Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"So I'll be next door if you need anything." Clint hands Angry Hot Guy the keys and points at his own door, behind which he's planning to hide real soon. Angry Hot Guy looked personally affronted by each and every aspect of the apartment during the short tour, leaving Clint impressed and strangely aroused. Not suitable in a landlord-new-tenant type of relationship in any case, and Clint will leave him to his angry scowling in companionable solitude.

"Oh! Hope you don't mind dogs. Lucky's usually pretty quiet, but he gets kinda wild over pizza." Clint shrugs and rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. Angry Hot Guy looks slightly less murderous at the mention of a dog, and Clint counts it as a win. What kind of win, he's not sure exactly. Maybe he'll work up the courage to ask Angry Hot Guy his name some day. Bucky doesn't make any sense, and Clint is sure he misheard due to staring at Angry Hot Guy's thighs.

"Thank you." Angry Hot Guy makes it sound like Clint is lucky he's not dead in a ditch somewhere.

Without losing eye contact Angry Hot Guy closes the door between them with a definitive click, leaving Clint to blink at the wood.

Well. That went okay.

--

The next job on his list -- Phil would've been so proud -- is finding out why the water pressure is so flakey. When he gets to the boiler room, Jason is there, doing something to the pipes overhead that makes his biceps bulge and his shirt ride up and wow abs, so many abs.

Clint probably should've remembered that the boiler room is two steps lower than the hallway, but abs . He steps into thin air, falls forward, and twists his ankle when it does land on the first step down. He yelps, and flails his free hand (the other is holding his toolbox in a death grip) in search of something to hold onto. Unfortunately, this happens to be one of the pipes coming from the boiler. He yelps again, and pulls his hand back so quickly the momentum of his forward fall shifts sideways, and he falls the final step down and--

"Jesus." Jason jumps forward as soon as Clint starts to topple, preventing him from falling the final step and most likely breaking his hip on the toolbox.

"Wow, you move fast. Are you a cat? Man. Person?" Clint hears his mouth say while his brain is occupied with noticing how nice Jason smells up close, and how firm his grip is.

Jason frowns and squints, and bends even closer to peer in Clint's eyes. "Did you hit your head again?"

Clint does a mental walk through of the previous week, before shaking his head. "Not recently, no."

"Hmm." Jason seems unimpressed by that statement, but Clint has learned that's his modus operandi.

Jason lets go, which means Clint's full weight is transferred to his busted ankle, and he nearly topples again, if not for Jason holding him steady.

"Ow..." Clint sighs. Futzing busted ankles always take forever to un-bust.

"Let's get you back to your apartment," Jason says as he moves to steer Clint back up the two steps, but Clint refuses to budge.

"Can't. Need to see what's wrong with the water pressure and what are you actually doing here?" Clint probably should've started with that observation, instead of the inappropriate ones. But abs.

Jason shrugs, and if he wasn't 220 pounds of sheer fuck you energy, Clint would've called his look sheepish. "Overheard you talking to mrs. Rosa. Thought I'd have a look..."

Huh. "Are you a plumber?"

For some reason Clint can't fathom this makes Jason snort. "Not really, no. But I have err, a varied skill set."

"Does this include catching damsels in distress?" Clint grins and wiggles his eyebrows.

"A surprising number of times, yeah," Jason nods and all but bodily hauls Clint up the two steps, which is not helping Clint's ability to think. Instead of arguing and trying to get back to fixing the boiler/pipes/thing, he finds himself wondering if Jason would be strong enough to carry him bridal style and how this would feel, which naturally leads to how it would feel if they were both naked, which leads to trying to come up with a plausible explanation for the both of them being naked while Jason is carrying him. Probably some sort of disaster like a flood or a fire or being the only two survivors of a plane crash? He hopes imaginary him brought his bow and arrows. He might be able to shoot something to eat while Jason holds him. Then again, the chances of his bow surviving such a crash, when their clothes don't, seems like a stretch. Maybe making knives from rocks is one of Jason's varied skills.

"Can you make knives from rocks?" They've climbed two sets of stairs already and Jason isn't winded at all from half carrying Clint's weight. If he can make a knife, Clint has a feeling he can use it to hunt with too. Clint feels a little guilty for letting Jason help -- God knows he climbed these stairs with less than three functional limbs before, or even two -- but not enough to stop leaning against Jason.

"Are you sure about that concussion?" Jason steers them over the second floor landing and towards the last flight of stairs.

"I'm just making friendly conversation," Clint assures him. "And, you know, trying to find out which neighbors are most helpful during an apocalypse."

"As one does."

"I'm taking my landlording seriously."

They're nearly at his floor, and Clint is big enough to admit he contemplates throwing himself backwards off the stairs to make Jason carry him some more. It's nice to have someone look out for him for once. But he would never bother anyone like that.

"I don't think any of the tenants will appreciate being thrown to the zombie horde," Jason continues, unaware of Clint's thoughts. Thank heavens.

"I would never!" He totally would. Especially that old lady from 2F, who doesn't know he can perfectly understand her Russian insults.

"Here we are. Got your key?" Jason looks expectantly at Clint, who points at his doormat.

"You leave your key under your doormat?" Jason hisses, with a heavy scowl of disbelief. He obviously doesn't spend as much time falling into dumpsters like Clint does. Key searching through week old food and diaper residue is not Clint's idea of fun.

