Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Even pirates, before they attack another ship, hoist a black flag.”

―Bela Kiraly.

First Lieutenant James ‘Bucky’ Barnes stared at the blue horizon with a sense of increasing alarm.

Steve was missing.

It was a mystery that made no sense whatsoever, as they were miles from any port and none of the jolly boats were missing with him. The seas had been calm all night while Steve was on watch, and a thorough rousing of all the crew and searching every inch of the Avenger hadn’t turned up any sign of him. All his personal effects remained in the Captain’s cabin.

Bucky, of course, suspected foul play. But with no proof, no evidence of a struggle, and no one unaccounted for, there wasn’t much he could do.

There were barely-heard mutterings of the Captain having abandoned his post, and more loudly voiced suggestions that Captain Rogers had thrown himself from the ship in a pique, but that wasn’t like Steve at all.

And Bucky should know, they’d been schoolmates and friends for nearly all their lives.

“We shall keep up the search,” Bucky announced, before the mutterings could get too pronounced. He could see some of the men eyeing him keenly, and a few others glancing at Second Lieutenant Rumlow. Bucky, for all that he was the son of a wealthy fur trader with a purchased commission rather than a true gentleman officer like Rumlow and his titled father, was the highest ranking officer on board now, and the men needed direction. “And then make for port if nothing can be found of him.”

“Guess this makes you the captain now, Captain Barnes,” Falsworth said loyally. He’d liked Steve quite a lot, and as Purser his support carried a fair bit of weight.

Timothy ‘Dum Dum’ Dugan looked more relieved than anything, and squared his shoulders under Bucky’s gaze before shooting him a wink. “Captain,” he agreed, his deep voice carrying over the mutterings of the men.

That would serve Bucky well, because while officers like Lieutenant Rumlow didn’t put much stock in the Sailing Master’s opinion, it would go far with the ordinary ratings.

“Acting Captain,” Rumlow said snidely.

Bucky sighed.

***

Two weeks had gone by since Steve’s disappearance, and there had been no sign of him at all. No floating corpse had been located, thank god, and the weather had remained fair with a steady breeze. But still nothing of Steve, not so much as a scrap of cloth or a shoe.

They’d been running practice maneuvers for the better part of the last four days, and the men were increasingly restless. A day or two spent looking for their missing Captain was one thing, but the amount of time Bucky’d spent searching and then ordering them to do nonsense drills was unheard of. Standing orders in a situation such as this were to put in at Charleston and wait for further orders from the Royal Navy.

Bucky had avoided it as long as he could reasonably get away with.

“Captain,” Falsworth said, joining him at the ship’s wheel.

Not that Bucky was doing anything of import. “Falsworth,” he said, resigned. The Purser wouldn’t have sought him out without cause, and Bucky had a feeling he knew where it was going.

“Rations are running low,” Falsworth informed him. “In two days’ time there won’t be enough for all the men to have their daily tot, and I think you know what will happen if they don’t receive their rum.”

Bucky’s head on a pike, most likely, if he were lucky. He sighed again.

“We’ll make for Charleston tomorrow,” he agreed. “The men will get their rations, and we shall all get a new Captain, I suspect.”

He more than suspected. Bucky was a colonial with a purchased commission and no noble blood to speak of, there was no chance he’d be granted a Captain’s rank. Steve had only managed it by being the bastard son of Baron de Ros, along with a chance encounter at his previous posting wherein he’d saved the life of a decorated naval Captain. That he’d brought Bucky on as his First Lieutenant was already a bit of a scandal.

“I hope it’s not that fussy prick,” Dum Dum said, coming up beside the two of them.

Steve had managed an unusual rapport with his crew, despite the circumstances of his position, and that had, to some degree, included Bucky. With Steve gone, his more favored officers just about closed ranks around each other, including the Boatswain and the Surgeon. Bucky was glad of it, because if he thought too long about Steve being missing he’d likely collapse. Having the others shoring him up was a kindness and a relief.

Falsworth rolled his eyes. “Rumlow has been unusually interested in the ledgers and the stores of late,” he admitted.

“He doesn’t know his buntlines from his clewlines,” Dum Dum grumbled.

“Mind yourselves,” Bucky warned them, though he more than agreed, “as he’s more likely than me to receive command of the ship when we make port.”

“There’d be near enough to a mutiny if it happened,” Pinkerton said, though he kept it low enough not to be overheard by the sounds of the happenings around them. Pinkerton was Gunnery Officer, and he was a surprising ally in what was quickly becoming a division in the ranks between Bucky and Rumlow’s supporters. Prior to Steve’s disappearance he’d kept mainly to himself, and was like as not to shoot you as look as you, or that was the prevailing rumor. He was competent, an excellent marksman, and had kept the Avenger from falling to French privateers on at least three previous engagements.

They stood in silence for a few moments, each of them contemplating a future under Lieutenant Rumlow, which was bleak enough for sobering silence.

Bucky hadn’t had much cause to interact with Rumlow prior to Steve’s disappearance - they’d had different watches and responsibilities, which in retrospect was probably strategic on Steve’s part - and Bucky hadn’t known quite how much of a prick he really was.

Now Rumlow was peacocking around the ship like he was expecting to take over at any moment, shouting at midshipmen and seamen, and calling out orders that Bucky often had to contradict or risk them running aground or off course. It was all a bit ridiculous, but London valued noble blood more than they valued competent seamanship, especially on a small frigate with an excellent Sailing Master like Dugan.

Unless London had some other poor bastard to saddle them with, waiting in Charleston. But that was unlikely, given the unexpected nature of Steve’s… departure, and the short timeframe.

Knowing they’d most likely be leaving port with Rumlow in command was bleak indeed.

They were distracted from the contemplation of their futures by a shout from Davies, who was on watch.

“Captain! There’s a ship flying Edisto colors,” he called.

Bucky breathed a sigh of relief. Edisto Island was Navy territory, and traded mainly in indigo. He pulled his spyglass out anyway, to have a look for himself.

Something about the ship seemed off, even at a distance. It seemed far larger than anything Edisto would have, and was approaching them with a rapidity that caused something to tighten up in his gut with apprehension.

“Pinkerton,” Bucky said quietly, and Pinkerton straightened immediately. Dum Dum took off across the deck with a wide, determined stride, both of them clearly alarmed by Bucky’s tone.

Before Pinkerton or Dum Dum could so much as utter a word to their men, however, Davies called out again in alarm.

“They’re changing the flag!” he cried, and Bucky lifted the spyglass back to his face, only to see the familiar colors of Edisto being run down, and something infinitely more sinister going up, as all the while the ship approached at speed.

Bucky could see now that it was huge, with three fully rigged masts and two gun decks to the Avenger’s one, and probably carrying at least 74 guns, and the flag-

It unfurled in the wind, black with a gleaming white skull over a red target.

“It’s the Royal Fortune,” Davies cried, “Hawkeye’s ship!”

“Pinkerton! Rollins!” Bucky called, pocketing his spyglass in favor of his sword and pistol.

They were already ahead of him, Pinkerton calling for men to man the cannons and Rollins ordering the marines on deck and up into the rigging.

