AN: I AM BACK!

Yes, after a painfully long and totally unintended hiatus, I bring you this monstrosity that I was challenged to write over on Tumblr. Tags are sparse at the moment because I want to keep things a surprise (unless, of course, you're reading this in the future and there are quite a lot of tags that may or may not be spoilers), but rest assured I do intend to finish this, and I will update those tags (and possibly past chapters) as we go along. There are certainly more characters involved than just Clint and Bucky ;-)

So, that said, I will shut up and let you get reading! Hope you enjoy it ^_^

We'll Make the World Ours

1. A Helping Hand

"Hey. Hey, wake up."

Something heavy slapped Clint's shoulder, waking him up with a jerk. He sat upright, felt an ache bloom along the side of his neck and a tightness down his back, and after blinking the sleep away he remembered that he was in a car. A really uncomfortable one.

"End of the line, man," a gruff voice said to his left as he groaned and stretched. "I ain't goin' no further."

"Right," Clint mumbled as the car's owner got out. Pushing his brain into gear he followed suit, squinting as he stepped out into the cold, back-end-of-winter air. Stretching again, he fiddled with his hearing aids and asked, "You want any money for fuel?"

"Naw, I won't be needin' none for a while."

He only said "You sure?" to be polite, but the guy waved him off and disappeared inside the motel. Breathing out a sigh of relief, he dug around in his coat pocket for the now tiny wad of cash, thinking when he pulled it out that his relief was slightly premature – it would be dark soon, and he needed a place to stay, and with just forty dollars he wasn't totally sure a hotel would take him in. Especially considering the fact that he was, to put it nicely, shabbily dressed. He probably smelt too. A shower would be nice. And coffee.

"Your own fault, dummy," he muttered, shouldering his bag and looking over the motel. Motels were inexpensive, right? They didn't care if you looked like you'd fallen out of a tree, either. At least, he hoped so. What was important was that they accepted his money and gave him a roof over his head – he'd had enough of sleeping out in the cold, and no way in hell was he sleeping in a tree again (he was convinced he still had splinters in his tender parts).

The motel was a little grimy inside, though Clint took that as a good sign. If he wasn't going to leave more dirt than was already there, they couldn't hold his grubbiness against him. It could also mean the place was cheap. Fleetingly, he worried that the guy who drove him here would think Clint was stalking him, but then someone was asking "Can I help you?" and his attention was pulled to the lady behind the desk.

"Uh, yeah, hi – I need a room?"

"Okay." She turned to a computer, asking him the regular questions – just him? Yes. How many nights? Only one. Would he like the single room with en-suite shower and toilet? Of course he would. She went to get the key, tapping a few more things on the old desktop machine, and right as Clint began daydreaming about the bed and being able to sleep comfortably and warmly she said, "That'll be sixty dollars."

Clint stared at her. "Sixty?"

"Yes. That includes your parking fee, too."

"I don't have a car."

"Oh." She made a few more taps. "Then it's fifty dollars."

His jaw dropped. "Fifty?"

"Yes, sir, fifty dollars."

As the vision of the bed dissipated, Clint held up his little stack of ten dollar bills and said, "Uh, look, this is all I got. It's not fifty, but –"

"I'm sorry sir, I can't accept less than fifty dollars."

"Really?" He put on his best imploring look, and the desk clerk shifted uncomfortably.

"Really. Our new manager recently introduced some new rules, and I'm afraid we can no longer help people in… your situation."

"My – oh." Dropping his hand, Clint sighed, stuffing his money back into his pocket. At least he could buy some food. "Uh, you wouldn't know anywhere that might be able to help, would you?"

She gave him directions to another hotel, but was unable to tell him what they might charge. He left feeling disheartened, following her suggestion with reluctant optimism. Misplaced optimism, as it turned out, when the desk clerk of the next hotel gave him the same spiel and forwarded him on to yet another establishment. After the fourth time it happened, Clint was starting to assess bus stops as potential sleeping places. Not ideal, but all things considered, he'd had worse.

Somehow, he ended up following the road to a bus terminal. He stood outside the entrance, watching the buses turn into and out of the stations behind the building, and wondered how far he could go for forty dollars – or if it was better to stay here and still have money for food, using the terminal as a sleeping spot and finding someone bold enough to give him a lift to wherever next. He never reached a decision though, his thoughts interrupted by a voice saying, "You won't get lucky here."

