Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

A Few Months Before, Old Grave New York...

     Bang. Thunk.

     Bang. Thunk.

     Bang. Thunk.

     The ball ratchets through the air, smashing into the ceiling and crashing back downward. He catches it with one hand, snatching it out of the air. Rinse and repeat. He couldn't hear the sound of it hitting the ceiling, but he imagined it went something like this.

     Bang. Thunk.

     Bang. Thunk.

     Bang. Thunk.

     Clint Barton can't recall if anyone had ever told him the end of the world would be so damn boring. Sure, it had its downsides, including dead ones and a general lack of hygiene. Those were given at the end times. What no one ever talked about was how goddamn boring it would be. No television, no streaming, texting, or gaming. Most especially? No, nobody.

He's grown used to that part. Being alone.

A dart of motion to his right has Clint tilting his head to the side from where he lies on the ground. He looks over just as something big, golden, and fluffy slams into him, desperately smacking the ball out of his hand and giving chase as it bounces about the room. Clint lets out a grunt as the air is pushed from his lungs.

Maybe not so alone after all.

Clint watches as Dog dashes across the room, a trail of saliva in his wake, his long-haired tail waving behind him as he dives under the couch, chasing the ball down with single-minded determination.

Clint sits up, a groan escaping his lips. He aches in all the wrong places. His back pops and cracks, and he twists in place until his hips do the same. Last night's escapades hadn't done him any good. He is roadrashed and bruised. The Hulk tends to do that to a man.

Dragging himself to his feet, Clint glances around. He's in a high-rise apartment. It's nothing much, but he doesn't need much. It's cold with the edge of oncoming winter, though winter hasn't fully arrived yet. It had rained earlier that day, so everything outside their tiny oasis was covered in a wet sheen.

He doesn't have to look down below to know that the dead ones will be wallowing from the recent rain; they'll be slow and lethargic, which can only be a good thing in his line of work.

Movement by his side has him turning to look at Dog, as Dog comes up beside him and drops the now slobbery ball down at his feet. Picking up the ball, Clint throws it across the living room, aiming for the open door and the hallway just beyond it. The ball zips through the air, and for a moment, Dog looks like he might give chase. Then Dog stops, his head cocking to the side and his ears perking upright. Clint raises one eyebrow, looking at the dog and then at the ball.

Then he feels it. A thrumming in the air. Low and hollow on his deaf ears.

What the hell? Clint looks around, his eyes flashing everywhere. Dog rushes over to the window, leaping onto the back of the couch and staring out and up.

Up? What the hell could he be looking up for?

Clint follows after him, stepping up to the window pane and looking outside, even as he reaches up to his head and turns on his cochlear implant.

THUMP, THUMP, THUMP, THUMP!

BARK, BARK, BARK, BARK!

Clint flinches as he's suddenly inundated with sound from everywhere. He slams his hands over his ears, nearly falling to his knees, and lets out a choking sound as he dials back the volume on his implant.

And that's when he sees it. High in the sky, like some goddamn remnant from days gone by. A helicopter.

A helicopter?! It can't be. Clint stands, struck still with disbelief.

Then he realizes something else. It's heading right towards them.

No way. No goddamn way.

Then, half a moment later, they don't know. They don't know!

Clint snarls, gesturing for Dog to stay, and turns away from the window. He grabs his crossbow and bag off the table, and, running for the door, he slams it closed behind himself, leaving Dog safe inside.

He races down the hall, running for the stairwell. Beneath him, the ground begins to tremble. Clint slams into the stairwell door at the end of the hall and races up the stairs, his shod feet slamming against bare concrete, his lungs tight with growing apprehension.

He makes it up to the roof just in time to hear the Hulk rise from the ashes of its own making.

"RAWR!!" The bellowing howl shakes the very air itself.

Still, the helicopter proceeds, unhindered through the sky. Moving closer and closer.

Clint stumbles out into the bright light of day. Reaching into his bag, he digs around until he feels something gun-shaped and heavy land into his hand. Yanking out the flare gun, he double-checks that it's loaded and raises it into the air.

Bang.

The flare gun goes off, and with it, a bright red stream of smoke spews forth.

Warning. Warning. It urges.

Too late.

With a roar fit to shake the windows in their frames, the Hulk tears free from the ground and jumps through the air, arms flailing, limbs flying. Teeth gnashing as he leaps from building to building, up up up, into the air.

Clint reaches for his bow and draws an arrow from the quiver on his back. He raises it to the bowstring, pulls, and shoots. The arrow flies through the air just ahead of the Hulk's barreling form, and they meet mid-flight. A percussive boom rocks through the air.

Usually, that would have the Hulk running, but not today; today, he brushes the blast aside like it's nothing more than an annoying fly. He takes one more flying leap.

The helicopter sees him now and moves to evade, its blades whirring loudly through the air.

Too late. Too fucking late.

The Hulk's meaty fists wrap around the helicopter's tail, grabbing it from the sky like it's nothing more than a child's plaything.

No.

No!

As Clint watches, feeling like he's somehow trapped in a nightmare that he can't wake from, the Hulk raises the helicopter over its shoulder and brings it down into the adjacent building.

Blades and shrapnel go flying everywhere. A burst of smoke, a whole gully of it, fills the air with blackness and the taste of gasoline.

Clint raises a hand to cover his mouth. Stepping back, away from the edge of the building. That's when he hears it. Screaming. Open-mouthed cries of terror that aren't the sound of the dead below.

Someone's alive in there?!  

The Hulk roars in success, smashing the side of the building some twenty floors up until it shakes from the sheer onslaught.

Unthinking, Clint reaches for his arrows. His biceps bulge as he strains back the string of his bow and fires off two arrows at a time. They fly true and smash into either side of the Hulk. This time, the blast is enough, and the Hulk finds himself falling through the air, landing on the ground with a vibrating thunk that takes out a couple dozen of the undead below him.

It's not a lot, but it'll have to do.

Looking at the distance between the buildings, Clint can immediately see that there's no way he's getting across the buildings in one jump. He has no grappling hook or anything that might aid the process.

That leaves him with only one option, and that? Is to run. So that's what he does. He turns and races across the roof, heading back inside, slinging his bag over his shoulders. There are hundreds of stairs between him and the bottom of the building. Instead of taking the stairs one at a time, he swings over the rail and drops down into the subsection between them. He's falling. Whenever his momentum gets too high, he reaches out and grabs onto the railing. Gravity yanks his body downward, but his arms hold him in place nonetheless.

Then he lets go again. Fall. Repeat. Until finally, he lands on the bottom floor with a thud of his boots. Inhaling a deep breath, Clint glances around, his hands going for the two blades he has at his waist.

He is in dead man's land now. And here he has to be careful, or it's his ass that's joining the horde. Clint walks over to the stairwell door and shoves the push bar open. He steps out into the main lobby of the building. It's gore-stained and blackened, a ghost of its once self. The lower levels are blasted to pieces, with no windows or doors. It's like this in every building here on Central.

Clint's done his best to fortify this particular building. He's covered the windows with the doors from inside the building, using them as giant sheets of plywood to protect himself from being swarmed by the horde. It works, for the most part. Still, stragglers manage to get in.

Clint exhales as he sees a dead one headed his way. It stumbles on the stumps of once legs and is skinny as a rail from starvation. Well, Clint's not looking to feed it now. He stalks forward, raising his knife over his shoulder and flicking his wrist. He sends it flying with exact proficiency. There's a hollow thunk; then the dead one goes down, its body collapsing under its own weight. Clint steps forward and yanks his blade out from its skull, quickly cleaning it on the dead one's clothes.

He makes his way over to his exit point. A door that he'd rigged up to swing outward rather than inward. He yanks from the lashing of wire holding it in place. Then twists the handles and steps outside.

The first thing he hears is the hot whine of the helicopter engine as it whirrs overhead. The second is the Hulk's roar as he angrily tears into the horde gathering around him. They are drawn to him by the haunting cries he makes. The screams of the injured person are silent from here, and Clint is not sure if that means he's dead or dying.

Clint glances left and right as he shuts the door behind him. The dead ones are weighted down with rain and otherwise occupied by the Hulk. They don't even seem to register him as he makes his way out from under the building, stepping in a puddle of slush on his way out the door. Thank god for the little things.

Clint grins, or grimaces, it's gotten hard to tell of late, and takes off into the crowd. Dodging and dancing between grasping hands, he takes down those who get too close, but there's no time to clean out the area. He needs to get up to that helicopter, and fast.

Well, as fast as his legs can take him, because there's no other way to get there than by his locomotion.  

He's across the street in a matter of seconds, his eyes everywhere, his knives even more so. He ducks under a short overhang, and he's inside the building, his shoes cracking on glass, his breath coming in rapid exhales as he's faced with a dozen or so of the dead ones. The rain hasn't slowed these guys down. They've been sheltered from it by a nearby building. Clint lunges forward, twisting on one leg, and kicking out with his boot, aiming for heads and legs, taking them down as rapidly as he can. He's gasping for breath by now, and his lungs ache, but he doesn't care. He's got a mission to accomplish.

He makes it to the back stairwell more by luck than anything, and then it's just a matter of up.

His feet strike each stair with the timing of his heartbeat. Everything is loud, so damn loud. The exhale of his lungs, the screams of the undead, the roar of the engine. That sound grows louder with every floor he goes up until it's all but roaring in his head. And yet, there's one sound he doesn't hear: the pilot's screams. They've gone silent. Clint curses in his mind and wonders if he's too late. Of course, he's too late; he always is.

When the engine's whine is at its loudest, Clint turns off his cochlear implant. The world is suddenly tolerable again, and he lets out a gasp of relief, briefly closing his eyes. He gives himself half a moment to adjust.

Chapter Text

Slamming home the door latch to the twentieth floor, Clint steps out and looks around. This floor is an open floor plan. There are desks and rolling chairs everywhere. The building has been abandoned since the end and looks it. Paper blows in the wind, and the smell of gasoline is at its strongest. The helicopter is balanced on the edge of the building. It's one wrong move away from tumbling off.

The motor roars desperately, twisting wing blades that aren't there, as it spews out black smoke that billows out from the side of the building, turning the cloudy sky black.

Clint leaps into action. He runs the distance towards the downed chopper and reaches into his bag. Clint first has to stabilize the helicopter, or they're going nowhere but down. And fuck that, he's not looking to die, not today at least. Too many people are relying on him to keep his shit together, thank you very much. Pulling out a roll of rope, Clint runs over to the load-bearing pillar closest to the helicopter and unwinds the rope, tying it off with expert hands. Yeah, he was in the Cub Scouts, and that shit came in handy sometimes.

Yanking on the knot to ensure it is secure, Clint steps back, reeling the rope out behind him, and stops before the helicopter. It's lying on its side, with the tail sticking farthest into the room and the land pads exposed. Clint aims for those landing pads. He ties the rope on them, working fast. His hands slip as the rope grows wet from the leftover rain. The rope grates and twangs as he works, drawing it back and forth to and from the pillar. Every thread is a chance it will hold long enough for Clint to get in and out.

      Only when he runs out of rope does Clint give up. He ties off the end of the rope and turns toward the helicopter, considering how best to make his way up onto the thing. The front end floats precariously out into the open side of the building. He's reluctant to go out there, but that's no doubt where he needs to be.

      Hissing irritably, Clint goes for it. He climbs up the side of the helicopter. He can't hear it creak or moan, and maybe that's a good thing because this shit is terrifying. He crawls up, over to the passenger side door, and reaches for the handle, cracking it open with the grate of metal.

     The hydraulics kick in, and the door swings open, sticking upright on its own power. Exhaling slowly, Clint crawls out onto the side of the helicopter, splaying onto his belly, and peers down into the cockpit.

      The first thing he notices is it's not one man but two. Both of them are either knocked out cold or dead. The pilot is most definitely dead; he's got a piece of rebar the length of the helicopter sticking through him, and enough blood has spilled out of him that he's been all but bled dry. The passenger doesn't have as much of a story to him. A splay of dark hair blocks his features, and it's dark inside the cockpit. So dark that Clint can barely see.

      Clint reaches down into the cockpit and presses his fingers to the other man's neck. He goes still, feeling for a pulse. It takes a moment to find it, but there it is, strong and a bit fast, but who wouldn't be, given the circumstances?

     There's a flash of movement. Then a hand, solid and warm, wraps around Clint's wrist. Clint flinches at the sudden, invasive touch, and it takes everything in him not to shriek like a damn child—He's so startled. He does jerk away, fast as a viper.

      There's a flash of lips moving behind that fall of dark hair.

      Clint reaches up and turns on his implant for the second time that day.

      "Where am I...what what happened?" Someone is saying, and it takes a moment for Clint to pinpoint it as coming from the other man. It's the typical "just waking up from a traumatic accident" reaction. Then, the man seems to realize where exactly he is. He turns his head to the right and looks down, down, down, to the empty chasm of the street below. "Oh, hell!"

      Clint wants to tell him to stay calm and that he's there to help, but when he opens his mouth, his voice won't work. It's just as silent as it always is. Clint curses internally and reaches down, shaking the other man hard to gain his attention.

     Come on, we have to move. Clint mouths when dark eyes peer up at him from the shadows.

     The helicopter shudders and shifts. Clint looks back over his shoulder as the sound of the rope's straining reaches his ear. He sees the rope pulled taught, where it wraps around the pillar, and curses.

     Now. They have to move now! Clint reaches back into the cockpit and takes hold of the man's arm with one hand, then reaches down and pops the seatbelt with his other. Suddenly, all of the man's weight is on him, and he grunts, taking it on with a snarl.

      The man screams in pain. Something is wrong.

     Clint pulls with all his strength, but no matter how hard he tries, the other man won't budge. Clint is cursing internally, while externally, he remains cold, calm, and collected.

      "My arm! It's stuck." The other man shouts, then cries out in obvious pain. Gritting his teeth, Clint peers down into the helicopter and realizes with dawning horror that the other man's arm is trapped by the console of the helicopter. Pulled taught between Clint and it.

      Just then, he hears the twanging snap of rope, and he cries out, shoving with his legs and straining with his back. He can't let go, he won't let go. Other than that brief moment with Deadpool, this is the first human he's seen in years. He's not going to let him die now.

