AN: This is a (rather belated) birthday fic for saintnoname. Probably one of the darker fics I've written in terms of content (i.e. the afore-tagged abuse), but the main intention is a bit of a feels punch followed by an emotional glimmer of hope!

'Cause, yknow, angst and hope...

Anyways - sorry for the lateness but I hope you likes it! ^_^

Incentive

They're scoping out an empty building – seeing if it's worth being made up as a safe house - when they happen across the kids. Two of them, neither older than ten and both scrawny as hell, covered in dirt, smelly, and scared. The older one is a mess of filthy dark hair and false bravado, angling himself in front of his smaller companion despite a clearly injured arm. The half-hidden youngster peeks at them with an unusual intensity, even as he cowers behind his defender. He might be blonde. There's nothing apparently wrong with him, but the way he curls in on himself is a tell-tale sign indeed.

"Get lost!" brave-and-wounded shouts. "We're not going anywhere with you!" If his voice wasn't shaking, it would be halfway believable.

"Sir?"

They could be six and eight or nine. Their mistrust aside, six and nine-year-olds can be easily swayed – show them the basic care they need, the kindness they crave, and you have them in the perfect position. "How do you know you don't want to come with us?"

"'Cause we don't need you!"

"Really? Well, that is a shame. I thought you boys might like a couple of burgers inside you, maybe a hot bath, and something for your arm, kiddo. Looks like it hurts."

A flicker of longing passes over the boy's face, though he shifts to put his left arm out of view. "What's the catch?"

"No catch. I don't like seeing kids in the same state as you two are. I wanna help." He glances at his friend, worried but wanting. "Okay, then how about this: you come with me, and not only will you get your burgers and beds, I'll teach you how to really protect him."

The kid looks at him as if he's been offered the world (he has - he just doesn't know it yet). He swallows. "You serious?"

"Absolutely. I can teach the both of you."

Those fierce-scared eyes finally tear away from him. The boy then makes a couple of one-handed gestures at the other, miming eating and drinking, and the little one nods hesitantly. More visibly shaking now, the protective one nods. "Okay," he breathes. "We'll come."

Garrett smiles. "Great. What would you like in your burgers?"

"There was a fire… at the orphanage… and we got out…"

Their names are Bucky and Clint. They are eight and six respectively. Clint is deaf, Bucky's left arm is badly burnt and on the verge of infection. After wolfing down their first meal in days, Bucky is fighting exhaustion to tell Garrett their story, Clint already drooling against his good side.

"Nobody else did," he slurs, eyes practically closed, bandaged arm resting gingerly in his lap. "Thought Clint was Steve, but… And Clint's brother didn't… So he needed… someone to… look out for him… And if I couldn't… protect Steve… thought I'd protect him… I gotta…" He loses the fight, consciousness leaving him in an unmissable swoop.

"Keep 'em together for now," Garrett orders. "Have a pair of eyes on 'em twenty-four seven, but otherwise leave their recovery to me."

"Anything you need us to get for you sir?"

"Kids clothes, casual and gym. And a doctor, preferably an ear specialist. Friendly, too, so not that fucking Ghost or whatever his name is."

"Yes sir."

Let them recover, then start 'protection' training, just like he promised. That's important when working with kids: don't make promises you can't (or don't intend to) keep.

Clint knows sign language. They see him trying to teach Bucky during their free time. Bucky writes when he wants to communicate, and his friend appears to be able to read the scrawl. The scraps of paper they collect show that Bucky's telling Clint that they're safe now, that they won't have to worry about being hurt by anyone else again.

Abused as children, then, just as Garrett suspected. Their orientation around one another and the bad dreams exhibited at night confirm as much on their own, and he makes a point to note that down on their files. Not that family is an immediate concern: Clint's entire family is dead now, and Bucky says he has a sister somewhere, adopted too fast for him to realise. "We're family anyhow," he declares of him and Clint.

They get stronger as days slide by. The requested doctor optimistically suggests Clint could benefit from hearing aids, and the news is beautifully received by the boys. If the universe is feeling kind, the aids will arrive around the time Bucky's arm is healed enough for training to finally begin.

