#hawkeye x the winter soldier
Clint/Bucky
Chapter Summary: “Then you went deaf,” Bucky says.
Clint reads that off his lips annoyingly perfect. “Then I went deaf,” he repeats. “Think they’ll let me out soon?”
Bucky nods. ‘Need,’ he signs and twists his hand into shapes. ‘H A W K G U Y.’
“Wiseguy,” Clint fires back.
There is totally a beginner ASL free class from Gallaudet you can do online.
~~~
Clint doesn’t make a call because, well, he can’t. He considers that a gain though because he’s always hated talking on the phone and now he has the best excuse in the world for ignoring the shrill ring and the needy person on the other end.
What he does do is send a text to Phil because he’s not exactly sure who he’s supposed to contact about letting some doctor dig around in his skull, but if he has to trust someone to find a safe doctor, he trusts Phil. Even if the history between them is still oddly tense.
Phil texts him back and says he’ll be in touch, and then there’s just silence—the profound, metaphorical kind since Clint is getting used to the physical kind and it’s odd how much he likes it. He sinks into it and lets it wrap around him.
He feels movement and vibrations…not more than he had before because he’s an Avenger, damn it. He’s always been hyper aware. He really does hope that those stereotypes about losing one sense makes the others stronger is a lie because he’s not sure what he’ll do if his vision gets any better.
Imagine.
Futz.
He putzes around the Tower though, and he makes it back down to the range where his aim is better because without the hearing aids vibrating against his skull, his vertigo is calming down as his inner ears heal. His first series of bullseyes feels like a massive triumph.
When he splits an arrow in half he turns around and feels some sort of betrayal that there was no one there to watch him.
“Aww. People.”
The words rumble in his throat and then he sees Lucky’s head pop up which makes him laugh. He drops to a knee and hugs his dog because the sorry little bastard is the only one who’s ever really there for him.
“Come on, let’s find coffee for me, pizza for you.” He doesn’t really mean pizza, of course. Everyone seems to think he actually feeds his precious little garbage dog pizza like he doesn’t give a shit about Lucky’s health.
Plus, the pizza dog farts are maybe the most toxic thing he’s ever smelled, and Lucky seems to love crop-dusting his bedroom when he’s got a rumbly tummy.
He takes the stairs, not the elevator. He skips up each one on the tips of his toes as he relearns how to find his balance. It’s not perfect. The scar tissue in his ears makes everything seem full and occasionally it’s like the world turns topsy-turvy. He thinks maybe he’s the best person in the world to really deal with that though because when he was in the circus, he was an amazing acrobat.
Hell, he’s retained most of his skill set which helps when he’s trying to shoot aliens out of the sky or take down clown-faced assholes in track gear, and he has to fire as he’s jumping off a building.
It’s just different when it’s happening all the time.
But he’ll get there.
He’s getting there.
The stairwell opens up to the common room and he makes his way into the kitchen, coming to a skidding halt when he sees Bucky eating a banana in the most pornographic way a man can eat a piece of fruit.
He’s just deep throating it and half of Clint is getting very interested and the other half of him is a little amazed that Bucky’s still alive.
Of course, Bucky always eats like this—like his meal is going to be the last one he’ll ever get. Clint wonders if it’s trauma from the Winter Soldier because he doesn’t think Hydra had a very thorough pamphlet on How To Feed and Care For Your Vicious Assassin.
But it might also be that the last real memories Bucky has is from being in the war, and from everything Clint read up on that—it wasn’t pretty. It was a lot of too young starving, terrified men being shot at and mostly dying.
Bucky sees him and smiles around the second half of the banana as he takes it down like a fuckin’ bird or something, and Clint turns away because he doesn’t want to know what Bucky’s throat looks like when it’s stuffed with something long. And hard.
God, Clint thinks, I’m a monster.
He brushes past Bucky once he’s gotten control of himself, his hands absently curling into fists, one circling the top of the other as he signs, ‘Coffee, coffee, coffee.’ Over and over.
It doesn’t magically appear, and he has an inner debate about whether or not he’s too tired to make the pot himself. He leans on the counter until his torso is pressed to the cool granite and he thinks, just gonna close my eyes for a second.
He wakes with his head pressed against something warm and solid, and the smell of coffee is fresh.
His head pops up and he looks around, blinking owlishly. “How long was I out?” he asks aloud.
Bucky’s still next to him, now sitting on the counter with his phone in his hand. He’s wearing his prosthetic, and Clint feels a small jolt because he hasn’t seen him with it on since he got there. It’s sleek and black. It’s missing the red star which settles frayed nerves.
‘Ten minutes,’ Bucky signs with his vibranium hand. He flips his phone around toward Clint and he shows him the screen.
The top reads Gallaudet University Beginner’s ASL.
