#barton fam

[daz002]

Hawkeye - Avengers Endgame

Has anyone noticed that Clint was just constantly left alone when his loved ones died.

I mean, when his family turned to dust, he was the only one left. He was alone at his house. Everyone else (in the Avengers & Co) were with someone. Most of them in Wakanda, but even Tony was with Nebula. They didn't know each other, but they were together.

Then when Natasha died. Again, he was just left completely alone on Vormir. Not even with Red Skull (who wouldn't be good company anyway...) as he was on the top of the cliff and Clint was first hanging off it and then in the weird pool. When everyone found out she'd died, they were all together, they didn't have to face it alone. And then when Tony died everyone was there together, no one was alone.

Just something I noticed while rewatching. Twice in that film he had to deal with the loss of loved ones completely alone.

[shayveridekidd]

UGH i wanted yelena there for christmas too but thank god he brought kate

[sheis-theslayer]

“Omg, they’re killing Clint’s family, YES finally he can end up with Nat!!”

“OMG, they’re touching and sharing comforting moments, Nat and Clint are definitely banging!”

[builder051]

(Un)happy trails

When Nat unpacks her bags into the dresser in the Bartons' guest room, there's a certain sense of finality. She knows her stay is temporary, they all do, but there's something about that the action that seems to indicate the opposite.

Nat's clothes barely populate the empty space in the drawers. She brings her real clothes and not the stuff she's garnered from the SHIELD closet-- a small collection of threadbare leggings, baggy t shirts, and a couple of sets of jeans in such sad shape that Laura immediately takes them up as her next project with the sewing machine.

"They're fine," Nat says as she reaches randomly into a drawer and tries to pull a pair on, grateful that she's chosen blue boy short underwear so the tear near the v of her legs isn't that risque looking.

"Nat..." Laura slowly shakes her head, her eyes now fixed on Nat's pale face instead of her obviously more interesting crotch.

But Nat knows what she's detecting, and she isn't sure she likes it. She shot up again this morning, even though she swore she was out of stock last night. She crossed her heart when she said she didn't have a stash anymore, that she didn't have any needles, and that no, no one needed to search her bags to check. Nat's in that weird space where she isn't sure if her tiny dose has her still coming up or going down, or maybe balancing somewhere in the middle with a high that isn't really that good anyway.

"I'm fine," Nat says, in a voice that probably couldn't fool anybody. She swallows hard, and her throat is raw. She vaguely recalls puking last night, and she wonders if she's going to do it again. Getting clean is rough, which is why she's not doing it this time, at least not cold turkey.

"You're not," Laura says definitively. She reaches for Nat's arm, palm turned upward and fingers spread wide. "Come on. Let's get some food in you."

"I still feel..." Nat shakes her head.

"We've god kids' size dishes." Laura grins. "Monster trucks or princesses. Your choice."

"I don't know..."

"We've got a bathroom, too. And a mop. A swiffer wet jet, even."

"Nat can't help but smile a little, even though the chatter hurts her head. She feels a little groggy, and she knows it's from the drugs. She knows it's her fault.

"Coffee?" she asks hopefully.

"Maybe once we can get water and chicken broth in you. But if you're feeling up to rosemary and scallions, I'd be glad to go in that direction."

The thought of the spices puts wet bubbles on Nat's tongue, and as she swallows, her stomach turns. "No, thanks," she whispers.

"Plain it is, then," Laura agrees. She leads the way to the kitchen and points Nat to the table, then rummages a moment in the pantry. A moment later, she emerges with a box of prepared organic chicken stock. "Just don't tell anyone it's not homemade." Laura grins.

So does Nat, but her teeth hurt. So do her shoulder blades as she leans back against the hard wooden chair, and her sit bones on the unpadded seat. She tries to keep a squirm out of her spine so Laura won't notice her discomfort.

The microwave beeps, and Laura sets a small bowl of the soup in front of Nat. The broth is too cloudy for her to see the picture at the bottom, but the edges of the dish are pink, so she assumes Laura's chosen princesses. Nat picks up the bowl by the edges and lifts it to her mouth, ready to drink her fill.

"Spoon," Laura corrects, bringing the utensil to the table. "Eat slowly and that'll have half a prayer of staying down."