They didn’t quite make it, because the Avenger had been lazily practicing maneuvers, manned by men who’d been lulled into security by many days of calm seas and lack of explicit direction. The Royal Fortune came up alongside with cannons already rolled out and firing before even Pinkerton’s men could truly retaliate. It was a mark of how well-trained they were that any cannons were rolled out at all, and fewer than half of the Avenger’s guns managed to fire.

“Blasted fucking pirates,” Bucky seethed.

And it wasn’t just any pirates, either, but Hawkeye, who’d captured and looted nearly a hundred ships in the last three years, making off with men and money, and whatever else valuable he found on board. He’d got his nickname from his uncanny aim, and he was deadly with a sword or a pistol, though there were rumors he’d once brought a bow into a fight.

Pinkerton got the remaining canons rolled out and fired on the Fortune, but it hardly mattered, because they were already near-crippled in the water by the loss of their rudder to a cannonball, and Bucky could see the longboats full of Hawkeye’s crew launching for the Avenger.

He unsheathed his sword. They wouldn’t be taking the ship without a fight. If Steve was gone, what did it matter if Bucky should follow him? The Avenger had been Steve’s ship, his first command, and Bucky would defend her with his life.

The rumors of Hawkeye’s bow proved true, however, because just as Bucky set himself on the deck, preparing to dispatch the enemy, an arrow shot into the main mast, deep enough that it’d be impossible to jerk free, and then a man who’d clearly taken complete leave of his senses came flying across an attached line of some kind, a cloth or belt wrapped through his fist as he flew through the air with a pistol in his other hand.

His feet landed on the deck with a slam that would have made Bucky wince in other circumstances, but he sprung up quickly and unsheathed a sword, all in one smooth movement. He was dressed absurdly, in a purple shag waistcoat with a length of purple silk wrapped around his waist and his hat accented with a large purple feather. He was a scant few seconds ahead of his boarding parties beginning to spill over the deck and for a moment Bucky had a wild hope that Pinkerton would shoot him.

His hopes were dashed by a ferocious-looking redhead, who attacked Pinkerton with a sword and dagger in a flurry that even the battle-hardened Gunnery Officer was hard pressed to parry. She had a reputation of her own, the rumors about her even more unbelievable than the ones about Hawkeye, and most called her the Widow. No one - to Bucky’s knowledge - knew her name.

“Captain Rogers, I presume,” Hawkeye said, when Bucky stepped forward to meet him with a clash of steel.

“Barnes,” Bucky gritted out.

“Interesting,” he said, as they circled and parried, each of them testing the other. Bucky was a deft hand with a pistol and a sword, even better than Steve when pressed, but he lacked the experience of a crew like the Fortune’s, who were widely known for their prowess in battle.

Bucky had rage and grief on his side, though, which might afford him some advantage.

“I’d heard the Avenger was commanded by Rogers,” the pirate continued, clearly unruffled by the fury with which Bucky attacked him. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.” He bared his teeth in something that might have been a smile in other circumstances, but was more a threatening flash of white now. “I’m Clint Barton, though you might know me as Hawkeye.”

“I don’t care who you are,” Bucky said, slightly breathless as he ducked. “You’ll not be taking the Avenger so long as I’m her captain.”

“Has there been a mutiny then?” Barton asked cheerfully. “I do love a good mutiny.” He paused to spin out of the way of Bucky’s sword, sheathing his pistol in favor of a wicked-looking dagger similar to the one the Widow carried. “Unless it’s against me, of course. Mutineers make excellent pirates.”

“Barton!” barked the Widow, and the maniac laughed. “We’ve things to do, you know!”

They were bantering, Bucky realized incredulously.

“You’ll have to kill me to have the ship,” Bucky promised. She had been Steve’s ship, and Bucky would be damned before he’d hand it over.

“I do so hate to break beautiful things,” Barton mused, and then the edge of his sword sliced against Bucky’s side, dancing between the gap in his coat and sharp enough to cut through his shirt with ease and only barely missed gutting him. Barton darted back, smiling wickedly. Then he grimaced as another volley of canonfire raked the side of the Avenger, and the ship deck listed under their feet.

“Clint,” the Widow hissed, and Clint spared a half-second of his attention to fling the dagger across the deck, where it embedded itself into the thigh of the man she was fighting. Sitwell, Bucky thought, one of Rumlow’s mates. An odious toad, Bucky couldn’t bring himself to be that upset about his injury. Sitwell lurched and the Widow spun to kick him, sending him flying into a grouping of riflemen behind him. “Hurry it up, won’t you?” she called, before springing across the deck, light on her feet and deadly in her accuracy.

“Right,” Barton said, smile back in place. “Would you be willing to consider an accord?”

“No,” Bucky said bluntly, darting in with his blade and glancing it across Barton’s hip, satisfied with the bloom of hot, dark blood that stained the purple silk.

Barton winced. “You should really hear me out.”

“You should really get off my ship.”

They parried a few more times, neither of them managing to draw blood again and moving too fast for either side of the conflict to get off a decent shot.

“What if,” Barton said, and Bucky was gratified to see he was winded, “I offered to spare your men’s lives and your ship?”

Bucky risked a glance around. Barton’s crew clearly had the upper hand. Pinkerton was still firing off orders but he was also clutching at his own wound, and Dum Dum was nowhere to be seen. Several men were bleeding on the deck, and Bucky couldn’t tell if they were dead or alive. He was tiring from the fight and unlikely to win regardless. The ship was listing alarmingly.

There were yet more crew waiting on the Royal Fortune, and while Bucky might have more men in total, it was nearly foregone that they would succumb to the onslaught, even without considering the idea that the crew of the Fortune might simply sink the ship rather than risking their lives.

Whilst Bucky was willing to die to hold the Avenger, he was unwilling to sacrifice his men to it.

“What are your terms?” Bucky asked grimly.

Barton brightened, and while he didn’t put his sword down, he did let it drop a bit, ready for defense but less aggressive.

“I’ll take yourself and three of your crew in exchange for sparing your lives and the Avenger.”

“And the money!” the Widow called.

“And the money,” Barton agreed. “And the rum,” he added, like an afterthought.

There was a small cheer from his crew, even as they fought.

“Hardly any of note left,” Falsworth said from nowhere.

Bucky gave him a sidelong glance. He’d obviously defended himself admirably - he looked rumpled but not too worse for wear, and there were a few pirates scattered at his feet - dead, or as good as.

Bucky considered it. As it was, the Avenger could likely limp its way back to port, even with Rumlow - assuming he wasn’t dead, and Bucky briefly hoped he was, God forgive him - at the helm. If this went on much longer, it would all be at the bottom of the ocean and Bucky would be dead or a prisoner either way.

At least if they reached an agreement, Barton would likely honor it. All the stories made it clear that he was unnervingly honest about such things.

Bucky glanced around at his men, bleeding and exhausted. Everything seemed to be at a standstill, awaiting his answer.

Pinkerton was alarmingly pale.

Their surgeon was nowhere to be seen, which meant he was either dead or a coward. Neither boded well.

Barton at least had a favorable reputation regarding his prisoners, more likely to dump them at a pirate port, left to their own devices, rather than some of the more unsavory practices of others.

Pierce, in particular, had a horribly sordid reputation.

“I accept,” Bucky said, resigned to his fate. He dropped the sword and fell to his knees.

