harcourt | Prompt Bingo, player me

Hostile climate	Fuck or die	Corporal punishment	Crossover/ Fusion	Exposure
Zombie apocalypse	Wing!fic	Prison AU	Different historical period	Vampires
Fantasy creature	Oral sex	WILD CARD	Trapped	Isolation
Friends with benefits	Torture	Tentacles	A/B/O	Illness
Bondage	Gunshot wound	Organised crime	On the run (2)	D/s

I'm still plugging away at longfic bingo, even though the comm seems dead, but you guys, longfic takes so long. But I like their prompt list, and I like kinkmeme style prompts, so I made myself a bingo card, and if anyone is up for this game:

You prompt/request according to a bingo box, I write a prompt fic style fic. I'll x-post to tumblr, but anon is on here. Wild card is free-for-prompter, go nuts.

Filled:

A/B/O:
Clint/Logan, On the Run

D/s:
Bucky/Clint

Fantasy Creature:
Bucky & Clint

Fuck or Die:
Clint/Tony

Gunshot Wound:
Clint & Steve

On the Run:
Clint/Tony
Clint/Logan, A/B/O

Torture:
Clint/Steve

Vampires:
Clint/Steve

Wing!fic:
Bruce & Clint

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Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

From: (Anonymous)

Hey! My prompt - love it! Like I love everything you write. Love snarky Tony! Thought maybe you were done with bingo, but I'll start trying to dream up more prompts. :D Thanks for this!

From:

delfinnium

but the best sort! the sort where he probably gets to be cuddled while he pads around dopily in the kitchen in softpants and bare feet and curls up on counters, Steve's lap, tony's chairs. :D

From:

harcourt

I don't have a BINGO yet, how can I be done? *g* I just went away to do some research (read: read fic) and then ended up doing more research, and then had to do IRL stuff.

Tony is a comforting presence. This is how Tony comforts!

From:

harcourt

Haha, yes! That is exactly the sort Clint should be!

From:

delfinnium

He is a soft soft cuddly vampire. :D

Why would anyone be so horrible as to shoot him full of silver, Steve is sad. Why wooud you make Steve sad, Unknown Shooter?

From:

delfinnium

Bucky is a selkie (his seal form is 500lbs of grouchy leopard seal).

He finds out that Clint is not what he seems either.

From: (Anonymous)

Something where Clint and Steve are captured, and both are being worked over, but Steve feels guilty because he's healed by the next day and Clint isn't. Or, conversely, because Steve's metabolism is so quick, and his body is working to heal so much, he's literally starting to starve within 1-2 days because the bad guys aren't feeding them enough...up to you...thank you for writing such wonderful things!

From:

harcourt

Because villain! Villains probably like it when Steve is sad!

From: (Anonymous)

Oooo, yes, the first part!

From:

harcourt

Breaking Steve's fingers wasn't nearly enough to make him talk, and the prospect of having them broken again the next day was just a thing he tried not to think about until he absolutely had to, the way he didn't think about how long a man could resist continuous torture, and at what point his healing factor would stop being an asset and start being a curse. He was a lot more immediately concerned about Clint, who had functioning hands, but also burns up and down his arms and deep bruising across his chest and side that meant broken ribs. Or Steve guessed it did, by the way it made Clint move gingerly and made his breath shallow and careful.

"Doing okay?" Steve asked, when his fingers had knitted together enough that he'd be able to do something about it if Clint said 'no'. Clint's injuries weren't going to fade as fast, the burns blistered and raw, the mottled half-crescent of a boot toe still marking his skin, too close to his kidney to not make Steve wince every time he saw it.

Clint didn't answer except to make an agreeable noise, not bothering to form words that Steve would know were bullshit anyway. He did give Steve a once-over though, scanning him head to toe to check for damage, then made a frustrated noise, started to sigh, and ended up wincing.

"We've got to wrap your ribs," Steve told him, again. The way he did out of habit, just to say something, but also out of frustration because they didn't have anything to do that with.

