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Clint drove for hours, aimlessly picking directions and changing from interstate to highways to backroads, keeping an eye out for any sign of they were being followed. Daylight had faded, the sky going golden then pink then dark red; he’d flicked on the lights of the late model sedan, the third they’d stolen as they made their escape. They only stopped when the gas gauge dropped below a fourth of a tank, picking out-of-the-way parking lots or alleys to switch, Clint sliding into the driver’s seat and Bucky carefully climbing into the back with Natasha in his arms.
Even now, as Clint glanced in the rearview mirror to check for headlights, Bucky held her like she was made of spun glass, his flesh and blood fingers gently ghosting across her tangled hair, metal arm supporting her battered and bruised body. He rarely took his eyes off of her, fixated on the curve of her cheek, the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. Clint’s gaze was drawn to the tableau, and he felt more and more like an intruder in their intimate bubble.
When he’d heard, he’d offered his eyes and aim to help get her back. Didn’t matter how long it had been since they’d stopped being lovers, they were partners, once and always, and he’d made her a promise that he intended to keep. Sex had nothing to do with him packing up his bow and riding shotgun with Barnes, guns blazing, a two-man rescue team that left nothing but smoldering rubble behind them. Clint and Natasha had a mutual pact; if ever compromised, they’d do whatever it took. Whatever.
When he opened the door and saw her, he’d been ready to take the shot. He’d seen the footage, all traces of his Nat gone from that heart-shaped face, eyes burning with a cold fury, ruthless and mechanical in her actions. Fury had laid out the ultimatum; bring her back alive so they could see exactly how Novokov had reactivated her training and could study her to understand the Red Room operatives even more than they already did. It was her worst nightmare, being strapped to a gurney, a lab rat again and he wasn’t going to let that happen, S.H.I.E.L.D. orders or no S.H.I.E.L.D. orders.
But he didn’t have to. She’d fought the programming until her fingers were bleeding and bones were broken. What they’d done to her … Clint shivered when he thought about the bloody knives and instruments he sent flying off the table with a kick of his boot. He left it to Bucky to pick her up, not trusting himself to not make it worse with his big hands, and led the way out, sending arrows into targets without a chance of surrender or care for the splatter. How much of her mind was left, well, that Clint didn’t know; she’d barely surfaced and only mumbled incoherently when she did. All he knew was that she was alive and resisting and that was enough for him.
“She’s getting more lucid,” Barnes murmured when he caught Clint’s eye. “I’d say 30 minutes before she’s awake.”
With a nod that he understood, Clint focused on the battered book of maps he had spread on the passenger seat, flicking on the tiny LED light to check where they were against where he wanted to be. The Rand McNally pocket atlas had seen better days; pages were dog-eared, crinkled, and stained but it still showed the way. He’d added layers of marked lines, so many no one else could decipher them; he’d only explained the system to Phil and Natasha, the way he kept note of possible bolt holes and remote houses. It was as much a tradition as superstition nowadays to check what was nearby and available before a job; with Stark’s resources, he rarely needed a place off the grid. But right now, with all of S.H.I.E.L.D. and the Avengers searching for them, to help or hinder, a place with no connection to any of them was exactly what was called for.
He’d never been more than 20 minutes out of any of the four locations he’d chosen. He turned onto the little rural route that wound up the mountain and through a crossroads where four log cabins held rental agencies that were closed for the night. From there it was a series of switchbacks; he cut the lights before he turned onto a gravel road, moving slowly until he came to where it split into four driveways that disappeared into the darkness of different hollows. Deep ruts cut through the lane; the car bottomed out twice as a wheel dropped into a rain-washed groove. The jolting made Clint bite his lip and pain flare from the slowly seeping wound in his side; he’d been too worried about Natasha’s stability to do more than zip his tac vest tighter when they’d trashed the first car and stolen the second. He’d kept his elbow pressed tight to staunch the flow of blood and started driving, the need to put time and distance between them and their pursuers top priority.
