"Chapter Three"

In the parking lot once again, the Avengers and Co gathered together for one last talk before those bound for London could go on their way. They were going to be staying at a motel near the airport overnight, and leaving in the morning. Darcy was staring at Sam while Jane and Pepper talked. Then, with three strides, she was in front of the Falcon and yanked him down in to a kiss. All other conversation stopped. Darcy eventually released Sam, and stepped back, licking her lips.

"Shoulda done that a week ago," she remarked. "Oh wells. If Ian's still single…" She shrugged. "See ya next time we're in the same country, Wilson." He was gaping. "See all of you later. And no saving the world without me, okay?"

"Same to you, Lewis," Clint said, hugging her close. He released her, and could've sworn that Steve took a step towards them. Considering Natasha's look of amusement, he wasn't wrong. Feeling a spike of mischief, he kissed Darcy on the cheek, and then pulled back. Sam looked jealous. Good. Who knew the guy needed to be battered over the head with a clue? "Keep Thor out of trouble."

"Do my best not to," she said, and she sauntered over to Jane's side. They were soon driving off, and the others waved. Then the agents departed, and Steve climbed onto his motorbike, claiming that it was safer than Tony's driving. 'A toddler would make a safer driver' had been his exact words. Steve seemed stiff and awkward, more so than usual, and Clint felt that he'd possibly taken the teasing too far.

"Hey, Rogers," he said, sidling up to the bike. Steve glanced at him, but gave no other acknowledgement that he'd noticed Clint. Child. "I should probably tell you that if I was the one to come on to you, people would accuse me of being a corrupting influence, and say you were a victim of my 'lecherous ways'. But if you were to ask me on a date…" He trailed off as Steve's jaw dropped. "You'd be seen as a modern guy, and I'd be seen as the luckiest son-of-a-bitch in the world. More win-win than the other possibility, right?" Still, Steve said nothing, and Clint felt a flicker of horror that he'd misread the situation entirely. "Just… just saying… Forget it, Steve. Sorry." He backed off, feeling a bit ill, and it definitely wasn't something he ate.

"No, Clint, wait," Steve said, and he held out a hand. "I'm… you kissed Darcy, and I thought…"

"That it wasn't just me trying to make your buddy jealous?"

Steve smiled sheepishly. "Oh. Uh…" He climbed off the bike. "I have a spare helmet, in case you want to ride with me?"

"I'd love to ride you," Clint said, using his bedroom eyes. Steve looked alarmed. "Too soon?"

"A bit."

"Okay. Hand me a helmet. If you're sure I'm safer alone with you than in Tony's car?"

"Much safer. Climb aboard."

"Aye, aye, Cap'n."

James was gone by the next time Phil checked. Disappointment welled in his gut, and he sighed as they finished closing for the night while Grant and Lance threw out the last few patrons. Administrative duties over for the night, he was the last to leave, waiting for each of the kids to let him know they'd gotten home safely. By the time the last of the messages arrived, he was nearly home. He parked, then walked around the front of his building, rather than going through the garage. He didn't usually take the long way; but something told him to tonight. Maybe it was the familiar shadow he thought he'd seen out the front? Whatever it was, he was glad he'd checked, because James was sitting on the doorstep. He looked up at Phil.

"You said anytime," he said.

"I did. C'mon in, James."

It was fairly warm out for this time of year, but if James really didn't eat all that often, no wonder he was shivering. Phil locked the door behind them, and led James to his sofa.

"I'll get a blanket," he said. "Do you want soup? A hot drink?" James shook his head. "Just think about it. I'll be right back. Thirty seconds, tops."

"Okay," James said softly, staring at his hands. Phil hurried and fetched a few blankets from the linen cupboard. He was back in about twenty-five seconds, and sat on the edge of the coffee table. James hesitated, and then picked the top blanket. He tucked it around his shoulders clumsily, and then looked up at Phil.

It was different seeing him in the light. Almost worse. Haunted. His eyes looked even more sunken in, and there were black smudges around them. It would have been a handsome face with more feeding, more light, and a few smiles. Phil found himself touching the skin again before he could stop himself. James gave him a piercing look, but he didn't move. Phil stroked the black line, and realised that it was makeup.

"Do you want me to help you get rid of this?" he asked, indicating the mark on his thumb. James nodded. "Okay. I'll grab some water. Sure you don't want a drink?"

