Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

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Title: "Collateral Time Damage"
Set: Just after Iron Man 3, pre-Winter Soldier
POV: Clint Barton

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Getting kidnapped again was getting old.

Clint groaned against the restraints, flexing his wrists subtly. It wasn’t A.I.M. this time, at least—he could almost be grateful for that. No, this was some deranged Hydra holdout who called himself Monterey and was apparently obsessed with a relic he claimed had the power to “restore the proper flow of time.”

Cue the dramatic monologue. The guy was practically vibrating with self-importance, waving some cracked stone and muttering about Project Rebirth, lost potential, and “correcting the path.” Clint, tied to a chair, bleeding from a split lip, rolled his eyes so hard he gave himself a headache.

> “You keep saying ‘Time Stone’ like it’s going to impress me,” Clint muttered. “You know sorcerers hate when randos mess with that stuff, right?”

He’d spent time undercover years ago at a remote temple, learning enough about time and relics to stay alive—and to know when someone was way out of their depth. He could still feel the weight of the charm they’d given him, a protective token that hummed faintly under his shirt.

Monterey sneered. “You joke now, archer. But history will remember this moment. The moment he returns.”

> “Oh good,” Clint said. “Another ‘he.’ That always ends well.”

Then Monterey activated the relic.

There was a snap in the air, followed by a low, building vibration—like the air itself was being pulled in every direction. The lights blew out with a pop, and everything went white.

Pain cracked through Clint's skull. A concussive force knocked him flat. His hearing aids sparked and went dead instantly. The world went silent.

Then, slowly, shapes began to form in the flickering aftermath. The air still shimmered like heat off asphalt.

And standing where Monterey had been—where time had broken—was someone else.

Pretty

He looked… young. Maybe twenty-five. Dressed in a clean-cut military uniform like he stepped out of a museum exhibit. Eyes sharp, confused, defensive. Every muscle coiled, ready for a fight.

But it was the eyes that stopped Clint cold.

Gray-blue. Familiar. Too familiar.

“Oh no,” Clint whispered.

Because he knew that face. He'd seen it in old photos and news reels.

Bucky Buchanan Barnes.

Bucky. Steve’s best friend. The one who died. The one who should be dead.

Except… he wasn’t. Not right now. Damn it . This was making his head hurt worse and he was really itching for his bow. And the relic—whatever it had been—had pulled this Bucky out of time. Out of the wrong time. Out of the past. Before he fell from the train?

Bucky staggered slightly, looking down at his own hands. “What… where am I?” he looked pale.

Clint tried for non-threatening. “You’re okay. Something went wrong. Or… maybe right, depending on your definition.”

“Monterey?” Bucky asked, squinting. “He said he needed me. Said I was the original."yeah Clint didn't know what that meant but if the crazy guy was talking about it is probably not good.

Clint nodded slowly, trying not to move too fast. “Yeah, well, he's dead now. And you—you're kind of… out of time.” he got a confused to look for that. Bucky's expression faltered. “Steve… where’s Steve?” good question.

Before Clint could answer, he heard it: the sound of his team approaching, boots on concrete, weapons drawn. Natasha, Sam, Maria—he counted the patterns instinctively. Stark wasn’t with them—probably still working on the tech side of things. But they’d seen the flash. They were here to extract him.

And they were going to lose their minds when they saw who was standing here. Clint stood slowly, hands raised. “Okay, just… try not to freak out.”

Bucky narrowed his eyes. “Why would I freak out?”

Natasha’s voice cut in: “Clint?! What the hell happened?”

Then she saw the man beside him. Froze.

“Oh my God.” she breathed eyes going wide

“Not a ghost,” Clint said quickly. “Not a hallucination either. Long story. Short version? Time just punched us in the face.”

Bucky looked overwhelmed. The more he looked around, the more he seemed to realize this was not the world he’d left behind. “This isn’t 1944,” he said quietly.

Clint stepped forward, gently touching the old military insignia on Bucky’s sleeve. “No, pal. It’s 2014.” Bucky’s lips parted. A breath hitched. And Clint, for once, had no quip.

Because he knew what was coming.

Steve Rogers and it was going to get complicated.
Clint saw Bucky look back at the strange relic.

That’s when the doors burst open—Steve, Sam, Peter behind him.

Steve took one look at the figure crouched beside Clint and stopped cold.

Time didn’t just freeze—it cracked.

Bucky stood slowly, staring at Steve like he’d just fallen into a dream.

“Steve?” he asked. There was a look of disbelief that crossed Bucky's face.

“Bucky…” Steve whispered. “You’re alive.”

“You’re... taller than I remember,” Bucky said warily.

“You’re alive.” Steve said again as if he hadn't heard Bucky.

-
Abandoned Hydra Facility

Post-Engagement Quiet

The place stank of scorched metal and ozone. Debris crunched under Clint’s boots as he crouched beside the fallen relic, now wrapped in a scorched towel and radiating a low, angry heat through his gloves.

He tapped his comm once. “Yeah. Still hot. Still humming. No idea if it’s busted or not.”

Behind him, Sam was trying to herd Steve and Bucky toward the exit. Bucky looked one second from bolting, hands clenched, chest rising fast. Steve had both palms out, voice low and even — the way you treat a bomb you haven’t defused yet.

Clint ignored them. That wasn’t his problem right now.

His phone buzzed.

Jace: Busy. Will check it myself soon. Don’t try anything with it. Don’t let anyone else try either.

Clint smirked, dry. Yeah, wouldn’t dream of it. You owe me a beer for this.

Another buzz.

Jace: You don’t want to see what happens if it’s not as broken as it looks.

Clint looked down at the thing — dull now, splotched with hairline cracks that shimmered faintly with blue and gold veins.

He slid it into a case built for something a lot less magical and a lot more explosive.

Clint sighed.

“One crisis at a time.”
-

Just Outside the Facility
A Clearing at Dusk

Steve’s got one hand on Bucky’s shoulder, guiding him gently but firmly toward the quinjet, away from the heat and tension of the skirmish behind them. The sky is orange-pink, everything tinged in the light of an ending day — except Bucky’s face, still locked in confusion.

Bucky jerks his chin toward Clint, who’s crouched off to the side fiddling with a metal case, eyes darting between his phone and the relic. “He okay?”

Steve follows his gaze. “Clint? Always looks like that when he’s working something out.”

“Doesn’t look like something he can shoot,” Bucky mutters, still watching.

“Nope,” Steve says with a faint smile. “Which means it’s a worse problem than usual.”

Bucky finally looks at him. Really looks.

“You look older,” he says.

Steve blinks. “It’s only been a few years.”

“My time, maybe.” Bucky studies his face like he’s checking for hairline cracks. “You’ve got stress lines now. Around your mouth. You never used to get those. Not unless I got shot at.”

Steve huffs a laugh that’s mostly air. “Yeah, well. You’ve been busy being dead.”

“Funny,” Bucky says, deadpan.

Steve sobers. “Okay. What’s the last thing you do remember?”

Bucky’s eyes narrow, like he’s trying to peer through fog. “You weighed about ninety pounds soaking wet,” he says. “I was getting ready to go to that canteen event. Dress blues. Wrote you a letter before I left. I… think I was going to send it. Then…”

He trails off, and his voice goes tighter.

“This guy — he came out of nowhere. Screaming in a mix of German and broken English. Said something about Project Rebirth. About ‘correcting mistakes.’ Grabbed my arm and then—bright light. Pain. And then…”

He swallows.

“That blond guy. In the room. Looked like he wanted to shoot me but also recognized me.’ You said Clint Barton.”

Steve nods. “That’s him.”

Bucky’s jaw ticks. “So… Project Rebirth. That rings a bell?”

Steve nods again, slower this time. “That’s what Erskine called the serum project. The one that changed me. It wasn’t supposed to go further. They said the notes were destroyed.”

“Somebody missed the memo,” Bucky mutters.

He glances over his shoulder again, toward Clint and the weird hum still coming faintly from that case.

“You think that thing’s why I’m here?”

“I don’t know yet,” Steve says honestly. “But Clint’s got someone who might be able to tell us.”

“Magic?” Bucky snorts.

“Kind of.”

“Of course.” He wipes a hand down his face. “So I got pulled forward in time by a magic rock. Into a world where you're the future version of Steve, Clint Barton carries glowing junk like it’s normal, and I died falling off a train.”

Steve doesn’t answer at first. Then, soft: “I looked for you. I never stopped.”

That knocks the breath out of Bucky more than anything else has.

He looks away fast.

“You owe me a drink,” he mutters. “A real one. Not that brown stuff you used to pretend was whiskey.”

Steve smiles, aching and relieved. “Deal.”

---

-
Avengers Compound

Arrival Bay, Early Evening

The quinjet touches down with a soft thrum. Clint’s the first to unbuckle, stretching like his joints are 20 years older than they are. Sam lingers behind, doing one last weapons check before nodding to Steve that the air’s clear. No trackers, no hostiles, no strange energy signatures — not anymore, anyway.

Steve helps Bucky down the ramp slowly, keeping a close eye on him. The compound's bathed in warm, electric light. Clean lines, glass walls, soft hums of energy. Not a battlefield, but not exactly home either.

The doors hiss open.

“Welcome back, Agent Barton. Captain Rogers. Sergeant Barnes.”

The voice is smooth, cultured — British, male, and utterly calm.

Bucky jolts, hand twitching toward a weapon that isn’t there.

Clint doesn't so much as flinch. “Easy. That’s Jarvis.”

Bucky looks around wildly. “Who the hell is talking? Where is he?”

Clint gives a faint shrug, almost smug. “He’s a robot man. Kinda. AI. Lives in the walls, the computers, the ceiling. Think of it like a really polite ghost with WiFi access.”

Bucky stares at him like he’s been told the toaster might start a conversation next.

“I’m sorry,” Jarvis interjects smoothly. “Would you prefer a physical projection, Sergeant Barnes? I can activate the holographic interface.”

“No,” Bucky says quickly, still clearly on edge.

Clint, deadpan as ever, speaks to the air. “Jarvis, thanks. And don’t tell Stark we’re back yet. He’s probably wrist-deep in something, and he gets annoying when you interrupt his laser focus. Also—Pepper’s coming over later.”

“Understood,” Jarvis replies. “Sir’s schedule has been adjusted. Miss Potts’s arrival will be discreetly facilitated.”

Bucky turns to Steve with a face that says what is happening.

Steve’s mouth twitches like he’s suppressing a laugh. “You get used to it.”

“No, you don’t,” Clint says dryly. “You just get better at pretending you have.”

They start walking down the corridor — Sam catches up with them, handing off Clint’s bag, and murmuring something about asking Rhodey for help decoding some telemetry. Clint nods but keeps his hand on the case holding the relic.

He doesn’t say it out loud, but they all know what he’s thinking:

They’ve seen weird. This is weirder.
And they still don’t know what that damn thing did — or if it’s going to do it again.

---

-

Avengers Compound
Lower Briefing Lounge

Steve's led Bucky to one of the quieter rooms off the main corridor — a lounge of sorts, all minimalist furniture and screens that dim themselves with a glance. Clint’s still got the relic in a padded case on the coffee table, eyeing it like it might sprout legs and take off running.

Bucky’s perched on the edge of a chair, tense. His fingers twitch every time the HVAC hisses to life. Steve’s keeping his voice low, measured, doing his best to explain things without completely breaking his friend’s brain. It’s not going great.

Clint checks his phone again. Jace hadn’t answered at first, just sent back a curt “Give me ten. Busy.”

At minute eleven, the air behind the coffee table rips open with a sound like tearing silk and thunder all at once.

A swirling gold-and-black portal appears midair, lighting up the room in otherworldly glow.

Bucky bolts to his feet with the speed of someone trained to kill before thinking. Steve reaches out automatically.

“Buck—wait, it’s okay—”

Too late. Bucky’s already halfway to diving behind the nearest piece of furniture. Clint reaches over without even looking and grabs his sleeve.

“Stand down, soldier. That’s just Jace being dramatic.”

A step through the portal — boots first, a black coat flaring — and Jace Wayland arrives like a stage magician with attitude. Blonde hair, black gear, Seraph blade at his hip, and a look that says he’s both tired and not in the mood.

“I said I’d be a few minutes,” he mutters, brushing off the edge of his coat as the portal seals behind him with a final flicker.

Bucky blinks. “The hell is he?”

“Shadowhunter,” Clint replies. “Don’t ask. It gets complicated fast. Just know he’s not here to kill anyone... today.”

Jace arches an eyebrow at him but doesn’t argue.

He walks up to the case, nodding briefly at Steve, gives Bucky a curious glance — doesn’t comment — and then gestures at the relic.

“This the one that tried to eat your face?”

“Fried my hearing aids,” Clint says mildly, opening the case.

Jace winces. “Yikes.”

He kneels and hovers a hand over the relic. The heat pulses again, faintly. He draws a quick rune in the air — it hovers, glowing, then fizzles out with a crackle.

“Well. It’s not active, which is good.” He reaches for it carefully, testing the edges of the power signature. “But broken? Mmm. Not completely.”

Steve frowns. “Meaning?”

“Meaning, it still holds some time-thread energy. Fractured, scattered, but not gone. Whatever it did to bring your... guest,” he glances sideways at Bucky, “it wasn’t a one-way street. You’re lucky it didn’t rip you all apart trying.”

Bucky folds his arms, staring at Jace with open suspicion. “You always show up through holes in the air?”

“Yes,” Jace says dryly. “But only when it’s really inconvenient.”

He stands, brushing his hands off. “I’ll need to run some diagnostics. I can come back tonight — if Magnus isn’t too cranky. But for now? Don’t poke it. Don’t shake it. And don’t let Stark near it.”

Clint nods. “Already told Jarvis to delay the alert.”

Jace’s expression actually softens — the tiniest smirk. “Smart.”

He steps back, already preparing another portal.

“I’ll be in touch,” he says. “Try not to blow up the timeline.”

And then — flash, twist, shimmer — gone again.

Bucky just stares for a second, then mutters under his breath: “This future’s weird.”

Clint claps him on the back. “Welcome to every other Tuesday, pal.” he really wished he was kidding.

--

The Compound’s common room was quieter now. Tony still hadn’t surfaced, Jarvis doing his best to keep things moving without alerting “Sir” to anything too weird just yet. Sam had made everyone clear the tech labs just in case they triggered something sensitive.

Steve sat next to Bucky—no, James, Clint corrected himself. The guy looked shaken but composed, sitting rigidly in borrowed clothes that didn’t quite fit, a tension in his shoulders that hadn’t eased since he’d landed in their lap via magic explosion.

Bucky’s eyes, a stormy grey-blue, kept flicking around the room like he was waiting for a sniper’s bullet.

Steve leaned forward, hands loosely clasped. “Hey… you doing okay?”

Bucky blinked. “You’ve got… machines talkin’ outta walls. Radios without wires. Lights that don’t flicker. And your boyfriend just told me people can get married if they’re gay.”

Clint raised an eyebrow from where he stood near the scorched relic on the table. “That the thing that bothers you most?”

Bucky tilted his head. “No. Just the most surprising part that ain’t tryna kill me.”

Steve cracked a small, tired smile. “I told you about the neighborhood back home, remember? The one where the baker and the tailor held hands, no one said a thing?”

Bucky nodded slowly. “Yeah. Thought it was the only place like that.”

“Well,” Steve said softly, glancing at Sam—who met his look with an affectionate nod—“turns out most of the world’s trying to be that place now.”

Bucky looked down at his hands, flexing them slowly like the words were too heavy to look at straight. “Maybe the future’s not so bad after all.”

That’s when the portal cracked open, spilling soft gold light across the floor.

Jace Wayland stepped through, cloak slightly scorched, the edge of a blade peeking over his shoulder. He looked tired. And mildly annoyed.

“I told you not to touch unstable relics,” he said flatly, fixing Clint with a narrowed stare.

Clint held up his hands. “Wasn’t aiming to get a vintage supersoldier dropped in my lap, thanks.”

Jace’s eyes slid to Bucky and lingered. “That one’s not from another realm. He’s from here—your world, your time. That relic didn’t open a portal to another universe. Just another point in your timeline.”

Steve’s jaw tensed. “So… we can send him back?”

Jace frowned, stepping forward, fingers gliding over the relic. “No.”

The room stilled.

“The mechanism’s fractured. The core that bound time to intention is cracked—badly. If I tried to replicate the pull that brought him here, I could just as easily throw half this building into 1830 or scatter your spleens across dimensions. You’re lucky you got a who and not a howl of cosmic madness.”

Bucky stared. “...So I’m stuck?”

Clint exhaled through his nose. “Looks like it, pal.”

Bucky didn’t say anything. His fingers tightened on his knees.

Jace offered a softer look now. “I’m sorry. I’ll check with Magnus for any stabilizing enchantments. But for now… this is your new reality.”

Bucky just nodded.

Steve started to reach for him, but paused—and Clint was already moving. He didn’t touch, just stood close enough that the room didn’t feel so big around Bucky anymore.

“We’ll figure it out,” Clint said quietly. “You’re not alone in this.”

Bucky looked up at him, studying his face. For a moment, something unreadable passed between them.

Clint broke it with a smirk. “Besides. You’ll love the coffee here. And we’ve got about seventy years of music to catch you up on.”

Bucky cracked the barest smile.

Sam leaned closer to Steve. “This gonna get complicated?”

Steve shrugged, watching Clint and James. “It’s already complicated. But it doesn’t mean it can’t work.”

---

---

The relic sat dead center on the lab table, inert and sulking like a broken compass. Its metal glinted faintly in the lab's artificial light, runes dulled and fractured.

Jace stood over it, speaking into a shimmering rune that floated like a soap bubble midair. Magnus's voice crackled through, smooth and curious, laced with that distracted genius energy that meant he'd probably been elbow-deep in something magical and messy.

"So the relic worked, technically. But it’s not a dimensional breach. It’s temporal. Divergence, not multiverse."

Alec’s voice chimed in from the background—dry and precise.

“That means this Bucky isn’t from a whole other reality. He’s from a version of this one.”

Jace nodded, half to himself. “Magnus ran a trace on the ripple. It’s not that he was yanked from the past. It’s that he came from a point in time where he made a different decision.”

“A fork in the road,” Alec murmured.

“Two timelines split. One Bucky went right, the other went left,” Magnus said. “One stayed on base that night. The other… got seen by the man with the German accent and the obsession with mistakes.”

Jace exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Which means there’s no telling where—if anywhere—we’d be sending him back to. He’s not from a known fixed point.”

“Too many branches,” Alec agreed. “He’s from a past. Not necessarily ours.”

There was a pause.

“Makes you wonder,” Alec said softly. “What happened to our Bucky? Did he die when he fell from that train? Or did he… drift, like Steve did? Frozen, waiting?”

Jace looked at the relic. It said nothing.

“Either way,” he murmured, “we’ll probably never know.”

---

Across the compound, Jarvis’s voice echoed gently through the lounge.

“Sir, I’ve begun cross-referencing historical records to build a tailored digital primer for Mr. Barnes. It will include select music, major cultural shifts, and—at Mr. Rhodes’s suggestion—a summary of key slang developments.”

Tony smirked, hands in the pockets of his hoodie as he leaned against the frame of the common room door. “Thanks, J. Make sure we start with the fact that the Cold War ended and Elvis didn’t actually fake his death.”

Bucky—or rather, James, as everyone had begun to call him out of practicality—sat stiffly in the corner chair. He watched the light in the wall flicker in response to the AI’s voice.

“That thing,” he said slowly, “doesn’t have a face. How do you know it’s not lyin’?”

Tony walked in and dropped onto the couch across from him. “Because he’s British, polite, and smarter than I am.”

“Is that hard?” Bucky asked, eyebrow ticking up.

Tony barked a laugh. “Oh, you are gonna fit in here.”

He sobered slightly, gaze flicking toward the window and then back to James. “Listen. I know this is a lot. And I know you didn’t exactly ask for the magic time-warp tour. But you’re safe. You’re not alone. And you don’t have to figure everything out all at once.”

Bucky blinked at him. “You got a lot of guys like me here?”

Tony shrugged. “Misfits? Time-displaced trauma magnets? Couple.”

“And they’re… okay?”

Tony smiled faintly. “They’re still standing. That counts for something.”

---

Clint stood just outside, leaning against the wall, watching through the glass. He hadn’t said much since the diagnosis from Jace. That this Bucky was from a divergent timeline—close to theirs, but not quite the same.

It didn't matter, not to Clint. This guy was real. Flesh and blood. Messed-up knuckles and sharp instincts. Haunted eyes and that old-school decency that Clint hadn’t realized he missed until now.

He didn’t need him to be their Bucky. He was his own.

And maybe—just maybe—Clint would get to find out who that really was.

--

Clint knocked lightly on the doorframe, more habit than necessity. Bucky was sitting on the bed in the guest quarters—Tony had insisted it be one with a balcony and natural light, like that would somehow make the situation feel less like house arrest. He looked up as Clint stepped in.

“You look like someone just told you Jarvis is watching your dreams,” Clint said, sliding his hands into his pockets.

Bucky huffed a small laugh. “He better not be.”

“Too bad,” Clint said, leaning against the dresser. “Tony probably has a whole data set going. ‘Subject appears annoyed when presented with granola bars. Prefers toast and eggs.’”

That earned a twitch of the mouth from James. Clint had learned that was the 1940s version of a smile, at least for now.

“You doing okay?”

Bucky nodded, then shook his head. “I don’t know. I’m not freaking out, if that’s what you’re asking. Steve… he’s been around a lot. I think that helps.”

Clint nodded. “He’s good at that. Being steady when the rest of the world flips upside down.”

There was a pause, long enough for the hum of the compound systems to slip in between words.

“I went to a Stark Expo once,” Bucky said suddenly. “Back before the war. Howard was doing some flying car demo. It didn’t work.”

Clint chuckled. “Still doesn’t.”

That got a real smile this time.

Bucky looked up at him, eyes thoughtful. “Tony… he’s Howard’s kid?”

Clint nodded. “Yeah. Inherently more chaotic. Still trying to prove he’s not his dad, even when he’s doing the same damn things. Smarter, though. And a better shot, don’t tell him I said that.”

Bucky was quiet again, staring down at the bandages around his forearm where he'd scraped himself earlier trying to help in the kitchen. Clint didn’t push. He knew that look.

Finally, Bucky said, “I’m not sure how I feel about being stuck here. Part of me wants to go back. My Steve—he’d be worried sick. But this place…”

He looked out the window, into a world he no longer knew.t

“…It’s not so bad. People don’t stare at me the way I thought they would. And there are… guys. Like me. Open.”

Clint’s voice was soft. “It took a long time to get here. Cost a lot of people more than it should’ve.”

Bucky looked at him then—really looked. “Were you always out?”

Clint shook his head. “Nah. Not when I was younger. Too many people thought it was their business who I kissed. I learned to be quiet about it. Didn’t mean I didn’t know. Just meant I didn’t talk.”

Bucky nodded, as if he understood more than he wanted to say.

“But things change,” Clint added. “They don’t always get easier, but they get better. And you’ve got time now. Time to figure out what you want.”

Bucky tilted his head. “And if what I want is… complicated?”

Clint’s lips quirked. “Then you’re gonna fit right in.”

They sat in that moment for a while, silence stretching comfortably between them. Outside, the wind shifted. Inside, something settled.

---

So Bucky is a little bit twitchy here yeah for good reasons people need to bear in mind that he just came out of a war zone

Chapter Text

The Compound – Later That Day

The sun was dipping low when Clint found Bucky on the back lawn, standing awkwardly like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to be outside.

“Thought you could use some air,” Clint said casually, tossing him a bottle of water.

Bucky caught it easily—muscle memory, no matter the decade. He nodded his thanks, twisting the cap open.

Clint gestured toward the sparring mats nearby. “Figured we could run drills. Nothing fancy. Just movement. Muscle work. Helps me think.”

Bucky tilted his head. “You sure? I might break you.”

Clint grinned. “You wouldn’t be the first to try.”

They went slow—no weapons, no audience, just footwork and instinct. Bucky moved like a soldier who’d trained before the war but adapted in darker places. Efficient. Controlled. Clint watched him carefully. Every now and then, Bucky would slip—his eyes going distant, something not-quite-present flickering behind them. But each time, he’d blink it away and keep going.

They didn’t talk much. But when they stopped, breath light and eyes sharp, there was something less guarded between them.

“You’re not bad,” Bucky said, cracking his knuckles.

“I’m better with arrows,” Clint replied with a smirk.

“Maybe tomorrow you show me that.”

“Maybe.”

-Upstairs – Common Room

Steve watching them from a distance, Sam beside him on the couch with a datapad.

“He’s doing okay,” Sam said quietly, eyes tracking Bucky’s stance.

Steve nodded slowly. “Better than I thought he would.”

“You gave him something solid. You were the only thing he remembered, Steve. That matters.”

Steve let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. “He keeps looking at me like I’m a ghost. Like this is too much. Too fast.”

Sam reached out, nudging Steve’s hand with his own. “You’re not a ghost. You’re here. And so is he. You just have to let him find his pace.”

Steve glanced over at him, thankful. “And Clint?”

Sam smirked. “He’s got patience. And probably a bit of a crush.”

Steve laughed—quiet and warm. “Yeah… I think he might.”

-

Tony’s Workshop – Nightfall

Tony looked up as Jarvis pinged the motion sensors.

“Tell me it’s not more magic,” he muttered.

“No, sir,” Jarvis said. “Just your guest. Mr. Barnes.”

Tony stood, brushing off his hands. “Send him in.”

Bucky stepped in, tense but trying not to show it. “Clint said you were a mechanic.”

Tony arched a brow. “Among other things. You curious about the future or just here to hover awkwardly?”

Bucky frowned. “I figured I should know how things work. You’re… Howard’s son.”

“That I am. You gonna ask if I remember your name?”

Bucky blinked. “You do?”

Tony’s voice was quiet, but steady. “He talked about you. Always in the context of Steve, though. Said you had guts. That you had no business being anyone’s sergeant because you’d punch a colonel in the face if he was out of line.”

Bucky snorted. “Sounds about right.”

Tony studied him. “You’ve got a clean slate here, Barnes. I don’t care where you came from, or what some other version of you did. Just don’t mess with my tech, and we’re good.”

Bucky nodded. “Understood.”

As he left, Jarvis chimed gently, “He reminds me a bit of you, sir.”

Tony frowned. “That’s what I’m worried about.”

---

The next day

Avengers Compound – Midday, Quiet Corner of the Library

Clint was hunting down one of his well-hidden arrow maintenance kits—he swore he’d left it near the west wing lounge—when he paused in the corridor and blinked at the door to the library being slightly ajar.

He pushed it open gently.

Bucky Barnes was sitting on the floor, back to one of the big armchairs, surrounded by three books and a cup of tea that looked dangerously close to cold. One of the books was open in his lap, and the title made Clint stop and squint.

“Dune?” he asked aloud.

Bucky flinched. Only a little. But then he gave a guilty shrug like a kid caught sneaking candy.

“I didn’t think anyone would mind,” he said, eyes flicking up. “Didn’t expect a sci-fi shelf either. Didn’t even know what ‘sci-fi’ was until a few hours ago.”

Clint blinked. Then smiled. Slowly. “You like that stuff?”

Bucky rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah. I mean, it’s weird. It’s… ideas. Big ones. Worlds that don’t exist but feel like they could. People out of place trying to do what’s right. It’s…” He paused. “I don’t know. It makes sense, somehow.”

Clint crouched beside the armchair, pulling another book off the floor. “So you're telling me the time-displaced World War II sniper is a closet sci-fi nerd?”

Bucky gave a short laugh. “That’s what you’re focusing on?”

“Absolutely,” Clint said. “This is gold.”

Bucky glanced back down at the book. “You ever read Foundation?”

“Isaac Asimov? Yeah. Tony tried to build a predictive model based on it once. JARVIS told him he was being ridiculous.”

Bucky chuckled again. “It’s just… all this. The future. I thought it’d be flying cars and moon colonies. Not gay marriage, talking robots, and—” he gestured toward the wall with vague humor, “—fully stocked libraries with Martian Chronicles in hardcover.”

Clint sank down, legs stretched out. “You’re adjusting faster than most guys would.”

“I’m not most guys,” Bucky said.

Clint looked at him, smile fading just a little. “No. You’re not.”

The quiet settled between them, comfortable this time. Clint could see the tension bleed off Bucky's shoulders as he turned another page.