The cabin was behind a dense thicket of evergreens, perched on the edge of a creek and all but hidden from view. The foliage canopy-covered them from above and the forest around would absorb any light from the windows, exactly why he’d first scoped it out years ago. Owned by a fisherman who only used it during spawning season, the cabin sat idle the rest of the year, too small and with no views to entice renters. A clapboard garage around back to park the car, a generator to keep the lights on in all kinds of weather, and a cellar that the owner kept locked and never went into made it perfect for Clint’s uses.
He turned off the engine once they were in the garage and took stock; no sign of any recent activity, a heavy layer of dust covering the ancient freezer and baskets. Closing up the map, Clint hid his flinch as he slipped an arm through the handles of his pack then popped open the door.
“This yours?” Bucky asked.
“Nope. Owner’s a lawyer in LA; only here a couple of weeks a year.” He stood up and his knee protested the weight; he’d hit it hard when he’d dropped to get a shot. “We’re good; I’ll do a perimeter check. Hold here.”
The walk did him good, loosening up muscles that had tightened during his hours behind the wheel. The cameras and tech he’d used were the kind available at any store; he’d added a few upgrades of his own buried behind a seriously shoddy job of installation. Anyone stumbling across it would think the owner was a terrible handyman. The data from the chip showed no one had been here in over eight months; Clint switched it to guard mode and climbed the steps to the back porch. He didn’t need a key; the lock was a simple tumbler that popped open with a credit card.
“You’ve scoped this out, knew about it all along.” Bucky was standing right behind him. “How close to the original site are we?”
“About two miles,” Clint acknowledged. “Coulson rule #32; they never look right next door.”
Bucky must have agreed; he went back to the car to get Natasha while Clint circled the small space.
A living room with a gas fireplace; a table with four chairs behind the couch. The kitchen was a row of cabinets with a sink, stove, and fridge, microwave on a separate cart by the bathroom door. Stairs that led up to the loft, only big enough for a double bed and a wardrobe. Clint dropped his pack and headed up, pulling a set of sheets, some old towels, and a patchwork quilt out of the cedar chest under an eave. The towels he spread out on the bed so Bucky could deposit Natasha on the down-filled mattress; the others he put aside to make the bed later.
As Bucky lay her down, she shivered; he peeled back the jacket he’d wrapped her in, revealing the crisscrossed cuts, red swollen skin, and growing bruises. Ever so gently, Bucky unfurled her legs and brushed her hair back from her face.
“I’ll get the kit and some water.”
Awkward, that’s how Clint felt, the intimacy of Bucky’s emotion almost too much. Retreating down the stairs, he flicked the faucet on to let it flush out any impurities in the pipes then was out the back door and opening the cellar doors in a few heartbeats. Cobweb, dirt, and dust-covered stairs greeted him, the one bare bulb barely putting out any light in the dank square room, but Clint didn’t need much to move what looked like an old set of shelves and open the storage behind. He dragged out the medkit and his to-go bag, shut the portion of the wall. All signs of his passage would be gone soon thanks to the mismatched doors that didn’t seal completely.
“Bastard used a filleting knife.” By the time Clint got back with water and rags, Bucky had cut away what was left of Natasha’s suit. “Some sort of electrical burns here and here.” He pointed to the sensitive skin under her breasts and the inner thigh. “And he let someone beat her with a bat or pole.”
“I’ve got stuff for that.” Clint busied himself opening the kit, the top levels unfurling like a tackle box. “This is for the burns.” A vial of S.H.I.E.L.D. 's best-medicated gel, the one that hurt like a hard slap when it went on but then cooled the ache and made it go away. “Madam Leone’s bruise cream.” He tossed Bucky a round aluminum tin; he kept batches of the homemade salve in every bag and pocket. “Edge sealant and numbing agent.” Another tube, this one more glue than cream.
“Somebody’s prepared.” Bucky wrung the excess water out of a rag then started cleaning the nearest cut. “You wouldn’t happen to have a sandwich in there?”
Clint sailed a protein bar through the air, smacking Bucky’s metal arm; it bounced off and fell to the floor.