      The last of the rope snaps, and the helicopter groans, twisting on its side, then begins to drag along the ground as it's pulled by gravity out of the window.

      The other man fights silently, twisting and wriggling in Clint's grasp, and just when Clint is certain that they are majorly screwed in the ass, he feels something give. The man screams in agony in his arms, and Clint isn't aware of it, but he screams with him, hauling back with all his might even as the helicopter scrapes forward, dragging through the open breach in the building.

      With one final groaning clang, the helicopter falls. Clint and the survivor are falling, too. Clint grabs for the other man and pulls him close, pressing his head down into the curve of his chest just as they hit the ground with a thud.

     The air expunges from his lungs as his back meets the linoleum tile. Clint chokes out a sound of pain, his grip on the other man going lax. Down below, there's a hollow boom as the corpse of the helicopter lands solidly onto the ground below.

     He gasps like a fish for a moment. It takes a ridiculous amount of time for his lungs to kick themselves into gear and inhale on their own. When they finally do kick into gear, Clint lets out a moaning groan, closing his eyes. He feels the other man slump down upon him, his weight one heavy mass on his midsection.

     Clint looks down at the other man and realizes that he must have fainted. Grunting, he slowly sits up and drags the other man with him until he rolls him over, dropping him so he lies on his back.

     That's when he sees him, truly freaking sees him, for the first time.

     Barnes?! Clint leans back, his mouth agape, and then, reaching out, he brushes the hair aside from the other man's face. He has a wound on his head, and it's spewing blood, dripping down the side of his face to stain the collar of his shirt. Even so, it doesn't obscure enough of his face to make it difficult to ID him.

     What's more, he doesn't have an arm. It's gone, there at the socket. As he raises his hands, moving to pull aside the sleeve of his shirt, he can see the metallic socket set into Barnes' shoulder.

     It's Barnes. It's Bucky freaking Barnes. Right there on his doorstep.

     Quickly, before Clint can think better of it, he grabs hold of Barnes' shirt and pulls it up his chest, checking for injuries for signs of internal bleeding. He'd just been in the mother of all accidents, after all. Some damage is to be expected.

     And there it is, a blossoming darkness across his abdomen, the deep, onsetting bruise that tells of internal bleeding. Clint curses, sitting upright. Shit, alright. He has to remind himself he isn't just dealing with any other human being. This is a Super Soldier he is talking about. He can take a beating from a bus and come out standing.

Right. Okay. So whatever he is looking at now, it isn't deadly. The man would survive. Right? Right. Clint runs a hand through his hair and nods to himself.

He can hear the screams of the Hulk as it rampages through the dead-end streets of New York. He'd have to deal with that later.

     Clint scoffs under his breath, glancing back towards the gaping open wound in the side of the building. Wind rushes through, whipping his hair about and tearing the air from his lungs. Well, first, he has to get the other man out of there alive. He's already seen what a zombie bite could do to a superhero. He doesn't want to see that happen again in his lifetime. Not over. Nope.

     Getting him out of here can't be all that difficult. Can it? Clint thinks sarcastically to himself. Dragging himself to his feet, using a nearby desk for help, he straightens his spine and stalks towards the open window, glancing down at the street below.

     There is no visible indication of where the Hulk is. He'll just have to trust he isn't close by. Down below, the usually full streets have been vacated. The wobbling forms of the dead ones stumble down the streets, moving after the wrecking ball that is the Hulk.

     This is as good a time as any. And Clint will have to take what he can get. There is no way he is staying here, in this unprotected building, away from his dog and, more importantly, his weapons stash.

     Walking back to Barnes' side, Clint crouches down over him and gives him a hard shake. This would be a lot easier if he were awake. No luck, though. The other man's head lolls to the side, and he groans audibly, but he stays down and out, his body limp to the touch.

     Fine. Make it the hard way. Clint grimaces, bending down and hauling the other man up by his only arm. He swung him up and over his shoulder, grunting as the weight of 200-plus pounds of muscles falls down onto his shoulders. Barnes groans audibly as his tender stomach is put to the test.

     Clint feels bad about that, but there is no way around it. He'll have to deal with the consequences later once the man is out of harm's way. Right now, that is the most important bit.

Chapter Text

Twenty flights of stairs. That's how far Clint had to drag Bucky Barnes' limp body. Twenty shitty flights of stairs. It takes him longer than he'd like to admit, and by the time he is halfway done, Clint is breathless and put out. Grateful that he's at least been keeping up with his weight lifting, Clint stops halfway there, dropping Barnes down to the ground and crumbling down to sit beside him.

He can feel a wet spot on his back where Barnes' headwound had been bleeding down his spine. Gasping for air, he sags against the wall and reaches into his duffel bag. He practically inhales his water bottle, sucking the fluid down his dry throat and exhaling with a gasp as it goes down.

He only gives himself a moment. Too long, and he'll risk the horde coming back. Too long, and he'll fall asleep!

Glancing at Barnes, he groans and drags himself back upright. He isn't as young as he used to be, and things like this come at a cost. He'll be feeling it tomorrow. That is for damn sure.

Barnes goes back up and over his shoulders, and Clint continues the journey downward, one concrete step at a time.

When he finally reaches the bottom of the stairs, he is ready to cry out with relief. But his job isn't over yet. He still has to bring Barnes across the street, and even worse? He then has to traverse the stairs of his own apartment building until he reaches his safe house.

Oh, come on, man, wake up! Clint thinks, desperately catching his breath. He drops Barnes back to the ground, easing him down with care.

He looks the other man over. His face is pale and blood-streaked. The wound on his head still seeps despite the time since he's been injured. The right side of his face is beginning to swell up, and he wheezes with each exhale, gasping around lungs that don't seem to wanna work right. Clint worries that he might have a collapsed lung, but what is there to do about it? He can't exactly perform surgery during the zombie apocalypse!

Clint can't help but feel like he is running out of time. Struggling back up to his feet, he makes his way over to the door and peers outside. The first floor is silent. The Hulk's escapades have drawn away the zombies, as he'd hoped.

Drawing his bow, he makes a quick reconnaissance mission out of it.

The first thing he sees is the helicopter's scrapped remains, blocking the street's right side. He ignores it for now, stepping out into the world below and dispatching any and all of the dead ones that are in the area. They go down with exacting precision, taken out with an arrow to the forehead before they even so much as see him. He collects his arrows from the dead, rinsing them off before inserting them back into his quiver.

There's a cry from above, and Clint turns toward it, his eyes tracking the cries. He finds her on the second floor, staring down at him with listless, fevered eyes, her mouth a gaping hole as she screams. Bringing the string of his bow back, he launches the arrow with all his strength. It shatters through the air with a twanging sound and smashes through the glass, splitting through her skull before she gets a chance to continue. She disappears into the apartment, deader than she was a few moments before.

Clint quickly counts the windows in and memorizes them. He'll have to go back for his arrow later. He has a stockpile of them, but with the Hulk around, there's never enough.

Shouldering his bow, Clint runs back into the imposing form of the building, his boots skittering over glass and across debris. He bypasses the corpses of those long since dead, ignoring them for the moment since none of them move. He makes his way over to the stairwell door and pushes it open.

Barnes hasn't moved from where he left him. Clint collects him with arms that tremble from exhaustion and barely manages to haul the other man back up and onto his shoulder, taking care not to stab him with his bow. God, he's heavier every time, but if there's one thing Clint isn't, it's a quitter, so he ignores the pain of over-taxed muscles and starts walking.

Yeah, he can do this—one foot in front of the other and all that jazz.

His careful preparation ensures that none of the deceased are around to cause any problems. Clint walks across the street, glancing both ways. He listens for signs of the Hulk's return. His ears are tight from listening so hard, and his head is starting to ache.

The rest of the journey is like a nightmare for his back, but he manages. He swallows his pain and continues. And continues. And continues. Until he's basically working on instinct alone, and it's with a start that he finds himself standing at the front door to his apartment. He can hear Dog sniffling on the other side, waiting for him to enter.

Gasping out an exhausted breath. Clint turns the doorknob to his apartment and enters. Dog whimpers happily, his tail wagging, and almost leaps at Clint, but Clint gestures for him to stay down.

Clint all but drags his sorry ass across the room and basically drops Barnes onto the couch, the other man colliding with the cushions with a soft grunt of sound. Taking a step back, Clint lets his head fall back on his shoulders and drags in a couple desperate breaths, his hands on his hips, his body trembling from the worst workout of his life.

It's all he can do to strip from his gear and let it land on the floor. He collapses onto the carpet, chest heaving. Dog whines and stops before him, licking his face as if checking to see what is wrong. Clint groans, turning his head away from the dog and closing his eyes. He's fine. He'll be fine. He just needs a minute or two. Dog drops down to lie beside him. Ever loyal. Clint finds it in himself to ruffle his fur, offering a soothing touch to calm the animal down.

He gives himself exactly two minutes. It's not a lot, but it's enough to get his breathing under control and to stop his heart from racing in his chest. Then he's up, dragging himself through the process of hunting down his first aid kit. He finds it on the kitchen sink and pops the locks on his way to the couch, grabbing a spare dishcloth simultaneously.

Barnes lies, disjointed and sprawled on the couch, just the way Clint had left him, his head lulled to the side, creating a stain the shape of Oklahoma on the couch. Clint eases him into a more comfortable position, straightening his limbs and adjusting his spine. When he looks down upon him, Clint thinks that it looks better like he might actually get some rest when it comes down to it.

First things first, he needs to clean up that head wound and bandage it before the man bleeds out. Clint drops down to sit on the edge of the couch next to Barnes. Their legs touch, and Clint shudders, changing his position to sit on the floor rather than beside the other man. Dragging the living room table over so he can rest the first-aid kit on it, Clint takes up the rag he'd grabbed and turns his attention to the other man.

Barnes looks exactly as he had the last time Clint had seen him. Sure, he's covered in blood, but he seems healthy. Not like he's been wallowing his days away in filthy. He's clean and well-hydrated. His skin is soft to the touch when Clint reaches out to touch his face, and if Clint's touch lingers a little too long, well, there's no one there to protest or point it out. Clint takes hold of him by the chin and gently angles his head until he can see the wound on the right side of his face.

It's a jagged gash that'll probably scar. But it's smaller than it looks, for all the blood. Clint dabs at the area with his rag, wiping away the excess blood and smearing it across skin that has a slight hint of a tan.

Healthy. He looks so fucking healthy.

Clint wonders why seeing that makes him somehow mad.

Barnes must sense something is off. He stirs, and before Clint has a chance to react, his eyes open. Their eyes meet, and Clint's hands go still on Barnes' face.

The fist, when it comes, is a surprise, and it sticks Clint right on the chin. Clint grunts, his head jerking backward. The second blow doesn't get a chance to land, though. Clint's up and off the floor in half an instant, his arms up and blocking the blow.

The other man is up and off the couch in an instant, despite his injuries, and he launches himself at Clint, his long hair whipping about, his lips pressed into a hard line as he aims to strike. He looks fucking terrifying, with the blood on his face. And even with one arm gone, Clint thinks he still stands more than a chance.

Whoa. Whoa! Rather than engage, Clint leaps back, throwing both his hands in the air and willing himself to look less dangerous. The gesture seems to do something at least because Barnes slows down his assault, both his eyebrows raising. He blinks, looking around the room. He doesn't seem to recognize Clint yet.

"Who are you, and where the fuck am I?" He rasps, his voice low with pain, his only hand reaching down to press to his no doubt aching midsection.

Clint opens his mouth and wills himself to say something, anything, but nothing comes out. Cursing his goddamn useless mouth, he shrugs, gesturing toward the window and out to the visible outline of New York City.

Barnes follows his gaze, and it must take a moment for him to register where he is. When he finally does, he curses.

"Oh, for fucks sake, we did it. We actually did it?" He questions, walking over to the window and looking down. Clint follows after him and follows his gaze. Down below are the rattled remains of the helicopter.

Clint whistles low under his breath and makes an exploding sound, pointing to the downed aircraft.

"We crashed?" Barnes asks, watching Clint out of the corner of his eye. He stares as if trying to recall why he knows Clint's face, but it's getting dark now and harder to see. Clint can't blame him for not immediately recognizing who he was.

Clint shrugs, and then, because he can't think of anything else to do, he signs. "In a way."

"What do you mean, 'in a way?'"

Clint blinks, glancing at the other man. He wasn't aware that Barnes knew sign language.

"The Hulk took you down," Clint explains, slowly backing away from the window. "Come on, you should lie down. You've been through hell."

"Shit, I don't remember any of it." Barnes whispers to himself, shaking his head, "I'm not tired." Despite his words, he sways in place, and it looks like the only thing keeping him upright is sheer bullheadedness.

"Fine then. At least let me take care of that head wound before you go bleeding all over my apartment." Clint orders, pointing towards the couch.

That seems to get his attention. Barnes raises a hand and touches it to his no-doubt aching head. When it comes up bloody, he lets out a curse.

"Fine. Yeah. Alright." Barnes grumbles, stalking away from the window. He goes over to the couch and drops into it with a thud.

Outside, Clint can hear the Hulk roar. The two look over at the sound.

"Let's hurry this up. I have shit to take care of." Clint orders. He has to get the Hulk back under control and underground, and that's not going to happen if he doesn't get his ass going.

Clint follows behind Barnes and pulls up a seat on the living room table, next to the first aid kit and across from Barnes.

Their eyes lock for the second time that day, and Clint watches the dawning knowledge of who he is click into place.

"Barton?" Barnes questions, then louder, his voice raised. "Barton?!"

Clint rolls his eyes. Yeah, it's him.

"We thought you were dead!" Barnes shouts, and then, of all things, he lunges forward and pulls Clint into a one-armed hug, nearly dragging him off the table in the process.

Clint is suddenly and completely engulfed in another person's presence. He gasps, eyes widening, arms flailing. He doesn't know what to do with his own hands. He hasn't touched another human being in what feels like years, and here he is, with someone actually touching him?

Oh shit. Oh fuck. No, he can't do this. He can not do this.