Nat shrugs. She doesn't care that much. Actually, she might prefer it come back, if only to get the churning acid out of her stomach. She ignores the spoon, but Laura gives her a blistering look, and Nat feels forced to pick it up.

"I had you in the bathroom half the night," Laura informs her, taking the seat opposite Nat. "Don't know if you know it, but you bite."

Nat swallows her mouthful of broth, then asks, "Why'd you have your fingers in my mouth?"

Laura presses her lips into a thin line. "I think you know. And it's not the first time."

Yeah... Reflections of past post-mission visits play over in her mind, fuzzy like old, out-of-focus photographs. Nat returns to shoveling down the broth. "I'll do it this time," she mutters.

"You'll keep that good food down."

The guilt is already making Nat's stomach churn, though. She doubts she'll need a finger down her throat to make it come up. The sight of the toilet and a few movements of her tongue should do the trick.

"I'm sorry." Nat pushes her bowl away from her and scoots her chair back from the table. She wraps her arms around her midsection and walks quickly toward the hall bathroom. Once there, she shuts the door. She toys with the lock for a moment, but decides against turning it all the way. A good jiggle of the knob should force it back open.

"Nat?" Laura's already on her tail before Nat's even on her knees.

Nat drops her head deep into the porcelain bowl, her hair falling on either side of her face and nearly touching the water below. A gag is quick to roll off her tongue, and half the broth she's consumed comes splashing up, tiny flecks hitting back in her face.

Nat sputters, and she hears the door creak open. "Oh--"

Whether Laura curses or not is lost in the sound of another massive heave shaking Nat's entire body. She's lost control of it now; her stomach and shoulders contracting of their own accord and shoving her practically into the toilet as her body struggles to empty itself.

"Here." There's a damp washcloth on the back of Nat's neck, and goosebumps erupt all down the backs of her arms.

"Fuck, that's cold..." she chokes, the words echoing off the porcelain.

"Well, you're warm." Laura reaches in for Nat's forehead, bracing her upward a few inches and pushing sweaty hair off her skin. There's a sigh in Laura's voice, one of resignation. Not disappointment exactly, but of sad recognition of the facts. All of them.

Nat has a sudden urge to tell the truth. "I'm...not clean," she admits, sour saliva pooling on the back of her tongue.

"I know."

"D'you want me to be?"

"That's... up to you."

"Really?" Nat had been expecting a hard-core 'yes.'

"I mean, I'd rather you not shoot up around the kids..." Laura lifts Nat's head up another few inches.

"Yeah, I definitely get it." Nat feels guilty again, even though the last time she used it had been alone and in the dark.

A tick of silence passes, then Laura asks, "Are you done?"

Nat's confused for a second. Hadn't Laura already said it was her choice? Should she not have some time to make up her mind? Then she remembers the bitter bile in her mouth, and she spits, then slowly nods. "Oh. Yeah."

Laura delicately pulls Nat back from the toilet and pulls a length of toilet paper to wipe at her mouth. Then she opens her arms, inviting Nat to fall into her embrace.

Nat does, without hesitation. She knows she's loved. She knows what the right choices are. She has no idea how she's supposed to get there, but at least she has this.

[builder051]

How about Bucky going trick or treating with Laura and the kids and he’s running a fever and getting sick? I love your writing, you make sunday’s fun!!

Aw, thanks.  Sorry this is so late and a little off prompt, but here you go.  

Powers/No Powers

________________

“Come help me with the kids,” Laura tells Bucky over the phone when he worriedly asks her what the hell he’s going to do tomorrow night for Halloween.  He’s barely made peace with the doorbell when the UPS man brings them packages, and that only happens once a week or so.  He knows he won’t be able to bear sitting in the townhouse and listening to the bell ring over and over again.

“But shouldn’t I help Steve?” Bucky asks tentatively.  

Steve shakes his head violently from across the table, then quickly returns his attention to his newspaper Sudoku and pretending he isn’t eavesdropping.

“He’ll be fine to hand out the candy on his own,” Laura assures him.  “He’s good with gloves and masks.  Tell him tongs are a good option, too.”

“Oh.”  Bucky momentarily tucks the phone against his chest and looks to Steve.  “She says to use tongs.”

“Huh.”  Steve cocks his head and nods.  “Didn’t think of that.  Sounds good, tough.  Very safe.”