They do.

"Where's Bucky?"

"Training."

Clint likes to talk. It's understandable, but his incessant questioning is – irritating, to put it nicely. Bucky asks fewer questions these days, though he makes a valiant effort to answer all of Clint's before he passes out for the night. The boy's supervisors do no such thing, and Garrett needs to change that.

Bucky is a good student, though. He works hard, responds well, takes what he's told, doesn't cry (much) when hurt, and leaves any mention of Clint outside the gym. It stays like this for months, with Clint gradually being given his own basic fight training, until Garrett is allowed to move the level up a notch.

The forced daily separation works as he thought it would; Bucky goes straight to Clint after every session. They tell him he has his own room now, but he doesn't use it. He smiles when Clint smiles, forces himself to stay awake until the other is asleep, still speaks for him, still uses their rudimentary sign language, and hardly ever takes his eyes off him. Clint similarly transforms around Bucky, becoming more animated and more inquisitive, brighter and happier with the older boy in the room. The wary tension he expresses towards his supervisor disappears, adoration radiating off him instead as he genuinely relaxes. He even wakes up when Bucky does despite not wearing his aids at night. Their relationship couldn't be better.

"You don't think they're a little too attached to one another sir?"

"Maybe. But we're going to let it stay that way."

"Uh, is that –"

"Aren't we?"

"… Yes, sir."

Baby steps are important, so first, Garrett takes Bucky camping for a night.

"Is Clint coming too?"

"No."

"… Why not?"

"This is part of your training, that's why."

The change in behaviour is drastic; Bucky is quiet, but not in the attentive way he is in the gym. He fidgets. He frequently looks over his shoulder. He's distracted at dinner. He barely sleeps. To anyone else, it might have come across as hyper-vigilance in an unknown territory, behaviour to be praised. Garrett pretends to see it as such. He drags out the return, making Bucky move slowly even when base is in sight, noting how the boy vibrates in his desperation to get back to Clint. But even after they're 'safe', he has to sit through debrief, clean himself and his equipment, have his arm checked, and then, then Garret lets him go.

He's never seen a kid run so fast.

Nor has he ever seen a kid cry so much; replayed footage shows Clint in the throes of an almighty tantrum when Bucky doesn't show up for the night, refusing to eat, refusing to speak, refusing to hear, and trying to refuse to sleep. He's alone through his nightmares, and reverts to his frightened animal state the next morning, mute and unresponsive, only moving to go to the toilet. The moment Bucky returns, the boy launches himself off his bed and into the waiting embrace hard enough to topple them both, and barely lets go until the next day.

"We'll be going camping again next week," Garrett tells Bucky, ignoring his apprehensive expression at the news. "And for a few more weeks after that I think." He doesn't say when, just sets up the equipment on the day, and after a couple of weeks Bucky stops looking crestfallen whenever he sees it.

"Someone's asked me if you can do a job for them."

"What kind of job?"

"Nothing hard. Remember what I taught you about distraction?"

"Yeah?"

"You're gonna be a distraction."

He performs flawlessly. Garrett rewards him by letting him spend the entirety of the next day with Clint, and gets word that the higher-ups want to use Bucky to his full potential. As soon as possible.

Bucky is tired. He's been on the hunt for the last four days, only getting about six hours sleep, and he doesn't want to have to deal with his handlers just yet. As he passes over his rifle, the blandness of the hallway further numbing his mind, one question burns the tip of his tongue.

"Can I see him?"

"… No."

It's been years. He never stops asking after each mission – Garrett promised, and Garrett doesn't break his promises. They might take time coming to fruition, but he makes good on them. Patience is the key. Never mind the fact that the last time he saw Clint was when he turned twenty – and Clint, nearly eighteen himself, had joked he was no longer a teenager, at which point Bucky had been hit with the realisation that he'd probably never been a teenager. That night was the first, and so far the only time Bucky had let himself break in front of Clint.

