AN: I was re-watching The Covenant the other day, purely for Sebastian Stan (I skip the scenes he's not in... hah), and it struck me as odd that nobody had taken advantage of the blacked-out-eyes look to make a demon!Bucky, to my knowledge anyway. My brain being wired as it is, I automatically thought 'Winterhawk!' and 'Fanfic opportunity!', and lo and behold, this happened.

Eyes Like Wild Skies

1. The Road So Far

"Get out of him. Now."

The thing in Bucky's body froze, his back facing Clint. A woman lay at his feet, blood spilling sluggishly from the cuts along her bare arms, chest, face, and a gaping wound in her throat – it was on the walls, too, painting a hellish promise. He'd stopped mid-sentence, but what he was writing was something Clint decided to consider later. Right now, some twisted being had decided to joyride the surface using Bucky, and killings aside, that was beyond unacceptable.

Hands raised, the demon turned slowly to face Clint. It was smiling with Bucky's smile, but the blood-caked fingers and blackened eyes were far from Bucky-like. It made it easier to think of him as not-Bucky, but that didn't mean every move, every word, every twitch on his face wasn't a stab in the gut. "Ah, Clint," it sneered. "You finally found us."

Clint raised his bow a little higher. "I won't say it again. Get out of him, and then crawl back to Hell where you belong."

It laughed. "Now why d'you think I'd do that? I haven't finished leaving my special message yet. Besides, I quite like this meat-suit. Definitely one of the sexiest I've had in a while." And to make the point, it dragged Bucky's hands down his chest, grinning lewdly as they slipped lower and lower.

"Stop that."

"Why? I thought you liked it when he did this." He licked Bucky's bottom lip. "Bucky certainly likes it when you put on your little 'shows'." When Clint fired the arrow the demon barely moved out of the way in time, the shaft whistling past his elbow and burying itself into the plaster behind him.

Before it could retaliate, Clint had another one nocked and ready to loose. "That was a warning shot," he told it. "Now for the last time, get out of him."

Bucky's expression changed. If not for the smug quirk of his lips, it would have been pitying. "You know, Bucky isn't actually too pleased that you're here. He's scared I'm gonna hurt you."

"Shut up. I know you're lying –"

"But he's right, Clint," it said with a smile, all teeth and twisted delight. "I am going to hurt you."

When Clint came to, it was almost dark. A deep ache rolled across his ribs when he tried to breathe; one eye refused to open; his head throbbed sharply as he struggled to push himself up; a small crater lay in the centre of the ceiling; his bow lay shattered on the other side of the room; on the wall, the finished bloody message read: The Red Skull will come, and by his hand a scribbled note said: Bucky's sorry. I'm not. xx.

Clint sat anxiously at Steve's table while his friend finished up on the phone. "Sam hasn't seen anything either," he said. "He's promised to keep an eye out though, just like the others."

Sighing, Clint ran his fingers through his hair. "Thanks Steve."

"Don't mention it. If anything, I wish there was more I could do," Steve admitting, sitting opposite him heavily. "How long's it been now?"

"Nearly a year."

"You know you could've got in touch sooner."

"Yeah, I do, but… I thought I had him." Every time he'd found a body, with that same bloody message scrawled on a surface for all to see (along with a note for him – Bucky says hi; Missed us this time; Slowing down a bit, aren't you?), he thought he was getting closer. It'd been three months since the last corpse.

Steve reached across to clap him on the shoulder. "We'll find him, Clint. And whatever this asshole's doing with him, we'll stop that, too."

"You got any leads on that yet?"

"No," he said, pulling a face. "I've never heard of any Red Skull before. I've been checking the books, but the closest thing I've got is some journal from the mid-twentieth century that just says 'Red Skull defeated'. Doesn't say how, or what it was trying to do –"

"How about world domination," Clint grunted. "That's what all these big bads from Hell want."

Steve shifted in his seat. "The only other clue we have is what you've told us: that all of Buc- this demon's victims are female and of European descent." He lifted his hands uselessly. "Still got no idea why that's significant, though."

