Chapter Text
December 23
“Where is everyone?” Bucky asks.
Bruce startles and looks up from where he had been concentrating on a laptop screen while munching on a sandwich at the kitchen counter. “Oh, hey, I didn’t think you were going to be back for another week.”
“I wasn’t, but things wrapped up early. The place feels empty.” He knew that Steve had planned to go to England to visit Peggy since Bucky was supposed to be gone, and sadly, it was clear she was close to the end. He didn’t know about anyone else.
“Yeah, I guess it is,” Bruce answers, as though just realizing it. “Natasha got called out, Thor headed back to Asgard for a while, and Tony took Pepper to some private island he’s got somewhere.”
“Clint?”
“Oh, I’m not entirely sure. He mumbled something about his family when he walked out of here with a duffle bag yesterday, but I didn’t quite catch it.”
Bucky raises his eyebrows. “Really? I could have sworn he said he was staying here for the holidays.”
“I thought so too.” Bruce shrugs. “Probably figured that since Natasha wasn’t going to be here, he might as well go home, right? I’m sorry I didn’t pay more attention, I’ve been taking advantage of the quiet to get some lab work done,” he says apologetically.
Bucky waves him off and heads to his apartment. He’s surprise, though. He could have sworn Barton had alluded to the fact that he and his family were not on good terms, without really elaborating. Of course, getting Barton to elaborated on much of anything except weapons, weaponry, and the inherent qualities found in different types of weapons, was like pulling teeth; the man held his cards close to the chest.
Curious, Bucky pulls out his phone and shoots off a text.
<where r u>
The response doesn’t come until two hours later when Bucky’s dozing on the couch after eating half a leftover pizza that he pilfered from the common refrigerator. The green peppers made it a dead giveaway that it had been Barton’s, but Bucky felt like it was fair game since the guy had left.
<iowa>
Weird. As far as he can remember, Clint’s never sent a text that didn’t include a smart-ass remark, an emoji, a .gif, or a terrible selfie of some kind.
<wtf r u doing there>
It takes another couple of hours.
<having my soul slowly bled from my body>
<I gotta ask again>
<wtf r u doing there>
<Laura asked me to come>
<for the kids>
Bucky stares at the text. He has no idea who Laura or the kids are. Distant alarms are going off in his head because they’ve known each other for a year and a half, and in that time, Clint has revealed very little about his life outside of the Avengers and SHIELD. Something is wrong here and it’s that nagging feeling that has Bucky sending the next text:
<want some company?>
When an hour comes and goes without a response, he heads to bed. He’s about to snap the light off when his phone vibrates.
<I wdnt ask that of my worst enemy much less someone I actually like>
<when u coming back>
Bucky’s tries to wait for the response, but it’s too long coming and he’s asleep before it finally does.
December 24
Bucky yawns and stretches and grabs his phone off the bedside table. There’s a response from Clint that came in the middle of the night.
<not sure>
<after xmas>
It’s early and he’s in no rush to get up—he has nothing planned, nothing to do—so he opens his email. There’s one from Steve, checking in, but otherwise nothing interesting. He’s idly scrolling through his news feed when a thought comes to him.
“Hey, Jarvis,” Bucky unconsciously looks at the ceiling. “Is one of Tony’s plane’s around?” Clint hadn’t actually said he didn’t want him to come.
“Yes, Sergeant Barnes. Sir’s Embraer Phenom 300 is in the hanger.”
Bucky whistles lightly. It’s a sweet plane and he doubts that Stark would want him taking it for what amounts to a joy ride, but it’s worth a shot. “Would you be able to contact Tony and ask him if I could maybe…borrow it?”
“That will not be necessary. Sir has left blanket permissions for any of the Avengers to borrow any of his vehicles.”
“Really?”
“Yes, Sergeant Barnes.”
“So, I just need to go to the hangar and…”
“The keys will be in the ignition, so to speak,” the AI says wryly.
“Huh.” Bucky thinks about it while he goes for a bracing five-mile run in the 10-degree temperature, turns it over in his head some more while he showers, and considers what Barton’s reaction might be while he makes himself a peanut butter and banana sandwich.
In the end, it comes down to, 1) no one’s around except Bruce and he clearly doesn’t want company, 2) he’s bored, and 3) the worst that can happen is Barton tells him to get lost and he comes back to New York. But even if that happens, it will have been a several-hours-long diversion. Bucky’s pretty positive it’s rude to just arrive unannounced at someone’s house for the holidays, but he can always play the ‘I was in cryo-freeze for the last 70 years and I don’t know modern etiquette’ card.
He doesn’t really acknowledge that maybe the real reason is that Barton’s texts don’t sound quite right and there’s something about it that makes Bucky uneasy.
He washes down the last of his sandwich with a glass of milk, then goes to his room and shoves some clothes into a pack. He makes a stop at the large storage closet on the common floor, and as he’s waiting for the elevator, he looks up again. “Hey, Jarvis, can you check Barton’s file and find me coordinates to his family’s house.”
The AI doesn’t respond.
The elevator opens, but Bucky doesn’t get in. “Jarvis?”
“Sir.”
“Coordinates?”
“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to share that information.”
“What? Why not?”
“Agent Barton has marked all information about his family in the official files as not to be shared.”
Bucky chews his lips and stands there for a moment, unsure what to do.
“If I may, Sergeant Barnes.”
“Yeah?”
“A simple google search would likely net you the information you seek.”
He cocks his head at the ceiling. “You’re kinda devious, aren’t you, Jarvis.”
“I am simply pointing out the obvious, sir.”
He remembers that Jarvis is everywhere, so he finally steps into the elevator. "Sure, okay. Let’s see…can you please google Barney Barton for me. Wait, that’s not right. Charles Bernard Barton?” Bucky’s pretty sure that’s the name Barton had mentioned when they were both drunk (okay, Bucky wasn’t drunk because he can’t really get drunk, but he had a mild buzz, and Barton was definitely drunk) and trading stories not too long ago. It was the time that Barton had let on that there was no love lost between him and his family.
“Of course.” He sounds mildly affronted that Bucky would ask such a question. “A good number of files are available. What would you like to know?”
“Address?”
“Charles and Laura Barton reside at 1001 1st Street Northwest, in Rochester, Minnesota.”