"S'okay," Clint said, his part of the ritual. "Heard that doesn't really do much. I'm fine." They didn't mention the burns, that were in real danger of getting infected. Steve wasn't even sure if he should try to wash them with some of the water they were given for drinking, or if was better to leave them alone. If Clint started running a high enough fever, Steve thought, that might break him. If they promised to provide medical attention if Steve talked, there was a good chance he'd believe them, not because he was that stupid, but because he had to think Clint had a chance, and he couldn't take that away, couldn't give up on him. Even when one of them was taken away to be worked over, Steve reminded himself that if they gave up what information they had--SHIELD access codes, encryption keys--then they were of no more use, and as good as dead. Talking wouldn't save him, and wouldn't save Clint. He had to see the longer game, and remember that even if Clint came back breathing worse than usual and with glassy eyes and a slack mouth, like he'd been drugged, it was still better for him if Steve kept his mouth shut.

Steve had seen the method before. Destroy Clint by slow inches, to get to Steve. With two of them, it didn't matter if one of them was incapable of talking, so long as the other was aware and would heal from his own injuries well enough to bear witness. They were probably telling Clint things too, just because not trying it would be a waste, and whatever it was made Clint look at him with dark, solemn eyes and watch with a guilty expression while Steve did what he could for Clint's wounds. When it was all over, Steve waited till Clint was asleep, then went to sit against the opposite wall and slowly, deliberately, eat whatever was left of their rations for the day even if it made his stomach churn.

The cell wasn't large. Smaller than a garage, with enough room for both of them to lie down and have enough room, but not enough that Steve didn't feel it when Clint woke or shifted in his sleep. He did that less and less, lying limp through the night so that Steve was waking at the lack of movement, and had to check on him before he could go back to sleep.

From:

harcourt

They didn't count days. It was hard to tell what time it was anyway, with no window and no outside light. Steve tried to keep track of the activity around them, the coming and going and the timing of their meals and questioning sessions, and work out a schedule from there, but the routine seemed uneven. Hours dragging, then going by too fast, so that he wondered if it was part of the game. An effort to disorient them. It was easier to mark time by the bruises stacking up on Clint's skin, faster than they could fade, the contusions stiffening his joints and making it hard for him to get up or lower himself to the thin mats they'd been given to sleep on.

It was cold, so close to the floor. Steve thought he felt it more with his accelerated metabolism and higher temperature. Clint just seemed to get cooler each night, skin clammy and chill if Steve woke and checked on him, like he didn't have the energy to produce heat, while Steve burned like a furnace, his body healing and eating through its reserves and what nutrition they were offered, so fast that he was losing weight as fast as Clint was losing strength.

The fever Steve feared didn't come. Instead, something was done to Clint that made his muscles twitch for hours after he was returned, and Steve couldn't do anything about it but watch him and talk and offer food that Clint wouldn't eat, even after a couple of days had passed. Or a couple of days by Steve's estimation, anyway. They slept and food came and then they slept again, and no one came for them. Steve was sure it was so he could watch Clint die without distraction, shut in the small room with nothing to see except the labored rise and fall of Clint's damaged ribs, and nothing to listen to but his breathing and the soft pained sounds he made in his sleep, until he recovered a little and Steve was taken and offered mercy and help and reprieve for Clint in return for his cooperation.

He'd known that was coming. Had prepared himself to say no and Stephen Rogers, captain, oh-four-six-two, and repeat himself until they let him go back to Clint. It was still tempting to believe them. He'd prepared for that, too. Made himself think about Clint staunchly refusing to answer, and remind himself that he couldn't betray that. Wondered what SHIELD protocol about capture was, and what information Clint had been told to give. To repeat just to have something to say, so he wouldn't spill more dangerous information. Clint probably had a lot more of that than an Army captain, which wasn't a thing Steve had thought about before. He pictured Clint saying nothing and giving away nothing, just to have Steve do it instead. Pictured Clint being killed, because Steve had made them worthless, and started over with Stephen Rogers, captain, even though he also couldn't help thinking of Clint dying in the night and leaving him alone in the cell.