“You know,” Clint said after a beat, “if you ever wanna watch some of the movie versions, we’ve got an entire room Tony rigged up for ‘historical preservation.’ It’s got a popcorn machine and everything. Pretty sure it’s just his excuse to rewatch Blade Runner eighty times.”

Bucky looked up with a grin that surprised both of them. “You’d do that?”

Clint shrugged. “What else am I gonna do? Could be fun. You pick the book. We pick the movie. See which one’s worse.”

Bucky nodded, eyes brighter than Clint had seen them. “I’d like that.”

“Cool,” Clint said, getting up and brushing off his jeans. “Just don’t get mad if I talk through the movie.”

“No promises,” Bucky said, already picking up the next book in his stack—The Left Hand of Darkness.

---
Avengers Compound – “Historical Preservation Room” (Movie Night)

The lights were dimmed, the smell of buttery popcorn filled the room, and a vintage Blade Runner poster hung crookedly on the far wall—signed by “Tony Stark, Film Critic Extraordinaire,” with a smudged lip print that was either from Wade or Pepper. Clint wasn’t asking.

Bucky sat on the second couch, legs tucked under him in a way that betrayed he’d been spending time with Sam—who insisted on comfort in every room. A copy of The Left Hand of Darkness rested on the cushion beside him.

Clint sauntered in with two sodas and a giant bowl of popcorn. “Alright, Barnes. You ready to hate Harrison Ford for two hours?”

Bucky looked up. “I don’t know. I kinda liked him in the other one. With the whip.”

“Raiders?” Clint asked, handing over the soda. “Yeah, classic. But this one—dark, moody, lots of staring and existential dread. Just your speed.”

Bucky smirked faintly, then asked, quieter, “This really how people live now? Just… sit down and relax together?”

Clint paused. “Yeah. Sometimes. Sometimes we even survive the movie without getting attacked by space demons or Ultron clones.”

Bucky chuckled. “That a common problem?”

Clint sank into the couch beside him, tossing a kernel in his mouth. “You’d be surprised.”

Halfway through the film, Clint noticed Bucky was watching more than just the screen. He was absorbing. The colors, the faces, the idea of a replicant trying to figure out if he was real. Clint didn’t interrupt. Just let the silence settle while the rain on-screen mirrored the quiet weight behind Bucky’s eyes.

---
Upper Levels – Stark’s Lab

Tony hadn’t stopped moving for hours, fingers flying over blueprints, while JARVIS calmly narrated Pepper’s arrival time and Wade’s latest attempt at dinner (something involving way too much garlic and an apron that said “Merc and Proud”).

Steve leaned on the edge of a workbench, arms crossed, watching his friend.

“He’s adjusting,” Steve said, almost defensively.

Tony raised an eyebrow. “Which one?”

“Bucky.”

Tony nodded. “I noticed. He’s curious. Bright. Been asking JARVIS about satellites and propulsion systems. Asked me yesterday if there were books about AI ethics.”

“Good,” Steve said, then hesitated. “He’s different. But he’s… still him.”

Tony’s voice softened a notch. “You really believe that?”

Steve met his gaze. “Yeah. I do.”

Tony tilted his head, then let it go. “He’s in good hands with Clint.”

Steve didn’t say anything. But his lips curved just enough to confirm he agreed.

-

Bucky’s Room – Later

Clint leaned against the doorframe as Bucky finished shelving a stack of borrowed books from the Compound library.

“You ever think,” Clint asked, “what the other Bucky did?”

Bucky paused. “The one from this timeline?”

Clint nodded.

Bucky looked out the window. “Maybe he died. Maybe he didn’t get caught. Maybe he got married, lived in Queens, had a dog.”

“You okay not knowing?”

Bucky smiled faintly. “No. But I’m learning to be.”

Clint stepped further into the room. “You ever tell Steve what happened? The man yelling, the light, the last thing you remember?”

“Not yet,” Bucky said. “He looks at me like I’m about to vanish. Like if he blinks, I’ll be gone again.”

Clint nodded. “Yeah. I know that look.”

They were quiet for a while. Then Bucky added, “You know what the weirdest part is?”

“What?”

“I’m starting to think this place isn’t so bad.”

Clint grinned. “Wait till we show you Star Trek.”

Bucky smirked. “Deal.”

-

Avengers Compound – Small Reading Room (Evening)

The reading room was one of those strange Stark spaces that seemed too cozy to exist in a building filled with tech and tension. But someone—probably Pepper—had added a Persian rug, thick armchairs, and low shelves that turned it into a haven.

Clint was stretched out in an overstuffed chair, boots propped up, flipping lazily through a dog-eared Hellboy trade paperback. Bucky sat opposite him on the rug, legs crossed, thumbing through a paperback copy of Dune. The edge of the cover was soft from use, the spine cracked like it had been read a dozen times.

The air shimmered faintly—then a portal snapped open in the corner of the room. Jace stepped through without drama, brushing something glittery off his jacket, rune marks glowing faintly on his skin.

“Didn’t know you were coming,” Clint said, not moving much.

“I said I might,” Jace replied, sounding casual. “Figured you two would be hiding in here.” He raised an eyebrow at the books. “Nice. At least you have taste.”

“Excuse you,” Clint said dryly. “This is culture.”

Bucky looked up and offered Jace a small, polite smile—still testing the waters, but softer now. “You read?”

“I read everything,” Jace said, dropping down beside Bucky without hesitation, legs folding neatly. “Used to sneak into the library at the Institute after hours. Magnus enchanted a few books for me—ones that don’t exist in this timeline.”

Clint leaned over and mock-whispered to Bucky, “This is his way of saying he’s cooler than us.”

Jace shrugged. “Not cooler. Just faster.”

Bucky held up his book. “I’m liking this one. All the philosophy hidden in the politics. Made me think a lot about war, actually. About what we’re told to do… and what we believe in when nobody’s watching.”

Jace nodded, expression flickering serious. “Paul Atreides gets told he’s a messiah, but mostly he’s just a scared kid with too much power. That part felt real to me.”

Clint flipped his book shut and looked at Jace. “So what’s your favorite?”

Jace didn’t hesitate. “The Once and Future King.”

Bucky blinked. “Arthurian stuff?”

Jace nodded. “All of it. The tragedy, the hope, the way Arthur wants to build something better and keeps getting undercut by the people around him. And yet, he keeps trying.”

There was a silence, thoughtful but not uncomfortable. The kind that only grew when the people in the room had started trusting each other, even if they didn’t realize it yet.

Clint looked between them. “You two… you ever get tired of fighting?”

Jace tilted his head. “I get tired of not knowing if it’s ever going to matter.”

Bucky’s voice was low. “I get tired of feeling like I missed the part where things got better.”

They all sat with that for a moment.

Then Clint stood up, walked over to a shelf, and pulled out a copy of Good Omens. He tossed it onto the rug between them.

“Alright, new rule,” Clint said, grinning just a little. “Next book club meeting, we read this. Angels, demons, British wit, end of the world. It’s practically our autobiography.”

Jace cracked a small, crooked smile. “Fine. But I’m not bringing snacks.”

“You are the snack,” Clint said with a wink, then walked off before either of them could throw something at him.

Bucky stared at the book cover and shook his head. “You know, for a guy who was trained as a killer, he’s kinda soft.”

Jace leaned back on his elbows. “Yeah. That’s why I like him.”

Bucky glanced over at him, a flicker of something unspoken passing between them—recognition, maybe. Not friendship. Not yet. Just something gentle and growing. A new beginning.

They turned back to the books.

And for the first time in days, maybe weeks, the world didn’t feel like such a terrifying place.

---

Avengers Compound – Training Room

Bucky had already landed flat on his back three times. Clint stood above him with the same annoying calm, hands on hips, clearly trying not to gloat.

“You’re quick,” Clint said, offering him a hand up. “But you’re still fighting like it’s 1943 and everyone’s wearing wool and dying of trench foot.”

Bucky grunted, took the hand, and rolled to his feet. “Sorry I’m not used to flippin’ around like some circus freak.”

“You know what they say,” Clint replied, tossing him a staff. “Join the Avengers, get the flexibility of a ballerina and trauma like a Greek tragedy.”

They were just starting to spar again when a lab tech hesitated at the edge of the room. “Uh—Agent Barton?”

Clint lowered his staff. “Kind of in the middle of a training session.”

“It’s… it’s about the bloodwork.”

Bucky looked up warily. “Mine?”

The tech cleared his throat. “Both of yours, actually.”

Clint tossed the staff aside with a sigh. “Let me guess. Stark says I’ve got too much sass in my bloodstream.”

The tech didn’t laugh. “You were both exposed to something… off-market. Looks like attempted replication of Terrigenesis. You know, Inhuman metamorphosis. But artificial.”

Bucky squinted. “English, please?”

Clint stared. “You mean like the Terrigen Mist? The one that gives people powers—or kills them?”

The tech nodded. “We think the black market serum used alien DNA. Chitauri traces, maybe. Not pure Terrigen, but close enough that your systems reacted. You’re stable, but your genetics… changed. we're not sure if there will be cocoons.”

Bucky muttered, “Of course they did.”

“And what the hell do you mean ‘cocoons’?” Clint added.

That’s when the doors hissed open again. In walked Fitz and Simmons, looking like they’d sprinted from another floor.

“Oh good, they told you,” Simmons said, out of breath. “So, yes, sometimes exposure to Terrigen or Terrigenic substitutes triggers a chrysalis phase—basically a biological cocoon.”

Fitz added quickly, “You’re not going to grow wings or start breathing fire—probably. But it does mean you’ve undergone some genetic restructuring.”

Clint blinked. “I just wanted to teach this guy how to throw a punch in 2014. Now you’re telling me I’m one alien gene away from shooting bees from my eyes?”

“Wouldn’t be bees,” Simmons offered, trying to be helpful. “More likely adaptive sensory perception or—”

Then a voice cut across the lab: “I see you’re still bad at breaking news, Jemma.”

Clint’s heart stopped.

Because Phil Coulson walked through the door.

Alive. Wearing a new S.H.I.E.L.D. badge. Calm as ever.

Bucky had his knife halfway drawn before he realized Clint wasn’t moving.

Clint blinked slowly. “You’re supposed to be dead.”

Phil looked at him, quietly. “Yeah. That was... complicated.”

Clint took one step forward. “You died, Phil. Loki stabbed you. We buried your damn trading cards with blood on them.”

“And I got better,” Phil said. “Fury made some calls. Brought me back.”

“You didn’t tell me,” Clint said, voice like gravel.

“You were safer not knowing,” Phil replied gently. “We all were. But the game’s changed. Sheild agent Quake thinks it’s time we brought you in on the truth.”

“Quake?” Bucky repeated.

“Daisy Johnson,” Simmons clarified. “She’s the Inhuman who—”

“Hi,” came another voice, and Daisy Johnson walked in next, black leather, calm energy, and a confidence that practically crackled off her.

She looked Bucky and Clint over like she was sizing them up. “Heard you both went through forced Terrigenesis. That sucks. You okay?”

Clint’s mouth opened, then closed.

Phil sighed. “He needs a minute.”

“No,” Clint said. “I need a drink. Then I’m going to punch you.”

Phil nodded. “Fair.”

---

Avengers Compound – Diagnostics Bay, 20 Minutes Later

Daisy crouched in front of Clint, her hands making calm, controlled gestures like she was coaching someone through turbulence on a crashing plane.

“Okay, breathe in—two, three, four—hold it—”

“Are we doing hippie therapy now?” Clint rasped, eyes flicking toward Bucky with a twitchy edge.

“You’re about five seconds from passing out,” Daisy replied, not unkindly. “And your friend over there looks like he forgot how lungs work.”

Bucky was seated on the diagnostic table, back rigid, both hands — still his own, no metal — braced on either side of him. His fingers gripped the edge like he was hanging off a rooftop. He hadn’t said much since the scan results came back.

Phil stood nearby, awkward in his familiar but now jarringly unexpected presence. “Clint, if you need to hit me, that’s valid. But maybe wait until the computers finish running bloodwork?”

Clint glared. “I don’t need to hit you.”

Phil nodded. “Okay.”

“I want to.”

There was a beat of silence.

“Fair.”

Just then, the door hissed open. Tony walked in with a tablet, a cup of coffee, and the swagger of a man who expected mild chaos and found a full-blown existential crisis.

“Jarvis said panic attacks, alien DNA, and possibly something about cocoons. Why does it always come back to cocoons?”

He blinked at the sight of Daisy Johnson trying to coach Clint Barton through breathing exercises while Bucky sat frozen, pale and tense. Phil stood nearby like a ghost Clint didn’t know whether to hug or punch.

Tony frowned. “Is this a S.H.I.E.L.D. convention, or am I being punk’d?”

“Welcome to the support group,” Daisy muttered. “Take a number.”

Tony crossed the room, scanning the readouts. “Okay, which one of you got hit with bargain-bin alien soup?”

Clint lifted his hand halfway. “Apparently me.”

Bucky exhaled sharp through his nose. “Me too.”

Tony looked him over, "you okay there Barnes?"

“peachy,” Bucky said dully.

Tony set down the tablet. “Alright, sparknotes version: you both got hit with something like Terrigen — but not the real stuff. Off-brand knockoff. Probably black market trash with alien DNA tossed in for flavor.”

“Flavor,” Clint muttered.

“You’re lucky it didn’t turn you into a shrub. Or a pile of goo. Or someone with antennae and a taste for concrete.”

Daisy stepped in. “They’re not going to shift into Inhumans immediately. These mutations might stay dormant, or maybe nothing will happen at all. But the cocooning process, when it does trigger—”

Tony winced. “Stop saying cocoon. God.”

“And the powers?” Bucky asked quietly, his voice edged in fear he hadn’t had words for yet.

Daisy crouched to face him. “If anything manifests, it’ll be gradual. But right now? You’re still you.”

Phil nodded, his tone soft. “You’re not alone in this.”

Clint gave him a tight look. “We were alone. Until you decided to pop up out of the grave like a damn magician.”

Tony stepped between them. “Alright, before this turns into a therapy fight club, can we table the dramatic reunions? I’ve got a war table upstairs, and a holographic sandwich waiting for me. Let’s finish the scans and figure out what kind of weird you’re dealing with.”

Daisy, sighing, pointed at both men. “And please try breathing.”

Bucky grunted. “Not sure I remember how.”

Tony turned toward him. “That makes three of us.”

---

---
Avengers Compound – A Few Days Later

The compound felt too quiet.

Even with Tony stomping around the labs and Steve pacing holes into the floor, even with Jarvis keeping a steady hum of updates—something about the air felt off.

Because two rooms, sealed now and carefully monitored, were currently housing two cocoons.

Clint Barton.
James Buchanan Barnes.

Neither one had come out yet.

Steve hadn’t left the hallway in three days. Sam kept dragging him toward the kitchen for food and sleep—mostly unsuccessfully.

Gemma Simmons had stayed long enough to double-check readings, confirm that neither Clint nor Bucky was in danger of systemic collapse, and leave a long set of notes behind.

“Textbook Terrigenic metamorphosis,” she’d told Daisy with an apologetic grimace before leaving. “But this is a forced expression. Not natural. Their systems are compensating at incredible rates, but the changes may not be predictable.”

“Story of our lives,” Daisy had muttered.

Now Daisy had returned on temporary standby, waiting near the lab bank with coffee and her tablet, while the rest of the team hovered and tried not to look too desperate.

Tony walked in mid-morning, running a hand through his hair. “Any change?”

“Nothing yet,” Daisy said, glancing up. “It’s normal. They’ll disappear for a day or so sometimes—then flicker back in. You’re seeing the body adjust and rewrite itself.”

“Peachy,” Tony muttered, setting down his mug. “You sure we can’t poke them with a stick? Just a little stick?”

“Tony,” Steve said from his usual post in the hall chair, voice a low warning.

Tony held up his hands. “Kidding. Mostly.”

“Jemma was clear,” Daisy said calmly. “They need to finish this uninterrupted. If you pull them out too soon, it could kill them.”

Steve leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Clint… Clint wasn’t built for this. Neither was Bucky. He didn’t even want this century—let alone powers.”

There was a beat of silence. Even Jarvis seemed subdued.

Finally Daisy exhaled and flipped her tablet around. “Look. When they come out, I’ll take point on training them. Don’t panic if there’s a little flare at first. That’s normal.”

“Define flare,” Sam asked from where he stood nearby, arms crossed.

“Energy discharge, reflexive enhancement, maybe sensory overload,” Daisy replied. “Could be strength-based, kinetic-based—depends on what the mutation hit.”

“And you’ll stay on that?” Steve asked, voice tight.

Daisy nodded once. “I don’t answer to your director. I’ve got my own group.”
No elaboration. No need.

Tony snorted quietly. “Of course you do.”

Sam looked at Steve. “We’ll handle it. We’ve handled worse.”

Steve gave a tired smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I know.”

And still he didn’t move from the hallway.

---

Monitors flickered quietly on both rooms:

One showing Clint, encased in faint gold-threaded crystal, breath so slow it barely registered.

One showing Bucky, pale and eerily still, the edges of his cocoon flickering faint silver-white like old film.

Jarvis’ voice came softly through the air.

> “No deviation from expected patterns. Vital signs remain stable.”

Steve leaned his head against the wall, fingers curled into fists.

“Come on, Buck,” he whispered. “Come back.”

Daisy watched him a moment, then stood.
“I’ll grab more coffee,” she said quietly. “And stay close.”

“Thank you,” Steve murmured.

As she walked out, Tony followed her.
“Any guesses?” he asked low.

“Not until they come out,” Daisy replied. “But forced metamorphosis means one thing.”

Tony raised a brow.

“They’re not gonna be the same,” Daisy said. “Neither of them.”

---

Chapter Text

Stillness

The compound had never been quiet, not really.

Machines hummed. Lights flickered. The faint sound of Jarvis’ polite voice layered over it all like wallpaper, always present but never intrusive. Tony kept a rhythm of boots on metal grates and doors sliding open and shut in a constant dance of activity. Even in the dead of night, there was usually something.

But now, silence hung over the halls like a held breath.

And Steve Rogers had barely left the corridor outside two sealed rooms for three days.

Clint Barton and James Buchanan Barnes were both inside.
Alive. Changing.

If that was a mercy or a cruelty remained to be seen.

Steve sat on a chair he’d dragged from the lounge, elbows on his knees, head bowed. Sam had tried to coax him to sleep—twice. He’d managed an hour at most.

Bucky’s cocoon flickered softly behind reinforced glass, edges silvered with faint light. His pulse was steady. His breathing had slowed until it barely registered. But he was still there, somewhere beneath it all. Clint’s cocoon looked warmer—threaded with gold—but the pattern was the same. Slow fade and return, the body adjusting, the mind somewhere beyond reach.

Gemma Simmons had stayed long enough to confirm: forced expression, off-market Terrigen contamination. Neither man would die, not if left to finish the process undisturbed. But what they would be afterward—no one could say.

Now Daisy Johnson was sitting cross-legged against the opposite wall, tablet in her lap, coffee cooling on the floor beside her.

Sam leaned nearby, arms crossed, watching Steve watch the room.
Tony entered a few minutes later with a tired sigh and a second coffee.

“Any change?” he asked, voice low.

“Not yet,” Daisy said softly. “They’ll come and go like this for a while.”

Tony grimaced. “God, I hate this part.”

Steve said nothing. His gaze hadn’t moved from the cocoon containing Bucky.

“Daisy,” Tony continued, keeping his tone dry but not unkind. “You’re sure about the cocooning cycle?”

“It’s textbook,” she replied. “But… not natural. Whoever hit them with this wanted Inhumans without waiting for fate. Their bodies are compensating fast—but it’s unstable.”

Tony rubbed a hand over his face. “And the powers?”

She hesitated. “If they develop them, they won’t be subtle. Forced expressions tend to amplify potential.”

Tony groaned. “So either superspies with new toys or another explosion waiting to happen.”

“They won’t be alone,” Daisy said. “I’ll take point on training them.”

“You?” Sam asked, eyes flicking toward her.

“I’ve got my own group,” Daisy said simply. “Not answering to your new director. We handle this.”
She didn’t elaborate. She didn’t need to.

Tony nodded once, accepting it. “Good.”

Steve shifted at last, voice rough. “Clint wasn’t built for this.”

“No one is,” Daisy said gently. “But Barton’s stubborn. He’ll fight through it.”

“And Bucky?” Steve asked.

That, no one answered at first.

Finally Tony spoke. “Barnes is already a survivor. That’s not changing.”
He didn’t say: But what if he doesn’t want to survive like this?

Steve heard it anyway.

---

Later that night, after Sam finally dragged Steve to get food, the corridor fell quiet again.

Daisy remained at her post. Tony hovered nearby, pretending to adjust readouts.

And that’s when the first pulse hit.

It wasn’t visible—at first. Just a shift in air pressure. A soft, rising hum. Then a ripple of gold light flickered over Clint’s cocoon, pulsing outward like a heartbeat. Jarvis’ voice chimed immediately.

> “Mister Barton exhibiting phase transition pattern. Preparing stabilization protocols.”

Daisy shot to her feet, heart thudding. “It’s starting.”

Tony straightened. “Here we go.”

A second pulse followed—this one silver, from Bucky’s cocoon.
Not timed with Clint’s—separate, staggered—but strong.

> “Sergeant Barnes exhibiting initial re-emergence signals,” Jarvis confirmed calmly.

Daisy’s tablet vibrated with alerts. “Vitals are holding. They’re both stable.”

Tony exhaled slowly. “Let’s hope it stays that way.”

---

Two hours later, Jace Wayland stepped through a shimmering portal just outside the secured wing.

He looked tired but focused, rune-light flickering faintly along his forearms. His gaze swept the corridor, landing first on Daisy, then the flickering readings on the glass.

“They’re still inside?” he asked quietly.

Daisy nodded. “Both stable. But it’s starting.”

Jace exhaled. “Then I’ll stay.”

Tony arched a brow. “You planning to ward the hall too?”

“If I need to,” Jace said simply. “There are... other things that sometimes try to feed on these transitions.”

Daisy frowned. “Shadow-creatures?”

Jace nodded. “They can smell power shifts. I won’t risk it.”

Tony sighed. “Great. More things on the ‘do not invite’ list.”

---

And in the sealed rooms—

Clint’s breathing had deepened, his pulse spiking briefly with each pulse of gold.

Bucky’s fingers twitched once against the cocoon’s edge, silver light sparking faint in the air around him.

Both still lost in the quiet, both changing.

And Steve, returned now to his chair, watched through the glass with eyes too bright.

“Come back, Buck,” he whispered.
“Come back.”

---

---

First Light

It happened just after dawn.

The first pulse hit at 5:47 AM — a sharper jolt than the earlier ripples, enough to wake Steve from his half-doze against the wall. Sam had returned sometime in the night, coffee in hand, and leaned forward now as alarms began quietly chiming.

“Jarvis?” Steve asked, already on his feet.

> “Sergeant Barnes exhibiting full phase-transition. Cocoon dissolution imminent.”

Sam clapped Steve’s shoulder. “Stay calm. He’s still your friend.”

“I know,” Steve said. He didn’t sound convinced.

Jace appeared at his side in an instant, rune-light already flickering faintly along his palms. His expression was sharp but calm.

“No malicious presence,” he said softly. “Whatever happens now, it’s his own energy.”

The cocoon shimmered, silver light cascading faster now. The edges began to fracture like ice under pressure—lines spiderwebbing outward, pulsing with each breath.

Steve pressed a hand to the glass.

“Come on, Buck. Come back to me.”

---

The first crack split open at the base—then another. With a low, metallic-sounding snap, the structure collapsed in on itself like folding silk.

And James Buchanan Barnes stumbled out, barefoot and shivering, wrapped in faint silver mist. His skin shimmered faintly, almost metallic—not armor exactly, but something like it. His eyes—oh, God, Steve thought—glowed a silver-blue, sharp and unsettling.

For one breathless second, Bucky stood tense, every muscle locked, gaze scanning wildly. His body flickered—armor blooming faintly across his arms and shoulders like liquid metal—then retracting again as his gaze landed on Steve’s face.

Recognition. Relief. A tremor. Then the glow faded, the metallic sheen retreating until only pale skin remained—skin, and the faintest silver line tracing the edges of his veins.

He swayed on his feet.

Steve barely caught him in time, wrapping both arms around him. “I’ve got you, Buck. You’re safe. You’re safe.”

Bucky clung to him like a drowning man, breath ragged.

“It’s okay,” Steve whispered, voice rough with tears. “You’re okay.”

Someone—Sam, maybe—pressed a blanket into Steve’s free hand. He wrapped it around Bucky automatically, guiding him down to the bench outside the room.

The silver was gone now. His eyes were his own again—bright blue, wide with shock.

“Stevie,” Bucky rasped. “What… what the hell happened?”

Steve swallowed hard. “We’ll explain everything. Just breathe, Buck. You’re home.”

---

The second emergence came barely an hour later.

Daisy had just returned with another round of coffee when Jarvis’ voice chimed again.

> “Mister Barton entering full phase-transition.”

Tony, half-asleep on the bench, snapped upright. “Finally.”

Jace stepped forward again, murmuring something under his breath—wards reinforcing quietly.

Steve kept Bucky wrapped in his blanket, one arm around his shoulders, murmuring quiet reassurances. Bucky’s head leaned against his shoulder now, exhaustion outweighing confusion.

The gold-threaded cocoon shimmered, pulsing faster now. Clint’s vitals spiked, then steadied. Then the first tremor hit.

The floor shook.

“Whoa!” Sam grabbed the doorframe as a low rumble spread outward.

“Reflexive energy spike,” Daisy muttered. “He’s responding to sensory overload.”

“Great,” Tony said. “We’ve got Magneto Junior and Force Ghost Archer.”

Another crack—then another. The cocoon fractured cleanly—and Clint stumbled out, eyes wide, hair tousled, looking for all the world like he’d just survived a bar fight with a tornado.

He looked normal—at first.

Then someone spoke—too loud. A chair scraped against the floor. The lights flickered.

And everything not bolted down rattled.

“Whoa, whoa—Clint!” Daisy said quickly, moving toward him. “It’s okay—you’re safe.”

Clint blinked hard, swaying. “Cold. Shit—cold—”

Steve tossed a second blanket toward her; Daisy caught it and wrapped Clint fast.

“Breathe,” she said. “Just breathe with me.”

The shaking subsided slowly as Clint’s breathing evened out. His eyes tracked the room, wild and confused—but when they landed on Bucky, a flicker of something softer passed through them.

“Bucky?” Clint croaked.

“Hey,” Bucky whispered, managing a faint, crooked smile. “You okay?”

Clint managed a ragged laugh. “Not… sure.”

“Me neither,” Bucky said softly.

---

Later, when both men had been moved to the med bay proper—wrapped in layers of blankets, sipping warm water, still pale and shaken—the team gathered quietly nearby.

Jace stood watch at the edge of the room, arms crossed.

“They’ll stabilize,” he said quietly to Daisy. “But this energy—they’re changed.”

Tony snorted. “Understatement.”

Sam glanced at Steve, who hadn’t moved from Bucky’s side. “You okay?”

Steve nodded once. “I am now.”

---

Across the room, Clint glanced at Bucky.

“You look like hell,” he rasped.

Bucky managed a crooked smile. “Back at you.”

They both laughed—quiet, tired. But the sound was real.

For now, it was enough.

---

The Quiet Between

Clint hadn't meant to doze off. Not in the compound med bay, not wrapped in too many blankets, and definitely not with Bucky Barnes—real, shivering, 1940s-soft-accent Bucky—dozing a few feet away in his own nest of wool and fleece.

But trauma had a way of forcing rest where words couldn’t. So when he woke, bleary-eyed and sore, it was to the sound of soft breathing and the rhythmic rustle of paper.

Bucky was reading.

The guy had his legs curled up on the chair, bare toes peeking out from under the blanket like a damn kitten, a thick dog-eared paperback resting open in his lap. His hair was still damp, combed back but curling at the edges now that it was drying. He looked tired—but not hunted. Not frightened.

Clint blinked at him.

“You like sci-fi?” he asked, voice hoarse from sleep.

Bucky startled, looking up with wide eyes. Then something softened around the edges of his mouth. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Got a lotta catching up to do, I guess.”

Clint rubbed at his temple and sat up slowly. “You… picked that one?” he asked, nodding toward the book.

Bucky turned the cover so he could see. Ender's Game.

“It was on the table,” Bucky said. “S’good. Kinda sad.”

Clint nodded, reaching for the water by the bed. “Yeah. Some of the best ones are.”

A pause. The room settled into the soft hum of electronics and filtered sunlight through the blinds. Somewhere nearby, someone walked past the hall. The door didn’t open. They still had their space.