“That’s not it,” Bucky mumbles to himself, but that answers the question about who Laura is. He tilts his face to look at the ceiling again. He always feels like an idiot doing that, but it feels more strange to not talk at something. “Can you find Charles Barton’s father’s name?”
“Charles Bernard Barton’s father’s name is Harold John Barton,” Jarvis tells him, then anticipating Bucky’s next question, adds, “He and his wife Claudette reside at 14883 State Trunk Highway 77, just outside of the small hamlet of Wavery, Iowa.”
Bingo. “Great. Closest airport that can accommodate the Embrear?”
“The Waverly Municipal Airport, approximately 2.5 miles from Harold Barton’s house.”
If that’s not a sign that he’s doing the right thing, Bucky can’t imagine what would be. The elevator door opens and he slings his pack onto his shoulders, zipping his jacket against the cold.
Bucky walks the two and a half miles in the freezing cold of December in Iowa. There are several inches of snow on the ground and more is piling up every minute but it’s not nearly as bad as the snowstorm he fought his way through outside of Helsinki in ‘65, so he’s not complaining. Still, a couple people stop and ask if he needs a lift. Bucky shakes his head to himself after he waves the second one on. Midwestern hospitality. These people have no idea who they are offering a ride to.
The mailbox by the road has ‘Barton’ helpfully painted on it with crude black brushstrokes. He can’t see the house; it’s set back too far and there are a lot of trees along the curved drive. Bucky pauses for a moment, then takes a deep breath and starts trudging toward the house.
It’s nice. Picturesque, even. A large Victorian farmhouse with a wrap-around veranda sits in the middle of a clearing; a barn mirrors it about fifty yards away. He climbs the steps to the porch and rings the doorbell.
A moment later, a small boy cracks open the door and peers one eye out at him. “Hello,” the kid says.
“Uh, hi. I’m looking for Clint Barton. Is he here?”
The boy turns and yells over his shoulder. “Uncle Clint! There’s someone at the door for you!” He turns back to keep staring one-eyed at Bucky. It takes all of Bucky’s self-control not to fidget uncomfortably under the intense gaze.
Clint approaches through the room inside and Bucky sees the moment he registers that it’s Bucky at the door; his face morphs from curious into surprise.
“Hey, Nate, I got this, thanks.” He gently directs the boy away from the door. Once he’s gone, Clint grabs his coat from a hook and steps outside, closing the door behind him. “What are you doing here?” He looks over Bucky's shoulder where the snow is coming down even harder now. “How did you even get here?”
Bucky grins. “I took one of Tony’s jets.”
“Yeah?” Clint corresponding grin lights up his face. “Which one?”
“The Embraer Phenom 300,” he answers, feeling slightly smug.
Clint whistles just like Bucky had earlier that day. “Nice ride. How’d she handle?”
“Like a dream. She—”
They’re interrupted by a ‘thunk’ behind them and they both turn to see three small kids scrambling away from the window.
“Right,” Clint says, his train of thought apparently coming back to him. “So, what are you doing here?”
“Uh. I got back early, and no one was around. I was bored.” He shrugs.
“Bucky, I have seen you literally lay around for days and do nothing but read and watch television, and you couldn’t have been happier. So, you wanna tell me what you’re really doing here?” Clint eyes him suspiciously.
Bucky scowls. “You kinda made it sound like you and your family don’t get on, so I was surprised when you said you were here. And then your texts were weird. I was worried.”
Clint looks over his shoulder at the closed door. “What do you mean, my texts were weird?”
“I don’t know. They were weird! No jokes or…emojis—”
“Seriously? You flew all the way to Iowa because I didn’t add a smiley face to my texts?”
“Whatever! You didn’t sound like you, so I thought maybe you could use some back-up.”
Clint pinches the bridge of his nose for a second. “Bucky, this isn’t an op. I’m spending the holidays with my family. I don’t need back-up.”
Bucky knows that. He’s seen Clint on every kind of op imaginable; the man can take care of himself. Bucky suddenly feels self-conscious. “Look, I’m sorry,” he says. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have just shown up like this. I’ll go.”
Clint flicks a glance over Bucky’s shoulder. “Yeah, I don’t think that’s gonna happen.”
Bucky swivels and looks, too. “What?”
“You’ll never get clearance to fly right now. They’ve been talking for 2 days about this snowstorm moving in. I’m surprised you were able to land.”
“Piece of cake,” he says. Sure, it had been near white-out conditions, and maybe the tower had told him he couldn’t land, but he’d claimed an emergency and did it anyway. It wasn’t that hard. Clint’s right, though; he’s not likely to get clearance to take off. “But listen, I can walk into town and find a hotel. Wait it out.”
Clint sighs. “No. Besides the fact that there are literally no motels in Waverly, you’re here, you might as well stay.”
He doesn’t sound too enthusiastic about it and Bucky’s definitely feeling really stupid. “Nah. You’re clearly fine, and I don’t wanna intrude. I can sleep on the plane; it’d probably be more comfortable than a hotel anyway.”
“It’s not that you’d be intruding. It’s just, ah…” Clint rubs the back of his neck and sneaks a quick look behind him.
“What? Are you worried I can’t play it nice and polite?”
An unhappy laugh burbles out of Clint. “Yeah, that’s not it. I don’t mind having you here, but honestly, I don’t think you want to be. My dad and his wife, and my brother…they’re not good people.”
“Then why are you here?”
Clint sighs and slumps against the porch railing. “Barney’s wife, Laura…we go way back. I like her. And I love their kids. I’d do anything for them.”
That doesn’t really answer Bucky’s question. “Okay.”
Clint sighs. “Laura called a few days ago. Asked if I would come. Normally I’d tell her ‘sorry’, but she sounded sorta…off. Thought I better come and see what’s what.”
“So… You don’t like your old man and brother?”
“They're not really my kinda people. They're mostly mean-spirited assholes.”
Bucky flicks a glance at the house. He can see movement behind the curtains. He looks back at Clint. “I could, you know, come in and be an asshole back at them.”
Clint jerks his head up and looks at Bucky. He stares for a long minute and Bucky can see the wheels turning in his head. Eventually, a smile curls at the corner of Clint’s lips. “Yeah?”
Bucky grins. “I could pretend to be your boyfriend.”
The smile that had been growing on Clint’s face, fades entirely.
“Or not,” Bucky says quickly.
Clint stares at the floor for a second, then looks back up at Bucky. “Look, uh, there’s something…I’m not sure you’re aware of, that you should know. I don’t really hide it. But you and I have never talked about it…”
Bucky waits him out.
