B is for Brothers
Story 2: "They used to say the world needed Steve Rogers. Somehow the world forgot about Bucky Barnes."
Characters: Steve. Mentions of Bucky. Clint.
I know, it's been a while. But I'm getting back into the swing of things, and I have the next five or six written out already. I'll try to keep the updates rolling for as long as possible.
"Do you miss him?" Barton asks one day out of the blue.
Steve stares at him, at first confused. "Tony?" he asks in surprise. Tony's the only one not at the Tower due to a massive science convention that's granting him the same award for the fifth (or maybe sixth) time. He had maintained up until the last minute that he wasn't going to go, but Pepper eventually managed to cheerfully strong-arm him into attending.
"Not Tony," Barton responds. There's a long pause and Steve waits patiently for the archer to continue. It hadn't taken him long to learn that Clint doesn't particularly enjoy dredging up any conversation related to emotions, even if it is part of his job description. "Bucky."
The air goes out of Steve like he's been hit in the stomach with a crowbar, and for a moment he's too shocked to reply.
Barton, obviously worrying that he's ventured into unwelcome territory, hastily mumbles, "Sorry. Shouldn't have asked."
The archer's already halfway out of the room by the time Steve gets over his surprise and responds. "No, it's fine," he states to the archer carefully. "Just an unexpected question."
Clint hovers half in and half out of the doorway, uncertainty warring with some other emotion Steve's too tired to attempt to decipher.
"Sit down," Steve orders absentmindedly, pointing to the chair across the room. Instead of walking to it, Clint just makes his way over to the couch Steve sits on and flops down on the floor. "Every day," Steve admits to him honestly, voice slightly hoarse.
Clint carefully folds his feet under him, something Steve's never seen him do before. The marksman obviously has something else to say. Steve doesn't mind waiting. He's had plenty of practice at it. There's a pause that eventually stretches into several minutes. At last something in Clint's stance shifts and that's when the soldier decides Clint wants him to speak.
"I miss them all. Everyone who gave too much for so little," Steve keeps his voice raw and honest, knowing that any lie will be automatically detected and will shatter the fragile trust they've built. He still wonders what made the Howling Commandos stake their trust in him. Sometimes he wonders if they had been a little less trusting or a little less eager to follow his command if things might have turned out for the better.
"Isn't that how it's always been?" Clint clenches one fist in his lap and Steve realizes why he'd sat on the floor, back against the couch. He's taking the opportunity to face away from Steve. He wants to keep hiding.
Steve knows far too much about hiding.
"It's not your fault," he tells Clint slowly, a vague guess formulating at the rear of his mind. Steve doesn't bother looking at the marksman's face. Clint's smiles mean only as much as he wants them to mean. They're not a reliable barometer of his mood, not by a long shot. Steve watches his shoulders, and when the angle is right, the muscles in his back. If Barton trusts the company he's with, they are the surest way to tell the truth.
Every muscle in Clint's back is ready to spring into action, betraying how close to the mark Steve's statement hit.
"You don't know that," Clint argues softly, almost dangerously. He tilts his head away from Steve, fixing his eyes on the dented coffee table just out of reach. "If I were tell you that you weren't responsible for Bucky's death, would you believe me?"
Compelled to answer honestly, Steve replies, "No." He knows what point Clint is attempting to make, but that doesn't mean he'll accept it. "What happened?"
His question is obviously too much too soon because Barton shoves himself to his feet and leaves the room.
Steve stands in his newly redecorated room, courtesy of an experiment on the Hulk gone wrong. The smell of fresh paint overwhelms the rest of his senses, and for a moment he can do nothing more than sit down and try to get rid of the lightheaded sensation.
He doesn't have time to completely recover because he hears the familiar scraping sound that signals that Barton's about to come through one of the panels in the ceiling.
The archer drops lightly to the ground, his balance not at all disrupted by the small book he's clutching in one hand. To Steve, it appears familiar. The thought doesn't make sense - all of his old possessions had been lost with him.
"Brought you a present," Barton announces. He drops the book onto the desk, looking remarkably smug with himself. For a moment, Steve isn't quite sure why. The shoddily bound book is nothing to look at. A few of the papers once held tight by the binding had come loose, beginning to slip free. The cover itself was black, and in the corner someone had neatly printed a name.
The memory that had been tugging at him came free, and Steve felt one corner of his mouth tugging up in a grin. "My sketchbook?" he scarcely dared to ask.