"There's nothing here worth stealing," Clint tries to point out, because really there's not. He'll only be bummed if they steal his bow.

"There's nothing--" Jason cuts himself off and seems to be silently counting to ten, a level of aggravation Clint inspires in most people at some point.

He just rolls with it and bends forward -- hurt leg sticking out behind him -- to pick up his key while Jason has his silent communication with the Powers That Be. A strangled noise makes him look up from groping under the doormat. He would swear Jason is blushing, but it's probably the light.

His fingers find the key, and he straightens with a triumphant grin. "Got it."

He opens the door and hobbles inside, making a beeline for his coffee pot, which is regretfully empty. "Aww, coffee..."

He expects Jason to go, but instead his neighbour is hovering awkwardly in the doorway. "You're err, you're pretty flexible..."

Clint picks up the container with ground beans to peer inside. "Hmm? Yeah, I was in the circus." Futz. Empty. He picks up the fancy one with Mexican beans Nat gave him at Christmas, and gives it an experimental shake despite knowing it's empty too. A lone coffee bean rattles on the inside, but Clint leaves it be. He's keeping that one for emergencies, to chew on if needed.

"Well. I'll be going then," Jason says, and Clint turns around to smile at him.

"Thank you for, you know, preventing me from needing to go to the E.R. again." Though it was totally Jason's abs that were to blame this time.

Jason nods and leaves. He might've looked pleased, but Clint's pretty sure that's because he's glad to get away.

Clint perks up when he remembers he stuffed a package of coffee in his sock drawer, and scuttles off to retrieve it.

-- -- --

And this is why Clint's a dog person. Dogs don't run up futzing trees and then refuse to come down again.

Under normal circumstances it wouldn't be that hard climbing a tree to retrieve the feline, but with a broken wrist -- don't ask -- it's a hell of a lot more challenging. For one, the cast is bulky, not to mention he can't actually put any weight on that hand.

And then the stupid cat jumps even higher when Clint is almost close enough to grab him.

"Clinton Francis Barton! What the fuck are you doing up there?" Bucky -- Angry Hot Guy really is called Bucky, of all things -- suddenly yells from ground level. It startles Clint badly enough to make him let go of the branch, resulting in him hanging upside down, swinging slightly by his legs. To add insult to injury, Fluffy Whiskers III jumps onto his shins and uses his sharp, sharp cat claws on Clint's shirt and Clint's stomach to climb down and jump onto the ledge where Chloe is waiting for him.

Ow. Futzing cat.

"I'm hanging in a tree," Clint answers Bucky with a grunt as he swings himself up, and shimmies until he's somewhat sitting on the branch.

Futzing wrist.

He looks down and contemplates how much it'll hurt if he jumps. Probably lots. If he lands on his bad hand and the cast breaks there's a chance he'll never shoot a bow again.

Below him, Bucky mutters something unintelligible while Clint studies the building. Maybe he can make the same jump as the cat did. If he can reach that overhead branch and swing, he should have enough momentum to make the jump.

"You're stuck, aren't you?" Bucky calls, and Clint doesn't have to look to know he has his hands on his hips.

"Nah, I got this." Clint ever so carefully moves to stand, and tries to reach the thick branch above while leaning against the trunk. It's juuuust too high, but if he--

Suddenly the tree shakes, and Clint has to grab onto the trunk to keep his balance.

Bucky's head appears at Clint's feet, scowl at mach five or whatever type scale one uses to rate scowls. Clint should invent one, since he's so often on the receiving end of one.

"It looks worse than it is," Clint offers, because of all the dumb things he did, this doesn't even rank in the top twenty. Thirty. Something. And that's just since moving here.

"Get your ass down, you dumb punk," Bucky orders, and Clint gingerly sits down. Not because he's good at taking orders, but because Bucky looks at him like he'll push Clint out of the tree if he doesn't listen.

When he's sitting on the branch again, something happens that'll feature in Clint's fantasies for the rest of forever.

Bucky picks him up with one arm.

Clint idly wonders if he did actually fall out of the tree and onto his head, but if he did, this is the best coma dream ever.

Bucky's one armed climb is a lot more elegant than Clint's was. He must work out a lot. Then again, Clint saw similar feats in the circus. Who knows how Bucky spends his downtime? Maybe he escaped from a circus like Clint. Or maybe he has a giant jungle gym instead of furniture in his apartment. Maybe Clint can add some bars and a rope to his place as well? Or a slide from the bed onto the couch. That would be so sweet. He could invite Bucky over to play tag.

Bucky carefully sets Clint down on the ground, and then even proceeds to gently put Clint's arm back in its sling. "You need to keep it raised, so it won't swell." He glares at Clint, but after this show of care Clint isn't scared anymore that Bucky will kill him in his sleep.

"You're remarkably strong." Clint feels he should at least point this out, coma or not.

"And you are remarkably prone to get yourself into trouble."

Clint shrugs. "The cat needed saving. Next time I'll call you with your crazy monkey skills."

"Yes. Do that." Bucky looks at him pointedly, before turning around and marching into the building.

--

Clint sighs. Why does he want to be a landlord again? He actually doesn't, but no one else is volunteering, and with futzing Barney taking all of his futzing money he can't afford to hire a handyman either.

The apartment is a mess. It took days to clear all the crap out by himself, though throwing all that evil, old Russian cow's stuff out of the window felt oddly cathartic. But now that the apartment is empty it's obvious the walls are more hole than drywall.