Clint crosses his arms. “Look, I am actually gay.”
“Okay?”
Clint shrugs but doesn’t look Bucky in the eye. “It matters to some people.”
“I thought people were mostly cool with that kind of thing now.”
“Well, decent people are. But there are still plenty of people like my old man and my asshole of a brother who can’t get past their homophobia.”
Bucky scoffs. “Well that’s just stupid.”
“Yeah,” Clint says, looking away toward the barn.
Bucky nudges his shoulder. “So. You want me to come in and play your gay boyfriend? Piss ‘em off a little?”
Clint gives him a tentative look. “You sure you’re up for that? It won’t be pleasant.”
Bucky gives him a feral grin and takes a step toward the door. “I think it sounds like fun.”
“Wait, wait!” Clint stops him from opening the door. “Two things.”
Bucky sees a spark in Clint’s eyes; there’s a reason why he kinda likes Barton. “Yeah?”
“Be nice to Laura and the kids.”
“No problem. What else?”
“Don’t…talk about the Avengers.”
“Yeah? How come?”
“Because my family doesn’t know that I’m Hawkeye.”
That stops Bucky in his tracks. “Why?”
Clint’s mouth firms into a hard line. “Because I haven’t told them, and I don’t want you to, okay?”
Bucky puts his hands up placatingly. “Hey, whatever you say. Your house, your rules.”
“Thanks.” Clint’s face smooths out, losing some of its tension. He gives Bucky a considering look. “You sure about this?”
“Hey, I got this, Barton, I’m a great actor. I played Romeo in our high school production.”
Clint raises his eyebrows dubiously but doesn’t say anything else before opening the door.
There are three kids sitting on the couch in the front room watching television. They all look up when Clint and Bucky walk in.
“Hey, kids,” Clint says with a genuine smile. “This is James.” Bucky blinks in surprise when Clint introduces him that way, but he rolls with it. “James, these are my nephews, Cooper and Nate, and my niece Lila.”
The kids say hello and Bucky can’t help staring. They could honest-to-god be little versions of Barton, except that Clint is blond and these kids have reddish or dark hair. But they all seem to have some piece of him in their faces. Cooper has his lopsided smile; Lila, his striking eyes; and the little one who answered the door, Nate, seems to have the intensity that Bucky’s seen on Hawkeye in the middle of a fight. Bucky looks up from them to see a woman walking into the room, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel.
“Hey, Laura, this is…a friend of mine. James. James, this is Laura, my sister-in-law.”
Bucky reaches out his hand. “It’s nice to meet you, ma’am.”
Laura shakes his hand and laughs. “Oh, god, please don’t call me ‘ma’am’. Laura is just fine. And I thought you went by Bucky.”
Clint shoots a glance over to the kids but they’re back to being fully absorbed by whatever show they’re watching. “I don’t want the others to make the connection,” Clint says, keeping his voice low.
“Ah,” Laura says, and mimes locking her lips.
Her smile disappears as a man walks out from behind her. He’s wearing khaki pants, a red and green plaid button down, and a fucking red cardigan. “Who the hell are you?”
Beside him, Clint pretty much goes blank, causing a klaxon to go off in Bucky’s head. “Barney this is James Buchanan. He’s a friend of mine from New York. James, this is my brother, Barney.”
Barney scoffs. “A friend?”
“Well,” Bucky grins and sidesteps closer to Clint, then drapes his arm over Clint’s shoulder. “His boyfriend,” he smiles innocently.
Barney’s eyes flash. He looks Bucky up and down, the shifts his gaze to Clint. “Your boyfriend?”
Beside him, Clint’s expression doesn’t change, but Bucky cocks his head and gives the other Barton his most menacing smile. “Problem?”
Barney turns his own unfriendly grin back at him. “No, no problem.” He laughs to himself and walks away. “Hey, Claudette!” he yells. “You’ve got another guest!”
Laura glances uneasily behind herself and then steps up to Bucky. “Let me take your coat, James.”
Clint waves her off. “I’ve got it, Laura. You don’t need to wait on us.” He takes Bucky’s parka and tosses it from the middle of the room to the row of six coat hooks by the door. It catches on the only empty one.
Laura puts her hand to her chest. “Be still my heart,” she laughs. “I always was a sucker for your tricks.”
Clint clearly blushes. “Nothing special about good aim,” he mumbles.
A second later, a prim older woman enters. “Oh. Hello,” she says woodenly, eyes shifting between him and Clint.
“Claudette. I apologize for no warning, but, uh, a friend of mine from New York is here. James. This is my father’s wife, Claudette.”
The woman stares disapprovingly at both of them. “Well, you showed up unannounced, so I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that your friend would, too,” she mutters and walks away.
“Nice to meet you,” Bucky calls after her, then looks at Clint.
“Come on,” Clint says, “I’ll show you where we bunk.”
He follows Clint upstairs and down to the end of the hall. The room he opens to is hardly a bedroom at all. It’s small as a jail cell, and freezing cold, with just a single bed, a moth-eaten chair in a hideous brown-plaid pattern, and a small dresser.
“Not quite Stark Tower,” Clint says apologetically. “It’s okay, I can sleep in the chair.”
“Hey, no, I’m the one who showed up uninvited. I’ll sleep in the chair.”
Clint gets that stubborn look on his face but before he can argue, Bucky says, “Your step-mother’s a peach.” He tosses his pack in the corner.
“I think of her more as my father’s wife,” he says.
“You’re not a fan?”
Clint grunts. “We’ve never been close. My dad married her less than a year after my mom died.”
“When was that?”
“When I was ten. My dad was driving drunk and crashed the car. He walked away without a scratch. She didn’t walk away.”
Bucky puffs out a breath. “That’s rough. I’m sorry.”
Clint sighs. “Yeah. Me, too.”
“So, is there something between you and Laura?” he asks. Her familiar way with him and his blush clearly said that there is, but Clint had just told him he’s gay, so he’s having trouble putting the pieces together.
Clint drops into the chair. “Nah.” He flaps his hand. “She grew up just down the road from us. We’ve been friends as long as I can remember. Tried dating in 8th grade, but it didn’t last ‘cause, ya know,” he shrugs, and flicks an uneasy glance at Bucky, then out the window. “She was the first person I told that I thought I might be gay.”