"Um… soup?"

"Yeah? What kind of soup?"

"Anything. Just plain."

"Tomato?" James nodded. "I'll zap some for you. TV remote's here." He placed it on the table. "I've got cable, so watch anything you want."

He half-filled a medium-sized bowl with warm tap water, and grabbed a couple of face washers from the linen cupboard. He'd do the best he could without soap.

The soup was still warming up, so he placed some old newspaper on the floor between James and the coffee table, sat beside him, and wet one of the flannels. He tilted James's face towards him, holding his chin gently, and began to wipe off the eyeliner, or whatever it was. Most of it flaked off easily, falling onto his cheeks or chin. Easy to wash off. It was the makeup which had been on the longest that was the toughest to remove. He tried to be careful, but James grabbed his hand all the same.

"Sorry—"

"You don't have to be so gentle," James said.

"Do you want to continue?"

"No. I like you doing it."

With a small smile, Phil continued. He watched for signs of discomfort, but found none. Soon, the last of the black had been cleaned off, and Phil absently stroked the soft, porcelain-pale cheeks. The fact that this man – possibly homeless – had been wearing eye makeup for so long raised many questions. Phil allowed James his privacy, and left him to dry his face off. The soup was a perfect temperature, and Phil dispensed it into a brightly-coloured bowl. He added a spoon, and took it back to the living room. James was staring into the distance, holding the flannel and unmoving.

"Here you are," Phil said. James started, but he calmed when he saw Phil.

"Thank you," he said. Phil tidied up, and poured the water down the sink. He returned to James.

"Slow down," he said. "There's no rush. It's not healthy to speed through meals, you know." James grunted, but stopped sculling the soup straight from the bowl. "I'd ask you to tell me about yourself, but I don't want to drive you away. Never feel that you owe me anything."

James swallowed. "Not used to that."

"All I know is your first name, and that you're apparently on the run from anyone who isn't me." He sank onto the cushion beside James, who was watching him closely. "That you're very handsome. And there's good in you. I can see it. Something I learnt the hard way at boot camp." He smiled ruefully. James cocked his head. "Do you want to stay the night? You can have my bed; it's more comfortable than the sofa bed."

"I don't need… comfortable."

"So where are you living?"

James hunched his shoulders. "Anywhere."

"Here," Phil said.

"…I can't."

"Can't or won't?"

"I'm a dangerous person," James said.

"You won't get any less dangerous without help."

He looked down. "Maybe… just the night."

"Mixed risotto. All of us. Seriously. Just keep it coming."

Bobbi raised an eyebrow. The Avengers usually came to The Everything Diner when Phil was on, but everyone had seen the battle on TV. It wasn't actually all that far away, which explained why they hadn't changed yet; they'd left the destruction in search of food.

"Yes, Mr. Stark," she replied, noting it down. "Drinks?"

"Water. Juice. Just as long as it's cold."

"And non-alcoholic," Clint said. "'M already falling asleep."

"Okay," Bobbi said. "We'll get `em to you right away."

There was just a mumble of agreement. She hurried to the bar and placed the order with Grant. Then she disappeared into the kitchen to speak to Melinda.

"You were right," she said. "They came tonight."

"What do they want?" Melinda asked.

"Mixed risotto."

"All of them?"

"Yes. Mr. Stark said 'Just keep it coming'."

"Sounds like we need the monster cauldron," Mack said. "Leo, the rice?"

"Coming right up," he said, hauling a bag over. "How many are there?"

"Just the five of them."

"If they want an endless supply, it doesn't matter how many cups of rice there are," Melinda said, chopping up vegetables. "Mack, get started on the sauce."

"Yes, ma'am."

It was the third time James had visited. They were sitting close together on the sofa, watching the news, both riveted by the footage of the Avengers taking down a terrorist group associated with Hammer Industries. Even without Justin Hammer at the helm, his company was still causing trouble.

"Would you like a key for this apartment?" Phil said. He'd been thinking about it, but didn't mean to speak his thoughts. He felt James freeze beside him.

"Why?" he asked sharply.

"Because I suspect that you don't have anywhere permanent, or at least semi-permanent, and stability… is important. So you don't have to wait for me to get home, especially if it's raining."

"Home," James said, sounding almost wistful.

