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"Barton."
"Barnes," Clint responds, keeps walking.
There’s a cut on his lip that pulls open when he speaks, stinging hard enough that he winces – and then stops because that makes it hurt too. It doesn’t help much. The damage is done and now all he can taste is copper as he keeps trudging down the road in silence. Some poor fool’s left their luggage unattended on the pavement and he nearly trips over it when he doesn’t lift his heavy legs high enough, too tired to even bother. The exhaustion is clinging to him like cobwebs with no hope of swiping them away again.
Bucky catches his elbow almost absently, tugs him back upright again without a word. His fingers linger on Clint’s bandaged arm for a second too long. He doesn’t say anything, though, and Clint keeps going. He’s got to get home and get maybe five minutes of sleep on the couch before he has to go out again in a completely different costume to get his ass kicked all over again. At least he won’t be holding back this round – he wants to kid himself and say it’s a necessary evil, but as tired as he is, he has to admit there’s a certain dark satisfaction to knowing someone won’t get back up again with the blade of his katana.
Clint’s nearly bowled over when Sam lands on his other side, the burst of air hitting his worn-down body like a brick wall. A rock flies up and hits him in the face. It’s not the worst injury he’s suffered today, but it still sucks. Everything sucks right now. He hates his life. He keeps walking.
"Hawkeye," Sam says, halfway between a greeting and a challenge.
"Falcon," Clint returns. Keeps walking.
They walk with him. Bucky stays a half-step out of reach but Sam settles in close and unafraid of getting snapped at, lets his elbow brush up against Clint's side. Clint’s reminded of that time he offered the seagulls at the beach a handful of fries and then they decided to escort him around the city. It's like Sam and Bucky have never heard of personal space before.
(Not that Clint’s been fond of personal space before this, but.)
“Where you headed, Clint?”
“Home,” Clint says. Maybe if he gives them one-word answers they’ll leave him alone.
“Thought you sold the apartment complex,” Bucky says. “Where’re you staying now?”
They know he was lying about that – Bucky’s voice doesn’t give anything away, but Clint knows all the same. He knows they’ve already figured him out from the way they’d greeted him. Sam’s arm settles around his waist, gloved fingers dipping into Clint’s pocket, and Clint laments the past version of himself that’d been so desperate to get inside their heads that he’d let them nest inside his as well.
“Same place,” Clint says emptily. May as well keep it going. “Got a couple of days before they kick me out.”
Bucky makes a noise – a funny little half-snort, like he’s about to call him out on his bullshit and changed his mind at the last second. He hasn’t figured out what they’re getting out of this interaction. Are they planning on trying to stop him? And if they are, why haven’t they done it yet?
Maybe this is the second warning before they intervene in a more permanent way. He wonders if Bucky would really hurt him if he pushed hard enough – Clint knows his buttons intimately, knows how to make him so angry that his arm whirrs loud enough for even Clint to hear. He’s seen the Winter Soldier break bones without batting an eyelid and imagines Bucky doing it to him, for a small second.
Bucky's soft though, all the way through, and he's not going to hurt Clint in a way that matters.
Sam's the same, although he's a lot less outwardly tolerant of Clint's bullshit.
"Clint," Bucky says, in a tone of voice that has him stopping so fast he nearly trips over his own feet. It's a knee-jerk reaction born from every time Bucky's treated him nice, so bad that he can't even think about resisting until a second later when it registers what he’s done.
He wonders if they'll lock him up when this is all over.
"Come home with us," Sam says.
Clint's never been able to say no.
"You been eating?"
"When the birds don't shit in my food," Clint replies, giving Redwing a sideways look where she’s sitting on the arm of the couch. She seems to be feeling amicable today, leans her head in close so he can rub his fingers under her chin. She still nips at his hand a little, but it's only a tiny sting. He can handle it.
Sam doesn’t comment on his snark. He reaches over the back of the couch to coax Redwing onto his arm, dressed in jeans and a hoodie now, starts leading her over to a perch by the window. Clint still hasn’t figured out if his new costume zips up or not – if it does, how the hell did he get it off on his own?
