Best Day of My Life

"Nat?" he asked, blinking.

"This is… James," she said, stepping aside to indicate the Winter Soldier. "He's an acquaintance." She gave Clint a hard look.

"I can see that," he answered, glancing at the assassin.

The Winter Soldier appeared quite exhausted. There were dark circles under his eyes, his posture was stooped and his hands kept twitching. His hair, nearly shoulder length, was greasy and unkempt, knotted together.

"He needs a place to stay," she said. "Where no one will look for him," she said again, emphasizing the latter.

"Of course, he's welcome to," Clint said, only a little wary. "There's a guest bedroom downstairs that he's welcome to use."

If everyone wanted to come hide away at Barton Ranch, he was going to need to hire some people to build an addition onto the house so that everyone could have a room to themselves. He didn't really have the money but he also didn't really not have the money. Maybe he should start charging rent, or something.

"Thank you," Natasha said, walking inside, Barnes trailing after her on autopilot.

Not twenty minutes after that, Natasha walked back outside and over to him. "He's showered and sleeping," she said with a sigh as she perched on the fence next to him.

"So, wanna tell me what's up?" he asked casually as he pitched another forkful of hay over the fence.

"He was brainwashed," she stated. "He gets flashbacks sometimes. Sometimes he's Bucky, other times he's James…"

Ah, the James. That explained a lot. "And sometimes he's the Winter Soldier?" he asked, glancing at her.

Natasha nodded. "Steve… Steve has good intentions, I think. But he's not going to be able to help James. Steve can't understand."

Clint nodded jerkily. "Not the way that either you or I can, right?" He sighed.

"I wouldn't ask you if it wasn't important, if there wasn't somewhere else I could take him but –"

"It's alright Nat," he said. "I told you, he can stay. I won't breathe a word about him to Captain America."

Natasha nodded, her legs swinging. Clint shoved the pitchfork into the loose soil. She stretched a foot out, kicking the back of his shoulder to get his attention. "I'm glad you're alright."

"Sorry it took me so long to reply," Clint said with a grimace. "My 'aids had trackers in them. Stark sent me some replacements."

"What a good husband he is," she teased.

"That is low," Clint whined, burying his head into his hands with a laugh. "I did not marry that lunatic."

She scanned him over. "You're looking… better."

Clint flashed a wry grin. "Yeah well, we have a lot to catch up on."

Natasha arched an eyebrow.

"For starters, Phil's alive. He came. He saw me."

"What."

So Clint spent the next twenty minutes telling her everything he knew. It wasn't the full story, he knew. But he didn't really want to know the details, either. He would, when Phil was ready and Clint was ready to ask. But it… things were fragile right now. He didn't care so much to go poking for holes in his story. In the days since Phil had let, Clint had given it some thought. Phil had been honest about everything Clint asked and he hadn't ever asked about the details of Phil's survival. And Phil hadn't offered them either, so whatever it was, it was big. About as big as Natasha running into her ex-lover from Russia, the guy who gave her the final push to get out of the organization and who had practically sacrificed himself.

Knowing that James was really Bucky, it made a lot more sense. The guy had died –nearly, apparently, nearly died for Steve. Of course he would sacrifice himself for Natasha. (Not that he was complaining, but eventually the bad guys were going to stop this dying business and start crawling out of their graves with this sort of good-luck revival rate.)

"I see," Natasha said tightly, leaning back against the fence. "I'll have a talk with him. And Fury too."

Clint smiled. "It's good to have you back," he said, handing her a beer. Natasha arched a brow at that, clearly expressing her distaste for the drink. "Only thing I've got around here," Clint said.

Natasha sighed heavily. "Only when Phil's around, I swear," she said, twisting the cap off. "You do know he likes wine better, right?"

Clint rolled his eyes. "Yes I know. Just like I know you hate my crappy beer." Natasha hummed noncommittally and took a drink of the beer, grimacing at the taste. "So how long are you staying?"

She tapped her fingers against the neck of her beer bottle. "I can't stay very long. They're looking for me, and Steve's still trying to find his best friend. I have to start leaving a trail for him."

Clint nodded thoughtfully. "I can send you texts; let you know how he's doing?"

Natasha shook her head. "No it's not… I don't need them."

Clint glanced at her from the corner of his eye. "Nat?" he asked. He knew how much James had meant to her, once upon a time. Considering she had brought him here, he knew how much he still meant to her.