With a sudden burst of energy and a gasp of displaced air, Clint twists free of Barnes's hold and scrambles back, nearly falling over the table and definitely taking out the first aid kit. Its contents fall across the dusty floor, and he's up and away, putting a good ten feet between himself and Barnes. He avoids looking at the other man and instead catches sight of himself in the windows. He can't bear to see his own reflection looking back at him. What the hell must he be seeing?

Clint gasps for breath and drags his hands through his hair, shaking his head no.

No. No. No. No.

"I have to go." Clint signs, his hands shaking. "The first aid kit is on the—on the floor."

Then, before he can think about it any further, he's grabbing up his stuff. His bag, his quiver, and his bow slip onto his shoulder. He glances at the dog, giving the animal a pat on the head, and then he's off, slamming the door behind him.

Chapter Text

Clint races along the rooftops, leaping from rooftop to rooftop. He dashes across homemade ramps and over bridges he's built for the exact reason. On his head, he wears a pair of night goggles that make seeing all the easier in these dark times. Ahead of him, the Hulk roars, his form ghastly white in the dim light of night. He's hungry, and he's angry, and he's got nowhere to go but down. Or, at least, that's where Clint wants him to go. He's better down below, where he won't stir up the dead ones and cause havoc.

Clint raises his arm, bow in hand, aims, and fires an arrow ahead of the Hulk's racing form. It leaps from his bow, landing feet in front of the Hulk, and goes off with a bang that ruptures through the air, carrying with it a blinding flash of light that has Clint seeing nothing but white for a moment.

He clears his eyes by blinking rapidly. When next he can see, he finds the Hulk's massive form has turned around. And it's heading straight for him. Clint snarls, ducking behind a water tower's hulking form so he won't be seen. He waits impatiently for the sound of the Hulk to pass as he barrels through the streets, smashing into cars and ramming into buildings.

The building beneath Clint trembles. Clint closes his eyes, catching his breath. He waits, and he waits. And then he feels it, a hot breath that trails down at him from above, rotten with the stink of death and the hot vapors of bloated gas.

Clint looks up and sees, standing above him, the dark silhouette of the Hulk. It's almost like he's...stalking Clint...only the Hulk doesn't have the mental capacity for that, does he? His eyes glint green in the moonlight. And he's looking right at Clint.

Oh, hell no.

Heart leaping a hundred-twenty beats a minute, Clint lunges out from underneath the water tower, shoving off from its weighty form to give himself a head start. Behind him, the tower groans, giving out under the Hulk's immense weight, and keels over, keening loudly as it does so. The Hulk leaps from it, tumbling through the air, arms flailing, bare feet stuck out before him. He's too close for comfort, way too close.

Spinning around, Clint sends an arrow sailing through the air. It disappears in the darkness but makes itself known a second later as it bursts into life, exploding with a hollow boom that rocks Clint off his feet and sends him flying through the air. Clint twists midair and takes hold of a passing wire, grabbing onto it as his body is yanked through the air. The wire burns even through the thick leather of his gloves, and he lets out a breathless shout, biceps flexing, lungs heaving.

The blast sends the Hulk flying as well. Only he doesn't have the dexterity to catch himself, and he's sent flying over the edge of the building, landing down below with a thud.

Releasing the wire, Clint lands on the rooftop below and runs towards the edge of the building. There, lying on the ground, is the Hulk, a hole the size of a bus surrounding his downed form. With a groaning shudder, the ground gives in beneath him, and the Hulk falls downward into the subterranean abyss just beneath the streets of New York. He lands on the ground beneath with a thud, his body disappearing down below.

Clint reaches for his quiver. Quickly, before the Hulk has time to react, he sends a volley of arrows raining downward, one after another. They fall through the sky, dark whispers from his goggles' perspective, and then, a moment later, there's a percussive boom, followed by another and another. Clint reaches up and turns off his cochlear implant. That's enough of that. Down below, the ground shudders and fails, falling downward and filling the hole the Hulk had created with rubble and riffraff.

And like that, it's over.

Clint stands, gasping, catching his breath with every intake of air. He closes his eyes and exhales, leaning back with his hands on his hips. Shit, he feels like literal shit. He peels his gloves off his hands, wincing as he looks down at the damage. He can only see thick lines of darkness, shown by the light of his nighttime goggles. Wincing, he tucks his gloves into his back pocket. He won't be putting those back on any time soon.

Down below, the Hulk roars. A distant, forlorn sound. He sounds so alone. So damn alone. Clint glances downward, grimacing.

I feel it, too, buddy. I feel it, too. Clint thinks. His heart is aching. He closes his eyes and forces aside the memories of the once man he'd loved. It'd been years now, how long was he going to haunt himself with the damn things?!

Besides, he has other problems to face. That particular problem? Well, his name is Bucky Barnes, and he was no doubt wondering where the hell Clint had gone.

Clint curses internally. It's been a long time since someone else held him accountable. He hasn't had to worry about anyone but himself for years. He isn't sure if he can, to be honest. The last person he'd cared for was...Peter, and he'd let down that kid and let him down hard.

Turning away from the wreckage he'd created, Clint began to make his way back home.

All the while, in the back of his mind, he mulls over the Hulk's actions and wonders if something in the Hulk is getting smarter.

No, it can't be. He's just a walking corpse like all the rest, Clint thinks to himself. But how, then, did he know where to look for me? It can't just be a coincidence, can it?

Clint shudders at the idea of the Hulk actually having a functional mind. The day that happened, he'd be screwed. He isn't kidding, either. The only reason he'd been able to hold out this long is because Zombie Hulk is no Bruce Banner. If ever the two combined, he wouldn't stand a chance.

Clint makes his way home, mulling over the possibilities, his spine tight and his body aching. He leaps from one building to the next, taking the shortest route he can back home. It is well past midnight by the time he makes it back to his place, and the moon is well into the sky, lighting up the street below and the masses of the undead with it. Clint barely noticed them. They'd become part of his life now.

He pauses at the door to his apartment and takes a deep breath, his hand halfway to the knob. Glancing either way, he considers whether or not he should even bother going inside. But Dog is there, and he needs to eat, and Clint can use a good sleep in a bed that isn't covered in dust.

Sighing, he straightens his spine, composes his face into a maskless expression, and turns the doorknob.

Movement out of the corner of his eye catches his attention. There is a metallic flash, and then Clint raises his arm and blocks a knife from flaying open his throat. He parries back, dodging another stab at his juggler, and leaps out of the way and into the hall, quickly turning on his cochlear implant so he can get a better lay on the situation.

His attacker is on him in an instant, lunging in the dark and slamming Clint up against the wall; an arm slams into Clint's throat, pressing down on his carotid. Clint lets out a shout, snarling; he reaches for his waist and yanks a knife out from its sheath.

He slashes with his knife and feels it strike flesh in a shallow jab. There's a curse from his attacker, and then suddenly, they're apart. Clint, gasping for breath, leaps back into the hall. The light from the moon shines in from the hall window, and Clint quickly grabs for his other knife and drops down into a crouch, standing at the ready for the next attack. He quickly steps back into the shadows and away from the light.

"Oh hell, Clint?" A voice breaks the pervasive silence. It takes Clint a moment to recognize it as coming from Barnes. "Fuck, Clint, it's me, I'm sorry. You startled me."

Clint lets out a pent-up breath and exhales, slowly straightening up from his crouch. Cautiously, he glances around, even as his mind plays catch-up, and tells him he's not in danger anymore.

Into the light of the window steps Bucky Barnes, his expression properly chagrined, his hand raised, bladeless, and free of weapons.

Slowly, Clint steps forward into the light until they are standing mere feet away from each other. He raises one eyebrow, scowling at the other man.

"Seriously? This is how you thank me?" Clint asks, gesturing to their general situation.

"I have no idea what you just said. It's too dark out here. But I imagine it starts with dumbass and ends with Bucky." Barnes admits, raising his hand to scratch at his head. He'd managed to bandage his head wound by himself and had done a real shit job at it, too. The bandages are lopsided and loose.

Slowly, still scowling up a storm, Clint stalks past Barnes and heads back towards his apartment. There is a candle lit on the inside, and it offers just enough light to see by as he turns around on the spot and looks for Dog.

"Where is my dog?" Clint asks, signing towards Barnes as he turns.

"Oh, I, uh, locked him in the room when you came to the door. He was barking at the door, and I thought he was going to get hurt."

Clint rolls his eyes and walks over to the only other room in the apartment, his bedroom. He turns the doorknob, and out from the room comes Dog. Yapping happily, he barrels into Clint.

Clint lets out a grunt as the dog stands up and paws him in the sternum. Looking down, he ran his hands through the dog's fur, calming him down with a few gentle touches.

"I'm sorry I attacked you," Barnes says once the meet and greet is over.

Clint waves him off.

"I've been attacked before. Besides, I gave as good as I got," Clint gestures to Barnes' arm, where a glint of red can be seen dripping down his tricep.

Barnes scoffs, turning his head to look down at his injury.

"I suppose you did. I just... You left so quickly. I don't know the lay of the land here, so I guess I panicked when I heard someone at the door."

"Don't worry, I get it. This place isn't exactly a Hampton Inn." Clint signs. "Did you rest? How are you feeling?"

Giving Dog one last pat, Clint moves to the dining room table and begins to strip out of his gear.

"Of course, I didn't rest—the sound of the dead. I don't know how you can stand it. Do they ever stop screaming?"

Clint's bow and quiver go first, followed shortly by his bag. He lays them out on the table, within easy access if things should go awry again. His knives get laid out one by one beside those, and he unzips his vest, hissing as the compressive leather releases his aching muscles. He tosses his gloves on the table last, taking one last glance at his damaged hands.

"No." Clint shakes his head by way of answer, shrugging afterward.

"You're hurt." Bucky steps around him and stops within his eyeline, watching him break down his gear with an observant eye.

"I'm fine." Clint signs, rolling his eyes. "I literally just stabbed you."

"Doesn't mean you aren't hurt; besides, last I heard, you weren't the one jacked up on Super Soldier Serum. Let me see."

Slowly, telegraphing his movements, he reaches out and takes hold of Clint's hand, turning it into the candlelight. Clint yanks his hands away from Barnes with a hiss.

"Wow, easy now," Barnes says, raising his hand and backing away from Clint. "I'm not going to hurt you."

"You're the one who just survived a helicopter crash. Shouldn't I be taking care of you?" Clint signs, only for his words to go unheard since Barnes' back is to him, and he's already stopping before the first-aid kit. Barnes drops down to the couch with a groan, holding his midsection, and gestures for Clint to come over.

"Show me your stomach." Clint signs instead, his eyes narrowed. After a moment, in which Clint clearly isn't going to follow his demands, Bucky rolls his eyes and leans back slowly, lifting up his shirt.

Bucky's belly is black and blue and purple all over in a way that speaks of internal bleeding. Clint stalks forward and glances at the first aid kit.

"Believe me, nothing in there is gonna help with whatever I've got going on." Bucky declares, giving Clint an assessing look before pulling his shirt back down. "Unless you're a surgeon, I'm just gonna have to live through it until everything turns itself right side up."

"And your lung? I heard it. You weren't breathing right." Clint signs,

"That fixed itself up about an hour ago. The rest will just take time." Bucky grimaces. "And not even that much time. Give me a few days, and I'll be right as rain. You though? You're just an average old human. And I want to see those hands. They're a good set of hands. I'd hate to see them ruined by infection."

Clint eyes him with suspicion, his lips a thin, pursed line. Yeah, he's definitely not gonna do that. He'd rather shoot himself in the foot than do that.

Chapter Text

The two men are at something of an impasse, Clint unwilling to move a foot closer, Bucky reluctant to take no for an answer, even though he's injured and hurt, and winces visibly from the effort of sitting down the way he is. Dammit, Bucky should be the one being taken care of. He just survived a helicopter crash, for god's sake.

"Come here," Bucky urges, a lock of hair falling from behind his ear to dangle across his face. "I'll be fast, I promise." He holds up his hand, as one might do when confronted by a scared animal. And there Clint goes again, comparing himself to frightened animals. He's not scared. He's just...uninclined. Ugh. Clint stills himself, and, despite instincts that shout at him to go somewhere else, he reluctantly finds himself walking over to the couch and taking a seat. Dog follows shortly behind and lays down at his feet. Content to watch the two humans interact.

Barnes smiles slowly, and Clint stares, staggered to see a smile for the first time in ages.

"What are you looking at?" Barnes asks, tilting his head.

Clint flushes because he can't very well say 'you,' now can he? Instead, he shrugs.

"Let's get this over with." He signs. "And don't ask me questions when I'm like this. I can't exactly sign back."

With that, he offers his hands, pursing his lips into a thin line of apprehension.

"Fine. No questions." Barnes declares, cautiously taking hold of Clint's hand by the fingertips and drawing it over until it rests on his knee. Clint flinches as skin meets skin, resisting the urge to pull away altogether. "I don't much like talking anyway."

Good. Clint wants to say because he doesn't much like listening.

Barnes turns his hand this way and that, then reaches for the first aid kit, bending over to see what is inside. He finds a small packet that looks like pain cream and makes a humming sound under his breath before tearing it open using one hand and his teeth. Spitting the tab of the packet out of his mouth, he turns his attention to Clint's hands.

"I sure hope you have some antibiotics holed up in here." He says, mostly to himself, as he carefully draws a line of cream across both of Clint's aching palms. The cream is cooling and almost immediately soothes the ache of the injury away. Clint ignores his suggestion. He won't use antibiotics on something as minor as a wire burn. He'll save that for the bad times.

Clint grimaces and looks everywhere but at what Barnes is doing. He feels a finger carefully dab along the edge of his wound, deftly massaging the cream into the injury.

"You know, we thought you were dead. All of you." Barnes murmurs thoughtfully into the silence. "Once you didn't return, we were certain something bad had happened. We waited for months. Nothing. We buried you, or what was left of your things, in honor of your memory. You, Peter, and Bruce."

At the mention of Bruce's name, Clint flinches, cringing internally. He's grateful he doesn't have his hands free, so he doesn't have to speak.

Reaching for the first aid kit, Barnes pulls out a roll of bandages.