"You still wearing those shitty boots on my nice floors, Barton?"
"I," Clint says.
"Bucky's decided he's cultured," Sam says as he turns around, in a faintly mocking but still impossibly fond voice. "We don't wear shoes inside the house now."
"I made you a shoe rack, the least you could do is use it," Bucky grumbles from the kitchen. He might be making coffee.
He bought it from Ikea, Sam signs to Clint.
Clint just blinks at him, because when did he learn ASL? And- that's what they do now? When he's not here? They play at being domestic, with their nice little house and their nice little pets and their shoe racks? He's not jealous, he's just. It doesn't make sense. Clint hasn't even had time to close his eyes recently and somehow Sam and Bucky have managed to build an entire life around their superheroism.
Worst Avenger, indeed.
He feels sick.
"I should-" Clint gets out, except Bucky appears in front of him then, sinking down onto his knees in front of Clint. All of his coherent thoughts fizzle out into nothing and he’s left staring.
"Boots off, I said," Bucky mutters, picking at his laces. He’s using a new kind of shampoo – or any shampoo at all, really, because Clint’s not entirely sure he didn’t use soap – and his hair is falling in soft waves around his face. Clint can’t quite tear his eyes away.
“I have to go,” Clint says, but the words come out subdued.
"Or you can stay," Sam says from somewhere behind him, hands landing on Clint’s shoulder and making him startle a little. He’s not holding Clint down, just touching, and as his thumb rubs over a tense muscle on Clint’s neck, the realisation hits.
What?
That’s what they want?
Bucky's looking up at him with dark eyes and Sam’s fingers have started tracing little circles into his skin. The shiver that runs up Clint’s spine is overshadowed by how much he’d been bracing himself for a serious discussion. They know. He knows that they know, and they know that he knows that they know. He’s not sure why or what made them decide that now was the right moment for this. Did they talk about this beforehand? Plan it?
This is even worse than one of his hare-brained schemes, but he’s not exactly in a position to say
no
.
(Said position being that he doesn’t
want
to.)
Steve would be so disappointed in them. It’s a good thing he can’t see them right now – see Clint, mostly, because this is all his fault. He’s too weak to push them away, these men that know too much and too little about him all at once. Now Clint's going to take the two people Steve treasures, the Captain America's that he could never be, and he's going to sully them because that's what he does, because he's a disease and he's just waiting for Sam and Bucky to catch on.
"Legs open," Sam says in his ear, soft but leaving no room for argument.
Despite all that, Clint's dazed and stupid, can't stop staring at Bucky's face. (He remembers hitting his head during the fight but he’s pretty sure that isn’t the reason why.) He doesn't move an inch and Sam lets out a soft sigh right next to his ear, reaches down to wrap his fingers around Clint's thighs and then spread them himself. It's gentle but firm and Clint's got no hope of resisting, a pulse of heat in his stomach as he's spread out for Bucky's roving gaze.
“It’s been a while,” Bucky murmurs, eyes sliding over Clint’s body slow and sensuous before he makes eye contact again. He bites his lip, blinks carefully. “You been with anyone else?”
Loaded question.
Clint swallows, thinks about Linda. He’d- he’d tried, made a half-hearted attempt in the hopes it’d stop him from wanting things he can’t have – shouldn’t have. Dating other people makes him feel like a theatre kid onstage for the first time, jerkily going through the motions without any emotions to go along with it other than sheer panic. They’d never had sex (he’d tried to force himself once and ended up losing his lunch in Linda’s bathroom instead.) It wasn’t fair to her for them to keep trying at it, even if he’d been more convincing than he’d thought. He’s not together enough to be a good partner for anyone.
“No,” he says eventually, when he realises Bucky’s still waiting patiently for an answer.
Sam's hand slides over the tense muscles of Clint's stomach, rubs tiny circles into his skin - a comforting gesture, almost, until his hand keeps moving down.
