1010 HOURS | NOVEMBER 20, 2014 | UPSTATE NEW YORK, UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
"I think you should be the one to reach out to Barnes first."
Clint Barton, master archer and ex-international spy turned superhero, nearly spat out his coffee.
Which would have been a terrible waste of the life-giving and sanity-bestowing bean juice.
He looked across the granite countertop of the island in the shared kitchen, one of the many rooms that made up the shared living spaces in the new Avengers Compound. His fellow spy and partner for many years – a woman he considered as one of his best and most trusted friends – met his gaze blandly as if she hadn't just said something absolutely, completely ridiculous.
"Say what now?" he asked, feeling the urge to check his ears to make sure that he had remember to put his hearing aids in that morning. He was certain that he had. But why else would he think that he had heard her say what he thought he heard her say if he wasn't already half-deaf at the time?
"You should be the one to talk to Barnes. You're the best choice," Natasha explained, taking a sip of her own coffee with a mostly bland expression except for the slightest raise of one of her well-groomed eyebrows. Apparently, he hadn't misheard and Romanoff was choosing to speak nonsense today.
"Why? How am I the best choice? I don't…"
"Clint, come on. Don't be dense," the red-head said, completely unphased by his attempt at wriggling his way out of the situation. "Thor's gone back to Asgard. Steve and Sam are in the city. Stark and Bruce are busy with that piece of alien tech Lastimosa wants them to look at and who knows how many other projects they both have going on. And then there's you…"
"But what about you?" the sandy-haired archer argued. Surely the Black Widow would be a better match to speak with the Winter Soldier. "You and Barnes have plenty in common that you could talk about and become the bestest of friends over."
She seemed unimpressed – and almost saddened – by his suggestion. "You know as well as I do that Barnes and I are far too alike," she said. "I'm quite sure that will be more of a hinderance than a help."
Clint believed her and was suddenly sorry to have brought it up at all.
He knew that Natasha often felt a great deal of shame over her bloody past with the Red Room and had been trying her best to stay on the straight and narrow for the past decade. Using her ill-gotten talents for the forces of good. The whole issue with S.H.I.E.L.D. actually turning out to be HYDRA had put an inadvertently serious dent in the red-head's usually unshakable confidence.
Though, Clint wasn't exactly enthused to have been the one singled out to have to talk to the Winter Soldier. But, in the same vein, it was about time that someone reached out and made contact. The pair of new super-soldiers had been in residence at the Compound for five days now and had barely been seen out and about except for at meal times.
Lastimosa, by far, was the more social of the two. The blonde woman actually went out of her way to at least say hello and make small-talk with anyone she came across. Barnes on the other hand… You were lucky if you got more than ten words out of the metal-armed World War II veteran turned assassin. Even Lastimosa's Titan seemed to be a more accomplished conversationalist and Clint had only spoken with it – him – all of twice during their time removing all of the ammunition and weapons from the dropship.
"What are we supposed to even talk about?" he asked, resigning himself to his fate, but drawing a blank on what he might possibly have in common with the HYDRA super-assassin.
"You're both expert marksmen – snipers – regardless of the fact that he prefers a rifle and you a bow," Natasha offered, making her own helpful suggestions. "But what I think you should really end up talking to him about is when you were under Loki's control in 2012."
Clint's face fell into a hard mask at her words, with his lips pulled thin and his eyes narrowed down to a flinty-eyed stare. He even felt one of the muscles in his jaw twitch as he resisted the urge to grind his teeth. "You know I don't like talking about that, Tasha," he whispered lowly, almost threateningly, as he was far from willing to talk about one of his darkness moments with a complete stranger.
The feeling of not having any control over his own body. Seeing himself killing innocent people on the orders of a madman from another world. Watching himself as he actively tried to kill one of the people he cared most about in the entire world. It had been a waking nightmare to experience and had taken months and months of therapy to mend even some of the damage that it had done to his psyche. Even now he wasn't fully recovered and suffered from nightmares or the occasional triggered flashback.
"That's the point," Natasha urged, trying to win him over with the sound logic. "You know what it's like. Share your experience and break the ice to see if you can get him to open up about his time being controlled by HYDRA. Establish a connection to try and start getting him to relax around us. It'll only make things that much easier in the long run."
It made sense, though Clint didn't much want to acknowledge it. However, it seemed like he wasn't going to be given the chance to refuse on the simple and narrow-minded basis of "I don't want to."
