Chapter Text
Clint.
He’d always enjoyed the water. The waves were something that he could control. Something that had no fault. If he ever was to drown, that would be because of himself. None would be to blame, though maybe his headstone would look weird.
But he liked the water. The concept, the thought. He liked drinking it - and even though he preferred his morning and mid shift coffee - it wasn’t bad. Saltwater was an almost sweet reminder, and it was something he could remember from his childhood, even though he had at first tried desperately to push that away. But it was a kind memory, the ones that made you smile even when no one had told you a joke. The kind of memory to make the bad dreams go away.
Barney laughed aloud as Clint stumbled over his feet once again, the snake under his soles already gone into the bushes.
“Not funny Barn! Could’a killed me!” He yelled out, getting his composure back and hurriedly chasing after his brother. Barney might have about ninety or a hundred pounds and six years on Clint, but even as a scrawny kid, Clint was fast. Fast as the wind, his mother would say.
They followed the traditional path, Barney carrying their sacks as Clint made it his mission to climb every tall tree possible. Around his brother he could be weird. Around his brother he could be whoever he wished to be.
“In the future, I’m gon’ be a spy!” He’d yell into the air, mimicking the whooshing sound of a ninja as he jumped out of the tree, ankle catching on another root.
The beach was their hideout. It was small, a faraway thing just outside the woods by the lake. Branches and trees made it like a nest, enveloping them like a safety barrier. The sand was soft, a contrast to stepping on wet glass and unsanded floorboards. The waves would wash through his hair, would hide the scars, would give him something to focus on instead of the bruises littering his body like the people on this earth. Though he never was taught that. His brother would lay down on his own towel, watching him with a smile as he called out every once in a while. Either a sharp “Don’ swim too far now, Clint!” or a sinful “Jump off the stone, Clint! Don’ be a scaredy - cat!”
Clint would never know the true sorrow behind his own brothers eyes.
Wouldn’t know that this was Barney’s way of keeping him safe.
Clint would always be too young to understand it all, and he was fine with that.
“Go ‘t your room!” His father would yell as he backed him up. Going to his room meant escaping, meant showing weakness, meant bringing the Bartons name down. Down to the ground where he hoped his father would soon be.
Not going up to his room meant disobeying, meant going against his fathers orders.
Barney wasn’t home, wouldn’t be for a good while. Out with his friends - Clint always assumed. Maybe he’d come home with a box of Gum Tabs, throw it on his bed, bandage him right up, muttering stories about how they would both get out of there together. How their father would run to the ground, get his shot in the head by his own liquor bottle, carve his own steps to his coffin and drunkenly stumble down them.
A sharp drag - and - hit made his right side slam into the kitchen table, arm aching, knocking the papers from his hands. He’d really only wanted help on a question. Only afterwards had he realised his own stupidity.
Scrambling for the paper as it floated down towards the fireplace, a kick to his knees made the shelves shake, a few ceramics of candle holders crashing to the floor. It only added oxygen to his fathers fire, and the following hits would leave bruises for weeks. More excuses for school, more excuses he’d have to ask Barney for. Barney was who Clint wanted to be. Barney stood up to his father, Barney had his own money, though he never did tell Clint where he’d get it from. Barney was good at making up excuses.
A foot in his mouth brought Clint out of his trance, yet reaching for the paper, the other hand falling flat over his fathers ankles. His head slammed back into the wall, another crashing sound of broken ceramic. A picture must’ve fallen down this time.
A kick to his shoulder, the fabric catching on a stuck out nail in the wall. Maybe it was a glass shard, whatever it was - it pulled on his shirt. Thread spilled out as his father gripped his collar, yelling at him with the same words he always heard. All he wanted was that paper.
Then as his head slammed back again, his feet scrambled for leverage on the old carpet, kicking and pushing the old thing away in his desperate attempts. The movement startled his father, and he couldn’t help but wince and beg as he saw how it’d made his father stumble, the now broken bottle oozing out his father’s precious liquor.
He couldn’t help but beg.
Couldn’t help but watch as the scratched edges of the bottle glinted in the light of the fire.
Couldn’t help but still try to reach out for the paper. The paper that caught fire by it’s corners as his father never seemed to let up.
Crawling up to his room, to the dripping sound of water leaking, he laid down in bed, awaiting his brother. His brother who would tuck him in, who would kiss his forehead - sneak him a book, letting him look at the pictures as Barney rambled the same story every time. Always twisted, always with different words, but always the same plot. Same lines. Same happenings.
But as he bled and cried, not daring to let his father hear it, knowing it would only earn him another beating, no quiet steps came. No soft whispers, no pages fluttering as Barney climbed his way up the stairs.
There wasn’t a Barney there, and as Clint waited, his sobs quieting down into a sad silence, the hours went.
He didn’t know the time, but it was dark, and the lights outside his window had lit up since long ago. Only when Clint’s vision got hazy, and he realised that most of the sheets were a deep red now, was when he finally turned his head over.
And he grabbed the book on his bedside table, and looked at the pictures. Red coated some of the pages, but it only made the colours stand out.
His teacher, Miss Collins, wouldn’t see him the next day.
Only a day later had Barney found him, curled up under a loose cover, a stained brown one at that. But it didn’t smell, which only served his concern. And as he lifted the covers, the brown must’ve once been red, because his baby brother was covered in it. Crusted red and brown lingered over his arms and ankles, his face slashed and his collar flashing with new splotches of blue, purple and green.
For a terrifying moment - his brother looked dead.
Then as his brother took a faint breath, was when Barney brought him to the hospital for the first time.
He’d cried that day, seeing the bills, knowing his father would never pitch in. Knowing the hospital wouldn’t help his brother.
He’d pick up another job.