Bucky’s hands move up at the same time, their fingers meeting on Clint’s belt. He watches as they fumble with the extensive number of clips and buttons attached to his pants, can’t help the tiny exhale of laughter that slips out. Bucky glances up at him briefly, warmth and amusement in his eyes and the faintest hint of a smile and all the sick, awful feelings in Clint’s stomach just… vanish.
“Think I preferred it when you wore sweatpants all day,” Sam says in his ear. “Sure we can’t convince you to try the miniskirt again?”
“That was a whole different lifetime,” Clint answers absently. “Don’t think people would like it as much now. I don’t wax my legs anymore.”
“Hey, if you ever need help...” Sam offers.
“Think you’d enjoy that too much,” Clint says distractedly as Bucky finally gets his pants open, lifts his hips so they can be pulled down his legs. He takes Clint’s underwear as well – after a quiet snort at the lopsided Hulk faces patterned on his boxers, leaving Clint completely exposed. Jesus, but it’s cold in here. Does Bucky think he’s still in cryo?
Clint jerks when Bucky’s lips press against a scar on the side of his knee, deceptively soft with the heat in his eyes. He doesn’t do anything else, and Clint wonders what he’s waiting for when he feels Sam shifting again. There’s no teasing – he lets his hand drift down Clint’s stomach and further, slides two fingers in like it's nothing because Clint, god, after all this drama and pain he's tangled in, he’s still so easy for them, wet enough that Bucky can probably hear it with how close he is.
A tiny noise escapes him.
“That’s it,” Sam says, curling his fingers. “Gonna let us take care of you?”
“Doesn’t seem like I’ve got much of a choice,” Clint says, like he’s not spreading his knees wider in anticipation for more. A warm shiver runs down his spine. God, that’s nice. He’s already getting greedy – the worst part is that Sam obliges him, fitting in a third finger and breathing hot against the side of Clint’s neck. It’s not enough, and whatever desperate pleading expression is on his face makes something searingly hot appear on Bucky’s.
Bucky doesn’t say anything out loud. Instead he clambers up the couch so he’s half-in Clint’s lap, kneeling with one hand braced by Clint’s ear as he leans down to connect their lips. His mouth is warm and he’s as intense about it as he’s always been, spare hand cupping Clint’s face as he swipes his tongue over Clint’s bottom lip. Clint’s own hand lands on Bucky’s hip, almost-but-not-quite holding onto him.
“I’m trying to do something here,” Sam tells Bucky, more amused than upset.
“I left you some room,” Bucky counters, releasing Clint for a moment. It’s probably for the best – he’s having trouble remembering how to breathe right now. “What, you need a whole stage to get someone off?”
“You’re a brat, Barnes,” Sam says.
Bucky shrugs, looking unapologetic as he leans in to press his mouth against Clint’s neck. “That’s your problem, not mine.”
“You see what I have to put up with, Clint?”
“Terrible,” Clint answers, completely unconvincingly.
"You're okay with this?" Bucky's lips are soft and a little damp against his throat, at odds with the rough scrape of his stubble.
"Shouldn't you have asked me that before?" Clint says breathlessly, letting out a soft ah when Sam's thumb brushes his oversensitive dick.
Bucky sucks a bruise into his collarbone before he answers. "Yeah."
Clint's- he's pretty quick to say no when he's in a bad mood and he’s very clear on making sure everything is consensual usually, so it makes sense that they're trusting him to tell them if there's a problem. Their trust isn’t misplaced, not really. Except the problem is that there isn't a problem, that he wants them too much to be coherent about it.
“You have a bed, right?” he says.
"Oh, you want a bed now? Getting spoiled, Barton," Bucky says, and it should be an insult but the words are filled with so much affection that it makes him sick, the sideways curve of Bucky's fond smile.
"C'mon," he says, unable to handle it for a second longer. He twists around, gives Sam a pleading look that he knows is too desperate. "Sam, please."
