AN: I wrote this for Winterhawk Week this year, but recently my confidence in myself and my writing has taken a nosedive. I managed to answer the two prompts I was given (this being one of them), and I've done some more since then, but only really prompts. My self-belief is still 'shaky', so I can't say when non-prompt updating will resume - but to those following We'll Make the World Ours, I will put the next chapter up as soon as I'm able. That fic is not abandoned. (Neither, for that matter, is Gently.)

Thanks for reading :-)

Dreaming for Two

Bucky doesn't know much about anything these days (those 'days' included). What he does know can be narrowed down into a few manageable notes: captured; arm ruined; Clint bad. It's the last one that makes his empty stomach tremble, that makes him grasp at what little consciousness he has left and try to discern if Clint is breathing. In hazy memories that could easily be dreams, he knows they did a number on Clint, wanting information – locations, strategies, times, and other logistics – and not receiving a word. The only reason, as Bucky understands it, that they haven't moved onto captive number two is because they doubt he'll last more than a few minutes.

So the possibility of this all being some fucked-up machination of his own mind strengthens. No force in their right mind would ignore half of their captives, especially if one wasn't up to scratch. Bucky knew, in those clearer days, that he was leverage at best and expendable at worst, but now? Now they're both garbage, damaged goods left to rot. It doesn't make sense. It has to be a dream.

"Clint." Keep talking – quietly, so he doesn't draw attention, but loud enough for Clint to hear him. Understanding is, at this point, optional. "Clint, wake up." On his right shoulder, Clint stirs. Bucky jostles him a fraction and hears a harsh, muted gasp. "It's all just a dream, Clint." Or is it? If it was a dream, wouldn't Clint have done something unexpected by now? That is what happens in dreams. Isn't it? "Just gotta wake up, then it'll all be fine."

His arm might be okay again. He won't have a sloppy bandage clinging to an infected gash, won't have numb fingers, or a pulsing ache along his left shoulder. Clint might be okay again. He won't have swollen bruises on his face, electricity burns on his back and feet, and his eyes would be open and bright and smiling again. And Bucky would tell him and their friends about this shitty dream, and Clint would laugh and tease him with them until they were out of earshot; then there would come the gentle touches, the concern, the quick kiss and the secure embrace, with the whispered promise: "You're not alone. Okay? You are not alone."

"Not alone, Clint," Bucky tells him, the words catching on his throat. He rolls his head to the right, dropping his lips onto Clint's sand-coated hair. Closing his eyes, he seeks out a broken hand, stroking the back of it carefully. "'m still here."

There's a commotion beyond the door. Their captors are shouting, and Bucky's too confused to pick out the words he knows. "Something's happening," he says to Clint. He shifts, trying to find a more defensive position that doesn't hurt or disrupt him too much, knowing from the past (from his dreams) that commotions are never good.

Sure enough, the storm comes for them; "Who did you tell?" one man shrieks, striding forwards. "Who did you tell?" But before Bucky can try to understand what he's asking he barks at another man in another language, and reaches down to haul Bucky up by his left arm. Bucky lets slip a strangled cry as he's wrenched away, sees Clint slumping down before also being pulled at. A shock of pain radiates through him, brief and intense before his whole body goes numb, vision whitening as he teeters on the edge of consciousness. Bucky hears the men cursing, yelling at him and Clint, and as he struggles to make sense of anything another sound joins the chaos: the sharp, staccato frenzy a soldier knows like their own heartbeat.

Seems like his dream is ending.

Abruptly, Bucky is dropped. He grunts at the impact, and beneath garbled words he hears another thump nearby. Craning his neck, aches and pains slowly giving his body shape again, he rolls himself onto his stomach and drags himself towards the source of the sound, lone arm shaking with the effort, legs scrabbling unhelpfully behind him; but he makes it, uninterrupted (where do the dream-men go when they're not fuelling the nightmare?), to the foetal shape of Clint.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, pushing himself closer, curling his arm around Clint's head. "I've got you. I'm here." Clint is quiet. Bucky shifts his hand down to his neck, feeling around clumsily for the pulse point – but his hand is shaking too much, and he barely has the strength to press his fingertips against the clammy skin beneath them. "Hang on, Clint," Bucky tells him, vision swimming again. "'s nearly over." Each breath burns, each beat of his heart a punch to his chest. He drops his forehead to Clint's temple, eyes shut, and rests. Sand and dust scratches the inside of his nose and throat. His arm throbs. He's tired. He wants to wake up.