“Excellent!” Barton said, and used the point of the sword to tip Bucky’s chin up and force him to meet his eyes. “What shall we do with you?” he asked lowly, eyes sparkling with amusement. It sent a shiver up Bucky’s spine, one that wasn’t entirely fearful, much to his chagrin.

And then Barton sheathed his weapon. “And who shall we be taking with us?”

Bucky glanced around. Surrendering would be the end of Bucky’s career regardless, but whomever he took with him would be shielded by his own failure rather than blamed themselves.

Falsworth met his gaze evenly and gave a near-imperceptible nod, indicating his willingness. Returning to port after losing the contents of the hold and the purse would not end well for him in London.

Pinkerton was verging on passing out. The look he gave Bucky was resigned, but without the surgeon he would die.

Dum Dum limped forward, clutching his own weapon and bleeding profusely from a wound to his arm. His look was unreadable, but Bucky had few allies and even fewer friends. Whomever was left would return with Rumlow, alive if not triumphant. He had no ability to save any who remained, but he could, perhaps, save these men.

“Have you a surgeon?” he asked Barton, who looked surprised at the question.

“If you mean do I have a man who leeches men of blood they’ve already lost, then no. But we’ve a physician trained in poultices and healing, and few of our crew die from minor wounds.”

Bucky nodded. “My Purser, Gunner, and Sailing Master will accompany me.”

Barton crowed with delight. “Four of the Royal Navy’s finest, perhaps we shall leave the rum!”

“We will do no such thing,” the Widow said sharply. She made a motion and several people - women mixed amongst the men, including a dark-haired woman barely past her girl-hood, who rolled her eyes at Barton as she went - moved towards the door that led below-decks.

From nowhere, Rumlow appeared with a roar, charging at the Widow.

Casually, Barton pulled his pistol from his hip and - without looking - shot the man through his right shoulder, sending his sword flying and forcing a shouted curse from his lips.

“Captain,” Barton said blandly, “I do believe you have a mutiny on your hands.”

***

“Take them below-decks to Banner,” the Widow said imperiously, when Bucky, Falsworth, Pinkerton, and Dugan had been transferred with very little fanfare but a surprising amount of consideration to the Royal Fortune.

“Not the Captain,” Barton said, casual as anything as he examined the sluggishly-bleeding cut to his hip. “Take him to my quarters.”

Bucky stumbled, his elbow held fast by the man escorting him on board the ship. The order was unexpected and, perhaps, did not bode well. What use could Barton have for him in his quarters, beyond the obvious? Bucky swallowed roughly, but held his chin high.

The Widow sighed. “He requires medical attention,” she reminded Barton.

“No more than I do,” Barton countered. “And Bruce can see to us both in my cabin.”

She rolled her eyes, but gave a flick of her wrist that meant Bucky - shackled well enough that he could hardly move his arms at all - was herded directly to the stern quarters traditionally reserved for the Captain of any ship.

Bucky recognized the build of the ship - it was a Royal Navy vessel, a Third Rate ship of the line that Barton had obviously captured and refitted for his own crew.

The cabin itself was a bit haphazard, and there was ludicrously purple bedding on the Captain’s bunk. He obviously favored the color to an unnatural degree. Bucky noted several arrows in various states of repair or completion on the heavy desk in the middle of the room, along with several bows mounted on the walls, and at least a few mounts that were clearly reserved for blades - two or three missing. Even if his actions during the fight hadn’t confirmed it, Bucky would have guessed he favored a bow based on his quarters alone.

Barton ambled in behind him, completely unconcerned by Bucky’s presence on the chaise bolted to the floor. He stripped off his waistcoat and shirt unselfconsciously, and Bucky had to avert his gaze to avoid tracking the pull of tight muscle and the smattering of scars across his skin. The hat got tossed onto a hook, landing with the sort of aim Bucky couldn’t help but admire.

In any other circumstances, Bucky would have been allowing himself a fantasy or two about getting his hands on that skin, or seeing what else he might be incredibly competent at.

He was a captive - a prisoner - not here for pleasantries or pleasures. He knew many pirates engaged in buggery, but Bucky had kept strict control of himself and his urges for many years. The Navy strictly forbade such things and Bucky hadn’t been eager enough for illicit pleasures to risk a flogging very often. Barton was handsome, the sort of man that drew the eye, but being shackled and unsure of his fate meant that any attraction Bucky felt was overshadowed by the circumstances.

“Leave us,” Barton said casually, his back still to Bucky.

The man who had accompanied him gave Barton a dubious look.

“What’s he going to do?” Barton asked rhetorically. “Kill me and assume command? As though Natashka would allow that.”

The man huffed with displeasure but did as he was bid.

Barton turned to face him and Bucky was forced to look at him again, the smooth, sun-bronzed skin and play of muscles underneath a ridiculous distraction. It was absurd that Bucky should be reacting to him to such a degree.

“Let’s get you out of those shackles, shall we?” Barton asked.

He took Bucky’s lack of response as assent and settled himself on the chaise as well, near enough that Bucky could feel the heat of his body all along his arm. He fiddled with the cuff for a few moments, long enough that Bucky was concerned the key would not work, but then Barton made a noise of satisfaction and the uncomfortable press of iron against his wrists disappeared. He moved only far enough for Bucky to pull his arms from behind his back and rub at the slight soreness of his wrists. Bucky found himself, unaccountably, wanting to lean into the warmth of him, into the masculine scent of exertion on his skin.

Barton gave him a knowing little smirk, and Bucky shuffled away.

The shackles were tossed unceremoniously onto Barton’s desk with that same unerring aim, no key in sight, and Bucky realized with some surprise that Barton had picked the lock of the shackles with a length of metal.

“Alright, off with your shirt Captain, let’s have a look at that wound.”

Bucky blanched.

“Come now, Banner can’t patch you up if we can’t see it, and blood poisoning is unbecoming of an officer of the crown.” Barton was still wearing that damnable grin, like he could see every unsavory thought in Bucky’s head.

“What do you want from me?” Bucky managed, making no move to remove his clothing.

Sighing, Barton leaned back into the edge of the chaise and watched Bucky with narrowed eyes. His own wound was beginning to crust over, bleeding only a little, and he paid it no mind as it smeared into the fabric of the couch. “I want a lot of things,” he admitted, and Bucky had thought as much.

He clenched his jaw. He’d turned himself over as prisoner for good cause, and whatever sordid… things… Barton might desire from him were his own burden to bear.

“But I think you’ll find that what I have to offer is more desirable than whatever imaginings are running away with you right now,” Barton continued, and then levered himself up off the chaise and to the door. He opened it before anyone could knock and an unimposing man with graying, curly hair and spectacles came into the room bearing bowls and rags and jars on a tray.

“Brucie!” Barton said cheerfully. “So good of you to join us.”

The man gave Barton an unimpressed look. “You know, I’m not this kind of doctor.”

Barton waved his hand negligently. “You’re better by far than the kind the college is turning out, draining men of their blood and prescribing them foul concoctions until they shit themselves to death.”

The man - Brucie? - huffed something that could be construed as laughter. “What have you done to yourself this time?”