By proxy of being alive and living on the East Coast, Clint knows what Gallaudet is, but only about as much as he knows what Princeton is, or Columbia. He was never going to be a college guy.
“They’re free classes, but they don’t teach much past the basics,” Bucky says, the words appearing in Clint’s periphery.
Clint watches his mouth. He likes Bucky’s mouth. He’s got nice teeth—straight, but not like evil villain straight. And he’s got a dimple in his chin, and perpetual five o’clock shadow, and he bites his bottom lip so much it’s kind of peeling.
Clint remembers there’s coffee so he snags the pot and hums happily. The feeling of his voice in the back of his throat feels good, and it makes him crack a smile as he lifts the pot straight to his mouth and drinks.
Bucky pulls a face and Clint doesn’t care, and it’s nice because Bucky’s eyes are kind of shining and soft like he’s amused.
Bucky’s eyes roam around the kitchen for a minute, so Clint gulps down another mouthful of coffee so hot it takes off a layer of skin. “You looking for another banana to fellate?”
Bucky’s face does something complicated and Clint thinks he’s probably making a choking noise. “Why, pal? You lookin’ to watch?”
Even though Clint’s only reading the words, they’re all Brooklyn and it gives him this absurd urge of joy knowing that so much of who Bucky was—or hell, maybe what he was supposed to be—is there. It’s like Nat, and how she’s kind and she’s soft in spite of what people think.
And Clint knows mostly it’s because that’s what people want to think about her. It’s easier that way to paint her as this cold, heartless killer because if they don’t, they have to face reality. A young girl who was stolen and abused and manipulated and managed to break free of all of it.
And she’s good—she’s better than most in spite of her circumstances and Clint knows that makes people uncomfortable because so many people are bad without reason.
“I feel like I’m losin’ my mind,” Clint murmurs. He’s not sure if he can be heard, but he’s got Bucky’s attention so he thinks maybe he is.
Bucky doesn’t ask him to elaborate. He just nods, then he shrugs, then he jerks his head toward the other room. Clint follows and he thinks Bucky’s just going to sit him down in front of the TV again, but instead Bucky leads him to the windows. There’s one that looks a little funky and Clint realizes that it’s been popped out.
There’s a latch, and he isn’t sure if it’s intentional, but if it isn’t clearly JARVIS hasn’t squealed.
Bucky pops it open and gestures for Clint to go ahead. Outside, there’s no translator for him to read, and it makes him a little nervous, but not as much as he’d be if it were anyone else at the moment. The air hits him full in the face, and it’s kind of muggy, but it’s nice. He can smell the sea on the air currents, and he can make out a guy doing some sort of 80s Jazzercize in his living room across the way—with the step stool and everything.
Rich people are fuckin’ weird, he thinks to himself.
A metal hand touches him and Clint flinches. It’s reflex at this point, and he thinks Bucky probably knows that, but he feels guilty anyway. Bucky doesn’t look deterred. He strokes a thumb over the top of Clint’s wrist almost like he’s trying to soothe him.
Bucky’s eyes are kind of distant though, and Clint knows he goes out, but he wonders what it costs him. He wonders if SHIELD—or whoever the hell is in charge these days, considering—has offered Bucky any real help besides having the Wakandans throw him on ice until he could be broken.
He thinks probably not. He’s being offered a surgery—an implant to make it more convenient for them when Hawkeye picks up his bow again.
No one really asked him how he was doing after having his ears busted out by a couple of arrows.
No one asked how he felt after finding Barney lying on the ground in a puddle of his own blood. Never mind Barney wasn’t a great brother.
Clint’s chest aches and he wonders if anyone would really come looking if he ran off.
He realizes they’re on the roof via a tall fire-escape looking thing. There’s stuff out here—old red solo cups and some benches and some cushions. There’s a fancy looking miniature telescope lying on its side.
Bucky’s sitting down with his knees up and his arms resting over them, just watching. His eyes are on Clint like maybe he knows he’s thinking of just scaling the building and going anywhere else. His mouth is turned down in a frown, and Clint wonders if he’d follow.
Probably not, which is okay.
They don’t say much. Bucky’s vocabulary is limited and so is Clint’s for that matter. But the wind is nice and the sun is even nicer. He thinks Lucky would like it up there, but he doesn’t trust his garbage dog not to accidentally topple off the side and if that happened, well, Clint would just tumble right after him.
Maybe he’ll be brave enough to try the park soon.
He eventually hunkers down next to Bucky and lets their knees knock together. Bucky laughs, his face going kind of light and ageless.
“You don’t look bad for a centenarian,” Clint says. When Bucky looks surprised, Clint scoffs. “What. I read. I have an amazing lexicon.” He taps his temple with two fingers.
Bucky nods, and Clint’s reminded of when he was young, before the signs, before he got the hang of any kind of lip reading. It was so isolating and terrifying.
