bucky. And there’s the guilt in that, and Clint doesn’t wanna say it. He shouldn’t say it. But he wants to. He’s been biting it back for a few days now, and it’s only gonna get harder.
Clint whines again, and again, it sounds like a dog watching its owner leave. And dogs have little-to-no concept of time, so it’s an eternity between that door closing and opening again.
“Clint, consider it from his perspective,” she says as she also stirs at her cereal. It takes Clint a second to realize she’s only picking out the berry pieces. “I think he would be very reassured to know that you love him and that you will not move on without him.”
He hasn’t thought about that.
Tasha also never gives him good advice about his emotions, but apparently, Wanda does.
If Clint had an arrow in his hand right now, he’d probably be fiddling with it and twirling it unnecessarily because that somehow always makes him feel better. Hearing the logistics behind cryogenics isn’t exactly a relaxing topic to listen to. It could probably put some people to sleep the way most college lectures effectively put students into an exhaustion coma, but Clint isn’t exactly in the resting kind of mood.
This is all about Clint understanding the science behind it, and the Wakandan scientists try their best to make it simple for him. (Which they don’t need to do because it feels like they’re trying to explain it to a baby, and Clint dated Bobbi for a while, so he understands some science shit even if it’s not his forte.) But it’s a lot. He’s stressed. And even though Bucky’s right next to him, Clint feels a million miles away from all of this right now.
“Do you understand, Mr. Barton?” asks the tall scientist standing in front of Clint right now with the most patient of faces.
“Yeah, uh-huh.” He’s fiddling with a button on his cargo pants right now, it’s keeping his hands settled at least a little bit. Clint’s capable of lying in wait for a mark for hours and hours on end, but a quick twenty minute lesson on cryogenics has him twitching.
After a long pause that’s probably supposed to be for questions, the scientist finally says, “I’ll give you two a moment.”
It’s worse because Bucky’s stripped down and ready to go, tank top and sweatpants. Hey, at least he’ll be comfy in his special freezer. “Clint,” Bucky says as he reaches out and puts a hand over Clint’s, effectively stopping him from twitching. “You’ll be able to see me whenever you want. And as soon as there’s a cure, I’m out and I’m all yours. And T’Challa already has guys workin’ on neuro-shit to try to fix me. I’m not goin’ anywhere.”
Clint bites back from telling Bucky that he doesn’t need to be fixed, that he isn’t broken. Never was. It isn’t the right word. But Clint doesn’t want to start an argument here. Bucky’s fine. He just needs to be clean. He doesn’t want to be used again.
“I know,” he says, trying to keep himself calm and level-headed, which is hardly ever easy. He could probably teach a course called Loose Cannon 101 if he had a goddamn degree in anything. “I’m just not…”
Clint doesn’t want to be stumbling over his words right now. He just doesn’t want to say something wrong. Not when it’ll be the last thing Bucky hears him say before he’s asleep for ages and ages. Not when it could be the last thing he ever hears Clint say. Who knows how long he could go under for? Years. Maybe longer than Clint had left here on Earth.
That thought is a lot to handle.
Bucky shifts to put his hand to the side of Clint’s face. “It’ll be okay,” promises Bucky gently.
He’s so soft, Clint thinks. Sure, Bucky’s got a few metal parts and a toughened heart, but he’s soft on the inside. Like a big teddy bear. But capable of murder. There’s probably a movie about that somewhere.
“Clint, I love you.”
He can finally look up at Bucky now, look him dead in those brown eyes and see that he’s serious. That he’s afraid. Afraid of going under, afraid of being left, afraid of never coming out. This has never been his first choice.
“I love you too,” Clint exhales, not realizing he’d been holding his breath. “God, I love you, and I’m not going anywhere either, I promise.”
Bucky’s laughing and kissing him, and it’s like everything’s okay because Bucky’s laugh is so sweet and small, and his kisses are even sweeter. He’s got his only hand on the side of Clint’s face, but then it curls around the back of his neck to pull him in closer and keep him there. It’s not like Clint’s pulling away though.
It feels desperate and rushed, but that’s the way it is.
After a moment, their foreheads are pressed together, breathing softly, not doing anything but being with each other.
Less than ten minutes later, Clint is watching the doors to the chamber slide shut. Then the front window freezes up, concealing Bucky Barnes.