“You read a lot?” Clint asked after a moment.

“When I could,” Bucky said. “Used to steal books from the officer's lounge. Got caught once. Steve took the fall.”

Clint snorted. “He would.”

Another pause. Then Bucky leaned forward slightly, folding the corner of the page and closing the book with a quiet sound.

“You okay?” he asked, voice softer.

Clint blinked. “Me?”

“You were shaking when you came out. And you haven’t said a word about the whole… silver sparkly earthquake hands thing.”

Clint shrugged. “Didn’t want to freak anybody out.”

“You freaked me out,” Bucky said with a smirk. “I was still seeing stars. Thought the floor was going to launch into orbit.”

Clint gave him a crooked smile. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Bucky said. “Just… y’know. If you ever want to talk about it.”

Clint hesitated. Then: “Same to you, Buck. I mean—you’re here. You’re real. And you’re… glowing sometimes. But also reading sci-fi and quoting book lines. So that’s kind of incredible.”

Bucky looked down at the blanket in his lap. “Not sure I believe it yet.”

“You will,” Clint said, voice firmer than he expected. “We’ll get there.”

---

Across the room, the door slid open with a soft hiss.

Jace stepped in, hair windblown from portal travel, a faint glimmer of runes still fading down his arms. He looked tired—but alert, and his eyes flicked between the two men with something between relief and calculation.

“You both look more human today,” he said, dry. “That’s a good sign.”

Clint gave him a lazy salute. “Thanks, Doc Magic.”

“Warlock,” Jace corrected, though the corners of his mouth twitched.

He moved toward the foot of Bucky’s bed, extending a hand—not touching, just hovering—fingers dancing through the air with practiced ease. A faint pulse of blue shimmer followed.

“You’re stable,” he said. “Both of you. The magical signature from the relic is gone now. What’s left is… Inhuman.”

Bucky blinked. “Inhuman like…”

“Genetic potential,” Jace said. “The relic didn’t give you these powers. It triggered what was already buried inside.”

“And the silver armor?” Clint asked.

Jace raised a brow. “Defensive reflex. Adaptive skin armor. It’s rare, but not unheard of. Same with your kinetic bursts.”

“Great,” Clint muttered. “I’m a walking earthquake.”

“You’re a walking warning system,” Jace corrected. “You only shook the room when you were in distress. It’s protective.”

Bucky frowned. “But it means we’re not normal anymore.”

Jace smiled, and it was a little sad. “You never were.”

---

Later that evening, after the assessments and the scans and the deeply embarrassing tests involving paperweights and reinforced windows, Clint and Bucky found themselves sitting outside on the patio, wrapped in sweaters too big for either of them.

The sun was low. Tony had disappeared somewhere with Jarvis muttering about Stark-specific protocols. Daisy was out training rookies. Steve and Sam had gone to rest—together, because at this point Clint had definitely noticed the way they looked at each other.

And Jace?

Jace was lingering quietly nearby, perched on the stone ledge of the garden wall, reading something in a battered journal. He looked calm—calm enough to allow the silence to stretch in peace.

Bucky turned to Clint after a while.

“I think I like this time,” he said softly.

Clint glanced over, brows raised.

Bucky looked away. “I mean… not just the tech. Or the books. Or… you know. The food.” A flicker of a smile. “It’s the people. I feel like I can breathe again.”

Clint didn’t answer right away. He leaned back, arms folded behind his head, eyes on the pink-hazed clouds.

“You’re not alone here, Buck,” he said finally. “Not anymore.”

And Bucky smiled—tired, small, but real.

He believed him.

---

The weeks slid past faster than Clint expected.

It was a strange thing, finding comfort in routine again. Morning drills in the gym. Long walks around the compound grounds, away from the noise of machinery. Training sessions with Daisy to keep their powers in check—though Clint suspected half of Daisy’s visits were excuses to hang out and check in, the other half a very earnest attempt to befriend Bucky.

Bucky was doing better than anyone could’ve guessed.

Gone was the wide-eyed man flinching at AI voices and modern clothes. The silver-blue sheen still flickered when he was startled or pushed too hard, but he was learning. The more control he found, the more he leaned into the rhythms of the day.

And Clint?

Clint found himself lingering. More and more often, they ended up sharing meals, trading books, curling into the corner of the lounge with mugs of tea while the rest of the world hummed past.

No one said it out loud, but it felt like building a life.

---

Training

“Okay,” Clint called from the mat, twirling a staff with quick precision. “Let’s take it from the top.”

Bucky rolled his shoulders, mouth twitching in a grin. “You sure? You’re lookin’ tired, Barton.”

Clint smirked. “Yeah, well—old man strength, remember?”

They launched into it—Clint weaving in newer techniques, combinations of fluid motion and hard counters. Bucky absorbed it like breath, moving sharper, lighter with each round.

“You’re a damn natural,” Clint said, panting when they paused.

“Comes with the territory,” Bucky said, wiping his brow. Then, quieter: “But I like learning this. The old stuff—it’s all muscle. Habit. This—this is choice.”

That hit Clint square in the chest.

“Yeah,” he said, voice softening. “You’ve got choices now.”

---

Power Control

Daisy beamed as she watched Bucky turn the silver sheen on and off with deliberate breaths.

“Look at you!” she said, bouncing a little. “You’re nailing it.”

Bucky flushed. “Still comes up when I’m startled.”

“Yeah, well,” Daisy said, “you’re still human.”

She turned to Clint next. “Okay, earthquake boy. Show me.”

Clint huffed. “Seriously gotta find a better name.”

With careful breathwork, he lifted one hand—and instead of a full-room tremor, a small ripple shimmered across the surface of the mat.

Daisy whooped. “Yes! Look at you two. Practically pros.”

Bucky glanced sideways at Clint, grin faint but real. “Guess we’re not so dangerous after all.”

Clint’s chest tightened again. “Nah, Buck,” he said. “We’re dangerous when we choose to be.”

Bucky smiled. “That’s a better way to put it.”

---

Settling In

It happened slowly.

A book left on Bucky’s table. A second cup of coffee poured without asking. Clint finding excuses to swing by Bucky’s quarters, dropping off new movies or old jazz records.

They started watching films together—black-and-white classics first, then modern sci-fi that had Bucky wide-eyed and grinning.

Good Omens was a staple by now—half-quoted between them, the dog-eared book always within reach.

Wade popped in occasionally, dramatic and ridiculous, but somehow fitting right into the softness that had grown between them.

“Barton,” Wade declared one night, flopping across the couch, “you’re totally falling for the vintage twink.”

Clint sputtered into his tea. “Wade—”

“What?” Bucky blinked, half-curious, half-confused.

“Nothing,” Clint growled, cheeks warm.

Wade winked at Bucky. “I’m just sayin’. Chemistry. And you’re both adorable. Carry on.”

To Clint’s eternal relief, Bucky just laughed.

---

Soft Moments

One quiet evening, they found themselves back on the patio.

The stars were sharp and endless overhead. Cool air curled around them; Bucky had a blanket draped over his shoulders, another mug of tea cupped between both hands.

Clint sat beside him, close but not touching, gaze turned skyward.

Bucky broke the silence first.

“You think this is it?” he asked softly. “My timeline now?”

Clint swallowed. “Jace says the relic can’t send you back. And even if it could… no way to know where ‘back’ is.”

Bucky nodded slowly. “Guess I gotta make a life here.”

“You can,” Clint said. “You already are.”

Another pause. Then, more fragile: “I don’t wanna be alone anymore, Clint.”

Clint’s throat tightened. He reached out—slowly, gently—and let his fingers brush Bucky’s blanket-draped arm.

“You’re not,” he said quietly. “Not while I’m here.”

Bucky turned, eyes silver-blue in the low light, soft and open. He didn’t pull away. Just leaned a little closer, shoulders brushing, breath warm against Clint’s cheek.

They sat like that for a long time—two soldiers out of place, finding new ground in the strange, quiet now.

And when Wade poked his head out twenty minutes later with a whispered “Oh my God, they’re cuddling”—Clint just grinned.

Yeah.

Maybe this future wasn’t so bad.

---

Belonging

---

There was something about the way the compound felt at night.

Hushed, gentle. Like the weight of the world lifted once the ops chatter faded and the halls emptied out. Just voices and footsteps and the occasional soft laugh drifting from the common rooms.

Bucky liked it.

He hadn’t expected that.

---

Book Club 2.0

Clint found him in the lounge one evening, new book in hand.

“No more angels and demons tonight,” Clint said, a small grin tugging his mouth. “Thought you might like this one.”

Bucky blinked at the battered paperback: The Martian Chronicles.

Ray Bradbury. Classic, they’d told him. Hopeful, Clint had said.

Bucky’s heart kicked a little.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “I’d like that.”

And so Book Club 2.0 began.

Now it was a rhythm: evenings curled on the couch, side by side but not quite touching, trading chapters and soft commentary. Jace would sometimes join them, amused and genuinely fond of the dynamic forming there.

Bucky liked Jace—sharp-eyed, calm beneath all the warlock flash. The kind of person who didn’t look at Bucky like a relic or a threat. Just… a man, finding his place.

---

Training & a Touch

Days were for training. Fighting styles mixed and modernized—Bucky absorbing Clint’s hybrid approach with quiet determination.

“Good,” Clint said one afternoon, breathless as they broke from a spar. “You’re way smoother with transitions now.”

Bucky smirked. “Good teacher.”

Clint laughed, rolling his eyes. “Flatterer.”

Then—fast, almost instinct—Clint reached to brush sweat from Bucky’s temple with the back of his fingers.

Neither of them expected it to feel like anything. But it did.

For a beat, Bucky’s breath caught—eyes flicking up, lips parting. Clint froze, fingers lingering a second longer than they should’ve.

Then both blinked, pulling back almost in unison.

“Sorry,” Clint mumbled.

Bucky shook his head quickly. “No—it’s okay.” His voice was too soft. Too full of something unspoken.

Neither of them mentioned it after. But the space between them felt different—charged, warm. Not unwelcome.

---

Movie Night

Two nights later, it was Clint’s turn to drag Bucky into movie territory.

“Tonight’s assignment,” Clint said, brandishing the remote, “Pacific Rim.”

Bucky raised a brow. “Big robots fighting monsters?”

Clint grinned. “Big dumb fun. You’ll love it.”

And he did. Eyes wide, half-laughing by the third battle sequence.

Jace wandered through mid-film, pausing to take in the scene: Clint leaning comfortably close to Bucky, both grinning, popcorn scattered between them.

“Well,” Jace said lightly, “looks like you two are thriving.”

Bucky grinned at him. “Starting to feel that way.”

And the warmth in Clint’s answering smile lingered longer than it should’ve.

---

Talking to Sam & Steve

The next morning found Bucky sitting out on the balcony with Sam and Steve, coffee steaming between their hands.

“You’re looking better,” Sam said, leaning back. “Less haunted.”

Bucky huffed a soft laugh. “That obvious?”

Steve smiled gently. “We’re your friends, Buck. We notice.”

There was a beat of quiet. Then Bucky drew a slow breath.

“I like it here,” he said quietly. “Didn’t think I would. But… people are good. Clint—he’s been…” He trailed off, words thick with meaning.

Sam’s eyes crinkled knowingly. “Yeah. Clint’s good at seeing people.”

“And Jace,” Bucky added. “I thought warlocks would be… I don’t know. Different. But he’s easy to be around.”

Steve nodded. “You belong here, Buck. If you want to.”

Bucky’s throat tightened. If you want to.

“I do,” he said, voice firm. “I think I do.”

Sam grinned and clapped him on the shoulder. “Then you’re staying.”

---

Rhythm

That evening, Bucky returned to the lounge to find Clint already sprawled on the couch, book in hand, two mugs of tea waiting.

“Thought you might be late,” Clint said, eyes warm.

Bucky smiled. “Didn’t want to miss this.”

He sank beside Clint—closer now than he would’ve dared weeks ago. Shoulders brushing. No flinch. No apology.

Just easy, soft belonging.

As they read, the charge between them hummed low and steady.

And when Clint reached out absently to tuck a loose strand of hair behind Bucky’s ear—gentle, natural—Bucky leaned into the touch, breath catching just once.

Neither spoke of it.

But something had shifted.

And neither one wanted to pull away.

...

Brooklyn

They were cleared to leave the compound three weeks after emerging from the cocoons.

Mostly human, stable enough to pass public muster, Daisy had said with a wink.

Still—Clint could tell Bucky was nervous.

“You don’t have to,” he said quietly, fingers light on Bucky’s arm as they waited by the car. “We can go tomorrow. Or next week. Whenever.”

Bucky shook his head. “No. I want to see it. I need to.”

So Clint drove.

The roads were familiar enough now—he and Bucky had made a few short trips to test comfort levels. But this was the first real outing. And the first time Bucky had asked for it.

Brooklyn.

---

First Glimpse

They parked near one of the old blocks Bucky had named.

The neighborhood was quieter than midtown but still pulsing with life—kids chasing each other, old men at sidewalk tables arguing over cards, music drifting from open windows.

Bucky stood still for a long moment, gaze sweeping the street.

“I used to run down that alley,” he said softly, pointing. “And that corner store—damn. It’s still here.”

He crossed to the bodega like a man in a dream, fingers brushing the doorframe.

Inside, the space was smaller than he remembered, crammed with shelves and a narrow coffee counter.

Clint watched Bucky take it all in—breath catching when the bell above the door jingled just the same.

“You want one?” Clint asked, tipping his chin toward the coffee.

Bucky blinked, then smiled faintly. “Yeah. I think I do.”

---

Coffee & Conversation

They sat outside on a stoop with two steaming cups.

“It’s stronger now,” Bucky said, nose wrinkling after the first sip. “But good.”

Clint chuckled. “Yeah, the hipsters got to coffee. It’s an art form now.”

Bucky huffed a laugh, gaze softening. “Some things change. Some stay the same.”

His voice was quiet but warm. More open than Clint had heard it before.

They sat in companionable silence for a while—watching kids dart past, the city moving around them.

Then, softer: “Thanks for bringing me.”

Clint looked over. “You kidding? I was hoping you’d ask.”

Their eyes held for a beat longer than necessary.

And in that moment, Clint felt it—a low, steady pull. Familiar now, but sharper here, out in the world. Like he wanted to close that small space between them and never let Bucky feel alone again.

He looked away first, heart thudding.

---

More of the Block

They wandered after that.

Bucky traced old routes—grinning when they found a bakery he swore had the best cinnamon rolls in Brooklyn. Clint bought two without argument, watching Bucky’s face light up when the first bite hit.

“You’re easy to please,” Clint teased, bumping their shoulders together.

Bucky smirked. “Good food. Good company. What else do I need?”

It wasn’t casual—not the way he said it. Not the way Clint felt his heart catch again.

But neither of them pushed it. Not yet.

---

A Moment by the River

They ended up by the river as sunset hit—cool breeze ruffling their hair, sky streaked in gold and violet.

Bucky leaned on the rail, gaze distant.

“Part of me thought this would hurt more,” he said softly. “Seeing it all changed. Knowing I’m not who I was here.”

Clint stood beside him, close enough their arms brushed.

“You’re still you,” he said quietly. “Just… more.”

Bucky looked over, eyes bright in the fading light. “You think?”

“I know,” Clint said. No hesitation.

Another beat.

Then Bucky shifted—slow, deliberate—and let their shoulders press fully together, gaze dropping to the river.

Clint didn’t move away. Couldn’t have, even if he’d wanted to.

And when Bucky let out a slow, shivering breath—not fear, not grief, just the soft ache of belonging—Clint stayed steady beside him.

“I like it here,” Bucky whispered.

Clint’s heart twisted.

“I’m glad,” he said. “We’re glad.”

---

Returning

They drove back in comfortable quiet—Bucky half-dozing against the window, Clint stealing glances when he could.

By the time they reached the compound, the stars were bright overhead.

Bucky turned to him at the car door, voice low.

“Thanks, Clint.”

Clint smiled—warm, sure. “Anytime, Buck. Anytime.”

And as Bucky slipped inside, looking lighter than Clint had ever seen him, Clint leaned against the car a moment longer—heart full, knowing exactly how deep he was falling.

--

---

A Place at the Table

---

The ride back from Brooklyn lingered in Bucky’s chest long after they returned.

There’d been something about it—the familiar streets, the river, the comfort of Clint’s quiet presence beside him.

He didn’t know how to say it yet. But something inside him was loosening.

---

Later That Night

By the time the compound settled into its nighttime hush, Bucky was still restless—energy flickering beneath his skin.

He wandered down toward the lounge and wasn’t surprised to find Clint already there, sprawled sideways on the couch with a blanket and a battered copy of The Martian Chronicles beside him.

Clint looked up when Bucky entered.

“Couldn’t sleep?”

Bucky shook his head, something easing in his chest at the sight of him. “Not yet.”

Clint patted the space beside him without hesitation. “Come on. You know the drill.”

It had become habit, these evenings. The hum of the compound at rest, the two of them folded into a little pocket of quiet together.

Bucky sat down, closer than he used to. It felt natural now—shoulders brushing beneath the blanket Clint draped over both of them.

Clint didn’t comment on it. Just smiled faintly and opened the book.

They read in turns—Clint’s voice low and even, Bucky’s steady and softer still.

At one point, as Clint leaned in to show him a favorite passage, their knees pressed.

Neither moved.

Bucky caught his breath—but this time not from nerves. Something gentler. Warmer.

He glanced sideways, found Clint already watching him, gaze softer than he’d ever seen it.

Bucky swallowed. “Thanks for today.”

Clint’s smile tilted, fond. “Hey—you brought me. I just drove.”

“That’s not what I mean.” Bucky’s voice dipped, words careful. “You made it… easier. To go back. To be there.”

Clint’s heart thudded.

“You’ve got people now, Buck,” he said quietly. “Here. Me. We want you here.”

There was a long beat of silence.

Then, carefully, Bucky leaned his head against Clint’s shoulder—light, tentative.

Clint barely breathed.

But after a moment, he shifted just enough to lean back into the touch.

Neither spoke.

The book lay forgotten between them as the night stretched warm and quiet around their little corner.

---

The Invitation

The next morning, Bucky was heading through the kitchen when Steve caught up with him.

“Hey, Buck.”

He turned. “Yeah?”

Steve smiled—open, proud. “We’re having a team dinner tonight. Just casual. Wanted to make sure you knew you’re invited.”

Bucky blinked. “Me?”

“Of course you,” Steve said firmly. “You’re one of us.”

Bucky hesitated—but something in his chest eased again.

“I’ll come,” he said.

Steve clapped him on the shoulder. “Glad. You’ve got people now, Buck. Remember that.”

Bucky watched him go, heart beating unevenly.

---

Later

When he found Clint in the training room, the archer grinned.

“Heard you’re coming tonight.”

Bucky ducked his head, a rare smile tugging at his mouth. “Yeah. Figured it’s time.”

Clint’s gaze lingered—warm, a little bright.

“Good,” he said softly. “I’m glad.”

Their eyes held a little too long. Neither looked away first.

---

The Dinner

That evening, the team gathered—Steve and Sam flanking the table, Tony already two glasses deep into some ridiculous wine.

When Bucky entered, the room quieted for half a second.

Then Clint grinned wide and waved him over.

“Saved you a seat,” he called, patting the chair beside him.

Bucky felt something ease all the way down to his bones.

He sat beside Clint—warm shoulder pressed lightly to his—and as the night spun on, the laughter and chatter wrapped around him like a second skin.

Steve caught his eye once, smiling soft and proud.

You belong here, his look said.

And when Clint’s fingers brushed his once beneath the table—intentional, gentle—Bucky didn’t flinch.

Didn’t pull away.

Not this time.

---

Old Streets, New Shadows

---

A Cozy Night

It had started as a movie night—half the team sprawled across couches and floor cushions in the main lounge.

Bucky wasn’t sure when movie night had become his favorite part of the week. But now it was something he looked forward to—comforting in a way the rest of this strange new world wasn’t yet.

Tonight, it was just a small group—Steve, Sam, Clint, and him.

Steve and Sam were curled in one corner, heads together, quietly teasing each other between scenes.

Clint was beside Bucky on the couch, blanket thrown over their legs, both holding mugs of tea.

And somewhere between the middle and the end of the film, Bucky found himself leaning in without thinking—head tucked against Clint’s shoulder, warmth seeping through layers of soft fabric.

Clint didn’t shift away. Just let him settle, shifting just enough to loop an arm loosely around Bucky’s shoulders.

Bucky exhaled, long and quiet. The tension in his body melted bit by bit.

When the movie ended and the others began to drift off, Clint tilted his head.

“You good, Buck?”

Bucky blinked up at him, reluctant to move. “Yeah. Just—warm. Comfortable.”

Clint’s mouth tipped in a soft smile. “Then stay as long as you want. No rush.”

And somehow, by the time Clint shut off the last of the lights, Bucky was still there—curled on the couch with him, dozing safe against his side.

When Clint woke briefly later, Bucky was tucked in tighter, one hand resting loosely on his chest.

He let himself close his eyes again with a soft breath. Yeah. This is good.

---

The Talk of Brooklyn

The next morning over coffee, Steve caught Bucky and Clint in the kitchen.

“Hey—was thinking,” Steve said, leaning against the counter. “Next time I go to Brooklyn, you wanna come with me?”

Bucky blinked. “You sure?”

Steve smiled softly. “Course I’m sure. Could use a familiar face—and you know those streets better than I do these days.”

Clint grinned. “I think that’s a great idea. You two back in Brooklyn? That’s history in motion.”

Steve laughed. “Hopefully with less motion than the last time. Though—” he shot Clint a wry look, “—Sam’s been trying to get me to talk things out these days. Less punch through everything, more use your words.”

Clint smirked. “Progress, Cap.”

Bucky huffed a laugh, eyes warm as he glanced between them. “You two sound like an old married couple.”

Steve rolled his eyes good-naturedly. “You’ve got no room to talk, Buck. You and Clint were practically a blanket burrito last night.”

Bucky flushed faintly but didn’t deny it.

---

The Outing

Two days later, they went—Steve, Bucky, and Clint, walking familiar streets under a bright spring sky.

Some parts of Brooklyn looked different—sleek new storefronts and modern apartments. But others remained the same: narrow alleys, faded brick walls, stoop-sitters who’d seen generations come and go.

As they walked, Steve told stories—about fights he hadn’t been able to win until Bucky had stepped in, about their mothers knowing each other but the two of them barely crossing paths until one bruised and stubborn street corner.

“Little punk had no sense of self-preservation,” Bucky said fondly, shaking his head.

Clint grinned. “Some things never change.”

Steve laughed. “Some do. I actually try to talk first now. Sam’s been a good influence.”

Bucky shot him a knowing look. “Good. You needed one.”

---

The Man

They rounded a quieter block—old warehouses turned art spaces now, scaffolding wrapped around one half-finished facade.

Steve’s step hitched.

Ahead, a tall figure moved through the sparse crowd—long dark hair falling past his shoulders, dark clothes blending into the early evening.

Something about the way the man moved—purposeful, guarded—made Steve’s stomach twist.

Then the figure glanced back, and Steve’s breath caught.

“Bucky?” he called out instinctively—loud, sharp.

The man froze—then bolted.

“Shit—” Steve surged forward. “Stay here!”

And he was gone, chasing fast down the block.

Bucky and Clint stared after him.

“What the hell?” Bucky asked, frowning hard. “I’m right here!”

Clint’s gut twisted uneasily. “I… don’t know. But we’re sticking together. Come on.”

They moved after Steve—not running, not yet.

But hearts pounding.

Because something was off.

Way off.

And as Bucky kept glancing at Clint—confusion flickering in those too-bright eyes—Clint squeezed his shoulder lightly.

“We’ve got this,” he said, voice low.

He wasn’t sure who he was reassuring more—Bucky or himself.

---

Shadows of the Same Name

---

Steve caught up with them a few blocks later—breathless, tense.

Clint caught his arm. “What the hell, Rogers?”

Steve ran a hand through his hair, still scanning the street behind them. “Not here. Let’s get back to the compound first.”

Bucky frowned hard. “Steve—”

“Please.” Steve’s voice was quiet but firm. “Just—back first. I’ll explain.”

Clint exchanged a glance with Bucky—then nodded. “Alright. Let’s go.”

---

The Compound

Back inside the compound, they regrouped in the lounge—JARVIS dimming the lights automatically at Steve’s tired command.

Steve paced for a moment, then finally stopped and faced them.

“We’ve been tracking him,” he said quietly. “Our Bucky. From this time.”

Bucky straightened. Clint sat up a little taller beside him.

Steve exhaled slowly. “I didn’t tell anyone before. Only a handful of us even knew it was him. Nat—she saw him. Once when she was a kid, again a few times when she was older. No one was sure. The last reports we got were years ago—Hydra had him, or someone did. But after that…” He shook his head. “Sketchy intel, nothing concrete.”

He looked straight at Bucky then—soft regret flickering in his eyes.

“We didn’t say anything because we thought if Hydra knew we were on his trail, they’d move him again. And we’d lose him. For good.”

The room felt too still.

Bucky stared at the floor, jaw tight. His voice was low, rough: “You’re saying there’s another me. Right here. In the city.”

Steve nodded. “Yeah.”

Clint leaned forward slightly, voice calm and even. “And that guy today…?”

Steve scrubbed a hand across his face. “I’m almost certain it was him.”

He looked toward the far window, shoulders tense.

“We’ve been trying to figure out how to track him. Our usual methods haven’t worked. But…” he hesitated, glancing at Clint. “I was thinking. Maybe Jace could help. The Shadowhunter tracking runes—warlock spells—they’re good. Real good.”

Clint nodded slowly. “Yeah. If anyone can help, Jace can.”

He looked sideways at Bucky, who was still sitting stiffly on the couch—blankets from last night still folded at one end.

Clint nudged his knee gently.

“Buck.”

Bucky looked up, expression tight, wary.

Clint kept his voice soft. “You okay?”

A rough exhale. “I don’t know.” Bucky’s hand ran through his hair, restless. “It’s a lot.”

“Yeah,” Clint agreed. “Too much, too fast.”

Bucky glanced at Steve. “You’re sure it was him?”

Steve nodded. “I’d stake everything on it.”

Silence hung between them.

Then Clint reached out—light, not forcing—and rested a warm hand on Bucky’s forearm.

“Doesn’t change who you are,” he said quietly. “You’re you. No matter how many shadows out there look like you.”

Bucky swallowed hard, jaw flexing—but didn’t pull away.

---

Later That Night

Jace came by within the hour—portal shimmering open in the corner of the room.

His sharp gaze flicked from Clint to Bucky to Steve. “I heard,” he said simply.

Steve explained what they’d seen. What they wanted.

Jace considered. “I can try,” he said. “But tracking someone like that—if they’ve been warded, or trained to hide—it won’t be easy.”

Steve’s shoulders sagged a little. “Anything’s better than nothing.”

Jace nodded. “I’ll start tonight. But it may take a few days.”

Clint watched the exchange, then glanced at Bucky again.

Bucky met his eyes for a moment—uncertain, but something softer underneath.

When Jace left and the compound quieted, Clint and Bucky lingered in the lounge.

Neither quite wanted to turn in.

Finally, Clint broke the silence. “You wanna stay down here tonight?”

Bucky hesitated—then nodded. “Yeah. Don’t feel like being alone right now.”

Clint smiled faintly. “Good. ‘Cause I don’t feel like letting you be alone.”

He tugged the blanket loose again, motioned Bucky closer.

And this time, when Bucky settled beside him, head eventually resting lightly on Clint’s shoulder—he didn’t flinch. Didn’t stiffen.

He just sighed, deep and shaky, and let himself be held.

Clint rested his cheek against Bucky’s hair, heart aching a little.

I’ve got you, he thought. Whatever happens next—we’ve got you.

---

Chapter Text

Chapter Eleven

No Hesitation

---

It was late again.

The kind of late where the lights had gone dim in the compound, the others tucked away in their rooms or out on missions.

Clint hadn’t pushed Bucky to talk—hadn’t pushed him toward anything really. He’d just… been there.

And Bucky had noticed.

Now, they sat on the couch in the lounge again—two mugs of tea cooling between them, blanket draped haphazardly across their legs.

The TV was on, low, playing some old movie neither of them were really watching.

Bucky glanced over—caught Clint watching him quietly.

After a long pause, Bucky let out a slow breath.

“You scared?” he asked softly.

Clint tilted his head. “About what?”