Clint spun around, staring at the scruffily-dressed man stood a few feet away. "What?"

"You're looking for a place to sleep, right?" The stranger gestured to the bus terminal and shook his head. "Don't bother looking here. They can spot guys like us a mile away, and won't let you hang around unless you have a ticket. Or money for one."

"Right…" Scanning the doors, he noticed that there were indeed security guards looking directly at them. "Great," he muttered. "Uh, thanks for the heads-up, I guess." Even if it did put him back at square one.

"Not a problem," the guy said, and Clint was fully expecting him to turn around and walk away, not ask: "So are you still looking?"

"Yeah," he said. "All the hotels I checked out were above my budget."

"Which is?"

He hesitated. "Forty dollars."

Nodding slowly, a thoughtful expression appeared on the stranger's face, and Clint suddenly regretted telling him. What if he wanted to mug Clint now? Lead him somewhere quiet and beat him up, take his money and his clothes? "How about this," he said, and Clint gulped. "I have a hundred and twenty myself. I was gonna use it to get myself a room for a couple of nights, but maybe it'd be better spent on both of us staying dry tonight. Then we can use some of your forty to get dinner. What do you say?"

Clint couldn't help it – he gawped. "Seriously?"

The not-a-mugger grinned. "Seriously."

"Uh – I mean, yes! Please. That is, if you don't mind? Hundred and twenty's a lot, you might need it for something…"

"Not today," the guy said, shaking his head.

"Right. Um. Thanks, then. Really. None of those bus stops looked particularly alluring, and I'm through with trees."

He laughed. "Good thing I found you, I guess." Gesturing out to the street, he continued, "So, you said you'd been to a few hotels. See enough of any to suggest one?"

Clint snorted. "At this rate, I'll take the first one we come to, rats and all. Not that it had rats, I don't think. At least, I didn't see any?" Wow.

Luckily, his new saviour just chuckled and started to walk. "What's your name?" he asked as Clint caught up.

"Clint."

"Just Clint?"

"Clint Francis," he said, not idiotic enough to divulge his real name to a stranger. "And you?"

The guy paused mid-step. It was a fleeting hesitation, as was the odd expression on his face, but given their shared situation Clint was fine with letting both oddities go as a 'someone finally cares enough to ask' moment. "Bucky," the man said, quickly adding "Just Bucky."

Twisting as they walked, Clint held out a hand. "Pleasure to meet you, Just Bucky."

Bucky gave him another weird look, but huffed and took the hand warmly, smiling once more. "Right back at you, Clint Francis."

The hotel room was considerably less fancy than the front lobby, and for one-hundred and ten dollars, Clint was feeling fairly ripped-off. Still, it was as he'd told Bucky: a roof was a roof and a bed (even one of questionable quality) was a bed, and it was enough to know that he would be warm that night.

"Wow. Has it been that long?" his new roommate said when Clint let out a groan at the feel of a real, almost-soft, oddly-springy surface beneath his back.

"Oh yeah," he grunted. He opened his eyes, tipping his head to see Bucky shrugging his coat off. Looking around on the floor, he was surprised to notice for the first time that the clothes he was wearing were all the guy appeared to own. "Don't you have a bag or something?"

Bucky shook his head. "Travelling light," he said, not sounding convinced by his own words. He glanced at his wrist, grimacing before asking Clint if he had the time. "Thought I had a watch."

"What, there's no clock in here?" There was one on the bedside table, but the display was completely blank, and not even Clint's usual tactic of 'hit it until it does something' could make it spark into life.

"I doubt you whacking it like that helped," Bucky said, smirking.

"Works at home, I swear."

"Home?"

He swallowed. "Used to." Dropping the alarm clock on the table, Clint rolled onto his back, wincing as something jabbed his shoulder blade. "Maybe there's one in the lobby? I mean, you'll have to go look, 'cause I –"

"– about to find out if Julio is, or is not, your brother Delilah."

Clint lifted his head, and promptly rolled his eyes. "Jerry Springer? Really?"

"We can use the television shows to tell the time," Bucky said, gesturing at the screen with the remote. He settled onto his bed as Clint mumbled complaints under his breath. "What's Jerry Springer, anyway?"