“Going to have to make a supply run if we want real food. Nothing opens until 9ish in the closest little town, but there’s a 24/7 Walmart that’s always bustling about 20 minutes away. Easier to disappear in Wally World.”
Bucky didn’t acknowledge Clint; he started washing away the streaks of blood. Clint let him have at it, busying himself with refreshing the water as it grew dark and cloudy and opening alcohol wipes when Bucky was ready for them. It was slow going, Bucky stopping each time Natasha jerked or sighed. None of the cuts that littered her arms and legs were deep, but the knife had been razor-sharp, leaving the skin curled and fiery red. Bucky closed the worst with butterfly bandages, using up most of Clint’s supply. Then he started on the electrical burns, soothing the gel over them before covering them with soft gauze and white tape.
“Bruise lotion is supposed to smell bad.” Bucky sniffed the cream. “This smells like … Talia.”
Clint blinked; he’d forgotten how long ago he’d packed this kit. The lavender and sage was Natasha’s blend; he’d changed his scent after they’d stopped sleeping together, but there were probably a lot of stashes he hadn’t switched out. Clint shrugged off the question and dug in his pack instead, pulling out a smaller kit.
“I’ve got antibiotics,” he said, popping it open and taking out a vacuum wrapped needle and syringe. “That room was wet and who knows what was growing on the walls.”
One thing Clint liked about Barnes; he knew when not to push. It was awkward enough, both of them on the team, one of them Natasha’s current lover and the other her ex. Way too many snares and traps to fall into during team bonding nights, as Steve liked to call ‘em, or crossing paths in the gym and range. Barnes, thank God, wasn’t the jealous type; he didn’t bat an eye when Clint and Nat went on missions together or say a word if they sparred or eye them when they hung out on the couch. Confident, that’s what Barnes was, and smart enough to believe Natasha when she said there was no reason to worry.
“She’s warm,” Bucky announced, so Clint prepped a dose and passed it over. Then he took out a set of sweats and socks for Natasha and laid on the edge of the bed. Bucky raised an eyebrow as he finished rubbing the cream into the worst of the darkening bruises, cataloging any time she flinched. “Left ulna’s broken and she’s got internal swelling but her ribs seem okay. You got a splint tucked into a pocket somewhere?”
Clint huffed but he dug into the bigger box and came up with a S.H.I.E.L.D. insta-plaster roll. “Never hurts to be prepared. Coulson rule #4.”
Bucky tenderly cupped her elbow and lay her hand on his thigh. The thought that he shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t see this, almost swamped Clint’s senses.
“Gotta hit the head,” was the first stupid thing that came out of his mouth. “You need anything else, I’ll be downstairs. ”
Barnes didn’t take his attention away from what he was doing, just grunted acknowledgment and kept working, so Clint pocketed some wipes and bandages as he grabbed his pack. Down the stairs, he slipped into the one small bathroom. Flicking on the light, he dumped the supplies in the sink then took off his jacket and unzipped his vest. He had to peel away his shirt, dried blood making the fabric stiff; it ripped the scab that had formed and made Clint curse under his breath.
Turning to the side, he raised his arm -- which shot a tendril of pain up his side -- and took a look at his own wound in the medicine chest mirror. Swollen and starting to purple, the jagged tear was bleeding again; poking at it with his fingers, he bit back a hiss. It was worse than he thought but better than it could have been. Despite the depth, the knife blade had missed anything vital; the real danger was from that one guy’s fists. A big hulking thug, he’d landed some blows midsection that could leave internal swelling or worse. Steeling himself, he twisted to check the damage; he had lots of experience with broken ribs, and the sharp ache, while it hurt like hell, meant his ribs were bruised but not broken. He was going to be stiff and need some time to heal, but he wasn’t going to be a liability.
Opening one of the alcohol swabs, he gritted his teeth and started cleaning. The burn was bad; he shoved the pain down and kept going until the jagged rip of skin was revealed. In an ideal world, he needed stitches, but this wouldn’t be the first time he made do. He’d glue it shut, keep it closed with a couple of bandages, and pop some antibiotics to avoid ...