"Stole it right out of the archives," Barton announces, sprawling back onto the couch they'd lugged into the room just a few days prior. Barton immediately winces and sits back up, the flash of bandage obvious beneath his vest. "Thought you might want it back."
Steve picks it up gingerly, half expecting it to fall apart at his hesitant touch. "Peggy kept it?" he asks in surprise. He had given it to her before the last mission.
"Guess so. Fury had it stashed in the back of the archives, so it wasn't as though it was in high demand. No one else was using it anyway."
"Thanks."
Barton didn't say 'you're welcome', but Steve isn't expecting him to anyway. They've had a few light conversations since Clint had mentioned Bucky and Steve wonders how long the archer has been planning this one. While Steve waits, he casually flips through his sketchbook. Someone must have taken great care to preserve it. The paper is neither brittle to the touch and nor is the ink faded.
He pauses on a half-completed sketch of Bucky and Peggy, smiling slightly as he remembers how off-balance Peggy had made the two of them feel. As he looks at the image, he can feel Bartons's eyes on him.
"Back when things were bad in the eighties," Barton suddenly speaks up, "They used to say the world needed Steve Rogers. Somehow the world always forgot about Bucky Barnes."
The statement provokes both guilty and curiosity. Steve isn't sure which emotion is the right one, so he settles on a weird mix of both as he looks at Barton.
"You two were like brothers, weren't you?" Barton prods. Steve nods, silent. "They'd always talk about you - make you out to be a great, perfect hero."
Steve wonders if Barton's purposefully digging in the knife as he points out that Steve will never be able to live up to expectations.
"But I think everyone forgot that you had others. A team, a girl, and a brother," Barton's eyes are a little wistful as he stares at the paper. It could be just the bad lighting, but Steve thinks he sees a flash of ice blue.
"Yeah, I did."
"About the other day-" Barton blurts out, changing the subject rapidly enough to make Steve's head spin.
"It's fine," Steve interjects quietly before Barton can trip over his own words. "I shouldn't have asked." He knows all about raw wounds.
"You had every right," Clint twists his hands slightly, as though he wishes his bow was within reach. It isn't of course. Tony still is tinkering with it downstairs. "It's just... I haven't talked about it. Him."
Who? Steve knows better than to ask the question aloud. Instead he just silently watches Barton.
"You know, I used to have a brother," Clint blurts out. Steve actually didn't know. Unlike the rest of his team, he didn't read the dossiers SHIELD has on the civilian members of the group. If he'd really wanted to, he could have obtained Natasha and Clint's as well. Unless it posed an active danger to the rest of the team, he's willing to let the others talk to him when they feel ready. Some things were meant to stay secret. "His name was Barney."
Used to have. Was. Steve doesn't need to ask what happened.
"We used to be on good terms, until I started archery," Clint waves one hand in the general area of where his bow usually is located. "Went our separate ways eventually. He died, and I should've been able to stop it."
"Did you kill him?" Steve interrupts.
Clint gives him an annoyed look. "No. Everyone asks me that question, and it doesn't help any. Whether I killed him or not, I should have been able to stop it from happening," there's another pause and Steve lets Clint see his wry look. The archer's mouth tugs up in a humorless grin. "But you probably know that, don't you?" Steve does - a whirlwind of sensations. so cold. trying desperately to make it. he's never been this cold before. too late. always too late - but he knows the question is meant to be rhetorical. He just wonders where Clint plans to go with all this. "Just... does it ever go away?" before Steve can ask what, Barton continues. "The guilt, I mean."
Ah.
Just like last time, Steve teeters between honestly and duplicity, mercy and trust. "No," he admits. It appears as though the air's been let out of Clint's body. "It helps if you're willing to let others share the weight." Clint glances up, truly meeting his eyes for the first time, and Steve sighs. "Let others in."
Barton gives him a look that clearly says yeah, right. Steve shrugs and stands, sensing that Barton's listened to enough of his advice today. He can see a faint trickle of blood showing through the white of Clint's bindings.
"When was the last time you changed that?"
Barton follows his gaze, puzzled. Evidently surprised, he pokes it and winces. "Must've torn a stitch crawling up there. Nat's going to kill me."
Steve raises an eyebrow at Barton. "Promise to think about what I said, and I won't tell her if you won't."
Clint's look turns shrewd, and he considers it. Steve can see him mulling over every pitfall and trap. It takes him a few moments to come to his decision.
"Deal," he states with one of those rare, honest grins.
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