Bucky shrugged one shoulder, eyes flicking away. “Me. The fact there’s another me out there. That I don’t know what… I might’ve done. Or what he might do.”

There was no bitterness in his voice, just a raw kind of worry.

Clint didn’t answer right away. He reached for his mug, took a sip, then set it back down carefully.

Then he looked straight at Bucky.

“I’m not scared of you,” Clint said, voice steady. “Not even a little.”

Bucky blinked, throat working.

“I know who you are,” Clint went on. “Who you’re choosing to be. That’s what matters.”

He let the words hang for a beat—then leaned back a little against the couch, stretching his arm across the back of it.

Bucky sat frozen for a moment—thinking, processing—then something in him seemed to soften.

No hesitation this time.

He shifted closer—shoulder brushing Clint’s, then staying there.

And slowly, deliberately, he leaned in—head resting lightly against Clint’s chest, the sound of Clint’s heartbeat grounding him.

Clint didn’t move, didn’t startle. Just brought his arm down, resting it around Bucky’s shoulders like it had been meant to be there all along.

“You okay?” Clint murmured after a minute.

Bucky’s voice came muffled against him. “Yeah. Just—don’t wanna think about it right now. Just wanna be… here.”

Clint smiled faintly, hand rubbing slow circles against Bucky’s back. “Then be here. You’ve got me.”

Bucky closed his eyes, exhaling a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

Safe. Warm. Not alone.

And for the first time in days—maybe longer—he let himself really rest in it.

No hesitation. No fear.

Just trust.

..

The Shape of New Days

The next few days passed quietly, if carefully.

Jace was still working—tracking spells cast, slowly pulling at tangled threads—but Clint wasn’t going to hover. Not when Bucky needed something solid to lean on.

And Clint was damn good at that.

They trained most mornings—nothing too hard, just enough to shake off tension.

Today, Clint had them sparring in the mat room—barefoot, light and quick. No heavy hits, just learning the flow.

“You’ve gotta move with it, not against it,” Clint said, grinning as he dodged a clumsy jab.

Bucky huffed, swiping sweat from his brow. “I’m trying, smartass.”

“That’s your first mistake,” Clint teased, stepping in and gently knocking Bucky’s wrist aside. “Don’t try. Just feel it.”

Bucky shot him a glare—half real, half laughing—and tried again.

Ten minutes later, they were both breathless on the floor, backs against the mat wall.

Clint nudged Bucky’s knee with his own. “You’re getting better.”

Bucky looked at him sideways, a little crooked smile tugging at his mouth. “You’re not bad yourself, Barton.”

Clint tipped an imaginary hat. “Praise from the great Sergeant Barnes? I’ll take it.”

Bucky shook his head, but there was warmth in his eyes now. No haunted shadows, not in this moment.

Later, after showers and quiet dinner with Steve and Sam (where Steve looked visibly relieved that Bucky was there, eating and smiling, more present than he’d been in weeks), Clint found him again in the lounge.

The couch was their usual place now.

Clint dropped down beside him with a casual, “So. What’re we reading tonight?”

Bucky glanced over—then pulled a worn paperback from the blanket pile. “Started this one.”

Clint leaned to peek. “‘The Martian Chronicles.’ Solid choice.”

“You read it?”

Clint grinned. “Course I have. We had a little book club going once with the team. Tony called it a ‘required upgrade to cultural literacy.’”

Bucky snorted. “Tony Stark and literature. Now that’s a headline.”

They settled in—shoulders pressed close, easy now, no hesitation.

Bucky flipped the book open. “I like this one. It’s about leaving behind the old world and trying to build something new. Even if it’s hard.”

Clint’s voice was quiet. “Yeah. I think you get that better than most.”

Bucky glanced at him—eyes soft, thoughtful. “Maybe. Still figuring it out.”

“You’re doing fine,” Clint said gently, leaning just a little closer, warmth solid and steady at Bucky’s side.

And Bucky—without thinking—rested his head lightly against Clint’s shoulder again, the motion natural now, wanted.

Clint smiled faintly to himself, tilting his head so his cheek brushed against soft brown hair.

They read like that for a long while—pages turning slow, the quiet hum of the compound around them.

No rush. No fear.

Just the shape of new days, unfolding one soft breath at a time.

..

Through the Veil

They met late that night in one of the secondary briefing rooms — quiet, low-lit, the hum of protective wards in the walls.

Jace stood at the center of the room, sleeves rolled back, pale markings shimmering faintly along his forearms. The air smelled faintly of ozone and old paper.

Steve was already pacing.

“I still don’t like this,” Steve said, glancing sharply at Jace. “If the Winter Soldier is really here, and unstable—”

“Then I’ll keep him from gutting anyone,” Jace replied calmly. “And Clint will pin him before he gets anywhere near me.”

Clint, leaning casually against the wall, waggled his fingers. A pen floated lazily in the air, twirling.

“Got it covered, Cap,” he said.

Bucky — his Bucky — looked between them with wide eyes. “You’re… comfortable with this?”

Clint gave him a crooked smile. “Comfortable? No. Prepared? Yeah.”

He pushed off the wall and came over, nudging Bucky’s arm with a gentle shoulder bump.

“Besides,” Clint added, voice dropping warm and low, “you know I won’t let anything happen to you. Not now.”

Bucky swallowed, eyes softening. No hesitation—he leaned just a little closer.

“I trust you,” he said simply.

Jace glanced over his shoulder, mouth twitching faintly at the scene. “Good. You’ll need that.”

He flicked his wrist—the markings along his arms flaring—and a portal shimmered to life in the air before them, swirling faintly silver and blue.

Steve frowned, jaw tight. “If anything happens—”

“I’ll bring them back,” Jace promised. “And I’d rather have them where I can see them than sneaking in after me.”

He looked at Bucky specifically. “Besides, if your other self panics, having someone familiar there might help.”

Bucky blinked. “You think… I’d listen to myself?”

“Stranger things have happened,” Jace said dryly.

Clint snorted. “Come on, Buck. Worst case? He tries to stab you. You’re half walking tank now, remember?”

Bucky flushed faintly. “Yeah, real comforting.”

Clint reached out — fingers brushing his wrist, reassuring. “I’ll be right next to you.”

And that was all it took. Bucky drew a breath and squared his shoulders.

“Alright. Let’s go.”

The three of them stepped through together — light flaring, the room vanishing in a rush of cold air and magic.

On the other side, they landed in a dim warehouse, shadows flickering along rusted beams.

The air was tense.

And somewhere in the distance — a faint metallic scrape.

Clint’s hand ghosted near Bucky’s back, protective. Jace’s eyes burned silver as he scanned the space.

“This is the place,” Jace murmured. “Be ready.”

Clint just smiled faintly, voice a low murmur for Bucky alone:

“Stay close, Buck. I’ve got you.”

And Bucky—fingers brushing Clint’s sleeve—nodded.

No hesitation.

--

Buckymagnet

Brooklyn was quieter today—gray clouds overhead, breeze curling through narrow streets.

Jace and 1940s Bucky were sweeping a section of old warehouses down by the docks—magic humming faintly at Jace’s fingertips.

But Clint had peeled off, at Jace’s suggestion.

“Sometimes the simplest signal pulls the strongest,” Jace had said. “You’re familiar to him. Let him see you.”

So Clint was walking the blocks between Red Hook and Carroll Gardens—hood up, casual, just another guy in jeans and boots.

Except he knew he wasn’t just another guy today.

The other Bucky—Winter Soldier—was somewhere out here.

He’d felt the eyes first.

Familiar, sharp weight between his shoulder blades.

Then the faint scrape of boots behind him, purposeful.

And Clint didn’t turn, didn’t tense—just wandered a little further, stopped outside an old storefront, pretending to check his phone.

The presence moved closer.

Then, clear as day—low, cool voice behind him:

“Why are you looking for me?”

Clint turned slowly—calm, steady—only to find a tall figure standing bare feet away.

Long hair pulled back messily, shadows under pale blue eyes.

Metal arm glinting faintly beneath the sleeve of a battered jacket.

Bucky.
The other Bucky.

And goddamn if he wasn’t just as unfairly pretty as the one Clint already had trailing after him.

Clint lifted an eyebrow, keeping his voice easy. “Not sure I am anymore. Looks like you found me.”

Those piercing eyes narrowed faintly. “You were with him. The other one. You’re not SHIELD.”

“Nope.” Clint shifted his weight, casual. “But I do know some people who’d like to help you. And not in the ‘stick you in a lab’ kinda way.”

The soldier studied him—head tilting, gaze flicking over Clint’s face, down to his chest, back up. Calculating. Curious.

And Clint realized—beneath the tension, beneath the hard lines—this guy was drawn to him too.

Maybe it was the steadiness. The calm. The fact Clint didn’t flinch or back off.

Whatever it was—Winter Soldier took a half step closer, voice a notch softer:

“Why you?”

Clint exhaled slow. “Guess I’ve got one of those faces.”

The soldier blinked—like that wasn’t quite the answer he expected.

For a long moment, they just stood there—two feet apart, wind curling between them.

And Clint, ever so slightly, opened his stance. Not threatening. Not afraid.

“Name’s Clint,” he said quietly. “You don’t have to run. I promise.”

Another beat. Then—faintest flicker of something almost uncertain in those icy eyes.

“…James,” came the murmured reply.

And Clint’s heart thudded once—yep, there it is. Magnet confirmed.

Two Buckys. One archer.

This was going to get real interesting.

---

Two Buckys, One Archer

Later—long after—Clint would think back on this moment and know there wasn’t a damn thing that would ever quite top it on the what the actual hell scale of his life.

Not fighting aliens.
Not portals or wizards or even that one time they accidentally unleashed demon chickens in the compound gym.

This.
This right here.

The two Buckys staring at each other in the middle of a half-forgotten Brooklyn side street while he stood between them, heart in his throat.

It had happened fast.

One moment Clint had been standing there with 2014 Bucky—James, as he’d finally called himself—talking soft, coaxing him toward trust.

Then a shimmer in the air—portal snap—and Jace came through at a run, 1940s Bucky right on his heels, eyes wide and already defensive.

The portal closed with a hiss—leaving them in sudden quiet, wind threading cold between the buildings.

And now—
The two men faced each other, mirror reflections but fractured across time and trauma.

2014 Bucky stilled—tension rippling down his frame.

And Forties Bucky—James—his whole body went rigid, face darkening.

Without hesitation, he stepped right in front of Clint, metal-sheened arm out slightly, blocking.

“Stay back,” he said low and rough, eyes locked on his future self. “I heard what they called you.”

“Winter Soldier.”

The words hung there, heavy.

2014 Bucky’s gaze flicked to him, something sharp flickering behind the cool front.

“I didn’t choose that,” he said, voice a raw scrape of guilt and warning.

“And I’m not gonna let you near him,” 1940s Bucky bit out.

Clint swallowed, staying very still, very steady—hands relaxed at his sides.

“Easy, Buck,” he said quietly to the man in front of him. “You don’t need to shield me.”

Forties Bucky didn’t move, didn’t blink. “You don’t know what he’s done.”

“I know he’s standing here,” Clint said gently. “And not running.”

That seemed to land—just enough.

2014 Bucky—James—hadn’t moved a muscle. His face stayed impassive, but his eyes…

They weren’t cold. They were tired. Haunted. Maybe a little—curious.

off to the side, Jace watched with sharp eyes but kept his voice calm.

“We can talk,” Jace said. “But only if everyone breathes.”

“Breathin’s a little hard right now,” Clint muttered under his breath—but he caught 2014 Bucky’s gaze again.

“James,” he said, voice low but steady. “No one here’s gonna hurt you.”

A long pause. Then—barely audible—

“…You remembered my name.”

Clint’s heart gave a faint stutter.

“Of course I did.”

Another beat—then 2014 Bucky finally eased, just a fraction, eyes flicking once toward his younger self.

“I’m not your enemy,” he said.

Forties Bucky’s jaw clenched—but his arm dropped an inch. Not fully. Not yet.

And Clint exhaled slow—already knowing:

This moment—this whole ridiculous impossible moment—was burned into his memory for good.

Two Buckys.
Both drawn to him.
Both standing here because somehow—he’d earned their trust.

He was going to need a drink after this.

---

One Archer, Two Soldiers

It took another minute—maybe more—before the air started to shift.

Jace, ever the sharp-eyed observer, murmured a ward low under his breath—a shimmer in the air that settled around them, subtle but steady.

Forties Bucky’s arm finally lowered fully—but he stayed close to Clint, still a faint line of tension in his shoulders.

Across from him, 2014 Bucky didn’t move forward—but didn’t leave. His gaze kept flicking to Clint, something wary and worn and searching in it.

Clint let out a breath slow, hands still easy at his sides.

“Okay,” he said, voice pitched low and even. “No one’s shooting. No one’s stabbing. We’re good so far.”

Jace gave a faint nod—eyes briefly catching Clint’s, an unspoken You’re handling this well.

The younger Bucky—his Bucky, the one from the war—shifted beside him. “You trust him?” he asked Clint quietly, jerking his chin toward the soldier across from them.

Clint didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he looked across at the other Bucky—met that tired gaze square.

“I trust that if he wanted me dead,” Clint said calmly, “he’d have done it already.”

Another beat—then, to the surprise of everyone present, 2014 Bucky gave the faintest ghost of a smile.

“Smart,” he murmured.

Forties Bucky still looked conflicted—but his grip on Clint’s arm eased. Just a little.

---

Later—back at the compound.

They’d gotten him there carefully—no alarms, no sudden movements.

❤️Ash

Jace had portal’d them back after confirming the soldier was willing to come. Steve and Sam were waiting—Steve wide-eyed, pale as he looked between his Bucky and this worn, haunted version of him.

And Clint—Clint kept right by his side.

Through the initial awkward questions.
Through the war council in the background.
Through Steve trying and failing to hide how shaken he was.

Eventually, Jace gently herded Steve and Sam out.

And Clint, after giving 2014 Bucky some water, settled on the arm of the couch beside him.

Quiet filled the space.

For a long time, they didn’t speak.

Finally—soft, rough: “I remember your face.”

Clint blinked—looked over. “Yeah?”

2014 Bucky didn’t quite meet his eyes.

“You were on the street the other day. But... I think before that.”

Clint tilted his head. “Before?”

“In a file. They showed me files. Faces. Names. Targets.”

A beat.

Clint’s pulse jumped—but he kept his voice even. “Was I one of them?”

“…No,” Bucky said finally. “You were marked as safe.”

And Clint exhaled slow, heart thudding.

“Well. That’s something.”

The soldier looked up then—finally meeting Clint’s gaze fully.

“I don’t understand why I trust you,” he said quietly. “But I do.”

Clint smiled faintly. “I’ve got one of those faces.”

A breath of almost-a-laugh escaped 2014 Bucky.

---

Meanwhile, in another part of the compound—

Jace leaned on a balcony rail, watching the lights of the city below.

Forties Bucky stood beside him, arms folded, still a faint edge to his stance.

“I don’t like it,” he muttered. “Seeing... him.”

Jace looked at him sidelong. “You fear what he became?”

A pause. Then—very quietly: “I fear what I could become.”

Jace let that settle, then said softly, “You’re not him.”

Another beat.

Then—almost too quiet to catch:

“I don’t like how much I... want to stay close to Clint.”

Jace’s mouth twitched. “You think you’re alone in that?”

Forties Bucky frowned—then glanced toward the common room where Clint and the other soldier sat, soft voices drifting faintly.

“…Great,” he muttered. “Now there’s two of us.”

---

Later still—couch lights low, compound quiet.

Clint leaned back, arm half-draped behind the 2014 Bucky without thinking about it.

The soldier didn’t move away.

Didn’t quite lean in—but there was the faintest inch of shift closer.

Clint caught it—heart squeezing once, warm.

“You hungry?” he asked softly.

A faint nod.

“I’ll make us something.”

And when Clint got up, heading toward the kitchen, both Buckys—one in the common room, one watching from the shadows—tracked him with identical soft, wanting gazes.

Jace, passing through, caught both looks—lifted an eyebrow to himself.

“Oh dear,” he murmured. “He’s definitely a Buckymagnet.”

And smiled.

.....

Yasha and the Puppy Eyes

The quiet after dinner didn’t last long.

They were still sprawled in the common room—Jace perched nearby with a thin book, 1940s Bucky sitting curled into a chair with a blanket around his shoulders, and Clint on the couch beside 2014 Bucky, who seemed… not exactly relaxed, but no longer on edge.

Clint was about to suggest putting on a movie when the door slid open with a faint shhhk.

“Got a room full of trouble in here, or can I come in?”

Natasha Romanoff—poised as always, expression unreadable, but her eyes softening the moment they landed on him.

James. The winter soldier.

“Yasha.”

The sound of it—soft, familiar—made the man stiffen beside Clint, breath catching faintly.

“Natasha?” His voice was low, rough, unsure.

“Yeah.” She came in, slow, unthreatening, eyes flicking briefly to Jace in silent greeting. Then to Clint. And finally—back to James.

Steve—half-standing from where he’d been perched on the arm of Sam’s chair—started doing what Clint would forever call the ping-pong head swivel.

Eyes to his Bucky, face soft with guilt and longing—then jerking toward James, wide with heartbreak and wonder.

Back and forth. Again and again.

Clint would have laughed if it wasn’t—God—so damned painful to watch.

The big guy looked like he was about three seconds from either hugging everyone or bursting into tears.

Sam nudged him once with a foot. “Stevie. You’re gonna give yourself whiplash.”

Steve blinked, rubbed a hand over his face—but couldn’t stop. His eyes kept darting.

Clint caught the look, caught the flicker of guilt as Steve’s gaze landed—yet again—on James, full puppy-dog eyes in full force.

Poor bastard.

1940s Bucky noticed too—saw that crumpled expression on his best friend’s face and looked away, face shuttering slightly.

And Clint’s heart ached.

He slid a hand subtly along the couch between himself and James, palm up—not touching, not pushing. Just... there.

An offer.

A second later, to his quiet surprise, cool fingers brushed his—light, tentative.

James didn’t look at him. But he didn’t pull away.

Clint exhaled softly, keeping still.

Natasha, meanwhile, crouched by the couch—close enough for James to see her clearly.

“I wondered if you’d remember that name,” she said gently.

He nodded once—jerky. “I do.”

She gave a small smile. “Good. We’ll work on the rest.”

Across the room, Steve looked about five seconds from blurting I’m so sorry I couldn’t find you at either of them.

Clint caught Jace’s eye and mouthed, help him, nodding toward Steve.

The warlock sighed but rose gracefully, moving to intercept Steve with a hand on his shoulder.

“Come,” Jace said low. “Give them space for now.”

Steve looked ready to protest—but Sam caught his other arm and tugged him out gently, murmuring, “You’re no good to either of them if you fall apart, man.”

And Clint… finally breathed again.

He looked down. James' fingers were still against his.

Not tight. Not demanding. Just… there.

Clint shifted slightly, letting his thumb brush over the edge of the other man’s knuckles.

“You’re doin’ good,” he said softly, voice meant for Bucky alone.

A faint breath of a smile ghosted across James's face—gone before it fully formed.

“I’m trying.”

“Yeah. You are.”

Behind them, 1940s Bucky watched—eyes sharp and unreadable.

But not angry.

Not anymore.

And for the first time since this whole madness began, Clint let himself think:

We might actually make this work.

---

....later

Names and Threads

The common room felt quieter after Steve had been herded out — a tension broken, if not fully dissolved.

James — and Clint had already decided that’s what he’d call him — seemed more grounded with Natasha nearby. Still pale, still too thin, but no longer looking like he might bolt at the slightest move.

Across the room, Bucky — the younger, softer version Clint had been training for weeks — sat curled in his chair, watching carefully. Protective, wary still.

But curious too.

Natasha kept her crouch beside James a moment longer, fingers light against his wrist. She murmured something in Russian, too soft for Clint to catch — James answered with a faint shake of his head.

“I’ll check in later,” Natasha said, rising smoothly. Her gaze flicked to Clint — the faintest nod of approval. Good.

And then she was gone.

Leaving the three of them in the room.

James exhaled slowly, shoulders sagging back against the couch.

Clint glanced sideways, voice pitched casual: “You good with me calling you James?”

A beat.

Then, quieter than before: “I think… I’d like that.”

Clint smiled, easy. “Good. Less complicated that way.”

Bucky from the chair snorted faintly. “Complicated’s already here, pal.”

Clint grinned. “Yeah, but I figure not adding to it helps.”

James — God, he looked so tired — gave a faint nod. Then, after a pause: “You could have… told me to leave. You didn’t.”

Clint looked at him square. “Wasn’t gonna.”

“Why?”

And that — that was the heart of it, wasn’t it?

Clint shifted, resting an elbow on the back of the couch, body angled toward him.

“Because I don’t leave people behind,” he said quietly. “And you looked like hell. Like someone who needed a place to stop running.”

James swallowed, throat working.

Bucky spoke — voice softer now. “You’re still one of us. However you got here.”

The look James shot him was unreadable — but not hostile.

Almost… grateful.

Clint stretched his legs out, deliberately casual. “Anyway, you’ve got two guys named Barnes here now. Figure I better start a book club or I’ll lose my damn mind.”

That — finally — drew a faint flicker of a smile from James.

“You read?”

Clint grinned wide. “Buddy, you have no idea.”

He caught Bucky’s eye across the room — saw the flicker of warmth there.

“Yeah,” Clint went on. “Me and this guy—” nodding at Bucky— “we got a thing going. Cozy nights. Books. Some movies. You’re welcome to join.”

James hesitated. Then, voice quieter still: “I’d… like that.”

“Good.” Clint bumped his shoulder lightly, friendly. “Start thinking about your favorites.”

Bucky — still curled in his chair — watched that touch, that easy lean — and didn’t bristle this time.

Instead, he just smiled faintly to himself and murmured, “Told you he’s a soft touch.”

And Clint’s heart — hell, it was already too full — squeezed once more.

Words, Pages, and Snacks

It started earlier that afternoon.

Jace arrived after one of his usual quiet, flickering portals—no fanfare, just a shimmer of light and soft steps into the common room.

James, curled in one corner of the big couch, straightened instinctively at the sight of him—shoulders tight, eyes wary.

Clint, catching that flicker, rose from the other end of the couch. “Hey. It’s okay—Jace is a friend. You’re safe.”

Jace gave a faint smile—warm, careful. Not stepping too close.

“I wanted to offer,” he said gently. “If there are… remnants of the conditioning in your mind—phrases, barriers, blocks—” his eyes flicked to Clint briefly, then back to James— “I can help remove them. Gently.”

James was very still for a moment.

Then, softly—barely more than a whisper: “You… can?”

Jace nodded once. “Not all at once, not by force. But yes. We can ease them out. You deserve that.”

Clint’s heart pinched. He watched as James’ fingers flexed faintly against the fabric of his jeans—grappling with hope and fear in equal measure.

Finally, voice rough but sure: “Please. I’d… like that.”

Jace smiled—genuine now. “We’ll start slow.”

---

That night, the plan had been simple: book night. Low-key, no pressure.

James had hesitated at first when Clint invited him—still uncertain of his place, of whether he belonged in these small, human rituals.

But the draw of it—safe people, soft voices, books—was too strong to resist.

So he came.

Jace arrived first, settling on the wide armchair with a sleek, well-worn book in his lap.

Bucky—forties Bucky, as Clint still called him in his head—curled into his usual corner of the couch, blanket half around him, a stack of books nearby.

James took the other end of the couch, still a little stiff, but visibly trying.

And Clint? Clint flitted in and out, prepping snacks in the kitchen, humming under his breath.

“I’ll grab drinks,” he called. “You lot get comfy.”

When he came back—hands full of popcorn, mugs of tea, a few sodas balanced precariously—he stopped short in the doorway.

Because—of course—the Buckys were talking.

And laughing.

Soft, low, tentative—like neither could quite believe it was happening.

“…you’re serious?” James was saying, eyes wide with faint incredulity.

Bucky smirked. “Swear on it. The first time Clint tried to spar with me after the cocoon mess, he threw a punch, and half the damn gym floor shook.”

James blinked—then, to Clint’s surprise, chuckled. “Guess I’ve got something to look forward to.”

Clint stood there for a beat longer—unsure if he should be glad they were getting along or deeply worried about what trouble two Barnes boys might cook up if left to their own devices.

Finally, shaking his head fondly, he crossed the room and set the snacks down.

“Well,” he drawled. “Should I be worried, or are you two gonna behave yourselves tonight?”

Two sets of blue eyes flicked up—one amused, the other faintly sheepish.

Bucky shrugged. “No promises.”

James—fingers brushing a book beside him now—murmured, “I’ll try.”

And something about the softness in his voice made Clint’s chest ache.

“Good enough for me,” he said gently.

Then he dropped down onto the couch—just a little closer than necessary to James—grinning as Jace rolled his eyes and opened his book.

“Alright, team,” Clint said, voice warm. “Page one. Let’s go.”

Sorry still doing some minor editing.

Chapter Text

---

Book night had ended hours ago.

Jace had portaled out with a nod to them all—assuring James they’d begin work tomorrow. No rush, no force. Just enough time to let him settle first.

Bucky—forties Bucky—had yawned and retreated to his own quarters soon after, mumbling something about needing rest before training tomorrow.

But Clint hadn’t quite managed to pull himself away.

And neither had James.

Now, hours later, they sat side by side on the couch—two mugs of cooling tea between them, the last lamp on in the room casting everything in warm gold and shadow.

James looked more relaxed than Clint had ever seen him. Shoulders loose, legs curled beneath him, an old knit blanket tossed over one knee. His hair, longer than it had been a few days ago, framed his face in soft waves.

Clint sipped from his mug and nudged lightly. “You good?”

James hesitated—then nodded. “More than I thought I’d be.”

Clint smiled, quiet and genuine. “That’s the idea.”

A pause—then James’ voice, quieter still: “I keep waiting for it to… turn. For someone to tell me I can’t stay. That I’m too dangerous.”

Clint set his mug down and turned toward him.

“No one’s kicking you out,” he said firmly. “Not while I’m here. You hear me?”

James blinked—then gave a faint smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“I hear you.”

And without thinking, Clint reached over—just a light brush of fingers against James’ wrist. A small anchor.

James flinched—but only slightly—then let out a breath and turned his hand, letting Clint’s fingers settle warm against his pulse.

It felt like the smallest victory in the world.

---

The next morning, Jace returned—quiet, steady, no show of power.

James sat cross-legged on one of the mats in the training room, eyes closed, breath slow.

Clint leaned nearby against the wall, arms folded—watchful but not hovering.

Jace knelt before James, voice soft.

“We’ll start with the lightest things first. The words they used. I won’t touch deeper until you say I can.”

James nodded once.

And when the spell began—just faint silver light, barely there—Clint watched the lines of tension ease from James’ face bit by bit.

No pain. No panic. Just release.

Later, when they finished, James sagged slightly, eyes fluttering open.

“…it’s quieter,” he whispered.

Jace smiled faintly. “Good. We’ll go slow.”

---

At dinner that night—Steve’s idea, and a damn good one—they all gathered in the common kitchen.

Natasha arrived late, a ghost of a smile playing at her lips.

She made her way straight to James—setting a warm hand on his shoulder.

“You’re still here,” she said softly, not a question.

James looked up at her. “I am.”

Nat smiled—small, sharp, but genuine. “Good.”

Clint caught the exchange and filed it away—another little thread of trust being woven.

---

Later, after the others had drifted off, Clint found himself back on the couch—James half-draped beside him now, not quite touching but close enough that Clint could feel the warmth of him.

They flipped through a new stack of books, James reading titles with careful curiosity.

“Good Omens was fun,” James said quietly. “This one—” he tapped a copy of The Long Way to a Small, Angry Planet— “looks good too.”

Clint grinned. “You’ve got good taste, Barnes.”

From across the room, Bucky—forties Bucky, ever watchful—snorted as he passed by.

“Of course he does,” he called. “He likes you.”

Clint damn near choked on his tea.

James flushed a faint pink, eyes darting away—though he didn’t move.

Clint recovered, voice a little rougher than intended.

“Can’t fault a man for that,” he said softly.

And this time—this time—James looked back and held his gaze, steady and sure.

“No,” he agreed quietly. “You can’t.”

---

Later

That night, book club drifted into movie night, then into half-napping pile-of-blankets-on-the-sofa night. Clint’s head ended up resting on Bucky’s shoulder. James ended up on the other side of Clint, their legs pressed together, warmth shared silently.

No one moved.

No one wanted to.