"Bucky might be able to help when I get him back."

After a pause, Steve nodded, murmuring a non-committal "Yeah," in response.

Clint raised his eyes. "I will get him back, Steve."

"I know. I'd take issue with you if you didn't think that."

He snorted, dropping his eyes to the table and scratching the edge of a whorl. "Do you think… I mean, is it possible to get him back without hurting him?"

Steve's words were gentle. "I'm not sure, Clint. I think the main thing is that he comes back alive."

As the petrol and salt caught fire, swallowing up the bones in the grave before them, Bobbi folded her arms and turned to face him. "So," she said. "What was it you were going to ask me before we were so rudely interrupted?"

Unable to tear his gaze away from the flames, Clint swallowed. "Bucky's missing," he began. "He got possessed about a year and half back. The bastard wearing him has been leading me on this sick little chase, but I lost his track six months ago. Was wondering if you knew about any gruesome deaths lately – young women, European background, vic's throat would've been slit, signs of torture, blood on the walls. The phrase, 'The Red Skull will come'."

In his peripherals, Bobbi shook her head. "I'm sorry, Clint," she said sincerely.

He sighed. "That's okay. But now that you know –"

"I will call you immediately."

Turning to look at her, Clint managed a smile. "Nice to see you haven't lost your touch, by the way."

She raised an eyebrow. "What, exactly, do you mean by that?"

"Nothing," he said with a shrug. "Just last time we met, I'm pretty sure we had to save your ass –"

"Only 'cause that dick vampire caught me by surprise –"

"That excuse is getting old now, Bobbi."

"Not as old as you."

"You're right. Can't remember why we ever hung out with you anymore, damn memory failure."

She shoved his shoulder, smirking. "Missed you too, dummy." He winked at her, turning back to the flames as their soft roar took up the threads of the conversation, accentuated by light pops and cracks as the bones turned to ash. "Year and a half, huh?" Bobbi murmured a few minutes later.

"Yeah."

"How're you holding up?"

He took a deep breath as the pain in his chest swelled briefly. "Could be worse," he said.

Her eyes went back to him again, and he could feel her scrutiny as well as he could the heat from the flames. "You don't look great, you know."

"Neither would you after eighteen months of nightmares and insomnia."

She sucked in a breath, but didn't berate him like he expected her to. After another short bout of silence, she told him: "Find Bucky soon. For his sake as much as yours. And when you do, give the filth that dared to set foot inside him an extra kick up its smoky backside from me." Clint closed the distance between them, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and holding her against his side. Before he departed, he made a mental note to bring Bucky back to see their old friend once he was himself again.

The blood was clearly old and flaking even in the photograph. The message hadn't changed after three years, and Clint was beginning to wonder when this Red Skull was going to actually make an appearance. It was just a brief consideration, though – he was more concerned with when he'd see Bucky again.

"How recent was this?" he asked Sam.

"The photo was taken two days ago. As for the decorating, we're still waiting on forensics for that."

"Can't they determine it from the age of the corpse or something?"

"There wasn't a body at the scene." Clint looked up sharply, and Sam began explaining. "Girl's name was Erica Holstein, twenty-two years old. Science major, clean record, no known enemies, family in Europe. A neighbour reported her missing a couple of weeks ago, and a first search of the apartment showed it was normal. Then this happened."

Frowning, Clint shook his head. "This isn't like him," he muttered. "Was there anything else in the room? A note or something?"

Giving him a knowing look, Sam delved into his pocket and pulled out a scrap of pink paper. "Scooped this up before anyone else saw it," he said. "Nobody noticed, but the Sheriff now thinks there's something significant about the fact that the girl's diary is missing a page."

Not long now, Clint. Hope you find us in time for the big finale!

"You know what it means?"

Clint scrunched the paper up tightly. "He's making it harder." With a heavy sigh, he dropped onto a low stone wall, burying his head in his hands. "I'm getting tired of this, Sam."