"I have red in my ledger," Natasha murmured quietly. "This is my debt repaid to him."

And Steve, no doubt. Whatever had happened between them. Clint nodded respectfully. "If that's what you want."

Natasha brushed their knees together. "I'll stay today and then tomorrow I'll go track Coulson down."

"Is he gonna stay here without you?" Clint asked, taking a long swig from his own bottle.

"I think so," she said. "He wants to learn who he was and find out who he is." She paused, eyes twinkling, "I hear farms help with this sort of thing."

Clint laughed and elbowed her good-naturedly. "Yeah, yeah."

Clint made an elaborate dinner with the leftovers he had lying around. Natasha took the dish into Barnes' room before returning to eat with Clint. The next morning, when he got up, she was long gone. Barnes still remained though. He was standing in the kitchen, staring at the bowl he had started washing out. It reminded Clint of the pictures he'd been given during a workshop during his first few years at S.H.I.E.L.D depicting the thousand yard stare. Barnes definitely had that.

Clint made an effort to make noise as he walked down the stairs, his pant legs rustling against each other, the stairs creaking under his weight as he intentionally walked where he knew they would groan and strain. He saw Barnes startle, fumbling with the dish and spraying water everywhere before he mechanically scrubbed the dish clean and stepped aside.

"Morning," Clint said. "Natasha's left already. You want anything to eat?"

Barnes stared at him for a moment and it was unnerving with his deadened eyes. After what felt like an eternity, Barnes shrugged.

"Cereal?" Clint asked as he walked slowly past Barnes. He knew better than to make sudden or abrupt movements around the guy. "I've got a few different kinds," he said, taking out a couple of boxes and setting them in front of Barnes.

Barnes didn't react immediately. But Clint had no problem waiting as he turned on the coffee pot, got out two bowls and two spoons, setting the table absently. He was surprised by the amount of effort it took to make noise as he moved around. But he made sure to give Barnes time and space to make his decision.

Seventy years without free will. That was going to take a lot of time to adjust to and Clint was in no hurry to rush him. Barnes jerkily moved, grabbing the chocolate and marshmallow cereal, dumping it into his bowl before splashing the milk into the bowl. He skittered back away, halfway to the guest bedroom before he stopped and looked at Clint.

Someone with an actual psychology degree needs to be here for this, Clint thought to himself. "Eat wherever you want," Clint said, shrugging as he poured some Lucky Charms into his own bowl, making a conscious effort to not watch Barnes.

The man didn't need anyone watching him –he needed privacy and some space in his own head. When Clint glanced up next, a spoonful of sugary cereal in his mouth, Barnes was nowhere to be seen. This happened at every meal. Clint didn't take offense. Lucky made a pretty decent dinner partner, even if he did slobber. Tasha took a liking to Barnes and spent most of her time following him around. It was kind of funny actually. Clint snapped a few pictures and sent them on to Natasha. It got easier to figure out where Barnes was the more time that passed, as he would lock Tasha out of the room. And without fail she would sit down in front of the door and meow for an hour or two. Sometimes all night.

Clint was grateful he could just turn his hearing aids off. In the first few weeks, he and Barnes didn't interact much. He mostly saw Barnes around, Tasha trailing after him. Or on occasion, he saw him standing out in the field with Steven. Buchanan always seemed to give them space, wandering off to stand with Thunder God and the hens. Clint left them to it.

"My turn," Barnes grunted one morning, eyeing Clint suspiciously as he stood bare footed at the stove, a bowl of what looked like pancake batter under his arm.

Clint shrugged. "If you want," he said, easily, sitting down at the table like he hadn't been planning on cooking again. If Barnes wanted to cook, he could cook to his heart's content. Hopefully he wouldn't burn anything.

Barnes flashed him a faint smile. "No wonder Natalia likes you. You must let her walk over you."

"I don't let her do anything," Clint disagreed, picking at a loose thread on his shirt.

"Of course," Barnes amended, fumbling over the words. "No one can control a spider, I only meant…" He huffed, frustrated. "She likes control," he finally settled on saying.

"She does what she wants," Clint said, smiling at Barnes.

Barnes didn't say much after that, as he turned his focus back to mixing the batter up before making pancakes. It was a strained sort of tense silence. Is this what I was like? Clint wondered. After everything with The Bastard, had he shut down this hard? Natasha wasn't there and those early months had passed in a blur of grief and loss.

