Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

By the time Bucky and his crew rolled back onto the army base, the sky had already fallen heavy, a leaden slab of clouds pressing down like it might crush the city itself.

He never liked weather like this. The gloom always dragged him back to his mother's funeral—nobody came that day, just him and Becca, huddled under a tiny umbrella, her wails sharp in the rain. The drops hammered the black coffin, cold and unfeeling. He remembered forcing his tears back because, even then, he was the only man left in the family.

Until a man appeared behind them, umbrella held high. Mr. Jones, sharp in a dark suit that gleamed too much even in the rain, expression carved from stone, standing on the soggy ground like a statue. Nearby, a black luxury car waited, its slick surface reflecting faint glimmers through the downpour. That’s when he first realized—his life was about to twist into something unrecognizable.

Now, on the steps of the headquarter, he saw the shadow of that man’s next generation. Rick Jones, suit crisp, tie tight, standing by a matching black car with the calm assurance of someone who had been waiting all along.

Bucky felt it then. The world he’d left behind had come knocking. He’d been warned this day would come. He thought he was ready, but facing it head-on was like a fist to the chest—pulling and resisting all at once. His lungs felt tight, as though the air itself conspired against him.

He instinctively looked to his team, searching for any reassurance in their eyes. They vanished into the barracks without a word, leaving him alone in the wind.

"Time's up, Mr. Barnes.” Rick’s voice cut through the damp, even, unshakably calm, far older than his twenty-something years.

Bucky stayed silent, throat tight, finally croaking, “…I need to run this by command.”

“Already cleared.” Rick replied sharply, bowing slightly. “Your leave has been approved. Your luggage is packed.” He opened the car door, gesturing politely.

Bucky let out a long sigh, memories of leaving his family swarming back—the resolve he’d clutched like a shield, now scattered like ashes. He lowered himself into the car, hearing the door thud closed behind him as the base shrank in the distance.

The ride home stretched long. Suburban streets blurred past, a strange mix of slowed memory and accelerated time. Fields and skeletal trees gave way to manicured lawns and wrought-iron gates, until the outline of the Rogers estate appeared.

Perched on Long Island’s northern shore, the estate was a fortress against the world. The Georgian mansion, red brick and white columns, commanded the drive that stretched wide and true. Rows of oaks swayed in the wind; the lawn sliced clean like a blade. Even after the chaos of post-war years, the house held its dignity, unmoved.

The car slowed to a stop on the gravel driveway, tires crunching. Rick stepped out, opening the door for him. Bucky drew a deep breath, staring at the house he’d known as a boy. Time seemed frozen here, untouched except for the black mourning drapes at the windows, the hush thick as if the estate itself was holding its breath.

Rick gestured to the servants moving the luggage, and under the eaves, one man waited. Sam Wilson, dark coat, calm expression, measured steps. He came forward, hand outstretched, still strong, still steady.

“Welcome home, Mr. Barnes.”

Buck gripped his hand tightly, warmth and strength sparking memories of countless tight spots they’d shared. “Thanks, Sam. Wish we weren’t meeting under… these circumstances.”

A faint smile tugged at Sam’s lips. “Truth be told, sir, you’re right. But no matter what, Mrs. Rogers and Miss Becca have been waiting for you a long time.”

The names hit him like a punch to the chest. He quickened his steps, striding across the threshold.

Inside, the mansion remained grand: crystal chandeliers hung from high ceilings, their glow dimmed behind the mourning drapes; a long Persian carpet swallowed the sound of his boots; the air smelled of candle wax and lilies, heavy and solemn.

By the marble fireplace, he finally saw them.

Sarah Rogers, still slender, the lines on her face deeper than he remembered, silver streaking her hair. Clad in black, a low-key silver cross at her throat, eyes still sharp—the final pillar holding the family upright.

And Becca, grown into a tall, composed young woman. Her black dress hugged her frame, her gaze steady, confident. No trace of the rain-soaked child he’d once seen—gone was the girl crying under the umbrella

The moment their eyes met, Becca’s lit up.

“Bucky!” She ran to him, throwing herself into his arms. He lifted her, spinning once, laughter and surprise mingling.

Setting her down, he met Sarah’s gaze. Those eyes, still piercing, seemed to read his very soul.

“Hey, Sarah,” he said softly.

“Don’t think you can act all casual, boy,” she said, stern but softened, “I half-expected you to grow a backbone, yet here you are, years gone and still dodging home.”

“I sent letters… I even tapped out a telegram,” Bucky said, defensive.

“And that’s supposed to make it the same?” Sarah frowned, about to scold him further—but Bucky leaned in, pulling her slight frame into his chest. The sharp angle of her shoulder pressed against him like a knife.

“You’re thinner… didn’t the army feed you right?” Sarah’s tone was half chastising, half worry.

Before he could answer, Becca piped up, grinning like a devil. “Thinner? Look at him! Muscles hard as iron, like a freakin’ grizzly bear.” She laughed, sizing up her brother with eyes full of pride.

Bucky shot her a mock glare, then let his smile fade. The air tightened. He lowered his voice. “Why’s it so quiet today? Where’s everyone else?”

Sarah’s expression darkened; she shook her head. “I know what you’re asking. Today’s only for the closest family. The others’ll show up at the funeral tomorrow.”

Bucky’s gaze drifted toward the staircase. For a heartbeat, he thought he saw Steve descending as he always had—hand on the banister, clutching a book, totally absorbed, not noticing Bucky standing below.

But the staircase was empty. Just the long shadows cast by the overhead lights, silence so thick it felt solid.

“Is he—” Bucky’s voice broke, rasping out of his throat.

Sarah reached out, nudged his elbow, soft but firm. “Go on. You need to see this.” Then her hand caught his left, the one scarred from years past. Her fingers were icy but firm, no pain, yet clear in meaning.

Bucky’s chest tightened. He drew in a long breath, then stepped toward the stairs, slow and heavy, like climbing some fate he couldn’t dodge.

The study door was half-open. He pushed it, and the familiar scent hit him first.

This was Steve’s domain, the heart of the Rogers family. A half-finished sketch hung on the easel—Brooklyn’s street corner, pencil lines frozen mid-motion. In the corner, a pile of scattered sketchbooks, pencils strewn like they’d been dropped mid-thought.

But this wasn’t just an artist’s room. The dark walnut desk was solid, commanding. Ledgers and heavy folders sat on top. A Colt pistol glinted coldly in the dim light. On the other side, a framed family photo, a snapshot from his birthday post-war celebrations with friends, and a formal portrait of the “Avengers” leaders—all suits sharp, faces serious.

Bucky’s eyes fell on the envelope in the middle of the desk. Familiar handwriting:

“To Bucky, From Steve.”

His chest tightened; fingers trembled. He broke the seal. The paper was rough, ink dark. For a moment, he could swear he heard Steve’s voice trickling from the page.

Dear Bucky,

By the time you read this, I’m no longer in the family seat. Don’t get it twisted—I’m not dead. At least, not the way everyone outside should think I am.

I inherited Dad’s position not out of ambition, but to protect Mom, you and Becca, and the folks in Brooklyn. Over the years, though, power and blood debts drag you down like quicksand. That assassin… it was the final nudge. Bullet didn’t kill me, but it made me see: if I stay, I’ll drag everyone down with me.

So I had to leave. I wanted to see the world beyond, free of hatred and business chains. Maybe I owed myself that.

But the family can’t sit empty. The Avengers can’t be leaderless. If the world knew I’d stepped aside, enemies would pounce, the union would shake, blood would spill. We agreed on a story: Steve Rogers died from gunfire. The real heir had to step in immediately.

I know you found your place in the army. I know you left to avoid sinking into the same muck. But Bucky… I have no one else to entrust. You’re my brother—not just by blood or name, but because you’ve always carried the weight of guarding others, the family.

I’m sorry for putting this burden on you. I know you’ve wanted another life, but right now, you’re the only one who can lead. At least until the storm passes.

One day, if you can steer this all toward something cleaner—less blood debt in the world—you’ll have done better than I ever could.

Take care of Mom. Take care of Becca. They matter more than any power.

Wherever you go, you’re always my brother.

Loved,

Steve

“What a bastard,” Bucky muttered. First thought to crumple the paper, but he flipped it over. On the back, scrawled roughly:

The study’s yours now.

His eyes roamed the room. Memories surged: lying side by side with Steve, sketching plans for the future; late-night arguments about family, war, freedom, responsibility. Everything was frozen now, cold—but that desk… it stood firm, a silent witness to the growth, the fights, and the partings of two brothers.

He eased into the leather chair, the back creaking under his weight. His hand swept across the desk, the cold wood snapping him awake. Without thinking, he shifted a few things around—pen holder, inkwell, paperweight—lining ’em up just right so they wouldn’t get in the way.

His fingers finally settled on the photo in the middle. Steve on his twenty-fourth birthday, right arm thrown over Bucky’s shoulder, smiling like he owned the damn world. Around ’em, family and friends laughed—some wide and bright, some tight-lipped but warm.

On the other side of the frame, Steve’s left hand curled around some scruffy-haired punk, the kind that looked like trouble. The guy grinned straight at the camera, cocky as hell, like he was daring Bucky: “Hey, soldier, you really think you deserve that chair?”

Bucky snorted low, tapping that arrogant mug with a finger.

“Shut it, Clint.”

Bucky leaned against the dim hallway wall, eyes tracing down to the hall below, where shadows stretched across the floor. The chandeliers hung under black drapes, wreaths drooped in the corners, and the solemn hum of a piano filled the space—every little detail reminding him this was Steve Rogers’ “funeral.”

The Rogers name wasn’t new in New York. Brooklyn-born, Irish roots deep in the streets. Back in Prohibition, they carved out their turf. By the ’30s, crooked cops, a lazy city government—hell, the streets were almost abandoned—and the Rogers family, leading what would later be called the “Avengers,” stepped up. Some called them gangsters; some swore they were the real guardians. From dock unions to speakeasies, underground fight rings to machine shops, they slowly stitched the city together, thread by bloody thread. By the mid-’50s, few neighborhoods weren’t touched by their reach.

Bucky knew the other side of that power: blood and fire. Steve hadn’t earned the Avengers’ command through bloodline alone; it was his steel nerve at the table, his cool under the barrel of a gun, and the way he understood the people that made him a leader. He just wanted a sliver of order in a world gone mad—and that obsession had made him enemies, plenty of them.

And eventually, a bullet found him.

The funeral, though a ruse, was no joke. Enemy eyes could be anywhere—lurking in corners, disguised among the mourners. Every smile, every eulogy, could hide a knife in the dark.

Footsteps echoed softly from the hall, snapping him out of his thoughts. Sarah and Becca had taken their places in mourning black, heirs to the family’s legal authority. Bucky stood beside them, greeting a stream of attendees: loyal family, trusted allies, and strangers testing the waters with each polite handshake.

A broad-shouldered man stepped forward next, hand extended, voice polite but carrying a strange, forced warmth. “Please accept my condolences. Mr. Schmidt asked me to pass them along.”

Bucky didn’t know the guy, but shook his hand anyway, feeling a strength that bordered on challenge. Before he could speak, Sarah cut in smoothly: “Thank you, Mr. Rumlow.”

Rumlow offered a crooked grin. “Sir said, if you need anything, don’t hesitate.”

Bucky caught a flicker of displeasure in Sarah’s eyes—she wasn’t keen on chatting with him. So he stepped in, tone measured, polite but firm: “We appreciate Mr. Schmidt’s generosity.”

Rumlow nodded and melted back into the crowd. Sarah exhaled under her breath: “A cat crying over a mouse. Hydra’s never been on our side.”

Bucky had heard of this crew—the ones running New York’s drug trade. “Hydra, huh?”

A lazy, sharp voice cut in: “Chop off one head, two more show up. Worse than cockroaches.”

Bucky’s lips twitched—he knew that voice. Dark tailored suit, crisp white shirt, silk tie, shoes polished to a mirror shine. Hair neat, goatee smirking just enough. Eyes bright with arrogance and confidence.

Tony Stark. Old friend of the Rogers family, now young boss of the Italian Stark crime family, and one of the core Avengers.

Bucky let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, a small smile creeping across his face. “Tony.”

“Good to see you, Buckaroo,” Tony said, smirk lifting the corner of his mouth. He glanced at Sarah politely, bowing his head: “Mrs. Rogers, pardon me. Mind if I borrow Bucky for a minute?”

Sarah’s eyes met Tony’s briefly before nodding. “Of course. Me and Becca can manage. Go ahead.”

Bucky nodded and fell in step beside Tony, walking out through the garden behind the house. They made their way along the stone path to a white ash tree that had seen the rise and fall of the Rogers family. The funeral was set beneath it. Wind swept through, scattering incense and wreaths, mingling with the damp scent of earth.

“You already read his letter?” Tony asked.

Bucky was silent, eyes on the shadow beneath the tree. “Yeah. And this was the best you could come up with?”

Tony raised a brow, scoffing softly. “Almost had him in the coffin for real. So yeah… sorry. We tried to keep him and his family alive.”

“So now it’s my turn to clean up the mess? Tony, you know why I left.”

“I know. But you’re his brother in every sense that counts,” Tony shrugged. “Besides, you weren’t our first pick.”

Bucky blinked, surprised. “I wasn’t?”

“Of course not,” Tony exhaled, eyes softening for a moment. “Steve respected your choice—didn’t wanna drag you back into the world you were running from. Just so happens our first pick said no.”

Bucky’s brow furrowed. “Who?”

“Clint.”

Bucky’s steps faltered. “Clint?”

“Surprised?” Tony’s smirk widened. “He’s not that brash circus kid anymore.”

It made sense, somehow, though it caught him off guard. Ten years back, Clint had run from the traveling circus, armed with nothing but an old bow, taking out gangsters to save Tony’s kidnapped butler, Jarvis. Steve had seen his guts, brought him in. Since then, Clint had carved his own place in the family, earning respect from other clans and the Avengers alike.

And somewhere, stubborn as it was, he’d left a spot in Bucky’s heart, even if Bucky never wanted to admit it.

“Why’d he turn it down?” Bucky’s voice was low, rough around the edges, emotions bristling. “I thought he’d jump at the recognition.”

“Yeah,” Tony’s smile softened, eyes drifting to the distant cemetery. “But he doesn’t see himself as the best pick. Lately, he’s been pulling back from the family business. Mind elsewhere.”

“Where?”

Tony shook his head. “Ask our other friend.”

He stopped suddenly, gesturing for Bucky to look ahead. On the path, a striking woman waited, calm, collected. Black dress, pearl necklace catching faint light, red lips, eyes icy—she carried the kind of aura you didn’t argue with.

Natasha Romanoff—the woman who ran the Red Room, the biggest damn information web this side of the Hudson. One of the so-called “Avengers,” though Bucky knew better than to think of them as saints.

Bucky stepped forward, offering his arm with old-world manners he hadn’t quite shaken.
“Miss Natalia.”

Her lips curved. “James.” She slipped her hand through his arm, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Graceful, untouchable.

Across the way, Tony Stark caught the sight of them and grinned, that sharp little smirk that said he was already five moves ahead. “Well, don’t let me interrupt the prom,” he muttered. “I gotta track down Rhodey and Pep.” He melted back into the crowd, steel-gray suit disappearing in the wash of black umbrellas and darker intentions.

Left alone, Bucky and Natasha strolled down the narrow path, her heels clicking against wet stone.

“So what the hell’s he into this time?” Bucky asked. His voice came out tighter than he meant.

“No one knows the details.”

“Not even you?”

“He’s got his mess in Brooklyn. Won’t talk about it. Won’t let anyone close.” Natasha’s eyes gleamed, unreadable. “And when a man like Clint Barton keeps his mouth shut? You know it ain’t anything good.”

Bucky’s jaw locked. He knew Clint’s brand of stubborn—the kind that marched straight into a buzz saw just to prove it could. “He’s not doing anything stupid again, is he?”

“My people say he’s tangling with Ivan Banionis.” She said it like she was ordering a drink, cool and flat. “Russian mafia. Word is, he’s scraping together cash.”

Bucky froze, heart kicking hard against his ribs. “Jesus Christ. Banionis?” His voice dropped. “You can pull strings, right? Get him clear?”

“You know the Red Room doesn’t touch their business,” she replied, her tone gone cold as the rain. “Maybe you should be the one to talk to him. You’re the boss now, whether you like the title or not.”

The word sat like glass in his throat. Boss. He gave a short, bitter laugh. “Yeah, well, I’m not thinking about that right now.”

Her grip tightened on his arm, nails a whisper against his sleeve. “You don’t have the luxury to look away, James. The wolves are circling. Too many hands reaching for your crown. And the son of a bitch who tried to put a bullet in Steve is still walking free. We need you steady at the head.”

By then they’d reached the end of the path. The crowd had gathered by the grave, all black coats and black umbrellas. The air hung heavy, thick with rain and incense. The coffin rested above the earth, a king’s farewell staged in oak and velvet.

Only a few knew the truth—that Steve Rogers wasn’t in that box. That somewhere on the open road, he was riding free, chasing horizons on a beat-up bike.

The priest mumbled his words, Latin half-lost in the hiss of rain. As the coffin lowered, Bucky stood shoulder to shoulder with Sarah and Becca, the weight of the city pressing down on him like a crown he never asked to wear.

And then—something in the distance pulled his gaze. A figure by the tree line, blurred by rain.

That face.

The same one staring out of the photo on Steve’s desk. The one Tony and Natasha only spoke of in fragments. The one that haunted too many nights Bucky wished he could forget.

Clint Barton.

His blond hair plastered to his skull, bruises fresh and ugly across his jaw. Black suit hanging off him like it didn’t belong, shirt collar loose, tie gone. He looked like he’d just crawled out of a fight and didn’t care if he walked into another.

