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Security around here sucks. The men who did the actual kidnapping are sitting on the loading deck, shooting the shit and dangling their feet, when Bucky slithers to the edge of the roof and peers over. One of the men is holding an ice pack to his black eye. Well done, Jason.
The Soldier takes over from there, cold and calculating, more machine than man. He drops like a stone onto one of them while he punches the other. Both are out before they realize what hit them.
They’re both armed with tranquilizer rifles, like they were trying to subdue a wild animal who’d escaped its cage. The Soldier’s lip curls as he requisitions one of the rifles. He’s trying to be less lethal these days, but also, he’s not carrying his usual arsenal; he was in a bit of a hurry when he left tonight. He only has the one Glock, and three bullets left.
Doesn’t matter. He’s done more with less.
He creeps into the warehouse, because of course it’s a warehouse, and sticks to the shadows while he assesses the situation. Nothing particularly novel or challenging, just a half-dozen hired hands – with bad posture and worse trigger discipline – surrounding the two figures in the center.
No wasted movements. No wasted bullets.
The man with the green hair and the irritating cackle is squealing something about unfinished business when the first bullet goes through his forehead. By the time he and his crowbar hit the ground, most of the henchpeople have scattered, running for the exit without a backward glance. Only one wheels around to search out the source of the shot. When the Soldier drops from the catwalk to the floor, soundless and pantherlike, the man glances from him to the green-haired corpse and back again. The Soldier wishes, not for the first time, that he’d paused long enough to grab his gear, particularly his mask… but apparently the expression on his unmasked face is enough to do the job. The man turns and runs.
“Hey, baby, sorry I didn’t call,” Jason slurs. The words don’t sound much like English through the lingering sedative and the broken nose and split lip, but the Soldier has had plenty of practice understanding people who are trying to speak through sedatives and broken noses and split lips. He’s fluent. The words still don’t make any sense, though.
The Soldier prowls closer, moving cautiously around the chair until he can nudge the green-haired corpse with a none-too-gentle toe.
Jason lets out a soft, wounded noise that echoes in the empty warehouse. One bright turquoise eye is wide; the other is swollen shut.
“You’re not Clint,” he says, shaky.
The Soldier lifts his hand in an awkward greeting, realizes it’s still holding a gun, and promptly lowers it again to fire the remaining two bullets into the green-haired man’s heart. He shoves the weapon into the pocket of his jacket.
“The fuck,” Jason blurts out.
All that cool Winter Soldier composure deserts him, and it’s just Bucky left behind. It's a nauseating letdown. Bucky’s mouth opens and closes a few times, but nothing comes out.
Jason’s brow furrows into a scowl, and he snaps, “At least get the cuffs off before you turn and run again, asshole.”
Bucky blinks at him a few more times. Then, in a moment of pure panic, he fires the tranquilizer rifle point-blank at Jason’s arm. They both stare at the little dart that protrudes from the crook of his elbow for a moment before Jason gives him an incredulous look.
The sedative kicks in halfway through the sentence, but Bucky gets the gist of it.
Jason is still out cold when Bucky parks the stolen van in front of his apartment building. Bucky gets him in a fireman’s carry before locking the van – because he, unlike its previous owners, is not an idiot, and also his bike is in the back.
He’s spent enough time watching Jason to know where to go, and how to open the front door. He hasn’t been stalking them, exactly. Just – keeping tabs on them. Closely.
He wanted to get in touch, but first he was busy exposing Hydra – and in the process, demolishing the organization that Clint and Jason both worked for. Things started to settle down for them, as they worked with Phil Coulson and Nick Fury on some top-secret project Bucky couldn’t find a damn speck of information about… but that was when Bucky’s mental health started circling the drain. Apparently the psychology books weren’t kidding about that whole “it’ll get worse before it gets better” thing.
Anyway. He’s been keeping tabs from a distance, for certain values of "distance" which don't actually involve much physical distance.