"Man, I want to punch those assholes," was Clint's response, when Steve came back a few sessions later with no fingernails. He was lying on his back, examining the mess of Steve's hands, as Steve sat beside him. Carefully holding Steve by the palm, even though it would only be a couple of days until Steve had new, clear nails, with no ripple or scar to show for his ordeal. Clint's voice was soft. Breathy. Steve wasn't sure if that was because of his injured ribs or if he was developing pneumonia from breathing too shallow and being cold, and tried to bundle him up more at night, even though Clint resisted anything constraining.

The next day, Clint refused food and just lay on his back watching the ceiling, eyes tracking something that Steve couldn't identify. A crack in the paint, maybe. Maybe a spider or other insect. "They're looking for us," he said, firmly, like he was wrapping up an argument. Like it was something Steve had objected to, even though they repeated those words to each other all the time. They're coming, hold on.

From:

harcourt

"I know," Steve told him. His hands were better, and he tried to make Clint eat some bread, but he only accepted a mouthful before making a face and turning away.

"Saving space," he joked. "You know Tony will try to feed us, first thing."

Steve smiled, and tried to think of Tony instead of food. Even with Clint barely picking at meals, there wasn't enough fuel for the way Steve's body had to work, repairing damage and keeping him alert. His wrists looked bony and he wondered if he looked as bad to Clint as Clint did to him.

"They're coming," Steve assured him, and managed to make him eat another two bites.

The next step came, the way they'd both known it would but hadn't talked about. Steve wasn't sure exactly how it would happen, but he wasn't surprised when someone came to the cell with tools wrapped in a cloth, like artist's brushes, except this unfolded to reveal metal. Pliers and knives and what looked like a nutcracker, that was put to efficient use on Clint's fingers while guards kept Steve back.

"Hey, pal," Clint said, as the tool was positioned, voice casual and familiar, like he was greeting a friend. Unconcerned. Steve admired that, and didn't stop admiring it even when Clint's composure broke, and his face was washed in tears, voice loud enough that Steve almost didn't hear the crack of bone.

"Stephen Rogers," Steve told their captors, stubborn. Not listening to the way Clint's breath was hitched and tortured. It had to be hurting his ribs to breathe like that. He sounded like he was choking. "Captain."

Clint fell to heaving, and the tool was repositioned over a knuckle.

"How many days do you think you can watch him go through this?" one of the guards asked, from where he leaned in the doorway. "He's only got two hands, to start with. So I guess this is a time limited offer."

Clint's arm was shaking, and he wasn't looking at Steve, the guy with the nutcracker talking in his ear. Steve wondered what he was saying, but also didn't want to know.

"We could do his feet too, I suppose. Mix it up."

They didn't. Steve was sure they were saving it for later, using Clint to wear him thin. Letting him get the full experience of hearing Clint's breathless moans at night, and of hearing him whimper when he tried to lift water to his mouth to drink. He left more than half his food, making a frustrated noise when Steve tried to push him.

"Too much work. You have it."

"Clint--"

Clint waved him off with his good hand, injured one cradled close to his chest.

"SHIELD can fix it," Steve told him, even though his chest tightened at the sight of his own hands, bony now, but whole. "They'll come."

"Mm-hm. Gotta hang on till then."

"Yeah."

Clint forced a smile and closed his eyes. "Sorry they made you watch that."

Steve laughed. Wasn't sure why he did. Maybe because with the tight quarters, their boundaries were gone. The easy camaraderie of Avengers missions turned to something closer and more desperate, where privacy was non-existent and every moment taken up with each other--holding on so the other would, believing in rescue so the other would, biting back every temptation to capitulate so the other would live. They may as well see the torture. They'd shared everything else.