Their eyes locked through the rain.

For one raw second, it tore Bucky open—anger, relief, hurt all tangled into something that stole his breath. Clint didn’t flinch. His gaze was steady, empty, like he was already half a ghost. He gave the smallest nod, then turned, walking back into the trees until the storm swallowed him whole.

The band struck up the dirge. Brass and strings drowning the air, heavy enough to drag hearts into the dirt. Becca nudged Bucky, pulling him back from wherever his mind had gone.

He looked down. The rose was still clenched in his fist.

He stepped forward, loosened his grip, and let it fall. The rain carried it down into the waiting coffin, red petals dissolving into black earth.

“You look like you got hit by a goddamn truck.”

Bucky leaned back in his chair, voice casual, almost playful—but his eyes cut sharp as glass, taking in every bruise on the man across from him.

Clint shifted stiffly on the sofa, turning his head just enough to glare. Dark circles dragged under his eyes, a purple bruise painted across his cheekbone. He didn’t bother to answer—just stared, the kind of stare that was meant to shut a guy up without a word.

Bucky shrugged, lips curling into that half-innocent smile that wasn’t fooling anybody. “Relax, pal. I’m just sayin’. Real touching picture, though.”

Clint finally barked out a laugh, rough and dry. “Yeah, real funny.” He flicked his hand in a crude gesture and turned away, like wiping Bucky out of the room would make him disappear. No matter the scars, no matter the reputation, Bucky still saw the same hot-headed punk he’d always been—stubborn as hell, too proud to admit when he was bleeding.

“Alright, boys, knock it off.” Mrs. Rogers’ voice sliced through the tension like a razor. Sarah didn’t raise her tone, but it cut clean. “You mind letting Mr. Murdock have the floor?”

Clint was first to fold. He dropped his gaze, voice low. “Sorry, ma’am.”

Bucky gave a small nod of agreement, then turned toward the man at the center of the room. “Go on, Counselor.”

Matt Murdock stood tall in the firelit chamber, suit pressed, cane steady at his side. The hollow gaze of his eyes didn’t matter—he carried himself with a calm that demanded attention. In this city, people whispered that the blind lawyer remembered everything, and his tongue was sharp enough to win respect from both the suits and the street.

He found the wooden chest by touch, opened it smooth, and lifted out the papers they’d all been waiting for. Shadows from the fire licked over heavy curtains and dark oak panels while the room hushed, like the whole damn house was holding its breath.

Murdock’s voice was steady, each word falling like a gavel. He read through the bequests—thanks to Rick, care for Sarah and Becca, fair cuts of property and cash. Across the way, Stark lounged like a cat, glass in hand, his smirk never quite leaving. Natasha sat beside him, silent, eyes sharp enough to draw blood.

“…And the remainder of the estate—the houses, the stock, the businesses—are to pass into the hands of my adoptive brother, James Buchanan Barnes. He will assume the position of head of the Rogers family and of the Avengers.”

Silence landed heavy, thick as dirt on a coffin lid. Bucky felt the words clamp around his chest, a weight he hadn’t prepared for. That was it. The running days were done.

“You’re kiddin’ me.” Clint’s laugh was low and bitter. “The money, fine. But the business? The family? You’re handing it all to a guy who ran out on us?”

Tony set his glass down with a soft clink, eyebrow arched, lips twisting. “You had your shot, Barton. You turned it down.”

“Yeah, ‘cause I figured it’d go to someone who gave a damn—someone like you, Stark, or Natasha. Not…”

“What’s wrong with Bucky?” Becca’s voice cracked through the quiet. She shot to her feet, trembling with fury.

“He left us.” Clint’s tone was a blade. “When we all needed someone to lean on, he was gone. He’s a deserter.”

“My brother went to the front. He’s a war hero!”

Clint gave a cold laugh. “We all went to war. That don’t mean he came back reliable. When Steve was laid up, half-dead in that hospital bed, where was Bucky? Not here. Not with us.”

Becca’s eyes glistened, her voice sharp with hurt. “And where were you? Huh?”

That stopped him. “What?”

“The last two weeks—you been a ghost. Steve gets shot, Mom and I barely see you. At least Bucky shows up. At least he’s here, trying. What’s your excuse?”

The silence that fell was jagged. Sam shifted uncomfortably, ready to smooth things over. “Becca, Clint’s just tried to—”

“No, Sam.” Clint cut him off. The fight in his eyes flickered, then dropped. He looked at Becca, at her tears, and the guilt burned through his face. His voice came low, ragged. “She’s right.”

He swallowed hard, shook his head. “Keep listening to Murdock. I gotta… cool off.”

And just like that, he pushed out of the room, boots heavy on the floorboards until the door slammed behind him.

Bucky sat there, chest iced over, wanting to say something—anything—but nothing came. He just watched Clint’s back vanish into the dim hall light.

Outside, the wind slapped cold against his skin. At the edge of the yard, a lone bulb lit up the makeshift range Steve had ordered built after Clint moved in. The wooden targets stood scarred, arrows bristling like porcupine quills, rage hammered into their grain.

Clint was there, sleeves rolled to the elbow, blond hair wild with sweat and rain. Every draw of the bow dragged a curse out of him, every release slammed into the bullseye with a sound like a muffled snarl.

“You gonna keep shootin’ holes in wood, or you wanna tell me why you’re so goddamn mad at me?” Bucky’s voice was low, tired.

Another arrow thudded home before Clint turned, eyes sharp and hard enough to cut. “Why?” he spat. “Because you bailed, Buck. When Steve was down, when Sarah needed her boy, when Becca needed her big brother—it was me picking up the slack. Me filling the hole you left. You vanished. And now you think you can just stroll back in, sit in the chair, wear the crown?”

Bucky’s mouth pulled tight. He said nothing at first, the silence pressing like stone against his ribs. Every word Clint threw was true. He had disappeared, closed himself off, drowning in his own wounds while his family bled without him. He’d left scars he couldn’t explain, and worse—he wasn’t sure he deserved to.

“You know damn well why I walked,” Bucky muttered.

“Yeah?” Clint shot back, bitter smile curling. “Because you’re sick of all this? Sick of what we built?”

Bucky shook his head. His voice cracked like it might split open. “Not just that. I walked because I was tryin’.”

“Tryin’ what?” Clint’s eyes locked on him, tight as a bowstring about to snap.

Bucky’s chest throbbed like a dull hammer. The night air filled his lungs, but his words nearly broke apart in it. “Tryin’ to let you go.”

That stopped Clint cold. His brow eased for half a second, then he barked out a laugh. “That’s your excuse? Christ, Buck. I need you. I need my friend.”

Bucky took a step closer, gaze heavy,. “You know I ain’t ever been satisfied bein’ just your friend.”

Before Clint could flinch, Bucky’s hand was already on his face, callused thumb brushing over the cracked edge of his lip. The touch was raw, almost desperate. In Clint’s eyes, he caught a flicker—dark, dangerous—desire tangled up with fear, and that hunger he never could hide. Bucky held his breath, leaned in, and crushed his mouth against Clint’s.

It was fire and blood, smoke and whiskey, a kiss that burned hotter than any liquor he’d drowned himself in. His heart slammed against his ribs, wild, like this one moment could wash him clean of everything he’d done.

But the kiss didn’t last. A fist did.

Clint’s punch crashed into his cheekbone, exploding white pain through his skull. Bucky staggered back, tasting iron. He bent at the waist, spat blood onto the dirt, then lifted his head, eyes blazing.

Clint stood there frozen, shock painted raw across his face. For a heartbeat he looked like a kid cornered by the truth he couldn’t bury. But just as quick, he smothered it, let the mask of cold indifference snap back in place.

“Alright, boss,” Clint’s voice dropped ice-cold. “I’m done. I’m out. You can have the city, crown and all. But hear me, Bucky—if you ever drag Steve’s name through the mud, I’ll take it back outta your hands, piece by piece.”

The shooting range went dead quiet again, just the hiss of wind through the trees.

Bucky dragged his sleeve across his mouth, smearing the blood away slow. “Then tell me somethin’, Hawkeye. Why the hell you scroungin’ cash?”

Clint’s eyes narrowed, guarded as a locked safe. “Ain’t your business.”

Bucky gave a short, humorless laugh. “Bullshit. Russians breathing down your neck? What’s it for, huh? Dice? Dope? Some cheap hooker downtown?”

“Go to hell,” Clint spat, voice raw with fury.

“Answer me, and I’ll back off. You’ll never hear another goddamn word outta me.”

Clint finally dropped his gaze, shoulders tight. His voice was barely a rasp, nearly lost in the night air. “Real estate. Bad investment. It tanked.”

Bucky’s eyes went hard, steel-gray and sharp. “How much.”

Silence cut between them like a blade.

“Clint,” Bucky’s tone sank heavy. “Say it.”

Clint lifted his head at last. The weariness in his stare was bone-deep, anger and shame twisted up inside it. “Couple hundred grand. Call it—”

“Two hundred fuckin’ thousand?!”

Rick shouted in in shock. The kid had been pressing a cold pack to Bucky’s bruised face and nearly crushed his jaw with the pressure. Bucky hissed a curse, swatting him off. Rick flinched, mumbling an apology. “Sir—maybe we should get Dr. Banner—”

“It’s a goddamn bruise,” Bucky growled. “Don’t go draggin’ Bruce outta bed.”

“With all respect, sir, I’ve seen Barton cave a man’s jaw in with one swing—”

“I said I’m fine.” Bucky waved him off, voice hard. His mind was already circling back. “Steve left me everything. Pullin’ two hundred grand together shouldn’t be a problem.”

Rick winced. “Most of Rogers’ estate is tied up in property and stocks. Not much liquid cash.” He hesitated, nervous. “Are you planning to… settle Clint’s debt?”

Bucky’s jaw tightened. Steve was gone. He’d be damned before Clint ended up strung up by the Russians or dumped in an alley. “Doesn’t matter what kind of shit he’s stirred up—he’s still ours.” He paused, then, quieter: “And I ain’t losing another man I care about.”

Rick swallowed. “There may be another option. You’ve got a meeting tomorrow with Miss Romanoff. She was Mr. Rogers’ partner in business… she’ll know what can be moved.”

“Fine.” Bucky nodded, lighting a cigarette with shaking hands. “What exactly was Steve running?”

It was a fine day at the docks.

The port was a beast, all smoke and steel, swallowing the city whole. The air was thick with diesel and salt, tar and rust, a stench of industry and crime all bound up together.

“You’re holding the bones of this city in your fist,” Natasha said, heels clicking sharp against the iron walkway. Her voice was smooth, dangerous as silk over steel. Cranes groaned in the dark, cables screaming high above as if the whole place were strung too tight. “Ports and unions—that’s Rogers’ spine. Dockworkers, truckers, builders. No one moves a goddamn brick without it passing through your hands.”

A truck roared past, splattered in cement dust, the driver tipping his cap to her with the kind of respect that wasn’t bought easy.

“With unions, you own the goods. And when you own the goods, smuggling writes itself—cigarettes, booze, guns. That’s Stark territory,” Natasha added, lips curling in a sly smile. “Their network runs statewide. Untouchable distribution.”

Bucky’s eyes tracked a line of dockhands pushing crates like ants across the yard. “And you?”

Natasha paused beneath the shadow of a crane, her red hair snapping in the harbor wind. “I’ve got nightclubs. Harlem, Brooklyn, Times Square. Girls who know everything worth knowing, and cash that never stops moving.” She smiled, razor-sharp. “Information, James. Don’t underestimate it. A whisper can bleed a man faster than a bullet.”

“The Odinsons?”

Natasha’s arm slipped through Bucky’s as they strolled past the cargo yard. Her voice was low, velvet edged with steel. “Casinos, bookies, backroom bets—that’s Asgard turf. Don’t let Thor’s big dumb grin fool you. Kid’s sharper than he looks.”

She tilted her chin toward him, smirking. “And then you got the Spectors. Old-school Jewish outfit—illegal fight clubs, contract hitters. They’ve been running muscle for years. Besides them, every Avenger in this little family’s got their own slice. Smaller, but it adds up.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened. “So the Avengers own the whole damn underground?”

“Eighty percent of it,” she said flat, like it was math on paper. “The scraps? That’s Fisk—dirty cops, bent judges, now he’s mayor he’s salivating for more. Hydra’s got their claws in the new dope trade. Russians bleed tenants dry on rent, then traffic people like cattle. Real scum.”

Bucky clenched his teeth. He’d seen warzones. New York’s streets weren’t all that different. “And Steve… how’d he keep ‘em all in line?”

Natasha stopped. Her green eyes locked on him, sharp enough to flay him open.

“If you think it was family bonds, you’re dead wrong.” Her voice was cold as the harbor wind. “Fists win you corners. But to hold the crown? You grease politicians, feed the cops, own the unions. Steve got that. And the biggest lesson?” She leaned in, whisper sharp. “Never show mercy. One body on the pavement sends the message faster than any speech.”

The weight of her words hit him like a gun cocking. Bucky’s voice was low, rough. “You’re talkin’ about Steve’s hit.”

“We still don’t know who gave the order,” Natasha said, eyes unblinking. “But you can’t drag your feet. You’re the new boss. You gotta put the trigger man in the ground, and you gotta make the one who paid for it bleed. Otherwise? Next week, someone else tests you. Maybe Ivan Banionis thinks the Rogers crew is soft enough to squeeze.”

The soldier in him knew chain of command, clear targets, straight lines. This—politics, knives in the dark—was another battlefield entirely.

“I can’t picture Steve… playin’ it this way.”

“You still see him as a gentleman, a saint. He was that. But he was more.” Her voice cut like a razor. “No one in this city’s got clean hands. Not me, not you. Sometimes you trade your soul to protect the ones you love. That’s the cost of the crown.”

Bucky’s chest felt tight. Maybe Clint’s doubts weren’t just bitterness. Maybe they were warning bells. Could he carry what Steve carried? Could he protect them all?

Natasha’s gaze gave no room for escape. Cold, unwavering acceptance of the dirt they lived in.

Bucky drew in a breath that scraped his lungs raw. “Fine,” he said at last, gravel in his tone. “Sounds like I need a crash course on our messiest problems. When’s this Avengers sit-down?”

Turned out he didn’t have to wait long.

Three nights later, Manhattan was swallowed in neon and smoke when Bucky walked into Harlem’s Rock & Jewel with Rick and Sam at his back.

Outside, the bar was nothing—faded brick, busted neon sign stuttering like it was ready to die. Inside, it stank of beer, smoke, and grease. Too quiet. A few tables occupied by brick-walled men with dead eyes and calloused knuckles. Not drinkers. Hired hands.

The moment Bucky stepped in, their laughter died. Eyes like switchblades cut his way. Yeah, they knew who he was—or they recognized Rick and Sam and knew exactly what that meant.

Behind the bar, a mountain in a black shirt stepped out. Shoulders like masonry, voice low and steady. “Evenin’. Luke Cage, the owner of this place. You can call me Luke. You gotta be Mr. Barnes. Meetin’s in the back room.”

Bucky nodded, moved to step forward—then Luke’s arm slid out, blocking him.

“House rules.” Calm, but firm. “Nobody walks in armed. Nobody brings muscle.” He tipped his head toward the other bodyguards parked at their tables, guns practically sweating under their coats.

Bucky arched a brow, glanced at Rick. The kid caught on, nodded. So Bucky handed his sidearm over to Sam. When he stepped again, Luke still didn’t budge.

Bucky chuckled low, almost amused. “You don’t miss a thing, do ya?”

One by one, he unloaded—tiger claw from his sleeve, a snub pistol out of his boot, knife from his belt. Dropped them into Rick’s hands until the kid nearly fumbled.

“Soldier’s habit,” Bucky said with a shrug, palms open.

Luke studied him for a beat, then stepped aside. “Follow me, sir.”

Bucky walked the narrow hallway. Wood paneling warped with age, smoke hanging thick, posters of half-naked jazz singers peeling on the walls.

At the end, Luke pushed through the door.

The back room was another world—thick curtains drawn, chandelier light dripping gold over smoke and perfume. A long table stretched down the center, silver ashtrays and crystal glasses lined up like soldiers.

The boss’s chair sat empty. But the two flanking spots? Already occupied.

On the left: Tony Stark, lounging in a custom suit, tie loose, smirk tighter. He looked like he didn’t give a damn about the meeting, but the whole room bent around his gravity. Next to him is a man in bone-white, cut from marble, face set like a tomb. Marc Spector. No smile, no warmth, just the stillness of a grave.

On the right is Natasha—same as ever, cool and lethal in a dark dress that fit her like sin. Beside her was a blond mountain of a man, shoulders so broad the chair looked ready to snap under him. His face was all clean lines, beard trimmed neat, like some Viking bastard straight outta an old saga. Bucky knew him at once—Thor, head of the Asgard crew.

But standing just behind him was someone Bucky didn’t know. A young man, sharp-featured, black hair slicked back with a shine, eyes colder than ice picks. Handsome, sure, but there was something in his stare that made Bucky’s gut clench—a predator’s smile hiding in the dark. Whoever he was, he wasn’t just muscle.

Bucky lingered at the door a beat, letting his eyes drift over the room. That long oak table was more than furniture; it was a chessboard, every piece already set. The five families sat here under the banner of the so-called Avengers Committee, pulling most of New York’s black-market strings into one knot—or at least keeping up appearances that way.

Every head turned his way. The looks weren’t polite; they were weighing him, measuring him like a new player who’d just bought into the game.

“Take a seat, Mr. Barnes.” Luke said, gesturing toward the head chair, then moved to settle beside Marc Spector, who was already lighting a cigarette.