---

Two Buckys, One Clint, and the Comfort of Belonging

---

The morning at the compound started slow. Golden sunlight filtered through the windows, warming the hardwood floors. Clint sat on the edge of the training mat, stretching out a sore shoulder, watching the two Buckys spar.

Or, more accurately: watching them size each other up with the full intensity of soldiers who weren’t quite sure they weren’t looking in a mirror that might punch back.

“Okay,” Clint said, holding up a hand and grinning, “I’m giving it five more minutes before one of you throws the other through a wall.”

“Your bet's safe with me,” Bucky—the 1940s one—called, wiping sweat off his brow with a towel. “This guy moves like a ghost. Like he’s got the Devil on his tail.”

James, silent as always, just looked at him, then at Clint. “He talks a lot.”

“Yeah, welcome to the future,” Clint said with a smirk. “People have opinions, Bucky Barnes. You just learned to deal with them.”

James gave him a look that might’ve passed for a smirk. It was small, barely-there—but Clint caught it.

Progress.

They cooled off in silence, sitting on the edge of the mat, water bottles in hand. Clint leaned back on his palms, letting the warmth soak into his skin, while the Buckys—James sitting tense and watchful, 1940s Bucky leaning back and watching the ceiling like it might solve his problems—took up space beside him.

“You ever think about starting a team?” Clint said lightly. “Barnes & Barnes. We’ll get matching jackets.”

“I would wear a jacket like that,” 1940s Bucky said.

“Of course you would,” Clint muttered. “You have no shame.”

“I wore uniforms for most of my adult life,” he replied. “I deserve some flair.”

James huffed. A sound that might have been a laugh.

They lapsed into a companionable silence. One of those rare kinds that didn’t itch or stretch awkward. It simply… existed. Like they were learning how to breathe in the same rhythm.

Clint liked it. Maybe too much.

---

That evening, after sparring gave way to lounging around, they pulled together an informal book club: scattered blankets, soft lighting, and well-loved paperbacks. Jace even showed up for a while to lounge sideways in a chair and debate worldbuilding until Bucky threw a pillow at him.

James listened more than he spoke, but his gaze followed everything. Clint kept catching him watching the way Bucky grinned, or how Jace spoke with his hands, or the way Clint himself rolled his eyes when the plot got too dramatic.

Later, Clint left the room for snacks and returned to find James and 1940s Bucky deep in a quiet conversation—something about The Left Hand of Darkness, which Bucky had just finished.

James glanced up, saw Clint, and didn’t look away.

Something about that made Clint feel weirdly… shy.

He shook it off and tossed a bag of popcorn at the two of them. “Alright, Barneses. Book club snack break.”

---

That night, curled on the couch with a blanket tucked under his chin, Bucky—his Bucky—rested beside Clint like it was natural now. James sat on the floor in front of them, his back against the couch, close enough to feel their warmth but not quite part of the weight pressing down.

Clint reached down without thinking and carded his fingers gently through James’ hair.

James didn’t flinch.

Bucky leaned his shoulder into Clint’s and exhaled.

The quiet in the room was thick, safe, and steady.

Maybe—just maybe—this was what belonging felt like.

---

Okay so let me clarify yes I know Clint is very good at hand to hand in the MCu universe I'm not saying he's bad I'm saying that in taking on a new powers and teaching a 1940s style Bucky to learn newer martial arts or mixed martial arts he's flagging a little. Because he's adjusting to having the abilities and he's also tired.. and James AKA Winter Soldier has already trained the black widows and a lot of others so it never hurts.

Sparring, Strength, and the Art of Getting Closer

---

James liked to move quietly. He didn’t prowl, exactly—but he was the kind of man who could be in a room and still make you forget he was there until it was far too late. Clint had seen cats like that. Shadow-walkers.

He was a ghost in the training room until he wasn’t.

“You’re both sloppy,” he said one morning without preamble, tossing a duffel onto the bench and pulling off his jacket. His long sleeves rolled up to reveal the gleam of metal and faint scars that told stories Clint wasn’t ready to hear yet.

Bucky—forties Bucky—arched a brow. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” James said, voice flat. “You’re strong. But your stance is still too open. You lead with your shoulder too much. Makes you readable.”

Clint gave a long-suffering groan from where he sat cross-legged on the mat, sipping his third coffee of the morning. “Don’t start, man. I’ve been trying to beat that habit out of him for weeks.”

“You and everyone else,” James replied. “He fights like… like Steve used to. Before Natasha got to him.”

That earned a sharp bark of laughter from Clint. “God, it’s so true. Steve used to brawl like the floor owed him money.”

“Hey!” Bucky glared, crossing his arms. “You try getting into fights in alleyways at sixteen with a hundred-pound kid you’ve gotta pull off the pavement.”

“I did,” James said evenly. “I just didn’t lead with my chin.”

---

The sparring session that followed was, to put it mildly, a lesson.

James was fast. Ridiculously fast. He didn’t dance like Natasha or stalk like Clint—he flowed. His attacks were efficient, sharp-edged, merciless. But he never struck harder than he had to. He was testing, measuring.

“Hydra trained me on Inhumans,” he said between moves, throwing Clint across the mat with a shoulder-check that felt like hitting a truck. “Baseline strength is higher. Pain tolerance, too.”

“Good to know,” Clint groaned, rolling over and spitting his gumshield onto the floor. “Next time, let’s just do yoga.”

James smirked—barely. “No fun in that.”

---

When he turned to Bucky, though, something shifted. He didn’t ease up. If anything, he pressed harder. But there was something careful in the way he moved. Observant. Measuring the space between them with quiet intensity.

1940s Bucky threw himself into it. Still not as smooth as Clint, but getting there. There was determination in every step. And pride.

James saw it too. Between moves, he muttered low so only Clint could hear, “He’s better than I was. At that age. He’s just got to trust himself.”

“You proud?” Clint asked.

James glanced sideways, lips twitching. “Little bit.”

---

Eventually, they collapsed in a heap on the mats, breathing hard, water bottles scattered around them like survivors of a warzone.

Clint flopped onto his back and stared at the ceiling. “So… what I’m hearing is that you like Full Metal Bucky.”

James gave a slow shrug, looking at the gleam of 1940s Bucky’s shifting armor. “Not bad. Hydra would’ve killed for tech like that. They tried. Alien DNA didn’t give them finesse.”

“Wait, is that a compliment?” 1940s Bucky asked, grinning.

“Might be.”

“Wow,” Clint said, raising an eyebrow. “You sure know how to sweet talk a guy.”

“Shut up, Barton.”

---

Later that night, curled up with tea and soft lighting, the aches from the training session still humming in their bones, Clint stretched out on the couch while both Buckys lounged nearby. The dynamic was still weird, still delicate—but it was growing roots.

“You really think I’m getting better?” 1940s Bucky asked quietly, thumbing through the dog-eared pages of their latest book.

James looked up from his spot on the floor, where he sat cross-legged with his arms resting on the edge of the coffee table. “Yeah,” he said simply. “You are.”

Bucky smiled. Not smug. Just… warm. Honest.

Clint felt it like a soft press to the ribs—these boys were falling into something. A rhythm. A unit. And maybe, just maybe, a beginning.

---

A Teleport, a Merc, and One Very Specific Memory

The evening had settled like a blanket over the compound—warm lamplight, quiet laughter from the kitchen, and the low hum of a record Clint had found tucked behind a stack of mission files. Something mellow. Something nostalgic.

James sat curled in the corner of the couch, legs drawn up, watching 1940s Bucky flip pages with his usual intense concentration. Clint, meanwhile, stretched on the floor with a pillow under his back and a bag of gummy bears he refused to share.

All in all, a quiet night.

Until—

POP.

“Yoohoo!”

Wade Wilson materialized with a bamf and a dramatic bow, arms wide and grinning like a feral cat with a Netflix subscription.

James nearly jumped clean off the couch.

His eyes flared silver-blue and his hand went halfway to the pistol that wasn’t there before realization caught up with reflex.

Clint rolled onto his stomach, groaning. “Dude, how is your entrance always worse after we get used to you?”

Wade beamed. “Because I missed you, cupcake. Also, my teleporter works again. Thanks, Tony. You beautiful bastard.”

He dropped bonelessly into the armchair like a marionette someone had cut the strings on. Not full Deadpool-mode, not the cartoonish chaos bomb—but still Wade. cocky, and charmingly inappropriate.

James, from his corner, stared.

Head tilted. Eyes narrowed.

“You…” he started, slowly. “I know you.”

Wade glanced over, paused, and blinked. Then smirked. “Yeah. Berlin. Thirteen years ago. Hydra hit. Rogue lab.”

Clint blinked, suddenly upright. “Wait, you two—?”

“Don’t make it weird, Barton,” Wade said cheerfully. “It was a shared ops zone. I was hitting a side cell. He was Winter Soldier-ing. I didn’t get shot, so... friendship?”

James let out a faint, startled sound. “Bob. Hydra Bob.”

Wade clapped his hands. “There it is! Yes! Thank you. That moron kept giving me Hydra gossip. Like I was going to join. Please. I only like cool cults.”

1940s Bucky looked up from his book. “That a real name?”

“Real-ish,” Clint muttered.

“Real enough for him to get half a dozen lab codes and vanish before anyone could catch him,” James said. His tone was even, but there was a twitch at the corner of his mouth. Not a smile. Not yet. But close.

“Why do you look like you remember him fondly?” Clint asked suspiciously.

James shrugged. “He didn’t try to kill me. That’s… rare.”

Wade threw his hands up like he’d won bingo. “See? I’m helpful!”

“Terrifyingly so,” Clint added, and tossed a gummy bear at Wade’s head.

Wade caught it with his mouth.

---

Later that night, after Wade had rambled about Good Omens, Dune, and how the real enemies in any timeline were bad coffee and fascists, the room settled into a softer rhythm.

Clint was leaned back against the couch, shoulder brushing Bucky’s. James sat cross-legged again, quieter now, but watching. Always watching.

There was something different in the way he looked at Wade now. Not wary. Not aggressive. More… cautious recognition. Like a bad memory softened by time.

Bucky murmured, “Didn’t think Hydra let you live if you talked to outsiders.”

James nodded once. “They didn’t know about Wade.” Then, with a faint smirk, “I’m not sure Wade counts as an outsider. Or an insider.”

“Or human,” Clint added, amused.

“Rude,” Wade said, sprawled on the floor with a book held overhead. “I’m at least sixty percent romance and ten percent burrito.”

“I believe that,” Clint muttered.

Wade winked. “You should.”

---

Somewhere between the soft laughter, the distant rain starting to fall, and the pages turning under quiet lamplight, Bucky’s fingers found Clint’s wrist. Just a touch. Familiar now. Grounding.

Clint didn’t flinch. He just tilted his head until it bumped Bucky’s, the contact gentle, the moment unspoken.

James watched them, a ghost of a smile pulling at his lips, then looked back down at his book.

It wasn’t peace. Not yet.

But it was close.

So I'm thinking you know pre- Deadpool the early Deadpool and the movies.He so he's a little bit closer to wolverines origins of wolverines deadpool. But his teleportation isn't because of John's death.

Borrowing that from my cartoons and stuff. He has other gifts though like he's got laser eyes and you know he doesn't need the katanas strapped to his back but he wants them. So yeah it doesn't make sense but he's got sword shoved up his arms.

And he probably would regrow limbs if you could ever cut one off. (Metal bones) He keeps his hair kind of shaved short(mild scarring the kind you get if you are a mutant who's healing factors kind of wonky. Basically in this head Cannon it's better than a super soldier but not as good as say wolverines.

Since he's pre-Deadpool and probably won't be turned into Deadpool in the sense that you know movies and comics make him we'll just have to deal with that. So he's just a regular mutant with healing abilities and some extra gifts). So kind of military hairstyle. And in my head Canon he was a mutant to begin with and Stryker basically made that worse or better however you look at it.

..

Shockwaves, Armor, and the Things We’re Capable Of

James Barnes stood just outside the compound training room, watching through the glass.

He didn’t say a word at first—just leaned against the wall with arms crossed, one eyebrow raised, taking in the spectacle of Clint Barton skidding across the mat, planting his foot, and blasting a shockwave that launched three reinforced training bots across the room.

The kinetic blast cracked like thunder.

Clint grinned—just a little—then winced as Daisy tossed him a roll of wrap tape.

“Wraps, Barton,” she called. “You want your wrists to last longer than your patience.”

“Yes, Mom,” Clint muttered, but he caught it and started winding the black fabric around his knuckles like a pro. She wasn’t wrong. These new powers were a lot to manage—and his bones weren’t quite keeping up with the impact.

James stepped inside, silent and smooth, like smoke sliding through the doorframe. His eyes tracked everything.

He came to stand next to Daisy, who nodded toward the mat.

“Your turn?”

“No,” he said, voice low but steady. “I want to see what they can do first. Then I’ll push them.”

“Thought you might say that.” Daisy smirked and nudged him with her elbow. “You always were tactical.”

James gave the faintest shrug. “I like to know where the danger is.”

Daisy’s expression softened slightly. “They’re not danger.”

He didn’t answer.

Instead, his gaze shifted across the room to the second Bucky—1940s Bucky, still getting used to the world, his powers, everything. He was circling one of the repulsor bots, eyes focused, shoulders tense, until—he shifted.

A shimmer passed over his skin like liquid metal, rippling up from his spine until he was encased in that strange silvery armor.

James watched closely.

Clint muttered something about “shiny boy hours” and ducked as 1940s Bucky sent a roundhouse kick that crushed the chest plate of a training dummy.

“Okay,” Daisy said, raising an eyebrow. “Let’s talk about what that’s made of.”

James was already ahead of her. “You run a test on that metal yet?”

She hesitated. “We tried. It doesn’t match anything exactly. There’s vibranium resonance, but it also echoes the element Stark synthesized 6 years ago. We think it might be a fusion—something unique. The safe room you both cocooned in had trace deposits of both.”

James made a quiet sound of consideration.

Clint jumped over a shockwave and clapped his hands. “Okay, okay, but check this out!”

He braced, exhaled, and shoved forward with both palms. The energy blast bent air around him—blue-white and raw—and sent another bot flipping end over end before crashing into the far wall.

“Jesus,” Bucky muttered, clearly impressed.

1940s Bucky dropped his armor and blinked. He’d been fascinated by Clint’s powers—less so by the strain they put on him.

Daisy stepped in with a nod. “He’s got kinetic manipulation, which includes blasts, force redirection, and mild telekinesis. It’s a hybrid strain—probably got mutated from the alien alloy.” She turned to Bucky. “As for you…”

He glanced at her.

“We’ve noticed small electrical discharges while you’re armored. I think you’re capable of much more than just shielding.”

Bucky looked uncertain.

James tilted his head. “Have you tried focusing the charge?”

“No, sir.”

Clint grinned. “Oh, sir, now? Man, this timeline is wild.”

Daisy rolled her eyes and grabbed a volt sensor. “Come here. Let’s test the theory.”

---

An hour later, Bucky was standing in the middle of a reinforced ring, armor engaged, his fingers crackling with arcs of live current.

He looked… powerful.

“I feel like I’m gonna short-circuit something,” he said nervously, but Daisy stood by the console, calm.

“You won’t. Just try to feel it. Like you’re guiding it.”

James watched with arms folded, still and assessing.

Bucky closed his eyes—and something shifted.

The lights flickered. Energy burst from his chest and hands in a rippling wave that stopped just shy of the walls. Controlled. Powerful.

Everyone stared.

Clint let out a low whistle. “Remind me never to tick you off.”

Bucky looked down at his own hands, amazed. “I… didn’t know I could do that.”

James smiled. Just a little. “You can.”

---

That night, they gathered in the common room again. No armor. No sparring. Just books and snacks and the ghost of ozone in the air from the power displays earlier.

Clint had a new novel open in his lap and a warm blanket pulled across both Buckys, who were clearly getting used to casual softness.

James was quieter than usual, but there was a subtle ease in his shoulders. A man not quite at peace—but further from war than he’d been in years.

He leaned closer, book forgotten, and murmured to Bucky, “That thing you did today—where you lit up like a transformer—”

“I didn’t mean to.” Bucky looked sheepish. “Was it bad?”

James shook his head. “It was good.”

Clint, nestled between them, looked up with a smirk. “You both light up around me. I’m taking credit for that.”

“You would,” James muttered fondly.

..

It was a calm night, for once.

Dinner had been good—homemade pizza, thanks to Sam and Clint throwing things at each other in the kitchen until it turned edible. There’d been laughter, a bit of tomato sauce in someone’s hair (James, somehow), and a deeply unnecessary but highly entertaining flour fight.

Now, the common room was dim and golden with low lamp light, the TV casting a gentle glow across the space.

“Movie time,” Clint declared, sinking into the largest couch with a happy sigh and a big bowl of popcorn. “We’re watching something with no explosions and a guaranteed happy ending.”

“That’s what you’re picking?” Sam teased, nudging him as he walked past. “You? Hawkeye, the human disaster magnet?”

Clint grinned. “Exactly. I deserve joy.”

Bucky—the 1940s version—settled down beside him, a mug of hot cocoa in hand (extra marshmallows, of course). He looked sleepy already, but the kind of relaxed sleepy that only came after a good meal and a few days of training well-spent.

James came in a moment later, quieter, barefoot, in soft clothes. He eyed the available space on the couch, then lowered himself onto the other side of Clint without a word.

It wasn’t really a big deal.

Clint didn’t comment—just shifted slightly so all three of them had enough room. Somewhere in there, a blanket ended up thrown over them. Bucky tucked himself under it without hesitation, clearly enjoying the warmth.

James didn’t say much, but his arm was draped along the back of the couch behind Clint, his posture easy. At one point, Clint leaned over to hand him a soda and didn’t quite lean back fully.

By twenty minutes into the movie, it was clear: they were a cuddle pile. A casual, comfortable, very real one.

Steve and Sam had taken the other couch off to the side, drinks in hand, watching the screen—but Steve kept glancing over.

Sam noticed.

The third time it happened, Sam gently elbowed him.

Steve looked over, startled.

“What?” he said, though his voice was quiet.

Sam didn’t take his eyes off the screen. “Don’t say anything.”

“I wasn’t going to,” Steve muttered, mildly defensive.

“Steve. Your face is saying something.”

Steve sighed, sinking a little deeper into his seat. “It’s just… I never thought I’d see Bucky—either Bucky—like this. Relaxed. Safe. Just… leaning on someone.”

Sam tilted his head. “It’s good, though.”

Steve nodded, his throat working. “Yeah. It really is.”

Across the room, Clint shifted slightly, resettling both boys around him like someone pulling on a well-worn hoodie. James let his head tip back. Bucky was already half-asleep, leaning against Clint’s side.

On screen, the movie played on—a soft romance with a happy ending promised from the first frame.

No world-ending crises.

No missions.

Just the quiet miracle of a night in.

**

Post-Movie Talk (And a Bit More)

---

The movie was long over, screen dimmed to a sleep mode glow. The living room had quieted into something soft and warm, like the inside of a cocoon. The kind of night where nothing needed to be said—but that never stopped Clint.

“I mean, if I had powers like that,” he was saying, half under his breath, as his head tipped against the back of the couch, “I’d probably use them to open peanut butter jars. That’s it. No heroics. Just the important things.”

“You already do that,” 1940s Bucky said, voice sleep-rough but teasing. “I’ve seen you punch open a pickle jar.”

“That was one time,” Clint groaned, “and it was very stuck.”

James chuckled low beside them. He was sitting at Clint’s other side, legs stretched out, socked feet brushing against 40s Bucky’s. There wasn’t really a "his side" of the couch anymore, just shared space and layers of trust built one soft night at a time.

1940s Bucky was sprawled close on Clint’s left, halfway lying across him, one arm slung over his waist without even realizing it. James’s thigh pressed warmly against Clint’s right, solid and reassuring, and his arm had draped over the back of the couch a while ago—maybe on purpose, maybe not.

Clint was acutely aware of both of them.

“You know,” James said after a long moment, his voice quieter now, “I used to think I didn’t have room for this.”

“This?” Clint asked.

“Quiet,” James murmured. “Softness. People who see you and still want you close.”

Clint didn’t say anything at first. He just tilted his head enough to rest lightly against James’s shoulder. On his other side, Bucky shifted, half asleep, and mumbled, “Course we want you. You’re James.”

And that made James smile. Actually smile.

It lit something warm and golden in Clint’s chest. Something dangerously close to fondness.

“Do you…” Clint hesitated, eyes flicking between them, “Do you guys ever think about… this being more?”

Bucky blinked sleepily at him. “More?”

“Like,” Clint clarified, voice lower now, “this—what we have—being more than cuddles and banter and reading each other to sleep.”

James was quiet. Not tense, not pulling away. Just thinking.

“I’ve been thinking about it,” he admitted finally. “The way you look at us… it’s not just friendly.”

Clint flushed, but didn’t deny it. “Yeah. You caught me.”

Bucky grinned a little, still half-curled into Clint’s side. “I like how you look at me.”

James added, softly, “Me too.”

There was a stretch of stillness then. Comfortable. Honest.

Clint, heart pounding a little faster, reached out—tentative—until his fingers found James’s hand resting against his leg. James turned his hand over to link their fingers. Solid. Unshaking.

On his other side, Bucky let out a slow breath and tucked his head under Clint’s chin, the arm around his waist pulling just a little tighter.

“You’re both trouble,” Clint murmured, breath catching. “The good kind.”

“And you,” James said, with something suspiciously like affection in his voice, “are the glue holding this whole weird little triangle together.”

“Pretty sure Jace would argue he’s the glue,” Clint muttered, and James huffed a laugh.

There were no declarations that night. No dramatic kisses or dramatic speeches.

But there were touches. Lingering ones.

The way Bucky reached for Clint’s hand and held on until sleep claimed him. The way James pressed a kiss—soft and unsure—just behind Clint’s ear before heading to bed. The way Clint stood for a second after, heart loud in his chest, and whispered, “Yeah. I think I’m in it. Deep.”

-

Chapter Text

The world outside was still. A rare kind of still, the kind Tony only ever got late at night, in rooms lined with soft light and someone he trusted enough to let his guard down around.

Right now, that someone was Wade.

They were tangled up on the ridiculous bed Wade had insisted on calling “a maximum comfort zone,” arms around each other, a muted old sci-fi rerun on in the background. Wade was bare-chested,warm, thumb stroking the curve of Tony’s ribs. Tony, for once, wasn’t in a T-shirt—just warm skin and arc reactor glow dimmed low against the sheets.

“I’m proud of ‘em,” Wade mumbled eventually, nosing into Tony’s hair like he was cataloging the smell for science. “All three of those little chaos muffins. You see them tonight? Snuggled up like kittens.”

“I did,” Tony said, voice dry but fond. “Weirdly domestic for three people who can break concrete with their bare hands.”

Wade chuckled, low in his throat. “Takes one to know one, Tin Man.”

Tony rolled his eyes, but didn’t move. He let the silence breathe for a while.

Then Wade, soft as anything, said, “You think your Petty-pie is in love with Jace?”

Tony didn’t answer right away.

Wade didn’t push—just traced lazy patterns over Tony’s shoulder with a fingertip, like it didn’t matter if Tony answered. Like the truth would just drift out eventually.

“…He’s not a kid anymore,” Tony said finally, voice quieter than usual. “And he can make his own decisions.”

“But,” Wade said, drawing out the word with a grin.

“No ‘but,’” Tony countered. “He’s grown. He’s… he’s been through enough. If he likes Jace, and Jace doesn’t do that smug warlock superiority thing—”

“He totally does that smug warlock superiority thing,” Wade interrupted helpfully. “But like, in a sexy way.”

Tony snorted. “Not helping.”

“I’m just saying,” Wade whispered, pressing a kiss to Tony’s temple, “he’s safe. He’s loved. He’s got us. He’s even got the fancy murder angel boyfriend who looks at him like he’s a miracle.”

Tony went quiet again.

Then, softer, almost like a confession, “I worry.”

Wade nodded into Tony’s hair. “Course you do. You love him.”

Tony didn’t say anything, but he did press a little closer, arms tightening just slightly.

Wade kissed the corner of his mouth, then his jaw, then settled back down again. “We’ll watch out for him. Same way we watch out for all of ‘em.”

Tony finally smiled. “Even if they make dumb choices.”

Wade grinned. “Especially then.”

There was another stretch of quiet. The old movie flickered blue across the walls. Somewhere across the compound, laughter filtered faintly through the ductwork. The boys, probably. Or maybe Jace setting something on fire again.

Tony shifted just enough to catch Wade’s eyes. “I like this. You. This.”

Wade blinked, then kissed him again—gentle and warm and not at all casual.

“Me too,” he said. “Now c’mere, let’s talk about how we’re gonna sabotage Jace’s next date night. In the name of love.”

Tony just groaned and buried his face in Wade’s chest. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet, here I am. Irresistible.”

..

The Boy with the Big Eyes and the Shadowhunter Heart

Peter didn’t mean to stare.

He really didn’t.

It’s just that Jace Wayland had this… thing he did—tilting his head like a curious cat when he was reading, biting the inside of his cheek when concentrating, flicking his fingers in absent-minded magical sigils like the air around him was just another canvas. He’d look up, gold hair in disarray, eyes too sharp for someone who could also look so young, and Peter’s brain would stop working properly.

Tonight, it was books again. A lazy late night. The others had gone off to spar or disappear into their own corners of the compound, and Jace had stretched out on one of the oversized reading chairs in the lounge—barefoot, soft sweatpants, a loose black shirt with the sleeves pushed up. He looked like the kind of boy Peter would’ve invented in high school and sworn couldn’t be real.

Peter was pretending to read. He was trying to focus on Dune—Tony’s latest book club assignment—but he hadn’t turned a page in twenty minutes.

Jace, who absolutely noticed, didn’t say anything. He just closed his book with a quiet thud and said, “What?”

Peter flushed. “What, what?”

“You’re staring.”

Peter scrambled. “No—I mean—yes. Not in a creepy way. I just—um. You have ink on your cheek.”

Jace raised one perfect blond eyebrow. “I was reading.”

“You were also sketching runes in your notebook and got distracted halfway through a sentence,” Peter said, proud of himself for the comeback. “It’s smudged.”

“Right,” Jace murmured, and rubbed the spot gently. Then he grinned. “Better?”

“Sure. Yeah. You’re totally ink-free and not even remotely distracting anymore,” Peter muttered into his book.

“Hmm,” Jace said, rising and padding across the carpet, settling on the couch next to Peter without being invited, like it was the most natural thing in the world. “You’re really bad at lying, you know.”

“I’m an excellent liar,” Peter said, squeaky and indignant.

“No, you’re an excellent truth-teller with a terrible poker face.”

Jace was close. Not touching-close, but enough that Peter could feel the energy rolling off him—the shimmer of something angel-born, just beneath the surface. And yet he never made Peter feel small. He never made him feel like he didn’t belong.

“I don’t mean to stare,” Peter said again, quieter this time.

“I don’t mind,” Jace replied, just as soft. “You look at me like I’m a puzzle worth solving.”

“You are a puzzle.”

“And you’re the one person here who keeps trying to solve it with kindness,” Jace murmured.

Peter turned to face him—and for a long, breathless second, neither of them looked away.

“Are we—um. Are we still pretending this is just book club?” Peter asked finally.

Jace’s eyes crinkled. “I think we’re past that.”

Peter swallowed. “Cool.”

They didn’t kiss. Not yet.

But Peter’s hand found Jace’s—warm, calloused, strong—and curled into it.

They didn’t need words for the rest of the night. They just kept reading, shoulders pressed together, two boys finding a little piece of home in each other.

Thanks shell❤️

Later

Clint wasn't trying to eavesdrop. He’d just been on a mission to grab coffee before the rest of the compound woke up—standard Clint Barton morning: coffee, dog walk, avoid Tony’s new “team sunrise yoga” suggestion.

He didn’t expect to walk into the lounge and freeze mid-step.

Peter was asleep. That wasn’t shocking.

Jace was asleep, too—head tipped back, mouth slightly open, arms loose at his sides. That was rare. Jace didn’t really do casual napping in public spaces. The guy was made of swords and alert glances and tucked-away pain. But there he was, dead to the world, one boot halfway off.

And Peter?

Peter Parker was curled up next to him, absolutely plastered to Jace’s side like it was his default setting. One arm was slung around Jace’s waist, head tucked into the hollow of his shoulder. They looked like they'd fallen asleep halfway through a book—there was a paperback tucked between them—and never moved.

It was ridiculously cute.

Clint stood there for a second, coffee forgotten in his hand. Lucky gave a single, lazy tail wag and flopped down next to the couch like yep, this is fine, this is family now.