He sighs again. His one little tube of filler isn't gonna cut it.

When he turns around, suddenly Bucky is standing there. Clint startles and throws the tube of filler at his face, but Bucky catches it without trouble.

Huh.

"Think you'd better cut out the worst parts and put in new pieces of drywall." Bucky magicks a chisel and hammer from somewhere about his person.

"You want to add holes to the holes?" Jason comes walking into the apartment, carrying a large bucket of plaster.

Bucky rolls his eyes so far back he can see his brain. "That," be points with the chisel, "is cosmetic. This," now he twirls the chisel between his fingers in a very appealing distracting manner, "is a constructive solution."

Now it's Jason's turn to roll his eyes, and start on a rant on how the plaster can act as a filler.

"Fine," Bucky growls. "You do that wall, I'll do this one. Let's see what's better."

"Fine."

Clint slowly backs away. Looks like he might have two handymen after all.

--

Clint drags himself up the stairs to the roof. Futzing Doom with his futzing flying doom bots. The whole point of being a ranged combatant is staying out of reach of the actual fighting. But somehow the fight always finds him. In this case in the shape of flying miniature ninja-robots with miniature katanas, stabbing him like a pin cushion.

He never had this many bandages on his body at one given time, and him being him, that says a lot.

He doesn't want to miss the weekly potluck though, mainly because he needs to navigate more stairs down and back up if he orders pizza, than hauling himself one stairs up to the roof.

He hopes showing up to a potluck without any pot or any luck will still result in him acquiring food. Maybe as a tithe? One burger and a scoop of Yvonne's potato salad per month in exchange for keeping the keep safe. Sounds like a reasonably fair bargain, but you never know when underlings will riot.

On the roof things are not as they always are.

For one, Grills' dad is not grilling. Grills' dad is not there, period. Bucky is at the grill, glaring at the meat like it personally offended his mother.

Maybe if Clint looks sad enough Bucky will give him a burger? Clint hobbles hopefully towards him, but is thwarted underway.

"Hey Barton, glad you showed up." Jason calls over, extracting himself from a group of neighbours who stand gathered around him on the other side of the roof. "Fuck, what happened to you?"

Jason looks different. His hair is... springy? Floppy? Curly? Curlier? And his shoulders are more... shouldery? Clint stands blinking at him, or rather at the poor fabric that's stretched taut over all his... everything.

"Clint?"

Clint tears his gaze away from Jason's pecs with great difficulty. There was a question? But what?

"Yes?" He tries, hoping he guessed right.

"Why are you all..." Jason gestures up and down Clint's body, and Clint follows Jason's hand with his gaze.

Gazillion bandages. Old t-shirt with stains that are either tomato sauce or blood. Comfy fitting jeans. Sneakers. He probably means the bandages.

"Oh. That. Crochet incident."

"Barton!" Tim, or was it Marc? Robbert? calls out while brandishing his phone. He jogs over to show Clint and Jason a video of Clint trying to fight off the doombots. Some joker gave Clint a giant fly swapper, and edited the Tommy Hill theme song under it.

Clint looks up at TimMarcRobbert, decides he's the first to be pushed off the roof in case of zombie infestation, and moves away without another word.

Behind him he hears Jason mutter something. Probably to laugh at Clint, but it doesn't matter, because a gust of wind brings the sweet smell of burgers. He hobbles faster towards the promise of food, only for Jason to catch up with him again.

"Hey Clint," Bucky says, sounding genuinely pleased to see him. "Todd," he adds through gritted teeth.

"Hi burger," Clint answers happily. "Bucky?"

Bucky blinks at him, and Jason does that thing where he moves to peer into Clint's eyes to check for a concussion. Like Clint has a concussion every week.

Bucky hands him a perfect burger, not quite pushing Jason to the side to do so. "How long have you been awake?"

Clint takes a huge bite and moans appreciatively. Both Bucky and Jason start to fidget. Oh right, another question. He thinks as he chews, using the fingers of his unoccupied hand as an aid. "Bou' fo'y 'ours," he answers, still chewing.

Jason and Bucky share a look, or better, a glare, but Clint doesn't care much, because he's in burger heaven.

"Ano' bur'er?" He asks hopefully around his last bite, and suddenly there's a chair behind him where Jason gently pushes him into, and another burger in his hand.

Maybe he should get stabbed more often if he gets treated like this.

"That's not the best way to grill those," Jason nods at the sausages.

"Pray tell, what is the best way." Bucky says it like he'll use one of the sausages to stab Jason in the eye if he answers.

Clint's not too worried. Jason looks like he can defend himself against food violence. His shirt probably won't, though.

"You need to put them on the edge of the grill, so they gently warm in their own juices."

Bucky moves the sausages promptly to the middle of the grill. Even more in the middle than they were before.

Food fight and consequent destruction of shirt seems more likely by the second, and Clint has a literal front seat.

But alas, Grills' dad arrives with more meat and starts chatting with Bucky; Jason is pulled into a conversation about the game; and no shirts are demolished. If there was ever prove that the universe has it out for him, this is it.

Somewhere between burger two and three, Clint falls asleep.

He wakes up comfy in his own bed, unsure how he got there.

--

It's not even 48 hours later when the call to assemble comes again.

But when Clint arrives at the site, the battle is all but over. Someone used a rocket launcher to blow up most of the mutated, giant slugs. Much to the chagrin of Cap who was left covered in slug slime and slug entrails. A sniper took out the last of the beasts, leaving the way clear for the team to apprehended the Slug Sorcerer.