And then he waits.
Wanda steps in, and her heels click against the tiled floor. “This… feels like a bad idea,” she says as she lingers in the doorway, her eyes moving beyond Clint to look at the closed chamber. “There is a lot I still do not know about. With my… abilities.”
Clint shrugs and shakes his head. He almost laughs. Instead, he just finds himself wearing a tired smile. Because he can’t keep going on like this. He lived alone for so long before, but now, without Bucky? It’s like he’s lost his own arm. “I’ve been fucked with my entire life. This doesn’t seem like anything out of the ordinary.”
She shifts slightly, but still doesn’t come any closer. “It does to me.”
Clint runs a hand through his hair and tries to figure out how to convince her. On one hand, he can play to her naivety, but she still has her morals intact, and that’s a hard thing to break. What he can play with is her loyalty though. Her loyalty to him. Her understanding that she’s his only true friend right now. He can count on Scott to have his back in a fight, he can count on Sam to fake his psych eval at the end of the week, and he can count on Steve to always keep him level-headed.
But Wanda? Oh, she’s his only friend right now. He can call her just to babble about his problems. She’ll come running. And he can tell her about all the shit in his life, and she’ll listen and reassure him that he’s still a good man, that he’ll be okay, that he’s not broken. She’s his new Nat.
(The real difference is that Wanda cries with him; Nat would never cry.)
“Wanda, c’mon,” he pleads softly with a sad little puppy dog look at her. He moves his hand from his hair to pull out an aid and scratch where it’s rubbed his skin a little raw; he’s been up too late lately and forgotten to take them out.
Again, she shifts. But then she enters, still looking past Clint at where Bucky is on ice. Wanda comes down and sits beside Clint with a little huff as she smooths out her dress. “You know that this is not without risks.”
“I know.” He shrugs. “Don’t care.”
Clint watches as her eyes shift to the chamber behind him again. Like she’s trying to figure out what Bucky would think of all this. If it’s worth it.
Wanda finally sighs. Because medicine and science aren’t moving any faster. Mysticism is where they’re at now.
“What would you like me to work with?” she asks quietly, a faint glow starting around her eyes.
Clint has to think about it for a moment. There’s a lot to work with, after all. “Start with the stuff about my dad.”
He blinks against the light. Fluorescent lights. The only actual sunlight is from the window across the way. At least there’s a nice view to wake up to.
The first feeling is the soreness—the stiff limbs from standing up too long and the krick in his neck from not being able to hold his head upright.
Fuck cryo.
Bucky groans. He half wants to say “good morning” even though the sun is clearly at some point after noon, but he also wants to just say “fuck” really loudly to make a goddamn point about how much he fucking hates cryo.
At least he isn’t walking out and into the warm, welcoming arms of HYDRA this time.
Instead, he’s got a bunch of doctors in civvies standing around, probably to keep him calm about coming out of a nice long Winter Soldier hibernation. Not like he’s gonna come out of it like a raging bear. Or at least the odds are slim. Probably.
But fuck that because in the back of the room, hanging out in the doorway, is Clint Barton. Out of the way, as always. Trying to hide behind a bunch of other shit so he can move under the radar. Being generally cute, the way he usually is, with that dumbass smile on his face. He’s got tired eyes and a little more scruff on his chin than Bucky remembers, but he’s beautiful in the afternoon sun.
Sure, there are doctors rushing around, and they’re poking and prodding at him in the most polite and gentle of ways, but he only wants Clint’s touch right now.
Clint.
Hey, he used to have a one-track mind for murder when he came outta that box. Now it’s just a one-track mind for Clint Barton. His boyfriend. Boyfriend? Had they established they were going steady? Bucky can’t remember. His brain is a little fuzzy.
Fuck cryo.
After his vitals are deemed fine and his mental state is deemed “not about to murder someone”, he gets to go to Clint, who now has Steve standing next to him. And Steve looks… unhappy, to say the least. He’s wearing his “I’m the boss and I’m not happy” face. Which probably means Clint fucked up somehow. Not like that’s a damn surprise.
“Fuck cryo,” Bucky says when he approaches them, his words coming out as barely more than a breath. And his voice is all hoarse and shitty and trashed, like he’s swallowed and then puked up some gravel and some of it is still stuck in his throat.