"They're in here!"

And now Bucky knows he's dreaming – Steve was never here. He wasn't in that car with them, he didn't drive over an IED. Hot fingers replace his on Clint's neck, and he moans a protest.

"We need medical! Barnes, can you hear me? It's Rogers. Barton? Come on, guys, give me a sign you can hear me."

He digs deep, finding another spark of energy to curl himself around Clint a fraction more. They've hurt him enough, and barely laid a hand on Bucky. What kind of militant force leaves prisoners –

"Sergeant Barnes?" That's him. "Medic, you're needed in here, now!"

Bucky opens his eyes. The world is an off-gold colour. Sometimes, when it's sunny, it'll be the colour of honey, soft to the touch, free of sand and grime, smelling of that awful shampoo, but he'll press his nose into it anyway and just breathe…

"Barnes? You gotta move – Temple needs to get to Barton."

He doesn't want to move. Not when Clint hasn't.

"Barnes."

Clint's head is cool against his own.

"Bucky," a voice says, gentle, a hot hand on the base of his skull. "Let him go."

"Are we being stupid about this?"

"About what?" Bucky propped himself up on his elbows, moving a hand to run his fingers lightly down the dip between Clint's shoulders, to where the sheets covered his waist and back up again.

Clint blinked at him sleepily, head pillowed on his arms. "We're both soldiers. We're in the same unit. We're going to the same hell-hole at the same time." He paused. "What if only one of us comes back?"

Bucky swallowed. It was a question they'd both been avoiding for a while now, but with their deployment date looming, the discussion was inevitable. Maybe getting out of the way was the sensible thing to do. "If we talk about this now, can I go back to appreciating how alive we both are immediately afterwards?" Clint's lips twitched, but he nodded. Bucky folded his arms, thinking through his words, all the what-ifs, and what they'd all been told about death. "For the record: loving you, knowing you love me, and choosing to put distance between us when we could both be doing the thing we love right next to each other? That's stupid." His eyes dropped to the curved muscle beneath his chin, and he traced a finger over its swell and fall. "If only one of us returned…" Even now, his mind shied away from the idea. "Well, I'd want you to look after yourself. You know, do whatever makes you happy, keep healthy, stay in the world – take advice when it's given to you, because I know you're shit at that." He smirked at Clint's eye-roll. "And, look out for Rebecca too, I guess. I know she's not a kid anymore, but she'll – she'd be the last of our family, so…" Clint lifted his head, nodding gently, and Bucky blew out a breath. "You?"

He shrugged, rubbing at his chin. "Same kind of thing, I guess. Except, you don't have to look out for Barney or anything, asshole wouldn't appreciate it. But yeah, stay happy, stay safe… Don't burn my bow, though, I'd fucking haunt you for that."

"What, you mean you wouldn't haunt me anyway?"

"Not in the nice way I wouldn't."

Bucky grinned, then ducked his head. They could joke about it, sure, but that didn't stop his heart jackhammering at the thought of having to figure out what to do with a Hoyt recurve bow he knew very little about. As he began to think too much about it, Clint brought him back to the present with a squeeze on his left shoulder. "I don't intend to leave you on your own for a while yet, Buck."

"Good." He closed the distance between them, pressing an insistent kiss to Clint's lips (and trying not to savour the feeling). "'Cause I got plans for you right now, Corporal."

"Aw, come on, no ranks in bed –"

"That won't apply if we ever do it in uniform."

"Will we even be doing it in a bed if we're in uniform?"

"Exactly. Now shut up."

God forbid he should ever lose Clint Barton.

AN: Prompt: "Don't get me wrong, I love winterhawk, but I am also an absolute sucker for tragedy, so. Winterhawk in the military(WW2 AU if you want), and they get captured by the enemy. Clint is tortured brutally, then dies in Bucky's arms just as help arrives." (This is not WWII, in case it wasn't clear.)