“And then she married your brother?”
Clint’s face hardens. “Barney was always sniffing after her. I left when I was 15 and didn’t look back. I should’ve known he wouldn’t leave her alone.” He sounds regretful.
“You left when you were 15?”
Clint grimaces. “Yeah. Barney saw me kissing another boy and told the old man. He was never what you'd call loving, but that day he beat me unconscious. When I could actually manage it, I packed a bag and left.”
“Where’d you go?”
Clint gives him a half-grin. “There was a circus passing through town. I joined up.”
Bucky gapes at him. “Is that where you learned the bow?”
Clint nods. “Stayed there for five years before I had a bit of trouble with my mentor and things got ugly. Coulson found me a few years later. The rest,” he spreads his hands wide and plasters a brittle smile on his face, “is history.”
Outside, the sound of a vehicle can be heard. Clint looks out the window and Bucky can see the tension ripple through his body. He sucks in a deep breath and then exhales loudly. “Old man’s home,” he looks across the small space. “You ready?”
Bucky grins. “As I’ll ever be.”
They sit down in the large, eat-in kitchen to a light Christmas Eve dinner of oyster stew, which he’s told is a traditional dish, but near as Bucky can make out, is just warm milk with a few oysters floating in it, and maybe a bit of salt and pepper. If you ask him, it’s kinda gross.
Clint had told him that his family was a bunch of assholes, so it’s no surprise when they turn out to be just that (Harold had looked down at the hand that Bucky had offered and then turned away--what a prince). What is a surprise is how Clint reacts to their near-constant passive-aggressive comments, their not so subtle put downs, and their outright derision. The Clint Barton he knows is smart, quick-witted, and capable of striking fear into anyone with a single withering look. The Clint Barton sitting at the table this night seems to be none of those things. He sits passive and seemingly undisturbed, never rising to the bait that his father and brother are throwing at him practically nonstop.
Bucky can’t understand Clint’s lack of reaction, but it feels like dissociation, which is disturbing. Watching it makes him feel like it's time to start earning his keep.
He stands up and walks to the refrigerator. “Mind if I get a beer?” Bucky asks over his shoulder, then grabs two before anyone can answer. He pops one open and guzzles the whole thing down in one go, then crushes the can with his metal arm and tosses it onto the counter. He looks at the other can in his hand. “Wow. You have really shitty taste in beer, Harold.” He pops the top on the second can. “Most people bring out the good stuff when they have company.”
Harold and Barney glare at him and Claudette gapes. Laura’s eyes are bright, and the kids are looking back and forth between all the adults, seemingly unsure of how they should be reacting. He catches Clint’s eye to check himself, but Clint doesn’t seem to be sending him any messages, so Bucky figures he’s okay to keep going. He sits back down at the table to find Nate—who’s sitting next to him—watching him closely.
“You hand is weird,” Nate says, squinting at Bucky’s left arm.
Bucky had worn the prosthetic flesh sleeve, so it’s not as noticeable, but anyone who looks closely would be able to tell it’s not a real human arm.
“Nathaniel!” Laura says, giving Bucky an apologetic look.
“Nah, It’s okay. Kids are curious. It’s uh, it’s a prosthetic. Do you know what that means?” he asks the small boy.
Nate shakes his head.
“It means I lost my arm, so some doctors gave me a new one, but it’s not real like yours, it’s made of metal.”
“Cool!” Nate says, and the other kids start looking interested, too.
“How did you lose it?” Barney asks, but it’s more of a sneer.
As far as Bucky is concerned, Nate has an excuse for his directness: he’s four. But for Barney to ask so bluntly at the dinner table is kind of a dick move, in Bucky’s opinion. He slides his eyes over to Clint, trying to give him fair warning, then smiles at Barney.
“I got shot,” he says, then guzzles half of the beer in the can. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand then shakes his head at the can. “Yep, still shitty.”
That seems to peek everybody’s interest, even Clint’s who flicks a single eyebrow up, but otherwise doesn’t react. He thinks he knows Barton well enough to understand that it’s not a warning; it’s more of an ‘oh, reeeally’, with a chaser of, ‘do tell, Bucky.’
“Were you in the military? In the Middle East?” Barney asks.
He’s noticed Barney’s military haircut, the way he stands at attention when his father is nearby, the way he orders his wife and kids around like a drill sergeant. Bucky’s got a hell of a lot of respect for the military and veterans, but these people don’t know that. He makes a show of scoffing loudly. “Yeah, no. You couldn’t pay me enough to sign up to be a fucking fascist.” He glances at the children at the other end of the table. “Sorry, kids. Bad language, don’t use the F word.”
Across the table, Barney’s narrowed his eyes and is glaring at Bucky, but Clint’s step-mom, either oblivious or a stone-cold bitch, presses the question. “So how did you get shot?”
“The fu— The cops busted into my apartment and shot me, can you believe that? Thought I'd robbed a bank. They never found any of the money though, so they had to let me go.” He gives her a wicked grin and, flustered, she quickly looks down at her bowl.
He sees Clint’s father and brother alternately having a silent conversation with their eyes, and staring daggers at Clint, but Clint sits impassive, spooning soup into his mouth. Bucky catches Cooper’s eye and winks at him and the boy grins and ducks his head into his own bowl.
Harold is apparently happy enough to move on to a new topic of conversation and he starts grilling Clint about his job. It’s clear that Clint’s told his family he’s a mall-cop-level security guard, and the questions his father asks are mean and pointed, and obviously meant to humiliate and demean his younger son. Clint just answers the questions, his words devoid of emotion. This flat-affect version of Clint is one that Bucky's never seen before and he really, really doesn't like it. He's just about at the point where he’s going to reach across the table and crush Harold’s throat with his metal hand, when Clint catches his eye and gives him an almost imperceptible shake of the head.
Bucky frowns. Fine. Physical violence is out. But Clint had been cool with him being a rude and difficult guest, so Bucky will just have to turn up the volume on that a bit. He picks up his bowl and drinks the rest of the stew directly from it, and when he finishes, he sets it onto the table with a loud ‘clunk,’ earning himself a scowl from Claudette.