“Okay,” Clint whispered to himself. “So that’s happening.”

He was halfway to tiptoeing back out when Peter stirred. One eye blinked open—drowsy, confused, then alarmed.

“Oh my God—Clint! I wasn’t—we weren’t—!”

Clint held up a hand, grinning. “Kid, you’re not in trouble. I’ve woken up with james’s metal arm on my face. This doesn’t even crack the top ten weird wake-up situations in this house.”

Jace cracked one eye open too, groggy but unsurprised. “Is it morning?”

“Getting there. Want coffee?” Clint asked, like this was totally normal. Like he hadn’t just walked in on an emotionally complicated tangle of teenage Shadowhunter/warlock and superscience spider-nerd feelings.

Peter sat up slowly, rubbing his face. “This is not how we meant for you to find out.”

Jace yawned. “It’s fine. He already knew.”

Peter blinked. “He did?!”

Clint chuckled. “Pete, I knew before you knew. Jace has been following you around like a thoughtful ghost and you’ve been making goo-goo eyes for a month. The only person surprised by this was probably Steve, and only because he thinks romance has a proper schedule.”

Peter groaned and buried his face in his hands.

Jace stretched like a cat and stood, still barefoot, grabbing the book and tucking it under one arm. He gave Clint a small nod. “We’ll keep it low-key. No drama.”

Clint winked. “Oh, please. Drama follows this household like a stray puppy. But honestly? I’m glad you two found each other.”

Peter looked up, face soft. “You’re… okay with it?”

“I’m happy for you, kid,” Clint said, stepping forward and ruffling Peter’s already-messy hair. “And I’m not gonna lie—I called this in week two. So technically, I win.”

Jace tilted his head. “Win what?”

“Pride,” Clint said with a smirk. “And possibly a bet with Natasha. But you don’t need to know about that part.”

Jace rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. Peter was still red but looked relieved, and Clint made a mental note to stock more snacks. Apparently, this whole “soft and falling in love” thing burned through a lot of granola bars.

“Alright, I’ll leave you two nerds alone,” Clint said, turning to go. “Come find me when you want breakfast. Or if you need to spar off some romantic tension. Either works.”

He was gone before Peter could respond, leaving only the faint sound of Lucky’s tail thumping and the quiet buzz of new affection.

.. 

Common area later on

“You know,” James said casually, legs crossed as he lounged back on the overstuffed armchair with a thick paperback in one hand, “I’ve been getting better at this reading-out-loud thing.”

Clint, stretched out on the couch with Lucky draped half on his legs, lazily lifted his hand. “Yes. That voice is illegal in three states and at least two other dimensions.”

40s Bucky, curled on the arm of the couch with a blanket and a mug of cocoa, snorted. “Isn’t that the same voice as mine?”

Clint gave him a slow look. “Yes. And you, too, are very welcome to read to me anytime. I'm equal opportunity when it comes to bedtime voices.”

James smirked slightly, eyes flicking to the 1940s version of himself. “Well, I do have more practice now. Figured it was time I started using it for good instead of evil.”

“I have an evil reading list if you want it,” Jace said from the floor, cross-legged, where he was flipping through a graphic novel. “Also, movies. Clint added movies to the Book Club, so prepare yourself.”

“Oh God,” 40s Bucky muttered. “As long as it’s not another one where the whole world explodes. I still don’t understand the one with the big angry man and the death star.”

“That’s half the franchise, pal,” Sam muttered from the kitchen, where he was making popcorn.

“You get used to it,” Steve offered, walking in with a pitcher of lemonade. “You just have to give up on logic. And science. And sometimes… basic physics.”

Jace was still distracted by the earlier conversation. He nudged 40s Bucky’s ankle. “Hey—when you liked someone back in your time, how’d you, you know… ask them out?”

40s Bucky blinked. “You ask their name. Compliment their eyes. Then see if they want to go dancing. Or get a soda. Or walk in the park. That’s how I did it.”

“Or,” Steve said, deadpan, “you punch a Nazi and she falls in love with you.”

Sam coughed into his elbow. “Okay, well, maybe don’t try that method.”

Clint lifted his hand again. “Okay but—Steve's whole ‘punch them, then accidentally be charming’ thing did work for him. And you,” he said, pointing at 40s Bucky. “So I don’t know if you're helping or proving Jace’s point that y’all didn’t date guys back then.”

40s Bucky narrowed his eyes. “We would have if it weren’t, you know, illegal. And frowned upon. And potentially fatal.”

“Right,” Jace muttered, face going slightly pink. “So not a lot of practical advice.”

“Honestly,” Clint added, leaning over to elbow Jace in the arm gently, “you’re already doing the thing. You like him. You talk to him. You’re friends. Just ask if he wants to do more of that, but like… romantically. And maybe without Wade tagging along.”

“Hey!” came Wade’s voice from somewhere down the hall.

As if summoned by chaotic energy itself, Wade slid into the room like it was his grand entrance, arms full of snacks. “Excuse me, everyone wants me to third wheel their dates, I bring the charm, the drama, the commentary, and the tactical exit.”

“No one wants that,” James muttered, but he took one of the chips Wade offered him anyway.

Tony appeared next—because, of course he did—leaning against the doorframe with a mug of coffee and his eyebrows already halfway raised.

“So what’s the chaos this time?”

“Jace is panicking about maybe being in love,” Clint supplied.

“Ah. That phase.” Tony took a long sip. “Wouldn’t worry. He’s genetically engineered to be dramatic. Comes with the runes.”

“And the hair,” Wade added.

“Guys,” Jace groaned.

Which is, of course, when Peter walked in. Holding a half-eaten sandwich, earbuds still in, hoodie sleeves shoved up to the elbows.

He blinked at the very full room of chaos and couch piles and Jace with his head in his hands.

“…Did I miss something?”

Jace looked up. Locked eyes with him.

Peter smiled.

Jace promptly turned pink and said, too fast, “Do you wanna go out sometime?”

The entire room went quiet.

Even Lucky lifted his head.

Peter blinked. Then grinned—broad, a little surprised, and absolutely delighted.

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

“See?” Clint muttered, leaning over to nudge 40s Bucky. “Sometimes blurting it out is the best strategy.”

“I told you,” James said dryly. “Equal opportunity.”

Wade clapped like it was opening night on Broadway. “OH MY GOD I SHIP IT.”

Tony sighed into his coffee. “Well, that’s another chapter of ‘Tony Stark Tries to Parent While Everyone Around Him Is Falling in Love’.”

“And failing,” Sam added cheerfully.

Steve? Steve just looked around the room like he didn’t know how this timeline had gotten so weird, but by God, he was going to support his disaster children anyway.

---

It started with Tony lounging dramatically across the sectional with a bowl of popcorn and a firm decree.

“Tonight,” he said, pointing at everyone like it was a press conference, “we settle once and for all which movies count as essential nerd canon.”

Peter perked up instantly, sliding into a beanbag chair like he was ready to debate. “Are we talking superhero movies, or full nerdom?”

“Full nerdom,” Tony replied. “Sci-fi, fantasy, classic anime, time travel paradoxes, and emotional devastation disguised as cartoons. This is not for the faint of heart.”

“Define essential,” James grunted from his corner of the couch, flipping through a book but clearly listening.

“Essential means you cry, you question reality, and at some point you shout ‘THAT’S NOT HOW THAT WORKS’ at the screen,” Tony said smugly.

“Sounds like a normal Tuesday,” Wade muttered, already halfway through a family-size bag of Skittles.

Jace leaned in close to Clint on the couch and whispered, “Is this like a trial?”

Clint nodded seriously. “Of nerd credibility. The stakes are popcorn and smugness.”

“I brought notes,” Peter said brightly, pulling out a small notebook and earning a fist bump from Clint.

Tony narrowed his eyes in respect. “Alright, Legolas, you’re up. First round.”

Peter, ever the humble nerd scholar, offered, “I think we start with The Princess Bride. It’s got everything—romance, sword fights, a giant, Rodents of Unusual Size, and Cary Elwes in leather.”

“Hard agree,” Clint added. “It’s quotable. It’s iconic. It’s the test of true love and true nerdery.”

Jace, who had just barely caught up on The Lord of the Rings and Star Wars in the last month, squinted. “Wait, is this the one with the grandpa telling the kid the story?”

Peter beamed. “YES.”

“Okay, that one was good,” Bucky mumbled, 40s Bucky, of course, already halfway under a blanket and petting Lucky. “I didn’t get the rodents thing, but the rest was fine.”

“I liked the giant,” 40s Bucky said. “He was sweet.”

James tilted his head, thoughtful. “I liked the revenge guy. He had a good arc.”

“You all pass,” Tony declared. “Except Wade. Wade doesn’t pass until he admits Galaxy Quest is a masterpiece.”

“It is, but in a meta way,” Wade said, deadpan. “I’m chaotic, not tasteless.”

Sam dropped down into an armchair with a laugh. “Okay, but where do we land on Back to the Future?”

“1 and 2 are required,” Peter said.

“3 is optional,” Tony added.

“Clint, what about you?” Jace asked, curiosity warm behind his eyes.

Clint grinned. “I’m a softie for The Iron Giant. We’ll be watching that one and crying about it.”

Peter raised his hand. “Add Big Hero 6 ”

Tony held up a finger. “We will not be starting big hero unless tissues are passed out first.”

“It's beautiful!” Peter whined.

“It hurts!” Wade countered.

James, deeply confused, blinked. “What's it about?”

Peter made a complicated expression. “Pretty cool. And animated.”

“This timeline is so weird,” 40s Bucky muttered, but he smiled anyway.

Jace, quietly absorbing all of this, looked to Clint again. “So… which one do you want to show me first?”

Clint didn’t even hesitate. “Stardust.”

“Good call,” Peter said approvingly.

“Why?” Jace asked.

“It’s got a star who falls to earth, sky pirates in a flying ship, magic, banter, gay panic, and Captain Shakespeare.”

Jace tilted his head. “Is the captain gay?”

“Extremely,” Wade and Tony chorused.

Steve, who had been sitting quietly next to Sam, looked bemused. “I thought we were watching The Wizard of Oz?”

“That too!” Peter promised. “We have a schedule now!”

Jace opened his notebook, now fully invested. “Okay, but wait—what’s the one Clint said had good flirting and a fox?”

“Oh no,” James said. “You mean Robin Hood: Men in Tights?”

Clint raised a hand solemnly. “We watch it. We honor it. And we quote everything.”

Jace wrote: “Men in tights… possibly bisexual awakening?”

Clint patted his shoulder proudly.

James just sighed, fond but tired. “You’re all insane.”

“And we love it,” Peter added, grabbing another pillow for the eventual cuddle pile.

As the lights dimmed, popcorn got passed around, and someone put Stardust in first, the room went quiet save for the opening narration.

Steve leaned over to Sam and whispered, “They’re gonna be up all night, aren’t they?”

Sam whispered back, “You’re not gonna stop them.”

Steve smiled. “Didn’t say I would.”

---

Cuddles, Commentary, and Feelings That Might Be Something

The movie was halfway through Stardust—Tristan had just declared his devotion in the middle of a floating pirate ship—when someone (probably Wade) let out a heartfelt, “Ugh, this movie is disgusting. I love it.”

The couch was more a sprawl than a formation now. Clint was flopped in the middle, long legs tangled with Lucky, Bucky tucked into his side like he belonged there, and two guys draped across the rest of the sofa like exhausted cats in varying degrees of awareness.

James had his eyes on the screen, but only about half of his brain was engaged. The other half was watching everyone else in the room. Especially the way Bucky kept casually brushing Clint’s wrist when reaching for popcorn. Or how Jace’s head tilted every time Clint laughed.

Steve had noticed it too. He hadn’t said anything, just gave one of those small, proud older brother looks. But Sam? Sam leaned over and murmured, “You good?”

“I’m not ready,” Steve whispered back.

“For what?”

“To give another best man speech.”

Sam nearly choked on his drink.

---

After the movie ended (with multiple sighs and one Wade-led round of applause), people drifted. Peter herded James toward the kitchen for snacks, Wade claimed Tony’s lap like a cat with long-term squatter’s rights, and 1940s Bucky pulled Jace aside to talk about the sword fight choreography.

Clint stayed sprawled, finishing off the popcorn like it was a coping mechanism.

“Hey,” Peter said, wandering back from the kitchen. “Mind if I sit?”

“Pull up a beanbag, Spider-Nerd.”

Peter did. Then he leaned back on his elbows and squinted at the ceiling. “So. Your boy’s definitely falling for you.”

Clint snorted. “Which one?”

Peter gave him a look.

Clint raised his hands. “Hey. I’m just saying—I’m some kind of magnet apparently.”

“You’re very... safe,” Peter offered. “And warm.”

Clint raised an eyebrow.

Peter turned pink. “I mean, emotionally warm.”

Clint laughed. “That is what people say about me. Clint Barton. Not at all chaotic. Emotionally cozy.”

Peter, soft-eyed and genuine now, said, “You’re familiar. And you don’t scare easy. That counts for a lot.”

They were quiet for a second. Then Clint tilted his head. “And you? You working up to asking Jace out, or just gonna keep smiling at him like he hung the stars?”

Peter went very, very red. “I don’t—he’s—”

“Kid,” Clint said gently, “he asked me earlier how to ask you out. So maybe pull it together before the next movie night, yeah?”

Peter blinked. “What?”

“He thinks you’re brilliant. And brave. And that you looked really good when you knocked that vampire into a sewer grate last week.”

Peter covered his face. “I panicked. I thought it was trying to bite Bucky.”

“Which one?”

Peter made a strangled sound.

---

Meanwhile, in the hallway outside the kitchen:

Jace was looking down at the book James had given him. “He said I should read it to see how American boys flirt.”

Tony, passing by with a drink in hand, snorted. “If he gave you The Outsiders, you’re in trouble.”

“No, it’s The Perks of Being a Wallflower,” Jace admitted.

Tony made a noise like he was pleasantly surprised. “Still chaotic, but okay.”

Back in the living room, Clint sat with Lucky curled against his leg and whispered, “I think I might be in trouble.”

Lucky huffed.

Because Clint Barton might be calm under pressure, good with a bow, and emotionally available in at least three languages…

…but he was still catching feelings—two sets of eyes, two smiles, two hearts—and it was definitely going to get complicated.

But right now?

Right now it felt warm. Safe. And like he didn’t mind being a magnet after all.

--

Next morning

Breakfast, Butter, and Bucky with a Spatula

The first warning was the smell of butter and cinnamon and something very slightly burning.

Clint blinked awake to the unmistakable sounds of early-morning disaster-in-progress: pans clanking, a low mutter of “nope, that’s not right,” and Sam’s deep sigh of long-suffering patience.

Clint rolled out of bed, tossed a hoodie over his t-shirt, and padded down the hall with Lucky trotting after him.

In the kitchen, Sam stood at the stove flipping pancakes like a man on a mission. Next to him—James Barnes, full black t-shirt, hair tied back, and an extremely serious expression as he stared down a mixing bowl like it owed him money.

There was flour on his cheek. And possibly his metal knuckles.

“This is not how Steve used to make them,” James said.

“Well, yeah,” Sam replied, calm but tired, “because Steve used Bisquick and denial.”

Clint leaned against the doorway. “Should I be concerned or just deeply impressed?”

James looked up, startled for a second. Then relaxed when he saw it was Clint. “I’m learning.”

Sam gestured with his spatula. “He insisted on doing it from scratch. I offered him the box. He threatened me with a whisk.”

James muttered, “I said I’d look disappointed.”

Clint bit down on a grin and stepped into the room. “How’s the first batch?”

Sam slid a plate over. “Cratered. Crispy. Basically weaponized pancakes.”

James looked solemn. “They’re not inedible. Just not...aesthetically ideal.”

Clint took one bite and blinked. “Actually kind of amazing. Little smoky. Not bad.”

James stared. “Really?”

Clint nodded, already taking another bite. “It’s got personality.”

Lucky, seated beside him like a well-trained pancake judge, gave a single bark of approval.

---

A few minutes later, Jace wandered in, sleep-rumpled in someone’s borrowed hoodie (Clint’s, obviously), and immediately sat on the counter like he’d always lived there. Peter followed, rubbing his eyes.

James was now on batch two. Sam supervised from the coffee machine.

“They’re... really cooking together,” Peter murmured. “Like, domestic cooking. Not chaos cooking.”

“Don’t say that out loud,” Jace whispered. “You’ll jinx it.”

James poured the batter. Clint stepped beside him and nudged a bowl of chocolate chips his way.

“Optional,” Clint offered.

James glanced down. “Steve didn’t use these.”

“Steve also used to think a banana was a luxury.”

James considered. Then carefully added exactly six chocolate chips to the center of the pancake. “Moderation,” he muttered.

Clint leaned closer. “You’re doing good, James.”

James didn’t look at him. But the tips of his ears turned faintly red.

---

Fifteen minutes later, the kitchen was warm with the smell of cinnamon, cocoa, and something almost like peace.

Clint sat at the table beside Sam. Lucky dozed at his feet.

James placed a plate in front of Clint, another in front of Jace, and then took a seat for himself.

“This is good,” Clint said, taking another bite.

“It’s better than good,” Jace added, beaming. “It’s really good.”

Peter, still yawning, murmured, “I thought you didn’t do sugar this early.”

“I do now,” Jace said, stabbing another bite. “I’d marry this pancake.”

James blinked, eyes flicking up. “Noted.”

Clint choked on his coffee.

Sam patted his back with a smirk.

---

They ate until the sun came full through the kitchen window. No drama. No training. No sparring.

Just five boys in varying states of sleepy affection, sharing pancakes and warmth.

And James?

James looked around the table like he didn’t quite believe he was allowed to be there.

But he stayed. And smiled. Just a little.

---

Afternoon Sparring

The sparring mat was not prepared for three boys with heightened reflexes, trauma, and at least one kinetic pulse user.

Clint stood barefoot in the center of the mat, hair sticking up at weird angles. He threw a smirk at James, who was watching like a hawk.

“Daisy says I’m getting better,” Clint said, hopping on the balls of his feet. “And she gave me these.” He held up his wrapped fists. “Apparently they help distribute force better.”

“Nice,” James said with a nod. “How’s your control?”

“Let’s find out.”

James grinned—a rare, sharp grin that reminded everyone in the room he had been the Winter Soldier. “Bucky,” he called, “you up?”

The 1940s version raised his hand like a bored school kid. “Yeah, but be nice to me.”

James raised an eyebrow. “Absolutely not.”

---

The match started with wide arcs. Bucky dodged easily, but he was clearly testing out newer moves Clint had taught him. A better stance, more mobile hips. James approved, even as he lunged in and swept a foot under his younger self.

Bucky rolled, popped back up, and grinned. “That was rude.”

Clint’s kinetic burst came next—just a flicker, enough to push James off balance. He adjusted easily, pivoted on the heel, and caught Clint’s wrist mid-air.

“You really do have good instincts,” James said. “Daisy was right. You’ve got something close to what she has—just less quake, more blast.”

“And you’re stronger than you look,” Clint muttered, shaking his hand out.

James smirked. “So are you.”

They went again.

---

By the end of it, all three were sweaty, laughing, bruised in the way that meant real training had happened. Not punishment, not endurance trials—just learning each other. Watching each other’s styles, building something out of trust.

Bucky leaned against the wall, breathing hard, silver sheen flickering along his skin in sparks.

“James?” he asked.

“Yeah?”

“Do we… always get this glowy when we train?”

James snorted. “No. Just when we’re in love with the guy we’re sparring with.”

Clint choked on his water. “Excuse me?!”

James raised an eyebrow. “Joking. Mostly.”

---

Evening Book Club (Apocalypse Game Edition)

“So,” Clint said, once everyone was clean, comfy, and slightly loopy on tea, “end of the world. Zombies, fire, demons. Pick your apocalypse team.”

Peter’s hand shot up immediately. “Wade.”

Wade, draped across Tony like an old scarf, grinned. “That’s two for me.”

“No one picked me yet?” Tony asked, wounded.

“I pick you,” Jace said solemnly, “if the end of the world involves rebuilding infrastructure or making dramatic speeches.”

Tony pointed dramatically. “See? This kid gets it.”

“James,” Clint said, tapping his book against his thigh. “Go.”

James stared at the group, all tangled on couches and bean bags, soft and laughing and ridiculous.

“I think I already have my apocalypse team,” he said simply.

Forties Bucky elbowed him. “That’s cheating.”

“No,” James replied. “It’s being grateful.”

---

Later, after everyone else drifted off to sleep, Clint stayed curled on the big couch, a book forgotten in his lap. James had nodded off beside him. Bucky was already snoring lightly on the rug, wrapped in a throw blanket.

Lucky shifted beside Clint, resting his chin on James’ boot.

Clint looked around at his boys—not just the Buckys, but this strange found family they'd become.

And for the first time in years, he wasn’t thinking about what came next.

Just… this.

Right now.

Warmth. Books. Safety.

Belonging.

---

Midwestern Casseroles, Magic Lessons, and Moonlight Confessions

A Bucky, a Casserole, and a Clint Walk Into a Kitchen

"Okay," Clint said, hands on hips, surveying the spread of ingredients. "Tonight, we tackle casserole."

Bucky squinted suspiciously at the shredded cheese, the cream of mushroom soup, and the bag of frozen tater tots. “What... is that?”

“It’s called dinner,” Clint replied cheerfully. “Midwest style. Deep comfort. This—” he held up a bag like it was sacred text, “—this is the Tot.”

James leaned against the doorframe, amused. “You know I’ve fought wars with less preparation than what you’re doing in here.”

“Exactly,” Clint said. “And you survived that. So. Aprons.”

Bucky groaned. James smirked. Clint put a kiss on both their foreheads and handed over matching aprons with a print of Lucky the dog and ‘HOT DISH HERO’ in bold comic sans font.

---

They made it through the tater tot casserole prep, somehow without burning down the kitchen, though Clint nearly lost his eyebrows to a surprise oven flare. Bucky accidentally crunched an entire spatula, but to be fair, it was flimsy plastic, and he was shiny with armor at the time.

They ate the casserole on the couch, all three tucked under one oversized comforter. James pretended he didn’t like the cheesy mess. He was lying.

---
Jace and the Unmagical Super Soldier

Jace sat cross-legged on the training room floor, a little rune stone balanced on his palm, glowing faintly. “Okay, you’re not a warlock,” he said to James. “But your mind—your will—was trained to obey patterns. That means you can learn how to ground yourself. Maybe even manipulate energy a little.”

James looked… unsure.

“I have knives,” he offered. “I can do knives.”

“Knives are not spells.”

“They’ve worked like magic before.”

Jace bit his lip. “Look. You don’t have to become a warlock. But if you let me teach you this, maybe the next time the Winter Soldier part of your head starts whispering... you can quiet it.”

That got James’ attention. Real attention.

“Okay,” he said, sitting across from Jace. “Show me the stone thing.”

---

It took time. It took patience. James grumbled through every step. But by the end of the session, the little rune stone glowed faintly in his palm. Not bright. Not flashy.

But steady.

Jace grinned.

James didn’t.

But he didn’t frown, either.

---
Moonlight & Motion

Clint and James walked the edge of the compound late that night, following a path half-lit by solar lanterns and starshine. Lucky padded behind them, tail flicking gently, ears perked.

“So,” Clint said. “You, uh… doing okay?”

James didn’t answer right away. His shoulders were tense in his hoodie. He kicked at a loose rock.

“I don’t know,” James admitted. “I feel like I was dropped into someone else’s life. Like—this version of Bucky, he’s sweet. He’s still figuring it out, but he’s… lighter. And you two—you’re…”

Clint waited.

“You’re easy together.”

Clint didn’t smile. Not exactly. But he bumped his shoulder into James’. “You’re part of that now. Whether you feel it yet or not.”

“You don’t have to say that.”

“I know I don’t,” Clint replied. “But I want to. Because it’s true.”

They stopped walking. James stared at him.

“You really think I belong?”

Clint’s eyes softened. “You’re already here, James. The rest… we figure out together.”

---

They stood like that for a long moment. Quiet. Close. Lucky sitting between them, watching the stars like he understood something they didn’t.

Then Clint muttered, “Also, I should warn you… Bucky’s got opinions on who makes better pancakes. I’m not saying it’s a challenge, but…”

James cracked a smile. “I make amazing pancakes.”

“Oh good. Then you’re staying.”

---

Meanwhile… In the Chaos Den

Wade was curled around Tony like he had nowhere better to be in the world. Tony had given up trying to ignore him and was currently carding fingers through Wade’s wavey hair with mild domestic affection.

“So,” Wade said casually, “Petty-pie might really be falling in love with Jace.I know I joked before but yeah he's got it bad.”

Tony groaned into the couch. “He’s an adult now. He can make his own decisions. He’s capable and… and… why is this giving me indigestion.”

“Because you’re basically a dad. Dads worry. It’s the law.”

Tony huffed. “I’m not his dad.”

“You bought him a telescope, Tony. That’s peak dad behavior.”

“…It was a custom StarkScope Pro 12 Series with real-time AI tracking.”

Wade grinned, clearly winning. “maan”

Tony rolled his eyes. But he didn’t stop petting Wade’s hair.

---

“Knives are not spells.”

“They’ve worked like magic before.”

Jace bit his lip. “Look. You don’t have to become a warlock. But if you let me teach you this, maybe the next time the Winter Soldier part of your head starts whispering... you can quiet it.”

That got James’ attention. Real attention.

“Okay,” he said, sitting across from Jace. “Show me the stone thing.”

---

They stood like that for a long moment. Quiet. Close. Lucky sitting between them, watching the stars like he understood something they didn’t.

Then Clint muttered, “Also, I should warn you… Bucky’s got opinions on who makes better pancakes. I’m not saying it’s a challenge, but…”

James cracked a smile. “I make amazing pancakes.”

“Oh good. Then you’re staying.”

---

Moonlight, Pancakes, and the Good Kind of Chaos

The credits rolled.

Clint was half-dozing against James’ side, his arm looped over Bucky’s waist. Bucky, armor off and in soft sweats, had his fingers curled in James’ shirt like a grounding point. Lucky had taken the final spot, wedged between James’ boots, sighing in dog contentment.

Steve watched from the far side of the room, leaning against the kitchen island with Sam, a glass of ginger ale in one hand.

“They’re like a pile of cats,” Steve said, voice soft.

Sam bumped his shoulder. “They’re home, Steve. Let 'em be cats.”

Across the room, Bucky stirred, catching Steve’s eye with a small, content smile—one that looked more at home on him than Steve remembered. Not a mask. Not something forced. Just real.

---

The Next Morning: Pancake Showdown (Part 1 of ∞)

Clint was already in the kitchen when Bucky stumbled in, hair loose and wild, rubbing sleep from his eyes. He paused, blinking at the smell.

“You’re… cooking?”

James, leaning against the counter, flipped a pancake in the skillet like it was a trained skill. “He’s doing alright,” he said, amused.

“‘Alright’? This is a tactical breakfast assault,” Clint muttered, pretending to sulk as he held up a slightly burned pancake from his first batch. “I’m getting outclassed.”

James smirked, plating a perfect golden round. “Good. Keep up.”

“You do realize this means war,” Bucky said, reaching over James to steal a strip of bacon and lean in for a sleepy cheek kiss on Clint.

James, surprisingly casual, leaned around and kissed the other cheek. “Bring it.”

---

Later: Book Club, Round Two

Tonight’s pick was Neverwhere, which James liked because it was dark and weird but had a soft heart.

Jace had curled up with Peter near the floor-to-ceiling windows, their fingers brushing over dog-eared pages and scribbled notes. Every once in a while they’d bump shoulders, and pretend they weren’t smiling about it.

James sat between Bucky and Clint, flipping through a copy with sticky notes in the margins from all three of them.

“I like Richard,” Bucky said softly. “He reminds me of me.”

Clint nudged his shoulder. “You’re braver than he is.”

James, staring at the page, murmured, “He finds his courage in strange places. Maybe that’s the point.”

The warmth in the room was quiet but strong.

---

After: The Softest Confession

Back in their shared room—lights low, Lucky snoring from the corner—Clint and the Buckys were sprawled across the bed, half under blankets, sharing space like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“I’m not used to this,” James said quietly. “The quiet. The peace. I keep waiting for it to end.”

Bucky shifted closer, brushing their hands together. “Me too. But we decided this, didn’t we? It’s not about if we deserve it. It’s about if we want it.”

Clint, let out a breath and turned to look at both of them.

“I do,” he said. “I really do.”

