Chapter Text
Clint Barton is many things.
Clint Barton is observant, able to notice the smallest changes in demeanor to determine if someone is lying, or the slight shift in stance that reveal an attacker's next move. He is also- despite the façade he’s built for himself- incredibly smart, able to calculate shots with precise draw strengths, angles to the millimeter, all while accounting for wind, gravity and momentum.
Clint Barton felt like neither of those things right now.
Clint had finally, finally gotten a whole two weeks of leave signed and approved by SHIELD HR, and he was ready to spend that time away from anyone and anything that could potentially draw him away from his Dog Cops binge. He hasn’t had the chance to watch any of the newest season yet and it’s gotten increasingly harder and harder to avoid spoilers. He’s had to turn his hearing aids off in the middle of patrols because Spider-Man simply will not stop rambling about the latest episode, and he loves the guy, but c’mon man .
Of course, just his luck that as he’s loading up his truck and preparing for the long-ass drive to his little farmhouse in bumfuck, Iowa, the Avengers alarm goes off.
He genuinely considers ignoring it, leaving his bow buried underneath his various bags and just hitting the road, but unfortunately his good conscience wins out. He digs out his quiver, grabs his bow, and runs out to join the battle.
His good conscience is, therefore, to blame when he’s tired to his very bones when he does finally make it to Iowa. The battle wrapped up fairly quickly- they were only fighting some guys in hazmat suits with jetpacks, nothing too wild, Clint probably could’ve left for the farm anyways but it’s fine, whatever - but a few of them landed some solid hits. (Clint also took a bit of a tumble off a dumpster, but that happens all the time regardless.) He’s bruised, both in body and in pride when he finally gets the chance to kick off his 16 hour trek to the Midwest. Tony offers to let him borrow a jet, but Clint wants to bring his truck back out with him. Plus, he’s not gonna fly an entire jet the 5 miles it is from his house to the grocery store every time he needs more coffee.
When he does finally make it to his delightfully middle-of-nowhere haunt for the next two weeks and starts shucking his boots off at the door, it’s the dead of night, he’s bruised, he’s tired, and he’s a little pissed.
Maybe that’s why he doesn’t notice he’s not alone until he’s already got a pistol in his face.
So yeah, he’s not feeling particularly observant or smart right now.
“Don’t move.” the gun-holder demands, voice rough and cold.
“Listen, if you’re here to kill me, can I at least get my boots off first? If you’re just trying to find something of value to steal, the most I can offer is my coffee pot, though I just might have to kill you if you take it.” he sighs, too fucking exhausted to deal with this shit. He starts slowly inching his hand towards the small knife stowed away in his boot. It’s not much, but it’s all he needs. “Either way, can you just get it over with? I need to sleep for at least a century before I feel human again.”
“Don’t.” the gun-holder snaps, gun immediately dropping to aim at his hand instead of his head. Clint stops moving for the knife, but the change in aim is all the window he needs. In one swift move, Clint grabs the barrel, launching out of his crouch and slamming his shoulder into the armpit of the intruder. Pain lances down his arm as the world starts to tip. Fuck- his shoulder aches something awful, and he almost immediately crumples to the floor.
They slam into the old wood boards, and the pistol skitters into the dark shadows in the corners of the main hallway. Operating on blind instinct, Clint grapples and pins his unwanted house guest to the ground. Moonlight streams in through the door left haphazardly ajar, and that’s when one key detail becomes abundantly clear: the hand that was holding the gun to his head just moments ago was entirely metal.
As Clint’s eyes track from the metal hand and up to the similarly metal arm, his heart drops straight out of his ribcage and into the bottom of his stomach. Because of course, the reliable ole’ Barton luck means that after this absolute shitter of a day, Clint now has to deal with the fact that the Actual And Literal Winter Fucking Soldier was in his house with a gun pointed at his head.
“Aww, HYDRA, no.” he groans.
To his credit, the Winter Soldier hasn’t tossed Clint off of him yet, even though Clint’s positive he could whenever he saw fit without breaking a sweat. Instead, he’s staring up at Clint, looking like he’s just as startled by Clint’s takedown as Clint feels.