Bucky crossed the floor slow, boots creaking against the wood. He dragged the chair back—loud scrape, deliberate—and sat. Just a nod, nothing more. He wasn’t one for empty glad-handing. Sometimes silence said more than all the smiles in the world. And lucky for him, he didn’t have to play emcee. Natasha had told him: that was Stark’s job.

“Alright, since we’re all here…” Tony cleared his throat, rolling an unlit cigar between his fingers like it was punctuation. His smirk never wavered. “Let’s get down to business.”

Bucky raised his hand slightly, gaze fixed on the stranger at Thor’s side. “Hold up. Who’s the guy? Thought the rules were clear—no plus-ones in this room.”

Thor’s laugh was deep, booming, though his expression carried a shade of apology. “He’s my brother. He’s got business with this table. I’ve already squared it with Stark.”

Tony leaned back, shrugging, smirk cutting sideways. “Yeah. This time, we bend the rules.” He drummed his fingers against the wood, the sound sharp as a starter pistol. “Now—first order of business. Steve’s hit. Romanoff, what’ve you got?”

Natasha’s voice was calm, unhurried, cutting through the smoke. “At first, we suspected an inside job. But Barnes and I ruled that out. Before the hit, Rogers had a dispute with Schmidt over cargo on the docks. I don’t believe in coincidences. My people haven’t turned up fresh intel yet.”

Tony nodded, then turned his eyes on Bucky. “So, Barnes. You’re in the big chair now. What’s your move?”

The light over the table seemed to burn hotter all of a sudden. Every eye was on him, waiting. He felt like a lone actor shoved center stage.

“We don’t sweep this under the rug,” Bucky said, voice steady though his pulse was hammering. “Steve’s hit wasn’t random. And if we play blind, any one of you could be next. I’m gonna find out who pulled the trigger. But I’ll need your backing to do it.”

The room went quiet, thick with smoke and tension. Finally, Tony gave a short nod. Natasha’s gaze was sharp, unreadable, though something flickered in her eyes. Thor rapped his fist against the table once. Spector blew a long stream of smoke, face unreadable as stone.

Tony broke the silence, unfolding his cigar wrapper with a flick. “Good. Next item—Natasha, show ’em.”

She reached into her bag, dropped a small pouch onto the table with a sharp smack. Powder spilled faintly under the light—white as bone.

“Heroin,” she said flat, voice like ice water. “Found it running through one of my clubs. Hydra’s testing the market.”

“Figures.” Cage’s growl came from the far end, deep and sour. “We choke off their docks, and they still slip the shit past us.”

“So here’s the question.” Tony took a drag from his cigar. “Do we let it move under our flag? Quick money, yeah. But you know the Feds—dope brings ’em running ten times faster than booze or smokes ever did.”

Thor snorted, broad shoulders rising. “Asgard’s got no use for it. Booze and dice keep my people fed just fine.”

Spector’s voice was hard as the knuckles he made his living on. “My fighters touch that garbage, they’re done. I won’t see it on my turf.”

Natasha’s gaze cut razor-sharp across the haze. “Half the girls in Red Room were once destroyed by this poison. I won’t have it staining my clubs.”

“Then it’s settled.” Bucky’s words landed heavy, final. “We ain’t saints, but we got lines. Not in our neighborhoods. Hydra can peddle that trash somewhere else.”

Tony’s smirk deepened, satisfaction curling in the smoke. “Consensus, then. I’ll make sure Schmidt hears it loud and clear.”

Bucky exhaled slow, a weight easing off—for now. He knew better than to think this was over.

Tony tapped ash from his cigar and leaned forward, eyes sharp. “Next agenda: Fisk.”

Thor let out a low grunt. “Didn’t think that snake would climb this high, this fast.”

“New mayor, new rules.” Tony’s tone was all teeth. “And he remembers every slight. First thing in office, he’s already moving pieces.”

Bucky frowned, glance flicking instinctively to Natasha. She met his eyes, voice steady and grim. “Confirmed intel. Fisk is cozying up with new waste management and construction outfits. He wants the Avengers Committee cut out of city contracts.”

Cage rumbled from his corner, dark eyes burning. “In Harlem, he’s already jacked up the ‘special taxes.’ Bleeding the people dry. Folks are pissed.”

Spector let out a cold snort. “If it comes to heavy hands, my crew can put him in the ground in forty-eight hours.”

Bucky felt his gut twist. He knew damn well what “heavy hands” meant—and it was exactly why he’d spent years keeping his distance from New York’s underbelly.

Tony turned his sharp gaze on him. “Barnes. What’s your take?”

Bucky’s fists flexed, clenching and unclenching, before he spoke. “The union lives and dies on city contracts. Sanitation, factories, garbage runs—those are paychecks for a lotta working stiffs. Tony, you’ve got the deepest pockets in City Hall. You reach out. Find out what this prick really wants. If it’s money? Pay it. If he’s askin’ for the moon—” Bucky’s voice dropped hard, dangerous—“then we remind him who runs this town.”

Tony’s smirk spread, slow and knowing. “Consider it done.”

Then it was Loki’s turn. The younger Odinson stepped forward with that sly little bow of his, smiling like butter wouldn’t melt. “Loki Odinson. I oversee the family’s numbers racket uptown—Harlem and Broadway. Last month’s federal bill cut us off at the knees. We’re down a quarter already. I’m petitioning to raise the cut from those territories to cover the bleed.”

Luke’s jaw tightened like a vise. “You kiddin’ me? Half the runners in those streets are barely keepin’ lights on. They just got hit with new taxes, and you wanna squeeze ‘em dry?”

Bucky’s voice cut in before the room could spin further. “Luke’s right. I’m not signin’ off on that.”

Loki arched a brow, still wearing that harmless smile. “But, Mr. Barnes—”

“That’s my final word,” Bucky snapped, his voice carrying steel. “And I think my word still counts around here, doesn’t it?”

The air went razor-tight. Loki’s grin still plastered on like paint. “Of course, boss. If that’s the decree, we’ll abide.” His words dragged slow, mocking-soft. He flicked a glance toward his brother, but Thor only drowned his silence in beer.

“Lucky for me,” Loki went on, feigning lightness, “we’ve still got the Tesseract Casino raking in business. And with Clint Barton lending a hand, well… that’s solved plenty of headaches already.”

The name dropped like a gunshot. Bucky’s chest locked tight. His eyes narrowed to slits, voice going ice-cold. “Clint Barton belongs to the Rogers family.”

“Oh?” Loki’s brow ticked higher. “The Cube was Rogers’ investment, was it not? Before you took the throne, Barton ran the daily there in his name. Now I hear he’s walked out on you as your number two. Seems only natural he’d pour his time into the casino.”

“Loki,” Thor growled, voice low with barely leashed fury.

Bucky forced his anger into a knife’s edge, locked eyes with the pale man, and let it cut. “He walked from the title, not the loyalty. He’s still mine. Don’t get it twisted.”

The silence was thunder before the storm. Loki stepped back at last, still smirking, but he let it drop. Thor didn’t even look his way—just drained his beer in one long drag.

It was Tony who finally cleared his throat. “Guess that’s the agenda wrapped, lady and gentlemen.”

But no one moved. They were all watching Bucky, waiting for him to break the seal.

So he rose, slow and steady, and walked out without another word. Only then did chairs scrape, the noise loud and sharp behind him.

At the bar, Rick scrambled off his stool the second he saw him. “Sir, done already? You wanna stay, take a drink? Or head home?”

On another night, maybe Bucky would’ve lingered, nursed a glass, let the shadows settle. But not tonight. Not after that. The weight in his chest was too much. He waved Rick on and pushed through the door, out into the night.

Chapter Text

Weeks bled together after that.

Bucky threw himself headlong into the grind, buried under the weight of the seat he never wanted. He’d known, in theory, what Steve carried—not just the shine, the handshakes, the banquets—but the ledger lines, the fists on the street, the endless bargains with City Hall. Still, knowing wasn’t the same as carrying it.

Every day, something new: payroll disputes, turf skirmishes, whispers of a strike, cops sniffing for a cut. Every day, his signature was another piece of the city carved and claimed.

At first, he felt like a soldier dropped behind enemy lines with no map. But he wasn’t alone. Rick handled the books with a surgeon’s precision. Tony carved order out of chaos, untangling the web of alliances like it was child’s play. Natasha slid intel across his desk like aces from a sleeve.

By the third week, Bucky was catching cracks in other men’s numbers, shutting down lies with a quiet word and a stare sharp enough to bleed. On the surface, he looked steady. Like he belonged.

They even caught the bastard who’d taken the shot at Steve—a broke vet, bitter at the mob’s chokehold on the city. Bucky saw the truth of him in a glance: another soldier chewed up and spit out. He left him breathing, but only barely, handing him off with orders Rick didn’t question. After that, no one spoke of it again.

A few nights later, Rick came with news. Steve had called. Just a few words, just long enough to prove he was alive. Asked after the family, after the crew. No hint of coming home.

That was when it hit Bucky, really hit: Steve had washed his hands of all this. Walked away clean, left the crown behind.

Bucky had always told himself this was temporary. That one day Steve would come back, he’d hand it all over, and he’d be free—back to the only life he understood. The soldier’s life.

But now? Now it was gone.

He sat in the study that night, the city lights long dead outside the window, staring at an old, faded photograph. His shadow stretched across the wall, the only company he had left. Steve’s empire sat heavy around him—power, wealth, fear—but it was hollow.

And it was all his.

Bucky shot awake like somebody had just stomped his chest. Air was thick with cordite and copper, the taste of war still bleeding out of his dreams into the room.

He stared at the ceiling, ears ringing with phantom gunfire, men shouting. No use trying to sleep again. The tick-tick of the wall clock drove the point home. He dragged the blanket off, shrugged into the jacket lying by the bed, and got to his feet.

The mansion was hollow these days. Becca was back at school, Sarah had gone to visit her sister. What was left was him, Rick, Sam, and a skeleton crew of loyal muscle and house staff. Empty halls, dark wood floors echoing under his boots.

He drifted down the corridor and into the private lounge—no outsiders ever set foot in there. Leather couches, a place built for whiskey and leisure.

He lit the lamp on the end table. Soft glow hit the oil paintings on the walls, made the whole place look like a shrine to men who’d lived harder lives. Bucky went straight to the liquor cabinet, pulled a bottle of good Scotch off the top shelf. Cork popped, scent hit him like fire. He poured tall, swallowed deeper. First glass scorched his throat. Second, third—blurred the edges of time.

The heat buzzed in his hands, but it couldn’t burn away the shadows in his head. By the time the sixth glass slid down, he was half-numb, muscles loose, eyes half-shut. Wind hissed against the windows, like a far-off siren.

Then he heard it—soft noise at the door.

For a second he thought it was his own head playin’ tricks. But no—there he was, clear as day in the yellow light: Clint Barton, leaning in the doorway like he owned the place, shoulders hunched, eyes sharp and cold.

Bucky froze. Not a dream. The booze sloshed mean in his brain as he set the glass down slow. His voice came low, gravelly. “Well, look who it is. Middle of the goddamn night, Barton. What’s your game?”

Clint’s stare didn’t waver. “I live here.”

“Lived,” Bucky muttered, lifting the glass again. “You ain’t set foot in this joint for over a month.”

“Relax. I’m just here to grab my things. Then I’m gone.” Clint stepped inside, the swagger in his stride undercut by tension. “You didn’t toss my room, did you?”

Bucky gave a dry laugh. “Touch your room? That was Steve’s call. Even as boss, I wouldn’t dare.” He tipped back another swallow, eyes narrowing. “What the hell could I do with you anyway, huh?”

Clint sighed, ran a hand through his hair. The blond strands stuck up wild, no gel left to keep them neat. His right hand still carried the leather finger guard, like he’d just come off the range. The tendons and knuckles looked carved from stone, and Bucky’s drunk brain betrayed him—he could damn near see himself on his knees, tongue tracing each finger one by one.

Clint caught the stare. “Don’t look at me like that.”

Bucky smirked slow. “Like what?”

Clint’s glare could’ve cut glass. He didn’t answer, just turned hard, boots thudding as he stalked out toward the hall that led to his old room.

Bucky sat there, rolling the glass between his fingers. He heard the door creak open down the corridor, then slam shut. Minutes passed. Footsteps again. Clint re-emerged, suitcase in hand.

Bucky’s gaze locked on him like a trigger pull. Clint didn’t even give him a glance, just kept walking.

“You hate me that much?”

The words came colder than Bucky intended, laced with raw hurt that felt foreign on his tongue. Christ, he was drunk.

Clint’s step faltered, just for a second. He didn’t turn, but his voice came back: “I don’t hate you.”

“Then why the hell treat me like I’m poison?” Bucky’s stare burned into his back. “You can’t stand being in the same room. You quit as my right hand like it was nothing. You think I don’t deserve the chair?”

Clint exhaled hard, finally turning. His blue eyes looked wrecked, worn down to the bone. “Who the hell am I to judge? Steve made his choice. And you’ve been holdin’ it together—so long as you don’t screw it up.”

“Then why ain’t we still friends?”

Clint’s jaw worked, but no answer came.

“Fine.” Bucky’s shoulders stiffened, his tone dropping ice. “Not my friend? Then you’re just another soldier in the outfit.” His eyes went sharp. “You still in the family, Barton? Or you lookin’ to jump ship?”

Clint barked a laugh, bitter as cheap gin. “Where the hell else am I gonna go?”

“Then why don’t you come back?”

Silence stretched. Finally Clint muttered, “Got business of my own.”

“Debts?” Bucky’s voice cut in, sharp. “I told you I’d cover it.”

“I don’t need your goddamn charity.”

“It ain’t just money, is it?” Bucky’s voice rose, frustration spilling out. “Jesus, Clint, what are you hiding? Why won’t you just—”

“You don’t tell me everything either!”

The room snapped tight, both of them bristling. Bucky’s eyes narrowed. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

Clint’s temper blew. “You know goddamn well! That night we shared. Next morning I wake up, you’re gone. Not a note, not a word. Just Steve tellin’ me you shipped out to army. You know what the fuck that felt like?”

Bucky’s fists clenched on his knees, veins standing out. He remembered too well—lying awake, knowing he couldn’t keep Clint’s heart, deciding walking away was mercy. His voice rasped. “That’s what this is about? Just ‘cause I left without goodbye?”

“‘Just’?” Clint’s voice cracked, fury blazing. His eyes pinned Bucky like an arrow loosed. “You got the balls to call it ‘just’?”

“You think I’m doin’ this for me? Christ, Barton—I ain’t tryin’ to get in your way!”

Clint froze, brow furrowing hard. “The hell are you talkin’ about?”

Bucky’s patience snapped. He flung a hand, sharp and restless. “Forget it. Do whatever the fuck you want—crawl back to whatever hole feels like home. Steve’s gone. You ain’t stickin’ around anyway.”

He shoved himself off the couch too fast, the room pitching sideways. He staggered, white-knuckled grip locking on the armrest to keep from hitting the floor.

Clint’s face shifted in an instant. He crossed the room quick, one hand steady on Bucky’s shoulder, the other catching his arm. “Jesus, Buck. How much did you put away tonight?”

“I just want some goddamn sleep,” Bucky rasped, shaking his head like he could rattle the heaviness loose. His voice was low, ruined. “I’m goin’ back to bed.”

“Booze ain’t the way, pal,” Clint snapped. He half-carried, half-dragged Bucky upright. “All it buys you is a migraine and Rick cussin’ me out for cleanin’ up after you.”

“I ain’t drunk,” Bucky muttered stubbornly, but his legs were shot, weight sagging into Clint’s frame. His fingers brushed clumsily across the buttons of Clint’s coat.

“Sure, you’re sober,” Clint drawled. “And the fish in the Hudson are ridin’ bicycles.” He took Bucky to the bedroom, then dumped him straight onto the mattress without ceremony.

Bucky grunted, low and feral, but the bed swallowed him whole. The second his head hit the pillow, the fight bled out of him. Sleep dragged him down like a tide. Maybe he wasn’t wrong after all—booze did knock a man out.

But before the dark closed in, Bucky’s hand shot out, grasping blindly. His fingers caught heat, something solid, someone alive. Instinct yanked it close. He curled around it like it was the last bit of warmth in a cold world, cheek pressing into it, clinging tight.

Safety. Quiet. He was gone before he knew it.

He dreamed of warmth—rare, bone-deep warmth. Not the fickle glow of a coal stove in winter Brooklyn, but steady, constant, like steam pipes running under the concrete. His half-conscious body chased it, face nuzzling into skin that smelled of smoke and aftershave. Then the fog cracked.

Bucky jolted awake. He was wrapped around another man like a drowning sailor clutching driftwood. His palm pressed to muscle, hot and alive, blood pulsing under skin. His body reacted before his mind did—hips grinding forward, hardness sliding against the give of the man’s thigh. A ragged groan ripped out of his chest, pure instinct.

Bucky felt the body in his arms tense up and then go slack. When he rolled his hips again, an arm hooked back around his neck, and the man’s ass cheeks pressed back against him with perfect aim. That response was like pulling a trigger. Bucky’s hand shot into the other man’s loose waistband, and when he wrapped his fingers around the half-hard cock, he was rewarded with a sharp hiss. His thumb smeared the slick moisture already beading at the tip.

“Playin’ possum?” Bucky growled, nipping at the sweaty neck below his lips until a dark bruise began to bloom. He ground his palm against the now fully hard length in his hand. “You’re wet enough down here to grease a goddamn piece.”

The man beneath him flipped over with surprising force. In the dim light, Clint’s blue eyes were blazing. He shoved his knee between Bucky’s thighs, and his kiss was all heat and the coppery taste of blood. They fought like a couple of stray dogs scrapping over turf, but their hips kept a filthy, perfect rhythm against each other.