It wouldn't do any harm to try and start making friends with both Lastimosa and Barnes, and the metal-armed assassin was by far going to be the harder nut to crack. But both of the former-S.H.I.E.L.D. agents turned Avengers knew that should Steven Grant Rogers have his way James Buchanan Barnes was going to be a permanent fixture in their day-to-day lives for the foreseeable future.
"Fine, fine. I'll do it," he said, gulping down the final dregs of his coffee before wandering over to put the mug into the dishwasher. He refused to look behind him and witness Natasha's smug look of triumph. "Hey, J.A.R.V.I.S. Where's Barnes at right now?" he asked, tilting his head a bit towards the ceiling out of instinct when addressing the Stark-made artificial intelligence.
"Sergeant Barnes is currently within Captain Lastimosa's suite, Agent Barton."
"Is Lastimosa there too?" Natasha asked curiously.
"No, Agent Romanoff," J.A.R.V.I.S. replied. "Captain Lastimosa is currently speaking with both Mister Stark and Doctor Banner in regards to the alien technology that brought her to our reality. I expect the conversation between them will last for some time."
"See? Look," the red-head said. "Now's the perfect opportunity. He's alone and Lastimosa will be out of the picture for a while."
The archer huffed a heavy sigh, bringing his hands up to his face and rubbing vigorously at his cheeks in an attempt to wipe away any amount of residual tiredness. Guess this was happening right now. Oh, he was so not prepared for this at all and still didn't particular want to do it, but it was for the greater good.
"Alright, alright. I'm going. I'm going," he said, raising a hand in farewell before leaving the kitchen and heading down towards the hall to the living quarters. But he couldn't resist giving a parting shot. "And if I end up dying in some horrible and gruesome manner because I tried to talk about feelings with the Winter Soldier, you better avenge me, Romanoff, or I'll be coming back to haunt your ass!"
Clint walked away with Natasha's quiet laughter ringing in his ears and wondered just how did this become his life. Things had been so much simpler when he had been running with the circus.
It was a short walk, literally not more than a minute at a leisurely pace, and Clint made sure to drag his heels to allow enough time for him to formulate some sort of a plan and psych himself up. In the corner of his mind he even wondered if he should return to his own room and get a weapon for self-defense purposes. Not a gun or anything… But maybe a knife? Just a little one that he could hide somewhere on his person?
Ultimately, however, he decided not to. He had to keep thinking positively about all this. Everything was gunna go just fine and Barnes wasn't going to go off the rails and maim him.
And then he was standing outside of Lastimosa's room with his hand up and ready to knock on the door. Clint paused, loose fist hanging in the air, before he opted to have J.A.R.V.I.S. ask on his behalf instead.
"Hey, J.A.R.V.I.S. Uh – Wanna ask if it's alright if I come in?"
"Of course, Agent Barton."
A moment of pause.
"Sergeant Barnes has said that you may enter," the AI announced and Clint was honestly surprised that the super-assassin had been willing to allow someone who wasn't Lastimosa into the room.
He opened the door and bore witness to something that he had most certainly not been expecting.
All of the suites shared the same basic layout: the first room was a sizable living room that transitioned into an open concept, high-end kitchen and dining room combination. Then, of course, there were the trio of side rooms, which included a spacious bedroom, a luxurious bathroom and a well-proportioned laundry room that also functioned as a place for additional storage. The arrangement of the rooms was ever so slightly different for each of them and the organization of the furniture was also changed.
But there, smack dab in the middle of Lastimosa's living room and surrounded by a veritable spread of gun parts and the paraphernalia to clean said gun parts, sat James Buchanan Barnes…
In his pajamas.
It was so startling a sight that Clint just stood there dumbstruck for a handful of weighty seconds as he took in the scene and all of its bizarre details.
The brown-haired, metal-armed assassin was sitting with his legs crossed on a plush area rug that was spread out underneath a glass-top coffee table. Wearing a dark gray long-sleeve and a pair of blue plaid flannel pants, he was a picture of relaxed comfort except for the wholly unreadable expression on his face. Barnes had even pulled his hair up into a messy bun at the back of his head, though several strands that were too short to reach all the way back hung loose. It even looked as though the former HYDRA enforcer had recently shaved because there waS nothing more than the faintest shadowy hint of stubble on his squared jaw and slightly cleft chin.