“Uhh-” the Soldier so eloquently states.
“Is it safe to assume you’re here to kill me then?”
“I thought this place was abandoned. It is falling apart.” The Winter Soldier says, voice much more soft-around-the-edges than he sounded when he was holding a gun to Clint’s temple (and fuck him, now he’s calling the Winter Soldier ‘soft’, it’s like he wants to die tonight).
“It’s not that bad.” Clint mumbles, his brain clearly focusing on the wrong part of this conversation. “Like, the fence definitely needs a patch, and my siding’s a little futzed up, and I know the porch is missing some boards, but I’m more of a sit-in-the-grass kinda guy anyways and- wait a minute- how’d you get past my security?” Before the Soldier can answer, still pinned to the ground in the entryway, a faint buzz sounds from the kitchen.
“Was that my coffee pot?” Clint asks, leaning back to try and peer into the kitchen. He can’t quite see around the wall where he’s at, but if leans back any farther, he’ll be letting up the grapple he’s got the Winter Soldier in.
“Let me up and you can find out for yourself.” the Soldier snarks, slight lilt to his words that almost sounds like teasing. Clint eyes him warily. He debates which he values more - the continuation of his lifespan, or a potential cup of coffee. Unsurprisingly, coffee wins out. If he’s going out, he’s going out caffeinated.
Clint releases the Winter Soldier’s wrist and fluidly rises to his feet, scampering into the kitchen before the Soldier can rethink his willingness to keep Clint alive. He feels the adrenaline begin to fade away, leaving him even more exhausted than he already was. Frankly, Clint didn’t think that was possible, but it’s not the first time he’s proven himself wrong. He doubts it will be the last.
“You were not kidding when you said the coffee pot was the only thing of value here.” the Soldier remarks. His voice follows Clint into the room. Clint glances back at him.
The Winter Soldier is leaned against the frame of the entryway, absent-mindedly rubbing his metal wrist, as if to soothe the strain of being pinned. Clint’s not sure his metal arm can feel pain, but he’s seen weirder. Against his better judgment, he turns back to pouring himself a cup of sweet, sweet coffee.
“Can I get a cup?” the intruder asks. Clint turns to glare at him.
“Fuck off, I need this.” and wow, he really just said that out loud to one of the scariest motherfuckers on the planet. This adrenaline crash is crazy.
“Fuck you, I brewed it, pour me a cup.” the Soldier demands, no heat behind his words, and Clint must really be tired, because he swears the Winter Soldier’s accent just shifted to something more like an old New York drawl.
“It’s my safehouse- which you shouldn’t have been able to get into, by the way-”
“Your security is flawed and weak.” the Soldier interrupts, apparently Russian again.
“If I give you a cup, will you show me how you got in?” Clint wagers, fully turning towards the doorway. When he does, he realizes 3 things.
- The Winter Soldier has gotten significantly closer since the last time Clint checked on him, and Clint didn’t even feel the floorboards shift.
- The Soldier is about a half a foot shorter than him, which would be adorable if he wasn’t so damn scary.
- His eyes are a really striking gray-blue, and they pierce right through him in the dark of his shitty kitchen.
The Soldier examines him for a very uncomfortable amount of time, but Clint refuses to back down. He just keeps his gaze level and lets the other man’s gaze scour his face, trying really hard not to think about what a crappy way to go this would be. He hasn’t even gotten to finish his coffee yet.
Eventually, the Soldier nods and takes a step back. Clint grabs another mug from his cabinet, blowing some air into it to clear out the dust. A cloud puffs up in his face, and he coughs a few times as he swings his free hand around to clear the cloud. He must be really tired, or his hearing aids are going on the fritz again, because he thought he heard a chuckle, but when he turned to check, the Soldier was standing as impassive as ever.
When he finally hands over a mug, now filled with piping hot caffeine instead of dust, the Soldier nods again.
“Follow me.” he commands, then promptly exits the kitchen, weaving through the sparse living room and back hallway, and leaving through the screen door at the back. Clint hustles to follow.