The door swung open and he jumped to find Bucky standing there.
“Jesus, Barton, why didn’t you say something?” He reached for Clint’s hand and pulled it away to get a better look. “Serrated blade? Skin’s pretty ripped up. Here, sit down on the toilet and I’ll sew it up for you.”
“It’s fine.” Clint protested but Bucky was already manhandling him, pushing him down, and inspecting the supplies. “I’ll take care of it.”
“With this?” Bucky held up the tube of adhesive. “That won’t hold, not if you try to move at all. Stay here. I saw a needle and thread in the big box.”
This was a mistake; Clint’s nerves were already frayed from being in such close proximity to the two of them. Letting Bucky touch him was a recipe for disaster. Of course, Clint couldn’t just be pining for Nat, no, it had to be James Buchanan Barnes that Nat had moved on with, a guy who was hot as fuck and could shoot almost as well as Clint could. He was so messed up, getting hard-ons for Natasha’s long lost love, but here he was, red drops of blood falling onto the linoleum tiles, waiting for Barnes to shove a needle in his skin. If Barnes noticed his reaction, he was going to blame it on exhaustion and maybe emotional turmoil. Yeah, that’s what he’d go with for an excuse, coming down from the adrenaline rush of the fight and the worry about Natasha.
“All right, let’s see.” Barnes returned and his big frame filled the space; technically, he was shorter than Clint by a few inches, but, seated like this, Bucky seemed to tower over him. When he dumped everything out of the sink and washed his hands, his elbow almost hit Clint in the face. “Already sterile -- these plastic packs are great; don’t have to worry about dosing ‘em in alcohol or anything. Only had black thread; I’d have gotten you purple if it was an option.”
He was so close that Clint could hear panels in his hands adjust as he ripped the cellophane, took out the needle, and held it between his thumb and index finger. Pressing the waxed end of the thread flat, he threaded it on the first try and tied the end off.
“Hold these.” He opened some swabs and handed them to Clint. “Gonna be messy.”
If Clint thought staring at Bucky’s tight shirt stretch over his abs was too close for comfort, when he dropped into a squat, the view of messy brown hair that was slipping out of its bun and curling loose was just as bad. But then the cool touch of metal fingers on his heated skin and Clint flinched, a shiver running up his spine.
“Sorry,” Bucky murmured. “Can’t keep ‘em warm.”
“No prob …” Clint dragged in a breath as the needle went in and out, thread tugging through. “Fuck.”
Bucky chuckled. “Thought you’d be one of those.” He took another stitch, pinching the edges of the wound closed as he pulled tight. “Steve’s a stoic silent type.” Another and Bucky moved his hand lower, steadily closing the cut. “You never stop talking, so it figures you’re mouthy.”
“Jesus.” Clint squeezed his eyes closed. Let Bucky think he was a lightweight when it came to blood instead of getting turned on by the double entendre. “Some of us use our words, Barnes.”
“You’re a real little shit.” Bucky snorted and Clint felt the rush of warm air. “Didn’t say a thing about this. What were you going to do, wait until you keeled over?”
“It’s …” he grunted as Bucky poked the needle in an especially inflamed area, “... not that bad.”
“Self-sacrificing idiot.” He made the last stitch then doubled back and tied it off. “You’re kinda useful, so don’t go dying on me just yet.”
When Bucky smiled, a small upturn of his lips that made him even sexier, Clint about swallowed his tongue, and he grunted when the cold alcohol swab wiped along the sutures.
“Should take some meds for that. Antibiotics and pain,” Barnes said as he rose.
“That’s for Nat.” This was solid ground and Clint found his voice. “She’ll need a full course if she’s running a fever. There’s a bottle of Tylenol 3 with codeine in my pack. I’ll take a few of those.”
Bucky nodded in agreement. “We’ll need to watch her closely. Need an extra set of hands to make the bed …”
“Yeah,” Clint agreed. “I’ll clean up here, be right up.”