"Are you going to come in or just stand there all day?"
The quiet question broke the archer from his stupor and he realized that he had in fact just being standing like a moron in the doorway.
"Sorry," Clint said as he stepped through and closed the door behind him. "I didn't mean to…"
"What do you want?" Barnes asked, setting down the disassembled rifle in his grasp to focus all of his attention on someone that he might've been perceiving as an intruder, regardless of the fact that his permission to enter had been given.
Clint ignored the rudeness of the question, hardly expecting the man after all that he'd been through to be the height of civility, as he gave his explanation, "Just wanted to swing by. Check in. See how you're doing. How you're settling in."
"Why?"
"Why not? We aren't enemies. In fact, I'd go so far as to say that we could even be friends eventually," Clint suggested with a surprisingly great deal of sincerity. Just because he hadn't been enthusiastically onboard about talking to Barnes in the beginning didn't mean that he was going to be an ass about it. The poor guy was already confined to the Compound and still recovering from being under the yoke of HYDRA. There wasn't any reason to make his situation any worse than it already was. "It was actually brought up that you and I have a few things in common."
Barnes head tilted slight to the side as his eyes narrowed in suspicion, bringing his hands up to rest with his fingers laced together on the glass of the coffee table. "Yeah? And what's that?"
Clint stepped a little further into the living room, casting his eyes around for sate his habitual need for situational awareness, before answering. "Well, we're both snipers for one."
Barnes scoffed under his breath. "You use a bow."
"And yet I can still make a shot over 300 yards away to take down an enemy," Clint argued in defense of his precious and peerless archery skills. "That's no different than what you can do with a rifle."
The dark-haired man stayed silent, seeming to be thinking deeply about something if the furrow of his brows was anything to go by. Clint lingered awkwardly several feet away, more than willing to give the man all the time he needed, but after a bit he got tired of just standing around.
"Do you mind if I sit?" he asked, gesturing towards one of the nearby arm chairs.
"Whatever," Barnes said with a shrug of his broad shoulders, glancing over Clint one more time with an assessing and steely eyed stare before tentatively going back to work on cleaning the rifle.
"So… uh… name's Clint. Clint Barton," the archer said as he took a seat, realizing that he and the former Winter Soldier had never been properly introduced to one another in all of their prior interactions. It had all been second-hand conversations surrounded by other people – often in the middle of a stressful situation –with no time for everyone to be going around the circle introducing themselves like they were playing the name game from school.
"I know who you are," Barnes said bluntly. "Just like you know who I am."
"Yeah, but still…" Clint began to argue. "Doesn't mean you can't introduce yourself on your own terms. Isn't that what this is all about? Making your own choices? New beginning and all that?" He paused for a moment. "So, what do you want to be called? Lastimosa calls you Barnes, your given name is James and Cap tends to call you either Bucky or Buck. Which do you prefer?"
The man's hands – the metal on his ungloved left gleaming in the morning sunlight coming in through the windows – stilled as he looked up from the gun with a puzzled expression. "You're asking…"
"Yeah… I'm asking what you want to be called," Clint said. "It's not rocket science."
"No one but Rhia's ever asked," Barnes paused, a sad sort of frown edging its way onto his face. "Steve… He – He just assumed that he could call me Bucky right from the start. Like I'm actually still him."
"Aren't you?" Clint asked.
"No," Barnes snapped out angrily, before the anger transitioned into something more akin to worry or some sort of self-reflection. "But… There are some days when I feel more like him. Where I think more like he probably used to think. Even talk like he did… sometimes."
"Isn't that a good thing? A sign that your mind is healing?"
Clint looked on as the man glanced down at the surface of the table, watching as a myriad of facial tics swept over his features. Brows twitching, nose flaring slightly, his lips being pulled thin and downwards and the faintest twitch of his jaw muscles. Eventually those gray-blues flickered back up though the man's expression was still stormy with indecision and barely restrained muddle of too many emotions.
"I don't know," Barnes admitted softly.
"That can be okay too," Clint offered as comfortingly as he could. "It's alright to not know sometimes."
A hush fell in the apartment as the metal-armed man went back to work on the firearm and Clint settled back into the chair to make himself more comfortable. He observed the man as he cleaned the rifle. Studying the methodical way Barnes worked through each piece of the broken-down rifle, inspecting them all before going over them meticulously with oil, rag and brush. Eventually, the archer felt restless and the desire to do something with his hands to keep himself occupied in the silence.