It was also the night he came to terms with the extent of his feelings. Bucky can't say he knows what love is – he loved his sister and his parents, but he's pretty sure this is different. Everything he does now is for Clint, for those too-brief twenty-four hours he's allowed to see him and the reassurance that he's still alive and well. He dreams of holding him, of seeing him smile, hearing him laugh, having secret conversations in their unorthodox signing, and it's enough to keep him grounded; through the orders and the blood and the death, Bucky clings to the hope that this hit will be the one that grants him his privilege.

Not today, though. Today he forces himself to listen to each syllable of his debrief, to stand under a lukewarm shower until he's mostly clean, and then finally he can close his eyes and fight off nightmares in the search for sleep.

Elsewhere, Clint is wishing for sleep to come. Two days ago was his twenty-first birthday. He had hoped, distantly, that he would get something from Bucky – either in person or through the post – but Garrett was his only visitor, a new set of darts his only gift. He dared to ask on Bucky's whereabouts (nonchalantly, because he doesn't want to seem too concerned if Bucky isn't), but all Garrett told him was that he hadn't heard anything either. "Guess the job's more important these days, kid."

And after two days of near-silence, Clint finds himself thinking Garrett might be right. He hasn't had any form of contact with Bucky since that shared night those few years back – that special night, when their relationship had changed (he'd assumed for the better). Sometimes Clint wonders why he still asks.

It's been three and a half years. "Can I see him?" They've never waited this long before. "Please?"

"… Alright."

They bring Bucky a tablet, and his barely-controlled grin withers into a frown. "What's this?"

"You wanted to see him. Here you go."

… No, that's not… "Get Garrett here."

"He's busy –"

"I don't care, bring him here!"

Garrett comes, and Bucky peels his eyes away from the screen (Clint is throwing the darts he bought him at a board opposite his bed, with each one hitting triple twenty every time; Bucky wondered how often they let him use his bow) to ask what's going on. "You've got another job tomorrow. Figured you'd want to at least see how the guy's looking before you went. It's been a while."

"Yeah, and whose fault is that?" He gestures with the tablet. "This is bullshit! You promised me I could see him –"

"And you are seeing him, that's a live feed –"

"I didn't mean via a fucking computer screen!"

"Well keep this up and that's all you'll get!" Bucky snaps his mouth shut, and Garrett steps into his space. "Have I ever broken a promise to you?" A shake of the head is his answer. "Then treat this as a make-do. You have another mission to prepare for. I suggest enjoying the view while you still can."

The range is a beautiful place to be when you spend most of your life in a never-changing bedroom. Clint wants to stay here forever. Or longer than the tag around his ankle allows, at least. Archery is so much better than darts, so much more powerful, that little bit more challenging, and he can focus his thoughts away from Bucky and Garrett and his supervisors for a few glorious hours. Instead, it's nock, draw, loose, repeat, with minute variations each round, feeling out what works better and what needs to change.

His seven minutes of heaven may as well just be that, though. A couple of hours fly by, and his tag beeps and he has to go back to his room. He should've expected what happens next (his supervisors all look the same nowadays, though, even to him); both feet over the threshold and Clint finds himself pressed into the wall, hardly able to protest as his hearing aids are taken out, making his already quiet world silent. Released, he sends a glare his supervisor's way before going to the fresh newspaper on his bed.

A few days. He can wait a few days.

"Your mark's in Odessa. A dangerous man, this one, though you wouldn't think to look at him. He's an engineer – of the nuclear variety – who recently decided to offer his services to the wrong people. We can't make him switch sides, so he needs taking out. You know the drill from here."

He takes a deep breath. "I won't do it."

Garrett chuckles. "Excuse me?"

"Not until I see Clint. In person."

Nobody moves. Nobody except Garrett, who slowly stands from his own side of the coffee table to sit in the space beside Bucky. "Do this."

"Not until –"

"And he'll still be in one piece when you return." He leans closer. "That's a promise."

Twenty-four hours later, Bucky has the engineer's convoy in his crosshairs.

Two days is long enough. Clint jumps up from where he'd been doing push-ups and advances on his supervisor. He wants to hear; even if there's nothing to actually listen to, he just wants to hear again, beyond that little voice in his head screaming at him to wait, just wait until that not-such-a-douchebag supervisor comes –

It goes pretty much like clockwork; Clint lands a couple of punches before superior training wins out. He's allowed a moment of respite while the bastard undoes belt buckle or fly zip, then he's forced to his knees to face the last obstacle. It's funny – well, it's not, but – how a couple of hours on the range can feel like a handful of minutes, yet a few minutes of this seems so much longer. He only registers that it's over when his aids are dropped into his lap.

