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Clint is really regretting letting Tony talk him into going to the club with Steve and Bucky. Because even though he and Bucky are technically a thing now, he’s pretty sure double dates are not something the Winter Soldier is highly comfortable with, especially not when the double date involves loud booming music and Tony dragging Steve away to the dancefloor, effectively leaving Bucky and Clint alone. And the worst part is that the lights that are flashing are bright and blue and it’s too much for Clint to handle right now. He’s doing a damn good job of not handling it, actually, and he barely registers Bucky sliding out of the table, murmuring something about the bathroom and pressing a fleeting kiss to his temple.
That’s why it startles him so much when a guy plops into the chair across from him, the chair that’s really Tony’s, but Tony sat in it for a grand total of five seconds so really it’s not Tony’s. That still didn’t explain the angry looking guy with the ugly goatee. Maybe the chair attracted people with goatees? If that was the case, Clint was going to burn the chair because Clint only knew one person who could pull off goatees, and he happened to be a billionaire genius who was doing potentially disgusting things to the iconic face of America.
Angry goatee man had a blotchy red face, which probably meant that he was drunk. Which wasn’t to be unexpected. He was in a club. With a bar. So, yeah, not unusual at all.
The man huffs out an irritated breath before he speaks, glaring at Clint. “I dunno why they let fags like you in here, especially when you insist on wearing that.”
Clint furrows his eyebrows in confusion, before glancing down at his shirt. Belatedly he realizes that it’s actually Bucky’s shirt, a pink one that says “LOVE” on it with Steve’s shield as the “o.” Tony had given it to Bucky as a joke, but it had backfired because Bucky loved the damn thing
“You got a problem with love, man?”
“Yeah, man. Fag love.” He spits out the slur, and Clint flinches a bit because he’s really not in a state of mind to deal with a homophobe looking for a fight.
But he doesn’t think he’ll have to, because there’s Bucky sidling up behind the jerk, and the way he’s moving makes Clint’s mouth run a little dry because it’s Winter Soldier and 1940’s sergeant mixed into one being, and the archer is too busy focusing on his partner’s hips to be concerned with how a simple walk has made Clint remember just how far gone he is for James Buchanan Barnes.
Goatee man jumps a bit as a hard, heavy hand suddenly claps down on his shoulder, clamping slightly. Bucky might be wearing a glove to hide the metal hand, but that doesn’t stop him from using it when he wants to. Clint bites back a grin as the brunette gives the man a winning grin, but there’s a glint of danger to his eyes.
“You wanna ease up on my fella, or you wanna take this outside?” Bucky asks, his Brooklyn accent taking an edge from the 40’s and Clint wants to know what he has to do to make Bucky talk like that in a more private setting. The man sneers at Bucky, making Clint take sudden pity on him.
“Your “fella” has to have you fight his battles for him?”
“’Course not,” Bucky chuckles, slinging his metal arm over the other’s shoulders easily, pinning him effectively with the weight of it. “If he fought you, you wouldn’t be able to walk for six days. I’m a little nicer.” He throws a look toward Clint, then smirks at the guy. “Plus, wouldn’t it be a shame for the last thing for you to see before he knocked you out to be that pretty face? You might just wake up gay.”
Goatee man stares at Clint, processing, and then the archer watches the words click into place. There’s a roar of rage as he pushes Bucky away forcefully, and stands. Bucky takes the shove easily, rocking back on his heels before throwing forward his left fist. There’s two hits; Bucky’s crack to the man’s jaw, and the loud bang of him hitting the floor.
Bucky cocks his head down at his fallen opponent as the bartender shouts for him to leave. He holds his hand out to Clint, not breaking his gaze.
Clint stands, stepping over to Bucky’s side, holding in a squeak of surprise as Bucky drags him closer with an arm around his hips. He leads Clint toward the door, calling out over his shoulder, “You might wanna call an ambulance, seeing how his jaw’s dislocated.”
Outside the club, Bucky pins Clint against the wall with his hands on Clint’s hips, fitting his mouth over the blond’s and kissing him ferociously. Clint momentarily forgets to breathe as Bucky kisses him senseless, and he’s panting when the soldier finally breaks away, those piercing grey eyes searching his.