The circus didn’t seem so bad.
He loaded the boards into the holder, huffing as he shoved down the belt, tying them down. The wind rattled the straps, before he tightened them, and the only thing the wind caught was the cool sand.
He looked up and onto the beach. The sun was setting. The people were starting to clear up, the water stilling by the shore, but the waves further out never got smaller. He walked down the beach, picking up a few sand-filled cans along the way. A half-eaten donut, a broken shovel and a trampled doll that he refused to make eye contact with. He tipped over the sand, down to the coastline, and looked over the water. A few people closer to shore, and a rare amount farther away. He tried yelling, but raising his voice over the wind was nearly impossible. He waved his hand, waited for one of the guys to see him, before knocking his hand back for them to come back in. One of them seemed to protest, giving him a nasty lookover before his friend smacked the back of his head.
Clint sighed to himself, turning around and casting an eye to the sharper area of the beach. He was alone on duty today - a Wednesday, not many people - so things were a tad boring. He missed when Natasha worked with him, wherever she was now. Probably running for district attorney at this point.
Good for her, she deserves it.
I sure don't.
He rounded up the rest of the people, plucking bandaids and yelling at idiots who tried getting one last dip before the levels would rise. Eventually everyone seemed to leave, and he climbed up to the watchtower, shucking off his belt and doing a last radio check to oversee that everything was good. Holding down the microphone, he sound checked once, twice, before announcing that it was now past supervised hours and that any swimmers left would be doing it at their own risk. When the assessment was finished, and the clock hit twenty, he locked the tower and walked his way around it, up the stairs and to his bike.
By the railing, a few feet away from the bicycle parking, stood a sharp figure. He only casted an eye at first. Hood up, hands in his pockets. One hand at least, the other sleeve seemed to hang looser. There was a lot wrong with the stance, sentences worth, though many might not think like Clint. He decided not to pay it a penny. Probably a kid afraid of water.
The salty air left his lungs as the city life took over, the ride home short.
***
Bucky watched the waves crash over the shore from the railing, the people gushing out. He had to step aside for a big family with a floaty the size of a boat. Unsure, he took an extra step back, keeping his right arm in front of him, shielding.
The kids stared, but the couple didn’t seem to mind him.
So he looked back over the water, the violent currents nearly frightening him.
Yet he couldn’t help but look over them in longing.
***
New shifts were never nice, although the weather was getting better. Clipping on the belt, he double sounded the radio, checking signal. Then he tripped down the stairs, meeting Benny by the foot of it. Flashing a smile, Benny met it, fist bumping him before playfully shoving him down onto the beach. Nearly crushing a kids foot, he turned around, meeting the girl’s eyes.
Small, four feet at the least, short and curly with crooked teeth.
So he liked making assessments, call him skeptical.
Her mother’s arms quickly enveloped her, lifting her up into her arms, pressing a hard kiss to her chubby red cheek.
“Little Sandy’s got heatstroke, that’s what the other guy told me. Please do say that you have something for it? Medicine?” Her mother cooed, borderline whined, her american accent sharp. Sounded like Pennsylvania.
Benny behind him chuckled before heading into the tower. Not yet clocking in meant not yet at work. Sneaky bastard. Swearing under his breath, Clint turned back around to the mother and her child, having to crane his neck downwards just to see him. Being tall came with it’s side-effects.
“Heatstroke ain’t an illness, ma’am. She jus’ needs water and a good whiles rest. C’mon in.”
Benny had already gone down, grabbed his board and went out into the water for his morning surf when Clint unlocked the tower, ushering the two in. Inside, Trinity must’ve snuck in through the back, cause she was already sitting watch by the lookout window, monoculars up. She always did love the lookout tower. She was usually their main watch, considering she didn’t like water, so why she was here, nobody really understood. Summer job, assumingly, kept talking about moving to Thailand. Clint liked the lookout, though he preferred his own eyes on top of the tower, there was a good hatch right by the railing to climb up. Tasha constantly talked about his vision.
Said his precision was too good to be human.
Despite his height, he still had to tip-toe up to push the curtains out of the way, letting the mother set her child on the large towel covered medical bed. Not many incidents happened out here, anyway.
“A ‘lil rest, some cooling pads and a ‘lotta water. Best recipe for heatstroke ‘at I was ever taught, ma’am.”
He handed the mother two water bottles - cooled from the freezer he had in the back. He didn’t mind sharing. Laying out the cooling pads over the kids arms, a wet cloth over her forehead, he made sure that the mother drank some as well. Mom looked more washed up than her daughter did.
“Aren’t you an angel, young man?” The mother sighed, and Clint nearly protested when her hand waved him down, but nonetheless he bent down, letting her press a hard, lipstick-staining kiss to his forehead. Standing up, he didn’t bother wiping it off, only leveling her appreciative gaze with a sheepish smile.
“Only doin’ my job, ma’am.”
With the smile still on his face, he closed the curtain on the two, silently sending Trinity a message to keep her eye on them. She just nodded, sipping on her iced coffee that overflowed with caramel sauce.
He’d been helping a guy down by one of the farther away flags, just a minor fainting in the water - his partner had gotten him out quickly enough for the intake not to be dangerous, but he was still taking his time to teach the guy what to do.
“Go the hospital, get checked out, it might’ve not been much, but even the slightest’ of water lef’ in your lungs can do sum’ damage, man.” Clint said as he kneeled over him, helping the guy regulate back his breathing.
Again - in the corner of his eye - by the railing - stood that man. Same hoodie, same tucked in sleeve, same stance. Afghanistan, maybe? But a slight flow of dark hair made him second guess it.
He focused on the guy in front of him instead, now heaving up into the bag Clint had handed him, and when he looked back around, The hoodie was gone.