"…ly something, kid," the supervisor is saying. "Dickinson has no idea what he's missing out on." Clint just leans his forehead against the wall, willing himself not to puke.

Pain. Lots of pain. Too much, even, and Bucky has no idea what's going on. His shoulder burns. He thinks his arm does, too. Orange licks at the corner of his vision (but aren't his eyes closed?). He wants to scream, but his throat is raw and he can't get enough air in his lungs (yet he can't smell any smoke). Someone, somewhere, is screaming (Clint?). Something crackles like a mechanical fire, and he can't move, but the pain in his arm intensifies until he jerks his eyes open to a white room, still struggling to breathe, his left side in agony, something stuck to his face, wrapped around his legs –

"Easy, easy – you're okay kid, you're alright. You're just in medical." Garrett. "Hey, can we get this tube out of him already?" Medical. "Good hands these, Buck. They fixed you up beautifully."

People surround him, pulling something out from his throat – and god, no, he's choking again, he just wants to breathe, breathe – and when they start babbling to one another, checking his shoulder, looking excited about it, beneath the blanketing ache over his mind he works out that something is different. He tries to ask, but all that comes out when he parts his lips is a whimper. Something hisses, the pain starts to recede, and he lets himself fall into darkness.

It's another couple of days before he wakes up again, Garrett tells him. He has answers to all the questions Bucky didn't realise he wants to ask – Clint visited briefly, he hears – but it's the phrase "brand new arm" that yanks his mind back into clarity.

"You lost it on your way to your extraction point. Car collision, totally out of nowhere, but not your fault, so don't worry. We got you diverted from the regular hospital before they could get their hands on you, and our guys declared that your arm… Well, after the damaged it sustained when you were a kid, it wouldn't've been much use to you even if they pulled the best patch-up job since Michael Jackson. Anyway – they called up our tech team, who had just the thing for you." With a grin, he raps his knuckles on Bucky's elbow.

Bucky's metal elbow.

Through the use of darts and small scratches in the wall, Clint knows it's been one month since his birthday. His hearing aids have been kept from him twice during that time. Garrett's visited him four times. He's never had anything to say about Bucky. And yet it's Bucky Clint is staring at right now. He isn't dreaming – it's really him, standing in the frame of his door, looking worn-out and leaner and bearing a haunted demeanour that doesn't fade away fast enough as he lays eyes on Clint.

"Hi…"

'Hi'? That's it? Three years, no contact, and he just says 'hi'? Clint is speechless, a rebuke trying to force its way out, but as he stands and gawps Bucky moves in, both arms coming up around Clint's shoulders… and it feels wonderful. Tight, secure, fractionally uncomfortable, but the warmest touch he's felt in so long; and as he returns Bucky's death-grip, a wrongness registering just at the edge of his senses, Clint's thoughts double back on themselves – how could he ever have believed Bucky didn't care?

There's a reason. For his absence, for the stiffness of his arm, for the hurt he tried to bury before Clint could truly see. There have to be reasons, even just one.

"How long do you have?"

Bucky swallows, his face half-pressed into Clint's neck. "The usual, twenty-four hours."

"Then start talking."

Bucky tells Clint everything. Sat shoulder to shoulder on Clint's bed, he recalls life as he's known it since he was fifteen years old. In previous visits, he'd left out the part about the killings, worried that he'd be hated for what he's done, but now he skims over the barest of details, making sure Clint knows just what he's been doing for him in a mixture of speech and sign language, conventional or otherwise. He tries to explain the arm (managing not to heave when he looks at it this time) but there's neither word nor gesture that explains how strange it is.

"Did it hurt?"

His metal fingers twitch and clench. "A little."