He took a cooling patch and slapped it over the area once he cleaned it, then he dry swallowed four of the pain pills. Gathering up all the garbage, he tucked it into a plastic bag he kept in an outer pocket for just such a use. Later, he’d used the ammonia spray in the big kit to wipe away any blood spatters; now he headed towards the stairs, and, just as he got to the bottom, he heard Natasha’s voice.
“Soldat!”
A crash then the thunk of fists against flesh.
“James. I’m James. Natalia, it’s James.”
Clint cleared the railing, jumping from the third step in time to see Natasha land a kick to Bucky’s midsection, shoving him back into the wardrobe. A string of Russian came from the hard line of her mouth; her emerald eyes were foggy, her movements choppy and disjointed but the blows landed hard, Barnes refusing to fight back.
“Tasha,” Clint called voice calm and level. “Listen to me. We’re in a safe house. You’re sick and medicated. Tango seven four Baltimore six.”
She paused, hands still clenched in fists, but confusion on her face. “Clint? It’s him. The Soldier.”
He took a step closer. “He’s an agent, Nat. Just another agent.”
Gaze still laser-focused on Bucky, she asked, “Where’s Delta Handler? What’s the code?”
The name was like a kick in the chest; it had been years since they used that password phrase. “Phil’s gone to a patisserie he saw a few blocks over. Going to get some marzipan strawberries and chocolate croissants for you. He still owes you for Bruges.”
Like a puppet with its strings cut, she slumped, arms falling to her side as she started to collapse. Clint caught her and eased her down until they were sitting on the floor, putting himself between her and Bucky, blocking her view.
“Jesus, Clint. I’m compromised,” she whispered, curling in tight.
He could feel her whole body trembling as he held her against his chest.
“Yeah, you’ve got a fever,” he explained. “But we’re safe. I’m here. No one’s going to get to you.”
She wound her fingers with his. “You came for me. After what I did, you still came.”
“Always, Tash. I’ll always come; I promised.” His throat closed as the old emotion rose. “Nothing you can do; you’re stuck with me forever.”
The shivering grew more pronounced. “Is Phil making his noodle soup? Don’t tell him, but I actually like it.”
“He knows.” Clint’s voice almost broke over the words. “Grandma Coulson’s recipe is pretty damn amazing.”
She was silent for long enough that Clint thought she’d slipped back into sleep; he rocked her gently while Bucky made the bed then stood and slipped her between the sheets, covering her with the blanket.
“Clint?” she asked as he pulled away.
“I’m going to give you something to help with the pain.” He filled up a syringe with morphine, carefully measuring the dose. “I’ll be right here; I’m not going anywhere. Pinky swear.”
“And you keep promises.” She offered her arm for the injection. “Unlike me.”
“Nat.” Clint eased the plunger down once he found a vein. “You don’t have to …”
“I do.” She smiled, soft and tender, the way Clint remembered and still dreamed about. “Forgive me?”
“Already done.” He leaned over and dropped a kiss on her heated forehead. “Sleep. I’ve got the watch.”
He didn’t leave until she was breathing even and deep; the sweat on her brow meant she was still in danger but the best they could do was wait and keep an eye on her until the fever broke. At some point, Barnes had left the loft; Clint was sure he’d heard the whole conversation. As if the situation wasn’t already rife with thorns, Natasha’s mind was wandering back in time. Better to beard the lion; the cabin was small and they’d likely be stuck here for a few days.
Barnes wasn’t in the kitchen or living area; the bathroom was dark and empty. Through the window in the unlocked back door, Clint found him sitting on the stairs. Grabbing the other hoodie in his pack, Clint went out and joined him, huddling into the soft fleece, waiting for him to broach the topic.
“When we went in that room,” Barnes finally began, “you were ready to do it, weren’t you?”
The direction surprised Clint; he’d expected a question about his and Natasha’s relationship, the second degree about how he still felt about her. This, at least, he could answer honestly. “It’s her greatest fear, being taken again, remade, forced to hurt those she cares about.”