---
And that’s how Clint somehow ends up walking the perimeter of his land, examining his security system over coffee with an international fugitive. Yeah, fuck it, why not. At least, if he wakes up and this is all some crazy dream his sleep-deprived brain conjured, it’s an entertaining dream.
The sun is beginning to rise, deep purple skies fading away and revealing an ominous stormfront rapidly approaching. Golden light silhouettes the dark clouds, and Clint has never been happier to be back in Iowa. Something about the flat plains of the region he grew up in and a horizon uninterrupted by corporate towers and steel skyscrapers really settles him into his weary bones.
With the sun in the sky however, the Winter Soldier’s face is no longer a vague concept hidden in shadow. Granted, he can’t see much beyond that curtain of hair, dark and chin-length (and kinda greasy, jeez), but the hint of a sharp jaw and pointed nose is better than nothing. The Soldier tips his chin up, revealing grey eyes looking to the branches above him. Clint follows his gaze.
“You’ve got some kind of sensor stashed up there, yes?” he grunts.
“Yeah?” Clint can see clearly the motion sensor, antenna poking out between the leaves. The Soldier takes a long sip of his coffee.
“It is too visible. Easy to avoid.”
“It’s worked well enough for me.” Clint shrugs. Not like many people are wandering the plains, looking for ramshackle farmhouses to loot. He’s never needed any Avenger’s Level Security because frankly, no one gives enough of a fuck about him to dig deep enough to find this place.
“Clearly not. I got in.” The Soldier turns a sly smile on him, damn near knocking the wind out of Clint. Being able to see his face fully for the first time, Clint is struck with two warring sensations. One: that he has seen this man’s face before, but he can’t for the life of him remember where. Two: that the Soldier is fucking gorgeous, goddamn .
Before Clint can think of anything remotely resembling a sentence to respond with, the Soldier has turned his gaze back to the horizon. The storm clouds from earlier have continued their approach with a startling speed, promising a kicker of a storm with whipping winds and a low rumble of thunder Clint can feel in the ground. The Soldier’s eyebrows furrow, and he finishes off his coffee. Without a word, he begins his trek back towards the house. Clint follows leisurely behind.
They walk back in silence, which should unsettle Clint more than it does. He’s never been a fan of complete silence, which works oh so well with his increasing hearing loss. Too much quiet unsettles him, makes him feel like something could slip past his radar at any second, and he really tries to avoid it unless he’s truly comfortable. Those times are becoming more and more rare it seems. However, this moment - meandering through an isolated field towards the oldest and most personal safehouse he’s got with probably the world’s most wanted murderer - is one of those moments where Clint feels the ache from having his ears on too long and actually considers taking them out.
It’s a concerning train of thought, so he tucks it carefully into a corner of his mind and stops thinking it.
By the time they make it back, a drizzle has begun, pattering down on the grasses and wildflowers surrounding the porch. The Winter Soldier holds the screen door for Clint to slip inside in an oddly chivalrous way. Ignoring him (and the light way the action settles in his chest) Clint opts to peek out the curtains. He can vaguely hear sounds that might be the Soldier moving things around behind him, but he’s more focused on how quickly the storm has rolled in. Those once-golden clouds are now dark as soot and looming overhead. In the distance, he can see the torrent of heavy rain pelting down, and a bolt of lightning cracks across the plains. He smiles to himself. He’s always slept the best in the rain, and a full-blown thunderstorm sounds absolutely perfect for the amount of sleep he intends to get.
Clint turns away from the window, yawning at just the thought of finally resting, and finds The Winter Soldier busy stuffing a sleeping bag into a duffel on the floor.
“What’re you doing?” he asks, like a fool. Clearly, the Soldier is packing his meager belongings, but it’s startling how tactical everything seems. Not a single thing Clint can see in the duffel is anything less than military-grade utilitarianism, except for something that might be paper? A book, maybe?
The Soldier doesn’t even look up from his packing. “I am leaving.”
“Not now, you’re not.” Clint snorts. The Soldier glares at him, any trace of their weird companionship lost in his icy gaze. Clint raises his hands in surrender.