Clint says he has no stories to tell, just that he believed – was allowed to believe – that Bucky had practically abandoned him. As he talks about how Garrett was his only visitor, how his supervisors ignored him, and how his feelings towards Bucky oscillated between resentment and longing on a daily basis, Bucky notices his body language change; but it's still a minor blow to his heart when Clint slumps where he's sat and admits in a wretched murmur, "I've been so stupid."

"What? Hey, no, don't –" Reaching out, he tugs Clint's chin until they're face to face, then he points to Clint, shakes his head and taps his temple. You are amazing, he signs (because it's their language, Garrett's interpreters be fucked). You are brave, funny, caring, more than I – His fingers still. Language completely fails him, because again there is nothing to say how important Clint is to him. So it's then that he lets his instincts take over, leaning forward those precious few inches to kiss Clint, and in the alarming clarity that follows he finds the ability to sign: You are my whole world.

It takes two seconds for Clint to start laughing. Bucky thinks this might be the worst mistake he's ever made until he gasps out, "That's so cheesy, man!" And just like that, they're both laughing, Clint falling sideways across Bucky's lap, struggling to breathe for God knows how long. When at last they calm down, Bucky has the urge to run his fingers through Clint's light hair – but they're metal and weird, so he keeps them away. He lets Clint tangle his other hand with his, though, skin on skin like it should be, and gazes down at the smile shining back at him. Slowly, Clint pretends to punch the space beside his head then points at him. Bucky mimics him, holding up two fingers after pointing at Clint.

They stay this way for a while. Noticing Clint's eyelids drooping slightly, Bucky gets ready to change the mood with the urgent news he's been waiting to divulge: he points to both of them, then makes his fingers 'walk' on air. Clint's eyes widen, and when he asks how, Bucky lies down behind him and, in the quietest of whispers, tells him about Odessa, about the woman he didn't quite kill, and the information she'd left him.

"She told me to plug it into a computer, and it was this guy in a suit saying that he knew all about me and you and Garrett, and that he could help get us out of this situation. He said we'd been tricked, that Garrett's not a nice guy, and he's using you to make me kill good people… I know we've known Garrett nearly our whole lives, but… I believe this guy. That woman knew my name – not my codename, she knew I was called Bucky – and Mr Sitwell was even in the video. One of us is supposed to get in touch with him if we want out. This suit, though, he… he said he'd do more than get us out. He can give us back our lives, Clint. We wouldn't be stuck anywhere, constantly watched or tagged. We could – we could spend every day together for the rest of our lives."

In his arms, Clint rolls over, hope in his eyes. He kisses Bucky again, nods when he pulls away, then resumes kissing him in a manner suggesting he doesn't want to stop.

"Clint? Where did you learn to do that?"

"I didn't. It's natural talent."

"What?"

"I know."

"No. No, we've been socially stunted since we were kids, but I'm pretty sure that particular talent is learned. Clint, what happened? Who – What did they do to you?"

Clint takes his hearing aids out, pulls the bed sheet over them, and tries to still his shaking body. The way Bucky pulls him tightly against his chest, though, he's probably figured it out. Regardless, it's the most secure sleep he's had (and will have) in years.

The boot between his shoulders grinds down hard, right at the point where metal meets flesh (the scars not quite pink yet), and as his normal arm is twisted further behind him Bucky can't hold back the cry of pain, a sound of submission.

"I have done nothing but care for you since the day I found you both. I got you help, I took you in, I taught you everything you needed to know to survive in this world, and never once have I asked for thanks. But this is how you repay me? You come in accusing me of raping a young man I consider a son? Let me just remind you that if it weren't for me, the two of you would be dead, because the world is full of people who'll do a lot worse to a child than let them starve." Garrett releases his hold, moving round to kneel by Bucky's head as he pants on the floor. His hair his caught up in Garrett's fist, his face brought forcefully up. "You wanna do good by Clint, you stop doubting me and do as you're told. Don't let him suffer for your insolence."

"Sir? You have a visitor."

Bucky's head smacks on the floor once more. His shoulder blades scream as he moves to push himself onto all fours, a fierce sting sweeping across his left one, vision swimming with the pain. He raises his head enough to see Jasper Sitwell shaking Garrett's hand, and then everything goes black.