"Steve was real torn up." Steve's name has him meeting Barnes' gaze. Barnes stares back at him, his grey eyes thoughtful. "He said he shouldn't have let you go out on that mission. No matter how important it had felt at the time, it wasn't worth losing the three of you."

Clint grimaces and looks away. He can't count how many times he's told himself the exact same thing. How stupid and cocky they had been back then, thinking themselves invincible. Fresh from the Compound and indifferent to the dangers that awaited them. They'd been idiots. Fools. Bruce, most of all. Clint isn't afraid to admit that now. He'd been the one to urge them on the journey in the first place.

"Let's bandage you up." Slowly, Barnes tears the bandages into strips. Then he carefully sets to binding Clint's palms, his hand moving surely through the motion. Clint can't turn his gaze to watch those long fingers. To feel them wandering over his skin, even though, by not doing so, he leaves himself in a limbo of not knowing what will happen next. "Hey, give a guy a hand, yeah?"

Clint looks up at the command and realizes Barnes is struggling to apply the bandage. Clint reaches out with his free hand and holds the bandage down as Barnes grabs the tape, tearing off a piece with his teeth.

Muttering a thank you under his breath, Barnes tapes down the edge of the bandaid.

"Have you been alone all this time?" Barnes asks, his expression tight as if he doesn't want to know the answer. Clint stares at him mutely. "Oh, right, no questions." Then, quieter, his words a near whisper. "You don't talk anymore...you used to talk."

Clint shrugs. Looking away. He can't explain his lack of speech any better than Barnes could. Something psychological, no doubt. A head doctor would be so excited to dig around in his skull. But it isn't for a lack of trying. He'd lost count of the times he'd spent staring at himself in a mirror, willing the words to leave his mouth. Willing himself to speak, if only so that he could hear something other than the screams of the dead.

Beside him, Barnes begins to work on the other hand, winding the bandages around his palm with aching slowness. Again, Clint moves to help, holding down the bandage with his pointer finger while Barnes tears off a piece of tape.

Done.

"Where were you? I heard explosions." Barnes asks, and now that he's done, there's no excuse for Clint not to use his hands. Clint all but yanks them back into his own personal space. Scootching back on the couch to put more distance between the two of them.

"How's your stomach?" He answers the questions with another question, gesturing to Barnes' stomach.

"Like I said, the stomach's fine, fella. Hurt's like a bitch, but there's nothing you can do about it. You are avoiding my question." Barnes points out, wiping his hands off on his trousers. Carefully, he leans back on the couch, one hand moving to grip his no doubt aching belly, watching Clint with non-accusatory eyes. His gaze is thoughtful. Despite how damaged he is, he looks lethal enough, still strapped up in his tac gear, his jacket unzipped, and hanging open to each side.

"It's him, isn't it? Bruce? He got bit." He finally asks when Clint doesn't seem like he's going to say anything further.

Clint grimaces and shakes his head.

"No, not him...the Hulk." He protests. Unconsciously, he wraps his arms around his middle, clenching his hands into fists in a physical representation of how little he wants to talk about the current topic of conversation.

"I'm sorry, I know you were...close." Barnes reaches out as if to rest a hand on Clint's knee, then stops himself mid-gesture. Clint finds himself pulling away anyway, just in case. His skin feels foreign to him, and he doesn't know if he can handle any more of Barnes' touch.

"The Hulk took down my helicopter, didn't he?" Barnes asks unrelentingly. "I can't remember it, but that has to be what happened. How else did we fall out of the damn sky?"

Slowly, Clint nods. Uncurling from his position, he carefully begins to sign.

"He did. You were too loud. He's attracted to sounds, just like the others. Only he's big enough to do something about it. What were you guys thinking? Traveling into red territory like that?!" Clint asks, shaking his head. Even back in his day, when he'd been part of the Compound, it'd gone against everything to travel into the red zone. Shouldn't their standards be even stricter after the loss of Bruce, Peter, and him?

"It was supposed to be a simple in and out. Pure recon. Steve noticed that most of the walkers were drawn to this area of New York. He wanted to know why, is all. Of course, we didn't know about the Hulk. Shit, he still doesn't know about the Hulk." Barnes straightens in alarm. "Oh hell, what if he tries to send another team to come save us?"

"Would he risk doing that?" Clint asks, raising his eyebrows in alarm. "For all he knows, you could be dead."

"Oh, he'll risk it. After you all...died, he changed. He doesn't want to lose anyone else. Especially me. I mean, we're practically brothers."

There was a time when Clint had assumed them to be lovers, but Steve was on the straight and narrow, and Barnes, well, Barnes was another question entirely.

"If he sends anyone else, they'll be killed. This place isn't safe for anyone."

"Then why are you here?" Barnes asks, and that, well, isn't that the question Clint asks himself daily?

"I can't leave him alone." Clint signs the only answer he'd ever managed to come up with. Bruce. God, Bruce. He is trapped inside this nightmare, an unwilling victim of the tragedy before them, and he deserves better. He deserves...well...he deserves death and freedom from this hellhole. It is Clint's job to give it to him if he can. Not that he says any of that out loud. Hell, thinking it sounds crazy. Speaking it? Even more so.

"I'll need to figure out a way to warn them." Barnes muses into the silence, gazing thoughtfully at the candle that is sitting on the table. He must have lit it sometime during the night while he was waiting for Clint to come back. His eyes gleam from the candlelight, shining with life. Clint finds himself staring at them thoughtfully, pondering the absurdity of seeing another human being. Barnes' eyes flicker over to meet his, and he smiles a lopsided smile.

"What are you looking at?" He asks again, shaking his head, though it's clear now that he's not expecting an answer.

Quickly, Clint turns away, forcing himself to look down at Dog, where he lies at his feet, absently licking a paw.

"There's a radio in the helicopter. I saw the wreckage down below. Maybe it survived the wreck." Bucky straightens upright out of the couch without making a sound of pain, even though he's in a lot of it. Standing up, he walks toward the windows on the east side of the building. He peers down into the darkness as if he can see what hides within its depths. Maybe he can; Clint has never asked the true extent of his powers.

Clint clicks his tongue to gain Barnes's attention. Barnes turns toward the sound, raising one eyebrow.

"If it still works, can the radio communicate that far?" Clint questions, gesturing down below.

"Yeah, yeah, it should. We have radio towers throughout New York. It's not like it used to be, Clint. It's... well, civilized is an overstatement, but it's getting there. The Compound is 500 strong and getting bigger every day. We have engineers, technicians, and doctors; hell, we have a blacksmith. We're in contact with other communities and countries as well. The world ain't as small as it used to be." Barnes waves a hand as if encompassing the whole world. The grin on his face is a big, shit-eating grin. And what's more? There's hope, real, honest-to-good hope, hidden in those eyes. He doesn't look like a man at the end of his rope. Or a man who's lost everything. He looks like a man who has something to fight for. "Come back with me, Clint. You gotta see it."

Clint blinks, his face twisted into an usually uncomfortable frown. Places like the one Bucky described aren't meant for people like Clint. They're meant for the future, for the ones who still have something to lose and everything to gain. Clint? Clint isn't that. He'd already lost everything. What more is there left for him?

"No, my place is here." Clint signs, shaking his head.

Barnes's smile fades, too, and he exhales slowly before nodding.

"Right...course it is." He says, running a hand through his long hair and changing the subject, "I don't know about you, but I'm starving. He smiles once more in a way that has Clint wondering if it's more of a mask than an actual smile.

Clint forces a smile in return because if he can do it, so can Clint.

"That I can do something about." He signs, standing up from the couch and heading to the kitchen.

Chapter Text

 Two days pass while Clint waits for Barnes' wounds to heal. Two long, insufferable, uncomfortable days. Clint's not used to having someone else around, and he doesn't like it. He spends most of his time brooding in his bedroom, with his cochlear implant off and nothing but his own thoughts to collect. He leaves only to walk Dog on the roof and eat when the fancy strikes him, even if that is sparse and between. What Barnes does, Clint isn't sure of. He leaves the other man to himself. He tries to reassure himself that it's better this way.

Soon, Barnes will be leaving, heading back to that all-important Compound. It's essential not to get too attached. Or to get attached at all, by Clint's thinking. He doesn't want to become used to having a companion; he wants things back to the way they were before, when it was just him and his escapades with the Hulk.

Of course, that isn't exactly possible. Not with Barnes trying his best to socialize.

Clint is lying on his bed, doing his best not to think too hard about everything new that's going on. Then, there's a motion at the door. Clint sits up, his knife in hand almost instantly, and pointed in the direction of the doorway.

There stands Barnes, one hand held up in a submissive gesture, his mouth moving but no words coming out. His expression is full of discomfort and uncertainty. He looks like a damned kicked puppy, standing there like that in his pair of borrowed pajamas. Slowly, Clint drops his knife and reaches up to turn on his cochlear implant.

Noise overwhelms him, the instant screams, the hollow cries, and he cringes, shutting his eyes. Then Barnes' words become clear.

"—knocking, but you didn't answer. I'm sorry. I don't mean to bother you for long."

Clint grimaces, opening his eyes.

"What do you want?" He signs, interrupting the other man with a forceful gesture of his hands.

"Oh, ah." Barnes stops talking and watches him sign, then forces one of those smiles of his. "I made lunch. I wanted to see if you were hungry?"

Clint raises his eyebrows. "Lunch?" He asks.

"Lunch." Barnes agrees, gesturing towards the living area. Clint grimaces, glancing at the clock on the wall. It's roughly noon. Had he really languished the whole morning away? He hadn't been aware of the passage of time, and now that Barnes had mentioned it, his stomach was digging a hole through his spine, gurgling relentlessly, loud enough for Clint to hear it.

"Right...lunch." Clint nods, ducking his head. "Let me change, and I'll be right over."

Barnes runs a hand through his hair and stands at the door a little longer as if reluctant to leave. Then he ducks his head in compliance and strolls out the door, closing it behind himself.

Clint groans, dragging himself out of bed. His body still aches from the ordeal he'd put it through. It's an ache that will only go away with time and patience. It's a pain he's used to. He's not sure when the last time he hadn't felt like this was. It's not like he has the best diet to help with the symptoms.

He drags himself through a few slow stretches, pushing the sleep out of his limbs one at a time as he twists this way and that, bending to touch his toes and raising high to touch the sky. By the time he is done, he almost feels human again.

From his bedroom window, he can see that it's raining outside, a continuous patter that drives from the sky in a torrent, making the world look fresh and new.

Stripping from his pajamas, Clint reaches for a set of clothes that's slightly cleaner than the ones he'd worn the day before. It's a little less worn but still dirty and reeking of old sweat. He has salvaged some rainwater in buckets over the last few days and is now due to wash his clothes. He supposes he can do that if only to waste some time.

Dressed, Clint cautiously makes his way over to the door and opens it, peering outside. Dog looks up from his place on the couch and lets out a low whine, eager to see Clint out and about. Clint glances around the room and sees Barnes standing by the kitchen table. Barnes waves awkwardly and gestures towards the table, where he's laid out a couple of cans and a few glasses of water. Clint's weapons rest on the other side of the table, pushed out of the way.

"What's for lunch?" Clint asks, forcing himself to act like a normal, goddamn human for once. He leaves his room and walks over to the table, feeling shy in his own home. As if it already doesn't belong to him.

"Nothing special. Canned beans and hot dogs." Barnes explains.

"And...vitamins?" Clint asks, raising his eyebrow at the cup full of pills that sits on the table beside the can of beans and hot dogs, like some kind of weird appetizer.

"Yeah, well, I noticed you weren't feeling up to par. So, I thought those might help. There are also some painkillers to help with the muscle aches. I took some, too. I hope you don't mind. They don't last long on me, but something is better than nothing, right?"

"No, yeah...no, it's fine. I don't mind." Clint signs, flushing. It probably makes him a bad host, having not thought to offer it to Bucky in the first place. Then again, it's not like he'd even thought about getting himself painkillers, either. Not that he'd intended to even hint that he was in pain. Maybe it is for the best that he'd been lying in bed for the last two days if he is going to give things away so easily.

Then again, maybe this is... nice somehow. A pleasant change in the otherwise monotony of his life.

Stop it. He won't be here forever. Don't get used to it. Clint thinks to himself, drawing a hard line in his own mind.

"Thanks." Is all he says, moving to sit down in the chair even as Barnes moves to sit down across from him.

Taking the pill cup in hand, he downs them in one shot, following it with a couple good gulps of water to wash them down.

Quietly, he sets to eating, keeping his eyes cast downward at his food. In front of him, Barnes does the same. They eat in painful silence for a time. The food is...disgusting, but Clint has no right to complain. It is what it is. He doesn't eat for the sake of eating anymore. It's for the sustenance and the strength it provides.

Food isn't exactly ripe for the picking at the end of the world. Sure, he has a pretty decent stash. However, most of it consists of canned goods, items that are expired or nearing expiration, and even some that are not. Stuff that leaves a bad taste in the mouth and a worse stomach ache sometimes.

The silence must become too much because Barnes sets down his spoon with a cough and clears his throat. Clint looks up at him from across the table, meeting grey eyes with his own. He quickly looks away. Yeah, anywhere but there. Anywhere but there.

"Hmm?" Clint asks, the sound coming out as a gruff grunt rather than a soft question mark.

"I've been thinking about that radio." Barnes finally says when he gets up the nerve to speak. "It's about when we should be heading back to the Compound. If I don't get a hold of Steve, I'm sure he'll send out a rescue squad."

Clint nods his head slowly. He can see where that could be a problem. Slowly, he takes another bit of his meal and gestures for Barnes to continue.

"I'm feeling a lot better. My range of motion is back, and the bruises have started to turn color. I think whatever internal damage was done is healing itself. I want to go down to the helicopter and get a message out to Steve. If I can."

Clint looks Barnes over. He's right, he does look better. He's no longer moving around like he's carrying a basketball-sized lump on his belly. His head wound is completely healed, not even a scar left to indicate where it'd been. Goddamn super soldiers. They had the better end of the stick in that regard.

Clint sets down his fork so he can speak.

"Sounds like you have a plan." He says.