“Well, that was…real interesting soup.” He pushes his chair back, scraping it noisily on the floor, and stands up. He stretches—making sure his shirt rides up, so his belly is exposed—and belches loudly. “Hey, you got anything else to eat around here?” he asks over his shoulder as he shuffles toward the refrigerator. “I mean, how is anyone supposed to survive on a bowl of warm milk and oysters, amIright? What are you, cats?” He snickers and opens the door to the refrigerator, staring inside for a moment while absently scratching his stomach. As much as he’s mostly trying to be rude, he’s also truthfully starving. He hasn’t eaten anything since that peanut butter and banana sandwich that morning, and that bowl of ‘stew’ has done nothing to curb his hunger.
The refrigerator is packed full for the holiday and he roots around in it, settling on some sliced ham and a brick of cheese. He backs out of the refrigerator with them, snagging the mustard as he goes, then steps over to the counter where he’d earlier spotted a loaf a bread. He hums ‘Good King Wenceslas’ loudly as he makes himself two thick sandwiches, fully aware that except for his humming, there’s only silence in the room. When he turns back to the table, all eyes are on him. Clint is watching him with a bland expression, but his eyes are dancing.
“Oh, sorry, where are my manners” he says. “Anybody else want one?” He holds the sandwiches up.
Cooper looks around, and Bucky doesn’t miss how he looks at his father nervously before he raises his hand, just a little.
Bucky grins. “Sure thing, Coop!” He starts to open and close cupboards until he finds something suitable for the occasion: what looks like it must be Claudette’s fine china. He takes out what is clearly a saucer for a teacup and drops the ham sandwich onto it. “You can have one of mine,” he says, setting the food in front of the boy who quickly picks it up and starts shoveling it into his mouth. Bucky doesn’t blame him. He returns to his chair and dives into his own sandwich, making a point of groaning in pleasure. “Now this is good!”
“Well,” Claudette says, but doesn’t follow it with anything. Instead, she stands and starts clearing the dishes.
Clint and Laura jump up to help, and the kids take that as their cue to scram—Cooper takes the sandwich—but Harold and Barney stay where they are. Bucky faces them and chews his food with a smile on his face.
“Church service is at 8:00 tonight. You’re expected to attend,” Harold says, with a scowl on his face.
Before Clint can answer, Bucky snorts. “Oh, fuck, no!” He sees Claudette flinch at the sink. “Oh, sorry. I thought I was good to use grown-up words now.”
“Not a church-goer, what a surprise,” Barney mutters. “You sure know how to pick ‘em, Francis.”
“All religion is fucking bullshit,” Bucky says, then shoves the last of his sandwich in his mouth. “Also,” he adds, still chewing his food, “You might wanna rethink it yourselves. I wouldn’t take my kids anywhere near those pedophile priests.”
“You will not speak that way in my house,” Harold booms out at the same time that Claudette turns around at the sink, her hands covered in soapy bubbles.
“You’re being extremely rude,” she snaps.
Bucky laughs. “Oh, I’m being rude?” he says, and swallows the last of his sandwich. He chases it with the last of the beer, then belches again and stands up. “Look in the mirror, lady.”
Bucky’s starting to feel like he needs a break from these people, but not before one last parting shot. Earlier, he’d spotted the mistletoe hanging above the door between the kitchen and the formal dining room. He snags Clint’s arm. “Come over here, Baby.”
“Wha—”
Bucky cuts off Clint’s question with a crushing kiss. Clint startles for half a second, then Bucky feels him relax, playing along. Bucky snakes one arm around his waist, pulling them tight together, and grips the back of Clint’s neck with his other hand, holding him close as he plunders Clint’s mouth. He makes it look good—it’s not a single cute kiss, it’s hardcore making out—wet and open-mouthed, voracious, verging on obscene. Oh hell, it’s not verging, it is obscene.
The thing is, Barton gives as good as he gets, and Bucky loses himself in it for a moment, just enjoying the warm slide of their tongues, while behind them, Clint’s family makes noises of outrage. When Bucky reluctantly pulls back after several long seconds, he’s fully aware of his quickening heartbeat and the three pairs of eyes that would be burning holes in him if they were able. He leans forward again and catches Clint’s bottom lip between his teeth, pulling back and tugging it with him for a second before letting it go and then licking it.
“Mmmm,” Bucky hums as he lightly swipes his thumb across Clint’s bottom lip. “I fucking love your mouth, Baby.” Clint chokes a little and Bucky would swear his face turns a shade of pink.
For his part, their make-out session has Bucky riding half a chubby, and as fun as it is to make Clint’s family uncomfortable, he doesn’t want to make Clint uncomfortable. He already probably crossed the line with that kiss and if Barton sees how worked up it made Bucky, it’ll likely make things awkward between them. He turns to the others. “’Scuse me, if you would. I guess that oyster stew went right through me. I gotta go drop a hot bomb, if you know what I mean.” He winks at them, then turns back to Clint and leers. “Can’t wait to continue this later, Love.”
He clomps loudly up the stairs and shuts himself in the bathroom where he sits on the closed toilet and does his best to will away his nascent erection. All it really takes is thinking about how Clint’s father had talked to Clint at the dinner table; Bucky can’t remember anything pissing him off quite so much in recent memory. He collects himself, and by the time he hears Clint in the hall ten minutes later, Bucky’s lying on the bed with his hands laced behind his head, contemplating what other obnoxious things he can do.
Clint walks into the room and falls heavily onto the chair, dropping his face into his hands. His body seems to be shaking.
“Shit,” Bucky says, sitting up. “Did I go too far? I’m sorry, I should have asked before I kissed you.”
When Clint looks up, though, his face is bright red and he’s—quietly—laughing so hard there are tears streaming down his face.
Bucky grins. “Not too far, then.”
“Oh my god, that was beautiful! They’re so flustered they don’t even know what to do with themselves.” His eyes are dancing with glee. “That performance might just have made this whole trip worth it.”
“I told you I was good.” If being an asshole to Clint’s family can put that smile on Clint’s face, then Bucky’s just getting started.
They hole up in the room for the next forty-five minutes until the family leaves for church. Clint talks about what it was like growing up in Iowa and about his friendship with Laura; how he’s made a point of visiting her and the kids every year so they will know their Uncle Clint, usually when Barney is somewhere else; how much he loves the kids. He doesn’t really talk about the rest of the family and that’s fine with Bucky. He’s seen enough to understand exactly who these people are.
Once they hear the front door shut, and the house settles into silence, Clint stands up abruptly. It’s like a switch has flipped and he’s suddenly all pent-up energy, arms twitching, hands flexing. “I need to go shoot.”