Later, it's Sitwell who finds him trying to mop up the blood from his back, and one look between them is all it takes. "There'll be someone waiting for you at your first check-in on your next hit. You call in your arrival, then leave with them."

"What about –"

"Once you're out of harm's way we go for Clint."

"How?"

"Fast, hard, and from right under their noses. I can't make you any promises, but I assure you, we'll do our best to see the both of you out of here for good."

It's been thirty-six hours, but Clint still misses Bucky like a bird without a wing. After the previous night, parting hurt almost physically once their time was up, and the protective steel was back in Bucky's eyes, gone since childhood. It made Clint feel relieved and anxious in equal measure, and he spent a large portion of the day hoping Bucky hadn't gotten himself in trouble; his worst fear was that he would go in accusing them of worse than what had really passed – even once they'd woken up, Clint had refused to acknowledge the issue, keeping his aids out until Bucky stopped pushing for information and started making out with him instead, soft and lazy against the ticking of the unseen clock.

Alone, Clint falls prey to his thoughts. In all those years he was made to endure silence and… more just because his supervisor at the time was bored, wasn't there something he could have done? Fought back somehow, turned the tables on them? He'd always ended up going to his knees (even the handful of times he'd managed to get a punch in), though. What did that say about him? And now Bucky is probably being punished because of his incompetence, because of his inability to admit that maybe he is a fuck-up and incapable of looking after himself. That's the rub: no matter how much he appreciates Bucky's protective instinct, no matter that he now feels he needs it, a small part of him wishes he wasn't so dependent on another person to feel safe. Evidently, it's a bad idea – Garrett had been a beacon of security for most of Clint's life, and now that illusion has been pulled out from under him Clint isn't sure he wants to trust anyone to that degree ever again.

That's another problem: he can't just turn off his near-worship of Garrett. The man has been a father to Clint. He struggles to reconcile the man he knows with the one Bucky's new contact described, one who is using Clint to have Bucky do his dirty work. Momentarily, he becomes angry at Bucky for hiding that fact in the first place, but when he works out that it's just the same as his own withholding he feels even worse. Helpless as his thoughts spiral out of control, throwing him between anger, self-pity, choking anxiety and bone-deep sadness, Clint pulls out his hearing aids and curls up on his bed, willing himself to wake up in the orphanage to Barney shaking him roughly, the sign for breakfast on his fingers.

Bucky flips open his phone, dials the check-in number, and forces his breaths to remain even.

"Hello?"

"Hi Dad, it's me. Just calling to let you know I'm at the hotel, all in one piece."

"Ah, great! How does your room look?"

"It's really clean." He glances back at the red-haired woman, who nods encouragingly. "Not a bad view, either. The staff all seem nice, but I haven't seen any other guests yet. Guess they keep to themselves."

"Best not to disturb them then. Well, thanks for checking in, son – enjoy your stay there."

"Will do. See you soon, Dad."

"'Dad'?" the woman asks once he puts the phone away. "Not the most original coding, but I suppose it works. To be honest though, I expected a little more from the Winter Soldier."

Bucky swallows. "It's just what I was taught." She nods, and he exhales shakily. "So what happens now?"

"I take you down to one of our cars and drive you to a temporary safe house. Once you're there and I'm sure we haven't been followed, I'll radio our team to let them know it's their turn."

"And they'll get Clint out? Safely?"

"They'll do their best."

Stomach twisting, he looks away. Nobody's made him feel especially reassured about this whole operation. It's always been 'they'll do their best', no guarantees or promises, and he can't decide which he'd prefer; on the one hand, Garrett made everything he said into a promise – for good and for bad – but his honesty only extended as far as he wanted it to, whereas this woman isn't putting him under any illusions whatsoever. She's letting him know that things may go pear-shaped, and also that she wants Clint out as much as he does (well, not quite as much, but near enough). It's… confusing. He just wants to get out of this hotel room, wants to see Clint out of that crummy excuse of a bedroom for good, and for them both to be somewhere normal, doing normal things like normal people, with their past shoved out of sight and mind. Hopefully, that isn't too much to ask for.

"Are you ready?"