“Dude, it’s raining bullets out there.” As if to prove his point, rain that was lightly pattering on the roof starts hammering down, echoing sharp pings throughout the house. “Besides, isn’t that arm of yours a bit like a lightning rod? It’s your choice, but personally, I wouldn't risk it.”
The Soldier’s gaze softens, but the furrow in his brow deepens. “My position has been compromised. I must relocate.” He looks deeply confused in a particularly pitiful way, speaking like he’s trying to recount a protocol, convincing himself this is the right thing to do. It strikes a chord in Clint, who’s spent far too many nights repeating phrases to himself, trying to speak their truth into existence. (“Barney wouldn’t betray me like that” “Loki hasn’t got me anymore” “I was one of the good guys.”)
“Stay here.”
Clint may be smart, and he may be observant, but his self-preservation? His decision making skills? Clearly lacking.
“What?”
“Just the night- or day, at this point. Just until the storm passes, and then you can carry on to wherever it is you freaky terrifying assassins go when you aren’t scaring the shit out of innocent bystanders.” The Soldier snorts and he stops packing his bag- both things Clint views as successes. “You can do whatever the hell you want, but I’m gonna go to sleep for approximately 18 years and I’m taking out my hearing aids. If- somehow , god forbid- you manage to wake me, you better have a damn good reason.”
With that, Clint turns and trudges up the creaky old stairs to the second floor. Was leaving an international fugitive with free reign of his home and the knowledge that he’d be completely deaf his greatest decision? No, of course not.
In the grand scheme of things though, it wasn’t his worst decision either.
---
Clint wakes up to a beam of sunlight bleeding through a crack in his curtains and directly into his eyes, ow. He squints his eyes and groans, rolling over and burying his head in the pillow.
It’s no use. Against his better judgment, he’s awake. He presses his face harder into the pillow in denial. Everything is blissfully silent, and he takes the moment to just breathe before the reality of his situation comes crashing in.
The Winter Soldier was in his home. And he’s still alive.
What the fuck.
The good news is that the storm has passed. Likely, it took the Winter Soldier with it, considering how antsy he was to leave last… night? Morning? It doesn’t really matter, as long as he’s not housing an international fugitive anymore.
As he fumbles his hearing aids into his ears and his body into an upright position, he catches a faint whiff of eggs, maybe, but definitely something warm and greasy. His stomach grumbles in appreciation, and he lets it lead him down the creaky old stairs and into the kitchen. Based on what he’s seeing he probably did die last night, and everything since has been some weird afterlife hallucination, because there is absolutely no way the Winter Soldier is still in his house , humming and swaying around his kitchen while making enough pancakes to feed a small battalion.
“You’re still here?”
Apparently his sudden comment startles the Soldier (which Clint honestly didn’t think was possible) because the other man flinches and turns to where he stands in the doorway, looking remarkably confused. And aww, kinda sad, no.
“You said I could stay.”
“I mean, yeah, I just didn’t expect you to listen to me.” Clint shrugs, aiming for nonchalant, but likely missing the mark based on the raised eyebrow he gets in response. “Are some of those for me?” he gestures to the frankly alarming stack of pancakes and makes his way to the coffee pot.
“Yes.” the Soldier answers stiffly, ignoring the blatant change in topic. Thankfully, since Clint’s genuinely impressed he’s managed this much coherence before having any caffeine in his system.
“Awesome.”
They lapse into silence again. Clint grabs a mug, fills it, chugs the coffee, refills it, and then makes his way to the table and plops down in a chair. The Soldier continues cooking, but doesn’t keep humming. Pity, really. He has a nice voice, Clint thinks.
Clint keeps sipping his coffee and watches the Soldier relax back into himself. His movements have a sort of rigidity to them that imply he hasn’t cooked anytime recently, but the way he handles ingredients without measuring shows he knows the recipe like the back of his hand. He keeps his left arm -the metal one- at parade rest, even when the rest of him is relaxed.
Clint makes note of the Soldier’s shoulders, his back, the way his hair is gathered at the nape of his neck. He finds his eyes roaming all over the Soldier, now that he can watch without being watched back just as intently.