“Less talk…” Clint panted, yanking at Bucky’s shirt. “Either put your dick into me or get out.”

Bucky dug his fingers into the soft flesh of Clint’s inner thigh, flipping him back onto the mattress with a grunt. He drove his hips forward, grinding against the cleft of Clint’s ass, making them both curse. Fisting a hand in Clint’s sweat-damp blond hair, Bucky wrenched his head back, his cock sliding along the perineum, teasing, refusing to give what was wanted.

“What’s the magic word, little bird?”

Clint bucked violently, his elbow catching Bucky hard in the ribs. Seizing the moment of surprise, he scrambled on top, straddling Bucky’s waist. His leaking cock slapped arrogantly against Bucky’s stomach.

“This enough for ya—” Clint slammed down, the impact of flesh on flesh echoing in the room. “—King of New York?”

Bucky’s eyes darkened. His hands vise-gripped Clint’s hips, driving into him with a force that sent the whiskey bottle on the nightstand crashing to the floor. The sound of shattering glass mixed with Clint’s choked-off cry. Bucky clamped a hand over his mouth, never breaking his punishing rhythm.

“Louder,” Bucky snarled against the bleeding bite mark on Clint’s neck. “Let the whole damn house know who’s breakin’ you—”

Clint’s body went rigid, his back arching like a bow. He came with a violence like a gunshot, stripes of release painting Bucky’s corded forearm. As Clint collapsed, boneless, Bucky flipped him onto his stomach and plunged back inside. This new assault was even more brutal.

“Don’t you pass out on me,” Bucky ordered, landing a sharp smack on the reddening skin of Clint’s ass. A handprint bloomed instantly. “Count ‘em. You lose track, we start over.”

Clint’s own breath fractured into broken gasps, fingers clawing at the sheets. And when Bucky finally lost it, buried against him, Clint arched his throat, voice shattering—

“Steve—!”

The name detonated between them, ice water thrown onto fire.

Bucky shot upright, lungs heaving like he’d been punched. The bed was empty. Just him, sweat-soaked and shaking, tangled in ruined sheets. His undershirt clung wet to his skin, hair plastered to his forehead. His stomach dropped as the cold stickiness below his waist told the rest of the story.

“Goddammit,” he hissed. Dream or not, he’d made a mess of himself.

No chance of sleep now. He swung his legs off the bed, tore the stained briefs off rough and angry, yanking a clean pair from the drawer. Pants on, he snatched up the filthy ones like contraband and stalked to the bathroom. The faucet screamed as he cranked it open, shoving the evidence under scalding water, scrubbing with soap until the suds splattered the mirror. His jaw clenched so tight it ached.

He was halfway to the balcony, clutching his shorts like contraband, when he nearly smacked right into the maid coming off the morning shift. She froze, blinking, then offered him a polite little smile.

“Let me take those for you, sir. I’ll wash and hang them out.”

Bucky jerked back like she’d tried to stick him with a blade. His voice came out sharper than a switchblade snapping open. “No! I’ll handle it myself!”

The girl flinched, wide-eyed, the smile slipping clean off her face. For a second, she just stood there, startled. That was all the time Bucky needed. He slipped past her like a ghost and damn near bolted, leaving her stranded in the hall, staring after him with a look of confusion.

The Tesseract Casino, also known as “The Cube”, sat tucked into a shadowed street downtown Manhattan, all quiet by day, all neon burn by night. The sign was a trick of light—blue tubes twisting into a spinning square, hanging in the dark like a floating dice. Word on the street was it’d been Loki’s idea. Nobody ever knew why the bastard wanted his joint fronted like some carnival riddle, but hell, it worked. Eyes couldn’t look away.

The doormen knew who Bucky was. They stepped aside quick, letting him through into the smoke and jazz. Inside, the air was thick enough to chew—cigarettes, perfume, gin—and the band on stage was wailing Autumn in New York on a trumpet that sounded one note away from heartbreak.

The floor was a jungle of green baize, dice clattering, chips stacking. Cocktail girls floated through in glitter gowns, trays balanced on one hand, smiles sharp as their heels. Men at the tables grinned or growled, winning big or losing everything. It was the city in miniature, all the desperation and glory packed under one roof.

Rick and Sam stuck close at his back, shadows with guns. Bucky himself wore a gray suit cut clean, never sat quite right on his left shoulder. War souvenirs, permanent. He could feel the room shift when he walked through—the small pauses, dealers’ hands hovering over cards, gamblers giving a little more space. He didn’t need to ask for respect; it came with the name.

And then, as if conjured out of the haze, Loki was there.

Tall, too pretty for his own good, black hair slicked back to gleam, gray-green eyes carved out of smugness. He was draped in a suit sharper than glass, a green silk square in his breast pocket like a calling card only he understood.

Once, Bucky had pegged him as nothing but flash, a snake too slick to hold. But the longer the game ran, the clearer it became—Thor might’ve been the muscle, but Loki was the brain that made Asgard hum.

“Mr. Barnes.” Loki’s voice was lazy, velvet with a cut. “Didn’t think you’d dirty your hands by showing up in person.”

“Rogers money’s on the table,” Bucky said flat. “I’m just here to see it’s not pissed away.”

Loki’s mouth twitched in that perpetual smirk. “Naturally. The concern of a shareholder is always welcome. Though you should know—you don’t have to trouble yourself. I’m here.”

“Then do your job,” Bucky muttered. “Don’t babysit me.”

“As you wish.” Loki spread his hands, smooth as a card trick. “But at least allow me to send over a drink?”

The thought of his last drunken disaster burned hot in Bucky’s gut. He ground his teeth and cut him off. “Save it.”

Loki chuckled low, but didn’t push. He turned, slid off to another table like smoke.

That’s when Bucky saw him.

Clint.

The man leaned against a blackjack table like he owned the place. Sleeves rolled up, tie loose, hair a little wild. His eyes cut sharp across the floor, cataloging everything. He didn’t have to say a word—two loudmouth gamblers caught his look and shut the hell up quick. A guard dog in human skin.

Bucky moved over, voice steady. “Barton.”

Clint tipped his chin in a wordless nod, expression blank. No warmth, no smile. Which made it worse—the stupid dream Bucky’d had a few nights ago, drunk outta his skull, all sweat and heat and Clint’s mouth on his. Standing here now, it left a sour burn of embarrassment in his throat. He buried it, face locked in that soldier-hard mask.

“How’s business?” he asked. “We’re not burning Rogers’ cash, are we?”

Clint’s answer came clean, no hesitation. “Not a chance. Everything’s running smooth.”

“Not good enough,” Bucky shot back, stepping closer. “I’m head of the family now. If you’re not reporting back to Brooklyn, I’m left in the dark. What, you expect me to play auditor, drag my ass down here every time I want numbers?”

Clint’s brows pulled tight, like he wanted to argue. But he didn’t. Not after a beat. “Fair point. You deserve the details. Give me a night, I’ll run you through what I’ve got going.”

Bucky’s heart kicked up, sharp and quick, though his face didn’t show it. “Sunday night. Rick’ll set it up.”

Clint lifted his glass, took a slow sip. “Fine.” He turned away, back to scanning the room like nothing had passed between them.

Bucky watched him go, chest caught for just a second in something he didn’t care to name. He shook it off, checked the floor, made his round. Everything was running. Time to move. He sent word to a bartender: tell Loki he was leaving.

The doors opened, and the night hit him cold. The breeze smelled like frying oil and cheap salt from the corner stand. He slid into the backseat, door closing out the noise, engine purring low as the car rolled forward.

It wasn’t until they’d cleared the block that it hit him.

“Jesus.” Bucky muttered under his breath. “I just set up a goddamn date with Clint.”

From the driver’s seat, Rick flicked him a cautious look in the mirror, voice careful as a man walking on glass. “Sir… I don’t think that qualifies as a date.”

“You’re a kid,” Bucky snapped. He leaned back, eyes half-shut against the neon flashing past. “What do you know. Now—what’s the best joint in this city?”

“Uh…” Rick blinked. “Le Pavillon, maybe? But Mr. Barton—he doesn’t strike me as the white-tablecloth type.”

Bucky gave a dry laugh, undoing the top button of his shirt. “Yeah. Thought so. Guess I’ll cook.”

From the front seat, Rick and Sam traded a look like men staring down judgment day. Rick cleared his throat, tried diplomacy. “With respect, sir… you don’t actually know how to cook.”

Bucky turned his head slow, eyes like ice in the rearview. “You saying I can’t learn?”

Rick swallowed. “Not saying that, sir. Just… Mrs. Rogers told me, very specifically, to keep you out of the kitchen.”

A short silence hung in the car before Bucky let out a low chuckle, the kind that didn’t reach his eyes. “Funny guy. Real comedian. Now tell me again—why the hell do I keep you around as my assistant?”

“Because last time you tried makin’ breakfast, you nearly burned straight through the skillet? And I saved your life?”

The engine hummed steady in the dark, swallowing the pause that followed. Then Sam broke, laughter spilling out of him like he couldn’t hold it. “Oh, oh—don’t forget the mac and cheese. Tasted like… uh… motor oil.”

“Motor oil?” Bucky’s voice dropped, the last word stretched dangerous.

Sam’s hands flew up. “Figure of speech! Strictly metaphor, no disrespect!”

Bucky grunted, the corner of his mouth twitching with an idea. “That so? Congratulations, boys—you’re officially my first taste-testers.”

The car echoed with twin groans.

“Sir, you serious?” Rick’s voice cracked with survival instinct.

“I’m serious.” Bucky leaned back in his seat, arms crossed, jaw set in that don’t-fuck-with-me expression that froze most men cold.

Rick caught his eyes in the rearview, sighed like a man walking to the gallows. “Understood. Guess I can spare my stomach.”

“I never signed up for this,” Sam muttered—until Rick’s elbow jammed his arms. He winced. “…Alright, alright. I’m in.”

Bucky’s smirk widened, something restless sparking in his chest. “Good. Remember this night—you’re about to witness the birth of a goddamn legend in the kitchen. Claude fuckin’ Philippe is gonna be beggin’ me for lessons.”

Turns out James Buchanan Barnes was a hell of a soldier, a steady lieutenant, a mob boss who could hold a room or a street corner by sheer force of will. But in a kitchen? The guy wasn’t even fit to peel potatoes for the new recruits.

First attempt, he caved and called Sarah. The line crackled with Long Island wind, her voice patient like she was walking a kid through tying shoelaces.
“Chop the onions fine, not into paste, James. You want ’em soft and sweet, not a black tar pit stuck to your pan.”

Knife in one hand, phone pressed to his ear, Bucky studied the pot like it was a map of enemy territory. Minutes later, smoke billowed up, biting and acrid. He coughed, cursed low. “Fuck.” Still, he kept going. He wasn’t in it for the process. He wanted the result.

When the recipes didn’t stick, he pivoted. Clint had a soft spot for the Italian stuff flooding into New York with the new immigrants—pizza, cheap but filling. How hard could it be? Dough, tomato, cheese, sausage. Child’s play.

He even roped Tony and Thor into taste-testing after a sit-down at the manor.

“What is this?” Tony raised a brow, fork stabbing the crust like it was evidence in court.

Thor already had a slab in his fist, chewing with Viking seriousness before giving a thumbs-up. “Tastes like molten rock. I approve!”

“He means it’s too goddamn hot,” Tony rolled his eyes. “Barnes, next time maybe don’t cook it over open coals for thirty minutes straight? We’re eatin’, not smelting steel.”

Bucky lit a smoke, exhaled slow, eyes cold. “You two are spoiled. Lucky I’m not trying to impress you.”

The pizza campaign was lost. Back to basics. He remembered that night years ago, when Clint first joined the family—Steve had hosted dinner at the big house. Sarah had cooked Irish stew: beef, carrots, potatoes simmered till they melted in your mouth. Clint had asked for seconds, thirds.

So Bucky threw himself at it. Three afternoons straight, three ruined pots, one oversalted mess. By the fourth? Edible. Hell, better than edible. The stew was rough around the edges, but it worked. Rick and Sam tasted it, exchanged a look, then Rick deadpanned: “Boss… that’s a step up. Way better than motor oil.”

“Miracle, really,” Sam nodded. “You actually beat yourself this time.”

Bucky tried not to let the smugness show, but once the dish didn’t look like poison on a plate, he had Rick knock up a proper invite. Heavy card stock, embossed edges—looked more like a contract to whack somebody than a dinner invitation.

Mr. Clinton Barton,
You are cordially invited to the manor for dinner this Sunday, 8 p.m., to discuss matters of importance.

Rick almost chuckled sealing the envelope, but one hard look from Bucky cut him off cold.

Sunday night came. Bucky was dressed sharp—gray suit tailored close, tie knotted neat, shoes buffed till you could see your sorry reflection. His watch flashed under the chandelier. The dining room spread looked like Christmas—candles tall, linens pressed, red wine breathing in crystal. The stew steamed on the table, heavy with the smell of hours in the pot.

Everything was in place when Rick walked in, stiff as a man heading to confession.

“Sir.” His face twitched with something nervous.

Bucky frowned. “What is it?”

“It’s Mr. Barton. Says he’s sick. Didn’t wanna bring it ‘round you. He can’t make it.”

The fire cracked in the grate, sparks spitting like gunpowder. Bucky didn’t move. Ash slid off the end of his cigarette.

“Yeah,” he muttered, flat and cold. The wine trembled in its glass, his reflection splitting into fragments. His shoulders dipped once—like taking a punch that didn’t even land right. Hollow.

The old Bucky might’ve left it at that. Shut the door, swallowed down whatever the hell it was clawing at him. But since Steve’s gone, he wasn’t that guy anymore. Sitting in the chair meant taking risks, reaching for what he wanted before it disappeared.

He was done losing.

So he picked up the phone.

“Romanoff.” The voice on the line was lazy, but there was an edge of caution behind it.

“Natalia,” Bucky said. “You know where Barton holes up?”

A pause. He could hear her smile. “James… I doubt he’d appreciate me telling you.”

“He’s sick.” Bucky exhaled a plume of smoke, voice hard and steady. “I’m just gonna check on him.”

“You sound like you’re gearing up for a war, not a visit.”

Bucky’s eyes flicked to the firelight dancing on the desk. His chest felt like iron sinking to the bottom of the Hudson. “Doesn’t matter,” he muttered. “To me, it never did.”

Rick parked out front of a busted-up walk-up in Bed–Stuy. Midnight Brooklyn: corner store bulbs flickering, kids still tossing rocks on the stoop, a harmonica coughing notes down the alley.

The building was a brick corpse—cracked face, iron fire escapes twisted like spider legs. Lights glowed here and there, curtains greasy, shadows restless. Across the street, a gramophone wailed over a shouting match. Just another night in the borough.

“Which floor?” Bucky asked.

“Fourth. Street side.” Rick kept his voice careful.

Bucky nodded, hand on the door.

“You walkin’ in alone?” Sam leaned forward, frown deep.

“Yeah.” Bucky’s tone cut it short, leaving no air for argument.

“That ain’t protocol,” Rick pressed, quick and anxious. “At least one of us should come with you, sir.”

Bucky patted his shoulder, a smirk curling at the corner of his mouth. “Relax. I’m a soldier—I can handle myself.”

Rick opened his mouth, then shut it, swallowing whatever argument he had.

“You two stay put. If some punk takes a swing, you ain’t makin’ it upstairs fast enough anyway.” He paused, eyes cutting sideways. “It’s an apartment, not a damn war zone.”

The car went dead quiet. Rick and Sam traded a look—both knew there wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell they’d talk Bucky Barnes outta this.

Bucky shoved the door open, collar flipped high against the wind, and hit the stoop like he owned it. The iron door groaned when he pulled it, paint flakin’ and rust spreadin’ like rot through bad meat. It screamed in protest, same way an old dockworker hacked up a lung down at the pier.

Inside, the place wasn’t a dive, but you could smell the years—flickerin’ bulbs buzzin’ overhead, chalk scrawls on the stairwell walls, stew grease and cheap smokes woven into the wood floors. For the folks who lived here, it was decent enough. Respectable.

Bucky didn’t bother takin’ the stairs. He went straight for the rickety old elevator, shoved the cage doors apart, metal squealin’ like it wanted to die.

A hand shot out, stoppin’ the doors. A Black woman stepped in, thirties maybe, with a kid no older than seven. Her coat was worn thin, shoes scuffed down to hell, but her scarf was tied neat and her spine didn’t bend for nobody.

Her eyes flicked over Bucky like a switchblade.

“Evenin’,” Bucky said, voice low, steady.

“Evenin’,” she shot back flat, takin’ him in—the sharp suit, spit-shined shoes. Guy like him didn’t belong in a place like this. “Never seen you ‘round here before.”

Bucky tilted his head, calm as a churchyard. “Just visitin’ a friend. Clint Barton. He’s sick.”

Something in her eyes shifted—she knew the name—but her guard stayed up. “Clint? No one’s ever come dressed like that for him.”

He let the corner of his mouth tug into a small, easy grin. “Just got back in town.”

The kid wasn’t buyin’ the cool act, though. His eyes lit up, starin’ at Bucky’s left hand. “Mister, are those scars? That’s so cool!”

The woman’s hand snapped to the boy’s collar. “Jackson! Manners!” she hissed.

For a second Bucky froze, his gaze droppin’ to the scarred hand he’d forged into steel. Then—barely there—his mouth curved. He crouched, voice dropping to that low, velvet growl.
“Yeah, rough patch once. Caught a bad break in a fight.”

The boy leaned in, wide-eyed. “Does it still hurt?”

Bucky’s chuckle was quiet, gravel under whiskey. He shook his head. “Nah. Trained it up tougher than before. I can haul coal or throw a punch quicker than any cowboy you seen.”