They head back downstairs, this time with Clint carrying his bow and quiver. Bucky grabs a couple more beers out of the refrigerator and follows him out to the barn. It’s only marginally warmer in there than it is outside, and their breath is visible, but as soon as they get there, Clint strips out of his jacket and gloves and starts rapid-firing arrows from one end of the barn to the other. Somewhere along the way—Bucky did not see where—Clint had acquired a Santa hat and it’s perched atop his head. Something about that makes Bucky happy.
Bucky leans against a support beam and watches. He’s mostly only seen Clint shoot when the Avengers are called out, or when they’re running team practice drills; he’s never just sat back and watched him like this. Of course, he’d known Clint was good. Nobody questions that. He’s fluid and graceful and he makes it look effortless. But it’s the expression on Clint’s face as he shoots that makes Bucky’s breath catch just a little bit: it’s peaceful, and happy, and his eyes gleam in a way that radiates pure contentedness.
After he shoots half the arrows, Clint stops and opens his beer, taking a sip. He makes a face and sets it back down in favor of picking up the bow again. “That really is shitty beer,” he says as another arrow sails past Bucky’s face. There’s no formal target, but Clint is clustering the arrows into a fist-sized spot on the wall. As Clint is shooting, Bucky walks slowly down to the far end of the barn. When Clint’s quiver is empty, Bucky pulls the arrows out of the wood and carries them back.
“Thanks.”
“You know, I’d sure love to see their faces if you told them who you are.”
Clint fires off six quick shots in favor of answering.
“I’m just saying. It would be a beautiful thing. Maybe it’d stop your father from being such a dick to you.”
Clint shoots the rest of the arrows—this time all of them are lined up perfectly in the seam between two boards—and Bucky makes the trek down the barn again. As he’s handing them back, Clint turns to him and says, “They wouldn’t believe it even if I did. They have a very fixed image of who I am. There’s nothing I can say that’s going to change their minds. Besides, I got over caring what they think about me a long time ago.”
“Really? ‘Hey, Pop. You know how you think I’m a security guard. Well, that’s sorta true. I work security for the entire Earth.’ You don’t think that would impress them?”
Clint’s jaw is tight and there’s steel in his eyes when he says, “Let it go, Buck. I told you, they’re not good people, and I don’t trust them. If they find out, they’ll try to use the information to their own benefit, no matter who they hurt in the process. And I can take it, but I won’t have them screwing over Natasha, or Bruce, or you.”
Clint pulls and shoots arrows so fast it’s a blur, and when Bucky looks down at the other end of the space, he sees they’re in the shape of a perfect five-pointed star. Bucky blinks in surprise. It looks just like the star on his arm, but it’s no doubt actually in deference to the holiday season.
“But Laura knows, right?” He’s working his way down to fetch the arrows. “She knew who I was.”
“Yeah, Laura knows. She figured it out. We kept in touch after I left. Sporadically. Obviously not enough because I would have told her not to marry my fucking brother if I’d known.” He scowls, then waves off the thought. “She knew I was using a bow in the circus, then when New York happened, she recognized me from a short clip of video that someone shot. She left me like, twenty frantic phone messages before I was able to listen to them and call to let her know I was okay.”
The arrows fly, and this time, when Bucky looks, they spell the letters ‘BUCKY’. He grins, and when Clint smiles back at him, an unfamiliar feeling flips in Bucky’s stomach. The sense memory of Clint’s mouth on his creeps up on him and he feels his face begin to heat. He quickly turns and starts down to the other end to retrieve the arrows, taking his time with the task and actively pushing away thoughts of Clint’s tongue.
When he returns, Clint slides the arrows into the quiver and sits down on a bale of hay, takes a long drink of his beer. Bucky grabs his own and joins him.
“So, what was Christmas like when you were a kid, do you remember?” Clint asks.
It’s clear he’s looking to change the subject, so Bucky starts to talk, spinning stories about his family and Stevie and life in Brooklyn during the 1930s. It’s not usually something he likes to talk about, to remember everything he’d lost. But he talks because Clint asked him to, and along the way, he makes Clint laugh a few times, and that’s worth the price of admission right there.
When they finish their beers, Clint looks at his watch. “They’ll be back soon. I want to get this stuff put away before they are.” He gestures at his gear, then stands and offers his hand, pulling Bucky to his feet.
They walk in companionable silence back to the house. The night is peaceful; it’s finally stopped snowing and the sky is clear with stars shining bright. It’s beautiful, even, the way the fresh snow lies crisp and pristine, a smooth white blanket on the landscape. But the cold is bracing—the temperature has dipped into the teens—and by the time they get to the porch and stomp the snow off their boots, Bucky is happy to scurry inside. Clint cups his hands in front of his mouth and blows on them as they walk through the door, then heads up the stairs to put his gear away.
Bucky goes to the kitchen and turns on the water kettle, then digs through the various boxes of tea he’d spotted earlier and prepares two mugs of peppermint tea. He takes them back to the living room and kneels down next to the fireplace, stoking the fire that had faded to glowing embers. He tosses another log on to get it going again, then sits leaning against the side of the couch and looks around. It’s a comfortable room, awash in the warm glow of multi-colored Christmas tree lights. Under normal circumstances, Bucky would probably find the whole scene homey and pleasant, but the memories of how Clint’s father and brother treated him are lingering like a bad taste in his mouth. He pulls a long sip of the steaming tea.
Clint comes back downstairs and sits on the floor against the fireplace-surround, facing Bucky.
“You okay?” Bucky asks, leaning forward to hand Clint his mug.
“Thanks,” Clint says, taking it and wrapping both hands around it. “Just feeling bad that I didn’t have time to get the kids gifts before I came—it was all so last minute.”
Bucky taps Clint’s foot with his own. “Hey, man, I gotcha covered. You said ‘kids’ in one of your texts, so I grabbed some of the Avengers Legos merchandise from the closet at Stark’s place. I thought I heard Tony say kids're dying to get their hands on them. You’ll be the best uncle ever.”
Clint winces. “Those are prototypes, they haven't been released yet.”
“Uh…Oops?”
Clint huffs and tips his head back against the tiles of the fireplace and looks at Bucky through half-hooded lids. “Thanks, man, I really owe you one. Actually, I think I owe you several.”