"Are you kidding me?" Clint propped himself up, giving Bucky an incredulous look. "You've never seen an episode of Jerry Springer?"

His incredulity was met with total nonplus, and Bucky said, "I don't think so?"

"Then you're a lucky sod," Clint declared. "Now change the channel before I start giving a damn."

He heard the remote clicking in Bucky's hand. "Uh, no can do."

"There have to be buttons on the box."

"I don't see any."

Groaning, Clint announced he was going to sleep. It was a small mercy that the volume controls still worked.

He was being chased down a road. It was dusty and long, and his suit was beginning to cling to him, but his father's henchmen were still on his heels, two bulky shapes he caught glimpses of over his shoulder every now and again. His heart raced, each breath scorching his lungs, muscles sore to the bone, but still he ran, still he sought to put distance between himself and Duquesne and Chisholm. Sometimes when he looked, their shapes were further back, jaws widening as they yelled soundlessly at him; then he would turn again and one of them would be within reaching distance, blunt, dirt-stained fingernails clawing the air where –

With a sharp intake of breath, Clint woke up. Heart racing, he confirmed that the only thing behind him was a mattress, that he wasn't attired in a suit and tie, and that the only other person anywhere near him was the guy he met at the bus station, who was…

"You okay?"

"Uh…"

Clint had been warned about handsome strangers in the past, his friends joking that he'd one day be whisked away by one and never heard from again ("You do the 'kicked puppy' look too well," Jess had said. "They'd never leave you alone." But she could, apparently). He'd never considered it a possibility, but now, staring at his wet-haired, towel-clad, damp-skinned, nicely toned roommate, Clint was beginning to wonder if that was exactly what was happening to him.

"I'm the guy you met at the bus station," the guy he met at the bus station said. "Bucky."

He had an extraordinary tattoo on his left arm and shoulder, gradients of silver and grey segmented to look like a robotic arm, the design fading out as it reached his wrist – "Bucky. Yeah, yeah I'm… fine." Well, his ears hurt, but that was his own fault for sleeping with them in again.

Bucky nodded slowly. As he passed the TV, he rapped his knuckles against the screen. "The evening news is due to start after this show. They'll announce the time then, won't they?"

"Yeah. I think." Clint watched the screen with determination as Bucky changed back into his clothes. He was debating whether or not to ask about the tattoo. The only time he'd ever seen something so bold was when his father had been talking to a pair of Russians with prison tattoos on their hands, stark black designs that Barney told him were likely all over their bodies. He'd tried to avoid Russians since then.

"Shower's shit, by the way," Bucky said, and dropped onto his bed. "I could only get it lukewarm, so sorry if it stays cold when you go."

He sighed. "Beggars can't be choosers, huh?" There was a hum of agreement, then they both quieted to watch the end of the documentary, which appeared to have been about black holes. The final image of Earth being sucked into one didn't fill Clint with much joy, and he silently prayed that whatever channel they were on had some redeeming features. Maybe the evening movie would be a rom-com? He could hope.

The news was as joyous as the Earth's galactic demise, and just as easy to follow: from what Clint gathered, there was another terrorist group somewhere causing chaos, President Rogers was giving another press conference in the wake of more blatant racism, and gang violence was on the increase in one state or city. When the next item came up, Clint was half expecting it to be about a killer disease laying waste to the deep south, but it was about the royal family instead – at which point Bucky promptly announced he was going for food, disappearing before Clint could even ask him what he was getting.

"There better be no fucking pickles," he muttered, focusing back on the news. It was as enthralling as it had been for the past twenty minutes, with the attention now on the American Royal Family.

"People have been questioning the whereabouts of the Prince for some time now," the anchor was saying over a picture of King George and his wife waving to an adoring crowd, "although a spokesperson for the family tells us that he is 'attending more private matters' of late, and as a result, has little time to –"

"Who cares," Clint moaned. "Why won't you let me change the channel?"

"But just what, exactly, are these 'private matters' –"

"Fucking private, that's what." It was probably the only thing he was grateful to his father for, keeping him and Barney out of the limelight. He was good at it, too, and Clint saw himself once more looking at the will in his hands, the company's darkest secrets laid out in ink, with Barney's name at the top of the document. He shuddered. "Assholes."