“Fine,” Sam says, pulling his hands away, and Clint thinks wait, no.
Bucky helps him up – his knees aren’t quite working and he’s not sure if it’s the aftermath of the fight or his own arousal. He still gives as good as he gets, pins Bucky up against the hallway wall and nearly knocks over a painting on the way. Clint loses track of time somewhere between one kiss and the next, palms Bucky’s erection through his pants and listens to the soft groan he earns for it.
They manage to get to the bedroom eventually and Bucky starts stripping like he’s on a time limit as Sam removes Clint’s shirt, lifting his arms afterwards so Clint can return the favour. Clint watches Bucky’s underwear go flying onto a lampshade and stifles a snort – then he wonders when the last time he’d actually laughed had been. Too long for a healthy human being, probably. He snaps out of it when Sam’s hand curls over his hip gently.
“You up for me fucking you?”
“That’s a dumb question,” Clint answers immediately. “Yes.”
Sam smiles, pushes him towards the bed where Bucky is waiting. “Figured you might still be mad about the bird shit thing.”
“I am,” Clint says over his shoulder. “Make it up to me.”
“Pushing your luck, Barton,” Bucky says.
“Eh,” Clint says. He was already doing that anyway. “Sam, c’mon.”
"Impatient. Give a sec," Sam says soothingly, skating his fingers up Clint's side. It’s nice, the way he always wants to touch. Bucky’s touchy in a way that’s all intent, but Sam seems to do it unconsciously and he doesn’t ever stop. "I have to get a-"
"Don't," Clint says, catching Sam's wrist before he moves. He's being reckless, risky and stupid and he knows it but he doesn't let go, gives Sam a pleasing look over his shoulder.
Sam lifts an eyebrow at him. "You sure?"
"No," he says. "It was a joke. Funny, right, Wilson?"
Sam flicks a glance behind Clint at Bucky, something unreadable in his expression. "You been learning sarcasm from Barnes now?"
"He learned it from me," Clint says, doesn't really think Sam's listening to him right now. They're doing that thing that he and Natasha used to do, the silent communication thing. Used to being the key phrase in that particular example. (He misses her, almost as much as he misses being with Sam and Bucky without some kind of villainy forcing them together.)
For a moment he thinks Sam's going to call it quits altogether. Instead he's rolled over so he's flat on his back on the mattress – notsafenotsafenotsafe – and Sam presses a weirdly chaste kiss to Clint's chest, the scarring under his nipples. It’s soft and tender and Clint squirms, his brain struggling to switch from all the violence he’s been dealing with lately to this, whatever it is. He’s turned on and confused and still half-heartedly thinking about escaping out the window, even though he knows realistically that he isn’t going anywhere.
“I was sarcastic before you were a twinkle in your mother’s eye,” Bucky says dryly.
Clint flips the finger at him and Sam gives an amused huff before he fills Clint up in one smooth thrust, abruptly cutting off any smart reply that he might’ve had.
"Fuck," he groans, arching so hard that his back isn’t even touching the mattress. It’s a lot, after months of nothing but occasionally pulling out a dildo when he’s bored. It doesn't hurt, it's just good right down to his toes. “Sam,” he breathes, reaching to grab at Sam’s shoulders.
The problem with Sam Wilson, skirting the obvious – he’s too good for Clint, he’s supposed to be getting rid of Ronin instead of sleeping with him, he cheats at bingo, he’s a complete and utter dick but in a justified way – is that he knows all of Clint’s buttons and he’s got no qualms about using it to his advantage. He knows Clint likes the touching, likes being pushed around a little and he knows exactly the right angle to have Clint twisting under him and gasping as he reaches down to rub his fingers against Clint’s overheated skin.