The plan is to deposit Jason in his bed and use his phone to call Clint, because Bucky’s pretty sure he doesn’t have any life-threatening injuries, but somebody should be here to keep an eye on his vitals while he sleeps off the rest of the sedative.
The plan goes to shit immediately, because Bucky assumes that the unlocked door was the result of his kidnappers’ sloppiness as they left, and he doesn’t think to clear the premises before he pushes it open. It’s not until he’s closed the door carefully behind himself that he turns and sees Clint in the middle of the living room, staring at him, open-mouthed.
They both blink at each other for a moment. Clint’s face goes through a whole series of emotions, expressions scudding like clouds over his features, one after another.
“Never mind,” Clint says, into the phone that’s been hovering near his ear. “Sorry, Phil. Found him.” He puts the phone away, brushing a strand of hair out of his wide, shining eyes. “Wow, okay, you're here.”
“Bucky,” Bucky blurts out. “Goin’ by Bucky now.”
“Oo-kay,” Clint says slowly. “Bucky.” He smiles. Then he shakes himself out of it, snapping back into a matter-of-fact tone to ask, “Does he need to go to the hospital?”
“Don’t think so.”
“Stitches?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“Concussion?”
“No. Sedated. Two broken fingers on his left hand, nose fractured but already set, seriously bruised ribs, multiple contusions and shallow cuts all over but nothing life-threatening. Right shoulder was dislocated; I put it back.”
“Okay. Got it.” Clint stares at him for a moment, looking stunned and almost shy before he seems to catch himself. “Hang on, let me get a towel, he’ll be pissed if he gets bloodstains on his new couch.”
“You’d think in your line of work he’d go for black,” Bucky mutters. “Or at least maroon.”
“That’s what I said,” Clint agrees. He produces a stack of already-stained towels from a closet in the hallway, using a very carefully neutral voice when he says, “Hi, been awhile, how ya been?”
Bucky shrugs the shoulder that doesn’t have a Jason over it and says, “You look good.”
Clint looks up from where he’s covering the (admittedly very nice) green two-seater to give Bucky an incredulous eyebrow. Which isn’t an entirely unwarranted response. He badly needs a haircut and a shave. There’s what might be tomato sauce dribbled down the front of his hoodie, and a row of butterfly bandages decorating one cheekbone. But, also – whatever he’s doing to bite back a smile is making his dimple pop, and his hair is the perfect length to get your hands in and tug, and he’s still just about the cutest thing Bucky’s ever seen.
“I think you look good,” Bucky mumbles, before he carefully transfers Jason to the couch, as gentle as he knows how to be.
The back of Clint’s neck is very red as he leans in to fiddle unnecessarily with the throw pillows. He finally clears his throat and says, “You came back.”
Bucky is just opening his mouth to answer when he’s interrupted by an abrupt buzzing sound, which makes Clint startle like he’s a hell of a lot more shaken up than Bucky would’ve guessed. The sound proves to be a phone vibrating on the hardwood floor in a far corner of the living room. Tossed by the kidnappers, presumably.
Clint hurries to pick it up as he mumbles, “First aid kit – in the bathroom. Could you grab it?”
Bucky nods. But as he opens the door to the bathroom, he hears Jason waking up, letting out a low, pained groan.
He briefly considers making a run for it, but then he remembers how much he regretted it last time – how he got a few miles away and suddenly there was a gaping hole in his ribcage where something used to be. That was where all his problems started.
He retrieves the massive first aid kit, and then as he emerges from the bathroom, he hears Jason muttering, all gravelly and nasal, “Told you I wasn’t gonna ghost you without a damn good reason.”
“Yeah, I know,” Clint says, with a tenderness in his voice that makes Bucky’s heart ache a little bit. “Not that I didn’t… wonder, at first. Figured I’d come over here, just in case.”
“Just in case of what?”
“In case you’d, like, slipped and hit your head in the bath, I dunno,” Clint huffs.
“Seems more like a Barton move,” Jason counters.
“You’re not wrong. What happened?”