He heard his friend sit down beside him. "We'll find him, Clint. And when we do, nobody's going to stop you sticking that bastard demon back where it belongs." He rested a hand on his shoulder. "We all want Bucky back. Not as much as you, but… just so you know." Clint nodded. He did know – that was what made the search just a little more bearable.

Once, when they were younger and just starting out on the hunting scene, Clint and Bucky had to be rescued. It was understandable – they were young, brash, overwhelmed by werewolves and in dire need of assistance – but what made it embarrassing was that they were rescued by a non-human. Toro was someone that Bucky already knew, and, to Clint's surprise, considered a friend, though he wouldn't say why. It was only because of that relationship that Clint refrained from hurting Toro, and partly the reason he sought him out four years after Bucky's disappearance. He knew the goings-on of the underworld, and having been around a while could probably shed some light on a few questions.

"Do you know who's in him?"

Toro shook his head. "I didn't even know he'd been possessed – why didn't you tell me sooner, Clint?"

"He keeps leaving messages about this Red Skull thing. Know what that is?"

Sighing unhappily, the creature nodded (nobody knew what, exactly, Toro was, only that when he was angry things got very hot). "He's a monster who was defeated during the forties, notorious in the underworld for his complaining, amongst other things. MO is enslavement of humanity. Looks human, but his… 'skin' is red, and he's missing physical facial features."

"Like?"

"Nose and ears, most notably."

"What's he up to?"

Toro narrowed his eyes. "What does this have to do with Bucky?"

"It has everything to do with Bucky. Now what have you heard?" Clint was beginning to lose his taste for beating up demons for answers.

He pursed his lips. Regardless of his non-hostile nature towards humans, Toro still didn't like selling out his closer kin. "He's gaining some power. Looks like people have been sacrificed for him, but he needs a living descendant to actually come back to the surface." Clint nodded absently, then stiffened, thinking of the girl who went missing in Sam's town; watching his reaction, Toro's eyebrows shot up. "Wait – he succeeded?"

"A girl named Erica Holstein went missing last year. The same message was in her apartment, she wasn't."

"Clint, whoever's possessing Bucky has to be stopped! If the Skull gets out –"

"He won't. Not if you tell me everything you know."

After slight hesitation, Toro nodded. "But I want my name kept out of it."

Once he'd picked Toro's brains, Clint sent him Steve's way, dropping the man himself a quick message in warning. He wasn't sure yet if the new information would prove useful in finding Bucky, but these days anything was better than nothing.

"Tasha!"

Amidst the ruins of what used to be a cow shed, Natasha was unsteadily picking herself up from the ground. Clint rushed over to help, ignoring her protests as he held her at arm's length to check for serious injury. "I'm fine, Clint," she grunted.

He nodded, letting her go. "Did you see him?"

Dusting herself down, she gave him a sideways look. "He's trying again," she said.

Clint cursed. "Why?" he growled. "The Skull's as dead now as he was eight months ago. When Steve sends someone back to Hell, they stay in Hell, doesn't the bastard understand that?"

"We don't know, Clint," Natasha said calmly, watching him pace, "but we do know that he's not having as much success. He went through most of the possible descendants before he found Erica; it's likely he'll never find another."

Clint stopped in his tracks, gripping his bow so tightly he might have started bleeding. "I was too late," he muttered. "If I'd gotten here five minutes earlier –"

"He would've run as soon as he saw you. This one likes having the upper hand, and two adversaries as skilled as each other do not allow for that."

If that was meant to soothe him, it didn't. "Just… Just tell me one thing," he asked quietly. "How did he look?"

Natasha blinked. "Like every other demon possessing –"

"No, Tasha, I meant Bucky. How did Bucky look?"

Her eyebrows drew fractionally closer together. "I'm not sure," she said at last, and although he accepted her answer Clint knew she was keeping the truth from him. With Tasha, though, it was only because she didn't want to hurt him. "He went North," she offered, and after a final reassurance that she was alright he took off, following hope and the North Star high above.