"Yeah, but here's the thing. I want somebody on my six. I'm not exactly familiar with the territory if you catch me. And it won't be easy to get to that helicopter. It's right in the middle of a goddamn horde as we speak. I will have to fight my way through it."

"You need me." Clint signs, shaking his head and chuckling softly under his breath.

"Yeah, I need you," Barnes admits, having the decency to look sorta sheepish about the subject. He scratches his stubble-covered chin and chews on his lower lips, waiting for something, probably for an answer.

The silence goes on for a bit, and then Clint takes pity on the other man and nods.

"Yeah, alright, I'll back you." Clint signs, nodding his head in a sharp indication of his agreement. He stands up, grabs his can, and heads over to the sink, then moves to deposit his fork in the sink and his can in the trash bin. Turning around, he watches as Barnes scarfs down the rest of his meal.

"Now?" He asks around a mouthful of beans, raising his eyebrows hopefully.

"Now." Clint signs, chuckling under his breath despite himself. "While it's still raining."

Still in his civilian clothes, Clint walks over to the table and begins to strap on his gear, shrugging his vest over his tank top and zipping it up smoothly to his chin. He's skinnier than he used to be, and it hangs on his frames slightly loose, but it still serves its purpose. He puts on his boots, tying them up and strapping them to his legs with their various buckles, then goes about the business of strapping on his gear.

Knives and blades go first. Followed by his arm guards, the thick leather is his best defense nowadays. His gloves go on last, strapping up to his forearms. His hands refuse to move properly, given the abraded skin of his palms, but he bears through the ache until the gloves are on.

All the while, as he works, Barnes is stripping out of his pajamas with the same casual nudity of any soldier, stopping beside the couch and pulling out his own uniform. He casually chews on the last bit of his meal, a fork stuck in his mouth, his eyes focused solely on his clothing as he gets to work.

His uniform is a lot less complex than Clint's. Black cargo pants go on first, followed by a tight-fitting undershirt, and then his leather coat, which hasn't changed much since the last time Clint had seen him. Black, with black straps and black zippers. He zips himself up smoothly, and unlike Clint, his uniform does fit; frankly, it suits him, and Clint turns away, rolling his eyes before he can admire the other man further.

"What about the dog?" Barnes asks around the fork, waving his hands towards where the dog lies on the couch, contentedly watching them work.

"He'll be fine on his own." Clint signs, his back turned toward Bucky. Then, remembering he's not alone, he turns around and repeats himself. "He'll be fine. He's a good dog."

"What's his name anyway?" Barnes walks over to the sink and tosses his fork in beside Clint's spoon, turning around on his heels and leaning back against the sink as he does so.

Clint pauses for a moment, a flush staining his cheeks.

"Dog." He finally answers. In response, Barnes goes still, tilting his head.

"Dog...just...Dog?" He asks, glancing over to Dog with mild amusement, this time, the smile on his face is as real as can be. "That's one heck of a creative name, Clint."

Clint finds himself smiling back and shakes his head, ducking so the other man can't see the smile on his face.

"Come on. Let's go." Clint signs, changing the subject with a sigh.

"Fine. Fine. I'm just wondering how you found a dog, much less kept it alive in the middle of the fucking apocalypse. That's all." Barnes teases. Walking past Dog and giving him a pat on the head as he passes by.

"He found me, and he does just fine on his own. He gets himself into plenty of trouble without my help." Clint isn't going to talk about the time Dog had gone missing for a whole week. That had been a rough time. A lonely time, if he were to admit it, but they'd found each other again, and neither one had left the other's side for long since then.

"Come on, let's go. Dog, stay." Clint turns to Dog and gestures for him to stay in the room. Dogs' ears perk up, and he sits up on the couch but does not move from his sitting position. His big brown eyes turn beseechingly upon Clint, and Clint just knows the big guy wants to come with. "Not this time. Stay." Clint ordered again.

"He has you wrapped around his tail." Barnes teases, bypassing owner and dog, in favor of heading towards the door. He opens the door, his gun in one hand, and checks both ways before stepping outside into the hall.

Clint snorts under his breath. There is no point in arguing since Barnes can't see his hands. He steps out into the hall, closing the door behind himself.

"You lead the way." Barnes orders, stepping to the side to make room for him. Clint nods, passing him by, his elbow brushing along Barnes' sternum as he moves past him.

Chapter Text

First things first, Clint makes his way towards the stairs, his bow at the ready, his expression passive as he makes his way down stairway by stairway. Barnes is not far behind, his footsteps in time with Clint's, so that, for a moment, Clint imagines he's alone again.

Clint pauses by the second-floor landing and glances back at Barnes. Then gestures for the other man to follow him. Barnes raises his eyebrows, questioning their actions, but doesn't protest. He follows Clint as Clint steps out onto the second floor and makes his way down the hall.

Here, the apartment doors are gone, the apartments bared to the sky. Clint had used them to barricade the lower level. Overcast sunlight shines through the empty doorways, staining the floor white with its rays. There's a general haze of dust in the air, and motes float between the haze, glowing lightly in the sunlight.

Clint makes his way down the hall, glancing into room after room until he comes upon one he likes. It's nothing special. In fact, it's the opposite of special. An explosion has blown out the room, all the windows are gone, and the air smells of mold. There's a distinct odor of decay as he steps inside and makes his way over to the bay window, turning his gaze out to the street below. Rain dashes against his skin, spilling in through the open window and turning the floor into a slippery, rubble-filled mess.

Down below, as he had guessed, are the downed remains of the helicopter and part of the building, accompanied by a horde of dead ones. They roam the streets in two loosely gathered packs, one straddling the left side of the plane, the other straddling the right. There is no way for the two to meet. They were separated by the body of the helicopter and the debris from the crash site.

The herd is heavy with water, and slow like molasses—just the way he wants them to be.

"What are we doing?" Barnes whispers beside him, stepping up to the windows and looking down.

Clint's hands are full, so instead of answering verbally, he answers with his actions. Reaching for his quiver, he pulls out a basic arrow, no explosives, nothing special like that, just an average, everyday arrow. Then he raises it to his bow, aims, and fires.

A dead one on the right side of the plane goes down with an arrow to the head and a spurt of blackened blood.

Barnes makes an intrigued noise beside him, then raises his gun with its silencer, aims, and fires.

Gradually, one by one, they take out the horde on the helicopter's right side, wiping it out slowly but surely. Until, with a hiss, Clint runs out of arrows.

Sliding his bow into his quiver, Clint stands up.

"Don't forget to get my arrows back." He orders, heading back the way they came. Barnes stays behind, taking down two or three more with well-placed bullets to the head, then stands up and rushes after Clint.

Together, they take the last of the stairs down to the first floor of the building. Here, it's silent. No stragglers have made it through since this morning, when Clint came through and cleared it out. Clint glances back at Barnes, and they share a moment, pausing and readying themselves for the coming battle.

"Here. I'm out." Barnes holds a gun out and drops his clip. Clint catches it out of the air, pockets it, then takes the gun and changes out the clip for him, something that's nearly impossible to do one-handed.

"You got a knife?" Clint asks after he hands over the gun, wondering if Barnes will have enough bullets to continue and if Clint will be around to make the next change should it be needed.

"It's in the helicopter. Along with my ammo bag."

"And your arm."

"And my arm. Thanks for the reminder." Barnes rolls his eyes.

"Of course." Clint grins. "Take this, you'll need it. Save your bullets." Undoing his belt, he quickly unhooks one of his dagger sheaths. He has three more. It's not like he's going to need them all. Putting the sheath under his arm, he considers the other man

. Then gestures for him to come closer. "Do you mind if I—?" Clint gestures to Barnes' belt, feeling deeply uncomfortable as he waits for permission to touch the other man.

"Come on, let's do this. I want to get in and out before that street fills up." Barnes nods, quickly holstering his gun and undoing the buckle to his belt. "Put it on the left side." He orders, holding out the belt.

Quickly, and as clinically as possible, Clint slips the sheath onto his belt, snapping it into place with the quick snap at the back of the loop. Barnes adjusts it so it's just so, then slides the buckle back into place.

Right. Good. That wasn't so bad, was it?

"Right. You head for the helicopter. I'll keep your back clean." Clint signs. Clint's palms are sweaty as he takes off for the front door. Taking out a knife, he unties the wires holding the door closed with his left hand and pushes the door open.

"RAWW!" There's an immediate wail from the other side of the door, and both Clint's and Barnes' knives flash through the air, settling into the skull of the dead one with a resounding crunch just as it struggles through the open door. Clint yanks his knife from the skull, sharing a look with Barnes as he does the same. Then he shoves the light, bony body out of the way, allowing the two to exit.

They storm out into the open street and are immediately doused in the rain. It plasters Clint's hair to his scalp and sneaks into the cracks and crevices of his gear. Barnes takes off from his side, heading in the direction of the helicopter.

Clint sweeps the area, running over to the nearest body, and yanking free his arrow from within its cranium. He glances over his shoulder at the sound of something metallic in time to see Barnes clamber up onto the helicopter. It's lying on its side, with the pilot side resting on the street and the passenger door hanging open to the sky above.

There's no undead within walking distance, so he continues grabbing his arrows, patrolling the edge of their safe zone. Once he's collected all twenty, he puts away his knife and moves back to his bow. An arrow covered in gore but otherwise usable, strung up and at the ready.

He retreats backward just as a bag comes flying down from above. It lands on the ground with a thunk. Clint stops beside the bag, glancing up in time to see Barnes' wet, spattered face before it disappears back below. There's a grinding sound of metal and a lot of cursing coming from within the plane. A moment later, Barnes's metal arm falls. It clatters to the ground before Clint can catch it, and Clint curses internally.

Bending down, he unzips the bag, catching brief sight of the guns and ammo inside before he picks up the disembodied arm, eh, creepy, and deposits it inside the bag.

After that, Clint decides it's probably for the best if he gets to higher ground so he can better see the layout of the land. Taking a quick step backward, he turns and heads to the tail of the helicopter. Clambering up onto the tail of the plane, his boots slip in the rain. He quickly adjusts to the slippery footing, though. He's trained to work in all types of environments, after all.

Quickly, he walks the slick body line of the helicopter up to the front of the helicopter and drops down beside the open door. Peering inside, he's met with a whiff of death coming from the bloated and smashed body of the helicopter pilot. Barnes is straddling the space between the console and the passenger seat, completely ignoring the pungent mess of the pilot as he diligently works at the radio. He twists the knobs of the radio while speaking into the radio itself.

"Green Zone. Green Zone. Copy me? Over." He calls, speaking into the radio with a clear, distinct voice.

There is silence but for the static moan of the radio.

"Green Zone. Green Zone. Copy me? Over." He repeats, flipping the station.

Clint peers up from the doorway of the helicopter and looks back the way they'd come. He can see a herd beginning to make its way down the street. On the other side of the helicopter, the herd is already there. Groaning miserably, they amble around, lost to the sounds of the rain, disinterested in Clint and Barnes. Clint whistles sharply under his breath, and the sound has Barnes looking up from the radio.

"We need to move. Herd's coming." Clint signs, gesturing to his left. Barnes nods.

"One moment." He says, flipping the comm unit one more time.

"Green Zone. Green Zone. Copy me? This is Halo-1 Over."

And then, over the static buzz.

"Green Zone here, we copy you Halo-1. Man, it's good to hear your voice. Over." Clint startles at the sound of another voice, and not just any voice. But the voice of Steve Rodgers himself. His breath hitches in his throat, and his chest grows tight. He's not sure why he's surprised, but he is. Until now, he supposes this all has felt like a dream, but this? God, it feels real. So damn real. "Report."

Barnes glances up at Clint, grinning fiercely and giving him a thumbs up.

"I've got bad news. Helicopter is down, with one casualty, over."

There's a sigh from the other side of the radio.

"I'll tell Edgerton's wife," Steve says, forgetting to say “over”. Clint grimaces. He knows how hard Steve takes casualties. The loss won't come easy for him.

Clint glances up and sees the herd is drawing nearer. He whistles sharply for Barnes to hurry it up.

"Shit. Right. I'll have to keep this short, Cap. I'll save the full story for the debriefing. For now, I need you to know that I have one other person in company. I'll leave as soon as possible to get back to you, but it may take some time to get back home. I need to gather my resources and get a lay of the land. I'll contact you again in a week's time. Until then, don't send anyone to the red zone. I repeat, don't send anyone to the red zone. It's more dangerous than you know, over."

There's silence on the other line as Steve presumably digests the information given to him. Then, the static cuts short.

"Rodger, that." Steve says, "Stay strong, Buck, over and out."

"Over and out," Barnes responds with a grimace.

"We have to leave. Now." Clint signs as soon as he can gain the other man's attention. Barnes grunts in acknowledgment and reaches for the radio, quickly unlatching it from the helicopter hub with his only hand and pulling apart the wires that connect it to the hub. It'll hold a charge, but it'll run out quickly now that it's been removed. Barnes hands it up through the door.

"Careful, it's the only one we got." He orders, gesturing for Clint to move back. Clint takes hold of the radio and turns, dropping to his ass and sliding his way down the side of the helicopter with a squeak of sound. He lands at the base of the helicopter, his feet hitting asphalt, his hands full of the radio. A moment later, Barnes follows directly after, landing with a grunt on the ground. He reaches for his bag and lifts it, hauling it over his shoulder.

The herd is on its way towards them, walking at a snail's pace but still too close for comfort—Clint gestures for them to head back inside. Cautiously skirting out of reach of grabbing hands, Clint bypasses the herd and walks towards the door, ducking inside. Barnes isn't far behind him; he can hear the faint phhft of his gun as Barnes takes down the dead ones that are nearest, and he pauses by the door, one-handedly tying it closed with the same wires Clint had used to open it.

Chapter Text

Barnes sits, sprawled out on the couch, a towel on his head, his clothes still wet from being outside in the rain. He's scowling silently, glaring at the living room table before him.

Clint walks up to the couch, carrying two cans of food. One is a beef stew, the chunky kind with pieces of meat that look like dog food. The other is spaghetti, but the noodles are short and choppy, and they are almost fluorescent in color. He's not used to sharing his food, but he won't let Barnes go hungry, so Clint holds out both cans, offering them to Barnes to choose from.