“Anyway, James,” Laura continues.  Bucky quickly puts the phone back to his ear.  “I have two little ones, and there’s only one of me.  I’m driving them into town for trick-or-treating, so they don’t know where they’re going.  And poor Lila’s a black cat this year, so she’ll need extra help crossing the street...”

“Ok...”  Bucky looks up to Steve again, who this time is nodding.  “Uh, sure.  Should I come to your house, or...?”  He’s trying to be polite, even though he has no way to get there on his own.

“How about Clint picks you up on his way home from work?”

“Ok.”

“It’s settled.”  Bucky can practically hear Laura’s smile.  

When the next morning dawns, Bucky wakes with an aching head and throbbing sinuses.  He buries his face into Steve’s shoulder, burrowing against him as if that might take away some of the discomfort.

“Hey,” Steve murmurs sleepily.  He wraps his arms around Bucky, then stretches his neck to peer at the clock on the bedside table.  “Five minute cuddle.  Then I have to get ready for work.”

“Mm.”

“You got some words in there?”

Bucky shakes head into Steve’s collarbone, which hurts.

Steve seems to infer something isn’t quite right.  He cups the back of Bucky’s neck with a soft and relatively cooler hand.  “You’re kind of toasty.  Feeling alright?”

“Mm.”

“You don’t have to go tonight if you’re not,”Steve says.  “We could put a sign on the door, stay in--”

“’M fine,” Bucky whispers, his voice further muffled by Steve’s t-shirt.

“I’m so sorry I got pulled for weekend duty.  Especially today.”

“Not your fault.”  Bucky lifts his head.  “I’m really ok.”

No matter what he tells Steve, though, Bucky knows he really isn’t alright.  After Steve leaves, he stays in bed until past noon, and not because he’s sad or lonely.  

When he finally throws on jeans and a sweatshirt and heads downstairs, his head’s aching fit to burst, and. his stomach isn’t feeling much better.  He considers calling Laura, telling her he doesn’t feel well, and asking for a reprieve.  Maybe asking her to come here to help him instead.  

But no, he thinks.  He agreed.  He promised.  He has to follow through.

A double dose of Dayquil is Bucky’s friend, then he decides to doze on the couch for a while.  It turns out he sleeps until it’s time to leave for the farm, for his phone goes off and nearly scares him out of his skin.

“Hey, I’m outside,” Clint says once Bucky answers.

“Steve’s not home yet,” Bucky tells him, confused.

“Yeah, well.  He follows the speed limit.”  Clint laughs.

Bucky gathers up his jacket and heads out to the Rav-4 stalling in the driveway.  “Hey,” he murmurs as he climbs inside.  “Should I... let Steve know?”

“Already texted him,” Clint says with a grin.  “We got you taken care of.”

Bucky sits quietly with his arm around his stomach for the entirety of the drive to Paris.  He supposes he’s lucky that Clint doesn’t look at him too closely, but at the same time, he wishes his friend would drive a little more smoothly.  He has to breathe deeply and gulp a few times as Clint skids to a stop in front of red lights.

“Here we are,” Clint finally says, turning up the bumpy driveway.  “Home sweet home-away-from-home.”

“Mm,” Bucky agrees, though neither his head nor his stomach is taking the transition from tightly packed dirt road to loose gravel very well.

Bucky throws his door open as soon as they stop, but manages to swallow down the thick saliva pooling on the back of his tongue.  He follows Clint up to the front door and waits patiently as he unlocks it.

“Kids might be a little excited,” Clint warns.

He’s right.  No sooner does the door open than Bucky’s assaulted by a miniature Power Ranger and a waist-high black cat.  “Uncle Bucky!” Lila shouts, throwing her arms around his leg.

“Um.  Hi,” Bucky says, trying not to sound as uncomfortable as he feels.

Laura steps out of the kitchen and beams at him.  “Hey, James.”  She carefully peels her daughter away and directs her the television, where the Halloween episode of Charlie Brown is quietly playing.  “Good to see you.”

“You too,” Bucky manages to choke out.  His mouth is full of spit again, and this time, he isn’t sure if his body will let him send it back down his throat.  He dips his chin as the taste of bile begins to creep over his back teeth.

“Are you ok?”  A wrinkle of concern appears between Laura’s eyebrows.  “You look--”

“I think--” Bucky starts.  “I might-- need to--”  He cups his hand over his mouth.  