The boy giggled, the sound sharp in the stale air. Even the woman’s shoulders eased, suspicion slippin’ just a little.

The elevator rattled to the third floor. Bucky straightened, shoved the gate open, and stepped out. He gave the woman a nod, respectful but curt.
“Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” she answered, softer this time.

The doors clanged shut.

The hallway stretched ahead, dim and worn thin. Old Times newspapers curled in the corners, radios mutterin’ behind closed doors—sax jazz from one, cracklin’ baseball scores from another.

Bucky’s shoes hit the floor slow and deliberate, countin’ steps till he reached the last door. Clint Barton’s. The frame sagged like it carried the whole damn building. A Madonna poster peeled at the edges, clingin’ like it was the last nail holdin’ the place together.

His knuckles rapped the wood—clean, sharp, final.

From inside: a nasal growl, muffled. “Yeah, yeah—hold your horses—”

A deadbolt scraped. The door creaked open, half a crack, and there was Clint Barton. Hair a mess, shirt half-buttoned, sleeves hangin’ loose. Red eyes, pale face—swagger gutted by fever.

Bucky cocked a brow. “Christ. You really do look like hell.”

Clint squinted, blinked like his fever dream just walked in. “…Bucky? What the hell are you doin’ here?”

Bucky lifted the paper bag in his hand, casual as sin. “Dinner. What else?”

Clint gave a weak, rough laugh, nasal and frayed. “Don’t wanna get you sick too.”

Bucky’s jaw ticked, chin lifting. “A sniffle ain’t takin’ me down. But you—you always skip meals when you’re sick.”

“I’m not hungry,” Clint barked back. Right on cue, his gut growled loud enough to embarrass the walls. Jazz from a radio downstairs made the silence sting sharper.

Bucky’s eyes narrowed, a smirk ghostin’ at the corner of his mouth. “Your stomach’s got better manners than you.”

Clint leaned on the frame, scowlin’ hard, then shuffled aside. “Do what you want. Don’t expect me to kiss your ass for it.”

The apartment breathed warm but worn—dust, smoke, and Clint’s mess. One bed, one room. Targets and busted arrows cluttered the floor. A radio wheezed against the wall, papers yellowed and curling. Windowsill crowded with beer bottles and dried flowers. Cards and coins scattered across the table beside a cold, abandoned coffee cup.

Bucky gave the place a slow once-over, smirk tugging at his mouth.
“Cozy joint. No wonder you don’t crawl back to the estate.”

Clint sniffed, narrowed his eyes. “Keep runnin’ your mouth like that and you sound like a two-bit punk, not a boss.”

Bucky ignored him. He dropped the bag into the metal sink with a thud. Shrugged off his cashmere coat, the tailored blazer, hung ‘em over a chair. Rolled his cuffs high, baring the muscle that made men think twice.

He’d practiced this in his head a hundred damn times. The chopping was easy—knife kissing the board in a rhythm like muffled gunshots. His hands steady, lethal, like he could go from slicing onions to cutting throats without missing a beat. When he glanced up, Clint was posted against the counter, arms folded, eyes pinned to him.

And yeah—Bucky had picked the shirt that showed off his shoulders best. He wasn’t subtle.

“You makin’ Sarah’s stew?” Clint asked.

Bucky smirked. “Figured you’d remember.”

Clint’s lips twitched. “Yeah… I do.” His voice cracked softer, near reverent. “Tasted like my mom’s. Back before…” He cut himself off.

First time Clint had ever dropped family talk around Bucky. Hell, no one in the outfit knew about his life before the circus—not even Steve.

Clint shook it off quick. “But I remember—you were a goddamn butcher in the kitchen.”

“People change, Barton.”

“Army teach you how to dice vegetables too?”

Bucky didn’t bite. Didn’t admit he’d sweated over cookbooks for days just to get this right.

The onions hissed loud in the pan, fat and steam filling the air.

“Steve hated this as a kid,” Bucky said, casual, spoon stirring carrots. “Picked every damn one out, made Sarah scream at him.”

Clint laughed, surprised. “Skinny Steve? Yeah, I’d buy that. He looked like a stiff breeze would break him.”

“Better times. Twig-Steve was more fun than Big-Boss Steve.”

“Not that different,” Clint said, shaking his head. “Just running the world now.”

Bucky snorted. “Guess I can’t badmouth him in front of you.”

“Trust me, I’ve given him worse,” Clint shot back.

“But you watch his back.” Bucky’s voice dropped, eyes sharp. “Whatever he needs, you’re there.”

Clint stilled, then shrugged. “That’s the job. He pulled me off the street, made me somebody.”

“Somebody?” Bucky cut in, half-tease. “Right-hand man to a mafia king?”

Their shared laugh cracked through the tension like bullets landing on the same mark.

“At least he gave me a target,” Clint muttered, smirk crooked.

Something in Bucky’s chest twisted. Before he could stop it, the words slipped out, hoarse: “You love him?”

The air turned brittle. Clint’s pause was a knife-edge. He nodded slow. “Sure. We all love Steve.”

Not the same way, Bucky thought. Never the same way. He shoved the last vegetables into the pot, stew bubbling up between them like smoke.

Clint straightened, tone sharpening. “Alright. Enough nostalgia. I let you in here ‘cause I know what you’re really after.”

Bucky knew.

“Tell me I’m wrong,” Clint pressed, stepping in. “Tell me that night wasn’t just lust before you ran off to play soldier. Tell me you didn’t use me and toss me out like garbage.” His voice grated, sharp as a blade drawn slow.

Bucky’s knuckles went white on the counter. Chest tight like he’d taken a pipe to the ribs. He lifted his eyes, raw: “I’d never do that to you.”

“Then why?”

“I left… ‘cause I was scared.”

Clint’s gaze narrowed. “Scared of me?”

Bucky shook his head, breath rough. “Scared of how I felt about you.”

Silence. Only the bubbling stew filling the space. Steam curling like smoke from a gun barrel.

Bucky stepped closer, eyes burning. “Back then, I thought… I thought it wasn’t allowed.”

“But it was real,” Clint shot back, pinning him with a stare. “So you ran to the front lines instead? That’s your answer? You and I both know—war’s got no mercy.”

Bucky didn’t speak. He slammed the chef’s knife into the counter, the sound like a gavel.

He crossed the kitchen in three strides, looming over Clint, hands braced on either side. His voice rasped low. “I’m done running.”

And then he kissed him.

It hit like a match to gasoline—rough, consuming, years of hunger caged too long. Clint stiffened, then grabbed fistfuls of Bucky’s shirt, yanking him closer. Bucky’s hands locked hard on his waist, claiming.

Clint hooked his legs around Bucky’s hips, dragged up onto the counter, giving in without giving up. Their breaths tangled, ragged and hot. Fingers in hair, nails biting through fabric. Bucky’s laugh rumbled low, dark, as he pressed Clint back, control pouring off him in waves.

He was drunk on it—the fight in Clint’s body, the surrender in his breath. The tension sparked like Tommy guns in a back alley.

Then—click. The sound of a key in the lock.

They broke apart fast, eyes sharp, breathing hard.

The door opened. A redhead stepped in, shoulders broad, presence heavy. He pulled a pistol slick from his coat, aimed steady at Bucky.

“Step the hell off him.” Voice sharp as a shiv dragged over stone.

Bucky’s eyes narrowed. His mouth curled into a cold smirk. “And who the fuck are you supposed to be?”

The redhead’s glare cut deep. “That’s my question. Who the hell d’you think you are?”

Clint jumped down from the counter, arms thrown wide. “Jesus, Barney?! Where the hell’d you get a gun?!”

Bucky raised a brow, tone low and sardonic. “Barney?”

Barney’s jaw flexed, pistol unwavering. “That him? The bastard you’re screwin’?”

“Put it down!” Clint barked, panic sharp in his voice. “That’s the head of the Rogers family, you idiot.”

Barney spat, furious. “So what? That gives this faggot the right to barge in here, put his filthy hands on you—”

“BARNEY!” Clint’s snarl snapped through the air.

Bucky stayed still, ice in his stare, measuring the man. A low laugh slid from him, cold, cutting. “I didn’t force a damn thing.” He stepped closer, voice a blade’s edge. “So I’ll ask again—who the fuck are you?”

Clint shot Bucky a look, that usual cocky grin gone, replaced with something raw—tight, desperate. His voice came out low, almost breaking: “Bucky… you gotta go. Now.”

Bucky blinked, couldn’t believe his ears. “And he gets to stick around?”

“Damn right I live here!” Barnes barked, jaw locked like a pit bull’s.

Bucky opened his mouth, ready to snap back, but Clint cut him off—pleading, steady, a man trying to hold the line: “I mean it, Buck. Go home tonight. And… thanks for dinner.”

The room was strung tight, like a tripwire about to blow. Bucky’s jaw ticked, his whole face carved from stone. He didn’t give them another word. Just turned on his heel and walked out.

As the door clicked shut, he caught Clint’s muffled whisper, quick, urgent: “It’s not what you think.”

Barnes’ scoff followed, cold as a gun barrel: “I think I’ve seen plenty.”

Bucky’s stride never faltered down the hall, but his chest was a furnace of acid. Jealousy bit deep, eating at his control. He hated that. He was the Rogers family boss, the sharpest blade in New York’s underworld. But right now? He felt like some poor bastard left out on the curb.

By the corner, the night wind slapped him, thick with diesel and wet asphalt. He lit up, took a drag so hard it burned his lungs. Clint’s taste was still in his mouth, bitter and sweet, and it drove him mad.

The cellar stank of rot and dust, soaked wood and the ghost of old wine. Bucky kicked the door open, his heel cracking against the stone stairs, echoes following him down like ghosts. No light but a sputtering tungsten bulb overhead, flickering like a heart on its last beat.

Rows of racks sagged against the stone walls, bottles sleeping like sentries of a forgotten age. Steve had treated them like relics, untouchable. But Steve’s rules weren’t his.

Bucky yanked a bottle—Highland Park, ’37—twisted it open, and the first hit of whiskey smacked him like a clean right hook. He threw it back, fire blazing down his throat, stomach lit up like kindling. Not a flinch. He grinned instead—thin, sharp, cruel.

“All mine now,” he rasped, voice raw, more breath than sound.

He ripped another bottle off the shelf—a red. Didn’t bother with a corkscrew, smashed the top, and drank it straight. Glass tore his lip, blood mixed with wine, dripping hot down his chin and shirt. A dirty ritual, and he welcomed it.

Clint hated this part of him. Bucky could still see it—those eyes, that half-snarl, the clipped growl: “Don’t act like a damn drunk.” He remembered the twitch in Clint’s temple, the contempt he hid behind that cocky smirk. Always pretending he didn’t care, when he cared too much.

Back when Steve and Peggy blew apart, Clint had been the one steadying him. Bucky thought it was meddling, back then. Now? He knew Clint was guarding Steve’s soul, same way he guarded everything.

Another swallow. His throat burned, his chest twisted tighter.

And then, the redhead’s face barged in—eyes glinting, taunting, smug. Bucky drank faster, trying to wash him away. But the bastard stuck.

He’d always thought Clint’s blind loyalty was all for Steve. But no. Clint could love. He just couldn’t love Bucky.

A laugh clawed out of Bucky’s throat—short, jagged, cruel. Like steel on steel. But his chest was hollow, heavy as a coffin.

The bottle went flying, smashed on stone like gunfire, shards sparking in the dim. Bucky’s eyes burned cold, unblinking.

He leaned back into the wall, heart pounding through his ribs, breath ragged. He was supposed to be numb, supposed to be the hard-ass king of New York’s streets. But he cared. Too much. Enough to drown himself in liquor. Enough to torch the whole damn world before he let Clint fall into another man’s arms.

Under that weak yellow light, his shadow stretched long and broken across the wall. Crooked. Shifting. Like the road he’d always been walking—alone.

Chapter Text

“...Sir. Mr Barnes.”

The voice dragged him out of the hangover haze like a steel spoon raking iron. His head throbbed like a drum, his throat dry as sandpaper. He groaned, rolled over, snarled low: “How many times I gotta tell you? Just call me Bucky.”

“And how many times have I told you, sir,” the voice came smooth, smug, with that grating edge of amusement, “I prefer tradition.”

Bucky cracked one eye open, blurry gaze catching Rick’s shit-eating grin. A second later, the curtains ripped open—sunlight knifed in, stabbing his skull. He threw up an arm, cursed: “Son of a bitch! Kill the goddamn sun!”

“From what I gather, sir, you had quite the date with Mr. Whiskey last night.” Rick spread his hands like a man stating the obvious.

Bucky ground his molars, voice low, mean, headache sharpening every word: “Couldn’t let me sleep it off?”

“Normally, I’d be happy to oblige,” Rick said, grin widening, pure smug. “But as it happens, Mrs. Rogers is back. She’s in the kitchen right now, and she’s ordered your ass to breakfast.”

That doused most of his fire in an instant. Bucky groaned, dragged himself upright. The room spun, and he had to grip the bedframe to steady himself before stumbling into the bathroom.

The mirror showed him a wreck: dark circles, scruff shadowing his jaw, like some washed-up hood who’d spent the night in an alley. But cold water, a crisp white shirt, and the armor of a black suit pulled him back together. By the time he headed downstairs, James Buchanan Barnes—the man who ruled half New York’s underworld—was back. Only the shadow in his eyes gave him away.

The dining room was warm with the smell of coffee and cooking. Sarah Rogers, dark apron tied neat, moved with calm authority, directing the maids with a quiet precision no one dared cross. Toast, eggs, fruit—and a pot of steaming, rich broth front and center.

“Sit down, Bucky.” Her tone was command wrapped in care. She slid a bowl of the soup in front of him. The smell hit hard—black pepper sharp, vinegar sour, lamb rich and heavy. “Drink it. All of it. Clear your head.”

It was her old cure. Bucky frowned, scooped a spoonful, swallowed. The burn tore through his tongue, up into his skull, set his gut on fire. But the fog eased, inch by inch.

“Christ—” he coughed, sweat breaking at his temple, but his body was already begging for another spoonful.

Sarah’s eyes softened with a knowing smile. “Better?”

“Getting there.” Bucky exhaled, still rough.

“And how’s that… culinary training of yours going?” she asked lightly, sipping her coffee, gaze sharp.

Bucky kept his eyes on his plate, cutting his eggs slow, voice flat. “Same as before.”

“Still no luck?”

“I managed.” The words came clipped, harsh. But Clint’s eyes—mocking, daring, unforgettable—flashed in his mind. “The result just… wasn’t what I planned.”

Sarah paused, voice gentler now, probing: “You diving into cooking all of a sudden is… out of character. James Buchanan Barnes doesn’t strike me as a man with an interest in kitchens. Unless…” her eyes narrowed with a trace of a smile, “…you were making it for someone special.”

His knife froze mid-cut. The words pierced deep, too sharp, too true. He stared at the pepper flecks swirling in the broth, like they might spell out his damn fate.

“And?” she pressed softly. “Did he like it?”

“I don’t even know if he touched it…” The words slipped out before he realized. His eyes snapped up to meet hers.

“How did you—”

“Oh, Bucky.” Sarah smiled, steady, warm. “I watched you grow up. You think you can fool me?”

Silence fell, thick. His fingers drummed the table, restless, tight. Then he muttered, low: “And you don’t think… that’s a problem?”

Sarah’s gaze didn’t waver. Just like that night, years ago, when she reached out to a broken, snarling boy and told him he wasn’t alone. Her voice was calm, steel-lined, unshakable:

“Remember the day I brought you and Becca here? I told you then—you are family. No matter who you were, or who you’ll become. This is your home. You are my son.”

Bucky’s eyes burned, but his face stayed like stone. “Even if this drags us into a world of trouble?”

“Bucky, love ain’t ever the real problem.” Sarah’s voice was calm, but it carried weight like a judge’s gavel. “It’s fear. Fear of love. Fear that keeps you from even takin’ the risk—that’s what ruins a man.”

The words hit him in the chest. For a second, it felt like some fire inside him—something he’d smothered damn near to death—finally got a breath of air, flickering stubborn and raw.

“But what if he’s… already got somebody?” The words stuck in his throat, rare for him.

Sarah’s hand slid over his, warm, steady, a quiet kind of spell. “Maybe he does. But you can’t let fear of the ending stop you from the start. At least let him know what’s in your heart. Even if you don’t end up side by side, you won’t regret it.”

His throat tightened—not with pain, but with something he hadn’t felt in years: warmth. He wasn’t that Brooklyn punk trailing after Steve anymore. He was a leader now, his own name feared in every corner of this city. And still—Sarah’s words landed like gospel.

Breakfast rolled on, quiet and easy. Until it wasn’t.

“Sir.” Rick’s voice came sharp from the door, tight with nerves. “Got a guest askin’ to see you. Says it’s urgent.”

Bucky caught the flicker of unease in Rick’s eyes. Sarah withdrew her hand, her smile soft. “Go on. Don’t keep ’em waiting.”

He gave a curt nod, pushed back his chair. His footsteps thudded across the old wood floor as he followed Rick through the dim hall.

In the front room, a young woman waited, tension written all over her.

Bucky’s gaze swept her over instinctively. Pretty face, but not delicate. Strong eyes. Dark hair pulled tight, sharp tailored coat, a string of pearls at her wrist. Old money—but she stood straight as a blade, not like some pampered debutante.

Her eyes lit up when she saw him, then dimmed quick, polite.

“Sir,” Rick said, “this here’s Miss Kate Bishop. A friend of Mr. Barton’s.”

Bucky stilled at the name. Bishop. Old Manhattan money—oil, shipping, finance. He knew the family.

“Mr. Barnes.” Kate offered her hand, graceful but firm. “It’s an honor.”