Barnes doesn't even bother to look. He just takes one, the beef stew, and drops the can onto his chest, slumping down a little so it's closer to his mouth. He picks up his spoon and digs in, bringing the spoonful of food to his mouth and chewing.

"Mmm..." He mumbles, his mouth working overtime on a hunk of meat.

Clint considers leaving then. He's still deeply uncomfortable around Barnes, and there's no denying Barnes has other things on his mind at the moment.

"Sit." Barnes orders as Clint makes to go. As if he can read Clint's mind. Clint hides a grimace. Dog is taking up the other side of the couch. Clint shoos him down, waving at him to move with his free hand. Dog does as he's told, hopping off the couch and lying down on the floor by Clint's feet.

Cautiously, Clint drops into the well-worn couch cushion and lifts his legs, crossing them under himself. His hip flexors pull indignantly, and Clint reminds himself he should do some stretches before they get too tight.

Looking before himself, Clint sees that there, lying on the table, is the object of Barnes' frustration. His arm. It's still wet from being outside, and it's making a puddle on the table underneath it.

Clint digs into his can of spaghetti and brings a mouthful up to his mouth. It tastes like can and bitter tomatoes. He ignores it, chewing quickly and swallowing it down.

Beside him, Barnes pops his spoon out of his mouth and points it at the arm, his eyes narrowed, his lips pursed in a thin line.

"I'm not gonna lie. The idea of putting that damn thing back on is not appealing." He says, scowling darkly.

Clint startles at the first sound of Bucky's voice. He's been quiet for so long. He looks over at the arm on the table and back at Barnes. He'd never seen the arm come off before. It'd always been a distinct part of Barnes himself. To the point that seeing it now was sort of uncomfortable.  

"The arm?" Clint signs.

Barnes nods.

"The last time it came off, I was held up in a safe house outside Chechnya. No electricity. No one around but me. I'd been shot, and I was wounded. I don't even remember most of it. I was so out of it. I promised myself then I'd never let that thing come off again."

"Why?" Clint questions, mostly because that seems to be what Barnes wants him to ask.

"Well, it's going to hurt like fucking hell, for one," Barnes admits, and Clint straightens up, growing concerned as Barnes speaks. "And for two, it's gonna knock me down for at least a day. I'll be fucking useless, and considering where we currently are and who is out there, that's not exactly a good thing."

"Seriously?" Clint questions, raising an eyebrow. "But I thought your...super juice would help with something like that."

"Oh, it does. I'd be out for a week if I were normal, maybe even longer. But nothing kicks ass more than nerve damage. And that fucking thing hooks up to every nerve in my arm. That's how I'm able to control it so well. Otherwise, I'd be like every other sucker with a prosthesis. Believe me, the benefits are worth the pain, but that doesn't mean I want to experience it." Barnes digs his spoon into his can and eats another mouthful of stew.

"But if you don't, you're severely disadvantaged." Clint signs, gesturing to him as he is now. "Not to sound like an asshole, but you can't do a whole lot as you currently are, either. Why not get it over with now, before anything bad happens?"

Barnes snorts at that, pressing his hand to his heart.

"Harsh words." He grunts out around his spoon. "Having one arm doesn't make me useless. I could still kick your ass."

Clint finds himself chuckling.

"You could try." Clint teases, rolling his eyes. "I'm being serious here. If you're going to leave, you'll need to be at one hundred percent. You can't go out there with just one arm."

Barnes groans, sitting up. His can almost tips over before he catches it and sets it aside. Dragging his hand through his hair. He scowls.

"I'm not saying I disagree with you..." He finally says.

"You just don't want to." Clint finishes for him.

"Right." Barnes nods, looking away, and Clint understands how difficult it is for him to admit to such a weakness. They're superheroes, after all. It's not like they don't laugh pain in the face every day as it is. Clint tilts his head and considers Barnes.

"I'll help you." He declares, turning to face Barnes fully as he signs. "You don't have to do it alone. Not again. And if Hulk comes, I'll scare him away, like always. You're not in this alone this time."

Barnes considers his hands as he signs, his eyebrows raising. He clears his throat and looks like he wants to say something, but he doesn't. Once Clint's done signing, he looks away, his face set in a grim line as he looks at his arm, where it lays on the table.

"Yeah..." He finally says after the silence has grown thick between them. "Yeah, you're right. I should probably just get it over with. But I'm telling you now. I'm not doing it unless I'm drowning in fucking alcohol."

It's Clint's turn to raise his eyebrows. He chuckles under his breath.

"Will alcohol even work on you?" He questions. In his experience with supersoldiers, not much could get them inebriated. He's not even sure if he's ever seen Steve drunk, much less Barnes.

"If I have enough of it." Barnes snorts.

Clint considers the other man for a moment, then slowly nods.

"Okay. We can do that."

Barnes curses under his breath, gripping his hair with his hand.

"I had a feeling you'd say that."

Clint stood up and walked over to Dog's food bowl. Dumping the rest of his meal into the bowl, he straightens.

"What are you doing?" Barnes questions behind him.

Clint turns around as Dog walks up and digs into his meal.

"Getting you that alcohol." Clint declares, gesturing towards the front door.

Barnes gulps, paling.

"Right now?"

"Right now." Clint signs, wishing he had something reassuring to say to the other man. Stopping beside the weapons table, he picks up a handgun to check it for bullets. "I'll be right back." He says, after switching the safety and slipping the gun into the back of his pants. He doesn't bother putting on his holster. He's just doing a quick task and doesn't plan on leaving the apartment building. In fact, he normally wouldn't bother at all, but he was still on edge from their foray into the streets.

"You sure you don't need help?"

Clint rolls his eyes and spares a look at the other man, though he doesn't bother saying anything. He's been alone for three years now. The last thing he needs is help.

"Fine. Fine. I'll just...wait here." Barnes raises his hand in surrender.

Clint's already out the door. Letting it slip closed behind him, he steps down the hall and heads towards the stairwell. He takes the stairs down to the floor beneath his and steps out onto the floor, landing, his eyes flashing down the length of the hallway.

Some doors are open, and others are closed. Some are missing entirely. The open ones shine late afternoon light down the hall, making it easier for Clint to see. Not that he needs to see much. He's got this place memorized like the back of his hand.

He's lost count, by now, of the number of times he's been through each of these rooms. Either when he clears the floors every couple of weeks or when he's looking for something specific.

So, it's not necessarily a surprise that he knows exactly where to go to find the liquor Barnes desires. Clint makes his way down the hallway, heading toward an apartment at the end of the hall.

A squeak of sound alerts him a second before something plows into him from an open door. Caught off guard, Clint crashes backward, his back smashing into the wall behind him. He snarls, shoving hard as teeth snap mere inches from his face.

Quick as his feet will take him, he leaps to the side and out of reach, releasing his hold on the dead one and sending it falling to the ground.

His gun is out of his pants and in his hand in half a second. Now, he's not normally the type for firearms, but that doesn't mean he doesn't know his way around one, and as always, he's one hell of a shot. His finger is on the safety in half a second.

Bang! The sound ricochets down the hall.

The body of the dead one collapses instantaneously from a bullet to the back of the skull.

Clint stands there momentarily, his adrenaline running high, his eyes flashing around to check for other adversaries. He inhales slowly, urging his racing heart to calm down.

Where the hell did you come from? Clint thinks, gun still in hand, and he walks over to the fallen body and rolls it over onto its back.

The first thing he notices is that it is actually a she. And she? Is new. Clint can tell by the lack of decay. He considers her, his eyes flickering over her form. She has a bite mark on her arm. Her clothes are dirty and bloody, but at the same time, too clean, too new.

There's a scramble of sound from the other side of the hallway, and Clint raises his gun. Lowering it only when he sees Barnes' concerned features on the other end of his sights.

"I heard a gunshot," Barnes says, walking over. He has a gun in his hand, and he comes to a stop on the other side of the woman, looking down at her. "I thought you said this place was locked up tight."

Clint scowls. So did I. He wants to say, but his hands are currently occupied as he lowers his gun.

Barnes crouches down beside the woman, reaching out and poking the bite mark with his gun.

"She's new."

Clint nods in agreement.

"She must have come inside when she was still alive." Barnes continues grimly, straightening upright. He was only a little off balance due to his missing arm. "She was injured and scared. She probably hid up here until the virus took her."

Clint rolled his eyes, tucking his gun into the back of his pants once more.

"Good job, Sherlock." He signs after tucking his gun into his waistband. The barrel is warm against his skin.. Turning around, he heads towards where he'd intended to go all along. He hears, rather than sees, Barnes jump over the dead body and follow after him.

"Shouldn't we do something about the body?" Barnes calls after him as Clint disappears into an apartment. Clint pauses, stepping back out.

"Sure. Go ahead." He signs. He doesn't want a corpse stinking up the place any more than it already stinks.

It's Barnes's turn to roll his eyes.

"A little help would be nice." He grumbles. "I only have one arm."

"I thought you were an all-powerful supersoldier who doesn't need anybody's help." Clint signs.

Barnes just moans, uncocking his gun, and slips it into his pocket. Reaching down, he grabs the corpse by the front of her shirt and lifts her up without so much as a grunt.

Clint doesn't bother watching him any longer. He turns his attention to the apartment and heads over to the liquor cabinet that's prominently on display. Opening it up, he spots exactly what he'd been hoping for. There, tucked into the back, behind some glasses, are a couple of bottles of vodka and another of gin.

An empty shopping bag is next to the door, hanging on a coat rack. Clint grabs it and quickly fills the bag up with the bottles of alcohol, thinking to himself that this better be enough to down a supersoldier; otherwise, they'll need to hunt some more.

Walking out of the apartment, he heads up the hall and pauses by one of the opened doors just in time to see Barnes dump the body of the woman over the side of the balcony railing.

The following splat a moment later was visual enough.

Barnes reaches out, sticking his hand into the rain and rinsing it off. He turns away, his features set in a grim line. His eyes have the vacant sort of dullness that Clint is used to seeing in his own reflection if he can bother to look at himself. It speaks of the terrible things they have to do just to survive.

They share a look, and Clint wishes that there was something he could say to make it better. But there isn't. So he doesn't.

He gestures to the bag slung over his shoulder instead. Barnes walks over and peers inside.

"Ugh...vodka." He moans to himself but doesn't otherwise protest.

"Is it enough?" Clint questions.

"Yeah. More than." Barnes nods before bypassing Clint and heading back towards the stairs. "Come on, before I change my mind."

Chapter Text

They make it back to the apartment in one piece. There are no other incidents. Clint drops the bag of alcohol off on the living room table, unpacking its contents and setting them to the side.

Bucky stops by the ever-present bottle of hand sanitizer Clint keeps in the kitchen and squirts a couple of dollops onto his hand, smearing them around with his fingers.

"You sure you weren't hurt?" He calls from the kitchen. Clint looks up from what he's doing and shakes his head. No, maybe his pride, a little bit. And he's going to have nightmares about people sneaking into his safe place for days, but he's fine otherwise.

"Good." Barton walks over to him and picks up the bottle of gin, turning it over in his hand to look at the ingredients. "Open this, will ya?" He asks, holding it out to Clint.

Clint dusts off the bottle, then unscrews the cap, handing it back with raised eyebrows. Barnes takes it in hand and raises the bottle to his lips. He swallows the first gulp down with a grimace at the taste.

"Sure, you don't want some." He asks, holding out the bottle with a lopsided, self-deprecating grin.

Clint snorts and looks away.

Barnes takes that as a no and keeps on chugging.

"You know. We are probably going to need a bucket. All this is just gonna come back up."

Clint considers that for a moment, wrinkling his nose. If there's one thing he hates most, it's vomiting. He despises it and can recall every time in his life when the involuntary bodily function occurred with abhorrent detail.

"Oh, don't give me that look. I'm giving you fair warning." Barnes says, laughing out loud.

Reluctantly, Clint stands up, heads into his bedroom, and, from there, into the adjoining bathroom. He grabs the waste bin from inside. It has a bag inside, but Clint tosses it out and heads back to the living room.

By the time he's back, Barnes has moved on to the vodka, and despite his obvious distaste, he downs it in one go, the bottle chugging as it exchanges alcohol for air.

Barnes drops the empty bottle onto the table and burps, grinning a self-satisfied grin.

"You're ridiculous." Clint signs after setting the basket on the floor.

"No. I'm drunk." Barnes responds, and he actually sways in place for a moment.

"That was fast." Clint signs, stepping back.

"Fast metabolism," Barnes explains, turning and dropping into the couch with a grunt of displaced air. Leaning forward, he reaches out and takes hold of the last bottle of vodka. "Give me a few minutes....and I'll be...swimming in it."

"Maybe you don't need the last bottle." Clint signs, hurriedly stepping forward to take it. Barnes throws him a glare, yanking the bottle away before Clint can do anything about it. Clint is not even sure Barnes saw what he'd said.

"Believe me. It's for the best." Barnes says, his voice only slightly slurred.

Clint sighs and stands there, watching him, his hands on his hips. Barnes turns the cap off with his teeth, spitting the bottle cap into the waste basket with excellent aim.

He gets halfway through the bottle when he loses all interest in it and slumps deeper into the couch. Clint quickly steps forward and catches the bottle before it can spill a drop. Setting it aside. He takes a seat next to Barnes and considers the other man.

Barnes smells like a bar and blinks blurry eyes as Clint moves in close.

"Hey, sad eyes." He says, lifting his hand and reaching out one finger to bat playfully at Clint's nose. Clint dodges his touch, sighing in exasperation.

"Please tell me that's enough." He signs. In response, Barnes lets his head fall back onto the couch, and he stares up at the ceiling.

"Yeah. I'm drunk." He declares sleepily.

"You have to —" Clint stops signing and waves a hand in front of Barnes' face to get his attention. Barnes looks up at his command.

"You have to tell me how to do this."

Barnes squints blurrily at his hands, and Clint repeats himself, reaching out and picking the bionic arm up off the table. It's heavy in his arms and cold to the touch as he sets it on his lap.

"Right...oh...right." Barnes grimaces as he's reminded of why they're doing this in the first place.

"Come on, Barnes. Focus." Clint orders, exasperated. "I need your help here."