"You want some help?" he offered, gesturing towards the collection of disassembled firearms – which he could recognize only by type but not by model. Despite his preference and undeniable favoritism for the bow, Clint was just as familiar and skilled with guns and was a more than experienced hand with cleaning them.
"If you want, but most of these are Rhia's so they're a little… different," Barnes warned cautiously. With the information in hand, Clint found himself curious about what the possible differences between their guns and the guns used in Lastimosa's alternate future reality might be. "You can start with the EVA-8," the darker-haired man offered as he gestured to what was undeniably a shotgun. "It's built a bit like a SPAS-12, so it should be pretty similar to our guns."
Clint accepted the offer, collecting those tools that he would need for cleaning, before reaching over to lift the surprisingly heavy shotgun from its place and bring it closer. The archer found a unique form of solace in the mindless action of his hands as he broke the weapon down into its components. As easy as breathing, despite the weapon's foreign origins.
However, all the while he began to work, Clint began to think about how in the hell he was going to bring up the subject of brainwashing and mind control with the former Winter Soldier.
James Barnes had been having an uncommonly good day.
He had slept for a solid five hours without a single interruption. Not a single nightmare had disturbed his rest and he had woken at 0600 feeling far better than he had in recent memory. Well rested was a state of being that he could stand to happen with far greater frequency than it currently did.
And so, he'd showered and shaved, but had felt unmotivated to change out of his comfortable sleeping clothes. Rhia had made mention of plans to spend the day relaxing in her rooms the previous evening. To just sit around after they'd both eaten breakfast, cleaning the guns they had removed from the dropship and watching some television or a movie… Or five.
He had recently reawakened his former passion for science fiction and it yearned to be satisfied.
And while it often felt unnatural to be in such a relaxed state – to not be doing something physical to keep his mind off of the things – he couldn't deny that sometimes the leisure was kind of nice. A change of pace that he had taken to enjoying when his mind and body were in an agreeable state. And this was the first time since their relocation to the Avengers Compound that he had felt comfortable enough to do so, but only with the reassuring presence of Rhia nearby.
The woman who had saved him, who had offered him her help without judgement, and had quickly become someone he considered a friend… at the very least. She had definitely become someone he trusted and cared about more than he thought he could have in his damaged state.
But then, only an hour into their project, Rhia had been called away by Stark and Banner to discuss the finer details of the piece of alien technology that had brought her to their Earth. She had been reluctant to leave, but he had waved her off and sent her on her way. He knew that trying to figure how to return home was important to her, no matter how much it pained him to think of her leaving.
With a promise to come back as soon as she could, Rhia had left.
Barnes had been quick to dive right into cleaning the guns to keep himself occupied, breaking down the Longbow DMR as his first choice. But in the midst of running a bore brush down the barrel, the artificial intelligence designed by Tony Stark had spoken through one of the wall-mounted speakers.
The archer, the Avenger called Hawkeye, wanted to come in and speak with him.
He honestly considered denying the other man permission to enter, but realized that he had no true control over the situation. There was only the illusion of authority. And so, Barnes had said yes and prepared himself as best he could for whatever sort of interrogation was soon to come.
And yet, the sandy-haired man claimed to only be checking in on him. Seeing how he was doing. The metal-armed assassin didn't believe it for a second, but he'd played along within reason. But when Clint Barton had been asked what he wanted to be called a fragment of the barricade he'd constructed around his emotions had fractured. Had broken just the slightest bit.
No one else but Rhiannon had given him such courtesy.
Barnes had unintentionally let a few things slip to the other man. Things that he hadn't yet shared with anyone else. Not even Rhiannon. She didn't know who Bucky Barnes was except for what the internet said and what he had chosen to share with her during his more talkative moments. That was, of course, when he'd been able to remember those bits and pieces of his former life with any amount of clarity.
But that was one of the things that he loved about her. There weren't any expectations. He was free to be who he currently was and not have to conform to an identity that he felt horribly disconnected from.
Now the two men sat in silence and were content to clean the array of firearms without the need for conversation. However, that didn't mean that Barnes thought that Barton was done talking with him. Clearly there was a greater purpose to this visit, beyond the supposed friendly neighbor visit.
Ultimately, it was the former-HYDRA assassin who chose to break the silence first. He had finished cleaning the designated marksman rifle and had moved on to disassembling a M1A3 Hemlok BF-R, but there was actually a question that he had been burning to ask.