He took her fingers lightly, old-school, precise. “Miss Bishop. What can I do for you?”

Kate held his gaze, dove straight in, voice quick. “It’s Clint. I’m worried. He’s my archery teacher—he didn’t show up today. Phone’s dead. I checked his place. Neighbors said he left early this morning with two big cases, and never came back.”

Bucky’s brow twitched. “Cases?”

“Sir.” Rick’s voice cut in, low but steady. “Bank called me this morning. You know Mr. Rogers had ’em keep tabs on our members’ accounts. Clint cleaned his out. Every last dime.”

“How much?” Bucky asked, voice flat.

“Two hundred grand.”

Two hundred. Exactly what Clint owed the Russians. The picture snapped into place—Clint scraped the money together and was walking himself straight into the lion’s den.

Bucky’s chest went tight. That dumb bastard.

“He go alone?” Bucky pressed.

Kate hesitated. A flicker in her eyes.

That was enough. She knew more.

“Miss Bishop,” Bucky’s voice dropped an octave, dangerous soft, “he go with Barney?”

Her breath caught, then released like she’d finally dropped a weight. “So he told you.”

The memory of last night’s bitter run-in with Clint burned hot in Bucky’s gut, but he forced it down, gave a single nod.

Kate’s shoulders eased. “Good. I told him lies wouldn’t protect anyone. I’m glad he’s done hiding.” Then her voice dipped, half fear, half exasperation. “Yes. Barney’s with him. They think—” her mouth tightened, “—they think buying the Russians’ building with that cash is some kind of solution.”

Bucky blinked. Thought he misheard. “Buying a building?”

Kate nodded hard. “That’s Clint’s apartment block. The Russians own it. They’ve been shaking down tenants for protection money. Threatening to evict. Clint couldn’t stand it. So he scraped together the price they asked—two hundred K—to buy the place outright.”

Silence dropped heavy. Bucky’s chest burned. He thought Clint’s ‘real estate investment’ was just a front. Turns out, the idiot actually meant it. He was willing to gamble everything just to shield his neighbors.

The mix of anger and raw, aching something inside Bucky was damn near unbearable. He wanted to curse Clint six ways to Sunday, but the bastard’s selfless, reckless heart hit him square in the gut.

“Is he in danger?” Kate’s voice cracked, but her eyes searched his like a lifeline.

Bucky didn’t answer right away. His mind churned—worry, fury, a sharp sting of betrayal. Even this girl knew about Barney. Clint had trusted her with secrets he never gave Bucky. He ground his teeth, forced his voice steady.

“They’ll be fine.” His tone was iron. “Go home, Miss Bishop. I’ll let you know when I’ve got news.”

Relief softened her face. She nodded, turned to leave. But at the door, she stopped. Looked back.

“Mr. Barnes,” she said, steady and clear, “I knew Clint before you came back to New York. He’s more than your soldier, more than an Avenger. To me, he’s family. To this neighborhood, he’s the guy who fixes roofs, teaches kids archery, runs out at midnight to get someone medicine. He belongs to them, as much as he belongs to you.”

Her eyes gleamed sharp, almost challenging. “If you wanna step back into his life, you better understand that. Can you handle it?”

Bucky didn’t answer. Just dragged hard on his cigarette till it burned hot at his fingers, eyes locked on her until she was gone.

Then, gravel-rough: “Rick. Get the boys. We roll now.”

Rick didn’t waste a second. He gave a sharp nod and peeled off to rally their men.

By the time the convoy slid into that particular street in Brooklyn, the air itself felt tight. Stank of cheap smokes, bad gas, and rotgut whiskey hung low, a cocktail of every gutter deal that ever went down in this city.

Bucky knew damn well this wasn’t a stroll in the park. You don’t just waltz into the Russians’ den and expect to walk back out clean. But he wasn’t here to start a war—just to get Clint out alive. That’s why he only brought three Chevys, all black, low profile. Ten men, tops. Enough to cut in, grab their guy, and carve a way out before the whole block turned into a shooting gallery.

From the passenger seat he leaned forward, eyes narrowing on the squat brick building squatting at the corner like some ugly beast. Sign out front—Fat Man Auto Repair—was so faded half the bulbs in the neon were already dead. One of Fisk’s throwaway fronts, now leased out to Ivan Banionis and his pack of vultures. Rusted tires, busted mufflers, grease puddles out front. Two thick-necked Slavs in leather jackets smoked like they had all night, boots grinding puddles into the cracked pavement.

Rick’s voice was low, tight. “Ms. Romanoff’s eyes were right. Barton went in hours ago. He ain’t come back out.”

Bucky’s jaw flexed. “I go in first. Sam, you’re on me. Rick—hold the line outside. Anyone comes running, you cut ’em off.”

Sam rolled his eyes, thumbing the Colt under his coat. “You ever think about not walking into a goddamn death trap?”

Bucky let out a short, humorless laugh. “You know me better than that.”

He shoved the door open, long coat trailing like a shadow, and strode straight for the shop. No hesitation, no warning. He stopped dead in front of the two guards. His voice came low, dangerous:

“I’m here for Clint Barton. Hand him over.”

The goons blinked, then broke into mean little grins. One of ’em rasped in broken English, heavy with vodka and malice: “Never heard of him.”

Bucky’s fist answered for him. A straight right, clean and brutal, cracked into the man’s jaw with a sound like a snapped branch. Teeth and spit flew. Before the second could even reach for his piece, Bucky drove an elbow into his throat so hard the bastard collapsed in a choking heap, blood pouring from his nose.

Bucky shook out his hand like he’d just dusted off his coat. Voice flat, calm: “Now you’ve heard of him.”

Behind him, Sam let out a low whistle. “Boss, one day you might try words first. Just once.”

“Depends who I’m talking to.” Bucky shot back, ice-cold. He jerked his chin. “Split up. Eyes sharp. Find Barton first. Keep it quiet. Gunfire’s last resort.”

Inside, the joint was all rot and shadow. Damp concrete underfoot, water dripping somewhere in the dark. Every few steps, another Russian rat scuttled out, steel pipe or switchblade in hand. Didn’t matter. Sam’s boys cut them down quick and quiet while Bucky pushed deeper, a ghost with a mission.

At a corner, two punks leaned smoking, laughing at some dirty joke. Bucky was on them in silence, one arm snapping a neck, the other dragging the second into the dark before he could yelp. Bodies dropped like sacks of meat.

Then he found it—a rusted steel door, cracked open just an inch. Thin light leaked through. He moved slow, muscles coiled tight, and peered inside.

The room was a butcher’s stage. Stripped down from a parts storehouse to a back-alley interrogation pit. Bare bulb swung overhead, throwing hard white shadows. Blood was drying dark on the concrete. A crowbar lay tossed aside, sticky with fresh red.

In the middle—two bodies strung up by chains, arms wrenched high, torsos raw with bruises and cuts. Clint, half his face buried in bloody blond hair, breathing ragged. Next to him, the redheaded bastard from last night—beat to hell but eyes still spitting fire.

And in front of them, one big Russian brute, crowbar still in hand, weighing his next swing.

Bucky’s eyes went to steel. He didn’t hesitate. Slipped in silent as smoke, arm looping around the thug’s throat, the other wrenching his wrist until bone cracked. The man dropped like a felled ox before he even knew who’d touched him.

Bucky shook his hand off like it was nothing but dust. The copper stink of blood was thick as he pulled a lockpick from his coat, kneeling at Clint’s chains. Metal scraped, clinked. Then—click.

Clint sagged, dead weight, until Bucky caught him, arm tight around his shoulders.

“You still with me, Clint?” His voice came low, rougher than he wanted.

Clint’s lashes fluttered, blue eyes defiant even through pain. His mouth twitched up into something that might’ve been a smile. “Eh… might’ve cracked a rib or two. Don’t make a fuss over it.”

For a second, it was just them. Breath on breath, heat crackling between battered bodies. Bucky’s thumb brushed a bloodstain off Clint’s cheek, his face inching closer—

“Keep your hands off him.”

Voice like a knife.

Bucky’s gaze snapped over. The redhead still chained, still burning holes into him with those furious blue eyes.

Bucky’s lips curled slow, dangerous. “You forget you’re still hanging like a slab of meat?”

“Bucky.” Clint’s voice rasped, weak but steady. “Cut him down.”

Bucky’s jaw worked. A pause. Then he clicked his tongue, muttered a curse, and snapped the chain. The redhead called Barney—hit the floor hard, coughing, glaring up like he’d spit fire if he could. He staggered, then snarled past his busted lip: “We need the money.”

“The money?” Bucky stepped in close, fury sparking. “You dumb bastard—this ain’t about the cash. We need to move before the whole block lights up.”

Barney laughed, wet and ugly. “What’s the matter, huh? Big bad Barnes scared of a handful of Russians?”

Bucky’s stare cut like a knife. “I don’t give a damn about them. I give a damn about Clint.”

Barney’s face went red, like Bucky had slapped him raw. He spat, voice cracking: “Bullshit. You just wanna get into his pants, you fairy.”

That was it. Clint shoved between them, shaking, voice low but sharp as a blade. “Enough! Jesus, Barney. I don’t need you playing big brother for my virtue. Back off.”

Bucky froze. His breath caught, gaze flicking between them—and he saw it then. The matching lines, the family stamped into both their faces.

“Brother?” The word left him flat, heavy.

Clint met his eyes, jaw tight, daring him to look away. “Yeah. Charles Barton. Barney. My brother.”

Before anything else could break—CRACK.

Gunfire split the air from somewhere deeper inside. Metal walls hummed with the impact. All three men jerked toward the sound, instincts snapping tight.

Bucky moved first. “We settle this later. Right now, we walk out alive.”

Clint braced on the wall, breath ragged but stubborn. “Not without Banionis. He’s signing over the building.”

Barney smirked, bloody grin sharp as glass, like he’d won a point.

Bucky swore under his breath, checked the mag on his M1911, the weight cold and ready in his hand. He knew Clint wasn’t backing down.

“Fine,” he growled. “But we make it fast.”

Weapons scraped up. Bucky cocked his Colt, Barney hefted a crowbar ripped from a dead man’s hand, and Clint—Clint grabbed a busted lamp, ripped the cord clean, and gripped it like a club.

Barney snorted, mocking. “A lamp? Really?”

Clint just smirked through blood. “Trust me. It’ll do the job.”

And Bucky, watching him through the haze of smoke and blood, knew he wasn’t wrong.

They moved in formation—simple, tight. Bucky took point, piece low but ready to rise at a twitch. Barney trailed half a step behind, iron bar dragging against his palm with a low scrape. Clint stuck in the middle, pale and shaky, every step drawing a hiss of pain—but he clenched his jaw and kept pace.

The hallway was damp and stinking of oil and rot. Paint peeled like dead skin, puddles spread greasy underfoot. Overhead bulbs flickered, throwing shadows that looked like a mob of grinning skulls lunging out the walls.

Russian voices murmured at the corner. Bucky lifted a hand—silence. He moved like a ghost, and in two swift cracks of knuckles-on-bone, the guards were down cold. Barney shot him a look—half surprise, half challenge, like he couldn’t decide if he was impressed or pissed.

They pressed deeper. A cluster of armed goons stormed from the far end. Sam’s crew kicked in through a side door, steel barking, muzzle flash bouncing off the walls. Sparks rained as bullets chewed up metal siding.

Bucky shoved the Barton brothers through the gap and slammed into a heavy wood door. It groaned open onto a wide garage bay. Rusted engines, busted frames, scrap piles scattered the floor. At the center: a long table littered with cash, bottles, half-smoked cigars.

And at the head of it—Ivan Banionis, the Russian boss himself. Big bastard, bald with a scar dragging across his cheek, lighting a cigar like he had all the time in the world.

His eyes lifted, a slow grin spreading. “Mr. Barnes. Never thought you’d bring your pretty face to my house.” His accent was thick, voice like gravel dragged over steel.

The air went tight. Outside, gunfire crackled like firecrackers in the distance. Inside, nothing but the sound of hearts beating.

Bucky curled his finger against the trigger. “I’m here to finish the deal. You got the cash, so hand over what belongs to my family.”

Ivan leaned back against the table, smoke curling around him. His yellow grin widened. “You walk in here with a handful of boys, and you think this is one of your bars? This is my kingdom.”

Bucky’s smirk was sharp, cold. “You think I came alone? I got eyes on you from every angle. You wanna test if I’m bluffin’? Go ahead. The Avengers ain’t far either.”

The Russian’s face hardened, grin fading into steel. “That’s war, Barnes. Family against family. That’s not business. That’s blood.”

Bucky stepped in, voice dropping to a blade’s edge. “Don’t kid yourself, Ivan. You skim money, fine. We don’t blink. But you bleed the folks in my neighborhood dry? You shove families out of their homes? That’s spitting in the Rogers family’s face. And in the Avengers’. That’s your line crossed.”

Ivan didn’t snap back. Instead, his eyes cut toward Clint, mouth curling wicked. “Funny, talkin’ about family. Did your new boss tell you everything, Barton? Tell him why your brother’s really in New York?”

Clint froze. His breath hitched.

Bucky’s stare snapped to him, razor-sharp. “What the hell is he talkin’ about?”

Barney swore under his breath, then spat it out. “Fine. Enough games. I’m Bureau. FBI. They sent me to crawl through New York’s mob. I heard Clint was mixed up with the Irish, figured I’d drag him out before he drowned. But turns out my genius brother doubled down and picked another damn fight instead.”

Ivan laughed, loud and ugly, spreading his arms. “See? A fed sittin’ in your lap, Barnes. He came gift-wrapped. I’m the one doin’ you a favor—cleanin’ house before your whole empire goes up in smoke.”

Clint’s glare was pure ice, teeth bared. “That building’s full of people I care about. I wasn’t lettin’ them get thrown in the street. And Barney? He’s blood. I don’t leave my own behind.”

Something inside Bucky twisted hard. His grip on the gun was steady, but his chest burned like hellfire.

Ivan let out a booming laugh, spreading his hands wide.
“This dumb bastard walked straight into my turf, what d’you think I did? I rolled out the red carpet. Imagine my surprise when your boy Clint shows up beggin’ for him, swearing he’d pay top dollar for that dump of a building. Two hundred grand in cash. He knew it was a hustle—still said yes. What a chump.”

Clint’s glare cut sharp as broken glass, teeth grinding. “Those people in that building? They’re my neighbors. I won’t see ’em tossed on the street. And Barney—” his voice faltered for a heartbeat, then hardened again, “—he’s my blood. I don’t leave family behind.”

Ivan flicked his ash, voice dragging with mock sympathy. “Barnes, one of your guys hid a Fed under your nose. You got any idea the kinda heat that brings? I’m doin’ you a favor here, cleanin’ house. You should be thankin’ me, bro.”

Bucky sneered, cold as ice. “Don’t flatter yourself, Russki. You ain’t even good enough to jerk Fisk off.”

Ivan’s face twisted, rage sparking. He raised his gun—then a heavy thud split the air, followed by a gunshot. The bullet punched into his shoulder, spinning him back hard. He staggered, nearly dropped, while his crew yanked him behind the oak desk in a flash.

“Boss, you good?” Sam’s voice barked from the doorway, his crew flooding in with steel in their hands.

“Never better,” Bucky shot back, already firing.

The whole shop exploded into chaos. Gunfire cracked, curses in Russian and English overlapped, wood splintered, metal screamed. The air filled with smoke and the stink of burning powder.

Bucky moved faster than the rest—two clean shots, two men down, blood blooming through their shirts before they even hit the ground. He swung the butt of his pistol into the third man’s jaw—bone snapped like a dry twig.

He flipped a table for cover, voice sharp. “Clint—back!”

“Quit treating me like a cripple!” Clint snarled back, snatching a desk lamp and smashing it over a thug’s face. Glass cut, blood sprayed. He drove the jagged end straight into another’s shoulder, dropping him. The man’s gun skittered away—Clint stomped down, claimed it clean.

Bucky’s lip curled into a quick grin. “Nice.”

“Just don’t slow me down,” Clint shot back, defiant as ever.

Back-to-back, they moved like gears in the same machine. Bucky hammered forward, brutal and relentless—gun butt to bone, boots breaking ribs. Clint darted sharp and quick, every scrap of the room turning into a weapon—pipes, bottles, chairs. One was the hammer, the other the arrow. Together, they tore through the Russians like a storm.

Across the room, Barney was all steel and control—swinging a crowbar with surgical precision, knocking a pistol clean out of a hand, flipping a barrel to block a spray of bullets. Years of training, calm and deadly.

The brawl barely lasted three minutes. Ivan knew it was lost. He stumbled back, breath ragged, eyes darting between shattered windows and advancing guns.

Clint’s gaze caught him cold. “Don’t leave yet, pal. Party’s just gettin’ started.”

He scooped a rusty wrench off the floor, flicked his wrist like it was nothing. The thing spun, cracked Ivan’s wrist with a sick thud. His gun clattered to the cement, sparks flying.

Bucky’s men swarmed, dragging Ivan down. Fists crashed, arms pinned, the beast defanged.

When the smoke cleared, Bucky and Clint walked side by side through the wreckage. Bucky looked down at Ivan, voice dripping venom. “You bring the papers?”

Ivan spat blood, struggling. “This is robbery. In court—”

“Save it.” Bucky’s tone dropped like iron. “In New York, court’s just ink and witnesses. You sign, my lawyer makes it real in two days. You try anything funny—you’re fish food in the East River.”

Rick stepped in with a file and pen. “Got Murdock to draft it fast.”

Bucky shoved the contract down in front of Ivan. “Sign it. Transfer the building to Clint Barton. Right here. Right now.”

Ivan’s eyes burned hate, but his hand shook as it scrawled his name, jagged and broken. Like a confession in blood.