“It’s nothing, just a scratch. Come meet our guest,” Barton said, urging him forward. “Dr. Banner, this is Captain Barnes. Barnes, Bruce Banner, our surgeon.”

“A pleasure,” Bucky said dryly. “How are my men?”

“Your gunner has a gut wound,” Banner said bluntly, and Bucky sucked in air through his teeth. It was a death sentence. “But so far as I can tell it missed any vital organs and so long as he doesn’t get blood poisoning, he shall be fine. I’ve cleaned and stitched and bandaged it.”

That sounded unbelievable but Bucky could not help but hope it was true.

“And my sailing master?”

“Fine,” Bruce said. “Musket ball to the arm, but I’ve dug it out and bandaged that wound as well.”

“He has quite a mouth on him,” said a new voice, familiar from the fight but lighter with amusement. Bucky glanced up and found the Widow studying him intently. “I think he could broaden even Clint’s vocabulary.” She shot Barton a look that was fond tolerance. “And your Purser was quite thorough in the Avenger’s inventory and had no injuries to speak of.”

Bucky let out a sigh of relief. Not that they’d cleared out the ship’s hold, but that it seemed all three men would do well. Presuming that there were no nefarious plans for them from Barton’s crew.

But then, why patch up a man you planned only to kill?

“Let Bruce have a look at you,” the Widow said, though it was more command than suggestion, “and then we’ll talk.”

She perched on the edge of Barton’s desk expectantly, one eyebrow raised in challenge. It was clear she had no intention of leaving while Bucky undressed, and she was equally unruffled by Barton’s own nakedness.

Bucky truly took in her appearance for the first time. She was dressed similarly to Barton - if less flamboyantly - in loose breeches and a linen shirt, though she had a very fine, deep scarlet coat with brass buttons. She still had daggers strapped to her belt, and for all her relaxed appearance, Bucky felt she was very much ready to spring to action at a moment’s notice.

He supposed that as a woman on a pirate’s ship, she was likely quite accustomed to male nudity, and he was in no position to argue for the sake of a lady’s sensibilities.

The Widow’s eyes crinkled at the edges, as though she could see his thought process and found it amusing.

Bucky sighed, and shrugged off his own coat, wincing when the movement pulled on his wound. The shirt went next, tossed aside carelessly, ruined as it was by the slicing of Barton’s blade and Bucky’s own blood.

Barton whistled good-naturedly, giving Bucky a blatant once over that made Bucky flush furiously.

“Get on with it,” Bucky grumbled, chin held high.

“Yes Bruce, please do get on with it,” Barton said with a leer.

Banner grumbled something under his breath, then set to scrubbing roughly at Bucky’s wound with hot water and castile soap until it was bleeding freely again. He applied something that smelled astringent and herbal before wrapping it up in broad strips of clean white cloth.

“Well Captain, I do believe you’ll live,” Banner told him with a smile.

“Thank you,” Bucky said stiffly.

There was far more courtesy and kindness here than Bucky had expected to find aboard a pirate vessel, and he was finding it difficult to keep his defenses sharp. It had been a long two weeks without Steve and, more than that, it had been a long few years of working his way up the ranks of the Navy. Steve had bought his commission on his father’s name and the money left to him after his mother’s death, and Bucky had fought his father for his own commission as well. He’d had no desire to go into the family business when his oldest sister’s husband was more than capable of taking on that burden, and Steve had had nothing keeping him in the colonies except Bucky, whose family wouldn’t take him on.

So, the Navy.

Which had suited Steve, who had a head for strategy and a bullheaded stubbornness that lent itself to leadership. Bucky himself was less inclined to leading men, however righteously, to their deaths, and had been perfectly content to follow Steve wherever he led. He’d never expected to be given a command, and having to take over Steve’s had been painful for a multitude of reasons.

Now he was tired, injured, and the weight of duty had been - however forcibly - lifted from his shoulders. He felt, suddenly, so tired that he could happily sleep where he sat. His responsibilities were complete, his men were as safe and well as they could be, and there was nothing left for Bucky to do.

He watched impassively as Banner packed his tinctures and salves and bustled quietly out of the cabin. Barton had only given his wound a cursory wipe with a damp, soapy cloth that Banner had supplied. Bucky had done his best not to stare as he scrubbed at the blood-stained skin of his hip - pulling his breeches so low that Bucky thought he might swallow his tongue - but he had not been particularly successful.

The surgeon having left meant Bucky remained in only the company of Hawkeye and the Widow. The thought should have been troubling, but they were watching him with more wary sympathy than anything else, and Bucky sank back into the chaise with a sigh.

“What is it you want of me?” he asked again, weary.

“What do you know of Alexander Pierce?” the Widow asked him.

Alexander Pierce was a fierce bastard of a man, formerly Royal Navy himself but currently commanding the pirate ship Hydra. He had a reputation that made even other pirates shudder. He trafficked in all manner of goods, but most especially slaves, and had made several cunning and successful raids against large Navy vessels, even in the Channel and close to London. He was rumored to be distantly related to the King, with designs on the Crown, though Bucky personally felt those stories were laughable at best.

“Only what rumors and speculations abound,” Bucky admitted. “I have never met nor fought the man.”

“That’s interesting,” the Widow said, settling more firmly on the desk. “Because he’s put a bounty on your friend Rogers’ head.”

Bucky blanched. “What? Why?”

“We were hoping you could tell us,” Barton frowned.

“He won’t take me instead of Steve, if that’s what you’re hoping,” Bucky said, suddenly angry. “Steve disappeared, and I’m no-one of any import to anyone but him.”

“Oh,” Clint said, eyes widening. “Not that-”

“We apologize,” the Widow said stiffly, mouth pursed. “We aren’t intending to pursue the bounty. In fact we think Pierce already has Rogers, but he has increased the bounty rather than making a spectacle of executing him.”

“Why would Alexander Pierce want Steve?” Bucky asked, back to baffled. He was getting whiplash. “Pierce was long gone from the Navy before Steve took up his commission. And what makes you think he has him? Steve disappeared from the Avenger on a clear night in the middle of the ocean, I can’t see-”

“How did Steve gain command of the Avenger?” the Widow interrupted him.

“He- I.” Bucky sighed. The story was a common enough one, even if the details had been embellished in the retelling. “We were assigned to the Insight, under Commodore Fury. There was a… small incursion,” Bucky allowed, glossing over the fine point that they had never discovered the intentions of the small band of men who snuck aboard the ship in the dead of night. “Steve was not on watch, but he had a case of insomnia and had gone for a walk about the deck to clear his head. The group of men staged an attack on the Commodore’s cabin, where he and Captain Coulson were meeting.” They’d been discussing the movements of the entire naval fleet, although that part wasn’t common knowledge. “Steve intervened and, in the process, saved the Captain’s life. He killed a man that was creeping up on Coulson, who was dueling with two others. Commodore Fury granted him command of the Avenger after it was done.”

Even the dead man’s body had been taken by the group, who had worn dark colors and covered their faces as they dived over the edge of the ship and into the dead of night. It was assumed they’d had a longboat, but no traces were ever found, even when the Insight dispatched its own boats in pursuit.

“Ah,” the Widow said. Something in her face cleared. “Some plot of his was spoiled by Rogers. He always was a grudge-holder.” She grimaced.