Only for curiosity's sake and nothing more, of course.
It wasn't actually any of his business, just… He wanted to know.
"So," he began slowly. "Where's Steve? I haven't seen him since the day before yesterday."
"Oh, yeah… Rogers had to head back down to the city for a few days and Wilson volunteered to go with him," the archer explained. "Got called in to attend an in-person conference with some representatives from NATO and the World Security Council. They probably wanted an update on our hunt for HYDRA."
Panic and irrational fear flooded his system. While his logical brain knew well enough that Steve would never do anything to endanger him, the visceral instincts born from being on the run for months had him ready to leap up and flee at the slightest hint of danger.
"No, no, no! Don't worry," the slimmer man was quick to try and say soothingly. "You and Lastimosa aren't going to be mentioned at all and any evidence that you were present at the Belasica Facility has long since been erased by Stark."
It was a small comfort and did little to reduce the sudden influx of adrenaline in his blood that had him ready to run and fight for his survival. But, after a few minutes of controlled breathing, Barnes managed to calm himself down to a more reasonable level of alertness. Didn't stop him from giving the sandy-haired archer a death glare for riling him up so unnecessarily.
Barton squirmed under his gaze, bringing a hand up to run through his hair like a nervous tic. "Yeah, so that's where Steve's gone. Should be back soon. Though, the forecast is looking a bit dodgy these next few days – possible early winter storms heading our way – so they might get stuck in the city for longer."
The answer was satisfactory and Barnes turned back to work on the Hemlok, and yet…
In all honestly, the metal-armed assassin was rather torn between the relief gained by knowing where Steve was and oddly saddened that he wasn't close at hand should he be needed.
You know… Just in case.
While cleaning up inside the burst-fire rifle's magwell, he couldn't help but dwell lingeringly on all of his thoughts and feelings about the other prominent blond in his life. Barnes had remembered a great deal of his life pre-HYDRA. Though, he often still felt that there was still a great disconnection between his present and his past, but the edges had ever so slowly been blurring together.
Though, it often felt like he was watching a recording of someone else's life, not his own.
He had long since remembered the first time he had met that scrappy and sickly boy on the playground near their elementary school. The tiny blond had been defending an even smaller girl against her bullies – or trying to at least – and had gotten all bloodied and bruised up for his troubles. Barnes had stepped in, hollering and flailing his fists about with all of the might his ten-year-old body could muster. But it had done the trick. The bullies had fled shortly thereafter and the girl had scurried off in tears, while the young brunet was left to deal with a hissing and spitting Steve Rogers.
He had been a bit like an angry, wet cat in that moment.
As proud, stubborn and hard-headed as Rogers had been – even then – he certainly had not appreciated getting his ass saved from a thorough beatdown by the trio of larger boys. Heedless as he was of the unhealthy reddish flush on his sunken cheeks, the slow drip of blood from the split in his lower lip and cut across the bridge of his nose or even the sickly wheeze coming from his heaving lungs.
"I didn't need your help, you jerk!"
"Sure ya didn't, little punk."
Somehow in the aftermath the two boys – different as night and day – became the best of friends. They did everything together. They'd met each other's families. Barnes had remembered when he'd met Steve's mother. Sarah Rogers had been an unfailingly kind and strong woman and in return the Barnes family had welcomed Steve into the fold without hesitation.
And yet, there came one day when they took a step beyond friendship and never looked back.
He'd been sixteen and was well into his phase of chasing skirts, as was rather expected of a boy his age. But Barnes had always been somewhat aware of the sour look that would appear on Steve's face every time he'd started dating a new girl.
He'd mistaken it for jealousy, as Steve very rarely managed to convince a girl to go on a date with him. And while he hadn't been entirely wrong, he'd still misunderstood most of the blond's true motivations. But then one night out on the rickety fire escape of the Rogers' apartment – while Steve's mother had been working another late-night shift at the hospital – everything had finally come to a head.
Barnes had been waxing poetic about how he was fairly certain his current girlfriend was probably going let him kiss her on their next date. Steve had pulled the face, trying to hide it by tilting his head down and taking a slow drink of his soda. But Barnes decided that he'd had enough of Steve's jealousy and the brown-haired teenager had stupidly opened his mouth and said the first thing that had come to mind.
"What? You want me to kiss you instead?"