"Figured out why she brought you here?" Clint asked, hoping to get more than a one word answer out of Barnes. Prior to today, Barnes had never initiated a conversation or given more than a one word answer.

"Because you have a farm," he answered, gesturing briefly with his arm. "And no one will find me here. What kind of assassin lives on a farm?" he huffed.

"I do," Clint answered casually.

Barnes glanced at him, his green eyes focused on him. "You're an assassin?" he asked, disbelief heavy in his tone.

"I was," Clint replied casually, taking note of Barnes' open posture. "I'm not anymore. I am the world's greatest marksmen though."

Barnes scoffed at that, rolling his eyes as he turned back to his batter. "I'm sure," he drawled, a hint of a Brooklyn drawl slipping into his voice.

"I'll bet you breakfast for the next week that I'm a better shot than you are," Clint stated.

"You've already been making breakfast that long," Barnes pointed out. "Hardly fair if you lose."

"Fine. A week of breakfasts plus… loser gets his head shaved."

"How is that even a fair bet?" Bucky asked, shaking his head.

"Oh come on," Clint goaded. "You that scared of losing –of getting a haircut?"

Bucky scoffed again, and it was definitely Bucky. His posture wasn't so closed off, his fingers weren't twitching like he was trying to locate the nearest weapon and he had his back to Clint. Definitely Bucky. "You wish Barton," he replied. "You're on but don't say I told you so when I blow your scores out of the water. Greatest marksman my ass."

Clearly, someone had never told him who Hawkeye was. Clint grinned, "You're so on."

After breakfast, Clint went upstairs and brought down the two rifles he kept securely stored. He handed one to Barnes, leading him out to the empty barn where he had some targets set up.

"You can take the first shot, even warm-up if you really want to," Clint drawled, leaning back against the barn doors. "Call it the guest advantage."

Bucky huffed and readied the rifle, checking it out thoroughly before he clicked the safety off, took aim and fired. He loaded and fired again and again and again in rapid succession. He was pretty good. Clint noted the way his rounds were all neatly centered around the target's heart. Clint took his own rifle, checked it over, loaded it, clicked the safety off and fired four shots in rapid succession. One hole, right where the target's head was and another directly over Barnes' shots. Four shots, two holes. He frowned a bit, looking at the hole on the chest again; one of his shots went a little wide. But then, he wasn't the best with guns.

"When do you wanna shave that shaggy mane of yours off?" Clint asked, turning to Barnes.

Bucky huffed. "You're a fuckin' con artist, man. That was cheap."

Clint laughed. "I told you I was the best marksman in the world."

"Just get it over with, shave it all off."

Clint set up an area outside where he could shave his head before he went back inside, grabbed his clippers and brought them out. Bucky eyed him distrustfully as he sat down on the stool, his hair hanging loosely around his shoulders. It was a bit awkward doing it for someone else as he started shaving, starting from Bucky's forehead and moving down to the back of his head. He hadn't made more than two or three passes when the clippers cut out.

"Why did you stop?"

"The clippers died," Clint said, staring at Bucky's hair.

"What."

"Oh well. Sweet mullet! My work here is done."

"That was not part of the deal, Barton," Bucky growled. "Give me the clippers. I am not walking around looking like this."

Clint laughed, stepping back. "You don't even know what you look like! It's very 80's."

"I don't even want to know," Bucky said, getting to his feet. "Give me the clippers."

"Or what?"

"Don't make me hurt your chickens."

"Aw, not the chickens. I don't want Banner to start breathing fire. Just leave my chickens alone." Banner didn't need that kind of stress.

Bucky's face screwed up in confusion as he held out his hand. "Just give me the clippers, Barton, and no one has to get hurt."

Clint huffed and handed the clippers over. Bucky shook his head and he started the clippers up again easily, flashing Clint a look of disapproval before he finished shaving his hair off. He looked a lot more like the Sergeant James 'Bucky' Barnes people talked about. A lot more human. There was good humor dancing in his eyes even as he buzzed his hair off. Banner and Stark strutted over, clucking nervously as they watched Bucky brush the remains of his hair off his scalp.