“Was kinda hopin’ you could answer that,” Jason says. He’s got his back to the hallway, and he hasn’t noticed Bucky. “Not sure what they gave me, but – if you didn’t come to my rescue, who the fuck did?”
The dulcet tones of Britney Spears interrupt this time, jangling out from Clint’s hoodie pocket, and he frowns as he pulls it out. They both stare at the screen. “That’s the second time tonight, maybe I should answer?”
“Fuck, no,” Jason says thickly. “I am in no condition to deal with bats right now.”
But when Clint silences his phone, Jason’s starts vibrating again, and Jason lets out a growl of frustration before picking it up. He winces when he moves his arm, but grits his teeth through the pain.
“What the fuck, dick?” Whoever is on the other end is shouting, judging by the way he cringes away from the phone, and he growls, “Slow the fuck down.” Then he goes very, very pale under all the bruising, and his voice is barely louder than a whisper when he says, “They’re sure it’s him?”
Jason turns to look at Clint, who’s staring at Bucky, who’s still frozen at the mouth of the hallway; Jason follows Clint’s line of sight until he’s staring at Bucky, too. That one teal eye goes very wide, and so does his swollen mouth.
Without taking his gaze off Bucky, he murmurs, “Really? The Winter Soldier?” Another long pause while he listens, and then he finally cuts his eyes away to say, “Who knows? Maybe Hydra was in the area.”
They weren’t. Hydra doesn’t fuck with Gotham; Gotham is a level of ungovernable chaos that even the likes of Alexander Pierce knew he would never be able to control.
“No, nothin’ to do with me,” Jason says. He scowls. “Why do I sound like what? — Because I was busy sucking Clint’s dick, obviously. You gonna let me get back to it now?” He lets out a smug little chuckle, but then he pauses and adds a hasty, “Thanks for letting me know,” before he hangs up.
Bucky balances lightly on the balls of his feet, ready to flee.
“Joker’s dead,” Jason announces. It’s like he’s trying to sound casual, but he fails massively; his voice is shaking too hard for that. He looks to Bucky. “It was you, wasn’t it? Thought that part was a nightmare.”
“The Joker had you?” Clint asks, very quietly.
“That’s the guy with the green hair?” Bucky asks. At Jason’s nod, he confirms, “Yeah, he’s very dead. One to the head, two center mass.”
They both stare at him for a second. Jason’s face contorts before it goes starkly raw and vulnerable.
“James,” Jason says, like a plea.
“Bucky,” Bucky corrects.
“Who the hell –”
“I’ve been goin’ by Bucky lately,” Bucky says.
“Whatever the fuck your name is, I swear to god, if you’re fuckin’ with me right now –”
“I wouldn’t,” Bucky says fiercely. “Why? Who is that guy?”
“That’s the guy who killed me,” Jason snaps, and then he bites his scabbed lip; it starts bleeding again.
“I have follow-up questions,” Bucky says weakly.
“Okay, hang on,” Clint interjects, gaze bouncing between the two of them like he’s watching a tennis match. “You wanna maybe sit down? I need to patch him up, and – I think we all have questions.”
Bucky hesitates just long enough for Jason to notice. He immediately puts on a blank, stony mask and growls, “Or you could fuckin’ take off again, like an asshole.”
Bucky winces. He sits obediently on the ottoman in front of the couch, handing over the first aid kit, and then he rests his elbows on his knees, scraping at a spot of blood that’s dried in one of the grooves of the metal hand.
He wants to explain that he took off and immediately wished he hadn’t. That walking out ripped him open. But he can’t find his voice.
“So,” Clint says slowly. “Last I heard, Hydra wasn’t having anything to do with Gotham.”
Bucky shakes his head. When he looks up, Jason is turning a progressively darker shade of red, but he doesn’t say anything. Jason hisses as Clint starts splinting his broken pinky and ring fingers, and he squirms like he wants to pull away, but Clint doesn’t let him.