Laura quickly takes him by the elbow and leads him into the hall bathroom.  The toilet’s too far away, so Bucky leans over the sink and lets mucousy strings of sick slide up from his stomach, tinted orange from the dregs of liquid medicine.

He coughs and sputters, and Laura hands him a washcloth from a basket on the back of the toilet.  Bucky scrubs it over his lips, then takes a deep, shaky breath.

“Clint didn’t traumatize you with his driving, did he?” Laura asks.

Bucky shakes his head.  “I haven’t felt very good all day.”

“You didn’t have to come all the way out here,” Laura says, reaching up to feel his forehead.  “I can manage trick-or-treating.  I just really wanted you to come.”

“And I really wanted to come.”

Laura smiles.  “Well, you’re here now.  I’ll get you set up in the guest room to stay the night.”

“What about the kids?” Bucky asks.  “It’s their night.  I don’t want to ruin it.”

“They love it when you come, no matter how you’re feeling,” Laura answers.  “I’ll take them out for a while, and Clint will stay with you.  Then once the kids are in bed we’ll trade off.  Ok?”

“Don’t want to be a burden...”  Bucky suppresses a hiccup.

“You’re never a burden.”  Laura gives his hand a squeeze.  “You’re family.”

[builder051]

So, if a bear were to attempt to visit the Barton home via a doggie door, how exactly would that go?

Their version of spending the evening together hasn’t been so interesting lately.  Laura sits on the living room sofa bouncing the baby, and Clint rests in the upright recliner, pouring over a SHIELD file spread across his knees.  

It’s getting late; the older kids have been in bed for a while now, and it’s far past time for Nathaniel to be over his nightly fuss.

“There’s my boy.  There’s my boy,” Laura coos softly

Clint doesn’t know whether to be irritated or exhausted.  He only got home in time to kiss Lila and Cooper goodnight, and now he’s reading over papers that’ll send him away for another three days at least.  He needs time with his family.  He needs time alone with his wife.  He needs a fucking shower.

Clint blinks down at the file and realizes he’s read the same sentence four times without taking in a word of it.  He thinks about packing the pages back into their manila folder, but putting off the work is more distasteful than just getting it done.  Clint exhales, ruffling the papers slightly, and starts reading about his next target’s occupation for the fifth time.  

Laura calmly lifts her head, the baby beginning to doze against her chest.

Clint grits his teeth, mentally preparing for a lecture on overworking himself, or letting work frustration get to his head, or something of the sort, but instead she says, “Clint?  Can you get the bear out of the doggie door?”

Clint slowly looks up.  “Babe... What?”

“Um...”  Laura points her chin in the direction of the front entryway.  It’s dark and shadowy, since the only lights on are in the living room, but Clint can distinctly see a pair of glowing eyes and a long snout invading the lower portion of the door.  Right where the flap for the doggie door ought to be.  The one he added during last weekend’s run of family fix-its.

“You sure that’s not what’s-his-name?” Clint asks.  “Roberto? That collie from down the road?”

“Since when does a collie travel over ten miles to come visit us?”  Laura shakes her head.  “Look at its ears.  That’s a bear.”

Clint does examine the creature’s ears.  They’re small and round in an adorable way, compared to its gigantic head.

“Oh, yeah,” Clint acquiesces.  “That’s a bear...”  He eases the file out of his lap and onto the coffee table, then gets to his feet.

“Be careful,” Laura says, shifting the baby slightly as if to obscure his vision, just in case a fight were to break out.

“Well, you said to get rid of it,” Clint says, a hint of accusation in his voice.  He heads to the kitchen and reaches for the bow and quiver he’s left slung over the back of a chair.  “I’ve got explodables...”

“What’re you doing?  Don’t kill it!”  Laura looks aghast.

“I’ll, uh, scare it,” Clint decides, hurriedly putting the quiver back and taking only the bow.  “I’ll fire a blank.”

“Ok...”  Laura sounds unsure.

“You told me...” Clint starts.  “I’m trying here.”  

He tucks his bow against his body in a preparatory position and sprints for the entryway.  Getting as close as he dares, Clint drops to his knee, aims the empty bow at the animal’s snout, and pulls back on the string.  “Get out of here, you,” he mumbles just before he releases it.