Slapping himself on the cheeks, he straightens upright and tries to focus. Then he reaches out and takes the arm, hefting it into his hand and lifting it up.

"Right. I got it. Just...press the button when I start screaming." He says, his voice suddenly all too sober. Upon closer inspection, Clint sees a button on the bicep of the arm.

Clint inhales slowly, fighting the urge to call it quits. Maybe they should think of something else. Hell, maybe he should get some painkillers; that'd be better than nothing. But they'd already gotten this far. There was no turning back now.

"I'll try to be quiet," Barnes says, offering a reassuring smile as if he should be the one reassuring Clint. Clint grimaces but nods, sitting up on his knees and leaning over Barnes's body to better reach his side.

With that, he lifts the bionic arm up by its tricep and notches it into place, twisting the arm until it locks in with a click. The second that click occurs, it's like someone lit Barnes on fire. His eyes bulge, and his teeth grit together as he tries to keep quiet. His head slams back onto the couch, and yeah, he screams. A gut-wrenching sound that tears from his lungs as the tendons of his neck tense and stand out.

Clint's breath hitches in his lungs, and for a moment, he doesn't know what to do with himself.

"The button, Clint." Barnes moans out through clenched teeth, his back arching off the couch.

Clint blinks, then shakes his head. Cursing in his own mind, he hurriedly leans over Bucky and presses the button.

The arm powers up with a metallic wurr that almost immediately disappears. Then, each plate of the arm inflates and shifts as if coming online. A metal plate descended over the button, hiding it from view. The arm briefly spasms and then wrenches in on itself as it comes alive. Barnes presses it to his belly as if somehow he could ease the pain by bringing it closer to his center of mass.

Barnes crumbles back onto the couch with a broken sob and then goes still. It takes Clint a moment to realize that he's fainted.

Slowly, Clint reaches out and presses a hand to Barnes' pulse. It's beating a mile a minute, but it's there. Clint lets out a sigh of relief. At least the screaming is over.

Slowly, Clint sits back on his legs and considers the other man. Barnes is crumpled to the side, his head twisted on his neck, his face pulled down in a mask of pain, even unconscious as he is. Clint shifts uncertainly, but can't just leave him like that. Gently, because he has no idea what he's doing with himself, Clint shifts Barnes to lie down on the couch—easing a pillow under his bad arm and manipulating it so it doesn't hang too awkwardly.

He steps over to his supplies, pulls down a bottle of pain relievers, and stops to grab a bottle of water. Then he waits.

Sometime later, Barnes wakes up with a whimpering croak and a jolt. He rolls over and just barely makes it to the waste basket before he spills his guts. Clint catches him before he can fall off the couch, holding him upright as he vomits. With his free hand, he carefully collects Bucky's hair and pulls it up and away so that he doesn't puke all over it.

Once he's expelled everything he can from his belly, Barnes just lies in Clint's arms, gasping for breath. Clint awkwardly holds him and wishes that he could speak so that maybe he could comfort the man in some other way. He opens his mouth to try, but his vocal cords remain stubbornly inactive.

Clint finds himself humming instead, without even being aware, and he begins running his hands through Barnes' hair. It's not much, but it seems to soothe him. Barnes trembles from head to foot, his body shivering in Clint's arms.

When Clint is certain Barnes isn't going to puke anymore, he gently eases the other man back onto the couch. Barnes cries out, reaching out with his good arm to clutch where his bionic arm meets skin. He sags back onto the couch, gasping for breath. He ducks his head, his hair falling over his face, but not before Clint catches a glimpse of tears falling down his cheeks.

"Give me that vodka." He croaks after a moment, nodding his head towards the half-drunken bottle.

Clint glances at it, then shakes his head.

"What you need is some painkillers and some water." Clint signs, and sure if Barnes can even understand him at the moment. Reaching for the bottle of ibuprofen he'd grabbed earlier, Clint shakes out a supersoldier-sized dose into his hand and offers it to Barnes, along with the bottle of water.

Barnes considers the offer from under the length of his hair, then reaches out his good hand and accepts the pills, tossing them back into his mouth. Clint has to help him with the water bottle. He's shaking so badly, but together, they manage to get the pills down.

It's only after Barnes falls back asleep that Clint goes about cleaning up their mess. Feeling raw and overstimulated, he dumps the bucket out of the balcony and returns inside. Leaving the bucket to be cleaned out by the rain.

Checking on Barnes again, he makes his way back to his room, calling Dog to follow, and shuts the door behind himself.

Chapter Text

Something falls onto Clint's chest, jolting him out of his quiet slumber. He's awake in an instant, his hand going for the knife on his bedside table.

"Hey now, none of that." Barnes's voice commands, and Clint is aware enough to calm down almost immediately. Groaning, he falls back onto his pillows and peers down at his chest. Resting there is what appears to be a pair of pants.

"You seem to be feeling better." He signs, his hands moving slowly through the motions of signing, given it is still too early to even think about being awake. It's been a day and a half since Barnes' arm had been reattached, and this was the first time he'd seen him actually up and around since then. Barnes had mostly spent the last few days wallowing in misery as his body healed from the damage that came from reattaching his arm. "What do you want?"

"It's 2 in the afternoon, Clint. No more sleeping. It's time to get dressed." Barnes orders, and Clint squints out of his right eye in time to see him flop down onto the bed and sit beside Clint.

"I didn't go to sleep until 2 am." Clint reminds him. That is no thanks to the Hulk. It'd decided to make a midnight appearance the night before and had all but destroyed the remains of the Macy's Department store in the process. Clint had taken off before Barnes had even had a chance to follow after him, racing through the night to catch up with it and put it back to bed.

"Yeah, well, you might have gotten done sooner if you'd asked for some help." Barnes declares, sounding somewhat sour on the subject. He'd been dark and pissed off by the time Clint had returned to the apartment, and he hadn't spoken a word to Clint, not even a 'goodnight' as Clint retreated to his bedroom.

Clint sighs.

"Is that what this is about?" He asks, pursing his lips and sitting up. The pants slip down his chest, and he chooses to ignore them. "You were injured. Besides, I don't need your help. I've been doing this on my own for a long time."

"But you don't have to." Barnes protests, looking at Clint with those soulful brown eyes of his that can see too much. "Clint. It's dangerous out there. And you're...you're only human." Clint rolls his eyes at that and scowls, opening his mouth to say something, only nothing comes out. Barnes backs up, holding out his hands. "I didn't mean it like that. I know you're more than human; I just...I can see the toll this has put on you. You need to rest. You need help."

Clint groans and flops back on the bed.

"Then let me rest!" He signs angrily. "That's what I was doing before you came in."

"I don't mean rest like this!" Barnes points out, gesturing to where he lies on the bed with both hands. He looks whole now, and doesn't favor his arm the way he'd been doing since they'd reattached it. "Sleeping through all hours of the day, not waking up but to walk your dog, and then going back to bed. Clint, when was the last time you washed yourself outside of a quick towel down? When was the last time you cleaned up after yourself? It stinks in here, kid, it really does."

"Hey, low blow, it's the end of the world, asshole," Clint signs while grimacing. He is beginning to feel attacked. He scowls, looking away from Barnes, who still somehow manages to look put together, even at the end of the world. He glances around his room.

It isn't exactly clean. Piles of blood-stained laundry are in the corners, and the bedding hasn't been washed in weeks. Then he thinks about himself, how he hasn't shaved in ages, how his hair now hangs down to his shoulders from lack of cutting. He hasn't bothered to wash up recently, and while he has thought about washing his clothes, he still hasn't done it.

He doesn't want to admit it, but he is a bit of a mess, and he understands what it must look like from the outside, looking in. Even at the end of the world, it looks like depression, sheer, unmitigated depression. Clint runs a hand through his hair and sighs.

Barnes seems to take his silence as acquiescence. He reaches out and sets a hand on Clint's shoulder, ignoring how Clint flinches away from him and pressing down with a gentle force that somehow feels better than the light touch Clint had anticipated.

"Let's get you cleaned up. Yeah?" Barnes asks, his eyes shadowed with concern. Clint bites his lower lip. He doesn't like that look. He doesn't like it at all. But there is only one way to solve it, right? That is to show he had his shit together.

Clint grunts under his breath.

"Alright." He signs, dragging himself up and out of bed. He is in nothing but a pair of boxers and a T-shirt. "Laundry first? I have buckets on the roof, collecting water."

"Laundry first." Barnes nods agreeably, standing up. "Though I have to think you're better off just tossing most of this crap to the wind. We'll get you some new clothes later on."

"I can do that. I just have a few things I want to keep." Clint signs, shrugging, before moving to get his bare legs pulled into the relatively clean pair of pants. "And I need to clean my uniform, too."

"Yeah, same here." Barnes snorts, glancing down at himself. He's been wearing the same thing since he crashed, and despite what he might think, he is starting to go a little rank himself. Clint is just used to it and hasn't bothered to say anything.

"You could use some new clothes, too." Clint offers, shrugging off his shirt and reaching for one that smells less like pits. He slept hot, so what?

"And some deodorant. And some goddamn Chapstick. I swear, my lips are going to fall off." Barnes moans, turning away to give Clint some privacy. Clint digs through his pile of semi-clean clothes and comes up with a shirt that smells a little less and has fewer bloodstains. He's shit out of luck in the clean department. There's nothing left that is clean in the first place.

Stopping by his nightstand, Clint digs inside and comes up with a tube of cherry Chapstick. Turning around, he taps Barnes on the shoulder to get his attention and offers it with one hand. Barnes turns towards him, his eyebrows raising in surprise, then a grin flashing across his face.

"Yes!" He gasps, snatching the tube from Clint's hands and immediately popping off the cap.

"It's used, but—" Clint cuts himself off as Barnes liberally rubs the Chapstick over his lips, smacking them together. Used, doesn't seem to be a problem.

"Aww, man, that's heaven." Barnes moans, and the tone of his voice has Clint flushing.

"There's deodorant in the bathroom. I think I have a couple of spares." Clint signs, gesturing to the ensuite bathroom to the left. "Check under the sink."

Clint has a spare of almost everything. He tends to gather what he can when he can, and he had to admit that he'd become something of a hoarder in the end times. Under his sink is a full array of toothbrushes, soap bars, cleaning supplies, and wash rags. Anything and everything a man in his situation might need. He has more stacked in the corners of the living room. Nameless things that might prove useful if he ever remembers their existence in the first place. His cupboards are piled high with canned goods and other essentials. It is easy to take care of just one person. Food was plentiful in the various apartment buildings. No one had bothered packing when the bombs came, and there wasn't anyone left in the immediate vicinity to eat it.

Capping the Chapstick, Barnes hands it back over to Clint. Clint tucks it back into his nightstand, watching as Barnes slips off the bed and walks over to the bathroom. He crouches beside the sink and opens the doors, whistling softly under his breath.

"I think you've got two or three extras in here." He declares, reaching in and pulling out a stick of Dove's finest. "Hey, can I use one of these washcloths?"

Clint grunts his approval, turns towards the pile of clothes closest to him, and begins to sort through it. Checking for anything he might want to keep. Barnes is right; there isn't a reason to save most of it. He can always run by a store and get something new, even now, at the end times. Clothes had been at the bottom of everyone's list of needs when the apocalypse came calling, and there is plenty still on the shelves, available to anyone who might bother going to get them.

Yet, he has things he wants to keep. Things that are his from before times. He had a few shirts from bands he liked and a pair of pajama pants that are plush as hell, and more comfortable than anything he'd be able to find nowadays.

"What pile is keeps?" Barnes asks, stopping beside him and pocketing the deodorant stick. Clint gestures to his left, adding a pair of underwear to the pile and a set of shorts.

"This is throw?" Barnes questions, pointing to the other pile.

Again, Clint nods.

"Cool." Barnes turns towards the window and pulls on its hinges, yanking it open. Outside, it is raining, and so it is blissfully silent. The smell is something else, though, and there is no denying that, as bad as it stank inside, it is much worse outside.

"Oh, god." Barnes moans, quickly reaching for the pile of clothes and then shoving it out the window. Clint grins, shaking his head. Barnes turns in time to see him do so and raises his eyebrows. "What? It's more efficient this way?"

"If you say so." Clint signs back, "Hurry it up before you make the whole house stink."

Together, they whittle down Clint's bedroom to nothing but a singular pile of clothes. With more than half of it going out the window before Bucky can't take it anymore and slams the damned thing closed. Then Clint goes about stripping down his bed, pulling off the comforter and the sheets. They pile the clothes inside the sheets and drag the pile out into the living room.

Clint walks to the kitchen and grabs a bottle of laundry soap from under the kitchen sink. He stops and grabs his uniform, too. It'd be a good idea to clean it up now that he has a chance.

Dog trots over to see what they are doing, sniffing exuberantly at the pile of clothes, before running over to the front door and giving it a desperate scratch, indicating that he needs to go to the bathroom.

"Looks like Dog knows the plan." Barnes declares, twisting the blanket and its contents into a sack and hefting it onto his shoulder. Neither one of them bothers to weapon up. Despite the dead lady from downstairs, it's safe here, in the upper reaches of the apartment, and they'll only be going higher. Barnes gestures for Clint to lead the way.

Clint opens the front door. Dog dashes out ahead of him, heading toward the stairwell. Together, the three take the stairs up to the top of the roof. By the time they reach the top, Clint's muscles, already tired from the night before, are aching. He's not breathless; it'd take a lot more to get him breathless, but he is tired again.

Beside him, Bucky is barely affected by the walk. He strolls out onto the roof, the rain immediately plastering down his hair, and turns his head to the sky, sighing.

"I love the rain." He declares, smiling up at the sky.

Clint ducks his head, turning away from what feels like a personal moment, and glances around the rooftop before stepping out the door. It's cluttered with open bottles and buckets that are filled with rocks at the base so they won't blow away. There's a hanging line for drying clothes and an area he's specifically marked off so Dog has a place to do his business.

Dog bounds over there now, hurriedly lifting a leg to relieve himself. The rain will wash away most of his mess; what it doesn't, Clint will pick up, as usual.