“You told me you got rid of the tracker,” Clint says. There’s a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Six months ago.”
Jason rolls his eyes, or at least, the one good eye that’s not swollen shut. “I was gonna.”
“But you didn’t.”
“I just… forgot,” Jason mutters.
Clint says, “That was six months ago.”
“Wouldna blamed you,” Bucky blurts out, soft and miserable.
“Damn straight,” Jason says. “Gettin’ Clint’s hopes up like that was a shitty thing to do.”
Clint’s voice is soft enough that Bucky almost misses it when he says, “My hopes?”
Jason scowls while Bucky drops his eyes to his own hands again.
“Hang on,” Jason says suddenly. “You shot me!”
“Only with a tranquilizer!” Bucky says, when Clint looks like he might start throwing punches.
Clint blinks, and his mouth quirks up in something close to a smile. “Tryna change the subject, Jay?” He hesitates before he asks Bucky, “How’d you know something was wrong, though?”
When Bucky looks up at him, his eyes are sparkling, sharp and alert. They’re a different shade than Jason’s, more cornflower than robin’s egg, with flecks of gold scattered throughout. Bucky’s so busy staring that he forgets to respond.
“You’ve been keeping tabs on us, haven’t you?” Clint presses. He’s done with the splint, and he’s just holding Jason’s hand now, keeping it gently between both of his own, stroking the knuckle of the thumb – the only knuckle that isn’t bloody.
“Hang on,” Jason says slowly. “Can’t have been there for that long before you arrived. Where were you?”
Bucky reluctantly admits, “Manhattan.”
“You’ve been living in Manhattan?” Jason demands.
“Not exactly,” Bucky mumbles. “I, uh. Was meetin’ with a contact in Manhattan. Been livin’ in Brooklyn.”
“That’s worse, though,” Jason says. “You do get how that’s worse, right? How fucking far away –”
“Block away from here,” Bucky confesses.
“It was you, wasn’t it?” Clint asks abruptly. “That day in the park – I thought I saw you.” Bucky nods, and Clint grins, wide and sunny. “I knew it. See, Jay? Told you I wasn’t crazy.”
But when he and Bucky glance at Jason, there’s nothing but heartbreak on his battered face. Bucky’s stomach sinks.
“For a year?” Jason asks. “And you didn’t say anything?”
“I wanted to,” Bucky says. “So many times.”
Clint frowns. “Why didn’t you?”
There are so many ways to answer that question. Too many; they get all tangled up in Bucky’s throat, and all he can do is stammer for a moment.
“The fuck,” Jason says. His voice cracks. When Bucky blinks at him helplessly, there’s a tear welling up in his open eye; Jason’s shoulder must really be hurting, because he’s slow and stiff about raising his hand to swipe it away. He scowls at Bucky.
Clint unfolds himself from the couch, and Bucky stares warily up at him, but Clint just says, “Gettin’ ice.”
There’s a long moment of silence, broken by a car horn from the window. Bucky swallows the lump in his throat.
“It’s been a shitty year,” he says, in a barely-audible croak. “I haven’t been… the guy you met that night.”
“What does that even mean?” Jason asks impatiently.
“I, uh. Thought I’d get better? And then I could come in. Come back. To life, or whatever.” Bucky knuckles at his eyes. “But instead I got worse. Haven’t been… stable.”
“Yeah, well,” Jason mumbles, allowing Clint to press a bag of frozen peas to his shoulder. “Very familiar with the way coming back to life can fuck a guy up. But still.”
Bucky stares down at the rug and stutters, “It – that was - it was a good night.”
“Understatement,” Clint says wryly. Unlike Jason, he’s smiling at Bucky, a small private quirk of his lips.
“Didn’t want to disappoint.” Bucky shrugs. “If I couldn’t be – like you remembered.”
“You coulda just said something,” Jason snaps. “Could just fuckin’ leave a note! ‘Hey, FYI, don’t hate you, finding myself, BRB.’ Something.”