“Nah. If anything, I owe you. I would have been sitting home alone and bored. I can’t remember when I’ve had more fun.” He holds his mug out and taps it against Clint’s when he reciprocates. “Merry Christmas, Clint.”
“Merry Christmas, Buck. I…I’m glad you’re here.”
“I’m glad I’m here, too.”
It looks to Bucky like maybe Clint’s about to say something more, when they both hear a car coming up the drive. Clint clamps his mouth shut tight and they both scramble to their feet.
“Listen, I started a bedtime story with the kids last night and promised I’d finish it tonight. The three of them are sleeping in the basement and Laura’s going to sneak their presents under the tree while I keep them distracted. I’ll see you back up in the room in a little while. If you want to shower or anything, there are towels in the closet in the hall.”
A shower sounds good to Bucky, if only to wash off the stink of these deplorable people. As he climbs the stairs, he considers using up all the hot water, but he doesn’t know if Clint or Laura might want to shower, too, so in the end, he doesn’t. He does take his time in the bathroom, though, just so Barney can’t get in there.
When he gets back to the small room, Bucky pulls a book out of his pack and starts reading. It’s a big, old farmhouse, the doors creak and the floorS groan under every footstep, so he hears Barney make his way to the finally-vacated bathroom. The walls don’t seem too well insulated because he can hear Harold and Claudette murmuring in their room across the hall when they come upstairs about a half-hour later. Bucky shifts on the bed to get more comfortable and the bed springs squeak under him. A truly devious idea comes to him and he grins to himself.
Clint creeps into their shared room about an hour later.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” Bucky says, much louder than is necessary in the small space.
Clint stops where he is in the open doorway and cocks his head. “Sorry,” he says, just above a whisper, and then quietly closes the door. “The kids were pretty wound up. It took a while to get them to settle in.”
“Come ‘ere, Baby, I wanna see that pretty mouth of yours again.” Bucky bounces pointedly on the bed a few times, and the springs make a racket. He quirks an eyebrow at Clint.
Clint’s eyes light up. “Oh, you are a bad man,” he mouths.
“Yeah?” Bucky says, grinning.
Clint sits in the chair and waves him on, all the while smothering a laugh.
Bucky smiles wide and starts to slowly shift his weight back and forth on the bed. Cree-cree, cree-cree, cree-cree. He gradually speeds up, grabbing the headboard with one hand to balance as he works into a good steady rhythm. He lets loose with a long, low moan and Clint practically chokes.
“Oooohhhh, God, yeah. Yeah, come on Baby, give it to me,” he moans lasciviously. “Gimme that big dick.”
Clint leans forward with his elbows on his knees, watching Bucky intently while covering his mouth with both hands.
“Come on, Baby, I want you to fuck me so bad. I been waitin’ all day for this. Yeah, yeah, that’s it…” He keeps bouncing on the bed with the springs providing musical accompaniment. Clint has a look of pure amusement on his face.
Bucky decides that this is not going to be a quick fuck; by the end of the night, if nothing else, Harold and Barney are going to believe that Clint’s got staying power in bed. He slows the pace of bouncing a little, but keeps up the noises. He closes his eyes and lets his imagination run wild, words bubbling out of his mouth without thought. He loses himself in the game and his mind starts to wander, to picture Clint’s hand on his cock, to feel his mouth back on Bucky’s like it had been in the kitchen earlier. “Oooh, fuuuuuck, you know just how to touch me,” Bucky pants. “Don’t stop, Baby, please don’t stop. Uh…uh…uh…uh.” He punches out a moan with every bounce of the bed.
The fantasy is fueled by the small amount of friction that the bounce-action causes, and Bucky comes to the slow realization that he’s half-hard and is likely to be fully hard soon, which might be somewhat awkward. He cracks his eyes open a fraction to check if Clint has noticed.
Clint is sitting back in the chair now, and he’s watching Bucky with a heated intensity. When he notices Bucky looking at him, he stands with purpose and takes a slow step over to the bed, an expression of smoldering intent on his face.
Bucky’s breath hitches and he loses his rhythm, the bed springs squeak erratically for a few second and then Bucky stops altogether. Clint kneels down and presses his mouth to Bucky’s neck, slowly licking his way upward. Bucky’s sucks in a sharp breath.
“Don’t stop,” Clint gusts quietly in his ear.
Bucky starts moving on the bed again, and Clint starts laving Bucky’s ear, tonguing the shell, sucking on the lobe. Clint stops his tongue long enough to ask, “This okay?” When Bucky manages to nod, he goes back to lightly licking, tracing the contours of the cartilage.
“Oh, fuck. Ye—yeah, it g-good,” he manages. “Oh god, oh god, yeah…” His words have become more breathy as they become a real reaction. “Aah!” Bucky practically yells when Clint cups his hand over Bucky’s growing erection, rubbing gently. The bed squeaks hard as Bucky jolts but any words get stuck in his throat.
“Aw, come on, Baby, don’t stop,” Clint murmurs so only Bucky can hear, then lightly nips Bucky’s jaw. “Let ‘em hear you.”
Bucky shivers hard and swallows, but before he can begin his litany again, Clint’s mouth is on his and all coherent thought goes out the window. They kiss for long moments while Clint rubs him through the flannel sleep-pants he’s wearing. Occasionally, Bucky remembers to keep bouncing on the bed for their audience.
Bucky chases Clint’s mouth with a disgruntled sound when Clint pulls away a few minutes later. But when Clint ducks down and starts mouthing at Bucky’s now fully-hard cock through the thin material, Bucky stops his complaint. His precome had already soaked through a small spot on the pants and Bucky’s hips reflexively buck when Clint puts his mouth there and sucks at it, licking at Bucky’s cock through the pants and soaking the material even more.
Bucky’s never been overly vocal in bed, so he keeps forgetting to make noise. But when Clint locks eyes with him at the same moment that he scrapes his teeth lightly over the saturated cotton covering Bucky’s cock, Bucky yells. “Aaahh, Fuuccckk!”
Clint sits back then and tugs on the sleep pants. Bucky immediately lifts his hips and pushes the ruined material down past his knees. His cock springs free and bounces up and down a couple of times. Clint makes a show of spitting into his hand, then he grabs Bucky’s cock and starts long, solid strokes, up and down. Bucky hisses—then remembers to moan—and his hips flex, the bed making crazy sounds.