James reached for Bucky’s hand on one side, Clint’s on the other. They all held on.

Not tentative.

Not afraid.

Certain.

~~

First Kisses and Other Quiet Magic

The week had been weirdly, wonderfully ordinary.

Training in the mornings. Pancake wars that were now an official competition bracket. Book club nights with tangled limbs and shared chapters. Movie marathons and Lucky stealing popcorn. Tony had even threatened to build them a scoreboard labeled Domestic Chaos Rankings™.

But under all of that—the warmth, the safety—something had started shifting.

Something soft.

Something brave.

---

Clint & Bucky: First Kiss (Soft, Sleepy, and Inevitable)

It was after midnight. They were curled on the couch, the others long gone to bed.

Bucky was half-asleep, forehead resting on Clint’s shoulder, breath slow and even. Clint shifted, just enough to look down at him.

Bucky blinked, sleepy-eyed and warm, metal fingers flexing lightly against Clint’s thigh.

“You fall asleep on me again,” Clint teased gently, “I might start charging rent.”

Bucky let out a little huff of a laugh. “Worth it.”

The silence stretched. Soft. Charged.

Clint leaned in slowly. Gave him time. Gave himself time.

When their lips met, it was gentle. No fireworks—just warmth. Real. Steady. Bucky tilted into it with a sigh that sounded like finally.

When they parted, Bucky rested his forehead against Clint’s and whispered, “That okay?”

“More than okay,” Clint murmured. “Been waiting.”

So had he.

---
Clint & James: First Kiss (Tense and Tender)

James didn’t know how to do soft.

Not really.

But he was learning, and Clint was patient with him. Too patient. It made his chest tight sometimes.

They were in the training room, cooling down from sparring. James had pushed him, hard—but Clint pushed back, and laughed, and never flinched.

James sat on the edge of the mat, breathing hard, sweat slick at his temples. Clint dropped beside him, nudging their shoulders together.

“You’re not bad at this,” Clint said.

James turned, startled. “Fighting?”

Clint grinned. “No. Living.”

And something in James cracked open—some ache, some old scar. He leaned in before he could second-guess it.

The kiss was quick, almost clumsy—but Clint steadied him with a hand at the nape of his neck.

James pulled back, wide-eyed. “Was that—?”

“Yeah,” Clint said. “You’re not the only one who wants this.”

---

Bucky & James: First Kiss (Slow and Honest)

It happened late, after everyone else had gone to bed.

Bucky found James in the kitchen, leaning on the counter in boxers and a too-big sweatshirt, drinking tea like he was trying to remember how to be.

“You okay?” Bucky asked.

James nodded. “Just… thinking.”

Bucky moved beside him, shoulder to shoulder. He didn’t say anything—just stood there, solid and warm.

“You ever think this is too weird?” James asked quietly.

“The whole time,” Bucky admitted. “Still want it.”

James turned his head, met his eyes. “You do?”

“Yeah. You?”

Instead of answering, James leaned in, slow but sure.

Their kiss was quiet. No rush. Just… the meeting of two people who knew each other better than anyone else ever would.

When they pulled apart, James said, “We’re really doing this, huh?”

Bucky smiled. “Yeah. We are.”

---

Peter & Jace

The next morning, Peter was pacing.

Wade watched from the kitchen, eating cereal out of the box. “You’re gonna wear a hole in the floor, Spidey.”

“I want to ask him out. I mean he asked me to a movie,” Peter said, hands flailing, “but I'd like to do it properly. Not 'we’re hanging out with 9 other people and Lucky the retriever.' I want—date. Real date.”

Wade smirked. “So ask him. You’ve already made heart eyes at each other for a month.”

Peter muttered something under his breath.

Jace entered the room just then, hoodie still half-on, yawning.

Peter froze.

Jace blinked. “You okay?”

“I—um—yes. No. I mean—” He blurted, “Do you want to go out? Like, go out out? Just us?”

Jace blinked again. Then smiled.

“I’d like that,” he said.

Peter practically beamed.

--

Chapter Text

-

Late Evening, Stark Compound – Soft Lights, Warm Hearts / not first kisses but something like it.

Dinner had been good. Simple, warm food with the people they were starting to call theirs. Laughter echoed, conversation flowed, and now the world was quieter. Dimmed lights, a blanket thrown over the back of the couch, and a trio of warm bodies piled together in a tangle that didn’t feel awkward. Just… right.

Clint was on the left, socked feet propped on the coffee table. Bucky—his Bucky—was curled against his side, head tucked under his arm like it belonged there. And James—silent, thoughtful James—sat close on Clint’s other side, shoulder just brushing his. Watching. Learning.

“You ever think about how wild this all is?” Clint asked, voice soft, more breath than words. “Three guys from different times, all in the same place, watching a movie about time travel and not even flinching?”

Bucky hummed a laugh. “S’not the weirdest part of my week.”

James turned his head toward Clint, eyes sharp and unreadable. “You always let people close like this?”

Clint looked between them. “No. Just you two.”

That got a reaction—James’ lips twitched, a hint of a smile, and Bucky’s fingers curled a little tighter around Clint’s hand.

They didn’t talk about it. Not out loud. Not that night.

But when Bucky tilted his head up a little later and kissed Clint—soft, tentative, warm—no one pulled away. When James, hours after that, leaned in and pressed his lips to Clint’s cheek, then his mouth, eyes flicking to Bucky like asking permission, there was only quiet breath and nods. Gentle hands. One at a time. Slow. Careful.

Later still, when Bucky and James found themselves standing side-by-side in the dark hall with only the hum of the heater and a shared look between them, they didn’t say a word before Bucky reached up, fingertips brushing James’ jaw, and kissed him too.

None of it was rushed.

-

Morning After – Sweetness Over Coffee

Sam made the eggs, James made the toast, and Bucky brewed the coffee. Clint just hovered, stealing bites and kissing cheeks.

“This is domestic,” Sam teased, elbowing James lightly as he passed him a plate. “You settling in?”

James gave him a look but nodded. “Trying.”

“Bucky’s already corrupted him,” Clint joked. “He smiled at me earlier and didn’t look like he wanted to vanish into a shadow.”

James smirked. “Not my fault you’re good at… existing.”

Sam leaned back in his chair, grinning. “I like this. You boys finding a rhythm.”

Clint wrapped an arm around Bucky’s waist and reached across to ruffle James’ hair. “Yeah, me too.”

Bucky just leaned into him and said, “We’re good.”

And they were.

....

James was reading.

His voice, soft and steady, rolled through the room like a gentle current. Not dramatic. Not showy. Just enough. The kind of voice that someone could lean into.

Clint had.

Head resting on James’ shoulder, eyes half-lidded, thumb absently brushing against the inside seam of James’ sleeve like it soothed him more than it did James. Every so often, he’d hum in amusement at a line or let out a little exhale at a familiar passage. But mostly, he listened. Pressed close. Anchored.

On James’ other side, Bucky was curled close, warm and quiet, legs folded under him on the couch. He held James’ free hand, thumb stroking lazily over the back of it. He hadn’t said much for a while—just closed his eyes now and then, soaking in the feeling of belonging. Of safety. Of the soft cadence of James’ voice and the rhythm of Clint’s breathing.

It was a moment out of time. A soft one. A still one.

James turned the page slowly, careful not to break the peace. “You’re both gonna fall asleep on me,” he murmured, but there was no complaint in it.

Clint smiled, eyes closed. “We’ve got the best audiobook in the world. Why would we do anything else?”

Bucky chuckled, deep and low. “Mm. Could get used to this.”

The book continued. The light shifted across the floor as the sun moved west. Eventually, the words ran out, but none of them moved.

They didn’t have to.

Clint’s fingers found James’ again. Bucky leaned his head against James’ arm. And James—quiet, once alone James—just sat there between them, with a small, rare smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

It wasn’t the kind of afternoon anyone else would write about.

But to them?

It was perfect.

---

Evening Light and Shared Meals
Just the Three of Them

The sun had dipped below the tree line by the time James finally stretched out his spine and tucked the book closed with a quiet thump. The silence in the room was comfortable—woven with shared warmth, the familiar cadence of breathing, and the occasional rustle of a shifting limb.

Bucky stirred first, brushing a slow kiss against James’ shoulder before sliding up to his feet and holding out a hand to Clint. “C’mon, Barton. We’re making dinner. You promised tacos.”

“I said maybe tacos,” Clint muttered, even as he took Bucky’s hand and let himself be pulled upright with a fond, sleepy smile. “We don’t even have all the stuff for tacos.”

“You said that last time,” James added, amused, following them into the kitchen. “Then you pulled out seventeen different hot sauces like it was some kind of ritual offering.”

Bucky laughed. “It was. He’s got the food prep equivalent of a utility belt.”

“Hey,” Clint said, rummaging through the fridge, “some of us like options. Don’t shame my sauces.”

James slid easily into the rhythm with them, pulling out cutting boards and knives while Bucky washed vegetables and Clint made exaggerated war cries about his “sacred spice cabinet.” There was a lot of bumping shoulders, accidental flour on noses, and Bucky shaking his head fondly when Clint threatened the tortillas for “not folding correctly.”

James, steady and precise, chopped quietly but didn’t miss a moment of it—his eyes flicking between Clint’s animated storytelling and Bucky’s warm little smiles that kept happening more and more these days.

When Clint tried to juggle peppers, Bucky mock-gasped and tackled him gently against the fridge, earning a burst of laughter and a soft “traitor” from Clint as he melted into the contact.

James just leaned back against the counter, knife set down now, arms crossed loosely over his chest as he watched them. “I thought we were making dinner, not starting a food fight.”

“We can do both,” Bucky said innocently.

“And you’d lose,” Clint added, poking Bucky in the ribs with a spatula. “I have the high ground and sauce-based warfare experience.”

They ate at the little table near the window, shoes kicked off, laughter echoing in between bites of warm tortillas and perfectly seasoned beef and roasted vegetables. Bucky’s hand found Clint’s under the table. James’ knee bumped his other side. No one pulled away.

Later, full and lazy, they sat on the couch again—this time James in the middle by quiet agreement. Bucky leaned into his side and Clint’s feet ended up in his lap while they squabbled over whether or not they were going to watch Galaxy Quest or The Mummy for the thousandth time.

“The Mummy has shirtless sword fighting,” Clint pointed out.

James raised a brow. “Galaxy Quest has Alan Rickman in prosthetics yelling about thermians.”

Bucky grinned. “Let’s flip a coin.”

They didn’t.

They just put both on and drifted into that same sweet rhythm they were still learning—quiet touches, long looks, soft smiles. Three boys. A couch. A movie night. And something warmer growing in the quiet between them.

---

“Couch’s for Movies, Not for Sleeping”
Late night with Bucky, Clint, and James

The credits had rolled a good fifteen minutes ago. Clint was mid-yawn, his fingers still tangled loosely in the hem of James’ shirt where they’d settled hours earlier. James, for his part, looked peaceful—his head tilted against the couch cushion, his breathing even. Bucky glanced between the two of them, his arm still slung around James’ shoulders, Clint’s ankle hooked loosely around his.

The warmth was perfect. The company was better.

But Bucky shifted, stretched, and made a face. “Alright. Nope. This thing’s killing my spine.”

Clint cracked an eye. “We just got comfortable.”

“This isn’t comfortable,” Bucky muttered. “This is a recipe for waking up with a neck that clicks every time I look left.”

James blinked slowly awake. “Was I asleep?”

“Barely,” Bucky said gently, already hauling himself upright and pulling Clint’s legs off his lap so he could stand. “Come on, we’ve got a perfectly good bed. No sense in waking up with back pain and regrets.”

Clint groaned but stood, stretching his arms overhead. “Fine. But I’m claiming the side near the wall. That’s my spot.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “You sleep like a cat in the sun. You’re gonna end up sprawled across the whole bed anyway.”

James chuckled, quiet and fond, following them down the hall. “You’re not wrong.”

Clint’s room wasn’t huge, but the bed was—wide enough to make this work without feeling like they were on top of each other. Clint pulled back the blankets, Bucky kicked off his socks with military precision, and James folded his jacket neatly over the chair by the dresser.

Somewhere in the process of climbing in, Clint mumbled, “This feels dangerously domestic.”

Bucky grinned as he slid in beside him. “That’s because it is dangerously domestic.”

James chuckled again and eased in on Bucky’s other side. “Dangerous is kind of our default, right?”

They settled with ease—Clint curled slightly toward Bucky’s chest, one hand pressed against his stomach. Bucky’s arm slid under Clint’s shoulders automatically. James tucked himself along Bucky’s back, long and warm, a hand lightly brushing the fabric of Bucky’s shirt near his waist.

It was quiet. Still. Safe.

“Next time,” Clint said sleepily, “you can just say you want cuddles.”

Bucky hummed. “I always want cuddles. I just also want to not wake up with a limp.”

James laughed softly, his breath brushing the back of Bucky’s neck. “Then this is perfect.”

And it was.

Clint was already halfway to sleep again, his grip softening. James had gone quiet, his presence steady and warm. Bucky lay between them, one hand resting over Clint’s, the other brushing against James’.

No one said anything more. The dark settled around them, and so did they—three boys finding comfort in the middle of the chaos, warm and tangled and where they belonged.

-

“The Morning After”
Boys in bed, mission survivors in the kitchen

The sun was just starting to edge in through the curtains when Bucky stirred.

He blinked up at the ceiling, momentarily disoriented by the warmth pressed to both sides of him, and then remembered: Clint’s room, the soft hum of the heater, the way James had curled around him like gravity pulled them that way on instinct.

Clint was still asleep, his nose tucked near Bucky’s collarbone, lashes resting against his cheek. Bucky shifted just slightly, mindful not to wake him, and felt James’ hand flex against his stomach — not awake, but aware.

Bucky smiled softly.

They had slept well.

Meanwhile, down the hall, the unmistakable sound of someone groaning filtered through the stillness. Then came the voice of Sam Wilson, loud and exasperated:

“Tony, I swear, if you keep making that noise every time you sit down, I will get you a walker and bedazzle it.”

Tony’s voice followed, cranky and hoarse: “My knees weren’t built for jumping off rooftops anymore, Sam. I’m in pain. Real Avengers pain. Legendary.”

Wade, clearly not far away: “I told you both to stretch! But nooo, you had to go all action movie hero last night. Boom! Kapow! And now look at you—geriatric Batman and his emotional support Falcon.”

Clint snorted against Bucky’s chest, muffled and half-asleep. “They’re gonna wake up the whole floor.”

“They’re already awake,” James muttered behind Bucky, voice low and raspy. “Tony sounds like someone’s bitter uncle after a bar fight.”

“Probably because Steve made him stretch,” Bucky offered dryly.

“Poor Steve,” Clint said, yawning. “He’s probably making pancakes and regretting being the responsible one.”

“Should we go rescue him?” James asked.

Bucky tilted his head toward the warmth of James’ breath on his neck. “Or we could stay here for a while longer.”

Clint gave a sleepy hum of agreement, fingers curling loosely into Bucky’s shirt. “Let the old men yell at each other. I’m happy right here.”

There was another series of bangs and Wade declaring loudly, “Peter! Jace! Your pseudo-dads are breaking the kitchen again!”

From somewhere very far down the hallway came Peter’s half-muffled “I’m not awake!” and what had to be Jace grumbling, “Tell Tony to use the kettle like a normal person!”

The three in bed dissolved into quiet laughter.

“You know,” James said softly, “for a guy who was brainwashed, then dragged through hell, this... isn’t bad.”

Clint leaned up enough to press a kiss to his cheek. “Welcome to the part where it gets better.”

Bucky brushed his fingers gently across Clint’s back. “And the part where you learn not to underestimate how good pancakes taste when Steve makes them.”

They didn’t get up for another twenty minutes. When they finally did, they arrived to find Steve, apron on, flipping pancakes with all the quiet patience of a man who had seen too much war and now dealt with midlife superpowered drama by making breakfast.

Tony was seated with a pack on his lower back, Wade was trying to convince Sam to let him DJ breakfast, and Peter was trying to climb over the couch in pajama pants while Jace appeared, coffee in hand, already done with everyone.

It was chaos.

It was home.

And for Bucky, James, and Clint—wrapped in shared smiles and the quiet touch of hands brushing—this was the best kind of morning after.

---

--

“Kitchen Table Chaos and Quiet Crushes”

Steve flipped another pancake with military precision.

“Pancakes,” he muttered to himself, “don’t explode. Pancakes don’t scream. Pancakes don’t turn invisible. I like pancakes.”

“Tell that to Wade,” Sam said, standing next to the toaster. “He just tried to ‘make them better’ with protein powder and glitter.”

“It was edible glitter,” Wade defended, clutching a pink shaker like it was holy. “There is flair, Samuel.”

Tony groaned from where he was draped over one of the stools. “If someone could please pass me the dignity I left behind after the fifth jump-kick last night...”

“You didn’t have any dignity,” Clint muttered, wandering in with a still-sleepy look, hair wild from bed. Behind him, Bucky (still barefoot) and James (still suspicious of the coffee machine) followed. All three had that just spent the night wrapped around each other look.

“Morning,” Peter chirped as he swung down from the ceiling and landed next to Jace, who was already sitting at the table, flipping through a dog-eared book. “Sorry we’re late. There was a—uh—wardrobe incident.”

Jace, sipping from a sleek mug with a warlock rune on the side, raised an eyebrow. “Was it the incident where you wore Star Wars pajama pants and tripped over your own feet?”

“I was distracted,” Peter said quickly. “By magic. And the hair. You—you got up early.”

Jace looked down at his tank top and runed forearms. “I train at dawn. Shadowhunters don’t sleep in.”

Peter blinked. “That’s so unfair. You get to look like you walked out of an anime battle scene while I look like a raccoon in compression socks.”

Jace bit back a smile. “It’s endearing. Somehow.”

That earned a grin, wide and bright and lopsided enough to make Jace look away and try to pretend he wasn’t blushing.

From the kitchen, Clint leaned over to Bucky and muttered, “Ten bucks says Peter tries to ask him out before the next mission.”

“Ten says Jace says something noble and awkward instead,” Bucky replied, grinning.

James added dryly, “I say we let them spiral and place bets on how Peter asks. Over pancakes. With glitter. Or while being tackled.”

Peter, meanwhile, was pulling a chair closer to Jace. “So, um, wanna watch a movie later? Just us, maybe?”

Jace paused. “You mean a—date?”

“I mean—unless you don’t want to—”

“No,” Jace said, then blinked and corrected, “I do want to.”

Peter’s smile practically beamed, and even Steve—ever the father figure—softened from where he was stacking plates.

Tony, sipping coffee, glanced over and muttered, “We are absolutely not allowed to scare this one off.”

Wade: “Speak for yourself. I’m gonna give Jace the shovel talk with runes. In interpretive dance.”

Peter: “NO.”

Clint: “Please yes.”

Sam: “I will pay money to see that.”

Jace: already regretting everything

James just looked over at Clint and Bucky again, arms folded, expression soft. “We’re really doing this, huh?”

Bucky leaned into his side. “Yeah, we are.”

Clint handed him a plate. “Now eat your pancakes, James. And for the love of all that is holy, don’t let Wade near the glitter again.”

..

---

“Silent Lessons & Quiet Connections”

The morning light spilled warm and soft through the kitchen windows as the last crumbs of pancakes disappeared from their plates. Clint stretched and glanced at Bucky and James, who were still lingering over their coffee, quiet but attentive.

“Alright, boys,” Clint said with a sly grin, “time for your next lesson.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow, half-smiling. “What now? More ways to get knocked out by Steve?”

“Nah,” Clint shook his head. “I’m teaching you some American Sign Language. Figured it might come in handy—and besides, it’s pretty cool.”

James gave a small nod, clearly curious but trying not to look too eager.

Clint pulled his hands into view, fingers folding and flicking fluidly. “First thing—‘hello.’ You just wave your hand like this. Easy, right?”

Bucky mirrored him quickly, grinning when he got it right on the first try.

James was a bit more cautious but copied carefully, eyes shining with concentration.

Clint smiled and made a big show of rubbing his hands together. “Next—‘friend.’ It’s two ‘hook’ hands that lock together like this.” He demonstrated, looping his fingers.

They both copied, their hands clumsy but earnest. The closeness between them, sitting shoulder to shoulder, made Clint’s chest warm.

“Now, ‘thank you’—this one’s nice,” Clint said softly, pressing his fingertips to his chin then moving his hand outward.

James looked thoughtful as he repeated the sign, then glanced at Bucky, who caught his eyes and squeezed his hand.

Clint caught the glance and chuckled, “See? Already making friends with more than just words.”

Bucky shifted, his silvery eyes glinting softly in the sunlight. “I like this. It feels... quieter, but meaningful.”

James nodded, smiling shyly. “It’s like speaking without sound, but it still says everything.”

Clint reached out and gently squeezed both their hands. “Exactly. And it’s ours now.”

For a few minutes, they practiced simple words and phrases, laughter bubbling quietly as fingers fumbled and corrected each other.

In the gentle hum of the morning, the three of them found a new way to connect—no noise needed.

---

“First Real Date”

The evening had settled over the city, stars beginning to twinkle in the clear sky as Peter nervously adjusted his jacket outside the little indie movie theater. He glanced at his phone again—Jace hadn’t arrived yet, but Peter wasn’t going to back out now.

When Jace finally appeared, his cheeks flushed slightly, eyes bright with a mixture of excitement and nerves, Peter’s breath caught in his throat.

“Hey,” Peter said softly, stepping forward with a shy smile.

“Hey,” Jace replied, his voice barely above a whisper.

Peter reached out tentatively and brushed a loose strand of hair behind Jace’s ear. “You ready?”

Jace nodded, still blinking up at him like he couldn’t quite believe this was real.

They walked inside, tickets in hand, finding seats near the back where they could talk quietly before the movie started. The previews flickered on the screen, but their attention was on each other—small smiles, shy glances, fingers brushing and then holding.

Halfway through the movie, Peter caught Jace’s hand in his, squeezing gently. Jace smiled and leaned his head on Peter’s shoulder.

Afterwards, as they walked under the streetlights, Peter finally found the courage.

“Would you want to do this again? Like a… proper date?”

Jace’s grin lit up his face. “I’d like that.”

Peter’s heart soared.

“Me too,” he whispered.

They walked a little closer, hands intertwined, the city quiet around them — the start of something tender and new.

---

Memory Lane

The air was cool but not cold as Steve led the way down familiar streets in Brooklyn, the low hum of city life wrapping around them. James, and his 1940s self, walked close beside Steve, shoulders squared but eyes wide with the quiet awe of a toman stepping into a time and place so different from what he’d known.Bucky, more relaxed now that he’d spent so much time settling into this timeline, smiled gently at both of them.

“This place hasn’t changed much,” Steve said, glancing over at the old Bucky. “Except maybe the coffee at that bodega over there. They actually sell it now.”

James raised an eyebrow, a small smirk tugging at his lips. “Coffee in the bodega? Didn’t think that was a thing back then.”

Bucky chuckled. “Welcome to the future, pal.”

Steve guided them through the familiar blocks, pointing out landmarks — the corner where he and James had gotten into their first scuffle over some bullies, the park bench where they’d shared laughs and quiet moments, and the diner that had been their go-to spot for greasy fries and bad milkshakes.

James’s eyes softened. “Feels like coming home,” he said quietly.

“You’re home,” Steve said simply, resting a hand on James’s shoulder.

Bucky looked between them, the past and the present colliding in his chest, a strange but comforting feeling.

They paused in front of a little market with string lights hanging overhead, the scent of fresh bread and roasting chestnuts drifting out. Steve grinned. “You wanna grab something before we head back?”

James nodded eagerly, and Bucky felt a warm glow seeing the old version of himself smile so easily.

As they walked back, the three of them shared stories — Steve teasing James about his stiff fighting stance, Bucky recounting a funny mishap during training with Clint, and James surprising them both with a story from his days in the service.

By the time they reached the compound, the city lights twinkled around them, and Steve pulled both Buckys into a tight hug.

“Good to have you both here,” he murmured.

James grinned, eyes bright. “Couldn’t agree more.”

Bucky squeezed Steve’s hand. “Yeah. Feels right.”

Steve smiled, looking at the two men who were, in their own ways, both a part of his life — past, present, and maybe, future.

---

The Morning After

The sun filtered in gently through the curtains, casting golden light across the floor and over the tangle of limbs still tucked under Clint’s thick quilt.

Clint stirred first, blinking the sleep from his eyes. He was curled against James’s side, warm and still, while Bucky—his 1940s counterpart—was draped over James’s other shoulder, a hand still laced in James’s under the blanket.

It should’ve been awkward. It wasn’t.

It was peaceful. Solid. Safe.

Clint smiled sleepily and rubbed a hand over his face. James made a soft noise, shifting just slightly but not waking fully. The weight of his arm across Clint’s waist was grounding in the best way.

Eventually, Bucky blinked awake, eyes bleary, hair messy, the faintest glimmer of silver still caught in his lashes from the armor that sometimes coated him when he wasn’t paying attention.

“Morning,” Clint whispered.

“Mm,” Bucky yawned. “I didn’t think I’d ever get used to this, but…”

James murmured, still mostly asleep, “You did. You’re doing great.”

Clint chuckled. “Look at us. Three grown men having a sleepover.”

James cracked one eye open. “It’s not a sleepover if you live here. It’s just being… family.”

That quieted Clint. In a good way. He pressed a kiss to James’s shoulder and another one to Bucky’s temple.

Bucky flushed, even as he leaned into the touch. “Don’t make it weird.”

“You like weird,” Clint said, grinning.

“Yeah,” Bucky admitted. “I really do.”

---

Later That Morning

Pancakes were sizzling on the stove, the coffee was strong, and Clint had music on in the background—something old and jazzy, because it made both Buckys smile.

James was flipping pancakes with surprisingly delicate precision, while Bucky leaned against the counter, slicing strawberries and stealing glances at Clint, who was filling mugs with coffee.

Clint turned, caught both of them staring, and nearly dropped the carafe.

“What?” he asked with a crooked grin.

“You’re just… really good at this,” James said simply.

“At what?”

“At making it feel like home.”

Clint blinked, suddenly flustered. “Well… good. That’s… that’s the point.”

Bucky reached over and gently bumped Clint’s shoulder. “Don’t go getting mushy, Barton.”

But the smile he wore said he didn’t mind the mush at all.

---

That Afternoon

After breakfast, the three of them took a slow walk outside the compound. Clint pointed out plants he liked. James kept pace beside him, one hand in Clint’s, the other occasionally brushing Bucky’s knuckles. Bucky, now far more confident in his armor and powers, walked a little taller than he used to, but still liked to keep close.

They didn’t need to say anything. Just being together was enough.

Every now and then, they exchanged small touches—fingers brushing, arms bumping, glances lingering.

And somewhere in the back of Clint’s mind, he thought:

Yeah. This feels like something real. Something lasting.

---

I finally did a part on one of their little dates one time it was just watching movies with everyone and the second it was you know being nerdy and going to a bookstore and this last is you know cute.. Peter adorable. It's like James/Bucky/Clint don't know that they're already dating in a very strange but still there way. LOL.

Chapter Text

Library Light

The library in the compound was Tony’s idea — or at least that’s what he claimed. In truth, it had been Pepper who insisted they needed a room without a screen. A space for thinking, reading, breathing.

Over time, it became more than just a retreat — it became a haven.

And this afternoon, the light was honey gold as it spilled in through tall windows, catching the floating dust motes like tiny stars. The room smelled of books and old paper and something faintly sweet — maybe the spiced tea JARVIS had delivered out.

Bucky sat cross-legged on the wide window seat, a thick hardcover in his hands, thumbing through the pages with practiced reverence. His hair was tucked behind his ears, glasses perched low on his nose — not because he needed them exactly, but because they made the small print easier when he wanted to read for hours without headaches.

He didn’t read aloud at first. Just sat there, turning the pages slow, mouth moving slightly like he was whispering to himself.

James was curled up at the other end of the bench, one arm slung along the backrest, head tilted to the side, watching him. He wasn’t reading — not right now. Just watching.

Clint was on the rug at their feet, back against the bench, a book in his lap that had long since been abandoned. He looked up over his shoulder every so often, just to watch Bucky’s face as he read — the soft shift in expression, the crease between his brows when he hit something intense, the little huff of amusement when something struck him funny.

Eventually, Bucky looked up. “You guys just gonna stare at me?”

James smirked, unbothered. “You read like someone who loves it. It’s nice.”

Clint added, “Also, your voice is nice. Kinda rough, but low. It’s like being narrated to by a sexy history teacher.”