“It’s true. He’s still looking for you,” Clint mused, now cleaning his fingernails with a wickedly sharp dagger. He still hadn’t bothered with a shirt, and Bucky was losing the battle of his own urges, unable to stop stealing glances at the man’s chest and arms.

She gave Barton a dirty look, but he only shrugged.

“Why is Pierce looking for you?” Bucky asked.

“The same reason he’s after Rogers,” she said grimly, “he doesn’t like it when you take away his playthings.”

“But then why has he got a bounty out on Steve if you believe he’s already got him?” Bucky cried, hopelessly confused. He knew nothing of spies and plots, and had never wanted to. It was Fury and Coulson who had been on about such things, dragging Steve and sometimes Bucky into them through vague orders and assignments. “In fact,” Bucky said, aggravated beyond belief, “what proof or rumor has led you to think he’s got Steve at all?”

Personally, Bucky had been coming to grips with the fact that, as far as he knew, the sea had taken Steve, as she took any number of sailors in their time.

“Oh,” the Widow said mildly, “I have my sources.”

Bucky blinked at her. “Spies, you mean.”

“Nearly every man can be plied with coin or drink or… other wares, if you want their cooperation.” She rolled her eyes. “But in this case, yes, I do mean spies. Useful thing to have, spies. For example,” she leaned forward and the edges of her shirt gaped. Bucky averted his eyes, though Barton wasn’t less of a distraction than her bosom. “Were you aware that one of your jolly boats made an unplanned excursion the night that your dear Captain Rogers went missing? Gone and back in just under two hours, left with two men and returned with only one?”

***

Nearly two weeks passed, and Bucky felt his head would never cease spinning.

The revelations about Steve and Pierce were shocking enough themselves, without the additional strange behavior and treatment from their pirate captors and crew.

He’d come aboard the Royal Fortune expecting, if not horrifying treatment, then at least abject humiliation and servitude. Instead he, and his men, had been given shockingly spacious accommodations, been treated for their wounds and well-fed, provided with clean and serviceable clothing to replace any they had lost, and mostly left alone.

Barton insisted that Bucky dine with him every evening, but otherwise no demands had been made of him, and it seemed that Barton and the Widow - whom Clint affectionately called Natashka - were making plans of some sort. The Fortune was, for the moment, out of the shipping lanes where they might run into other naval vessels and the crew seemed to be enjoying the spoils of their most recent raid - the Avenger’s rum stores. Though there had been hardly enough to keep Bucky’s crew for another day or two, the crew of the Fortune obviously saw the extra liquor as a bonus on top of their typical ration and they were entirely up the pole.

“I believe we’ve settled on a plan,” Barton told him happily across the table. They were dining in his quarters again, something that was surely setting up rumors amongst the crew, but Bucky hadn’t the heart to refuse when such a small thing seemed to make Barton so happy, and when it also meant that he received the best of the ship’s fare as well.

It didn’t hurt that Bucky found Barton pleasing to look at. Or that, despite his constant flirtation, Bucky never felt it serious enough to be worried for his virtue.

The Widow had joined them on only one occasion, taken in Barton’s blatant and unavoidable flirtation with Bucky, and left in the middle of the meal, claiming that his behavior was making her ill. Barton had laughed uproariously and Bucky had flushed so hard his face stung with it. To his utter humiliation, he actually enjoyed Barton’s coquettish behavior, however little he might actually mean it. Knowing Steve was possibly alive had been such an unbelievable relief that everything else seemed almost charming.

Including Barton, who was once again only barely presentable in his shirtails and trousers, and smiling madly over a goblet of spiced wine.

“Oh?” Bucky managed, determinedly focusing his attention on the plate of food in front of him. It wasn’t fancy by any standard, but it was well-cooked and seasoned, and so far none of it had given him any bouts of illness.

“Yes,” Barton said, “I think we shall have your friend Rogers back home, safe as houses, in ten days’ time, or my name isn’t Hawkeye.”

Bucky dropped his silverware. “Your name isn’t Hawkeye,” he said breathlessly. “Do you really think-” he couldn’t bring himself to complete the thought.

“Well, it’s Natashka’s plan, and they’re much better than mine, on the whole, so I feel it has as good a chance of success as any, and better than most,” Barton told him, looking smug and pleased.

“Barton-”

“I’ve told you to call me Clint,” Barton reminded him. “Though you won’t agree to let me call you anything but Barnes, which is a damn shame, because I can think of such lovely things I’d like to call you,” he said slyly.

Bucky rolled his eyes. “If you retrieve Steve, I shall let you call me anything you like.”

Barton - Clint, if he was going to attempt to get Bucky’s best and oldest friend back, Bucky could consent to call him Clint - gave him a lazy sort of look, all banked heat and a curl at the corner of his lip that made Bucky think of what else he might do with his mouth.

“That’s quite the promise,” Clint said slowly. “I should like to call you a lot of things, particularly in the privacy of my quarters.”

Bucky cleared his throat and shifted in his seat. He was no virgin - he’d had his share of dalliances, both in his youth and more recently, though he’d always aimed for discretion. This flagrant display of intent was outside his experience. The threat of flogging had always been enough to deter all but Bucky’s most desperate impulses, and even then he’d been cautious and careful.

“I’ve a proposition for you,” Clint said after a moment, obviously aware of Bucky’s growing internal conflict. His tone was light, but he was watching Bucky shrewdly, his sharp eyes missing nothing.

“I do believe you’ve just given me one,” Bucky said tartly, and Clint snorted his laughter.

“Ask me to stop and I shall,” he promised, “but I was referring to something else.”

Did Bucky want Clint to stop? He thought perhaps not. The man was attractive and amusing, and flirted shamelessly with Bucky at every available opportunity. If his flirtation was genuine, and not just some passing amusement, Bucky could think of no real reason why he shouldn’t take him up on the offer, other than he was still nominally a prisoner. But Clint wasn’t demanding, he was simply… implying. It was an offer Bucky was free to turn down.

If it were really on offer.

Clint was so blatant that Bucky could not even be sure he was serious, if he were honest. Perhaps Clint flirted with everyone in such a manner, and Bucky was unwilling to make more of a fool out of himself by accepting an invitation that might be in jest.

It warranted a bit more consideration, at any rate.

“Go on,” Bucky said, taking a sip of his drink.

“Your naval career is at an end,” Clint said carefully, as though wary of treading on delicate territory.

Bucky winced, but it was true. Having surrendered himself to a pirate, the Navy would not have him back now, and would likely consider him a pirate himself at this point.

“As is Rogers’,” Clint added, and that did hit something of a sore spot. It wasn’t Steve’s fault, what had happened, but Bucky could not help but feel responsible. “He’s likely been labeled either dead or a deserter by now, and even if he turns back up there’s a stunning lack of evidence disproving him of the latter. Rescuing him from Pierce won’t salvage his career, and might even harm it further.”

Bucky sighed. Steve was going to hate that, however true it might be.

“Yes,” he cautiously agreed, “you’re most likely correct.” Where was Clint going with this?

“Then I propose you join my crew,” Clint said with a bright smile.

Bucky choked on his wine. “What?” he managed, around the burning sensation of drink gone down wrong. “What?”