The little blond had turned bright red in the fading light of the day – that pale Irish skin of his couldn't hide a blush for shit – choking on his drink and having to thump his chest and gasp for breath. But Steve hadn't argued, hadn't protested his words one bit, and it was like a lightbulb went off in Barnes' head.
An honest, though far from innocent, curiosity took over from there.
Steve had just managed to regain his breath when Barnes had reached out. Gently snagging his friend's chin and jaw with the tips of his fingers, turned his head to the side and leaned in to kiss him.
It had been an odd sensation, at first.
His lips on Stevie's.
The simple act of kissing another man.
It was considered a sin. It was wrong and immoral. An act against the Will of God.
But then his friend had suddenly responded so passionately and everything had snapped into place. Everything had been perfect for those few handful of minutes. They'd just kept kissing and kissing – without regard for whoever might've been watching or looking out their windows – until they'd had to stop when Steve's lungs just couldn't keep up any longer.
Those first few months into the beginning of their secret relationship had been difficult and almost uncomfortable at times. They'd never told their parents, fearing what might happen. Dreading that they would be separated and forbidden from seeing each other ever again. For years, they kept it hidden. And even when Steve's mother had gotten sick with tuberculosis and passed away, they'd kept it secret.
And then he'd been drafted.
And then he'd been captured and experimented on by Zola.
And then he'd fallen off the train in the Austrian Alps.
And then he had become the Winter Soldier.
The Fist of HYDRA.
Their weapon to mold the world to their whims.
And now, James Barnes was most certainly not worthy of being with Steve Rogers.
Not worthy of his friendship and most certainly not worthy of his love, no matter how much he craved it at times. To just crawl into the big blond's lap and cry for all that he'd lost. To weep for all of the horrible things that had been done to him against his will. To scream about all of the things that he'd done and regretted. All the blood on his hands. That inky blackness that now permanently stained his very soul.
It was why he sometimes clung to Rhia with such desperate fervency. She was his only comfort, because he couldn't bring himself to seek out Steve. He didn't deserve it.
Not that the blonde woman was in any way a lesser option than Steve. She wasn't a replacement or a secondary choice, but with her there wasn't as much soul-crushing guilt when she offered him solace. When she spoke to him so soothingly; convincing him that he was worth more. That his suffering was over, his pain was in the past and he was free to begin again. She so honestly and generously shared with him her own pains, letting him know that he was not alone in his struggles.
She had been a godsend.
The clearing of a throat brought the dark-haired man out of his soul-searching recollections and he looked up to see Barton staring at him with some degree of concern.
"You alright, man?" the archer asked. "You zoned out there for a minute."
"No… Yeah," Barnes said as he shook his head and tried to get his mind back on track after his roller-coaster of introspection. "Just… thinking… about things. Memories 'n stuff. It happens."
"I get it. I – uh – get those kinds of moments too," Clint said understandingly with a nod of his head. "So, pretty sure you've probably heard about what went down in 2012, right? The aliens in New York?"
Barnes nodded his head. He'd been on ice in 2012, but since gaining his freedom he'd been doing his best to catch up on major historical events that he'd missed out on. The alien invasion in Manhattan had been amongst those he'd read about and seen a handful of shaky cell phone videos from. Though, after witnessing some blurred footage of Steve fighting against the Chitauri, the dark-haired man had stopped watching and only accessed the written word.
For the sake of his mental stability.
"The aliens were under the control of a guy named Loki," the other man continued. "He was Thor's little brother, actually. And he had this scepter that could shoot out these energy blasts, but that wasn't all that it could do." The archer took a heavy breath in and then let it out in a gusty exhale. "If he touched someone with the tip of that staff, he could make them do whatever he wanted. They would follow his orders without an ounce of hesitation. Be made a prisoner in their own body, helplessly watching along as they committed all sorts of awful things."
The former assassin was starting to connect the dots. His certainty only furthered by the oh so familiar haunted expression on Barton's face.
Things in common, indeed.
"He got you, didn't he?" Barnes asked.
"Yes," the archer admitted, looking distraught by the memories as they resurged. "He got me right after he arrived on Earth and there wasn't a thing that I could do stop him. And then I was helping him. He owned me. On his orders I killed dozens of innocent people; S.H.I.E.L.D. agents and civilians alike. Led an assault on the Helicarrier and tried to actively kill one of my best friends. Only managed to snap out of it when Natasha whacked my head against a steel bar and gave me a concussion."