Bucky flushed, ducking his head. “You’re both ridiculous.”

“Read to us,” James said, and his voice was soft, without any teasing. “Please.”

So Bucky did.

He picked up where he’d left off, voice quiet but steady, his Brooklyn drawl curling around the words like a familiar thread. The story wasn’t fancy — a war novel with too much grit and heartbreak — but he read it like it mattered. Like every word was worth giving space to.

Clint let his head rest back against the bench. James shifted closer, one hand finding Bucky’s ankle and resting there, a warm, grounding touch.

The sun shifted slowly across the sky. The words kept flowing.

By the time Bucky closed the book, his voice was a little hoarse and the room was dipped in amber light.

Clint stood slowly, stretching. “I’m gonna make tea,” he said, leaning down to press a kiss to Bucky’s temple, then another to James’ cheek. “You guys want anything?”

“Whatever you’re having,” James said. He didn’t let go of Bucky’s foot.

“Same,” Bucky murmured, finally looking up. His eyes were soft, full of something golden and fragile. “Thanks for listening.”

James smiled. “Always.”

And as Clint padded toward the kitchen, the two Buckys sat in the quiet library, hearts steady, words still lingering in the warm air between them.

---

Later

Three Boys and a Bookstore

Brooklyn in early fall was a soft kind of gold — the kind of light that made buildings look kinder and breeze feel like memory.

They didn’t plan it like a date. Not really.

Clint had just said, over breakfast and the last of the blueberry muffins, “There’s this bookstore I used to hit when I needed quiet. Still there last time I checked. Wanna go?”

And both Buckys had said yes in unison, like it wasn’t even a question.

So now here they were — three boys in flannel and boots and worn denim, walking down a quiet street where the leaves skittered like gossip and the corner shop still had wind chimes on the door.

The store was exactly as Clint remembered: narrow aisles, crooked shelves, the scent of old paper and floor polish and something warm. There was a bell on the door that gave a cheerful chime when they stepped in, and the little old man behind the counter nodded without looking up from his crossword.

James wandered first, drawn to the historical section like it had its own gravity. Bucky peeled off toward the shelves marked speculative fiction, fingers brushing faded spines, head tilting as he read titles under his breath.

Clint stayed in the middle for a moment, watching them both with a quiet smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

He was still getting used to this: having them here, close and real, like he could reach out and be sure of them.

He wandered into the aisle where Bucky was crouched down, eyes bright.

“Find anything?”

Bucky looked up, grinning. “This one’s about a space war and it has dragons. I mean... come on.”

Clint laughed. “You are such a nerd.”

“Says the guy who cried during How to Train Your Dragon.

Later

By the time they made it back to the compound, the sun was beginning to slip below the horizon — the kind of fading light that painted everything in amber and gold. Clint dropped the tote bag of books onto the couch with a dramatic grunt.

"Why did I let you two talk me into six books?" he said, stretching his back with an exaggerated groan.

James was already barefoot, sliding out of his jacket, lips quirked. “Because you love us.”

“I love books. You two are trouble.”

“Same thing,” Bucky muttered as he tossed his own haul onto the coffee table — two obscure sci-fi novels, one war memoir, and a comic book he claimed was “for research.”

The living room was quiet — the kind of quiet that came when everyone else was off-site. No missions. No check-ins. Just them, the low hum of the heating vents, and the smell of whatever Tony’s chef had left simmering in the kitchen.

Clint kicked off his shoes and flopped down into the couch. Bucky dropped beside him, all long limbs and a flannel shirt soft from too many washes. James, quieter, settled on the other side, one leg tucked under himself, fingers flipping open a book.

For a few minutes, that was it — three bodies, six new books, and a halo of silence.

Then Bucky leaned into Clint’s side, his fingers idly tracing the spine of Clint’s book where it rested against his thigh. “You know... you read really slowly when you’re pretending not to stare at us.”

Clint gave him a sidelong look. “Maybe I just like the view.”

James’s voice, low and warm, joined in. “We could give you something else to focus on.”

Clint didn’t respond with words.

He just tilted his head, kissed Bucky first — slow and sure, the kind of kiss that tasted like laughter and cinnamon from the café earlier. Then James — more tentative, just for a breath, until Clint’s hand found the curve of his jaw and deepened it.

Books forgotten, shuffled off the cushions like fallen leaves.

James leaned against Clint’s side, mouth trailing along the shell of his ear while Bucky kissed up his throat, fingers tangling in his hair. Clint’s hands slid over flannel and denim and warm skin, pulling both boys closer.

It wasn’t rushed. Wasn’t frantic.

It was slow — heated, yes, but layered with that soft, weighted intimacy that only came when you knew the touch would still be there tomorrow.

Bucky leaned his forehead to Clint’s, breath warm. “You always this good at bookstore dates?”

“Only when I’m trying to get kissed by two gorgeous troublemakers,” Clint whispered.

“You succeeded,” James murmured, pressing his lips to Clint’s temple.

The three of them folded into the couch like puzzle pieces — kisses turning to slow touches, laughter low and breathless, tangled limbs and long silences filled only with the sound of hearts slowing together.

No demands. No pressure.

Just three boys wrapped around each other, the world narrowing to warmth and affection and the safety of knowing this was real.

---

:Morning Light & Pancake Promises

The light that filtered into the common room the next morning was the soft, forgiving kind — the kind that made everything look warmer, gentler, more like a dream than something real.

Clint woke first.

Not to an alarm. Not to chaos. Just to the quiet, steady breathing of the two boys wrapped around him like living blankets. James was curled along his back, one arm across Clint’s waist, face tucked into the curve of his shoulder. Bucky, true to his name, had practically burrowed under Clint’s arm, his hair a soft tangle against Clint’s chest.

It should’ve felt awkward. Cramped.

It didn’t.

It felt like the kind of peace Clint rarely let himself imagine — let alone hold.

He lay there a while, just breathing, letting his fingers drift lazily along the curve of Bucky’s shoulder. James stirred eventually, mumbling something unintelligible and tightening his arm just a little, like he could sense Clint thinking about getting up.

"Don't," James mumbled into his shirt. "You're warm."

"You're heavy," Clint teased, earning a half-hearted swat to his thigh.

Eventually, the smell of something faintly sweet reached them — sugar and butter and probably magic — and Bucky cracked one eye open. “Are those... pancakes?”

Clint snorted. “That, my dear sergeant, is what happens when Sam beats Tony to the kitchen.”

Bucky rolled over and stretched, making an undignified noise as joints popped and his shirt rode up. James let out a groggy laugh. “That sounded ancient.”

“I am ancient,” Bucky grumbled, rubbing his eyes. “Come on. I want pancakes.”

They padded into the kitchen in various stages of hair-mussed, flannel-clad disarray. Sam was at the stove flipping pancakes like a pro, wearing a faded hoodie and pajama pants that had little cartoon falcons on them.

“You’re lucky,” he said without turning around. “Last batch’s still hot.”

Tony, already seated with a cup of coffee and reading glasses he pretended weren’t real, glanced over the rim of his mug. “Well, well. If it isn’t my three favorite snuggle bandits.”

James groaned and dropped his head on the table. “Never let Wade tell you anything again.”

Too late. Wade popped in a second later, holding a stack of pancakes and a dog-eared copy of Good Omens under one arm.

“I regret nothing,” Wade grinned, plopping into a chair. “Also, book club’s in session at 7. Bring your own theories.”

Steve, passing through with his morning run gear still clinging to him in sweat, paused long enough to press a kiss to Sam's’s cheek.“Glad to see you boys survived your literary cuddle pile.”

Clint just smirked and forked a pancake onto Bucky’s plate. “We thrive in chaos.”

“And syrup,” James added, drizzling way too much maple on his plate.

They ate together, bumping knees and stealing bites from each other’s plates, laughter curling through the kitchen like steam from the coffee.

It wasn’t perfect. But it was warm.

And Clint? Clint thought maybe, just maybe, this was what home could feel like.

---

---

---

Daisy’s Check-In

Daisy stood just inside the training room, arms crossed as she watched the boys run through one of their sparring sets. James and Bucky moved like mirror images—one honed from Hydra precision, the other still half figuring it out, but catching up fast. Clint, as always, was somewhere between scrappy and brilliant, pulling off a flip that shouldn’t have worked and making it land with just enough flourish to make the others laugh.

Daisy shook her head, smiling.

They were getting stronger. Steadier. Not just in the powers department, but emotionally too. The weight they’d carried when they’d all arrived — the uncertainty, the fear, the grief of being out of time — it had started to lift.

And it showed.

James caught her watching and waved, still panting a little. “We doing alright, Coach?”

She laughed. “You’re doing more than alright. I’ve seen SHIELD agents take months to get their coordination down. You three? You’re synced.”

Bucky beamed at the praise. James looked bashful. Clint gave a playful bow and immediately tripped over one of the gym mats.

Daisy walked over and helped him up. “You’re all stronger than you think. And not just because of the powers.”

Clint brushed off his hands, more serious now. “Feels like we’re settling into something real.”

“You are,” Daisy said quietly. “I’ve seen teams fall apart under half the pressure you three’ve faced. But you’ve built something—trust, care, rhythm.”

Bucky nodded, glancing at James. “We got lucky.”

Let’s pick that right back up — continuing from where James and Bucky were standing beside Daisy, warm with the quiet pride of people finding their place.

James offered a small smile, his voice quiet but sure. “We got lucky.”

Daisy tilted her head. “Maybe. Or maybe you made your own luck. You’re doing the work — building trust, learning to breathe through it. That’s not luck. That’s heart.”

Bucky nudged Clint with his shoulder. “She’s gonna make you cry.”

“Too late,” Clint muttered, rubbing at his eye with the sleeve of his hoodie. “Shut up.”

Daisy grinned. “Anyway, I’m proud of you. All of you. Doesn’t matter how you got your powers, or where you came from, or which version of the same guy you are—”

James raised an eyebrow. “We’re very different.”

Daisy snorted. “Sure. Totally. One of you likes Clint and the other one—” she paused as Bucky lifted a hand. “Oh. Right. Never mind. All versions like Clint. That tracks.”

Clint flushed deep red as both Buckys looked very smug.

“Anyway,” Daisy said again, louder this time, “point is, you're more than the things that happened to you. You’re more than your abilities or your trauma or your past.”

Bucky leaned against the wall, looking more relaxed than Daisy had ever seen him. “Feels like we’re starting to believe that too.”

James nodded. “Takes time. But this—” he gestured to the sparring room, to Daisy, to Clint standing beside them — “this helps.”

Daisy stepped back, her arms crossing again, but this time with a grin. “Well, take the rest of the afternoon. Eat something good. Watch something dumb. You’ve earned it.”

Bucky and James immediately looked to Clint.

“Movie night?” Clint offered with a soft smile. “We’ve got popcorn. Blankets. You can both pick the movie.”

James brightened. “Can it be the robot one again?”

“Which robot one?” Bucky asked. “We’ve seen like… six.”

“The one with the sad little trash guy.”

“Oh, Wall-E,” Clint grinned. “Hell yes.”

Daisy just shook her head fondly as the three of them walked off, already bickering about who got the couch corner and who had to make the hot cocoa.

She stood there a moment longer, alone in the training room, letting the quiet settle.

Then she whispered to herself, “You boys are gonna be okay.”

And deep down, she knew it was true.

---

After WALL-E. Tony insisted on Robo Cop.

Tony sat feet up on the coffee table, a bowl of popcorn in his lap, loudly quoting Peter Weller’s lines.

“‘Dead or alive, you’re coming with me.’ Iconic. You’re welcome, boys. That line carried cinema for a decade.”

Clint, Bucky, and James were all crammed on the couch next to him. James had the middle seat this time and looked mildly alarmed at how emotionally invested Tony was in a dystopian cyborg drama.

Bucky leaned toward Clint and whispered, “How many times has he seen this?”

“Too many,” Clint smiled whispered back. “He’s got a replica helmet in storage.”

“I heard that, Barton!” Tony called. “And it’s not a replica. It’s screen used. Respect the art.”

Peter and Jace sat curled together in the oversized armchair nearby. Jace looked deeply confused. “I still don’t understand if he’s a man, a machine, or some kind of cursed metal golem.” sometimes he still does not understand mundane shows or movies. Thanks to Simon he could atleast keep up with most of the things Peter talked about.

“Cyborg” Peter said around a mouthful of popcorn. “He’s RoboCop. He’s awesome.”

Tony threw a piece of popcorn at Peter’s head. “That’s the spirit, Spidey.”

James tilted his head, studying the screen. “Honestly, I can’t tell if this is a tragedy or a recruitment ad.”

Tony nodded sagely. “Yes. but wing commander was much worse.”

Clint sighed dramatically. “This is what I signed up for, huh?”

“You signed up to fight aliens and robots,” Tony shot back. “I delivered both. And now I deliver culture.”Clint rolled his eyes.

“You deliver trauma,” Bucky mumbled, but he was smiling. And yes Murphy being shot to death was not anyone's favorite thing.

Tony as usual had all of the information behind how it was made. That Peter Weller got a job because his face sure and the fact that he was small enough to go in the costume.

Clint pointed out that he really liked and then Dexter.

James and Bucky and Steve now wanted to see Dexter because it looked good when Tony pulled a the trailer later. And because it had a lot of books James was interested in reading.

They really liked RoboCop. It was nice to just watch a movie to watch a movie. iIt doesn't have to well thought out or over the top CGI(RoboCop was before all that anyway.) And it was refreshing and just fun and that's what James liked about it.

---

Morning After RoboCop

The apartment was quiet, sunlight creeping in through the kitchen windows as coffee brewed slowly. Clint stood at the counter in a hoodie and sweats, hair an absolute mess, spooning sugar into two mugs. Bucky — his Bucky — padded in behind him, yawning and tugging on one of Clint’s sleeves until he got a kiss on the cheek.

James was already curled up on the windowsill, wearing a pair of borrowed Stark pajama pants and reading Dune, because of course he was. His feet were tucked up and a cup of tea balanced carefully on the ledge beside him.

“You two are ridiculous,” he said without looking up.

“You’re just mad I hogged the blanket,” Clint teased, passing over the first coffee to Bucky before pouring James’ tea into a proper mug.

James smirked. “I was warm. I just won’t admit it.”

“Softie,” Clint muttered, grinning.

Bucky wandered over to kiss James’ temple before stealing a piece of toast off his plate. It was quiet, casual affection. All three of them had settled into it like it had always been this way.

They were slow that morning — moving carefully, comfortably, the way people do when they don’t need to be anywhere but with each other.

Then the front door opened.

Peter stumbled in first, eyes wide with sleep, holding a bag of bagels like a peace offering. “I brought carbs,” he mumbled.

Jace followed behind, completely awake, hair perfect, sipping a fancy iced coffee like he was born for it. “He was sleepwalking. I rescued him.”

Peter gave him a look. “You told me to go. I was perfectly happy in your bed.”

“Lies,” Jace said, tossing his jacket onto the couch. “You were making noises like a dying goat.”

Bucky covered his mouth to hide his laugh. James didn’t bother.

Clint took the bag of bagels with reverence. “You're all saints.”

“We know,” Jace said.

Sam flopped onto the couch beside James and leaned against his shoulder with a sigh. “Did you guys really watch RoboCop again?”

“We’re doing a full cultural tour,” James said proudly. “Tony says next is The Terminator.”

Sam groaned. “How is that better?”

“It’s not,” Clint replied, “but it’s got more leather jackets.”

.
Later That Morning

While the others ate, Daisy popped in — just long enough to grab a cup of coffee and check on everyone.

“You guys good?” she asked, scanning them with a mix of relief and curiosity.

“Domestic bliss,” Clint said, arm around Bucky, foot nudging James’ under the table.

Peter made a heart shape with his hands behind Jace’s head. Jace pretended not to notice.

“Okay,” Daisy said with a grin. “Just checking.”

As she left, the room filled again with quiet laughter, the smell of bagels, and the low hum of music in the background.

No battles. No powers. No past weighing down the present.

Just… peace.

---

Compound later that Afternoon

Book Club and Banana Bread

The sun hung warm and low in the compound’s glass-walled rec room, casting golden light over the couch where Clint was curled up, a blanket thrown over his legs, one hand absentmindedly stroking Bucky’s hair. The 1940s version, of course — who, despite his earlier reservations about “futuristic furniture,” had fully given in to the comfort of the couch and the softness of Clint’s hoodie.

James sat on the other end of the sofa, legs stretched out, a book open in one hand. He wasn’t reading aloud this time, just quietly enjoying the stillness while his other hand was loosely linked with Clint’s over a pillow. There was something solid about them like this — easy, content, no need for explanation.

From the kitchen came the smell of banana bread — not something any of them planned, but Tony and Wade had appeared an hour earlier with way too many bananas and a suspiciously intact recipe card. Somehow it hadn’t turned into chaos. Yet.

Peter wandered in holding a notebook and flopped beside Jace, who had appeared silently at some point and was now pretending not to be reading over Peter’s shoulder. Their shoulders touched. Neither moved away.

“You gonna share the banana bread?” Clint called, not moving except to squeeze James’s hand once.

“Not if Wade eats it all first!” Peter yelled back.

Tony’s voice came floating through the kitchen: “This is a culinary masterpiece, and Wade is part raccoon! He can’t help himself!”

Wade, indignantly: “HEY. I washed my hands!" !”

Bucky snorted against Clint’s side. “Do you ever get used to it here?”

James murmured, “Nope. But you do start liking it.”

Clint smiled. “Yeah. You start wanting to stay.”

Jace looked up, eyes soft, watching all of them from the armchair with Peter leaning on him. “We’re not exactly traditional,” he said.

“But we’re not alone,” James added, meeting his gaze.

Clint looked at both Buckys, then over to Peter and Jace, and finally toward the kitchen chaos. “We’re family.”

A warm beat of silence.

Then Wade yelled, “FAMILY THAT EATS BANANA BREAD TOGETHER STAYS TOGETHER!”

Tony added, “...unless someone used my experimental protein powder, in which case we may need to evacuate.”

Clint groaned. “God help us.”

Peter: “I’ll get the Tupperware.”

James: “I’ll get the fire extinguisher.”

Bucky just curled in tighter beside Clint and mumbled, “I’ll stay right here.”

And Clint, smiling softly, kissed the top of his head. “Yeah. Me too.”

---

Golden Hour, Compound Rec Room

The compound settled into the late afternoon hush, sunlight stretched in soft gold through the tall windows of the common room. Clint shifted where he sat, one knee bent beneath him on the couch, a worn hoodie pulled halfway over his hands. Bucky — his Bucky — was half-dozing, his head in Clint’s lap, cheek smushed slightly as Clint’s fingers moved gently through his hair.

James sat at the far end of the couch, spine pressed to the armrest, book resting open against his bent knee. One hand held his place; the other was wrapped around Clint’s ankle, grounding himself in quiet contact.

No words passed between them for a while. The sound of soft laughter drifted in from the kitchen. Peter’s voice, high and scandalized. Wade’s chaotic cackle. Tony’s muttering and the whirr-click of Stark kitchen tech being overworked on banana bread.

James flipped a page. “You know,” he said casually, “this whole book club thing might be the best part of the future.”

Clint smiled, still stroking Bucky’s hair. “That or the coffee. You were very impressed with the espresso machine.”

“I was,” James admitted. “Still am.”

From Clint’s lap, Bucky mumbled, voice groggy and warm. “Y’know I still don’t trust that machine. It hisses like it’s alive.”

James snorted. “It is alive. It runs on spite and caffeine. That’s how Tony made it.”

“Sounds like someone else I know,” Clint said dryly, flicking a finger at James’ boot.

Before James could retaliate, the front door opened. Jace strolled in, sleeves rolled up, a leather-bound book in one hand and a cup of something iced in the other. Peter followed a beat later, arms full of notebooks and half a bag of chips.

Jace took one look at the trio on the couch, raised a brow, and walked over with zero hesitation. “Is this a designated cuddle zone or are you just slowly absorbing Clint for warmth?”

“Yes,” James said without looking up.

Peter dropped his notebooks with a flop on the coffee table and flopped himself across the floor beside the couch like a cat in a sunbeam. “I bring you literary contributions and absolutely no personal space boundaries.”

Bucky stretched slightly, half-sitting up now, hair a mess and hoodie collar rumpled. “You bring crumbs.”

Peter blinked innocently. “I am the crumbs.”

Jace sat beside Peter, leaning his shoulder into his with casual familiarity. “So what’s today’s selection? Romance? War? Sci-fi with suspicious amounts of shirtless sword fighting?”

James held up his book. “Dystopia. Still trying to get Bucky to read Brave New World, but he thinks it sounds depressing.”

“Because it is,” Bucky muttered, rubbing at his eye. “I want something happy. Or at least with dragons.”

Clint chuckled. “I vote for dragons.”

James sighed dramatically. “Fine. Next pick: dragons. But you’re reading it out loud.”

Bucky grinned, wide and easy. “Deal.”

Just then, Wade burst into the room with a tray in his hands and flour on his cheek. “Gentlemen! And lady adjacent!” He paused. “Peter. I come bearing banana bread and deeply unqualified emotional support.”

Tony followed, slower, with a cup of coffee and his usual Stark brand smugness. “I supervised. You’re welcome.”

Wade deposited the tray onto the coffee table like it was sacred. “Fresh out of the oven, no protein powder this time. I swear on my favorite pair of unicorn socks.”

Clint reached for a slice with a hum of approval. “If I die, avenge me.”

“I always avenge you,” James said, stealing a slice too.

Bucky took his with both hands and mumbled a soft “thank you,” before leaning back against Clint’s side once more, now fully awake but still content.

Across from them, Peter popped a bite in his mouth and said through a mouthful, “Honestly, this is the most emotionally healthy group I’ve ever been in.”

“Don’t jinx it,” Tony muttered, sipping his coffee.

But in the low light, in the soft warmth, it felt true. Peaceful. Full of strange little pieces that somehow fit.

And Clint looked down at the two men beside him — one warm and sleepy, the other sharp-eyed and soft-spoken — and knew this was exactly where he wanted to be.

---

Rooftop Glow: First Kisses, Quiet Smiles

The rooftop of the compound wasn’t technically for lounging. But that never stopped anyone. Tony had long since installed benches, subtle heaters, and low LED strips that gave the rooftop a soft golden outline.

That night, it was almost too perfect — the kind of crisp air that made you breathe deeper, the kind of quiet that wrapped around your shoulders like a blanket.

Peter was sitting cross-legged on one of the benches, hoodie zipped halfway, sneakers tapping against the metal ledge. Jace was beside him, posture graceful as ever, boots tucked neatly under him, head tilted up toward the stars.

They’d been talking about constellations. Then favorite musicals. Then their worst dates (Peter’s involved getting stuck to a subway door, Jace’s involved demon ichor and a broken rooftop). Somewhere along the line, the talking had softened into quiet.

And now?

Peter’s fingers brushed Jace’s. Slowly. Not an accident.

Jace didn’t move away. “You’re staring,” he said, voice soft.

“I know,” Peter replied, smiling. “You’re kinda... ridiculously handsome. And also possibly magic.”

“Possibly,” Jace teased, looking over.

Peter leaned in, slow but steady. “Can I kiss you?”

Jace nodded once. “Yes.”

And so Peter did — lips brushing warm and tentative, then surer when Jace leaned in too. His fingers slid into Jace’s hair, and Jace’s hand came to rest on Peter’s chest. Neither of them rushed. It was sweet, slow, and definitely worth the wait.

A few yards over, behind the rooftop chimney stack, Clint was trying not to laugh.

“You’re the one who wanted to give ‘em privacy,” he whispered, smiling as he settled back against the warm rooftop tiles.

Bucky was stretched out beside him, half-draped across Clint’s side, hair messy from the wind. James was on Clint’s other side, legs out, leaning in enough that all three of them were touching, one way or another.

“They look happy,” Bucky said, voice low.

“They are happy,” James added, then glanced at Clint. “So are we.”

Clint turned just enough to kiss James first — slow and lingering — before shifting to catch Bucky’s lips in a smile-warmed kiss of his own. When they finally settled again, Bucky tucked his head under Clint’s chin, content.

And below them, Wade absolutely saw the whole thing from the security cam and was already drafting his victory text.

---

The Next Morning

Tony was sipping his espresso when Wade sauntered into the lab, smugness practically glowing.

“I’m not saying I told you so—”

“You’re absolutely saying it,” Tony replied, not looking up.

“Fine. But you owe me for betting Clint would lock it down before the month was up.”

Tony sipped again. “That’s rich, considering Natasha cleaned out the pool before she even left. I still don’t know how she knew.”

“She’s Natasha,” Wade said with a shrug. “She just knows.”

In the kitchen, Steve was grumbling into his coffee while Sam counted out crumpled bills.

“She shouldn’t know things when she’s out of the country,” Steve muttered.

“She’s got powers, man,” Sam replied. “Or bugs in every building.”

Clint walked in wearing Bucky’s hoodie, followed by Bucky in one of James’ shirts and James still half-asleep with a book in his hand.

They looked cozy. Smug. Kiss-bruised.

Wade lifted his mug. “Worth it.”

---

---

Elsewhere: Peter and Jace

Meanwhile, upstairs in a quieter corner of the compound, Peter and Jace sat on the window bench in the library, tangled up in a blanket, a pile of books beside them and a mostly empty plate of breakfast pastries on the windowsill.

Peter rested his chin on Jace’s shoulder. “So, uh… about last night.”

Jace turned his head slightly. “I liked it. You?”

Peter’s smile was small, sweet, real. “A lot.”

Jace looked down at their hands, loosely laced in the blanket. “I haven’t done this before. The dating part. Especially not with someone who brings me donuts and listens when I ramble about runes.”

Peter grinned. “Well, I haven’t dated a glitter-wearing demon-slaying warlock before, but here we are.”

Jace snorted. “We’re doomed.”

Peter kissed his cheek. “Only in the best way.”

---

Back in the Kitchen

“Movie night tonight?” Tony called out, already back at the espresso machine.

“Only if I get to pick!” Wade shouted. “We’ve done sci-fi, horror, and weirdly erotic documentaries. It’s my turn.”

“What kind of movie are we talking?” Clint asked warily.

“Something heartfelt,” Wade said innocently. “With explosions.”

“Pass,” James said, sipping his coffee.

“Something with dragons,” Bucky offered, sleepy but firm.

“Agreed,” Jace’s voice echoed from the hallway. “Only dragons.”

Tony sighed. “You’re all nerds.”

“Pot,” Clint said, pointing, “meet kettle.”

And as the kitchen filled with voices, clinking mugs, and the buzz of the espresso machine, it was clear this strange little corner of their world — full of snipers, soldiers, spider-boys, sorcerers, and smartasses — had become something steady. Something that felt a lot like home.

---

---

That Night: Stormlight & Movies

The storm rolled in slow, soft at first — distant thunder and the whisper of rain against the windows. It was the kind of night that demanded sweaters, socks, and maybe a blanket or three.

In the main lounge, someone (probably Wade) had already picked a movie and left it paused: Howl’s Moving Castle, with the volume lowered, waiting.

Clint arrived first, carrying two huge folded blankets. “Movie night’s on,” he called into the hallway.

“Coming,” Bucky’s voice answered, already closer than expected.

By the time Clint had settled onto the wide couch, both Buckys were there. Bucky had clearly stolen one of Clint’s sweaters, sleeves too long and pooling at his wrists, and James had ditched his usual black-on-black for a long-sleeved soft blue tee that made his eyes look unfairly good.

The three of them took up the entire left side of the couch.

Clint was in the middle, arms casually over both their shoulders, sharing the biggest blanket. James leaned in from his right, comfortably pressed in, while Bucky folded into his left side, head resting on Clint’s shoulder with the kind of ease that only came from safety.

Half an hour into the movie, rain tapped steadily on the glass, and thunder rumbled deep and soft like a lullaby.

Bucky had his eyes half-closed, one hand tangled in Clint’s shirt.

James was whispering commentary under his breath — not enough to annoy, just enough to make Clint chuckle.

“You’re doing this on purpose,” Clint muttered.

“Doing what?”

“Being adorable.”

James smirked but didn’t deny it.

From across the room, Sam looked over, watching them all curled up together. “You owe me ten,” he whispered to Steve.

Steve sighed. “Why do I keep betting against love?”

Sam clapped him on the back. “Because you’re a sap with trust issues.”

“Fair.”

---

The movie ended quietly, and no one moved.

“Again?” Clint murmured, voice soft against Bucky’s hair.

“No,” James yawned. “Just… stay.”

And they did.

---