Chapter Text
Clint was at a new low. He couldn’t believe he was doing this. Returning to his childhood home AKA the haunting nightmares was bad enough, but Natasha was convinced that this was the best place for him. She’d apparently had someone clean up and take care of the place for him.
It had been less than a month since he’d given her the slip in Mexico, which he was now starting to wonder if she’d just let him believe he’d lost her.
And Barton was ready to try that trick again anyways, but she’d gotten a stricken look on her face that she almost never let anyone see. And yeah, he was a sucker for puppy dog eyes.
So he heard her out. And after a drag out fight that had begun with righteous fury and desperate need to escape pulsing in his veins, he found himself pinned to the floor, and Natasha’s face was very soft when she declared that he had gotten bad enough that he was going to get himself killed.
And he said something he shouldn’t have.
‘Maybe---’
Natasha’s face had tightened up. The hold had become an embrace.
He'd done something very few other men on the planet had achieved.
He’d made the Black Widow cry.
And he wasn’t sure what to do, but he hadn’t been trying to do that.
She hung around, ruining all of his jobs. And his hook ups. And his whole life in general. And when he realized how serious she was, he finally sighed. He had nothing to lose. “Tell me about this sweet old man you let onto my property.”
The look of relief had been fleeting, but Clint caught it anyways and he knew that it was inevitable. Iowa.
What a twisted working of fate. He'd always felt when he was a kid that Iowa would never let him go.
“He’s very…” Natasha’s lips twisted as she searched for a way to describe this man, which was never a good sign. “I think he’ll be good for you.”
Clint imagined this ‘returned veteran’ of an old man, probably drinking coffee on his porch and grimaced. He had enough issues with parental figures as it was.
He gripped the handle of his duffel bag tighter and knocked, ignoring the sensation of more hits into already bruised knuckles.
The door swung open.
“Hi, You must be James, I’m Clint--- Barnes?!”
And as usual the universe was laughing at Clint Barton. He should be running for the hills, but honestly the sight was so shocking that he just…stood there. Processing.
Returned veteran.
Older than the hills.
‘Understood’ him.
Needed a place to stay. Had been taking care of this house for more than a year now.
James.
Only NOT James. James Buchanan Barnes. As in, James BUCKY Barnes. As in one of the world’s deadliest assassin’s and the 40’s most renowned heartthrobs (he assumed).
Fucking Natasha.
“You’re late.” The tall man in the door said, his low baritone smooth and deep.
Clint sputtered out his very mature response. “You’re late!”
He scanned Barnes’ figure, tracing up the jeans to the fitted henley. Only that was leading to some very unsavory thoughts, so he forced his eyes away to the soft brown hair tied back into a loose bun – Jesus Christ. Clint flicked his eyes down to the very metal hand, still resting on the doorknob.
Then another piece of information slipped into his brain. He was concussed, alright? Cut him a break.
“You are…moonlighting as a high school teacher?” Natasha had mentioned that ‘James’ actually had a job in town at the local high school, and was connected to the community if Clint needed anything. Clint couldn’t wrap his brain around this, and he’d had three cups of coffee so his brain was functioning just fine. “No wait. I guess it would be daylighting. You are…somehow daylighting as a high school teacher?”
“It’s a long-term substitute teaching position for one history class.” Bucky said. And then he shrugged. Like this was no big deal.
“What is happening right now?” Clint was more asking the universe than the man in front of him.
That absolutely stellar face broke into a half-hitched smile that did things to Clint’s heart.
No. Absolutely not. I am the GRINCH. I feel no feelings and have no heart. He repeated over and over.
“You just gonna stand there all night?”
An Iowa breeze picked up and swept through him, sending shivers up his spine. The sun had been slowly setting behind him, and the remaining light slipped around his tall form to rest on Barnes in a weird halo-esque fashion.
If fallen angels were real…
Barnes’ lips were moving again. Clint shook his head and tried to focus in on what he was saying. “Sorry, what?”
Note to self: Recharge hearing aids.
Bucky tilted his head. “You definitely look like you need some sleep. You wanna come inside now?”
Clint wanted to say he mentally weighed those two options, but honestly, he’d always been a shoot first and receive applause later kind of guy. Forward thinking wasn’t really in his nature.
So he swung his duffel bag off the porch and slid past Barnes into the house. Because really, this was HIS house anyways. He could totally kick Barnes out in the morning after he’d gotten rid of the exhausting weight of gravity and raging pulsing in his brain.
Bucky moved around him into the kitchen, head tilted around as he said, “You hungry? I made pot pie.”
He had officially stepped into the Twilight Zone. He glared at Barnes, then stalked his way upstairs to his room and slammed the door.