"Sorry I saw it," Steve answered anyway, coming over to lie by Clint, stretching out on his stomach next to him, close enough that they were touching.

Clint looked over at him with a frown and sighed. Said, "Steve," but then went quiet. His face was streaked, and Steve realized the tracks were damp. Not left from the torture session, but fresh, tears tracking down the sides of his face to run into the scruff by his ear. Steve had the weirdest desire to hold him and wash him, and gently shave the growth away. Turn him back into the Clint from before, grinning and bright eyed, like a bath and a shave was all it would take to restore him.

From:

harcourt

They lay still for a while, quiet, giving Clint a chance to recover before Steve got to the task of re-wrapping his hand, fashioning bandages out of strips of blanket and fabric torn off their clothing before attempting to immobilize Clint's fingers. Gentle experiments that made Clint hiss and shut his eyes, no matter how careful Steve was. He didn't expect Clint to have an appetite after that, but he couldn't let Clint lie there like that either, breathing shallowly and fading away before his eyes.

"Here," Steve said, bringing the flimsy paper tray back from where it had been shoved through a flap in their door. "Eat something." The food on the tray was colorless. Reconstituted mashed potatoes, with no spoon or fork to eat them with, cold toast, and some other odd ends. There was a bit of butter this time, and a banana, soft with bruising. Its peel darkening on one end in a way that, back home, would have meant it was time to bake it into bread.

The butter would have been delicious on it, hot from the oven. Steve smeared it onto the cold toast as best he could and offered it to Clint, who pushed it away with his hand on Steve's arm. "You have it."

"I'm fine."

Clint snorted. His eyes were closed again. "Have it."

"We'll split."

"I don't need it."

Steve tore the piece of toast in half anyway, and nudged Clint until he opened his eyes, then held one half out to him, not taking no for an answer. "Don't quit on me, Barton. You've got to eat, so when they come--"

Clint cut him off with a scoffing noise, but he took the piece of bread and held it up in parody of a toast, before taking a small bite off the end.

"They're coming," Steve insisted. Clint nodded, finished the slice of toast, then humored Steve by eating a bit of the potatoes, before pushing the tray back towards him.

"You have to eat, Clint."

"You have to eat," Clint said. "Look at you. I've seen goddamn dogs in war zones that looked better."

Steve knew he was losing weight. He hadn't known Clint was thinking about it. "It's the healing factor. I'm fine."

"If they're coming, you better be here when they come." Clint said it stubbornly, not looking at Steve. Maybe he couldn't bear to, while admitting that he thought they might not come out alive. "You said it: you're healing. You're the best bet."

"No."

It was out before Steve could stop it. Childish and scared and angry that Clint would think about leaving him, but followed a second later by the image of the interrogator leaning close at the side of Clint's head, talking. It wasn't hard to guess what he'd said. Probably the mirror to what had been said to Steve. That Steve was dying, that Clint could save him, that Clint could talk and they'd feed Steve and stop hurting him and causing damage that his body would have to heal, until it was essentially feeding on itself and Steve starved to death. Clint wasn't going to give in any more than Steve was, wasn't going to get them killed gambling for mercy they both knew better than to believe in, but he'd been watching Steve heal over and over, and polish off their scraps after he thought Clint was asleep with the same dark guilt that Steve had been watching Clint break down with injury. "No," Steve repeated, this time more sternly. More sure.

"Aw, come on. Don't be like that, Cap." It was said with a grin. "You'll be okay."

"You're out of your mind," Steve told him. "They're coming. You said they were coming. What do you think I'd say to Natasha?"

Clint made a face, but stopped insisting, and after a few moments of silence Steve moved closer to him again and lay down, pulling Clint carefully against him and holding him as tight as he dared.

"Okay," Clint said eventually, and put his good arm around Steve, in a stiff way that Steve thought was meant to be comforting. "Okay. I'm not going anywhere."

"You better not," Steve said. "I need you."