“I didn’t think you’d care,” Bucky says, shocked by the far-beyond-physical pain on Jason’s face. “You had each other. You seemed happy. I watched you enough to – to know that.”
“Enough to know that tonight is Dog Cops night, and that he shoulda been heading to my place,” Clint says quietly. Jason’s eyebrows shoot up.
“He’s been good to you,” Bucky says to Clint, not exactly a question. “He’s… sweet.”
Clint sneaks a tender glance at Jason and says, “Yeah, he’s pretty much the sweetest.”
“Fuck off,” Jason huffs, like it’s a reflexive instinct.
“Knew he would be,” Bucky says. He works his lower lip between his teeth, hesitating, and then tells Clint, “You deserve it.”
Clint beams at him. Like goddamn sunshine incarnate.
“Watching you two… it helped,” Bucky says, face hot with the admission. “Knowing that you were – that you were happy, and together. Reminded me of that night, and feeling human. Gave me something to hope for.” He glances at Jason before he adds, “Reminded me that people can learn.”
Judging by the way Jason’s breath catches, and the way he blinks away another tear, Jason knows exactly what he’s referring to.
“See, it’s shit like that,” Jason says furiously. “You can’t just say shit like that. Tell a guy – y’know. All those nice things, and then – and then leave. It’s a dick move.”
His chin dimples slightly, and Bucky realizes that he’s holding back a genuine sob. Bucky’s heart does a funny flip-flop in his chest.
Oh, he thinks.
And then, hesitant, out loud: “Is this – is this your way of asking me to stay?”
There’s a long, pregnant pause.
“Yes,” Clint says quietly. “That’s exactly what he’s trying to say.”
“Goddammit,” Jason growls thickly. “I mean, Jesus fuckin’ Christ, are you kidding me? You killed the Joker! There is literally no timeline in which you don’t get your dick sucked tonight.” He pauses and frowns. “I mean… if you want it.”
“Don’t gotta sound so pissed about it,” Bucky says, choking on his startled bark of laughter.
“He’s pissed cause he can’t be the one to do it,” Clint says.
Jason’s breath catches, wet and choked, even as he rolls his good eye. “Duh.”
Bucky asks, “You’re not… pissed at me, though?”
“Of course I am,” Jason snarls. “Doesn’t mean I want you to leave again!”
“Oh,” Bucky repeats.
In the silence, the soft whir of Bucky’s arm seems very loud as it adjusts itself – the plates rippling open and closed as he unconsciously clenches his hand into a fist, then releases it again.
“Seriously, though,” Clint says. He gives Bucky another of those sunshine smiles, and Bucky smiles back, because that seems to be his body’s instinctive reaction to Clint’s smile. “We talked about you, you know? A lot.” He exchanges a heated glance with Jason. “At first, I mean. Until somebody claimed he was done waiting around for you.”
“Thought you were gettin’ your hopes up for nothing,” Jason grumbles.
“You too,” Bucky blurts out. “Well – not talked. Obviously I don’t mean talked. Thought about you two. This.”
“What, exactly, did you think about?” Jason asks, husky.
Bucky takes a deep, shuddery breath, trying to summon some of the confidence he remembers feeling that night – the confidence of the guy he used to be. He can’t, though. He feels tongue-tied and flustered and clumsy as he admits, “Mostly about how much I’d like to kiss you again.”
“Are you gonna keep thinking about it?” Clint asks. “Or are you gonna do it sometime this century?”
Bucky recognizes the words from that first night, and he’s surprised into a quick, breathy laugh.
“Come on, then,” Jason tells him, voice vibrating with a suppressed emotion that’s not quite anger.
Clint takes the bag of peas off Jason’s shoulder and sets it on the end table, and beckons Bucky closer. Bucky stands, very aware of his own bulky body, and hesitantly closes the space between them until he’s standing between Clint’s slightly spread knees. Clint reaches out, fingers hooking lightly around Bucky’s wrist, with a shy smile – but he doesn’t tug, doesn’t try to pull Bucky in, just waits, fingertips circling Bucky’s pulse point.