The entire debriefing is spent speculating if these vigilantes are a threat or not.

Clint turns off his hearing aids and naps on his folded arms.

--

"I'm pretty sure my two favourite neighbours are plotting to kill each other." Clint downs the vodka in one go, shuddering as the liquid burns his esophagus and neighbouring regions on its way down.

"Hmm." Natasha is both ostentatiously unimpressed by this statement, and completely unaffected by the alcohol. "And what evidence do you have of these plots?"

This is where Clint's defense falls apart, but he's not deterred. His gut tells him something is up with his neighbors, and his gut is rarely wrong. "They glare at each other. Meaningfully."

Nat raises one eyebrow, her way of laughing out loud in his face.

Clint squares his jaw and pours them both another vodka. He knows he's right.

"And why are these your favourite neighbours?" Nat salutes him with her glass and they both down their drink.

She sighs when Clint doesn't answer, but looks at his hands while he knows the tips of his ears are going pink.

"You think they're hot." It's not a question but a statement.

"They are! Objective fact. They have muscles and jaw lines and stuff, and Nat. They murder strut."

Nat looks at him for a second, and then nods. "Fair enough."

She pours them both another glass. "I'll bless the day you start to think with your big head though."

Which is unfair. Big head is for painful memories, or even worse, hope. Better not engage with that one too much.

"За всё хорошее."

--

The next time Clint's pager beeps with a call to assemble, he's not even halfway to suiting up before the location tag changes from a New Haven warehouse to SHIELD HQ.

The following debriefing Clint spends drooling over the captured images of the two vigilantes plowing through a horde of zombie fishermen with swords and knives.

He wonders if they'd sign his katanas if he asks nicely.

Then one salutes the camera and the other flips it the bird, before disappearing without a trace. Clint has to fight a raging hard on for the rest of the meeting.

Chapter Text

Clint hears the tires screech in the streets downstairs, and he just knows he's not gonna like what'll happen next. Call it a sixth sense. Call it instinct born from trauma. Tires ostentatiously screeching have never, not once, led to anything good for Clint Barton.

So when he looks out of the window to see two haphazardly parked white vans, he's not surprised. Tired, sick of it, completely done, yes. Surprised, no.

He sighs, picks up his bow, and trots downstairs. He sighs louder when he realises he forgot his shoes. Luckily all the tenants know to stay inside, at least. The only who should -- and will -- get hurt is him.

The thing is, they've been over this. Kate and him saved the day, ran the mob off, everybody happy. But still, every once in a while, some happy go lucky mobsters reappear with a need for vengeance.

Clint sighs again.

He manages to get a good few hits in, like he always does. More than a few. Arrows don't last indefinitely though, so he throws his bow behind him in the hallway, and switches to hand in hand. Which futzing hurts the wrist that's still sore, and somewhere in the scrape he loses his hearing aids, and there's just too many to keep standing for long.

His whole body is agony. It hurts so bad, and he's so tired, that he hopes they'll stop kicking his ribs and give him a solid whack on the head. Unconsciousness seems very inviting right now, possible brain damage be damned.

But then suddenly everyone is gone? One eye is swollen shut, but the image from the other doesn't make much sense. He sees tracksuit bros literally flying through the air. Like in a cartoon. One moment they're on the ground, the next they're on a horizontal trajectory towards the wall.

Suddenly there's a face nearby, and Clint's too sore to even flinch. They seem to be saying something but he can't focus well enough to read their lips, and honestly, he's just... He doesn't really care.

The face retreats, and Clint closes his eyes. Eye. The one that still cooperates somewhat.

He hopes someone will take care of Lucky.

--

Ow.

Everything is ow.

Ow and soft?

Clint pats the mattress he's lying on.

This is new.

Usually waking up after being overwhelmed in a fight means being tied to a chair.

In a warehouse.

Why would someone put a comfy bed in a warehouse?

Movement next to him, and then a big, wet dog tongue licks his face.

Clint opens his eyes, eye, too fast and groans when the light stabs his brain with an ice pick.

Aww, concussion.

The lights dim on their own accord, and Clint dares another peek through his eye lashes.

There's Lucky, looking at Clint with doggy concern. There's a heart monitor thing, so he's in hospital again. There's a hand holding out his hearing aid. Hmm.

He reaches out to try and take it, but his movement is clumsy and when he grabs the aid he drops it immediately. He lets his hand slump down again and sighs forlornly.

The hand disappears and then the bed dips next to him. Someone fumbles the aid into his ear, and suddenly his world is filled with hospital sounds and Lucky's quiet panting.

"Is this okay?"

That's not a nurse's voice. That's grumpy Bucky's voice.

Clint ever so carefully turns his head. That's grumpy Bucky's face.

Clint closes his eye again and takes stock. He was in a fight. He lost. He saw mobsters flying. He woke up in a hospital type setting, but A: his dog is here too which is unusual. And B: the nurse is his grumpy next door neighbour. He also knows he's not on the good meds that made him trip balls, because there's still much ow. So the only logical conclusion is that he died and is in some kind of purgatory, or he's in a coma. Again? Still?

There's a big philosophical point to be made here, but the longer he thinks, the more his head hurts, and he would very much like to fall unconscious again.

And he does.