Clint didn't answer right away, but he relaxed in Steve's arms and settled close. Then he said, "Me too."

From: (Anonymous)

Original anon, here... delightful (in the way such ficlets are)! Thank you for writing :)

From: (Anonymous)

Awesome fill of BOTH sides of that prompt requests - very good! Clint whump is always lovely in my book, so keep it coming! YAY!

From:

delfinnium

That is so cruel of them!

Poor sad Steve - all the sad.

From: (Anonymous)

I just read the wiki article on caning in Singapore... How about something with that, where somehow they get caught in a country with corporal punishment and Clint takes the blame for something he didn't actually do to protect and take the punishment for someone else (probably really only makes sense if it's Tony or Nat - or maybe Phil - someone not super-powered. Or maybe it IS someone superpowered and that just makes them feel guiltier...) Lots of pain, lots of guilt lots of comfort. :) [see how I did that? Picked a square that won't help you get to your bingo anytime soon... :) ]

From: (Anonymous)

Oh, hey - I just clicked over here to see if you'd added anything new and for some reason clicked on your profile and saw that today is your birthday. So, Happy Birthday! I hope you're off doing something you enjoy! Many happy returns! :)

teeelsie

From:

harcourt

Thanks! :D

From:

harcourt

Clint frowned, watching Bucky swim back and forth in Tony's pool. It looked a lot smaller now that it had Bucky's torpedo shaped bulk pulling tight U-turns in it, coasting as far as he could before banking. It wasn't that far, considering how big he was and how little effort it took to propel him through the water. They looked like really unsatisfying laps.

"So what?" Clint asked, shouting because it just seemed like he should, with Bucky under water and everything. "Steve had your skin all this time and SHIELD just unboxed the time capsule?" A thought occurred to him. "Did you steal stuff from the museum?"

Bucky slowed, coasting slowly past Clint on his side, fixing him with one eye. It was dark and kind of small, but very round and blank. Like staring down a shark. Clint wasn't sure if Bucky just looked that threatening, transformed into a big killer seal, or if he was intentionally fucking with Clint. Just in case, he refused to step back from the edge of the pool and instead asked, "Do you eat penguin?"

The seal's head broke the surface of the water, just barely and still turned sideways, so that one dark eye was out of the water, giving Clint a definite look, but Clint wasn't sure if he was supposed to read it as obviously yes, or, what the fuck is wrong with you.

"I bet Tony can find you penguins," Clint added, in case it was the first. And to screw with Bucky if it was the second. "But it's probably better if we don't tell him what for."

The seal's mouth opened, just enough to show a row of conical teeth, then snapped shut, creating a little fountain of water, not nearly big or well aimed enough to splash Clint even though the intent was clear.

"Out of practice, huh?" Clint asked, then snickered when Bucky responded by diving and sliding away like he didn't know what Clint was talking about.

Steve knew, Clint thought. Steve had known the whole time what Bucky was, and probably knew how Bucky had ended up in New York, doing not only human things, but dedicated human things, like going to war when he could have just gone to sea and let what happened on the land sort itself out without him. Clint might have done it, given the option. Sometimes entertained daydreams along that vein, if he was on a mission that sucked enough.

"Steve didn't steal you from the ocean, did he?" Steve wouldn't. Clint was pretty sure, anyway. He did wonder a little what else Steve might know or know about, since he wasn't the type Clint would have pegged for being into the less straight-forward parts of things. It was hard to imagine how Steve could wind up just stumbling on Bucky.

On the other hand, Steve had managed to just stumble onto a secret military program, so it was possible Clint just wasn't giving him enough credit.

Bucky continued to swim, doing lazy but efficient circuits that made Clint feel claustrophobic to watch. It would have reminded him of pacing in a cell, except that Bucky could get out of the water any time he wanted and let Clint have a chance to get a few laps of his own in.

"I'm starting to think you're just doing this to hog the pool," Clint said, after he had waited another twenty minutes with Bucky showing no sign of getting tired or bored.