The loud twang of the bowstring rips through the air, but besides that, nothing happens.  Clint’s heart pounds for a few seconds, then he lets out his breath.  So does the bear, filling the air with a gamey smell and offering Clint a momentary glimpse of sharp ivory teeth.

“Well, that was...”  Clint shakes his head, wondering what to try next.

The sound of bare footsteps comes up behind Clint, and Laura bustles to the front, the baby on her hip and a large maglite in her hand.  “I got this,” she says.  “Take Nate?”

“O-ok,” Clint agrees immediately, throwing his bow back over his shoulder and taking his small son in his arms.  “What’re you gonna--”

Laura flips on the flashlight and shines it directly into the bear’s eyes.  The animal groans in discomfort, blinking and tucking its chin.

“Now go back where you came from, bear,” Laura says, turning the light on and off in an almost sizure-inducing strobe pattern.

“Wowza.”  Clint has to squint to keep his own eyes from watering.  He presses Nate’s head gently into his collarbone and shield’s the baby’s eyes too.  

The bear seems to have the same thought.  The entire door rattles on its hinges as the animal pulls its head forward and backward a few times.  Then, with a mighty groan and a mightier tug, it manages to free itself and go stumbling backward down the porch steps.  The resulting wooden crunch makes Clint sure he’ll have some repairs to do later, but for now he’s just grateful the bear’s gone on its way.

“Wow,” Clint breathes as Laura turns off the maglite.  “Babe.  That was...”

“One for the record books.”  Laura shakes her head, barely controlling a laugh.

“Yeah.”  Clint lets his face break into a smile as well, relieved both with the bear’s exit and his wife’s reaction.  “Let’s plan something better for tomorrow night, ok?  I’m probably gonna have another mission soon, and...”  He realizes a second too late that he’s ruined the mood.

“Ok.”  Laura leads the way back into the living room.  “Something better tomorrow,” she agrees.  “But you have to admit, I don’t think we’ll ever have another night like tonight.”  She gives Clint a sly look.  “Especially if you cover up that doggie door when you fix the porch in the morning.”

[builder051]

This little light

Clint yawns and stretches, scratching absently at his stomach as he reaches into the cupboard for a coffee mug.  He has his choice between a standard issue black one swiped from the SHIELD breakroom or one bearing the legend ‘World’s Greatest Dad,’ which is, of course, the more appropriate choice, considering the two mini-me’s chomping cereal at the table behind him.  Clint takes the mug and grabs for the still-dripping coffee pot, ready to pour himself a steaming cup of morning goodness, when Laura calls his name.

“Clint? Honey?”  She comes down the stairs at a clip, the baby in her arms.  “Where did I put the diaper cream?”

He doesn’t have a chance to even begin to think of an answer because Lila chooses that moment to call his other name.  “Dad?”

“Yes, baby?”  Clint gestures the coffee pot toward the living room for Laura, then looks to his daughter.

“Can I have more marshmallows?”  Lila shakes the box of Lucky Charms.

“Well, uh--” Clint starts.

“That’s not how it works, doofus,” Cooper responds from across the table.

“Hey, now.”  Clint jabs the empty mug toward his son, giving him a look that begs him to play nice.  For god’s sake, it’s only 7 am.  

“Not the old kind,” Laura’s voice starts up again.  “The new one; the sample that came with the diaper subscription.

“We have a diaper subscription?”  Clint blinks hard.  He shakes his head and goes back to the act of putting the coffee into the mug so it can get into his stomach and up to his brain, where it clearly needs to be.  

He’s gotten maybe two drops poured when--

“Daaaad, Cooper’s being mean to me!”

Clint whips his head around just quickly enough to see his son pull his hands back across the table from his sister’s cereal bowl.  

“What?”  The ten-year-old asks with a naughty giggle.  

“Leave your sister’s breakfast alone,” is all Clint can manage.  His mind is still bent around the diapers.  “Your bus is gonna be here soon, right?”  He looks at the clock emblazoned in the upper corner of the microwave.  It is almost bus time.  It has to be.  

“Yes, we have a diaper subscription,” Laura answers.  “Is it in the kitchen?  It’s purple.”

Clint blinks again and tears his focus from the neon teal display.  “What do you need?”  There is something on the counter beside the microwave, though.  And it is purple.  Clint puts down his mug and holds it up over his shoulder.  “This?”

“Yes!”  He hears the relief in his wife’s voice.  “Thank you.”