“Would you like me to leave?”
The question is asked so softly he barely catches it, with the sizzling pan and the fact that the Soldier is facing away from him. Clint takes a moment to consider. The Soldier keeps speaking.
“You are analyzing, looking for weakness and assessing threats. I… do not wish to make you uneasy.” Clint scoffs at that, as if the Winter Soldier wasn’t ever going to be terrifying, even if he’s making you a veritable mountain of breakfast foods. The Soldier flicks the stove off and turns to face Clint, but doesn’t look at him. His eyes are boring holes into the floor, running over every crack and warp in the old boards.
“I will leave.” and damn , something about the resignation in that heavy tone pulls those same heartstrings in Clint that led him to offering refuge for the night. So, sane decision-making be damned, he does it again.
“You don’t have to.” he says. The Soldier’s gaze snaps to him, grey eyes bright in the morning sun. Clint feels like the wind has been punched out of him.
“What?” he asks, and Clint sighs.
“You’ve been nothing but helpful since I got back- well, actually, you’ve also scared the shit out of me, but aside from that! You’re making me food and you pointed out those flaws in my security that, yeah, could probably use some work.”
“But I scare you.” the Soldier points out. And damn, this guy is really matching him step-for-step in the Barton Book of Being an Emotionally Constipated Dumbass.
“Well, yeah, no shit. You’re the Winter Soldier, you’re terrifying. I wasn’t even convinced you were more than a ghost story until last night. Of course you scare me, but you aren’t actively threatening me. I’m an Avenger, I deal with scary shit all the time- it’s like, my job. But if you’re not a threat, I don’t see why you couldn’t stay if you wanted to.” Natasha would be so proud of him, using logic and shit to console idiots. He’s learned so much from her.
The Soldier just looks at him after that. Clint takes another sip of coffee. The Soldier nods to himself, then turns around and flicks the stove back on. He finishes up the last of the pancake batter- pile now precariously leaning towards the edge of the counter- and starts to work his way through a package of bacon. Clint keeps watching him.
Across the kitchen, despite the sizzling and turned back, Clint hears a murmured “If I wanted to…”, and that’s when he decides that whatever the Soldier’s dealing with, it isn’t his business.
Clint lets himself zone out, and only comes back when a plate piled with pancakes and another with bacon are plopped on the table. He looks over the rim of his mug at the Soldier. The other man seems to hesitate, clearly at war with his thoughts, before nodding once resolutely and pulling out the chair opposite Clint. He sits, settles himself, then looks at the food in front of him. Clint takes this as his cue to load up his own helping. They build their plates, the Soldier’s neat and methodical where Clint is messy. He takes comfort in the familiarity of being “the mess”. Maybe the Soldier finds comfort in it too, looking at Clint’s uncertain pile of bacon-pancake-eggs-breakfast with a smile in his eyes.
“So, I take it you’ll be sticking around?” Clint asks. The Soldier doesn’t react for a long while, but Clint is willing to wait. He’s good at waiting. Besides, he’s got a damn good breakfast to keep his attention while he does.
Eventually, halfway through the meal, the Soldier nods. Clint mimics him.
“M’kay. We’ll get the guest room all set up for you today then. It’s probably a little dusty, sorry about that.” Clint speaks through the eggs he shovels into his mouth.
“No.” the Soldier says suddenly. He’s rigid, his whole body a taut line of tension looking one wrong word from a total snap. Clint raises an eyebrow at him.
“No?” he asks. The Soldier shakes his head, minute but fierce.
“Sure.” Clint shrugs, “Where do you wanna sleep instead?” He watches the tension swiftly bleed out of the Soldier’s body until he just looks like a deeply tired, haunted man.
“The living room. Couch. Easier-” the Soldier starts, but stops himself. He averts his gaze, chewing on the inside of his cheek.
“Easier to keep watch?” Clint finishes, knowingly. He’s been there, and if the Winter Soldier feels like he needs to keep watch, Clint’s just going to have the world’s scariest guard dog. Fine by him. The Soldier nods, not meeting his gaze.