Bucky broke the surface of the water, smooth as a torpedo, then dove and came up again, dark haired and splashing kind of gracelessly, which made Clint laugh even though it was obviously because Bucky was dragging something behind him.

"You got used to the idea of me fast," Bucky commented, when he got to the edge and was pushing his skin out of the water and onto the tile by Clint's feet. Clint got down into a crouch to touch it, then didn't and pulled his hand back before making contact.

"It looks heavier than I thought," he said. The skin was mottled in white and dark gray, lying in thick folds like leather. It probably weighed as much as Fury's coat, if not more.

"You wanna try it on?"

Bucky was naked in the water. Clint tried to gauge his expression while not looking like he was making a point of not looking South of Bucky's face, but it felt like a failure, because Bucky sniggered and swam a couple of strokes back, like he was giving Clint a better viewing opportunity.

From:

harcourt

"That doesn't work," Clint accused. It was also weird. The idea of trying to wear Bucky's skin made him shudder. Even just to play, it was too intimate and kind of gross. Like borrowed underwear or something.

"It's warm, though," Bucky offered, even though Clint had been hanging out waiting for swimming space in his trunks and was obviously perfectly fine, in the eternal summer of Tony's temperature controlled pool room. "If you ever fall in the ocean."

"Oh my god, that's how you met Steve, isn't it?"

Clint tried to work out if he thought Steve had slipped or been thrown in and couldn't decide. There were times he'd have liked to toss Steve in the drink himself, if he had half a fighting chance and maybe if Steve had weighed a solid two thirds less than he did.

Bucky grinned and didn't confirm or deny, which was obnoxious but loyal, and Clint couldn't help but grin back. "Okay fine. Don't tell. But for the record, I'm going to go with the best story I can come up with, then insist you told it to me and swore by it."

"Sure."

That was good. Bucky's willingness to mess with Steve won him a lot of points in Clint's book, and so did the conspiratorial smile he shared with Clint, like needling Steve was as much a sport to Bucky as it was to Clint.

"I mean," Clint added, because he was a lot less loyal than Bucky, "it was that or he lured you in with fish from a bucket."

Bucky gave him a dirty look and Clint laughed again, as he sat down to dangle his legs in the water. The skin was next to him, close to his hand, gleaming wetly, and this time Clint lifted a hand and did touch it. Lightly and with just his fingertips at first, and then more firmly. It was smooth and covered in short, dense fur, a little rubbery underneath that if he pressed down, and nothing like Fury's coat at all. Something about it was a little creepy. Too alive to be clothing or even just a tanned hide.

"You can jump in, you know," Bucky told him, without answering the comment. "I wasn't going to bite you or drown you or anything."

"Just bump me like a whole damn submarine?"

Bucky considered that, then allowed, "Maybe slap you with my tail."

"Nice."

"Not on obvious purpose."

Clint splashed water at him with a foot. "Funny."

"Well. You do lure sailors to their death, so consider it a break I'm cutting you."

Clint froze.

"I knew it as soon as you touched the water."

Clint pulled his feet back out, and Bucky laughed again and came back to the side of the pool to grab him by the ankle and pull. "Too late now, Barton," he said, and dove, taking Clint clean off the ledge and into the water so fast that water rushed up his nose.

Clint flailed, fighting to regain the surface, then swam for it as hard as he could, even as Bucky went for the floor of the deep end, where there was enough clearance to dive, before releasing Clint, letting him shoot for the mirrored wall above them, then thrash for the edge as soon as he broke through, to where he could cling while he coughed and sputtered. Hacking a lung up until he could get enough breath to try to haul himself out.

"What happened to not drowning me, you asshole?" Clint wheezed, when Bucky swam up again, but then stopped to tread water well out of arm's reach. Clint considered trying to climb out again, but decided he was safer where he was, with a good hold, fingers jammed hard into the drainage gutter.