“I know.” He fell silent for a full minute before he continued. “I asked Steve if he’d do it for me; he doesn’t think it’s necessary, believes he’d find a way to bring me back, the optimistic idiot. But when I saw her on that table, I couldn’t do it, thought the same damn thing Steve did. You would have done what she wanted.”
If anyone could understand, it was Barnes. “Thirty-two. I killed thirty-two people while I was under Loki’s control. If slamming my head into the railing hadn’t worked, Nat would have had to take me out. We made each other promise.”
“Natasha was clear from the beginning that her relationship with you was non-negotiable; I thought that was because you were still partners, worked together so well. But it’s more than that,” Bucky said. “Hearing her just now …”
“It’s the fever talking. We haven’t used that passcode since 2008.”
“Yeah, I got that when she called me the Soldier. Back then, I’d have killed her then without hesitation.” He sighed, his shoulders rising and falling as he exhaled. “Trust doesn’t come easy for people like us, but she let you get close, see her pain, and take care of her.”
“You’re the love of her life.” It was the truth; she talked of James as if he were her lodestone, their relationship the very foundation upon which she built herself after she got free of the Red Room. “There’s nothing to worry about.”
“That’s the thing. I’m not worried.” He pushed a strand of hair away from his face and looked up at the stars. “At first I might have been a little jealous -- you have all these shared looks and running jokes, so many stories and experiences. You and Phil, Strike Team Delta, you built a family for her, gave her stability, security, a place to be who she was always meant to be. Me, I’m a memory, a ghost from her past.”
“Look, Phil and Nat and I, we had something good and we knew it. They were the only two people who saw me for what I am and not what they wanted to get from me. Best thing to do was hold on and live in the moment, not get caught up in the bullshit ‘cause it was going to end. Good things always do.”
“God, you sound just like her. Enjoy it while you can, move on before it goes bad. That’s what she was asking forgiveness for, wasn’t it?” Bucky asked. “She’s the one who called it quits.”
“We’re better as partners and friends,” Clint insisted but the words felt as hollow as they sounded. “It’s as simple as that.”
“Simple.” For the first time, Bucky turned and looked at Clint. “There are lots of words for what’s going on here, but simple ain’t one of them. I’m sitting here with my girlfriend’s ex-lover after we torched a lab to get her back from an asshole want-to-be villain. She was targeted because of me and that’s just one of the skeletons in my closet.”
“Man, if we start counting all the people who could come crawling out of our pasts, we’re gonna be here all night,” Clint interrupted. “Between the three of us, that’s a pretty big number.”
A hint of a smile flitted across Bucky’s face. “Okay, I’ll give you that one. The rest, though, is complicated. Who knows what that bastard did to her mind? Maybe she never remembers me or maybe she doesn’t come back to us …”
“Nah, she’s already halfway there. Give her time and she’ll remember the rest.” On this point, Clint was sure. Natasha would fight tooth and nail to get her life back. “I mean, come on, how could she resist? Have you looked in the mirror lately? You’re her type.”
That shot earned Clint a full grin. “So are you, idiot. That’s the point; you’re important to her, part of her life too.”
“Yeah, okay, I mean, I get it. We got history,” Clint agreed. “But it’s not like I’m going to stand up and object at your wedding. Going to forever keep my peace, I swear.”
“Wow there, slow down, will ya?” Bucky nudged Clint’s shoulder. “Pretty sure happily ever after isn’t in the cards for me if karma has anything to do with it. Of course, I never imagined having Talia back in my life, much less a tire fire of a guy to watch my back who’s almost as good a shot as I am.”
“Excuse you. I think you’ve got that backward. You’re almost as good as me. What part of never miss do you not understand?” Clint grinned back. Snark he could do.
“Someday we’ll have to put that to the test,” Bucky said with a chuckle. “But right now I’m hungry; you said something about a grocery run?”
“I’ll grab my stuff and head out.” Clint pushed up and stomped his feet to get feeling back in his toes. “Maybe an hour, hour and a half there and back again.”