“You okay?” He asks, lifting the flesh and blood hand to cup Clint’s jaw and run his thumb along his cheekbone. Clint nods, leaning into the touch slightly.
“Why’d you do that?”
Bucky just looks at him for a minute, thumb still tracing across Clint’s face.
“No one messes with my fella.”
Clint’s not sure what to say to that. So he just kisses Bucky again.
---
Clint really doesn’t try to get in trouble. He doesn’t. Especially not during battles, but it just happens, okay?
How he managed to get kidnapped by Electro and held hostage is really beyond him, but that might be in part to the fact that he has a concussion. At least, he’s pretty sure it’s a concussion. His head hurts really bad; in any case, one thing he knows for certain is that he’s fucked.
At the moment he’s being dangled by the nape of his neck over the edge of a building, electricity sparking all around him, like he’s a prize.
“Stand down, Avengers! Or I drop him!”
Ahaha, fuck. Clint’s screwed, because Electro balsted an EMP not five minutes ago that took out Tony’s armor and Bucky’s arm.
“Clint!”
Speaking of Bucky.
He drags his eyes open to stare down at the street below. Hulk and Widow are staring up at him. Cap’s there too, but he’s got his arms full of Bucky, quite literally. One arm is under Bucky’s right arm and up around his left shoulder, the other wrapped around his chest, restraining him. Steve’s voice crackles over Clint’s comm.
“Don’t do anything stupid, Barnes, or he’s dead.”
“Do you want me to just fucking stand here?!”
“Yes. Thor’s on his way."
Bucky throws his shoulder back, tossing Steve off him and the taller blond lets him. Clint’s eye slide closed again, breathing deeply because Bucky’s safe so maybe he can sleep…
There’s a crack of thunder, and he’s falling. Shit.
Then he’s slammed from the side by a train. A flying train?
No, wait. That’s Thor.
He can’t really remember what happens next, save for that he suddenly being fussed over by SHIELD’s medical while sitting on the back of one of the medical vans. There’s words being spoken to him, probably asking him questions that he should answer, but they sound disconnected and thick. A quick swipe behind his ears reveals that he’s lost his hearing aids, most likely when Thor caught him.
He stares at the woman blankly. She seems to figure out that he won’t be answering anytime soon, but before she can attempt to extract more answers from him she whips around. Then, she’s suddenly scurrying away. He looks after her in confusion, and then turns back to see Bucky striding up to him.
The metal arm is hanging limp and useless at his side, and he looks murderous. Huh. No wonder the nurse left. Clint kinda wants to leave.
But then Bucky’s got his working arm around Clint’s shoulders and is dragging him forward into a tight hug, and maybe this isn’t all bad. A gentle kiss is dropped onto his head, and Clint sighs into Bucky’s chest. He frowns as Bucky shifts, kneeling down in front of him. He searches Clint’s face, looking a little confused, then as he runs his eyes over Clint’s ears, understanding dawns in his eyes. He reaches back and digs in his back pocket before producing a tiny case.
Bucky always carries Clint’s spares on missions. Clint used to give him a hard time about it.
Today he just wordlessly takes the case and opens it, slipping the devices behind his ears. Before he can say a “thank you,” Bucky has his hand cupping the back of Clint’s skull and is reverently kissing him all over, on his cheeks, his nose, his eyebrows, his forehead, the corners of his lips, and his cheekbones before finally pressing a gentle kiss to his mouth. He sighs when he pulls away, resting his forehead against Clint’s.
“Hey doll.”
Clint quirks a little grin at Bucky. “Hey there, Soldier.” Bucky presses another quick kiss to the corner of his mouth.
“Don’t do that again, you fucking punk.”
---
Clint keeps finding himself in life or death situations and it’s getting very old, very quickly. He coughs weakly and blood sputters between his lips. He grimaces at the coppery, bitter taste, spitting out as much as he can as he presses his hand more firmly against his abdomen, groaning.
There’s a slab of concrete on him, barely being kept from crushing him by the two pieces of concrete he sandwiched between, which is fortunate. The unfortunate thing is that the slab had some nasty rebar sticking out of it, and he’s been lanced through the upper left of his abdomen, just below the ribcage. His left hand is slick, and he knows it’s bad.
“Hawkeye, I need you to report.”