Finally, Clint steps out. The rain is ice-cold and stings as it lands on Clint's skin. He shivers, letting out a gasping breath.

"Shit, that's cold." He signs with trembling hands. He walks towards the largest of the buckets and stops in front of it.

"It's heading towards winter." Barnes muses, following after. He stops beside Clint and drops the sack of clothes onto the ground. "This will be good. We'll get your clothes washed, then clean up ourselves."

"Dog could use a bath, too." Clint signs after dropping the bucket of soap onto the ground. Teeth chattering, he drops his uniform on top of the pile of clothes and reaches to uncap the bottle of laundry soap. Barnes unwraps the blanket and digs around for some clothes to wash.

They work together in silence, dipping Clint's clothes into the water and scrubbing them with a brush that's set to the side for just that purpose. The soap suds form in his hands, bubbling upward and popping as raindrops hit them.  

"You know. You don't have to help me. I can do this on my own." Clint signs at one point, feeling somewhat ashamed of himself. He isn't some child who needs to be babied. He's made it this long on his own. He shouldn't need help doing the laundry, of all things.

"I know," Barnes answers, scoffing under his breath. "Doesn't mean I can't make the process go faster. The days are ending sooner. We don't have much time before the sun goes down, and we got a late start."

Clint huffs, then nods slowly, going back to rinsing the shirt he holds in his hand. Standing up, he walks to the wash line and hangs the shirt across the rope. They won't be dry any time soon, not with the rain falling the way it is, but with any luck, the sun will come out tomorrow and take care of it for them.

By the time the blankets are hung, the water bucket is brown and murky, and they end up emptying it over the side of the roof.

Then, the two men stand awkwardly together, considering what to do next.

"I-I'll clean up on this side of the line. You use the other?" Barnes offers, smiling sheepishly.

"Forgot to bring towels," Clint sighs, dragging a hand through his damp hair, but he nods. It is better than nothing.

"And soap." Barnes grimaces.

"Yeah, we didn't exactly think this through." Clint glances towards the door, reconsidering even bothering with the rest of it.

"I'll go get us some?" Barnes offers helpfully, already making his way towards the door.

Clint slowly nods.

"Yeah, alright. I'll wash Dog." Clint nods agreeably, watching as Bucky makes his way back inside. He whistles sharply for Dog, who is busy playing with a balled-up rag, but quickly stops what he is doing and trots over to Clint. Clint bends down and runs a hand through his wet scruff, then looks around for the bottle of dog shampoo. He'd used it only the week before when Dog had come home covered in something filthy and undead.

He finds it right where he'd left it the last time and drops to his knees beside Dog, pouring a handful of dog shampoo onto his palm and lathering it up quickly. Dog's tail wags at the attention, and Clint hums softly, scrubbing him down. He quickly gets lost in the routine of it. He can't count the number of times he's bathed his dog. It is as natural as brushing his own teeth at this point. Reaching for a bucket of water, he carefully rinses Dog down, washing away the suds repeatedly until Dog is squeaky clean.

A soft cough comes from behind him, and Clint startles, jerking around in time to see Barnes step out from the door, a shampoo bottle in hand. The towels are presumably still inside, where they wouldn't get wet. For a moment there, Clint had almost forgotten about Barnes. Clint flushes, coughing softly.

"You're back." He signs, standing up and walking over to the other man.

"Yeah. I forgot to ask you where the towels were, so I had to go looking. Sorry, it took me so long." Barnes admits, holding out the bottle of shampoo. It's island-scented, whatever that means, and has pictures of pineapples and coconuts displayed on the label. "You go ahead first. I'll follow right behind. Just give me a whistle once you're done."

Clint nods his thanks. He could use it, considering he now smelt like a combination of wet Dog and wet human. He steps back behind the curtain of the sheet and strips down.

Grimacing, he peels his shirt off his chest. His side aches from where he'd taken a hit the night before, and when he looks down, he sees an obvious bruise on his left side. His pants and boxers go next, though the denim refuses to peel off his pale legs. He grunts and shuffles on one leg, peeling the cloth off.

The cleaning process is simple enough, and he scrubs himself up and down, washing from his toes to his nose, as his mother would say. His hair is greasy and takes three rinses, but he manages to clean it. Bouncing in place from the chill, Clint scrubs the last of the suds off, then steps to the edge of the sheet's safety zone and peers out from behind it.

There is Barnes. He sits, stripped down to his boxer shorts, and is busy scrubbing his uniform, his hands working the scrub brush over the material in a militaristic manner. He glances up as if he senses Clint watching him and waves his brush.

"Head inside. I'll clean up and come right down."

Clint nods his thanks, then strides across the roof and heads inside, bare as the day he was born. Just inside the stairwell is a pile of unfolded towels. Clint picks one up and scrubs himself dry, shivering even stronger now that he's out of the rain. He finishes by tying the towel around his waist and calls for Dog with a sharp whistle.

Dog comes barreling over and immediately proceeds to shake all over everything, spraying rainwater everywhere.

Clint rolls his eyes and quickly grabs a spare towel, tossing it on the animal before he can continue to make a mess. He sets to scrubbing Dog clean.

Out of the corner of his eye, he catches a hint of motion, and he looks up in time to see Barnes bend down, dragging his boxers off his ass. Clint quickly looks away, flushing bright red, and yanks on Dog's collar, urging him to go downstairs.

Chapter Text

Still blushing from his impromptu sightseeing, Clint follows after Dog and makes his way inside. The air in the apartment is much warmer, and now that he's clean, he can smell it. It has a distinct, lingering odor that they unfortunately can't air out of the place. Maybe washing the floors will help. Clint puts that on the list of things to do as he steps inside and heads towards the back bedroom.

His bed is bare, and he can see more floor space than he's seen in ages. He had deliberately left behind a pair of pajamas that were clean enough to wear, and he puts those on, slipping into the warm cloth with a shudder.

He's lounging about on the bed, his towel set atop his head, when he hears the front room door open and close.

"It's just me." He hears Barnes call, as if it would be anyone else.

Clint whistles, letting him know where he is, but he doesn't bother moving from the bed.

There's the creak of approaching footsteps, and then Barnes appears in the doorway, wearing nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist. He leans against the doorway and scratches a hand through his slowly growing beard. In his other hand, he holds a pitcher of rainwater.

"You wouldn't happen to have a razor, would you? He asks hopefully.

Clint gestures towards the bathroom, nodding his head.

"Oh, good." He declares, heading in that direction. Clint watches him, sitting up on the bed and scooting over to get a good look in the bathroom.

"You gonna watch me, or what?" Barnes asks, glancing at him out of the corner of his eye. He doesn't protest, though, and instead bends down to look under the sink. Some digging produces a razor and a can of shaving cream.

Clint flushes and makes to get off the bed. He doesn't know what he was thinking. Who wants to be watched while shaving?

"No, stay." Barnes orders, straightening upright. "You can watch. What else is there to do? Besides, I'm thinking you are next."

Clint settles uncertainly back onto the bed. Then shakes his head.

"Hey, don't diss the beard." Clint protests, though Barnes can't see him. He's too busy pouring a handful of foam into his hand. He sets to work, looking in the mirror and lathering his face. Wetting the razor blade, he puts it to his face and drags it down the contours of his skin.

Clint watches in open fascination as, with each stroke, more and more of the Barnes he used to know appears. He's soft-skinned and baby-faced underneath all that growth. Softly, he hums to himself, wiping the foam off on his towel and continuing onward.

"You know, my father used to watch me shave. Just to make sure I didn't nick myself." Barnes says, opening up in the silence that follows. "Course, I always thought he was being overbearing. I just wanted to be left alone, you know?" Finishing with his left side, he moves to his right, the razor blade slowly dragging across fragile skin, sweeping away the shaving foam one stroke at a time. "Man, I miss that man. What I would do just to have him watch me shave one more time."

Barnes laughs, the sound self-deprecating. Clint, meanwhile, is struck to silence. He's not sure he's ever heard anything about Barnes's past, much less something so intimate. He sits in mute silence. His hands feel heavy. His heart hurt for the man standing before him and all he'd been through.

Just a few more swipes, and Barnes is done. He turns to look at Barnes. His gaze is sad. There's no hint of a smile on his lips.

"What about you? Do you miss your father? Was he alive for all of this?" Barton asks, twirling the razor in his grasp, and looking Clint over with those sad eyes of his.

"I never had a father." Clint finds himself saying, though he somehow wishes he had just so he could commiserate with Barnes in this. He blinks, turning his head down to stare at the sheets. "I only had my mother. I don't think anyone ever taught me to shave. I just...figured it out on my own."

"Oh." Barnes nods his head, stepping out of the bathroom. He considers Clint with those sad eyes of his. "Come here." He finally says, gesturing with the razor.

"What for?" Clint finds himself drawn up and out of the bed despite his words. He walks over to stand beside Barnes and spares a glance at himself in the mirror, quickly looking away. He doesn't like what he sees. It's a stranger looking back at him. He looks everywhere but the mirror, his eye finally latching onto Barnes and staying there.

"Let's get you cleaned up." Barnes declares, or more like orders, reaching out and turning Clint's face upward so he can see him better. He tugs the towel off Clint's head and adjusts it so it rests across his shoulders. Reaching for the can of shaving cream, he pours some into his hand and proceeds to rub it onto Clint's cheeks. Clint flinches, and Barnes pauses, tilting his head to the side and looking at him consideringly.

"Do you mind?" He asks thoughtfully. "You can do it yourself. I'll get out of the way."

"No...no, it's okay." Clint signs, his Adam's apple bobbing. He swallows hard, then looks up at the ceiling, tilting his head back so that Barnes can get a better look at him. "I'm okay." Somehow, if he says it enough, Clint thinks that it might be true.  

Barnes returns to rubbing the shaving cream over Clint's jaw, his touch the barest of whispers, his hands working carefully. Clint watches the ceiling, blinking, waiting for that first touch of the razor blade.

It comes over him like a caress, a slowly scraping brush of metal to skin. The sensation is a familiar one. Clint closes his eyes and loses himself to it, swaying in place, breathing slowly in and out through his nose. Beside him, Barnes whispers something, but Clint is too caught up in the moment to hear him, and whatever it is must not be important, because Barnes doesn't repeat himself.

He feels Barnes wipe the razor blade off on his towel, then he goes in again, drawing the blade down Clint's cheeks, across his chin, then downward, over his neck. Clint swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing, and huffs softly. There's something...soothing about the whole thing. Something calming. Clint leans into it. And relaxes, his shoulders slumping.

"That's it," Barnes whispers, his voice soft and comforting. Clint could grow used to this. To having someone by his side, to having someone who cares. And for a moment, it's enough. His mind calms, his thoughts stopping their racing through his head. But of course, it’s never enough, because then the dark thoughts intrude, worming their way into his mind because that is a lie, isn't it? Barnes would be leaving soon. He isn't here to stay. He is like everyone else, there and gone. Like Natasha, and Bruce, and Peter— alone, so fucking alone.

Clint flinches, the blade cutting into his chin at the sudden movement, and he cringes, jerking back a step.

"Hey," Barnes calls out, reaching out a hand to steady him. Clint jerks away with a gasp, looking away from the other man, his chest tight, his lungs aching. "Hey, what was that?"

"I-I can't." Clint signs, shaking his head. "I just...can't."

"Alright...alright." Barnes held up his hands in a gesture of surrender that was quickly becoming familiar. He reaches out and offers Clint the razor, his expression concerned. "Here. Why don't you finish up?"

Clint sways in place, moving from one leg to the other. He draws in a gasping breath to try and calm himself. In his head, he pushes at the dark thoughts, the ones that question his very existence, the ones that ask him to end the loneliness. He couldn't, he wouldn't. He had a mission to complete. Then...maybe then...but not now.

Quickly, he snatches the razor blade from Barnes' hand and ducks around him into the bathroom. Forcing his gaze upward, he meets the haunted eyes of the man he'd become and lifts up the razor.

He is quick and matter-of-fact. He hardly notices the knicks and scrapes as they appear, barely acknowledging the blood that stains the shaving cream red. He drags the razor down his cheeks, across his chin, under his nose, and around his lips. All the while, he glares at the failure of a man who gazes back at him. He can do this. He can do this. He can do this.

With a silent scream, Clint slams his fist into the glass of the mirror, once, then twice. It shatters all around him, glass crumbling into the sink. Barnes is on him in a second, grabbing hold of him by the biceps and yanking him back, away from the glass.

"Clint!" He shouts, his voice sharp with fear.

Clint chokes on his own voice, and he wants to shout. He wants to scream in pain, anguish, and heartbreak. He raises his hands to his throat, willing it to work, and screams, and screams, and screams, and not a sound slips past his lips. It is like being entranced by Loki all over again. Stuck in his own mind, unable to speak, unable to fight.

Then, a pair of arms wraps around him from behind, and a chest presses up against his back. Barnes. He wants to fight; he wants to lash out and attack, and for a moment, he does; he struggles against the other man's hold, kicking out with his legs and elbowing him with his arms. Barnes grunts and takes the blows, but just holds on tighter.

He is whispering something into Clint's ear. Over and over again. Clint can't hear it at first, but when he finally does, he goes still in the other man's arms.

"I'm here," Barnes whispers. "I'm here."

Like that, what is left of Clint's strength is stolen from him. He sags back against the other man's sturdier build. His head slumps back to rest on his shoulder. His lungs gasping for air as he draws in desperate breaths. He is borderline hyperventilating, and he can't help it. He shakes in Barnes' arms, trembling from head to foot. Then he sobs, a broken, heartwrenching sound, and the tears begin to fall.

All the while, Barnes keeps on whispering.

"I'm here...I'm here."

He feels Barnes shift behind him, and then he is suddenly lifted into the air. Hands sliding up under his legs and around his shoulders. The world rocks around him, and he's placed in the bed with utter care. Barnes whispers those soft words. There are no blankets to wrap him up in. So Barnes wraps him up in himself, laying down beside Clint and easing his hands around Clint's shoulders, pressing their bodies up chest to chest.

And even though Clint wants to be alone and knows he should be alone, that all of this is a farce, a moment of make-believe in an otherwise horrible tale, it's somehow exactly what he needs.