Bucky started helping out more after that. He sort of followed Clint around, helping him feed the animals or chop wood when Clint went out to do the same. It was companionable silence between them most of the time. Bucky seemed to enjoy the work and even though Clint had woken up several times, hearing Bucky crying out in his sleep, they never talked about it. Clint wasn't sure how to even bring up the similar histories they shared, the brainwashing or the guilt that came along with it.

Bucky was the one who brought up the fact that if Clint got anymore guests coming out to stay, he was going to need more room to put them. So Clint searched the Internet for a nearby contractor and called him up.

"Y'know," Bucky drawled, leaning back against the wall. "I never really pictured you as much of a yellow guy."

Clint flipped him the bird without looking as he skimmed over the contractor's plans for the addition.

"Seriously, it's like canary yellow. I've seen those 'do it yourself' home repair shows, they called this shade canary yellow last night."

"If it bugs you so much then you can paint it," Clint snorted.

"No, no, it doesn't bug me. I just didn't think you were a canary kind of a guy. Thought you were more of a Hawkguy, myself."

Clint laughed. "Oh fuck off, Barnes."

"I want a rematch," Bucky said. "If I lose, I'll paint your entire goddamn house purple. If I win, you have to get the contractor's to match this shade," he said, tapping a finger against the wall.

It wasn't the first time Bucky had tried to get him to do a rematch, but it was definitely the most creative he'd been about the challenge. Clint glanced at the frou-frou yellow wall with a grimace. "You're on."

Clint brought out the rifles, handing one to Bucky as they walked out to the barn where the new targets were set up. "Six shots, winner is whoever has the most points?" Bucky asked, glancing at him as he loaded his rifle.

"Yeah," Clint agreed, loading his gun.

Bucky flashed him a smug grin, turning to face his target as he took aim and fired. Six shots later, Clint was staring at Bucky's target reluctantly. One neat hole in the middle of the target's head. Not a single millimeter too wide from an askew bullet. That wasn't going to be easy to beat. Clint drew his rifle, aiming it at his own target before firing. The first three went straight through the target's head, but he felt the shift and knew the fourth had gone just a hair too far to the left as he finished his shots.

"Shit," Clint said, staring down at the targets.

Bucky smirked. "Hope you like yellow, Barton."

Clint took a picture of the targets and sent the file to Phil with a sad face emoji. He forwarded the same message to Natasha.

"Why did you challenge Barnes with guns… why guns…?" Phil replied.

"I won last time!" Clint texted back defensively.

"He's been adjusting well, you said. Of course he was going to win!"

"It's not like I have to shave my hair," Clint texted.

"What did you bet?" There wasn't even a question mark or tone, but Clint could sense Phil's concern.

"Well, the addition is gonna be… more yellow, than expected."

The look the contractor gave Clint when he asked him to match the same shade of yellow on the addition was priceless, if Bucky's laughter was anything to judge it by. While the contractors worked on adding an addition, Clint and Bucky kept themselves busy repairing the farm, learning how to grow vegetables and, at Kase's urging, how to ride horses. Clint didn't have a lot of money left, at the end of everything, but after having worked at S.H.I.E.L.D for fifteen years and storing the majority of his money under his Flint alias, his savings were definitely looking slim now. But the farm looked like a real farm. Bucky took to horse riding like a pro and Clint left him to explore the property and have time alone with his issues. Thankfully, Bucky never did ask about the names of the horses. Either he knew and that was why he hadn't asked or he just didn't want to know.

Every night since Phil had left, they called one another. It was during one of Bucky's horse riding trips that Clint got into his truck and drove into town, straight to the nearest jewelry shop. He bought a plain gold band and a Black Angus bull that a fellow farmer was selling for cheap. It was as mean as it looked. The farmer drove out to Clint's place and helped coral the bull into the pen with Thunder God and Buchanan. The bull snorted, dragging his hoof against the earth before meandering around its pen. Thunder God eyed him warily and waited until the bull had settled down before she approached. Neither Buchanan, Stark nor Banner wanted anything to do with the bull. Stark clucked from the other side of the fence at the Angus bull, Banner at her side, fluffing her feathers worriedly. Clint watched the bull carefully and made sure to give it a wide berth.

He could think of a few names that would have suited the bull, but none of them seemed as appropriate as the one name he refused to even think about. He sent Phil a picture before heading inside, up to his room when his phone vibrated with another message. From Tony, of all people.

"Party at my place, May twenty-first. Be there." Read the message.

It was months away, but Clint marked it down on his calendar while he remembered.