“Nah, I’ll go.” Bucky opened the door and led the way inside.
“You stick out like a sore thumb,” Clint argued, lowering his voice. “Too dangerous.”
“I did manage to avoid Steve, Natasha, and Sam for over a year, you know. Saw a plaid shirt upstairs and there were some old hats in the garage. Night fishing’s a thing around here, right? Nobody will look twice at the guy who drew the short straw to get sandwiches and beer.”
“Might work but…”
“And if she wakes up, best you be here in case she still doesn’t remember me.”
“Yeah, okay. I’ll get the map.” Clint gave in. Bucky only needed one look at the route to memorize it; while he was changing, Clint dug out the unopened burner phones, tossing one at Bucky as he came out of the bathroom, charger already attached. “Text me ETA on return. And get some good frozen pizza, none of that cauliflower dough crap Stark buys.”
“Jesus, Barton, I have some taste,” Barnes sniped back. “But no pineapple. I’m not a philistine.”
He passed over a wad of cash. “Nat likes almond milk.”
“Fucking boy scout,” Bucky groused, but he said it with a grin.
The next days were a blur of exhaustion, pain, and worry. Natasha was delirious, in and out of consciousness despite the medication they kept giving her. Ice baths and cool rags helped until, finally, on the second night, the fever spiked then broke. She called for James and insisted Clint sit on the bed beside her too; she asked question after question about Novokov and what had happened.
When Natasha fell into an easier sleep, wrapped securely in Bucky’s arms, Clint crashed on the couch and didn’t wake for over twelve hours. When he did drag his aching body up, he found a pot of homemade potato soup on the stove and promptly ate two bowls along with four slices of sourdough bread.
“Save some for me.” Natasha came down the stairs, wrapped in a blanket, Bucky hovering a step behind.
“It’s James’ old family recipe.”
Bucky snorted. “If you call chopping potatoes and onions and dumping them in a pot a recipe.”
“‘s good,” Clint said around a mouthful. “Peppery.”
Barnes smiled at the praise and dished up some for him and Natasha.
Two more days to let Natasha regain strength was all they could risk. The small television set only got three channels but one was the local NBC affiliate and they covered the lab explosion at the top of every broadcast. A phalanx of black SUVs surrounded the site and no amount of “no comment” made the level of interest in the story diminish. An eyewitness claimed to have seen “that Avenger with a bow” and even Iron Man himself; others interviewed had a lot to say about the strange Russian doctor and delivery trucks with odd pieces of equipment. They’d pushed their luck staying this long; they packed up, cloroxed the hell out of the cabin, and got ready to leave.
As he closed the door and locked it behind him, Clint paused on the stairs; Bucky had pulled the Jeep around and the engine was running, the passenger side door open. Hand on the seat, Natasha looked over her shoulder.
“Shotgun.” She smiled and Clint’s stomach did a little flip flop, clenching in on itself.
“I’m driving,” Bucky said, slamming the hatchback shut.
“I was thinking,” Clint said as he opened the door and slid in behind Nat. “There’s a middling sized town with a bus station about an hour east of here; you can drop me there. I’ll hang out, buy some time, take a roundabout route to nowhere, confuse the trail …”
“What are you talking about?” Bucky glared at him over the seat. “You’re the one with all the safe houses; pick one and tell me what direction to go.”
“But I thought …” Clint floundered, not sure what was happening.
“Don’t think about it.” Natasha reached a hand back and wound her fingers with his. “Just go with it.”
He met first hers then Bucky’s eyes and saw, somewhere in the blue and green depths, something new.
“Alberta.” The word tumbled from his lips. “Banff National Park.”
“Another fishing cabin?” Bucky shifted into drive and pulled out.
“Luxury ski rental. Fireplace and a hot tub.”
“Ah.” Natasha closed her eyes but didn’t let go of Clint’s hand. “I knew I kept you around for a reason.”
“Balances the extra drama,” Bucky agreed and winked at him in the rearview mirror. “Breakout the compass, Boy Scout, and lead us on.”