“I get it man. We can put your stuff in the guest room though, so you can still have a space of your own to change and be alone and shit.” Clint elaborates, gesturing slightly as he talks.
“I… would appreciate that.” the Soldier hums, still staring intently at his food.
“Cool. Breakfast is awesome, by the way.”
The Soldier pauses, startled. Then, after a moment:
“Thank you.”
---
They clean up breakfast together, and Clint learns more about the Winter Soldier.
Firstly, he’s shit at handwashing dishes, but damn good at drying them off quickly. Also, apparently in Clint’s absence from the farmhouse, the Soldier saw it fit to rearrange all the dishes in the cabinets. The only ones he didn’t touch were the mugs, which is alright with Clint, because those are honestly the only dishes he regularly uses.
They move in easy synchronicity, filling in where the other leaves off, and it’s all too domestic for Clint to examine too closely. He distracts himself by moving on to setting up the living room.
“You want the couch as is? Or we could also pull it out into more of a bed.” He calls over his shoulder, to where the Soldier is finishing up drying dishes. He doesn’t answer.
“Hey-” Clint starts, before stopping himself. How is he supposed to refer to the Soldier? Surely not as “The Winter Soldier”, that’s just asking for a violent response. Calling him “Soldier” seems too much like a militant hierarchy for Clint’s comfort. Besides, the guy’s essentially his house guest now, calling him “Soldier” upsets Clint's internalized Midwestern need to be a good host. Damn his country hospitality. In his silent consideration, the Winter Soldier has emerged, leaning on the frame separating the kitchen and living room while drying his hands on a towel.
“Yes?” he prompts gently, snapping Clint out of his stupor.
“The, uh- the couch. As is or pull out?” Clint gestures weakly towards the couch.
“As is.” the Soldier answers, but he doesn’t move from his spot on the wall. He furrows his brow, eyeing Clint suspiciously. After a moment, Clint meets his eyes.
“What should I call you?”
“Soldier is adequate.” the Soldier shrugs.
“No, that’s- that isn’t a name, that’s- no.” Clint runs a hand through his hair, dropping to sit on the arm of the couch. “I mean, what’s your name?”
That gives the Soldier pause. He clenches the towel in his hands, and Clint could swear he hears the fabric strain.
“Asset?” The Soldier tries. Clint shakes his head, dragging one hand down his face roughly. Why does he always end up with the traumatized assassins? Just once he’d like to meet someone who wasn’t scrambled in the brain, but in his line of work, chances of that are slim.
“Maybe…” the Soldier begins, and Clint waits patiently for him to speak. “Soldat?” he asks.
“Look-” he sighs, “you don’t have to have an answer now. Just, think about it I guess. A real name, like a real person has.” He wags his finger at the Soldier on the last part, already sensing some kind of bullshit non-name on the tip of the other man’s tongue.
“I take it ‘Soldat’ is not suitable then?” the Soldier asks, but there’s a lilt of a smile in his voice. Clint rolls his eyes and huffs a laugh.
“Got it in one. I’m gonna go grab you a blanket or two, make yourself comfy however you like.” he says, heading up the stairs.
When Clint comes back down, blankets and pillows from the guest room piled in his arms, he finds the Soldier sitting on the couch. He’s got his feet tucked under his thighs, sitting criss-cross-applesauce while scribbling away in a journal. The Soldier looks at Clint as he dumps the pile on the other end of the couch.
“That’s most everything. Lemme know if you want something different, I’ve probably got some more blankets and such tucked away somewhere.”
“Thank you.” the Soldier hums, returning to his scribbling. Clint rolls his shoulders and hums in return, before heading towards sweet, sweet caffeine. He’s only had three cups so far today, and if he wants to be anywhere near productive, he’s going to need at least another two.
Before he can get too far, a cold clasp circles his wrist. Looking down, he sees the Soldier has hesitantly grabbed him with the metal arm. Before he can question anything, the Soldier speaks first.
“James.”
The Soldier releases his hold on Clint’s wrist, looking back to his journal. Clint stands, struck speechless for a moment, before speaking softly.
“Good to meet you, James.”