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Clint knew that Bucky kept secrets under lock and key, ones he would never know. Clint knew that some of those secrets were important; some of them could risk lives if let out.
Clint understood this innate fact about his partner. He had long since come to terms with the fact that some things he just wouldn't know. If Bucky put up walls or got defensive about a question, he'd drop it.
But when the questions he started getting defensive about were "Where have you been," "Are you okay," and "What happened?" It raised some red flags. Ones that made Clint worried.
It didn't go on for very much longer after that. Clint slowly pulled away from the relationship mentally and physically, Bucky packed his bags one day and never came back. The only time they saw each other was when they begrudgingly helped out Nat together or the occasional sighting at whatever Avengers mission they had to do. Clint didn't go to those fancy Avengers parties that Tony threw, nor did Bucky. Neither of them lived at the Avengers base, which made it even less likely for them to see each other.
This added to the surprise when Bucky opened his front door at 1am, having been in the middle of sleeping on his couch, to the sight of Clint Barton. Blonde hair sticking out at odd angles, sporting a black eye and bleeding onto the front porch. For a moment Bucky just stared—glared, really. A second passed by. Then two. Bucky wondered if this was really Clint or some sort of trick. He knew of more than a couple shapeshifters and other such beings, but what goal would they have standing at his doorstep bleeding out? Mystique wouldn't go to him for help, and if this was a Skrull, they picked a horrible person to disguise as to get help.
Just as he was pondering the possibilities of who this could be if it wasn't actually Clint, the blonde man spoke up. "...Hey." He heaved a breath after his single word, like he couldn't get enough air in his lungs. Bucky immediately recognized the way he swayed slightly from side to side and how his eyes closed for a bit longer than a blink should last.
Silently he opened the door wider and stepped back, letting his ex inside. It was a rare sight for Clint to be accepting help, especially from Bucky now, but he chose not to think about that too much.
"Sorry. Didn't have anywhere else to go, and I don't exactly have the money for a hotel at the moment." Clint mumbled, taking a look around. Not much had changed since he was last here, for a small little present exchange last December Nat made him go to. It was still as barren as it was then: a sofa with a blanket draped over it, a tiny kitchen with just the bare essentials, and a dining room table that was never used.
Bucky busied himself getting the med kit out of the closet, stocked with everything an ex-Hydra assassin turned Avenger would need. He didn't ask what happened or why the hell Clint looked half dead; at this point it was just as common as Alpine knocking a cup off of the table or his back aching from refusing to sleep on a bed. It was just the way things went, and from his time dating him, he knew not to ask how or why it happened but instead to question where it hurt and what injuries he got.
The amount of injuries Clint sustained consistently at the very least made him knowledgeable about what kind of injuries felt like what. It was easier on Bucky too. He gestured vaguely at his ex, trying to get him to talk.
"Some gashes on my ribs and stomach, no damage to internal organs, other than that just a few scrapes here and there." As he talks Clint gently pulls off his shirt, wincing as the fabric drags against the cuts painfully. He wads up the piece of clothing, holding onto it so as not to dirty any of Bucky’s things with his blood. He already felt like a giant asshole coming here so late, bleeding all over the front porch and asking to come in.
Silently Bucky gazes over Clint's abdomen, trying hard to not make it awkward, and grabs a needle, medical thread, antiseptic cream, and a cleaning wipe. For the first time that night he spoke, voice scratchy from sleep. "Sit down." It was less an ask or a plea and more a command. A command by a man far past tired, who wanted nothing to do with Clint but wouldn't leave him out in the cold to bleed to death.
Wide-eyed, Clint sat down without another word. He bit the inside of his cheek as he watched Bucky clean and stitch his wounds. He wanted desperately to speak up, to say he could do it himself, but he knew that Bucky wouldn't let him. As much as Clint was good at dressing his wounds, he did come here. To Bucky. And Bucky found it irritating to watch the blonde try to do all of that himself.
Once he was finished, he pulled away completely, dumping the trash and closing the med kit. "The bedroom is down the hall. Haven't used the bed since I moved in." Clint wanted to ask why he even had a bed if he'd never use it but refrained himself to nodding and thanking Bucky.
