Chapter Text
Steve didn’t realize until two weeks after, that Barton had been one of the agents in black who escorted him from Times Square. Honestly, Steve doesn’t remember many details from that day past smashing through the wall and blinking at the lights and noise. Every day after that has been spent inside the compound; simply going through the motions. The walls were grey, the bed sheets were grey, the food was grey.
Barton introduced himself in the Mess hall, as Steve was picking apart a sandwich. He simply sat down, metal tray piled with brownies clanking on the table. He shoved one in his mouth and extended a hand to shake.
“Barton, Clint Barton.”
Steve’s manners prompted him to return the handshake before truly registering what was happening. He stared at Barton’s face, mouth rimmed with chocolate, freckled nose and crinkled eyes. Fought the urge to scan the room for Fury. Another test.
“Steve Rogers,” he finally got out.
Barton pushed the tray closer to Steve. “Brownie?” He grabbed two and both disappeared into his mouth.
“No, thank you,” Steve gestured to his own lunch.
Barton made a noise that sounded vaguely like choking, it took Steve a beat to instead realize he was laughing.
“Mess Hall B has shit food, but their desserts are awesome. If you want a good breakfast, beat the rush in Hall C. Of course, you’re closer to A so if you don’t mind slightly burnt pancakes they at least use real maple syrup.”
It didn’t surprise Steve that Barton knew where he was bunking. Steve knew he was being monitored 24/7. The odd blinking light in the corner of his room as he tossed and turned on the cot made him dream in Morse code.
Dot dot dot dash dash dash dot dot dot.
“Maple syrup?”
Clint nodded enthusiastically, “From Québec.”
Steve had never been to Canada.
“Of course, if you want an actual good sandwich there’s a Deli down the street.”
There’s the catch. Steve stood, chair scraping loudly against the floor. He could feel everyone’s eyes turn to him, looking through their eyelashes. It was different than being on the stage, when his job was clear and the crowds were adoring. Here everyone was just waiting for him to pull the next move, break out, give them reason to put him in a smaller box.
Without another word Steve left the Mess Hall. People he passed pressed themselves to the walls to avoid the breadth of his shoulders. His body; still too new, too big, in clothes that didn’t feel right on his skin. He was surrounded by people in black suits and no one wore a fucking hat. As he closed the door to his room and just stood, willing his chest to stop heaving he ached for a cig. Asthma or no, it would be calming. But he had none, and the Commandos weren’t there to bum one off of. That night, he covered the entire wall with his blanket to block out the blinking light and slept on the floor.
Barton found him the next morning as Steve tentatively poured maple syrup on his stack of pancakes. They were thicker than the ones Mrs. Barnes would make in the winter, and he knew they wouldn’t taste the same, but there was a pain in his stomach that he had attributed to hunger. Despite how this new century food turned to dust in his mouth, he methodically lifted the fork to his lips. He was waiting for Fury to show up, reprimand him for his actions yesterday. Sooner or later, they would all get tired of just watching.
Steve was tired of them just watching.
He was going to finish these pancakes and then he was going to run the track.
As he finished the last forkful, syrup sticky on his fingers and too cloyingly sweet under his tongue, Barton appeared again. He was wearing a blue sweater with moth eaten cuffs that slipped down over his fingers. His smile was as wide as yesterday, but Steve could see how he stood shifted to the left, his shoulder curled inward just so to ease tension on the collar bone.
There were bags under his eyes that Steve was sure mirrored his own.
“I see you took my advice.”
Steve stacked his utensils carefully and crossed the hall to deposit it on the conveyer belt back to the kitchen. When he turned on his heel, Clint was right there in front of him.
“Read any good books lately?”
Steve thought back to the stack of files and tablet on his desk. Years of history that he would have lived through condensed into black and white text. He had flicked through the tablet’s programs, but it felt like parts were missing; a puzzle he couldn’t complete, an hour glass, glued to the table, running out of sand. They’d won the war, that much he knew. But how did the rest of the world move on.
“Lately, I’m into Audible. It reads it to you, so I can listen to Harry Potter while I shoot. I’m a sniper, so can’t really juggle a book and a bow.”
“Who’s Harry Potter?” What’s so important about him that would make Barton risk being distracted while in the sniper’s nest.
“The Boy Who Lived,” Barton said, “He’s a wizard and fights evil with magic.”
“Like Merlin.”
“Well, I’d say Dumbledore is more like Merlin and Harry is kind of Arthur. Chosen one and all that.”
Steve remembered him and Bucky pouring over Arthurian legends from the library, late at night with only a flashlight casting shadows in their pillow fort. A small boy from nothing who found himself wrapped up in fate and handed a legacy he may or may not have wanted. Thinking about it now, it stung. Barton, shoving his knife in the chinks of Steve’s armour.
“Tell Fury I’ll get to the files ASAP.”
Clint’s face fell. “Fury? I haven’t seen the Director in days. Pretty sure he and Coulson are somewhere in New Mexico.”
Steve paused. If Fury wasn’t on base, Barton must have been assigned as his tail. Maybe if he played nice and Barton sent back notes, Fury would lift the ban when he returned. He could find a library, call Peggy from an untapped line, and figure out this whole mess.
Steve could play the long con. He could play nice with Barton and pass all the tests, be the dancing monkey they all accused him of being.
“Do you have the physical books?”
He was rewarded with Barton doing a physical double-take. He hid the wince of his pulled shoulder behind a grin. The way he shifted his head showed Steve a faint scar under his ear.
“I think there are a few in the rec room.”
Steve followed Barton down the hall, pausing briefly as Barton met each person by name, inquired about a lady’s dog, a man’s daughter, another’s vacation. Each person met Steve’s eyes briefly with a respectful nod and carried on their way.
The rec room was deserted. Clint flicked on the light and walked over to the bookshelf. It was stuffed full of dog eared paper backs, their spines broken and creased from flipped pages and being shoved into rucksacks.
“Communal library,” Clint confirmed his suspicions. He pulled out a thin book showing a spectacled boy in front of a train. “It started as a kid’s book, but it gets dark pretty fast. There are movies too, if you end up liking the series.”
“A children's book?”
“You’re young, you should know Harry Potter.”
Young. In July, Steve would be ninety-four. He didn’t feel very young. He wondered how old Clint was.
Steve wanted to deny that Clint’s smile was infectious. It appeared so easily, like warm butter spread over bread. He must be young.
“I’ll just stick with the books. Thank you.”
“Sure, just return and swap it for Chamber of Secrets when you’re done. I don’t think anyone else is reading the series since Peterson stopped after Aragog.”
Steve’s head was starting to pound with these words he had no context for. At least when he was alone in his bunk, he could take a break; close his eyes when the words started to swim in front of him. With Clint there was no escape. The lights suddenly seemed too bright.
“I have to go.”
Steve had exited the rec room before Clint could get another word out. He could hear the whispers of his mother, angry at his lack of manners. Not for the first time, he was also angry at himself.