“Well you needn’t say it like that,” Clint pouted. “It’s just an offer. We’ll get your friend back either way, because Natashka would like nothing more than to ruin any nefarious plot Pierce has invested himself in, and if she can get rid of him in the process so much the better. If you’d prefer we can drop the two of you at a near-by port of your choosing - though do try not to choose one with too heavy a naval presence - and you can be on your way.” He paused.

Bucky tried to imagine what, if anything, he and Steve might do after all this. The loss of their naval careers would leave them destitute and with few opportunities. The Navy might even pursue them on charges of desertion and piracy, leaving them fugitives with no resources. Bucky could not even go home after this, because he would be in disgrace and his father would not have him.

Clint let him gather his thoughts before he spoke again. He seemed to know that Bucky was only just beginning to understand the far-reaching implications of his decision on the deck of the Avenger.

“Or,” Clint said, after a few moments of silence, “you could join my crew. Rogers as well, if he likes. We’re honest pirates, if such a thing exists, and we don’t trade in slaves and happily raid other ships that do, if the opportunity arises. Natashka abhors the practice, and I’ve never cared for it myself. You’ve a good head about you, with enough sailing knowledge to be useful, and I’ve heard Rogers has as well. We’ve more than a few former navy men amongst the crew, you’d find camaraderie there.”

Bucky snorted. He hadn’t found camaraderie amongst the naval men on his own ships, much less a pirate crew but-

Well, he hadn’t a better idea.

“What of my men?” Bucky asked.

“Oh, we’ll drop them in Tortuga or some-such, if they want. They can join up as well if they like, though I suspect your gunner and your purser will decline. The sailing master seems to be having a grand time yelling at my crew about their knots and lines, however. I’ve learned three new words this week alone.”

Bucky snorted. Dum Dum did have quite the range of profanities and insults.

“I’ll consider it,” Bucky said, after a moment. “If-” he paused. “When Steve has been recovered and has had time to think on it as well.”

Clint was silent for several long seconds, studying Bucky once more. “Are you in love with him?” he asked quietly, with gentle sympathy on his face.

“What?” Bucky said, surprised. “No, of course not. He’s-” Steve was a lot of things to Bucky, but he wasn’t in love with him. “He’s my best friend, and my brother, but nothing more. We’ve been friends since we were boys. We took up our commissions together when his mother died.” Bucky turned his attention back to his plate and cleared his throat uncomfortably. “I have never been in love,” he admitted.

Clint hummed, the sympathy on his face replaced by consideration when Bucky glanced up, along with a trace of wickedness. “Perhaps it’s a proper courtship you’re looking for, then,” he suggested.

“I wasn’t aware that one courted their prisoners,” Bucky said mildly, though he could feel his face heating.

“You’re not a prisoner.” Clint gave a disdainful huff. “You’re a guest. Haven’t I introduced you to everyone as my guest? Come now, don’t be absurd.”

Bucky wasn’t convinced that introducing someone you’d brought on board in shackles as a guest really conveyed the spirit of the thing Clint was trying to suggest, but perhaps things were different on board a pirate vessel. He could feel his eyebrows raising in disbelief.

“Have I not afforded yourself and your crew every comfort you could wish for?” Clint asked. “Are you not dining at my table every night? I’ve given you and your men free rein of my ship, and asked nothing in return. Your Sailing Master happilly commands my crew, if it suits him, and your purser and gunner have been treated with the utmost care by my surgeon, and none of you have been asked to undertake any tasks beneath your stations. How much more clear could I be?” he continued.

“My apologies,” Bucky said, startled. “I was not- I did not realize. This is my first foray into being captured by pirates.” he added wryly. “Perhaps you treat all your prisoners thus.”

Clint rolled his eyes. “Only the ones I am trying to woo. What more must I do to indicate my intentions?”

Bucky cleared his throat, feeling his face heat up. “You had only to state them,” he admitted. “I am… unaccustomed to such forthright behavior.”

Clint gave him a dubious look. “Captain Barnes,” he said, “I should like to woo you, if you would be amenable.” To his credit, he only sounded slightly sardonic. “If you are not, all you need do is say so.”

“Your crew will talk,” Bucky said, fully aware that his response was not a no.

Clint rolled his eyes. “My crew doesn’t give a good goddamn what engagements two people might consent to, especially as half of them are engaging in them together. Surely you have seen such things since you’ve been aboard?”

And that, at least, was true. Bucky had - on occasion - noted pairs in dark corners engaged in dalliances that he had averted his eyes from, more from a sense of decorum than anything else. It wasn’t as though Bucky had never found a darkened part of the ship or a discreet whorehouse in a disreputable port to satisfy his own needs.

“If a discreet affair would make you more comfortable, well, I am not known for my discretion but I would do my utmost to keep your confidence and not flaunt it in front of my crew, or your friend.” Clint told him carefully, almost formal in his delivery. It was not, Bucky could tell, what Clint would prefer, but he could hear the honesty in his voice.

“Steve is well aware of my… proclivities,” Bucky said, because there was nothing Steve didn’t know about Bucky, really, in the way that two people who were as close as it was possible for those who weren’t lovers to be. “I am just…” Bucky sighed. “I have not been pursued, as such. I have had my share of lovers, but never more than a night or two.” The honesty was painful, but seemed necessary. “I am not opposed to your affections, I am just surprised by them.”

Before Clint could respond to that - and he was watching Bucky thoughtfully over the rim of his glass in a way that made Bucky feel uncomfortably exposed - a cook’s mate bustled in the door to clear away the remains of their suppers. Bucky’s plate was barely more than halfway empty but he allowed the boy to take it, his stomach too knotted up for much more anyway.

“Leave the wine,” Clint said casually, waving his hand, and the young man bobbed his head agreeably, before disappearing again, leaving the table bare except for their drinks.

“I think…” Clint said slowly, and then drained his glass in a few smooth swallows.

Bucky could not help but watch the motion of his throat, and in the context of their conversation, imagine what that might feel like around his cock.

“I think,” Clint said again, and then rose from his seat and made his way around the table to lean against the wooden edge, near enough that Bucky could feel the heat of his body through his own coat sleeve. “That you deserve a prolonged and dedicated courtship, the sort that leaves you with no doubts as to my intention or my ardor.” His eyes dropped to Bucky’s mouth, and Bucky reflexively licked his lips, catching the taste of wine remaining on them.

“On the other hand,” Clint said, plucking the wine goblet from Bucky’s hand and placing it on the table near his own, “I find myself impatient for the pleasures that we might discover together.”

A sound slipped from Bucky’s throat, unbidden and sharp, almost pleading, and Clint smirked, dark and dangerous.

He tugged Bucky’s now-empty hand, until Bucky was standing, and then, with fancy footwork and a hand at his hip, Bucky found their places switched, with Bucky backed against the table and Clint pressed all along his front, his thin shirt leaving very little to the imagination and his hips pressed up tight against Bucky’s own. His hand was a hot brand against Bucky’s back, the other cupping his jaw almost delicately, and he leaned in until their lips were very nearly touching.

“May I?” Clint asked, and Bucky answered the question by pressing their mouths together, the carefully suppressed lust he’d been dutifully ignoring catching fire in his chest as he did so.