Renewing his interest in the television, he lost track of time until Bucky reappeared, the sound of the door opening making Clint jump. "What?" Bucky asked once the door was shut behind him.

Clint closed his jaw. "Nothing. Just…" He was, honestly, mildly surprised that Bucky had come back. "You didn't get anything with pickles, did you?"

Bucky dumped the plastic bags on his bed. "Nah. Found a Taco Bell."

"Did you buy alcohol too?"

"Why would I waste food money on alcohol?"

"Point taken," Clint admitted, and pulled out what could only be described as a grease taco. "Beggars can't be choosers, beggars can't be choosers, beggars can't be choosers…" He took a bite, and the word that came to mind was 'ew'. He missed In 'N Out burgers.

They ate without speaking for a few minutes, watching advert after advert until Bucky must have gotten bored enough to ask "So what's your story?" and Clint promptly froze.

"Story?"

"Yeah. Y'know, where are you trying to go and stuff." At Clint's hesitation, he added, "If it's kind of personal, you don't have to say."

Swallowing his last bite of taco, Clint ran through a list of what he could tell Bucky and what he couldn't. "Just heading anywhere," he said eventually. "There are some people up North that I'd rather stay away from, so the farther the better I guess."

Bucky nodded. "Whereabouts up north?"

Could he tell him? It probably wouldn't be too revealing… "Washington DC."

"Oh. I think I'm from there."

"You 'think'?" Clint looked at him. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Folding the napkin that had come with the food up carefully, Bucky quietly said, "I… I don't know who I am. I mean, I know myself," he amended quickly, "and I know who my family are, but other than that, my memory's blank."

"Seriously?"

He waved a hand around his head. "There's only a couple of bits and pieces still in there, and none of them are clear enough to make any sense out of. Kind of like, if someone showed you a five-second clip of a video, one that was really blurry or pixelated, and you had no idea what it was even supposed to be about." Dropping the napkin, he buried both of his hands into his hair, sighing through his nose. "I don't even know how it happened."

"Huh." Unsure of what to say, Clint asked, "So, what do you remember?"

"Waking up somewhere unfamiliar. And that I wanted to get away from home."

"Home being DC."

"Yeah." Bucky raised his head, wiping his nose on his sleeve before smiling wryly. "Maybe I'm in a similar situation to you."

Clint laughed. "I doubt it," he said. "But if it makes you feel better, I've woken up plenty of times without knowing shit." He winced. "Maybe not quite as badly as you, but I've been there. Sort of. It's not the same, I know –"

"Relax, Clint, I get it."

"Oh. Right. Cool." 'Cool'? What kind of moronic response was that?

"Hey," Bucky said, seemingly unfazed by Clint's lack of conversation skills. "Seeing as we're both getting away from DC, how about we go somewhere together?"

Resisting the urge to check his hearing aids, Clint stared at him. "Together?"

"Yeah."

"As in, a kind of… runaways' road trip?"

Bucky smirked. "If you wanna call it that, then sure."

"Why?"

The smirk stuttered, and the light faded from Bucky's eyes. "It was just an idea," he mumbled. "But if you don't want to –"

"Hang on, I never said that." He glanced up, and Clint continued, "It was more: 'why would you want to travel with someone like me?'."

Bucky shrugged. "Between your smell, your desperation for a bed and your less-than-helpful financial situation, I figured you needed a hand."

"Hey. I made it this far okay."

"You were sleeping in trees."

"… It's not like I fell out of them."

He laughed, and extended the offer again, adding, "I might also appreciate the company."

If it were him suffering from memory loss, Clint knew he'd feel fucking hopeless. The few times he'd woken up not knowing where he was he'd at least been able to call a friend, or Duquesne and Chisholm would have found him sooner or later and taken him home, but until either of those things happened Clint had been prone to panicking. He'd often ended up calling half the people in his contact list trying to figure out what had occurred, one time sounding so distressed that Jan had ordered him to stay on the phone until she and Hank could locate him. If anyone knew the value of companionship, it was Clint Barton, and if Bucky was in need of someone who even slightly understood his situation – even a fuck-up like Clint – who was he to turn his back on the guy?

"Sure," he said with a grin. "Who knows where we'll end up?"