“Smart move.” Bucky snatched the paper, slid it away. “Now, you either crawl outta this city, or you play by my rules. No third option.”

Ivan dropped his head, broken, beaten.

Around them, the crew cleared bodies and brass, dragging Russians out, smoke still hanging thick.

Clint stood in the ruins, eyes flicking to Bucky. His mouth worked like he wanted to bite back words—but what came out was rough, grudging. “…Thanks.”

Bucky arched a brow, about to reply—then stopped dead.

“Wait.”

Clint frowned. “What?”

Bucky touched his shirt—his fingers came back slick, crimson. Heat spreading fast. He looked down, palm full of blood.

“Take me to hospital,” he rasped, a crooked smirk tugging his lips. “I got hit.”

Then his knees buckled.

“Bucky!” Clint’s voice cracked as he lunged, catching him, the weight of him collapsing hard across his shoulders.

Bucky’s vision blurred, edges dimming. Still, his mouth twisted in that damn cocky grin. And the last thing he saw before the dark took him—Clint’s blue eyes, wide with fear, burning with something else he never thought he’d see.

Something raw. Something real.

Then the world went black.

Bucky came to with the sting of alcohol burning his nose, making him wince. His eyes cracked open to a ceiling lamp buzzing weak light, the bulb haloed in dust and shadows. Pain bloomed hot and heavy through his ribs and gut, like somebody had tucked a block of iron under his skin.

“Don’t move.”

The voice was calm, steady. Bucky turned his head, spotting Bruce Banner hunched at his bedside. Shirt sleeves rolled, stethoscope still dangling from his neck, glasses sliding down his nose.

“You got lucky this time,” Bruce muttered, pushing the frames back up. “Bullet just grazed you. Inch the other way and I’d be giving your eulogy at St. Patrick’s.”

“Appreciate it, Doc.”

“Appreciate me? First Steve, now you. What is it with you boys trying to put me in an early grave?”

Bucky let out a short, low laugh. “Family tradition.”

Bruce shook his head, tucking gauze and bottles back into his worn leather bag. “Funny, I thought Natasha already told you—no going off half-cocked without the Avengers’ say-so. You start a war without warning, you drag the rest of us into the fire.”

“That was… different,” Bucky grumbled, staring up at the ceiling like it might explain him better than his words could.

Bruce arched a brow. “Yeah? Let me guess—different ’cause it spelled B-A-R-T-O-N.”

Before Bucky could answer, a knock tapped at the door. Not loud, but hesitant.

They exchanged a glance. Bruce rose, opened it. Clint stood there, shoulders bunched, face all bruises and band-aids, eyes restless like a caged animal.

“I… uh… can I come in?” Clint’s voice carried a rasp, something raw under it.

Bruce clapped him on the shoulder, all polite exit. “Sure. He’s awake. Mrs. Rogers’ll want to know. I’ll tell her.” And with that, Bruce slipped out, closing the door soft behind him.

Silence hung heavy. Just the two of them.

Clint lingered by the door, hands shoved in his pockets like he didn’t know what else to do with them. Light stretched his shadow long across the floor. He looked like a man half-ready to bolt, half-ready to break.

“How bad’s it hurt?” he finally asked.

Bucky shrugged, masking the jolt of pain. “I’ve had worse.”

That dragged Clint’s eyes to him. Bucky knew what Clint saw—bandaged chest and ribs, bare skin cut with old scars, the burn marks curling down his arm like a map of wars long lost.

Clint let out a short, shaky laugh. “Hell of a pep talk.”

Bucky pushed himself upright, sweat breaking cold on his temples, propping against the headboard. Every move cost him, but he wasn’t about to show it. “This talking across the room crap? It’s exhausting. You gonna stand there all night, or get closer?”

Clint froze, shoulders tight as wire. A beat passed before he shook his head. “I can’t.”

That cut deeper than the bullet. Bucky’s jaw locked. “Appreciate you making me feel like poison.” He hadn’t meant to let it slip, hadn’t wanted Clint to hear the crack in his armor.

Clint’s breath hitched, sharp. Guilt flickered in those blue eyes. “It ain’t that. Christ, Buck, it ain’t that. It’s me. Feels like every time I get near something good, it rots in my hands.”

Bucky narrowed his gaze. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Clint dropped his head, broad shoulders folding in on themselves. “You don’t get it. You drag me outta Ivan’s den, catch a slug for it—and I’m still the guy who screws it all up. Barney’s paying the price now, maybe losing his job. Steve took a bullet with me standing two feet away. Rebecca won’t even look me in the eye. And now you—” He broke off, voice cracking, fists buried in his pockets.

Bucky’s palm pressed flat to the sheets, steadying his breath. “Sam told me the truth. When Steve was down, you were running down leads, keeping the city from tearing itself apart. You’re the reason the Russians didn’t burn our block to ash. That’s why the Avengers trusts you. Why they picked you. But you can’t keep hauling it all yourself. You’re not Atlas. You got people who’ll bleed with you.”

“Too late.” Bucky’s voice dropped, steel under the softness. “You walked into this family, Clint. Worry comes with the suit. Only question is—are you gonna let us stand with you, or keep breaking yourself alone?” He hesitated, then added, quieter, “Unless you already decided where your real family is.”

Clint flinched, eyes darting. “No. It’s not that. Barney’s blood, yeah, but… Christ, Buck, it’s complicated.”

Bucky studied him, chest tight. Clint always wrapped himself in silence and half-truths, like armor. Like the world was nothing but knives. So Bucky softened his tone, tilted his head toward the empty space at his side. “Look. I ain’t going anywhere tonight. Got all the time in the world. So breathe, doll. Slow. C’mere. Sit with me.”

Clint hesitated like he was weighing every scrap of courage left in him, then finally crossed the room. He sat on the edge of the bed, angled away, eyes fixed on a crack in the plaster instead of on Bucky. Maybe it was easier that way—easier to spill his guts without getting read down to the bone.

“I never told you about Barney,” Clint said low, voice raw. “Never told the family, either. ’Cause the second they found out he’s Bureau, they’d brand him a rat, an enemy. I couldn’t risk dragging him into our mess. Couldn’t let him take the heat for me.”

Bucky narrowed his eyes. “What I don’t get is—how the hell did nobody ever dig up that you had a brother?”

Clint gave a bitter little shrug. “Carnival days taught us plenty. Not just the con jobs, the lifts, the break-ins. We learned how to vanish on paper, too. Burn the files, cut the ties. Me and Barney wiped our names off the books, like ghosts. That’s the only reason he ever got into the Bureau. No one could trace him back to the carny kid with a crook for a brother.”

Bucky knew it—hell, they were all criminals, no matter the suits, the territory, the lip service to morals. The law would chew them up the same. But hearing Clint say it with that weight of shame—it scraped something raw inside him.

“Why do I hear shame in your voice?”

“Because that’s what it is!” Clint snapped his head around, voice cracking loud. “Yeah, I know the family’s got reasons for what we do, the Avengers got their code. But back then, with the carnival—it was dirtier, darker. No rules. They told me to steal, I stole. They told me to rob, I robbed. I tried faking sick, hurting myself to get out, but they beat it outta me. And after a while… I went numb. Figured maybe that’s just the world.”

Bucky’s gaze softened, just a shade. “Clint, you were a kid. You didn’t have a choice.”

Clint shook his head hard. “I had one. Barney said he was enlisting, told me to come with him. I should’ve gone. He was the only one who stood between me and my old man’s fists. He’s my brother. Taught me family means loyalty. But the carnival felt like family too. And how the hell was I supposed to walk away from the only people who hadn’t left me in the dirt? Out there, the world eats you alive, bones and all.”

Bucky’s chest twisted. He thought of Sarah, of how close he and his sister had come to being chewed up by the same streets. He knew that hollow feeling in Clint’s words like he knew the weight of a gun in his hand.

Clint’s voice cracked again. “He told me he’d wait at the bus station. Said he believed I’d show. But that night—job went bad. Homeowner had a piece. I took a bullet. My crew scattered, left me bleeding on the curb. I just lay there, listening to the church bells, knowing Barney’s bus was pulling out without me. If Jarvis hadn’t found me, I’d be six feet under instead of sitting here.”

Bucky laid a steady hand on Clint’s arm, heat pressing into his skin. “But you lived. You fought back. You beat the bastards who wanted you gone. You’re here.”

Clint’s laugh was ragged, bitter. “I hated myself for being that stupid. Hated Barney for letting me walk away. For not fighting harder to look for me. And when I saw him again, all the hate just—vanished. How do I blame him? I was the dumb one. Blind, weak, soft. I blew my shot.”

The room went still, just breath and that crack in the wall. Bucky’s chest felt cinched in a vice. At last he moved, knuckles brushing Clint’s trembling back. “But you climbed out. You built something. You’re stronger than you think.”

“Strong?” Clint spat out the word, air leaving him in a rush. “I’m scared, Bucky. Always. ’Cause I know one day Steve won’t need me. None of you will. And then who the hell am I without family? Barney’s all I got left in this world.”

That snapped something in Bucky. He grabbed Clint’s shoulders, forcing him to look at him.

“You’re a goddamn fool, Barton. Biggest fool I ever met, thinking we don’t need you. Look around you—Steve’s not here, but every postcard he sends, he’s asking after you. Sarah never shuts up about family dinners, wants you at the table. Rick and Sam? They complain you’re a pain in the ass, but they’d be lost without you. And you think I don’t need you?” Bucky’s voice broke into a growl. “Say that again, and Rebecca’ll deck you herself.”

Clint’s mouth twitched, like he’d taken a punch right to the gut. His eyes glossed wet, and he caught Bucky’s hand, squeezing hard enough to hurt. Bucky welcomed the pain—it was real, burning hot as the blood in his veins. He lifted his other hand, cupping Clint’s face, forcing his gaze up.

“One more thing,” Bucky said low, steel edged with something softer. “Yeah, you’re an idiot. But you’re not weak, not blind. You stayed because you were loyal. Because you’ve got a good goddamn heart. The villains were the ones who twisted it, not you. Clint, in this rotten city, your heart’s pure gold. Bright as your hair, sharp as your eyes. That’s why I can’t help it. That’s why I fall in love with you.”

Clint blinked fast, tears catching. His voice cracked. “Don’t screw with me, Buck. Don’t throw words I can’t understand.”

“What word? Love?” Bucky pressed. “Don’t tell me you don’t know what it means. Don’t tell me you don’t feel it too.”

Clint’s eyes widened, shock plain.

“I’ve seen it,” Bucky went on, chest tight. “The way you look at Steve.”

Clint bit down on his lip, almost denying. “That’s bullshit—”

“I heard you,” Bucky cut in. “That first night. You don’t even remember, do you? You came apart in my hands, and you called out his name.”

Clint’s face flushed red. “No—I didn’t!”

Bucky’s voice went sharp. “Don’t lie to me. I ain’t the one wearing the damn hearing aid.” The words were out before he could stop them. His blood froze. “Christ—Clint, I didn’t mean—”

Clint reached up slow, fingers brushing the small device hooked behind his ear. Purple casing glinting under the light. He pulled it off, set it gently on the nightstand. Steve had made Stark craft it after Sarah noticed Clint’s hearing loss—sleek, top shelf, ahead of anything on the market. But Bucky knew—it hurt him to wear it.

“It’s alright,” Clint murmured, voice low, rough around the edges. “I’ll admit it… back then, I had some… fantasies about Steve.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow, smooth as steel. “Yeah? Doesn’t sound like news. You loved him,”

“Yeah. I loved him,” Clint admitted, tone quiet, heavy. “’Cause besides my drunk dad who could’ve flattened me, the bow master who twisted me into a criminal, and my brother who walked away… Steve was the first real male figure I could look up to. Showed me what home felt like, what it meant to do something you’re good at. Taught me direction. I admired him… I respected him. I was young. Blood’s hot. And hell, he wasn’t ugly either.”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “Great. Just what I needed—my brother is a sex bomb for other dudes.”

“But that was a long time ago.”

Bucky blinked, confused. “Long time ago?”

“Calling out his name when I was with you… my fault. We were young. First time feeling that for a man—I freaked. Confused. I felt…filthy. So I hid it. And then you came along, pulled it all out. Made me realize that feeling was normal. I realized what I felt for Steve is admiration, respect. Not what I feel for you.”

Clint paused, then cracked a tiny, shaky smile. “But that short little soldier never came back to check on me. Had no way to tell him face-to-face… so I stewed.”

Bucky leaned in, voice low, teasing, dangerous. “‘Short little soldier’? Buddy, I’m built like a tank. You think I couldn’t lift you with one hand?”

“Use that line on anyone dumb enough to think you’d stick around.”

The smile faded off Clint’s face, and Bucky’s tone softened, vulnerable. “You really think I just wanted a one-night fling?”

“You could blame me for thinking that?”

“Hell, I heard you call out someone else’s name. Thought maybe your heart was locked up forever. You know that feeling?”

Clint twisted his arms, looking away. “Everyone keeps moving forward. You went dark on me—I figured you’d forgotten me.”

Bucky’s eyes sharpened, fire lacing his words. “Yeah? And you don’t see me flipping my world for you?”

Clint froze, half shocked, half awkward. “Jesus… you’ve got some nerve saying that.”

“Yeah? I call it truth.”

“Irish Catholics are traditional, you know that. You spill this to the wrong ears… they’ll never let you live it down.”

“Let them talk. I’ve been on the front lines, earned medals. Yesterday I beat a squad of Russian muscleheads into the floor. Better than any bastard harassing women and kids.”

“This could spark mutiny, turf wars! Other families won’t follow an orders-from-a-fairy!”

Bucky’s grin went cold, eyes knife-sharp. “You call me the same way your brother did?”

Clint’s gaze flickered—panic, regret. “No! I just… I don’t know how to do.”

Bucky sighed, exhaling slow. Expected it’d be rough. But he gripped Clint’s hand tighter, grounding him. “I know this world’s got no mercy. Can’t promise what happens next. But I’m a soldier. I don’t surrender without a fight. The world cannot tell me who I love. You stand with me? That’s all I need.”

Clint froze, chest heaving. He stared at Bucky’s hand like it burned into his bones. “What if I can’t—?”

“I’ll always be your family. Your friend. I’m always here for you. But if you think that’s an excuse to walk, you’re dead wrong. I will not let you go.”

Clint swallowed, throat tight. Finally, he exhaled, resigned. “Damn it… sometimes I forget how possessive you are.”

Bucky’s grin was smug, victorious. “Good thing you like it.”

Clint’s eyes glimmered wet, soft. Slowly, he laid his hand over Bucky’s. Then, without hesitation, leaned in and kissed him.

The kiss was urgent—pent-up fire spilling over. Bucky’s hands cupped Clint’s neck, pulling him closer. Their mouths met hard, teeth grazing. He pulled back a breath, low and teasing. “Wait… you agreeing to this?”

Clint’s breath came fast, forehead pressed to Bucky’s. Eyes glinting, half dare, half fire. “Use your mouth where it counts.”

Bucky chuckled darkly, pressing back in, hunger and relief all in one. Clint responded just as fiercely, hands tracing from jaw to spine, pinning him to the pillow. Lips and tongues tangled, danger and desire electric in every movement.

Then, Clint’s weight shifted wrong. Bucky grunted, a sharp inhale—his bandaged side tore, fire lancing through him.

Clint froze, panic clear. “Shit! Your wound—”

Bucky cut him off, seizing his shirt and holding him down. “You stop now, I swear, I’ll personally strangle you.”

Clint froze for a second, but when his eyes met Bucky's, he let out a low, disbelieving chuckle. " Banner finds out I let you get worked up, he'll have my hide."

Bucky didn't bother with words. His good hand shot up, tangling in Clint's hair and yanking him back down. Clint's resistance evaporated, his own response turning fierce, hungry. But even in his hunger, there was a carefulness, a deliberate avoidance of the bandages wrapping Bucky's torso.

As Bucky's hand fumbled toward the nightstand drawer, Clint was faster, snagging the small foil packet with the easy grace of a pickpocket. He leaned down, sealing his mouth over Bucky's in a kiss that was more a claiming bite than anything tender. His hot mouth left Bucky's lips, tracing a wet, burning path down his jawline, over the jump of his Adam's apple, moving lower.

Kisses fell like a careful storm over his collarbones, his chest, meticulously skirting the white gauze but setting every inch of unharmed skin on fire. Finally, Clint paused, his breath a hot promise against the tense skin of Bucky's lower stomach. He looked up, those ice-blue eyes locking onto Bucky's with a raw, unspoken challenge. Then, he dropped his head, replacing all words with devastating action.

Bucky's head slammed back against the headboard, a ragged groan tearing from his throat. Any lingering pain from his wounds was obliterated, washed away by a tidal wave of pure sensation. He watched, mesmerized, as that blond head bobbed between his legs. Clint—the guy with a sniper's sharp eyes and a mouth that could start a war—was now taking Bucky's cock into his mouth with a focus that was downright reverent.

Hot, wet, tight. And goddamn skilled.

Clint's tongue swirled over the head before he took him deep, each suck hitting a nerve that made Bucky see stars. He'd glance up, eyes glazed with lust, a flicker of defiance in them, as if checking to see if he was hitting the mark. Sweat dripped from his temple, tracing the line of his neck. The contrast—that mix of pure devotion and filthy expertise— shattered the last of Bucky's control.

"Clint..." Bucky's voice was a wrecked scrape. His fingers twisted in Clint's sweat-damp hair, a desperate push-pull of wanting to shove him away from the overwhelming pleasure and pull him deeper, forever. His stomach muscles clenched, his hips bucking off the mattress involuntarily, completely at the mercy of Clint's mouth.