He doesn’t feel that way now, which is unexpected.
“I wanted to buy a farm,” he tells Bucky. Maybe he’s taking advantage because communication can only really happen one way, but Bucky’s expression says he doesn’t entirely mind. “Instead I won a building in a poker game.”
“Then you went deaf,” Bucky says.
Clint reads that off his lips annoyingly perfect. “Then I went deaf,” he repeats. “Think they’ll let me out soon?”
Bucky nods. ‘Need,’ he signs and twists his hand into shapes. ‘H A W K G U Y.’
“Wiseguy,” Clint fires back.
Bucky throws his head back and laughs, then leans in and presses their shoulders together, and he doesn’t move for a long, long while.
Inspired by THIS art by @quicksillver
Clint is rarely arrogant but he knows his strengths. “I can make an accurate shot with any bow and any arrow.”
Bucky buys Clint one of those cheap-ass dollar store toy bow and arrow sets with the suction cups. He thinks it’s hilarious. “Not even Hawkeye can make an accurate shot with this.”
Clint just takes it, stares at it, then brings it into his room.
Bucky thinks he’s won.
The next morning Clint shoots Bucky square in the bare ass cheek as he’s coming out of the shower. And it sticks. When Bucky pulls it off, there’s a little round mark almost like a hickey.
He proceeds to do that for a week until Bucky concedes he really is the world’s best archer.
Rated: General
Word Count: 700
Warnings: PTSD, past trauma.
Blurb: More than anything, Clint hates when the captions don’t translate foreign language. But he’s got his own personal assassin to do that for him. And his own personal happily ever after to go with it.
Clint nestled deeper into his nest of blankets. He was full of pizza and feeling wall warm and perfect, heavy limbs and a half-smile on his face. His head lolled to the side, rubbing his temple back and forth, back and forth against Bucky’s shoulder.
Thick, clever, deft fingers played with the short hair on the back of his neck.
It was the best feeling in the world.
His gaze returned to the TV—the movie they were watching about two assassins who were hired to take each other out, but were slowly falling in love. One was a very beardy, Nomad-Steve-ish blond from California all biceps and perfect smile.
The other guy was a Russian beefcake with arctic blue eyes and a crooked grin.
Clint liked the way the captions did his dialogue. Missing articles and phonetics almost like a pronunciation guide of his accent. It reminded him of the way Bucky spoke sometimes when he was very tired or lost in his head. All back of the throat and rounded consonants.
“This year really is delivering on the queer tropey content,” Clint muttered, feeling his voice rumble in his throat. He was pretty sure he was loud enough for Bucky to hear, but his biggest struggle without his hearing aids was his own voice.
Bucky’s fingers pushed all the way up into his hair at the crown of his head, then back down again. His metal arm came up and his fist nodded.
More like a yep than a yes.
Clint loved that too.
His gaze moved back to the TV and his eyes followed the captions. [Dark, ominous music.]
The hot Russian appeared on screen as the other guy was taken down by an unknown sniper, heartbreak on his face. Bucky went tense beside him, but Clint was on the edge of his seat.
The assassin dropped to his knees, cradling the other man’s face in his hands and Clint thought, ‘this better not kill these fucking gays I swear to god…’
The assassin’s mouth opened. [foreign language]
Clint swore quietly to himself. He hated when the captions did that. Granted his Russian was limited—very limited—to the shit that Nat said to him whenever he’d managed to piss her off beyond English, and the occasional sweet and dirty nothings Bucky muttered to him in bed.
“Futz. I can’t understand it at all,” Clint complained.
There was a moment, just long enough for a single beat of his heart, then Bucky turned him and lifted his hands. ‘Don’t do this.’
Clint’s mouth works into a frown. “Don’t do…”
‘Don’t leave me. Please. I know it was you and I don’t care. My world, my sunshine. Don’t leave me.’
Clint realized then what Bucky was doing. His gaze focused on Bucky’s face and he saw the fear there, that with a handful of spoken words, it could be them some day. That he could crack, or with a bit of alien tech, Clint might lose himself again.
But it doesn’t matter—can’t matter. Not when they have this. He had no idea what was happening on the TV anymore, but he didn’t care. Not when he could be straddling Bucky’s legs and pushing him into the cushions.
“I’ll never leave you,” he promised.
Bucky cupped his face and his mouth moved. “You can’t say that for sure.”
Clint gripped the twisted knot of hair at the back of Bucky’s head and held him fast. “Yeah, I can.”
Bucky stared at him in the eyes for long enough that it should be uncomfortable. But it never is. With a breath, and then a blink, Bucky surged up and their lips met, and Clint doesn’t need the words on the movie interpreted anymore.
He’s got his own perfect deadly assassin all to himself.
And he’s got their own, perfect happily ever after to live.