Clint can give as good as he gets, though, drags his blunt nails down Sam’s shoulder blades to listen to the noise he makes (a little louder, just so Clint can hear it properly.) It’s hard to think through the haze of arousal, and his grip on sanity feels dangerously slippery when Bucky sidles up alongside Sam and starts kissing him while Sam’s still fucking Clint.|
They’re just – they’re so beautiful all the time and it hurts a little to look at them the way it hurts to look at the sun, but he can’t tear his eyes away from the faintest hint of a smile on Bucky’s lips, the intensity in Sam’s expression. His breath hitches noisily – he’s already worked up from them playing with him earlier and each steady stroke of Sam’s dick inside him pushes him closer to the edge until he’s panting with the effort of holding off, sweat beading on his skin as his hands fist uselessly in the sheets.
“Shit,” Sam says, his hips stuttering and then shoving into him hard enough that Clint’s openly moaning now. “Baby, Clint, I’m-”
The pet name is what sets him off, finally.
Clint’s vision swims as he comes, shuddering through the waves of too much as Sam keeps touching him. It doesn’t last long enough before he feels Sam come as well, grunting and digging his fingers into Clint’s thigh. Bucky’s just watching them, all hunger and raw heat in his expression as his eyes roam over their bodies.
“Christ,” he says, a little wobbly as Sam pulls out and rolls onto the bed next to him. “You do that to all your guests?”
“You’re not a guest,” Sam replies. “A nuisance, maybe.”
And yeah, maybe he’s right, but Clint’s pretty okay with that right now. He lets out a sigh, wonders why he’d quit smoking. “You gonna take care of Bucky or should I?”
“Bucky,” Sam says, in a voice that should’ve been a warning, “can take care of himself.”
Clint jerks as something slick swipes over his hole. It takes a few seconds for him to register the brush of Bucky’s too-soft hair against his thighs, the cool metal fingers sliding up his thigh. He realises Bucky's licking Sam's cum out of him and that shoves him headfirst into another orgasm, shuddering and trying to close his legs except Bucky just holds him open like it's nothing, keeps going until Clint's crying out too loud, too much. He tries to muffle his noises in Sam's warm shoulder – it doesn't really work, and now Bucky's cold fingers are rubbing around his rim as well. He's aching, turned on and oversensitive and addicted to the way they're touching him like he belongs here tucked between them.
“Bucky,” he manages to get out, gets his fingers in Bucky’s hair and pulls.
Bucky makes a noise when he does it, loud enough that Clint glances back at Sam.
“He likes that,” Sam says conversationally. “Do it again.”
Clint does it again, unwilling to admit it’s mostly because Sam told him to.
“Ah,” Bucky says, face flushed as he clambers up the bed to crash their lips together. He tastes like Sam and Clint, like he’s been doing exactly what he’s been doing, rolls to Clint’s other side and brackets him in until Sam pushes in and makes Clint turn to kiss him instead.
Clint’s dizzy with it, can’t focus enough to remember why he’d thought this was going to be a bad idea. He’s pretty sure this is the only place he’s ever really belonged, with Sam’s hand on his jaw and the two of them pressed in close enough that he can barely breathe. He can feel Bucky’s erection pressing into his back, a single heady thought rising to the surface as Sam’s tongue swipes over his lower lip.
“Let me,” he starts, reaching behind him. “You should-”
His fingers wrap around the silken heat of Bucky’s dick. He’s getting greedy – knows he’s taking too much too soon, but the thought doesn’t stop him from guiding Bucky’s erection between his thighs. Bucky makes a soft, breathless noise in his ear and Clint squeezes his thighs together experimentally, ignores the way all the muscles in his body are aching in favour of Bucky shoving his hips close.
“Fuck,” Bucky says raggedly, lips brushing the back of his neck. “Clint.”
“Keep going, baby,” Sam says, trailing his fingers down Clint’s stomach to touch the head of Bucky’s cock where it’s peeking out.