Just as Bucky felt himself teetering on the edge, Clint pulled off. He looked up, breathless, a slick trail on his chin, his expression feral with need. He tore the packet open with his teeth and rolled the condom on with a clumsy, determined urgency that made Bucky's muscles jump.

Catching on, Bucky reached back into the drawer, snagging the jar of Vaseline and pressing it into Clint's hand. After a moment of slick, frantic preparation, Bucky watched, breath caught, as Clint moved. He straddled Bucky's hips, knees planted on either side, hands braced carefully away from the bandages. He looked down at Bucky, eyes dark and blown, positioned himself, and then sank down in one slow, deliberate motion.

The feeling of being enveloped in that incredible heat and tightness stole the air from Bucky's lungs. A choked, guttural sound ripped from him. Clint felt impossibly hot and soft inside, clenching around him like a fist. Clint himself threw his head back, a long, exposed line of throat, a low, broken sigh escaping him.

"Christ..." Bucky gasped, hips jerking upward. "Easy, doll. You're gonna squeeze me in half."

Clint didn't answer. Lost in his own rhythm, he began to move. His pace started slow, then built, a raw, primal dance driven by pure need. His eyes squeezed shut, brow furrowed, lost in the feeling. His sweat-soaked shirt clung to the hard planes of his torso. Each rise and fall took Bucky deeper into that maddening heat.

Bucky's hands gripped Clint's hips, fingers digging into flesh, guiding, urging. He watched the man above him come apart, watched that smart mouth go slack with moans. The sight of this stubborn, sharp-tongued bastard riding him, wrecked and beautiful, mixed with the physical bliss, was an intoxicating power trip that went straight to Bucky's head.

Ignoring the protest from his wound, he tightened his grip and drove upward, slamming into Clint, reclaiming control. Deeper, harder thrusts that turned Clint's moans into sharp, ragged cries. Bucky watched the dazed, blissed-out look on Clint's face, a profound, possessive satisfaction flooding him.

The end was a brutal, beautiful crash. A final, deep thrust, a strangled cry from Clint, and a raw, animal groan from Bucky as he spilled over the edge.

In the heavy, breathless quiet that followed, Clint slumped against him, boneless. The aftermath left his sharp eyes soft and hazy, a low, contented sound humming in his chest. Something hot and impossibly tender swelled in Bucky's own chest. He reached up with his scarred left hand, brushing the damp hair from Clint's forehead, his voice a low rumble.

"C'mon, sweetheart. We ain't done," he murmured, giving Clint's hip a light slap. "Turn over for me."

Clint made a vague, protesting noise, reluctant to lose the connection, but his body was already obeying. He shifted slowly, letting Bucky maneuver him until he was on his knees, back to Bucky's chest. Bucky pulled him close, settling him back into the cradle of his hips.

The new angle was even more intimate, even deeper. Bucky nuzzled into the nape of Clint's neck, breathing in the scent of sweat and sex. His hands roamed over Clint's damp, bare back, finding the hem of his soaked shirt and peeling it off, tossing it aside.

Now, Clint's back was fully exposed in the dim light, the lines of old scars standing out like a map of a life hard-lived. Bucky's right hand splayed over Clint's stomach, feeling the rapid beat of his heart, while the rough, calloused fingers of his left hand found a nipple, rolling and pinching it with deliberate slowness.

Clint jolted, a sharp gasp catching in his throat, his back arching against Bucky.

"You like that, huh?" Bucky growled against his ear, nipping at the lobe. "See how hard you get for me... so damn sensitive. Just a touch..."

As he spoke, he began to move again, shallow, deep rolls of his hips that hit a devastating spot inside. His left hand worked the sensitive nub relentlessly, while his right slid up to squeeze and knead Clint's pec, leaving faint red marks.

It was too much. Clint came completely undone, his head falling back against Bucky's shoulder, a broken stream of pleas and curses falling from his lips. He tried to move, but Bucky held him firm, a prisoner to the relentless, dual assault.

"Bucky... fuck... I can't... it's too much..." he begged, his words a lie betrayed by the way his body clenched and shuddered.

" You can take it," Bucky rasped, his voice gritty, driving into him with a force that stole the air from Clint's lungs. He hooked one of Clint's legs over his arm, spreading him wider, pounding into him with a brutal, perfect rhythm that shattered Clint into a million pieces, his cries muffled against his own arm.

"You forget this whole floor's mine? Soundproofed tighter than a vault." His low chuckle vibrated against Clint's skin, teeth grazing the sensitive ear cartilage. "Go on. Scream for me."

Before Clint could retort, Bucky sealed his mouth over the trembling earlobe, sucking hard enough to draw a gasp. Not satisfied, he dragged a wet, wicked tongue along the outer shell before delving shallowly into the ear canal, lapping slowly until the ear was glistening and soaked. The overwhelming intimacy wrenched a full-body shudder from Clint, leaving him arching and gasping like a fish on a line.

"Say my name," Bucky commanded, punctuating each word with a sharp, deep thrust that nailed Clint's spot dead-on, forcing tears of pure sensation from the corners of his eyes. "Look at me. Know who's ruinin' you so good."

"Bucky—!" Clint's voice was a broken thing, a plea pitched at the edge of oblivion. A silver strand of saliva escaped his lips, dripping onto the tangled sheets. He was molten, pliant, utterly possessed. "Bucky… Bucky!" It was a chant, a prayer.

Bucky reveled in the wreckage. He slowed to a maddening, shallow rhythm. "Who do you belong to? Tell me."

"Yours—! All yours—! Ah, god—!" Clint bucked, desperate for friction, for release.

"Didn't hear a name, sweetheart."

The deliberate torment shattered Clint's last shred of control. He threw his head back, a raw, high cry tearing from his throat. "Bucky! Bucky—!"

With a guttural sound of triumph, Bucky drove back into him, a punishing, relentless pace. He kissed the tears from Clint's face, staring into those dazed blue eyes. "C'mon, doll," he coaxed, voice thick with lust and a rough kind of affection. "Give it up for me. One more time."

The filthy promise, combined with a final, deep plunge and a clever twist of his fingers, broke Clint completely. A choked, ragged scream was ripped from him as he convulsed, coming apart spectacularly in Bucky's arms.

Bucky followed with a sharp groan, vision whiting out, his own release crashing over him as he felt Clint's body go utterly boneless beneath him. He collapsed, burying his face in the sweat-damp, intoxicating hollow of Clint's shoulder. Every last tremble, every shudder—it was all his.

Tonight, the missing piece finally clicked into place.

Chapter Text

A few days later, Bucky’s wounds were mostly healed. He was back to that lean, dangerous energy, moving like nothing had gone down—like the firefight and rescue hadn’t even happened.

Matt Murdock had handled the legal mess with his usual ice-cold precision, and at last, the apartment’s deed proudly bore Clint Barton’s name. The Russians seemed to have pulled back, their influence retreating like a low tide, but Bucky knew better. In this city, calm underground meant the next storm was already brewing. This wasn’t the last time they’d cross paths.

To celebrate, Clint threw a rooftop barbecue for the tenants, and of course, Bucky was invited. Big deal—Clint never let anyone in on that side of his life. But today, he was putting Bucky front and center.

Bucky’s chest tightened. This kind of nerves was new—more unnerving than facing a gun barrel.

He approached the rooftop, inhaling the scent of grilled meat, laughter, and beer. Cradling the wooden wine box under his arm—the one bottle that survived his last misadventure in the wine cellar—he pushed open the squeaky iron door. The chaos hit him like a wave.

Clint was at the grill, back to him, chatting with neighbors. He heard the door, turned, and his grin lit up like streetlamps. With a quick, eager step, he wrapped Bucky in a half-hug, shoulder bumping against him. “You made it! Thought you might bail!”

Bucky’s only thought: kiss that idiot grin off his face. “And miss this? You’re the boss here, Clint.”

“Music to my ears… keep talking like that.” Clint took the wine box, eyes widening. “Bucky… Steve would kill you if he knew you brought this just for a barbecue.”

“So, you ain’t drinking it?”

“Relax. Ain’t letting good stuff go to waste.” He looked into Bucky’s eyes, heat burning straight through him—until a cough interrupted their stare.

Bucky turned. Elevator lady from last time, standing by the table, smiling. Her kid waved a burger in his little hand, grinning. Bucky waved back, a little awkward, but warm. “Interested in introducing your friend?”

“Oh, right. Host duties,” Clint laughed, looping an arm around Bucky. “Everyone, meet Bucky.”

His tone casual, like introducing a new neighbor, not James Barnes—the leader of Rogers family.

The quiet Bucky expected never showed up. Nobody stared, nobody sized him up. They just flicked him a curious glance, then went right back to their chatter and laughter like he was part of the scenery. A strange, warm feeling crawled through his chest—this was acceptance. No awe, no fear. Just real, plain acceptance. Then, like a little surprise, Kate Bishop showed up, dragging a lively, one-eyed golden retriever behind her. She was wearing a simple dress, nothing fancy, just like any other girl in the neighborhood. And yet, the moment she stepped in, greetings flew from every corner. She belonged here. Clearly, a fixture.

Bucky thought she hadn’t noticed him—until the kid sidled up, cheeky grin in place, right at his side.

“Thanks,” she murmured, voice soft.

“For what?” Bucky asked.

“For the building. For Clint.”

“No need to thank me. I did it for myself.”

Kate tilted her head, black hair brushing her face, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Who says selfish is bad?”

Bucky had to respect her. Clint’s influence clearly rubbed off on his apprentice.

Then a warm nudge brushed Bucky’s leg. The golden retriever pressed its head against him, wet nose nudging his hand. Bucky stiffened—he wasn’t used to affection with no agenda.

Kate laughed. “That’s Lucky. He seems to like you.”

“Uh… good thing or bad thing?”

“Hard to say. His owner’s a big dumb idiot over there.”

Bucky followed her gaze. Clint was at the grill, flipping sizzling meat, cheeks red from the fire. Awkward, stubbornly serious, and entirely Clint.

“We found him on the street,” Kate explained, “so now Clint and I share custody.”

Lucky nudged Bucky’s scarred hand again. Bucky gave in, awkwardly letting his palm rest on the dog’s fluffy head, relearning how to be gentle.

“What’re you guys chatting about?” Clint called, carrying a heavy tray of grilled meat, smirk tugging at his lips like he was trying to hide his pride. “Don’t tell me you’re talking shit.”

Kate rolled her eyes. “You’re way too full of yourself.” She caught a few girls waving, instantly switching into social mode. “Gotta mingle. Nice seeing you all.” She patted Lucky, leading him along.

Clint shoved the tray into Bucky’s hands. “Your turn to taste my handiwork.”

Bucky blinked. He’d heard the jokes about Clint’s cooking—been bracing for disappointment. But the first bite? Perfectly charred, tender, mouthwateringly good. His eyebrows lifted, surprised. The warmth of the food slid down his throat, and he felt… calm.

“Not bad,” he admitted.

Clint grinned like a brat who’d just won a bet. “See? I’m more than a bow-wielding pretty boy.”

Then, without warning, he marched Bucky to meet the neighbors. One by one, introductions flew. Warm smiles, teasing stories about Clint, laughter spilling between them. Bucky felt that long-lost, comfortable heat in his chest.

He remembered what Steve had told him—people like them needed roots, needed to reconnect with the streets they came from. Responsibility, community… this was it. Now he understood.

When the crowd thinned, he and Clint retreated to the railing. The night air was cool, the drink in Bucky’s hand faintly chilled. Streetlights shimmered down below like a river of gold.

“Now I get why you wanted this building so bad,” Bucky said, eyes tracing the street, voice slow. “Your neighbors… they’re good people. I’m glad I got to meet them.”

Clint smirked, pride flickering in his blue eyes. “Yeah? Best neighbors ever.”

“Sarah and Becca are looking forward to the next barbecue.”

“Always welcome! And I think Sarah and Kate will…” Clint trailed off, suddenly squinting toward the street below.

“Damn it…” His voice cracked higher, sharp as a gunshot. “Charles Barton! You better not even think about walking off this time!”

He dropped his drink and sprinted toward the rooftop door.

Bucky froze for a second, then followed, all business now.

Down below, a red-haired guy paused with a suitcase, tense, shoulders tight like he knew eyes were burning into his back.

“You think you can just slip away again?” Clint barked, standing in his path. Fire in his voice—but not anger. Hurt. Frustration mixed with care.

Bucky hung back, silent, watching the showdown. Gave them space, let them play their roles. He was just… witness.

Bucky noticed Barney’s knuckles whitening around his duffel bag, a nervous, awkward grin tugging at his lips. “I just… didn’t wanna crash your little shindig.”

Clint rolled his eyes, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Ha! Almost had me fooled, Mr. Polite.”

Barney sniffled, a faint, resigned smile flickering across his face. “You know me too well.” He hesitated for two long beats, those seconds stretching, heavy with unspoken worry, the kind only brothers carry. “I can’t talk you into coming with me this time either?”

Clint shook his head, eyes fixed firmly on the battered yet warm apartment building behind him. The faint sounds of laughter from the rooftop filtered down, carrying the scent of home. “This is my turf. My home.”

Barney’s gaze flicked past Clint’s shoulder, landing on Bucky, standing a few steps away. “With him?” His tone wasn’t accusatory—more like seeking confirmation.

Clint’s lips curved into a smirk, equal parts defiance and relief. “Yeah? What of it? You weren’t planning on shackin’ up with a fairy brother, were ya?”

“I don’t give a damn you like fella,” Barney shot back, sharp and decisive. “I just don’t want him taking advantage of you.” His eyes cut toward Bucky, the protective edge unmistakable.

Clint’s smile softened, steadied. He hooked a slender silver chain from inside his collar. The dog tag caught the weak winter light, glinting like a small, steadfast promise—it was Bucky’s tag. “He hasn’t,” Clint said, calm, deliberate. “We love each other.”

Bucky heard it clear as a bell. Everything else—the distant city hum, the rooftop commotion—faded to nothing. A warm rush slammed into his chest, almost tipping him off balance. This wasn’t a secret—but hearing it said aloud, so direct, in front of a third party, was a whole other weight. That quiet admission burned into him like molten iron, melting years of lingering frost, grounding him in the world.

Barney’s eyes flicked to the dog tag, then back to his brother’s resolute face. He exhaled a long, heavy sigh, as if letting go of a burden he’d carried too long. “I just want you happy,” he said, then, as habit demanded, shot Bucky a sharp, pointed look. “But if this… jerk here ever hurts you, I swear I’ll see him in a federal pen myself.”

“That’s never gonna happen,” Bucky said, stepping forward, sliding beside Clint. His voice was low, absolute—a promise to Barney, a vow to Clint.

Barney gave a slow nod, begrudgingly accepting it, though his face still bore traces of disapproval. He turned to Clint. “I still don’t think staying in… this line of work… is smart.”

“Too late for that,” Clint shrugged, tone carrying neither regret nor apology—just ownership. “I own my choices.”

“I know you do,” Barney said with a sigh. “My boss cleared me outta that investigation team. But watch yourself—the FBI doesn’t let folks off easy. The next crew coming through won’t be so forgiving.”

Outside, a few wet, icy snowflakes drifted down, quickly followed by a swirl of more. Shouts and laughter erupted from the rooftop—some poor souls scrambling to save their roasted meat. The first snow of the season cast a stark, fleeting magic over the farewell.

“I gotta jet,” Barney said, glancing skyward. “If I dawdle, I’ll miss the train.”

The Barton brothers exchanged a long, loaded look. Years of arguing, splitting up, choosing different paths, and the unbreakable ties of blood all passed silently between them. Then, in unison, they stepped forward, embracing hard. Hands pressed into backs, shoulders locked—every feeling that words couldn’t capture. Bucky watched, heart twisting, thinking of Steve, that same stubborn blond kid he’d always carried in his chest, warmth and sharp pain mixing.

“Take care,” Clint’s voice was hoarse. “I’ll miss you.”

Barney let go, stepping back, the rough exterior snapping back. “Don’t get shot. Medical bills ain’t cheap.”

Clint snorted, eyes glossy.

Bucky stepped up. “Rick’ll drive you to the station.”

Barney waved it off, hefting his bag. “Nah… I think I’ll walk a bit in the snow.” He paused, gaze drifting. “Snow always reminds me of Christmas, back in ’35.”

Clint flinched ever so slightly, his blue eyes suddenly wet with recognition. He nodded, weighty acknowledgment.

Bucky slid a step closer, standing beside Clint. Together, they watched Barney disappear into the growing curtain of snow, that shock of red hair fading at the corner of the street.

“What made Christmas ’35 so special?” Bucky asked quietly.

Clint’s eyes stayed on Barney’s retreating form. A long moment passed before he whispered, “Mom.” Then he turned to Bucky, snowflakes melting on his lashes, catching the light like tiny tears. He reached for Bucky’s left hand, tracing the scar with his thumb. “And family.”

Side by side, they stood in the falling snow, exchanging a warm, steady smile. Then Clint leaned his head toward Bucky. Without hesitation, Bucky closed the gap, pressing a fiery, heart-striking kiss to Clint’s lips. Heat flared through his chest, every nerve alive.

When they parted, Clint sniffled, rubbing his arms. “Too cold… let’s get inside. I barely had any meat—starving.”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “Clint… you eat like an eighteen-year-old Steve Rogers.”

Clint straightened, grinning mischievously. “Hey, running this block ain’t light work. Gotta eat to have the strength to ‘convince’ the stubborn ones, right?”

Bucky chuckled, draping an arm around him, pulling him toward the warmth inside. “Yeah, my right-hand man. Let’s go—your roast waits.”

The snow fell silent over the street, soft and steady, masking the tracks of departure. Inside, lights glowed, laughter rang out—a new story, quietly beginning.

(The End)