“Still anxious?” he asks.
“Kind of a mess lately.” Case in point: his voice won’t stop shaking. “Like I said. I’m… not that guy.”
“Maybe, but you’re the guy who brought him back to me,” Clint says, tilting his head toward Jason, who starts blinking rapidly up at the ceiling. “Don’t give a flying fuck about the rest.”
Bucky doesn’t have a goddamn thing to say to that. He carefully straddles Clint’s lap and strokes his knuckles up the line of Clint’s jawbone, then his cheek, just below the line of bandages, before he cups that stubbly jaw and leans close. He smiles, brushing the tip of his nose back and forth over Clint’s. Clint’s too close to focus on, but his smile is visible all over his face.
“Not gonna disappoint me,” Clint says. “You couldn’t. Promise.”
Before Bucky can close the last few inches, Clint moves, striking like a snake, catching Bucky’s lower lip between his teeth and sucking it into his mouth, stinging and achy and perfect. Bucky lets out a low moan in the back of his throat, licking into Clint’s mouth with shameless eagerness.
Jason’s whimper is sharp and shocky next to them. They both break apart, panting, to look at him; he shifts in his seat, forehead furrowed like he’s in – well. He definitely is in pain. Like he’s… in pleasure, too. His lashes are spiky with tears, and they’re a dark, sooty black, making the bright turquoise color stand out even more.
“Hey, gorgeous,” Bucky whispers.
“No idea who you’re talkin’ to right now, ‘cause I must look like refried shit,” Jason retorts.
Bucky rolls his eyes and asks, “Can I kiss you anyway?”
Jason hesitates; it’s Clint who says, “Yeah, he wants you to kiss him.”
“Yeah?”
Jason nods, just once, jerky and quick.
Bucky has to slide gingerly over to him, moving with excruciating care so he doesn’t jostle Jason’s injuries too badly – he’s going to be one big bruise tomorrow. Then he finds an uninjured patch of skin just below Jason’s ear, and he rests his fingertips there lightly as he leans in. The kiss is a butterfly-wing, soap-bubble sort of delicate, Jason’s lower lip soft when Bucky grazes it with his open mouth and the very tip of his tongue. He eases his way in with one soft lick and then another, tasting copper, coaxing out a tiny sigh – and then Jason shifts, and hisses in pain, and they break the kiss.
“Fuck,” Clint whispers, curling a shaky hand around Bucky’s ankle. “You okay?”
Which is when Bucky realizes he’s shaking too. He shrugs and lets out a near-hysterical laugh.
“You sure you want me?” Bucky says, carefully placing his hands on the back of the couch so he doesn't accidentally grope Jason somewhere that'll hurt. “Sure you want me to stick around? Because… one of the reasons it took me this long was ‘cause I know I won’t be able to walk away a second time. If you give me another shot –”
“That’s what I keep fuckin’ saying,” Jason grumbles. “Need your ears checked, not just your eyes. What’s that goddamn serum even good for?”
“Christ, I forgot what an asshole you are,” Bucky says, laughing, instead of pointing out that Jason’s still crying. “Guess I’d better remind you three or four times.”
“Guess so,” Jason says, glancing at his mouth with a smirk.
Bucky hesitates. “Not tonight, though. Is that okay?”
“Yeah, I guess I can take a rain check on all the acrobatic fucking I would otherwise be doing tonight,” Jason says dryly.
“No rush,” Clint says, warm and shy. “Somethin’ else you wanna do?”
“You missed tonight’s episode of Dog Cops,” Bucky suggests, voice thick. Clint brightens.
Bucky gets Jason a fresh bag of frozen peas, and then it takes a few minutes to figure out that there is no comfortable way to fit all three of them on the couch – and by the time they shuffle to the bedroom, they’re all so tired that they barely make it five minutes into the episode before the snoring starts.
But that’s fine. It’ll keep. They’ve got time.