The bedroom was small, barely enough space for a cupboard and a twin-sized bed. The covers were neatly tucked under the mattress, and the pillows were stacked like a stock image. Clint set his shirt on the bare nightstand, the only thing on it being a simplistic lamp. He'd have to go and get a replacement shirt at some point; the rips on the sides were just too large for him to mend.
Just as Clint dug the heel of his hand into his eye, thinking about how much work he still had to do, Bucky leaned in through the crack between the door and the frame. "Started a shower for you." His voice was flat and monotone; not another word was spoken before he walked back down the short hallway. Clint didn't even get the chance to answer, blankly staring where his ex had been standing.
"What?" He mumbled to himself. James Buchanan Barnes, the Winter Soldier and Clint's ex-boyfriend, just started a shower for him. Unprompted. Slowly he walked down the hall, uneasy in his footing. None of his relationships ever really ended on horrible terms per se, but none of his relationships ever ended in a healthy way either. Between his divorce and his... problem with dating teammates, he never really experienced a clean breakup. Though he couldn't really blame anyone but himself for those instances. But Bucky, caring even just a little, starting a shower, stitching him up when he knew he could do it himself...
It made Clint feel horrible.
Bucky was never an outwardly affectionate person. He never said "I love you," and neither did Clint. But the way he would come home to a full coffee pot and Bucky trying—and failing, but the thought counted—to figure out how to turn on the VCR with the dog cop episodes on it showed how much he cared. He liked to do things for people. He liked to be helpful.
Clint stepped into the shower after locking the door, stripping off the rest of his grimy clothes, and setting his hearing aid on the counter. The water was the perfect temperature, the one he always set it to. Hot enough for steam to fill up the room and make his skin blotchy and red. Most importantly, it always washed away the feeling of exhaustion and replaced it with relaxed muscles and a warmth that could keep any room from freezing.
He brought his hands up to his eyes again, trying not to let the feeling of deep guilt and sorrow take over every last part of him. Clint mumbled expletives to himself as he ran his hands down himself, trying to wash away the dirt and blood that remained on his skin. He didn't want to use Bucky’s soap. He didn't want to be reminded what it smelled like. He didn't want to remember the nights where Bucky would curl against him in bed after a hot shower.
This was a horrible decision. He should have just slept in an alleyway with his bow in hand. It's not like he's never done it before; the only problem was the gashes that had been in his side. Clint sighed heavily, wearily, and got out of the shower. He hesitantly used one of the spare towels sitting on a shelf to dry off, staring into space as he wiped the cooling water off of his skin.
Just as he was about to pull on his dirty clothes again, he spotted a stack of clean ones sitting on the toilet lid. He immediately recognized the shirt, one he would frequently steal from Bucky when they were dating. There was also a pair of comfortable pajama pants and a pair of socks, but Clint couldn't stop staring at the shirt.
It wasn't like Bucky stopped caring when he moved out of Clint's small apartment. Gently he folded some of his clothes he had just washed, setting them on the toilet seat for his ex. It gave him something to do while he waited for the shower to warm up. He noticed his hands shaking ever so slightly, wavering in their place as he finished neatly stacking the shirt, pants, and socks.
He huffed a breath, checking the shower temp before letting Clint know he started a shower for him. The way his voice wavered, he was sure Clint would hear it. He was sure Clint could see how him showing up was affecting his emotions.
Bucky still blamed himself for what happened. Lies told, questions brushed off or left completely unanswered, and even instances of him not coming home until late to avoid talking to Clint. His therapist had described him as avoidant, anti-social, and unstable in relationships. He always thought that he would somehow work past that once he got with Clint, that somehow he would start letting him in.
Of course in hindsight that was stupid. He could have worked through it. But instead he waited around for it to just happen, like Clint would fix all of his problems magically. And despite the number of sorcerers and people with superpowers, a magic like that just didn't exist. That he knew of. And if it did exist, it wouldn't happen to Bucky nor Clint.