The next time he wakes, he's got both hearing aids in. The pain is gone, and the light has dimmed, and Lucky is still a warm weight against his side. Clint feels comfortable, which makes him suspicious, because comfortable usually doesn't last very long.

"I know you're awake."

Clint opens his eye to smile at Natasha. This is more like it. She'll verbally kick his ass for not calling back up and then she'll forgive him. As things should be. No imaginary grumpy neighbors in sight.

"Sorry Nat."

"What for? Breaking another six bones? Not calling backup? Or not telling me you live next door to the Winter Soldier?" Of all the unimpressed glares Natasha has sent his way since they've known each other, this one ranks pretty high.

Clint blinks at her. "What?"

Unimpressed glare turns into a full on eye roll with angry Russian muttering, which turns into her massaging her temples. "Nevermind." She looks up to smile at him, a real, genuine one she reserves just for those she truly cares about. "I would say don't do anything this stupid again, Clint Barton, but well..."

Clint grins, as far as his busted face allows him to. "I try my best."

"I know, котенок.

--

Nat is awesome, because she gets him discharged after only a few days, and with a contented sigh, Clint lets himself fall -- gingerly -- into his own bed. He's planning on sleeping for at least fifty-six hours, order pizza, and sleep some more.

He wakes after way less, because there are hushed voices. Inside his apartment.

"Seriously, under his doormat?"

"That's what I said. It's a miracle that man's still alive."

"He's flexible though."

"Not flexible enough to dodge those baseball bats."

"But did you see how many he took out by himself?"

"Hey, Lucky. Who's a good boy? Yeah, you are."

Clint should probably ask Nat if they did a brain scan in the hospital, because what he's hearing can't be right. It could be the painkillers though. The last time they gave him the good stuff he ended up making out with a signpost, thinking it was his ex who came to forgive him. But on the off chance that his next door neighbour and downstairs neighbour are indeed in his apartment, he feels kinda safe with that idea.

He pulls his hearing aids out and goes back to sleep.

After a solid many hour rest he wakes up again, feeling sore and under-caffeinated and sore.

Aww, back, no.

He heaves himself into something resembling an upright position, and promptly drops his head again with a groan. Ow caffeine withdrawal times concussion. He groans again and sighs, and wonders where Lucky is. He also wonders why he smells coffee. Why must the Gods taunt him so?

He stares incomprendingly at the spot on his nightstand where his hearing aids should be, before he remembers he put them under one of his pillows. As he fumbles his aids in, coffee smell is chased away by pancake smell, and now there's the distinct sound of frying as well.

He pops his head over the banister to see Bucky reading on his couch. Lucky's spread out on Bucky's lap like a blanket, and both look perfectly content.

Huh.

The stairs creak, and Jason's head comes into view, followed by the rest of him, including a breakfast tray.

"Coffee?" Clint makes a hopeful grabbing motion with his one functional hand, and a sad kind of wave thing with the other. Futzing cast.

"Coffee and pancakes," Jason answers. "But your scary girlfriend will kill me if I don't give you water and meds too." Jason sets the tray on Clint's bed, and helps him get ahold of the coffee mug.

Girlfriend. Scary. The words don't make much sense, and land in the fog of Clint's brain as he sips his coffee.

"Are you in pain?"

Clint takes stock. Head is slowly starting to feel a little better, but waking up properly makes all the various wounds and breaks and what not actually feel worse. He sighs and nods, and holds out his cup with pleading eyes.

"You can look just as sad as Lucky, anyone ever tell you that?" Jason takes the cup. "If you take those," he points at what Clint recognizes as painkillers and antibiotics, "I'll get you another one of these." Jason gestures with the cup.

When Jason walks downstairs, Clint first gobbles up the pancake. The antibiotics will make him feel nauseous, but it'll be worse if he takes them on an empty stomach. The brain fog lifts further as he chews, and he contemplates all the pieces of info that resurface.

So he's living next to the Winter Soldier, which must be Bucky. It could've been Jason, but Nat specifically said next door. The world's most elusive assassin is currently cuddling with Clint's dog.

It does explain the flying tracksuit bros. Apparently the Winter Soldier doesn't take kindly to people knocking his landlord around. Clint's not sure when Jason got involved, but he wouldn't be surprised if Jason saw the scuffle and jumped right into the fray. He looks the type.

But why are they here now?

Clint swallows his meds with water, not bothering to hide his full body shudder. He wouldn't take them if he could get away with it and Nat knows this. And so she ordered/threatened/coerced Clint's neighbors into being his babysitters. And she would totally let them believe she's Clint's girlfriend if she thought this furthers her cause.

Jason comes back up the stairs, carrying the promised coffee. He looks nice despite all his abs hidden away from view. Soft in a way that makes Clint sad he's only here because of Nat's meddling. Clint rubs his face and the back of his head to forcibly remove those dumb thoughts, before stretching as far as his futzing broken ribs allow.

"Here ya go. Your just reward." Jason hands Clint the coffee with a lopsided smile Clint doesn't know how to deal with. Luckily he can just bury his face in the mug.

"You okay here? Need anything else?"

Clint shakes his head, his mouth hidden behind the mug to keep himself from blurting out anything stupid.

"We're just downstairs if you need anything." Jason jogs down the steps and out of sight again.

Clint sighs. Normally he would just try and sleep the injuries away on the couch, or watch Dog Cops while eating pizza. He's pretty sure Natasha told his babysitters he's not allowed to do any of these things. The coffee's good, though. He can't remember buying a roast as nice as this. Could be the meds messing with his sense of taste again.

