Work Text:
The first time, Clint is out of arrows, too many operatives around him for hand to hand. There's the edge of a mountain behind him and a fight in front and it's easy to step into the battle without even fists up. The blow to his stomach hurts, but not as badly as the punch to his jaw. Blood and sweat and pain and Clint's on the ground curled up in a vain attempt to guard agonist steel toed boots.
Blam. Blam. BlamBlamBlam.
Clint doesn't even need to open his eyes to know there are five men with perfectly matched head wounds laying dead around him.
Later, in the rooms that belong to him, in the rooms they've started sharing, Clint can feel the anger radiating off a stiff body, even if the hands tending to his bruises are gentle.
The second time it happens, Clint swears he doesn't mean it. It's just simpler to fall, to let the earth crumble beneath his feet, bow gripped tightly in his hand. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knows he's being watched, makes a vain attempt to grab at rock and rubble to catch himself. He doesn't even come close.
The wind whips through his hair as he tries to remember how many feet a man needs to fall before he dies. He weighs a solid 205, muscle mass heavy on his frame. He's falling fast. He closes his eyes, waits -
And metal hands are catching him from free fall, dropping him far more gently on the ground that Clint ever expected. Bucky is next to him, hands on his face, tilting his head up to make eye contact. Clint's not sure exactly what Bucky sees, but he knows the look of disappointment gazing back at him.
The third time, it's not even in the middle of battle. Well, at least not one of the right kind. They're alone in a seedy bar, drinking and playing darts in their own messed up version of a date. Clint's too drunk for his own good, but there's a smile on his face so Bucky lets it alone. The night seems fine until there's fighting from the bar, Clint picking a brawl over a pitcher of cheap American beer, jumping on some drunk bastard's back. Bucky waits, let's Clint find whatever he's looking for (pain, fear, adrenaline) before he's pulling him out into the cold streets of New York, ending the fight with nothing more than a glimpse of an inorganic arm.
"This has to end, Clint." It's the only time Bucky's addressed it out loud.
Clint doesn't know how to end it. Or rather, he does, but he doesn't think Bucky would like that answer.
He starts looking at normal everyday things; things like shoe laces, his beer bottle, the razor in his bathroom. Clint knows several hundred ways to kill a man; strangling, broken bottle to the stomach, razor blade to the throat. Sometimes, on the occasion he drives a car, Clint wonders at how easy it would be to drive into the side of a building. He wouldn't ever do it. Not really, he thinks. It's just so easy, foot against the gas pedal, wheel held straight against a turn in the road. He wonders if it would be quick. If it would hurt.
Bucky stops letting him drive places. It's a gradual thing, keys already in Bucky's hands when they go out, and then later, when he's denied access to the cars, he knows Bucky knows. His razors are gone, and Clint half expects his boots to be replaced with velcro old man shoes.
They're not. Clint's grateful for that little dignity.
He's in their room, windows drawn shut. A door opens. Latches shut.
The bed shifts, a familiar weight next to him. Bucky's hand reaches over, presses against Clint's arm.
"You need help. You aren't okay."
Clint turns, looks at Bucky, framed in light like a god damned angel, and chokes back a laugh. "I'm fine," he says. It's not even a real lie. Clint can't name what's wrong with him, so why bother to acknowledge it?
"You're a liar, Barton. Do you think I haven't seen this before? Do you think I haven't lived it?" Bucky's angry, tightens his grip enough to leave bruises. Clint relishes in pain. "Ever put a gun in your mouth? Taste metal and gunpowder and desperation?"
Bucky lets go, looks down at white skin, strokes the already blossoming marks. He leans in close, pulls Clint half off the bed into a strange hug. "You're not okay, and we're going to figure it out, okay?"
Clint turns his head, catches Bucky's eye. There's anger and pain and fear and maybe something Clint's only ever seen glimpses of before and he swallows against a sudden lump in his throat.
"Okay. Okay, Bucky. Okay."