Clint tosses the tube into the living room where it lands perfectly into the open diaper bag.  He doesn’t have time to congratulate himself on a good shot, though, because the kids are at it again.

“Daaaad!”

The complaint has Clint turning on his heel.  “What now?”

He looks at the coffee pot still in his hand and wonders what the fuck he did with his mug.  And more urgently, how the fuck is he going to get the coffee into his body without it.

There’s a lonely metal straw leaning in the silverware cup of the drainer basket.  Clint doesn’t think twice before snapping it up and jamming it through the hole in the lid of the coffee pot.  He takes a deep swig of the piping hot liquid, then asks, “What’s the problem?”

The kids look at him dumbstruck for a second before they remember their scuffle.  “Cooper has my butterfly folder,” Lila pouts.

“You only said stay out of her cereal--” Cooper starts before Clint can begin to chastise him. 

“Give it back.  Don’t touch her things.”

“But I don’t think she did her math homework!”  Cooper opens the pink and purple folder and waves around a fresh sheet of subtraction problems.

Sweat begins to break out on Clint’s brow, and he takes another deep drought of liquid caffeine before taking his tone down a notch and addressing his daughter, who’s already beginning to sniffle.  It’s far too early in the morning for this kind of parenting.  And it’s too close to bus time for tears.

“I’m sorry, Daddy.”  Lila puts her hand over her mouth.

“Why didn’t you do your homework, baby?” Clint asks gently, groaning as he squats to her level.  “Or why didn’t you tell us you had homework?”

Cooper starts to snicker, which only makes Lila cry all the harder.

“Hey.”  Clint takes another sup and nots sternly.  “You go put on your coat.”

Cooper stomps away from the table loudly taking up his backpack and pulling his coat and boots from the closet by the door.  Clint hears Laura quickly secure diaper tabs and add her soft murmur to the mix.

“Ok.”  Clint takes his son’s vacant seat and sucks down some more coffee.  “What’s going on with this?”  He can see the shadow of the bus approaching through the kitchen window, so whatever meltdown is about to happen, it had better be quick.

“It’s--too--hard--” Lila sobs, dropping her forehead onto folded hands.  Her shoulders shake as she cries, her entire body expressing the trauma of elementary mathematics.  

“Aw, honey.”  Clint tucks her hair behind her ear, but his hand is trembling as well, albeit for a different reason.  “It’s ok if it’s hard.  But we still have to try.”

He takes another drink.  Then makes eye contact across the room with Laura over his daughter’s head.  “What do you think?”  Clint asks.

“Bus!”  Cooper yells, swinging the door open and beginning to run down the long gravel driveway.

Lila makes a pitiful noise, and fatter, wetter tears run down her cheeks.  Her nose drips right into her cereal bowl, which Clint now has the mental fortitude to push to the opposite edge of the table.  

Laura watches Cooper go, then bites her lip.  “Call her in sick?”

“Yeah, that’s what I was thinking.”  Clint sucks on his coffee again.  It takes him a moment to realize he’s already finished it and he’s sipping on air.  “A little more rest, a little tutoring, a little, I don’t know.”  Clint stands up.  “Marshmallows.”  He takes a step and nearly trips.  

Suddenly Laura’s at his elbow.  She glances at the empty coffee pot and straw.  “Resourceful.  You ok?”

“Yeah...”  But Clint’s head swims and his stomach gives a groan of protest.  “You know, scratch that.”

He steps quickly toward the sink and hangs his head over the basin just in time for the flood of coffee to come rushing back up.  He sputters when it runs out of his nose as well as his mouth.

“Is Daddy sick?”  Clint hears Lila ask.

“I’m fine,” he tries to say, but it winds up punctuated with a hiccup, which only means another wave is imminent.  

“He’ll be ok,” Laura’s voice answers.  “But you’re both having a sick day today.”

[builder051]

hi happy sunday!! i hope your christmas went okay, mine was a bit :/. could u do “i think i might pass out” + stucky please? i love your writing, it’s never “waffle” (not the right word but u know) and it’s always up to high standard

Aw, thank you so much!!  I’m sorry your Christmas wasn’t so great.  Mine was very nice; it was my first year with DD and fam, and I enjoyed the new experience.

_________

Powers/ No powers

_________

Clint and Laura invite them over for New Years Day breakfast.  