As the blood drains from his face, Bucky nods, standing up as the woman moves across to the door. "Uh, what's – what's your name?"

She smiles. He thinks it might be genuine. "Natasha." The door opens, and Bucky steps through.

The note is written in a code he and Bucky devised over ten years ago. Clint reads it multiple times, making sure he's not misreading it, and stares at his supervisor. The not-a-douchebag one. The man who has told him the same thing Bucky did barely a week ago: someone, somewhere, is going to get Clint out of here. It already says Bucky is safe – and oh, god, what if it's a trap, and he falls for it again, too dumb to work out when he should say 'no' and fight for his dignity – and that when the fire alarm goes off he's to follow the man down a different route, because a car is waiting to take him to Bucky, to a new life. A better life.

Clint is scared. He doesn't know who to believe. What if this is Garrett's doing? What if, by obeying, he's sentencing himself to severe punishment for betrayal? How is he supposed to know? How can he be sure this is the way to a better life? Where's Bucky? What would he do?

The note is written in a childhood code, one he and Bucky stopped using years ago. He's nearly forgotten it himself. This supervisor, whoever he is, didn't want anyone but Clint seeing this message. That has to mean something. Clint buries his face in his hands, suddenly desperately wishing he was anywhere but here and now. Then the fire alarm rings out, loud and damning, and the supervisor turns to him expectantly. Three minutes later, they're striding down a deserted corridor.

"Hey!"

A nearly deserted corridor.

Garrett used to tell him off for pacing. Said it wore down his boots unnecessarily, only served to make him more impatient and worked-up. He advocated meditation, just sitting and breathing or counting, keeping the blood pressure down and the adrenaline at low levels – but the last thing Bucky wants to do now is meditate; Natasha isn't meditating, though she is sitting very still (still enough for the both of them), but the frown hasn't left her brow in too long, and Bucky knows without asking that the plan has gone askew.

"They're just a little late," is all Natasha says, voice even, only her lips moving. "It's probably nothing. Try not to worry so much."

"Try not to worry?" he echoes sharply. "Do you have any idea what this is like? Waiting for something this important to you, with no idea when it's going to get here?"

He doesn't see her eyes move, but suddenly they're pinning him to the spot, green and hard, stealing his breath away with their terrifyingly ferocious beauty. "I was shot through the stomach not so long ago. My shooter didn't finish me off but neither did he do much to help, and I had no idea if medical assistance would reach me before I bled out."

Guilt floods him, and Bucky sits down heavily on the sofa, head in his hands, fingernails and metal fingertips digging harshly into his scalp. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. If you had killed me neither of us would be here, and our plan to get you out from HYDRA's clutches wouldn't have been put into motion so soon."

"But you nearly died because of –"

"So make it up to me now. Try not to worry."

He breathes in deeply, closing his eyes and fighting back the nausea crawling up his throat. If he's ever going to trust anyone ever again, it could be her.

His ribs throb with every breath; there's blood in the corner of his left eye; his nose feels swollen and sore; he's alive, and for the first time in fifteen years, he's seeing the outside world. He can't find it in himself to savour the moment, though, because he's waiting for the car ride to be over. He's waiting to see the most important person in his life, for a new future to finally be offered to him, to experience true freedom at last.

Not soon enough, the driver – his former supervisor – turns into a house-filled suburb, pulling into a drive near the end of the road. He's out of the vehicle before a word can be spoken, ignoring the protests of his own body because all he wants is within his reach now, just a few feet away behind that door.

"Bucky." God, let him be here, please, please let him be here – "Bucky!"

The door opens, and Bucky comes hurtling out of the house, too fast for Clint to prepare. Bucky crashes into him, the pain knocking his breath away, but it doesn't matter because he's encircled in a too-tight, slightly uncomfortable embrace that he can only half-match, and he closes his eyes against unexpected tears as Bucky repeats in a strangled whisper "We're free – we're free, Clint, we're free, we're free!"

Freedom… This he will fight for.

AN: Any questions about anything, please do ask!

If it's not obvious, Bucky and Clint's personal sign language translations are: 'You're not dumb', 'I missed you (too)', and 'We [can] go'.