Clint laughs. It sounds like Heaven. And it’s a nice distraction from what’s essentially a ton of hospital noises behind Bucky. And then Clint says, “I know.” And he sounds just as tired as he looks.
Steve’s the first to extend a hand and then pull Bucky into a hug. It feels like when they were kids. Before the war. Before everything.
But as soon as Bucky’s far enough away from Steve, Clint’s right there, pushing his way against Bucky, wrapping his arms around Bucky, pushing his face into Bucky’s neck. “God, I missed you,” murmurs Clint.
“Missed you too,” says Bucky quietly, kissing Clint’s hair and wrapping his arm around Clint.
They linger like that for a long moment, Clint clinging to Bucky, Bucky holding him and kissing him quietly. Bucky even reminds him, “I’m here now, I’m not goin’ anywhere.” It somehow feels like Bucky’s trying to soothe a lost child.
It takes a few minutes for Clint to settle, but after he does, Steve takes charge of the situation again because there’s the real stuff to deal with now. “We’ve got you a, uh, cure set up. It’ll just take the programming out. Shouldn’t affect anything else.”
“Alright.” Bucky tightens the arm that’s still around Clint. “Okay, let’s do this. We gonna shave my head for brain surgery or somethin’?” He offers a half-smile, really hoping that there’s some kind of hypnotism that’ll knock this shit right out of him; surgery doesn’t sound appealing. Then again, Bucky isn’t exactly a brain surgeon.
“We’ve got a different plan.” But Steve doesn’t sound confident about it. Nonetheless, he steps aside and Bucky can see Wanda sitting by the window, staring out at the jungle. She only looks his way when she feels him watching her.
Bucky wants to ask.
But he also definitely doesn’t want to ask.
He ends up over there about five minutes later after a couple of questions from doctors as one last double-check on his mental state. And so he ends up on the bench next to Wanda, still trying to get the krick out of his neck, still trying to get his muscles loosened up again. “You gonna poke around in my head?”
“Yes,” she says, and it sounds automatic. “I have been working to pull specific information. And erase it, among other things.”
He smothers the flicker of panic in the back of his head. “How’d you pick that up?”
She looks past Bucky and nods subtly.
When he checks over his shoulder, he sees Clint standing there, watching them, while Steve talks at him. Bucky just smiles at Clint and watches as the archer ducks his head in a sheepish sort of way, grinning, not listening to Steve.
Then Bucky turns back to Wanda. “I don’t get it.”
She sighs. She brushes her hair behind her ear. She’s reluctant to respond, but after a few seconds, she tells Bucky, “He was the… the pig.”
It takes a few seconds to register that she isn’t insulting Clint, but that the language barrier is still a thing. He furrows his brow. “Like an experiment?”
Wanda nods solemnly.
“Shit.”
“Yes. Shit.”
Bucky shifts uncomfortably. And not just because that’s the first time he’s ever heard Wanda curse. “Should I ask—?”
Shaking her head, Wanda quickly says, “No, no, he did not want me to tell you. But you asked and you do not deserve to be lied to. Besides, I am not a liar.”
If he didn’t get why Clint liked her before, he does now.
“I need you to tell me what I am looking for so that I can properly remove it.” Wanda is getting right down to business, clearly uncomfortable with the scenario. Maybe it’s ‘cause she’s not used to Bucky (but she’s used to Clint, and Bucky tries to ignore that thought) and everything is all awkward. Maybe it’s ‘cause she knows this has higher stakes. If this doesn’t work, he’s going back in cryo.
Fuck cryo.
“There are words, ten of ‘em, and they, uh, they… reset me?” The words feel thick in his mouth and his voice is still like gravel, he should’ve gotten some water or something. “They got put in there after I fell. Dunno how this works, but, uh, the bits after I, y’know, almost died, that— That would be the best place to start.”
Her eyes glow red. And that’s where she starts.
He’s okay. Bucky finds that he’s not paranoid about seeing that little red book anymore. Maybe a little paranoid, but not the kind of paranoia that makes him toss books across the room just for looking like that one. Hey, at least he never burned books. He’s not a goddamn Nazi.
But he hasn’t changed. Wanda only took out the info that needed to go. He’s safe now. Not perfectly safe, but he’s better than he was when he went in. His head, at least, is more secure. That’s where most of the problems started anyways.