In the living room he hears Bucky getting up from the couch to sit at the breakfast bar. The stove is turned back on, and the sound and smell of fresh pancakes permates the apartment.

Clint sighs again. He's feeling pretty damn sorry for himself at the moment, can't lie about that. He tries to shift a little on his pillows, but when his ribs are comfortable, his wrist hurts worse. And when he moves his arm, his legs start to feel restless. Also, now that the coffee is truly working its magic, he needs to go to the toilet. Maybe he can ask Tony to find a way to upload his consciousness into one of those fancy flying armors. Seems much more convenient than schlepping around like a mortal.

He wishes he was alone, and not forced to listen to other people eating together. Bucky and Jason don't talk, but the silence sounds companionable. When Clint shifts to look down, he just about sees Lucky's tail, from where he's lying under presumably Bucky's stool. Clint sighs some more.

The noise of someone standing up makes him pull back, but not fast enough to evade Bucky's look of concern. "You okay?"

"Peachy," Clint lies, and flops back to stare at the ceiling. Just peachy.

"He really does have sad puppy dog eyes," Bucky huffs, and then jogs up the stairs, followed by Jason.

Great. Now they're both looking at Clint in concern. Maybe he should try a wave?

He smiles his most comforting smile and waves with his good hand, but the twin looks of concern morph into twin frowns. It's disconcerting, really.

"Do you need anything else? Another pancake?" Jason nods at the empty plate.

Clint shrugs and two sets of eyes follow the movement. He feels like an animal at some special exhibition at the zoo. Come watch the amazing Hawkguy in his natural habitat! There should be a dumpster somewhere where he can hide from the visitors though.

"I'm fine," he lies again, but before twin frowns can turn into twin scowls, he sighs. "Okay. I'm bored."

"You've been awake for ten minutes," Jason points out, which for whatever reason makes Bucky direct his glare at him instead of Clint.

It's then that Clint's bowels start to protest in earnest, and he awkwardly shuffles towards the edge of the bed. "I also really need to go to the little boys room..."

He hopes this will make them go away to preserve some modicum of his privacy, but Jason all but jumps forward to help him stand up.

"You help him, and I'll lift the bed downstairs." Bucky decides, and starts stripping the bed, making Jason halt and thus Clint too.

"What? Why do I...?" Jason sputters, and wow, the looks Clint previously thought of as glares were rainbow filled love notes compared to the murder death ray he's aiming at Bucky right now.

Bucky for his part looks back very unimpressed. "Do you want to lift the king sized bed down?"

Jason lifts his chin and Clint is pretty sure he would try if he could. Maybe Jason is enhanced as well? Clint knows next to nothing about him, except that he's not a plumber, but does do plumbing if needed.

Before it can come to blows or a weight lifting competition -- Clint is down for either, and this is why he's a sucky landlord and a sucky friend. Are these his friends? Friendly neighbours? He's pretty sure it's frowned upon to imagine your friendly neighbours battle it out in skimpy gladiator armors. Didn't the gladiators oil their skin before battle? He's not sure about the martial merits of oiled skin, but he appreciates the aesthetic.

But before it can come to any of that, his stomach makes an unholy noise and he restarts his shuffle towards the toilet, forcing Jason to either let him go or follow.

Luckily, Jason trusts him to do his thing in private. Either that, or he can't stand Bucky lifting the entire bed by himself -- another image Clint didn't know he needed -- and hurries to help.

Clint hopes his bed will survive. He likes his bed. It's one of the few things he splurged some money on. It's comfy and large enough to spread out in. It's even large enough to spread out in with someone else in there as well.

Oh Futz. Now he'll have to try and not think about oiled up Jason wrestling oiled up Bucky in his bed. Who would do the oiling though? Maybe they'd need oiling help. What kind of oil did they use? Probably olive oil, what with being gladiators and all. But did they use regular or extra ver--

"You okay in there?" Jason's voice close to the door. Futz.

"Yeah, I'm good!" Clint calls back. Don't think about gladiators, don't think about gladiators.

He flushes and awkwardly washes his one useful hand. Yay for hospital gowns though. Tying up his sweatpants is hard enough with ten functional fingers.

When he opens the door it's to Jason waiting to give him an arm, and his bedroom empty of a bed. He's glad for the help down the stairs. Jason somehow knows how to support him to minimise pain. Or maybe the painkillers are kicking in.

His living room is looking extremely cosy with the bed in front of the TV and the couch in front of the windows. Lucky has taken the prime spot in the bed, and Bucky stands next to it, looking kinda proud.

"You really lifted that thing?" Clint is impressed. He might keep his house like this. Maybe he'll save up for a second bed in the loft. Make his whole apartment one giant bed.

"I helped," Jason is quick to assure Clint, as he helps him sit down on the edge of the bed.

"Thank you," Clint says, kind of flummoxed by the whole thing. Nat's threats briefing must've been pretty thorough. "This is perfect," he sighs when he's lying next to Lucky.

"You want another pancake?" Bucky asks.

"That I baked." Jason directs another one of his murder glares at Bucky.

"I could've," Bucky mutters, ignoring Jason in favor of lathering a pancake with an unholy amount of syrup.

"Coffee?" Clint asks hopefully, but if Nat instructed them, it's a lost cause.