The whiskey was deep amber in colour, darkened by the old, stained wood of the bar beneath it. He'd become immune to the smell a few glasses back, but remembered it faintly, like a scar on the back of his mind. He also remembered laughter, over-enthusiastic gestures of friendship (and love) and out-of-tune songs he could never learn the words to. As Carol appeared in his peripheral vision, Clint sighed and picked the glass up.

"Jess thinks you're giving up."

"Does she now?" He tossed back the contents, the alcohol tickling as it made its way down his throat. Setting the glass back down carefully he made to pour another one, but Carol moved the bottle out of reach.

"I think you're sitting on your ass."

He scowled at her. "Who asked your opinion?"

"What are you doing here, Clint? Everyone says you're constantly looking for Bucky. You won't find him in his favourite bottle."

Won't he? The bottle had given him memories, reminded him of fond moments he'd taken for granted – like the night of Hank's stag party, when Bucky had broken away from the embarrassing dancers to flop heavily next to him where he sat alone, dropped a heavy arm across his shoulders, then kissed him sloppily on the cheek, grinning into the side of Clint's face when he complained about Bucky's sweaty drunk odour. He could've said as much to Carol, but instead came out with: "It's his birthday today. And this is my favourite, too."

She rolled her eyes. "Now, maybe." As he slumped forward onto the bar, she tugged on his t-shirt. "Come on – you can take the spare room."

Clint lifted his head up to decline her offer. "You and Jess need your privacy."

"One," she said, hands on her hips, "that sentence suggests that you think we take advantage of having privacy pretty much every night; two, your wellbeing is more important than our sex life." She hauled him to his feet then, and either she was stronger than he remembered or he'd lost all ability to resist in the past few hours. "And three – you're assuming your presence would deter us."

It took a short while to get Clint settled into the spare room, and he was only slightly humiliated when Jess appeared in the doorway to tease him for his drunken state. Carol chided her softly, sending her away with a kiss, and Clint's chest ached at the gesture. He didn't want to know how long it had been since he'd kissed Bucky, never mind the fact that he couldn't have worked it out anyway. "Hey," he mumbled as Carol was about to leave. "If… If Jess was missing, and she'd been gone for a while, would you keep going? Would you still… look for her?"

"Yes," she answered immediately.

He frowned, picking at the blanket. "Even after six years?"

"As long as it took." And before he could ask why, she continued: "Because I know she'd do the same for me." Her words resonated around Clint's head until long after he'd fallen asleep; images of Bucky, obsidian pools, and blood vanished the moment he cracked open his eyes, but those words remained crystal clear and sharp enough to force him back into his search.

This was the last thing Clint wanted to do, but he'd finally run out of options. Bucky could've been anywhere – the closest he'd been was two years ago after fighting Natasha, and clues were thin on the ground. All of the hunter community who knew Bucky were keeping their eyes and ears open, but no-one had anything to tell him. It had been seven years without Bucky by his side for Clint to resort to this.

Abandoned warehouses always existed in someplace or other, and Clint was familiar with this one. He tamped down on his instincts as he was pressed forcefully into a steel support pillar, thin fingers digging into his throat with relish, and raised his hands above his head. "Please," he gasped out. "I just need her help."

"And why should I let you anywhere near her, asshole?"

"Don't mean her harm – no-one else I can ask."

A smirk. "You're assuming she's going to agree to your request."

"Why you so sure she won't?"

His aggressor snarled at that, squeezing harder until a shout from behind had him dropping Clint to the ground in an instant. Clint wheezed and coughed for a minute, fleetingly registering the pair of red boots that had come to stop in front of him. "Well, Clint," a velvet voice drawled from above, "you must really be desperate if you've come to ask someone like me for help."

It shouldn't have surprised him how obvious it was; he was undertaking measures only the desperate turned to after all. Rubbing his neck, he explained, "There are some things witchcraft can do that modern technology can't." He told them his story, then waited, silently praying as they held a muted conversation in front of him. This was his last shot at finding Bucky – his last sane shot, anyway. Plan B didn't bear thinking about. But after what seemed like a minor eternity, the two of them turned back to him.