“It’s too hard to do New Years Eve,” Laura explains over the phone.  “Not with kids.”

“Yeah, we’ve kind of retired from being night owls, too,”  Steve laughs.

Bucky wrinkles his brow and mouths, ‘Who are you talking to?’

“Mimosa and omelettes.  Wednesday morning.  Around nine,” Steve explains, scribbling it down on the dry-erase calendar.  Neither of them care that it takes a solid two hours to drive to the middle of nowhere in Paris, VA to see the Bartons.  They’ll be up.  Bucky’s nightmares always make sure of that.

When the day comes, Bucky holds a loaf of slightly burnt banana bread in his lap as Steve bounces the car from the highway to the gravel road that gives way to the Bartons’ long driveway.  

Cooper and Lila dash out to meet them before they’re out of the vehicle.

“What did you bring us?”  Lila reaches for the foil-wrapped package in Bucky’s hand.  

“Um,” he says.  “It’s not, like, a present, really.”

“Banana bread!”  Steve calls over the roof of the car.  “Give it to your mom, ok?”

Lila nods, and delivers the bread to Laura, Bucky still holding tightly to the compact loaf.

“Here,” the little girl announces proudly.

“Hey!,”  Laura pries the bread free and puts it on the counter, then draws Bucky into a loose hug.  “This ok?”

Bucky nods and puts his arm around her shoulders. “Hello.”

Steve steps through the front door, shaking snow out of his hair, just as Clint comes down the stairs.  

“Hey, everybody,” says Clint.  He eyes Steve carefully.  “Did my son rope you into a snowball war?”

“Yeah,” Steve replies.  “A bit of an unexpected one.”

“I’ll go talk to him.”  Laura shakes her head and slips out of the room.

Clint gives his wife’s butt a pinch as they slide past each other.  Laura squeals in admonishment, but Clint grins.  He continues into the kitchen and opens the oven a crack.  The scent of cooking potatoes fills the kitchen, along with a puff of steam.

“Yum, what is that?” Steve asks.

“Hash brown casserole,” Clint answers.  “And I’m about ready to start on the omelettes.”  He sizes up Steve and Bucky.  “You want the works, right?  Ham, sausage, bacon, cheese, veggies...”  He enumerates the ingredients on his fingers, using the spatula as a pointer.

“Sounds great,” Steve agrees, nodding enthusiastically.  “Buck?”

Bucky pauses before answering.  His head is suddenly swimming.  The scent of the potatoes is still overwhelming his senses, and he can barely force his brain to focus on anything else.  Let alone any other kind of food.  

He is the asset.

He does not require sustenance.  

Liquid nutrition is provided at the termination of the mission.

“Buck?” Someone says again.

Bucky blinks.  It’s too hot.  Sweat breaks out on his upper lip.  He feels sick.

“He’s really pale.  Are you ok, Sweetie?”

“I think...” Bucky forces out.  Steve.  He needs Steve.  Or Laura had been the one who had spoken.  He needs her too.  “I think I might pass out...”

Steve immediately has him under the arm and across his stump shoulder, lowering him gently to the floor.  

“Ok, breathe.”  Steve’s big, warm hand forces Bucky’s head forward between his knees.

The tap runs for a moment, then a cold towel flops over the back of his neck.  Bucky breathes in sharply, not expecting the sudden change in temperature.  

He is the asset.

The mission is terminated.

He is going into storage.

But they’ve forgotten to feed him.

Nausea rises in Bucky’s chest, and he dry heaves into his own lap.  Nothing comes up, but it burns terribly.  

“It’s alright, James.”  Laura moves the towel to under his chin, wiping his mouth, just in case.

Laura.  He’s not in Siberia.  He’s sick.  And he’s mortified.

“‘M fine,” James mumbles.

“No, you’re not,” Steve whispers.  He helps Bucky lift his head, then looks into Bucky’s eyes until they focus.  “You with me?”

Bucky slowly nods.

“Ok.”  Steve gives a relieved smile.

“Why don’t you wait on the couch,” Laura suggests.  “I’ll bring you some water.”

Bucky nods again, looking up at her.  “Thanks,” he croaks.

“Of course, James,” she says warmly.  “You know we’re all here for you.”

“Hm.”

“She’s right.”  Steve gives Bucky’s forehead a soft kiss.  “Always here for you.”