"Oh, oh god," Clint breathes distractedly as Bucky's teeth dig into his shoulder. He’s too far gone to even come, just tries to get enough oxygen into his lungs so he doesn’t die as Bucky and Sam keep touching him. "Yeah, fuck, do that again, I'm-"
Bucky comes with a full-body shiver that Clint can feel, muffling his noises against Clint’s shoulder. His hand flexes on Clint’s hip for a second and then goes limp as he stills. Clint tries to regain his breath, twitching when Sam’s hands get a little too close to where he’s oversensitive. There’s a lump in his chest that he can’t quite name, now that they’re not trying to fuck his brains out, and he wants it gone.
The lump in his chest that gets about ten times worse when Bucky brushes a gentle kiss to the side of his forehead, lets out a soft sigh like he’s as satisfied as any one person could be. Sam slips two fingers back into Clint and curls them slowly, less like he's trying to get him off again and more like he just can't keep his hands away. Probably for the best – he’s not sure he could handle another round.
Clint's next breath is dangerously close to a sob.
Thankfully, they don't comment on it.
“Man, you made a mess,” Sam says to Bucky.
“I made a mess,” Bucky says dryly. “What about you?”
“We’re not talking about me, we’re talking about the asshole who bought fancy dry-clean-only sheets and then decided he wanted to come all over them. You’re paying for this round, I’m not doing it.”
“I paid last time!”
“You also made a mess last time too. Remember that goddamn mint icecream you forgot about?”
Clint blinks for a second too long, thoughts gone fuzzy and indistinct.
“Hey, you can’t pick on me because of my memory problems. I’m fragile, Sam.”
“Yeah, yeah. Keep telling yourself that, Barnes.”
He's got to go.
Somewhere between Bucky’s warm breath in his ear and a vague idea of getting up to find his pants, Clint passes out instead.
Clint wakes up and he's warm.
The last few times he’s woken up, it’s been alone in a cold sweat, red-cloaked nightmares clutching at him and bruises throbbing all over his body. He’s still sore but it doesn’t feel quite as bad this time. It takes him a few moments to realise Bucky's spooned around his back, metal arm curled over Clint's ribs. His fingers are loosely linked with Sam's over Clint’s chest when he looks down, his heart doing a weird thing under his ribs. Sam himself is nearly as close as Bucky is, knee shoved between Clint's thighs and spare arm thrown over Clint's hip. It’s like they’ve cocooned themselves around him.
Clint lets out a shuddering breath, closes his eyes for a second.
No.
He can’t have this. He can’t let himself have this.
Once he's successfully extricated himself he looks back, catches Sam sleepily reaching out across the sheets like he's looking for something. Someone. His hand smacks straight into Bucky's nose and Bucky grimaces, face scrunching up. Asleep or not, he manages to bundle Sam into his arms instead, successfully avoiding anymore unconscious hits. Once they’re close they settle down again, Bucky letting out an obnoxiously loud snore.
It’s.
It hurts a little.
Clint looks at them curled together with the morning sun gleaming on them and understands why they're Steve's golden children. (Why does it always come back to Steve?) Fit to be his successors in all the ways Clint isn't, because despite the physical similarities he's twisted and jagged inside in a way Captain America can't be. He’s not a hero, he’s a means to an end. With every day that goes by, he gets Frank Castle a little more.
He looks away.
Where the hell did his pants go?
Searching for his clothes turns out to be a futile attempt – he’s half-suspecting that they’ve done something with them, but… that’d be silly. Stupid, even. It’s more likely that they’ve just been thrown somewhere that he can’t see. He scoops up a pair of Sam’s jeans instead, pulls them up and laments the way they’re both too short and slip down his narrow hips. He doesn’t say goodbye. Doesn’t even look at them again, because this has just proved that his self-control is almost zero and he has things that need to be done.
He gets on the bus like that, worn old jeans slipping down his ass and his left side stinging from Bucky’s fingernails digging in.
"Hey, you're that guy," the bus driver says. "Hawkeye."
"Am I?" Clint responds, bone-tired in a way that has nothing to do with his lack of sleep.
The sword is waiting for him when he gets home, covered in dried blood and gleaming in the morning sunlight.