So he’s able to calmly rest his head in Clint’s lap and not be worried about his surroundings. He’s got a sniper who’s on his level with keeping an eye on everything. Bucky feels like he can finally relax.
Bucky feels Clint’s strong fingers running through his hair, braiding it carefully before he lets it go and moves onto the next few strands. And he’s calm for the first time in a long time. Perfectly serene. Maybe Wanda took out his paranoia, too.
Although that’s not true, and Bucky knows it because he almost punched a scientist this morning for following him around. Turns out, the scientist was just trying to set up an appointment to check up on Bucky’s vitals again.
For the third time in the past twenty minutes, Clint stops braiding Bucky’s hair to play with his aids, like they’re bugging him or something.
“You okay?”
Clint mumbles something quietly before he sighs and says, “Ears hurt. Aids are uncomfortable.”
Bucky reaches up and rubs the pad of his thumb across Clint’s cheek. “I know. I’m sorry.”
“Sorry? For what?” laughs Clint half-heartedly. “It’s my own damn fault. I’m an idiot for deafening myself.”
Bucky shifts, sitting upright a little more. “You’re not an idiot. S’not your fault your dad was a jackass.”
There’s a brief pause, and then he laughs, but it sounds reserved. “It was a sonic arrow, Buck. I told you that.”
Everything freezes (ha, ha, ha) for a moment as Bucky starts to process this.
“What?”
“Well, it’s bad practice to let sonic shit go off near your head.”
It’s like the breaks have slammed on the car that is Bucky’s brain, and Bucky’s somehow flying through the windshield at a hundred miles an hour because Wanda fucked Clint up so bad that he doesn’t even remember why he has to wear uncomfortable goddamn hearing aids. Well, he remembers some of it. The some of it that he hasn’t had wiped from his goddamn head.
“Buck?” asks Clint, his face a little tense, trying to read the situation.
He has to breathe for a minute. “What did you let Wanda play with? In your head. What did she take from you?” And it takes all his willpower to keep a calm demeanor.
There’s the faint mouthing of words and an attempt to find some semblance of a voice, but eventually, Clint just says solemnly, “I don’t remember.”
Bucky’s hair is in a bun as he mixes the dry ingredients for the batter. “You told me that blackberry pancakes were your favorite, which doesn’t make a goddamn lick of sense since blackberries don’t fuckin’ belong in pancakes.”
“It’s something about my mom,” Clint tries to clarify as he tosses an egg to Bucky; it’s both perfectly thrown and perfectly caught. “I know that. Like she had blackberry candles. I think it was her favorite fruit?”
Turns out, most of Clint’s childhood had turned to a loose mush, not unlike the pancake batter that Bucky has going right now once the egg is cracked into the bowl. A lot of memories are still there, but they’re lost or disconnected from everything else.
The important part is that Clint’s trying to put his head back together. Still, he sometimes complains it’s like Loki all over again, which Bucky only somewhat understands. That part is still intact, so at least Clint has a reference point, even if it’s a shitty one.
“It might’ve been blueberry.”
Bucky stares at the blackberries that he has just dumped in the batter because now it’s too late to back out of these blackberry pancakes. He stares at the batter and then at Clint like he’s just been told that Clint killed his dog or some shit. “Fuck you, Barton.”
Clint gapes at Bucky before he gives up and just snorts a laugh. “We gotta eat breakfast no matter what, Buck.”
“I know,” Bucky almost whines. He stirs the blackberries into the mix. “But blueberry pancakes are my favorite.”
After taking a sip of his coffee, Clint puts down his mug and says, “I remember that. And you like the strawberry syrup that IHOP has.”
“Why don’t we have strawberry syrup?”
“I have no idea.”
Sure, Clint isn’t the same anymore. But it’s a work in progress. And Bucky’s trying to piece his own mind together since after being the Winter Soldier. So they’re working together. On everything.
It’s a mess. But it’s their mess. And it’ll get better with time.
“We should ask IHOP where they get that syrup from,” Clint says after another sip of coffee.
Bucky grins as he pours some of the batter onto the griddle. “Yeah, we should.”
There’s a pause. “Do they have IHOPs in Wakanda?”
“They don’t call it the International House of Pancakes for nothin’.” After he’s got Clint laughing, he says, “I’ll check with T’Challa later today, how ‘bout that?”
“Awesome.”