“Lie back and grab the headboard with both hands,” Clint says, a soft rumble that goes straight to Bucky’s cock. It twitches and a bead of pre-come appears. Clint swipes his thumb over it, rubbing it around the head of Bucky’s cock. Bucky does as he’s told, moving to lie prone and latching onto the slats of the headboard. “Good boy,” Clint murmurs low and heated, and Bucky whimpers. He had no idea until this second that he might like being ordered around in bed.
Clint smiles and leans in, kissing his way from Bucky’s ear down his jaw to his neck. It’s wet and hot and every now and then he feels the rough scrape of teeth that makes him shiver and his hips judder. He nuzzles behind Bucky’s ear a little, then whispers, “I’m just gonna hold on, and you do what feels good.”
Bucky does just that. He closes his eyes and fucks Clint’s hand. It’s rough and calloused, not unlike Bucky’s own hand, but somehow it feels so much better. He starts slow, working the bed springs into a steady rhythm. Cree-cree, cree-cree, cree-cree, cree-cree.
“Come on, Buck,” Clint growls in his ear, “let ‘em hear you.”
Bucky lets loose with a lascivious moan and picks up the pace, fucking faster into Clint’s fist. Its feels amazing but he just needs…
“Harder,” he chokes out, then remembers and yells. “Harder! Come on, fuck me harder!” Clint obliges by tightening his fist. “Fuck! Yeah, that’s it, oh, fuck!” The bed springs screech nonstop, a frenzied chorus that is quickly joined by the percussion of the headboard knocking rhythmically against the wall.
Bucky thrusts harder and faster into Clint’s fist, building to a feverish pace. “Oh fuck, oh fuck, I’m gonna come. Don’t stop, I’m gonna come, come on give it to me, harder, come on, oh yeah, oh god oh god oh god, I’m coming! Aaaaahhhhhhh! Fuck!” His body jerks and he comes, long lines of semen painting his chest and stomach.
Bucky’s chest heaves and black spots flicker at the edge of his vision as he pants through the aftershocks, the bed squeaking erratically now as his hips lose their coordination. “Oh, fuck, oh fuck,” he slurs, his mouth curving into a smile. Clint looks on, smirking, and even in the dark room, he can see that Clint’s pupils are dilated, shot through with black and only the thinnest ring of blue.
As soon as his limbs stop tingling, Bucky sits up and twists, dropping his feet over the side of the bed. Clint is looking at him with uncertainty and all Bucky can think about is wiping that expression off his face. He makes a point of looking at the bulge in Clint’s pants, then back at Clint. He raises both eyebrows in question.
The second Clint gives him a jerky nod and stands, Bucky tugs Clint’s sweatpants down and gets his hand on his thick cock. Clint hisses, but otherwise is still and quiet. Bucky pumps Clint’s cock a couple times, then leans in and takes Clint into his mouth. It’s been a while since he’s done this, but once he gets going, it comes back to him just fine. Clint makes small, eager noises and his hands land softly on Bucky’s head. He doesn’t get forceful, just leaves them there, absently carding his fingers in Bucky’s hair.
Unlike Bucky’s performance, Clint’s being completely quiet, except for a small gasp now and then when Bucky puts his tongue to extra use. It’s been too long for him to try deep throating, but he grips the base of Clint’s cock and pumps and twists as he bobs his head in and out. It’s not long before Clint’s breathing grows uneven and his hips start to move, but just a little, like he’s trying not to but he can’t stop himself.
“Buck,” Clint gasps, then abruptly pulls himself out of Bucky’s mouth. He comes, catching his ejaculate in his hand so it doesn’t splash on Bucky’s face. He stumbles backward and collapses into the chair and Bucky falls backward onto the bed. He sees Clint snag a t-shirt from his pack and wipe his hand off.
Neither of them moves for a long moment while they both catch their breath. The sweat on Bucky’s body starts to dry and cool and he’s reminded just how cold the room really is.
“Hey, come ‘ere,” Bucky says. He strips off his damp and sticky clothes and works his way under the blankets.
“It’s okay,” Clint answers. “I told you, I don’t mind sleeping in the chair.”
Bucky gives him a look. “Clint,” he says. “It’s freezing in here. Come on, strip down and get in the bed so we can keep each other warm.”
Clint hesitates, but then stands, shucks his shirt and sweats, and steps over to the bed. Bucky lifts the bedding, and Clint slips beneath it. It’s a very tight fit—two gown men in a single bed—so Bucky wraps his arms around Clint and pulls him close, scissoring their legs together. Clint settles into it, tucking his face into Bucky’s neck.
They’re both quiet for several minutes and Bucky’s starting to drift off, when Clint says, “Why’d you really come, Buck?”
Bucky breathes in and out a couple of times, then admits to Clint what he’d been denying to himself. “I came because I wanted to be with you.”
He feels Clint smile against his neck, then feels warm lips work their way up and over his jaw, and nudge at Bucky’s mouth. The kiss is soft and sweet and nothing like he ever would have expected from Barton. They subside and Clint tucks his face back into Bucky’s neck.
“That was some pretty good acting, Romeo,” he says.
“Yeah? Wasn’t all acting, it case it wasn’t obvious.”
Clint huffs. “Either way, I can promise they hated every second of it.”
“Good, ‘cause I hate the way they treat you,” Bucky says quietly.
Clint sighs. “It doesn’t matter, Buck. Nothing they do matters.”
Bucky frowns into the dark. “How do you do it? How do you let it all just roll off of you the way you do? Don’t you hate them?”
Clint doesn’t say anything for a long moment and Bucky starts to think that the questions have pissed him off. But then Clint shifts a little, pulling back to settle his head on the pillow to better look Bucky in the eyes. “You know,” he says softly, “sometimes the opposite of love isn’t hatred—those can be two sides of the same coin. The opposite of love can be indifference. I don’t hate them, Bucky, I’m indifferent to them, and honestly, I try not to give things I’m indifferent to any more mental energy than they deserve.”
Bucky thinks about that, turns it around in his head. He’d never thought of it that way, but there’s logic to it. It also slots some things into place for him. He’d been reading Clint’s reactions to his family as him shutting down emotionally, practically dissociating; it’s a relief to know that it’s just insouciance.
“And, in case it wasn't obvious,” Clint adds softly, “I’m not indifferent to you, Buck.”
Bucky leans forward and presses his mouth to Clint’s and they tumble into more gentle kissing, lush swipes of tongue that aren’t meant to go anywhere, but inevitably do.