"Really?" Bucky asked, but mostly sounded curious. "Come on. I showed you mine."

"Fuck off."

Bucky sighed, then swam to the edge a couple yard away from Clint and pushed himself up on his arms, enough that he could slide half out of the water, then twist into a sitting position and pull the skin over his lap, which was a weird enough bid for decency that Clint relaxed a little and loosened his death grip on the gutter.

"What if I stay way over here and promise not to come any closer?" He drew a cross over his heart. Clint bet Steve bought that act every damn time.

"No dice."

"But I'm not wrong," Bucky concluded, sounding smug if not triumphant. "Am I? You won't do it, but I'm not wrong."

"I thought you knew as soon as I touched the water?"

"Eh. Sort of. I like confirmation."

From:

harcourt

Clint glared. "You could have killed me, you ass."

"Nah. And I could have revived you if I'd messed it up."

"This better end in a story about how you gave Steve mouth-to-mouth on a beach."

"Naked and in front of a sunset," Bucky said, blandly enough that Clint couldn't tell if that was the ridiculous truth or Bucky playing along. "After a dramatic rescue. Come on, Barton. Let go of the edge. No biting, no drowning, I promise."

"I never drowned any sailors," Clint told him, not letting go. "So if that was some kind of retaliation, you're barking up the wrong tree."

"It wasn't. I just wanted to see your tail." Bucky said it slyly, but it didn't really work. Tony could have made a way better piece of tail joke and made it dirtier with much less effort.

"Could've been retaliation for the bucket of fish remark," Bucky allowed after a minute, and after he'd considered it a bit. "But now I'm thinking that might have been your story. You swim into a fish trap, Barton?"

"Crab pot," Clint snapped. "Fuck off."

Bucky laughed again, maybe picturing that, so Clint admitted, "Got harpooned. Couldn't swim, SHIELD didn't know what to do with me." He shrugged. "So Fury had a whole motel locked down and they kept me in the pool for like three months."

"Holy crap." Bucky sounded really entertained by the idea. "Literally harpooned?"

"Literally. Some newbie. I don't know what he thought he was aiming at." He shot Bucky a look. "And no, I wasn't about to drag him into the deep, if that's what you're thinking."

"I was thinking, 'so there is a bucket of fish involved'."

Clint kicked off from the side of the pool, and swam out a few strokes on his back. "Steak," he corrected. "We sat on the diving board and ate steak. There wasn't much else around there, but it beat the hell out of tuna, so here I am."

It was obvious Clint was shitting him, but Bucky smiled and said, "Funny. That's how Steve won me over too, except with movies and dancing thrown in."

"Hey. I was harpooned. The dancing came later."

Later, after he'd learned legs, and about getting drunk, and he and Fury had had the whole empty hotel lobby to themselves, with its garish carpet and a radio turned to music from what Fury called, 'the old days' and Clint was still tripping over himself about every fifth step, which the alcohol hadn't helped.

"He was going to throw me back," Clint said, in case Bucky got the wrong idea. "But things happened."

Bucky kicked a foot, splashing. "Okay," he said.

"I'm not a fan of chlorine. After that fucking motel, it burns like hell when I'm not human."

Bucky hummed agreement, not pushing, but after a minute, Clint wiggled out of his swim trunks, let a tail form, and dove, flipping it at Bucky, and slapping the water as he went down, to re-emerge across the pool, then do a fast lap around the edge, not trying anything fancier than a small jump or two. Just letting Bucky get a look at him, human skin giving way to gray scales, a trace of iridescence to them and down Clint's back. Along the sides of his neck where gill slits curved down from his ears towards his clavicle, tucked along the line of the muscle. In the water, his hair reflected the same mother of pearl sheen, fading to normal human dry-world tones when Clint willed the change away and went diving for his shorts, pulling them on in the water before making his way back to Bucky.

"Knew it as soon as you touched the water," Bucky said, and reached a hand down to pull Clint out.