Barton looked up from his knees, where his gaze had been affixed during the telling of his story, and met Barnes' own eyes. It was like looking into a mirror. The sandy-haired man understood his pain in a way no one else he knew could.
"So, yeah… I know a bit about how you probably feel right about now," Clint continued. "Having done so many bad things while under someone else's control and being unable to do a thing to make it stop. Having to deal with the consequences of what you've done when you somehow come out on the other side of it all."
"How did you deal with it?" the brunet asked, honestly curious.
"Therapy," Clint answered. "And talking about it with the people I trust and love. By no means have I healed completely from the ordeal, but I've come to terms with it. I still feel guilty. Still have nightmares about it. But in the past two years its easier to separate myself from those acts."
It was an unsurprising answer, but that level of healing seemed so far in the future for Barnes. So far as to feel unreachable. An impossibility. He didn't think he'd ever be able to truly separate himself from all of the assassinations and unspeakable acts of brutal violence that the Winter Soldier had been ordered to commit. Not when it was all too easy to see himself and the Soldier as one in the same.
Two halves of a whole; born from blood, metal and pain.
Monsters.
"I…" he began, but the archer spoke up once again.
"All I'm saying is that if you ever want someone to talk to about what you've been through – someone who understands – I'm here if you need me. No judgement and all strictly confidential. You and me."
It was an unexpected offer, but Barnes was grateful nonetheless, despite not feeling ready to talk about any of his innumerable problems with a stranger. But maybe… Maybe one day he'd take Barton up on it.
The brown-haired man opened his mouth to reply, but a disturbance from beyond the door caught his attention. He turned, watching as the door swung open and Rhiannon staggered into the room. She was carrying a bag of groceries or possibly take-out food over one of her arms, which was most likely what they would be eating for lunch.
"Ugh!" she groaned out loud as she closed the door behind her and ran her fingers through her thick mane of hair, which she had left loose and mostly untamed on this occasion in expectation of their day of relaxation. "Higher sciences make my brain hurt. Once Stark and Banner got going it was all I could just to keep pace with their high speed rambling over their possible theories and hypotheses," she complained, entirely unaware of the second man in the room until she happened to turn her head and caught sight of the archer. "Oh… Uh… Hello, Clint. What're you doing here?"
"Just stopped by to have a chat with you guys. Checking in on how you guys are settling in," Barton said – a half-truth – as he rose from the chair and began to head back towards the door. "But if lunch is here then I better hurry back to the kitchen before Romanoff beats me to the good stuff."
"Okay. Yeah… It just got delivered," she said, stepping away from the door to allow the archer to exit.
"Thanks. Gotta go. You guys have a good rest of your day! Have fun cleaning guns!"
And then he was gone and the door shut with a muted click of the latch bolt sliding into place.
Rhia stared in confusion at the closed door for a moment, before her head swiveled in his direction, where he still sat cross-legged in his pajamas amongst the aforementioned disassembled guns.
"So, what really happened?" she asked, eyes narrowed in suspicion and looking him over for any signs of physical harm or emotional distress. "Because I don't believe what Barton said for a second."
"Nah, doll," Barnes said soothingly, feeling uncharacteristically calm and almost happy in that moment, despite the emotional turmoil he had been put through. The archer's offer of support and conversation had been… enlightening. But he was also just pleased that Rhia was back. He could even feel the faintest hints of a smile on his face. The slightest twitching at the corners of his lips that still felt a bit unnatural. "Just talked about some stuff we had in common. Nothing bad, I promise."
She looked far from convinced, but seemed unwilling to push when he claimed that it wasn't serious.
"If you say so," she said, making her way towards the kitchen. "You hungry?"
He raised a brow at the question, standing to following after her, reaching for the bag as she moved it away playfully. She shook her head in wry exasperation as he continued to try – in exaggerated slow motion – to steal the bag of food from her hands.
"Right. Silly me," she said, dodging his attempts with equal slowness as a broad, ivory grin spread its way across her beautiful face. "Why would I even ask? You're always hungry. A fuckin' bottomless pit that food just vanishes into 24/7. It was a miracle I could keep you fed on my meager salary, Barnes."
He scoffed, but admitted internally that it was nice to see her like this.
Actually happy. Not worried or sad or frustrated as she often was when she thought he wasn't looking.
He just liked seeing her truly smile.