"Listen, I know it seems strange. I don't know you all that well, or for that long. But there's something about you, James. Like… like I always knew you, trusted you before we even met." Phil looked down at his clasped hands, thumbs rubbing against each other in his nervousness. "Just… think about it."

There was silence for a few minutes. And then James stood abruptly.

"I want to go now," he said.

"James, you don't have to—"

"I know."

"…Is it me?"

"Yes." Phil flinched at the blunt honesty. "And me. I must not get close."

"To me?"

"Anyone. That's how you get… get…"

"Hurt?" Phil asked softly. James nodded jerkily.

"So I have to leave."

"Please, pretend I didn't say anything about a key. I only want to help you, James." Phil followed him to the door, where James finally paused, hand on the doorknob. "You've suffered some kind of trauma. I know you have."

"I suppose this is hard to miss," James said, shrugging his metal arm. Phil went to touch it, but James backed off. Trying to swallow back the hurt, Phil went to his fridge, and grabbed a business card.

"Here," he said. "His name is Sam Wilson. He works with returned soldiers. He could help you. Even if you weren't in the military, he'll know someone you can talk to. Please take this."

James accepted the card, and shoved it into his back jeans pocket. He met Phil's eyes.

"I'm sorry, Phil," he said. "I…"

"Don't explain," Phil said, and he twisted the handle. "My door will always be open to you, James. I'm your friend, whether you like it or not." He winked to mask the pain, and opened the door. "And your refuge. Okay?"

James nodded, and then ducked out the door without another word. Phil listened to his feet pounding down the stairs until the sound faded away. Then he closed the door firmly, and tried to fight the feeling that he'd never see his James again.

"Except he was never my James," he murmured.

It was stupid to get attached, especially to a vagrant with a dark past and unresolved issues.

Phil sighed, and turned off the television. Early to bed tonight.

Even driving safely, Steve and Clint got back to the tower before the others. They waited outside for the car to catch up, Clint snuggling against Steve's back. His eyes wandered, until they locked on a potential threat. Someone leaning against a tree, cloaked in darkness where he/she stood. He stiffened, and carefully climbed off the motorbike.

"What's up?" Steve asked. Clint shushed him.

"There's someone over there," he said. "I'm gonna call the others."

"Too late," Steve said, pulling out his phone as it vibrated in his pocket. "Someone's already calling us."

"Who?"

"Sam."

Clint nodded, gaze still fixed on the figure across the street. Steve spoke with Sam, but Clint didn't pay any mind to the half-conversation. He waited until Steve hung up.

"Someone wants to talk to Sam," he said. "He got the number from somewhere, and needs help. Sam told him to meet here. I guess it's more secure."

"At this time of night?" Clint said.

"Providing help is as much a twenty-four hour thing as needing help," Steve said. He squinted at the shadows. "Someone's definitely there?"

"Of course."

"Hawkeye's the right name for you. I can't see anyone."

The car soon parked beside them. Sam was the first one out.

"Any sign of him?" he asked. Clint pointed. "Thanks."

"You're not going there by yourself?" Steve asked. Sam rolled his eyes.

"You'd follow without asking," he said. "But don't, Steve. If this really is a cry for help, you're not gonna make things any better trailing behind me. I've gotta do this by myself. It's what I'm qualified to do."

"I'm taking the car in," Tony said, poking his head out the window. "Rogers, wanna take your bike inside?"

"I'll stay here," Clint said. "Have Sam's back."

"Okay," Steve said, sounding far from okay with it. "I'll be right back." Even then, he didn't move. Not until Sam was across the road without trouble. Then he turned.

"Steve!"

"I knew it," he muttered, and he took off across the road without looking. At that time of night there was little traffic, but he still had to leap around a couple of cars. Clint swore, and ran after him, far more agile in dodging moving vehicles.

"The hell, Rogers?" he said. But Steve had pulled the stranger into a bear hug, which was slowly reciprocated. The steel arm glinting in the light was a pretty big clue to the man's identity, although the swell of jealousy didn't ebb right away. Things were still new between him and Steve, and if this was Bucky Barnes, that would all have to be shoved aside for… who knew how long?

"Don't worry," Sam said, patting him on the shoulder. "He needs my help at the moment. You just be there for Steve."

Oops. Longer chapter, lots of Bucky/Phil. Possibly straying from the prompt. I can only excuse myself by claiming that prompts are starting points, and that I'm a shameless (and shameful) slasher.