Clint’s mouth was hot and demanding, and he tasted of spices and wine. Bucky moaned into the kiss, which was simultaneously more demanding and more languid than any he had ever experienced.

Bucky was used to encounters that were, by necessity, furtive and hurried, but Clint kissed him like he was both desperate for it and had all the time in the world to enjoy it. Bucky found himself melting into the sensation and the embrace at his waist. It was the sort of kiss Bucky would have preferred to all others, if he’d known it was something he could have.

Clint broke it off before Bucky was ready and he made a needy sound that he’d later be embarrassed by, though Clint followed it up by tracing his mouth along Bucky’s jaw and up to his ear, taking the lobe between his teeth in a sharp nip that made Bucky gasp.

“When I have returned your friend to you,” Clint said, low and intimate, “I shall court you as you deserve, with pilfered baubles and the best French brandy I can get my hands on.”

Against his hip, Bucky could feel Clint hardening in his breeches, and his own cock twitched in response.

Bucky shuddered, more at the hot breath against the skin of his throat than anything else. He cared little for material possessions though-

Clint’s mouth found his own again, and Bucky was treated to another deep, intoxicating kiss, erasing all his thoughts, and one he found himself chasing as Clint eased away with a small chuckle.

“I promised you a proper wooing,” Clint reminded him, holding fast to Bucky’s hips and pinning him against the table. His mouth was wet and swollen and his eyes dark as he stared at Bucky’s face.

“I find myself unwilling to wait,” Bucky managed, his own breath ragged in his chest.

Clint smiled, slow and pleased. “I depart tomorrow to rescue your friend, and when I return-”

Bucky cut him off, lurching forward to press their mouths together once more. Clint groaned into it, his hands tightening on Bucky’s hips.

“I do not wish to pass nearly a fortnight on two kisses and the promises of things which I care nothing for,” Bucky said, when they separated again. “I need neither baubles nor brandy to prove your affections, only that you demonstrate them such that I have no doubts while you are gone.”

Clint’s eyes had gone dark, and his expression slack with want. His fingers were nimble against the buttons on Bucky’s coat, and it fell to the floor in a heap for, Bucky suspected, the last time. He doubted very much he would be wearing navy colors after this, or much else for that matter, at least for the evening.

He’d had a taste of Clint’s ardor, as he called it, and he wanted more of it, wanted to keep it close and dear. There was nothing much left for him now, outside piracy, and if Clint spoke truly, much to be gained.

Bucky allowed his shirt to be untucked, Clint’s large, broad palms skating over the skin underneath, and then Clint was kissing him again, deeper and more hurried, and he found himself maneuvered towards the bunk on the side of the room that was as disheveled as if Clint had just left it before supper.

Clint tumbled Bucky underneath him, braced himself above Bucky on strong arms and looked down on him with heat in his gaze.

“You’re quite sure?” he asked, even as he reached for the cravat at Bucky’s throat.

Bucky shivered as Clint gently unwound it from his throat, the soft fabric running over his neck like the whisper of fingertips.

“Very,” Bucky answered, bending his knee so as to draw Clint closer. “You had only to ask plainly.”

Clint leaned in to kiss him again, pressing their hips together so that their cocks aligned and Bucky groaned into it, clutching at the linen of Clint’s shirt as they rocked together. His shirt disappeared almost before he was aware of it and then Clint was pressing lips and teeth and tongue to Bucky’s chest, drawing a nipple into his mouth for a sharp bite before releasing it again and delving lower. He skated the edges of the bandaging at Bucky’s side before reaching for the placket of his breeches.

“I want to suck you,” Clint said, and Bucky had asked for plain speaking but this was almost too much. He could only groan in response and arch into Clint’s touch, his cock straining at the fabric of his breeches.

The heat of Clint’s mouth was unfathomable. Bucky had had this pleasure a time or two, when he’d had the coin to pay for it, but that was nothing compared to this. Clint seemed to revel in it, compared to Bucky’s past experiences, doing sinful things with his tongue and throat as Bucky writhed beneath him. It was hot and wet, and the feeling of him swallowing around the head of Bucky’s cock as he took him ever deeper was impossible to describe.

“Enough,” Bucky gasped, grasping at his shoulder, “enough, or I shall spill.”

Clint hummed but took pity on him, dragging his mouth away to press kisses to Bucky’s hips and thighs. He sat back, tracing his fingertips over exposed skin and muscle, and digging his grip into Bucky’s sides when Bucky arched into the touch.

“I want to ride you,” Clint said, because now that they were in his bed he seemed to have lost whatever small amount of caution or obfuscation he had possessed, and Bucky had to grip himself to keep from coming on the spot.

“Yes,” Bucky said, because it was all he could manage, even as his cock twitched in his fingers. Just the thought of Clint above him - all lithe muscle and strength - was nearly enough to send him over. “Yes, please.”

Clint reached over him, putting his chest within reach - he’d lost his own shirt somewhere along the way - and Bucky strained upwards, catching a nipple in his mouth and sucking at it furiously. Clint fumbled above him for a moment, catching the back of Bucky’s head in his palm to hold him in place, and then he sat back somewhat regretfully, with a corked bottle in his hands.

He handed it to Bucky, who uncorked it to the heady scent of cloves, as Clint scrambled from the bunk to remove his breeches and smallclothes. He rapidly divested Bucky of the same, so that they were both naked. Bucky brushed his fingers against the healing cut along Clint’s hip - the one he himself had delivered - and then Clint was climbing over him to straddle his hips.

“You know what to do with that?” Clint asked him, nodding at the bottle in Bucky’s hand.

“I am inexperienced in romance, not fucking,” Bucky told him tartly, covering his fingers in the oil and reaching over Clint’s hip and behind him. He pressed his fingers against the taut, tight muscle there, spreading oil and pressing gently.

Clint made a low, keening sound in the back of his throat, his eyes closing as he tipped his head back.

Bucky thought he had never seen such a beautiful sight. Like a fine work of art come to life above him as Clint arched into the touch. He had scars, to be sure, but they seemed only to accentuate the strength of his body; the breadth of his shoulders. Bucky recognized many of them - a rope burn healed badly on his arm, one or two from musket-balls that had only just missed their mark, and more than a few straight, white lines from the edges of blades. The one Bucky had made would likely scar such. He was baffled by the twin marks near Clint’s collarbones, two circles he couldn’t decipher.

“Do you plan to stare at me all evening, or are we to get on with it?” Clint asked with some amusement, though Bucky could see he was staring just as greedily in return.

“I like the look of you,” Bucky said, dragging his eyes further down to where Clint’s cock was jutting up between them, hot against Bucky’s bare skin.

Whatever rejoinder Clint might have made was cut off by Bucky sliding his finger purposefully into Clint’s body, and his eyes fluttered shut again as he moaned. “That’s more like it, Captain,” he murmured, rocking back.

“I like the feel of you as well,” Bucky added, pressing deeper.

“You will like the feel of me on your cock more,” Clint said, though he was slightly breathless, “if you’d get on with it.”

“Patience,” Bucky chided, but he added a second finger to the proceedings, enjoying the way Clint’s body opened up for him, hot and tight, oil easing the way.