"Maybe one more," Jason says though, and hurries to fill Clint's mug.

Clint feels like a million bucks. He has coffee, pancake, and dog in bed, in front of the tv. He'll have to thank Nat later. He's never been this comfy in his life , let alone after taking a beating. And it's definitely the good meds now. The pain is gone and everything feels fuzzy around the edges. And he's so comfy, with Lucky napping beside him. Maybe he can close his eyes for a moment too.

--

When he wakes up, the lights are dimmed and it's dark outside. Jason and Bucky are silhouettes against the window, sitting close together on the couch.

"You remember anything?" Bucky asks quietly.

Huh. Clint must've fallen asleep with his aids in again. His ears will be all sore and yucky all day. 

"From before the pit?" Jason shrugs slightly. "Some images, sounds. Sometimes a smell triggers vague shadows I can never quite catch. It's mostly muscle memory though. The league trained their asset well..."

Clint is fascinated, despite the bitterness in Jason's voice. He has no idea what league Jason is talking about, or what this pit is. Sounds like an illegal fighting ring or something. He took one out, back when he was running around as Ronin. The memory of the half feral men in cages is one that still haunts him from time to time. He hopes Jason at least was treated better than that.

Clint almost misses it, brain still cobwebbed from sleep, but Jason sits up in alarm and now Clint notices that Bucky is sitting too still. His back ramrod straight and his fists balled in his lap.

Jason reaches out to comfort, but halts halfway, hand hovering in the air between them.

Clint wishes he could help in the battle Bucky is fighting in his head, as easily as Bucky helped with Clint's in real life. Clint's own past is bad enough he would rather face whole battalions of track suit schmucks than revisit it. He can imagine Bucky's ghosts are way worse.

"They used to call me that." Bucky's voice is barely above a whisper, and Clint has to strain to hear. "Fist of Hydra. Their greatest Asset." He laughs, but it's a cruel sound; grating.

Clint desperately wants to comfort Bucky, he sounds so sad. But Clint would be the absolute last person anyone should turn to with emotional need. Or anything really.

Jason's hand falls on Bucky's shoulder then, and when Bucky leans into the touch Jason pulls him into a proper hug. That's more like it. Clint closes his eyes again to give them privacy. He's glad his neighbours aren't fighting anymore, though he has no clue why they did before.

Lucky yawns and Clint puts his arm around him. Who needs people when they have a dog, right? "Good boy," he whispers, and kisses the top of Lucky's head.

Movement on the couch and then Jason's voice. "Hey, look who's awake."

"Not me," Clint mutters, muffled against Lucky's fur.

A chuckle. Probably Bucky's. "Too bad about that pizza we left you..."

Clint's head shoots up without his conscious decision, aggravating just about every injury in his upper body, but pizza. But also ow.

"Morning sleepy head," Jason grins.

"You ordered pizza?" Clint asks hopefully.

"Nah, this man," Jason nods at Bucky, "just whipped up a dough and baked fresh ones, like that's a thing people do." He rolls his eyes, but friendly like. It's a complete 180 compared to how they treated each other yesterday. Was it yesterday?

Bucky shifts uncomfortably. "It was normal in the twenties. Didna have fancy restaurants in the neighbourhood back then. Just mrs. Cotugno who taught my ma who taught me..."

Clint blinks. Of course he knew on some level that pizzas start their life as dough and other stuff, and thus must be baked by someone. But he had no idea people outside of pizza places actually did this.

"It's really good," Jason says, "you'll love it. But we might have to cut it up in smaller pieces so you can eat it with your busted face," he adds thoughtfully, and looks at Bucky for some kind of support? And Bucky nods?

Clint blinks again. Cutting up pizza in bite sized chunks is not a thing that used to exist in his universe. But then again, living room bed didn't either, and he's enjoying the heck out of that.

Bucky gets up to rummage in the kitchen, and Jason follows him, coming back with a glass of water and more meds.

"Wha' time is it?" Clint asks around a yawn.

Jason sits down on the edge of the bed and holds out the pills. "Two in the morning, give or take."

"Huh."

Clint grimaces as he swallows the meds.

"I walked Lucky at around eight, so he should be good for the night. Oh, and Kyle came around to bring soup and he wishes you a speedy recovery."

Clint downs the glass of water and hands it back to Jason. "Kyle?"

"That old man at the grill. Said his son used to live here before he moved in?"

"Huh."

"We put it in the fridge for tomorrow."

Clint nods. This all seems a bit excessive for a few broken bones. Nat must've really scared Bucky and Jason, and he feels kinda bad for them. "You don't have to stay, you know. I won't tell Nat if you leave."

Jason's face does some gymnastics Clint really isn't awake enough for to decipher, but then Bucky comes over with a plate full of neatly cut bite sized pieces of pizza and all of Clint's brain power is pulled away to the divine smell.

Lucky whines as well, aiming the full power of his one eyed puppy look at Bucky, who proves totally immune. "Nah ah, you already had some. If you're hungry there's kibble in your bowl."

Lucky adds the sad head tilt, but Bucky calmly looks back, plate high in the air and out of reach of both Lucky and Clint.

"Please feed the archer, Buck, I'm afraid he's gonna cry if you don't," Jason huffs. Blissfully, the plate lowers in response and Clint grabs a piece before it can move out of reach again.

Wow

Best pizza ever

Clint is ruined

"You like it, huh?" James chuckles, and Clint nods his head vigorously once. Ow,  concussion.