It wasn't that Bucky didn't want it to magically be fixed by some super powerful mutant or something, but at the end of the day, waiting around for that would be the end of everything.
He stared off into space, sitting on his couch. Alpine sauntered over to him, curling up on the cushion to his left. The guilt of how his relationship with Clint ended ate at him as he sat; it was a horrible feeling of dread. Anxiety, maybe. Bucky didn't really know what the name of the feeling was. He wasn't good at naming any of his feelings. But this was a bad one; he at least knew that.
When he heard the door to the bathroom open again, his head perked up. His ears picked up on footsteps getting closer from down the hall.
"Thank you."
Clint appeared, leaning on the wall wearing the clothes Bucky had lent to him. Seeing the blonde in that shirt again, faded dark red in stark contrast to his usual purple clothing, brought up a few memories Bucky wished weren't still in his head.
He hummed in response, staring blankly at the other man. He should apologize to Clint. He should say something, anything, to make the situation better. And for once his mouth listens to his brain.
"I'm sorry."
Clint looks surprised, eyes wide, and the tentative smile he had fading quickly. "What?"
"For all I didn't say." Bucky kept his hands stiff on his thighs, trying to get the shaking to not be noticeable. He was sure Clint could see how his shoulders drew up and the way his eyes squinted ever so slightly.
Clint stared for a while. The silence consumed Bucky. He refused to meet his blue eyes.
"Jesus Christ, Barnes, relax. You look like you're going to explode." Clint's words sound like they're poking fun, but all humor is drained from his voice. If anything, he sounds annoyed. "I know me coming here has obviously brought up... something." He gestured with his hand, waving it almost dismissively. "And I'm not about to say that apology means nothing to me..." Clint trailed off long enough for Bucky to look up at him. His blonde eyebrows were pulled together, but he was staring off at one of the blank white walls of the room.
"But?"
Clint's jaw clenched visibly. "But, if you're trying to make up for guilt, this is kind of a shitty way to go about it."
Bucky raises an eyebrow, shoulders sagging just slightly. "Excuse me?"
"Bucky, I know you. We dated for nearly a year—which I'll remind you is in the running for my longest relationship without being on and off—and you apologize when you feel guilty about something, but most importantly you don't explain what you did wrong or why you did it."
Bucky was stunned into silence.
Clint wasn't mad, really. He was annoyed, sure. He was remembering times in their relationship where Bucky would just say, "I'm sorry," and then not talk for the rest of the night, absolutely. But he wasn't mad. He couldn't be because he was being a huge fucking hypocrite, and he knew it.
When there were problems, Clint wouldn't open up. He wouldn't say a word. He would shut himself off, avoid it, and bottle it up until it became absolutely unbearable, to the point he would blow up at Bucky or someone else.
Clint dug the heels of his hands into his eyes for what felt like the millionth time tonight. "I'm sorry too. For how I pulled away instead of trying to be there for whatever you were going through. I'm sorry that I never communicated. I know I fucked up too. I didn't really know what to say or how to start that conversation. And… I was afraid if I said anything, the relationship would end sooner."
Now the silence ate at Clint. Both of them think about how if they were different people, they could have had this conversation much earlier. If they were more healthy, less traumatized, people.
"Maybe we just weren't going to work out." Bucky mumbled, picking Alpine up and setting her on his lap so he could scoot over, making room for Clint to sit down. "I didn't mean to hurt you with the things I said and did before it all... before we broke up." He started petting his cat, trying to relieve some of the anxiety stirring in his stomach, especially as his ex sat down next to him. "I don't have many answers for you. I stayed out late because I wasn't used to considering other people and their feelings for me. I got defensive over simple questions because it felt like you were actually seeing me, and that... was terrifying."
The silence returned, but this time it felt just a little more comfortable. Both of the men sat quietly, staring at the ground to avoid looking at the other.
After a few minutes of Alpine purring, Clint spoke up. "We're both terrible partners, aren't we?"
"Yeah." Bucky sighed. "You pulled your stitches, didn't you."
Clint smiled. "Yeah. Would you patch me up again, old man?"
"Only so you don't bleed all over my bed, bird brains."