“I am not much known for patience either,” Clint smirked down at him, before shifting his hips so that he was taking Bucky’s fingers deeper and rocking against Bucky’s cock as well.

“I do not wish to hurt you,” Bucky ground out, trying to ignore the slide of Clint’s cock against his own as well as the sinful heat and tightness around his fingers. He knew how easily these things could go wrong, if one were not careful.

“You won’t,” Clint assured him, “I have spent-” he groaned as Bucky found that place inside that sparked pleasure. “I have spent many hours imagining this,” Clint panted, when he could speak again. “Many hours, and quite a lot of oil.”

Bucky sucked in air between his teeth, trying and failing not to think of Clint in this very bed, after supper hours, with his own fingers doing exactly what Bucky’s were now. “Clint.”

Clint leaned down and pressed his mouth to Bucky’s jaw. “I enjoy hearing you say my name like that very much,” he growled into Bucky’s ear, and then shifted so that Bucky’s hand slipped away. He took the bottle of oil from Bucky’s nerveless fingers and poured a generous amount into his own palm before corking it and setting it aside. “Let us find out how many other ways I can hear it on your lips.”

He sat up again, propping himself on Bucky’s thighs and slicking his cock up in his warm, tight fist.

Bucky couldn’t help but arch into the touch, though he didn’t get far with Clint’s considerable weight holding him in place. “Christ almighty,” Bucky swore through his teeth.

Clint laughed then, though it was tempered by his obvious arousal into something low and heated. “I am more sinner than saint, I’m afraid,” he said, and then sank down onto Bucky’s cock.

The heat and tightness of him felt impossible, felt like the kind of sin Bucky would happily fall into, over and over again, as his hands flew up to clutch at Clint’s hips and Clint hissed out a breath, a low sound that wasn’t pained at all, but something more akin to relief.

Bucky tried to hold still, could feel the muscles in his thighs quivering with the need to push upwards, to rock harder into Clint’s body, but he held himself still through sheer force of will while Clint circled his hips and adjusted to the sensation.

When he blinked his eyes open at Bucky he looked almost drunk, his mouth slack and his face flushed, pupils dark.

And then he kissed Bucky, something entirely too tender for the moment, which felt like it cracked Bucky in two.

“Move,” Bucky pleaded, breathless and straining.

Clint hummed, and continued his incremental movements, the undulations of his hips that sent shocks of desire up Bucky’s spine. “I am moving,” he said, though the smirk on his face made it clear that he knew what Bucky meant.

Bucky groaned in frustrated arousal. He felt as though he were gripping Clint hard enough to leave bruises, but the other man didn’t seem to mind. He pressed into Bucky’s hands, in fact, though he made no move to hurry them along after all of his complaining.

“I thought you planned to ride me,” Bucky growled.

“Oh I do,” Clint assured him, still smirking. “I am just enjoying the feel of you.”

Before Bucky could work out whether to curse him viciously or tumble Clint over and do it himself, Clint lifted his hips and dropped back down again, quick and sharp and deep.

“Clint,” Bucky moaned again, in a tone unrecognizable even to himself, and he caught a glimpse of the triumphant look on Clint’s face before he began moving in earnest.

He was braced above Bucky, the powerful muscles in his arms standing out as he held himself up, the muscles in his stomach and thighs bunching as he did exactly as he had promised, driving Bucky quite quickly to the brink of insanity. Bucky bent his knees, rising to meet him, and soon the only sounds in the cabin were the slap of flesh and the low sounds of pleasure they were both making.

“There,” Clint gasped, suddenly, his head falling forward, “just there.”

“Kiss me,” Bucky demanded, lifting his head from the pillow to meet Clint halfway, the kiss more panted air than anything as he held Clint’s hips still and pushed up, again and again, while Clint trembled over him, letting out tiny, shocked gasps of pleasure against Bucky’s mouth.

Bucky got a hand around Clint’s cock, because he felt like he was going to finish at any moment and he was determined that Clint should finish first, and Clint let out another choked-off moan before spilling between them, hot and wet, even as he clenched up around Bucky’s cock until Bucky could not hold back.

“I am-” Bucky started, and then he could no longer speak, only pull Clint close and hold him in place as he thrust erratically and moaned, the rush of pleasure overcoming him.

When Bucky’s hips stilled, Clint collapsed on top of him, heavy and warm and welcome, completely ignoring the mess caught between them.

Bucky ignored it as well, carding his fingers through Clint’s damp hair and rubbing soothing circles between his shoulders. They were both damp and breathing hard, and Bucky was dangerously close to falling asleep when Clint rolled just slightly sideways, so that he was more on the bedding than on top of Bucky.

“I should go to my quarters,” Bucky said quietly, once he began to feel chilled everywhere Clint wasn’t pressed up against him.

“You should not,” Clint disagreed sleepily. “You are exactly where I want you, and where I plan to keep you for as long as possible.”

Bucky snorted. “You said yourself that you are leaving tomorrow.”

Clint’s arms tightened around him. “I am, but I will be back, and I should like to know that I will find you in my bed upon my return.”

“Is that what I’m to do while you’re gone?” Bucky asked, amused. “Lie about in your bed and wait for your return?”

“That sounds fantastic,” Clint agreed. “There’s more oil in the cabinet,” he added, gesturing vaguely.

Bucky laughed quietly.

“Stay,” Clint said, after a few more moments. He sounded slightly more alert, and he tilted his head so that he could see Bucky’s face.

Bucky searched his expression and found only honesty.

“Alright,” he agreed, settling into the comfort of the bedding.

***

“Pirates?” Steve said, exasperated, the very moment Natashka brought him on board. “Truly, Bucky, pirates?”

Bucky could not stop smiling, even when Clint leapt over the railing and crashed into him, sweeping him up into the kind of kiss that could not be called discreet or patient. Bucky melted into it, cheeks still stinging from the strength of his joy, even as Steve spluttered.

“You’re not in my bed,” Clint muttered against his mouth, still holding Bucky close.

“I was,” Bucky admitted, hands roaming in a way that he could, perhaps, claim was to check for injuries. Not that anyone was likely to believe that. “But I found myself less entertained in your absence.”

Bucky had spent the past few days pacing the decks actually, in an increasing state of agitation. His relief now was such that he felt giddy with it.

“And you’re wearing my clothes,” Clint said slowly, as he pulled back a bit and looked Bucky over.

“I’m shocked you can tell,” Bucky said dryly, “as I had to do a bit of searching to find ones that weren’t purple.”

Clint rolled his eyes, but his fingertips lingered over the waistband of Bucky’s breeches. They were a bit tight in the thighs, but Bucky thought they fitted him well otherwise. It wasn’t as though he could go on wearing naval colors, not if he intended to be a pirate.

“This pirate?” Steve said, coming up beside them and ruining the moment. “Truly, Bucky, this one?”

Bucky hummed, not taking his eyes from Clint’s face, who was watching him with a narrow-eyed focus. “Yes,” Bucky said with certainty, “this one.”

He didn’t miss the surprised joy that flitted across Clint’s face, and then - finally - he turned his attention to Steve.

“Yo ho ho,” Bucky said drolly.

Steve groaned. “Pirates it is, then,” he said with a sigh, but Bucky could see the gleam in his eyes and the crinkles at the corners that signaled a coming grin.