"Lucky, couch," Jason orders quietly, and much to Clint's surprise, Lucky goes, albeit looking as sad as a doggily possible.

It leaves Jason and Bucky hovering awkwardly at the side of the bed, while Clint happily munches on the pizza. He doesn't like to be watched though.

"Wanna sit? We can watch a movie," Clint offers, and pats the bed next to him with his cast. He can totally sit in a completely platonic way, in his bed, with the two hottest guys in Brooklyn. He can.

"I'll make us a snack," Bucky offers, and Clint doesn't miss Bucky's small smile when Jason pats him on the shoulder.

Rectification: Clint can totally sit in a completely platonic way, in his bed, with the two hottest guys in Brooklyn, who seem to be developing a thing for each other.

This is fine. Fine.

Their animosity of before also makes much more sense now, though Clint can't quite put to words how exactly. Katie-Kate probably could, but Kate's kicking ass elsewhere.

"What do you want to watch?" Jason asks, bending forward to take off his boots. The motion reveals the strip of skin just above his waistband, and Clint has a hard time tearing his eyes away from the perfect curve of Jason's... hip muscles? Is that part still your hip? Back? Side? Backside?

-- you guys like that too?"

Futz.

Bucky said something and Clint didn't hear because of the backside hip situation.

"I'm always up for some sci-fi," Jason answers, pulling off his second boot. "How about you, Clint?"

"Hell yeah," Clint agrees happily. Anything to distract him from ogling his neighbours. Plus, he adores sci-fi, especially the old fashioned kind. "Got a stack of DVDs in that... there... next to the tv." He points at the shelves next to the tv, while shuffling to the side of the bed to make room for Bucky and Jason. They looked so cosy together before Clint woke up, he's sure they want to sit next to each other again.

"You have actual dvds? " Jason sounds like it's a novelty, and the look he shoots Clint over his shoulder is pure delight.

"Well. Sure," Clint shrugs. Doesn't everybody?

Clint studiously looks everywhere but at Jason's back, who's bent forward to peruse Clint's movie stash. This inadvertently brings his gaze to where Bucky is reaching up to a high shelf, complete with shirt riding up giving a spectacular view of spectacular backside hip muscles. Clint idly wonders what they would feel like if you'd lick them, and then it makes him wonder about the state of his own backside hip muscles. How do you even train those? He tries to shift in such a way that he can poke at his back with his good hand, but it hurts his futzing ribs and he gives up with a groan.

"Here, I'll help you sit up," Jason says and hurries to Clint's side. The way Jason doesn't have any trouble supporting Clint's weight will never not be sexy as hell, but Clint tries really hard not to think about naked Jason this time. Seems not right with the recent developments.

"So, I'm torn between Forbidden Planet and The wizard of Mars." Jason gives the pillows a final fluffing before he's satisfied. And damn, Clint is really, very comfy indeed.

"Are you a nurse?"

Clint's question makes Jason snort out loud, and in the kitchen Bucky even chuckles amused.

"No, I'm not. I just err, have a knack for taking care of people," Jason grins.

Now it's Bucky's turn to snort, and Clint is starting to feel left out. But he knows they don't do it on purpose. They're just high on their new found love. Which, good for them.

"Your pick, Clint," Jason holds up both movies, but Clint is distracted from answering when Bucky puts a bowl of popcorn (where did he get that?) on Clint's lap, and a tray of freshly grilled nachos (and those?) on the side table. "I'm voting Forbidden Planet,” Bucky says.” He climbs into the bed as he talks and settles in comfortably on Clint's left side. “Can never go wrong with robots."

"Okay. Robots it is." Jason puts on the movie and then climbs into the bed on Clint's right side. Which is the side Clint shuffled towards to give the lovebirds more space. The side where Bucky isn't. But then Jason slots himself ever so carefully against Clint's side and Bucky gropes him grabs some popcorn from the bowl on Clint's lap, and Clint sort of forgets to insist that Jason moves to the other side.

It's really hard to pay attention to the movie like this, so Clint gives that up as well, and just enjoys leaning against someone while he can. A someone with broad shoulders and more back muscles than Clint even knew existed. (Leaning against Nat or Kate is nice too, but different nice. They're petite-nice, not chunky-nice.)

And then suddenly it clicks, and Clint sits up with a start. "You're the vigilantes."

"Yeah. So?" Jason briefly looks at Clint, but on screen the monster is killing crew members, and he is quickly engrossed in the scene again.

"You only just figured that out, sweetheart?" Bucky quietly asks, and it must be the meds with Clint hallucinating endearments like that. Or maybe he fell asleep and is dreaming? Either way, he'll be massively disappointed when it's tomorrow and everything is back to normal.

He nods and sighs. Just his luck that his work crushes are the same as his unattainable neighbour crushes.

"Do you mind?" Like anyone can stop the futzing Winter Soldier from doing whatever the heck he wants.

"Nah," Clint shrugs. "It just looked like you guys had fun." He smiles, but his heart isn't in it. Avengers aren't supposed to have fun, so Clint mostly tries not to. Something about the hero code, or ethics. Gravitas of the situation. He didn't pay much attention during that indoctrination class.

Jason looks up from the movie, eyes wide in surprise. Not at Clint, but at Bucky, who looks just as surprised. The look holds for a second, and then they both look away, grinning.

Clint sighs again.