He groans into his comm again.
“Now!” Shit, Captain freakin’ America sounds panicked and that’s never good.
“I’m down.” He grits out, the words tasting like dust and blood. It’s disgusting. “Building came down on top of me.”
Steve swears colorfully, and Clint grins stupidly at the blank grey rock above him. “Language, Cap.”
“Clint, I’ve got the Winter Soldier headed your way. Please hold on.”
“Roger that Rogers.”
There’s a beat of silence, and then his comm is buzzing with a different voice.
“Agent Barton, Agent Barnes is requesting a personal channel.” Jarvis informs him, and his voice is gentle. Is this what he’d sounded like when Tony was blasting that damn missile into space?
Clint feels his breath wheeze out of his chest. “Patch him through, Jarvis.”
There’s a click, and it’s just him and Bucky.
“Hey there, Soldier.” Clint knows he sounds awful, and there’s more blood in his mouth. He spits it out.
“Barton, I swear to god you’re making this a habit.”
“I’m not trying to babe.” He shifts, and hisses as the rebar digs into him more firmly.
“Shit, Barton, what’s your status? I’m only five floors down from your position.”
“I’m pinned, Bucky. And there’s rebar through me.” Clint blinks rapidly, and wow, when did his vision get so fuzzy? “Also, I’m starting to black out.”
“Fuck, stay with me Clint I’m almost there.”
“Bucky, I love you.”
“Clint? Clint, sweetheart, I need you to fucking stay with me okay?” And no, it’s not okay because Clint knows that Bucky won’t get here before he passes out from blood loss, not at the rate it’s sluggishly pumping between his fingers, and he knows that Bucky knows it too.
“Bucky.”
“Clint don’t.”
“James.”
“I love you too sweetheart, just please stay with me I’m right fucking here I’m just one floor down-”
Clint’s eyes slide closed, and he distantly hears Bucky calling for him, the static of the comms getting replaced by Bucky’s voice just feet away. He distantly hears himself screaming as the rebar is ripped out him, hears, “shit, goddamnit I need fucking backup here, like, yesterday” and then his head is being cradled in Bucky’s lap and both hands – metal and real – are being pressed firmly over his wound, the real fingers linking with his own. Bucky has a stream of senseless words spilling from his mouth, aimless chatter directed at Clint, a vain attempt at keeping the archer awake and keep his own nerves at bay.
“I’m here sweetheart, I’m right here, you’re gonna be okay they’re gonna fix you up, you’re so brave for holding on this long, so fucking brave, and I’m gonna fucking destroy them for doing this to you, shit they broke your bow….”
That’s when Clint blacks out.
---
Hospitals suck.
For one thing, they’re always freezing. Of course, Clint has recently undergone massive trauma and significant blood loss, which might be part of the cause for the fact that he’s cold, but Clint has a personal vendetta against hospitals, so when anything is wrong it’s the hospital’s fault.
Coming around after such an intense injury, emergency surgery, and heavy drugs is always fun. Clint feels like he’s swimming and even though he knows they have him on the good stuff, he aches. He aches deep in his very bones.
But he has to drag himself to consciousness and limp into wakefulness. He has to. He has to tell Bucky he’s okay.
It’s a monumental mental effort. The black darkness of his own mind is so inviting. His eyelids feel heavier than Bucky’s metal arm.
Bucky. He needs to wake up for Bucky.
His eyes open.
Bucky is sitting on his right side, holding his hand delicately and tracing the knuckles with his thumbs. His bun is messy and haphazard, like he’s run his hand over the top of head many times and pulled strands out accidentally with nervous fingers. There’s loose strings hanging in his face, over his tired, exhausted eyes, and Clint wants nothing more than to tuck them away from that gorgeous face. His hand squeezes lightly. Bucky freezes.
When the soldier looks up, the archer smiles at him gently. “Hey beautiful,” he whispers, and Bucky shatters.
Hands cup his neck, fingers brush his jaw, and Bucky is kissing him like a starved man. Clint lets out a small moan, and Bucky pulls back slightly, his eyes glancing down and searching for signs of pain or discomfort. Finding none, he leans back in and murmurs “hello darling,” against Clint’s lips before claiming Clint’s mouth again, his teeth catching the blond’s lower lip softly.