hello! Steph, 1000-directions, is one of my favorite people. I was hoping to prompt you some established relationship + angsting over what to get each other for Valentine's Day in her honor :)
Happy Valentine’s @1000-directions!
“I didn’t forget,” Clint says, before Bucky can even speak. It’s dark, and there’s rain battering at the plate glass windows, and Clint can see a reflection of himself, washed out and gray. It’s chewing its lip. Clint can taste blood in his mouth.
“I believe you,” Bucky says eventually, and Clint loves him fiercely and desperately, ‘cos he - ‘cos he doesn’t, there’s no way he does, but he’s making a choice. Clint is overwhelmingly grateful that somehow, over the years, the choices have always gone his way; Clint is overwhelmingly grateful and hoping that someday he’ll stop being afraid right along with it.
“It’s okay that you - I wouldn’t believe me, but I didn’t forget.” A name’s called from the front desk, but he doesn’t think it’s his; one of his aids had to be sacrificed to get him this far, soaked through and buzzing and tucked in his pocket. He’s listening lopsided and he only ever has one priority and that’s the guy on the other end of the phone. “Can you go look in my closet?”
There’s a rustle as Bucky pushes himself off the couch, and the clang of metal stairs; Clint’s apartment is deliberately a noisy place, ‘cos he doesn’t hear so good and he always used to need to know when there was someone there. The stairs make Bucky’s feet cold; Clint’s considering carpeting them.
“What d'you need?” Bucky says as he clicks open the door to the bedroom, and a moment later the closet door creaks.
“My suit’s not there,” Clint says. “You see how my suit’s not there?”
“Your suit’s not here,” Bucky says, and he sounds a little confused. “Why is your suit not here?”
“'cos it’s Valentine’s day,” Clint says, “and I’m romantic as fuck. Incidentally, I need a new suit.”
His only suit’s gray, worn with a white shirt and black tie, and it couldn’t’ve been less suitable for the weather; Clint had remembered but he’d remembered a little late. Not too late to book a table, though, not too late to pick up a dozen roses that’re scattered, now, and crushed under a dumpster. He’d started the night looking - maybe not a million dollars, but at least enough (he’d thought) for a fancy gold ring. Now he’s wrinkled and torn and bleeding in a couple places, and Bucky’s voice says he’s picturing all of it.
“Baby,” he says, which always steeps Clint in warmth, “what the - are you okay?” There’s no sound aside from his voice. He’s still. He’s maybe stopped breathing.
“It wasn’t much of a fight,” Clint says dismissively. “If one of them hadn’t pulled a gun -”
A slam and a prolonged clatter of metal; the desperate jangle of keys.
“Which hospital?” Snapped out, furious, scared.
“Buck, no,” he says, “I’m okay, it’s okay,” and he can hear the cadence in his voice that soothes, that’s usually reserved for the lightless middle of the sleepless nights. “I promise I’m not - not badly hurt,” in the interests of honesty, “I’m just -”
“Mr Barton?” the nurse calls, and Clint jerks his head up, and holds a finger up, but by the time he’s returned the phone to his ear Bucky’s gone.
not in hospital, he painstakingly types out, the fingers he’s clumsily taped together making it awkward. im okay be home soon. He almost walks into the door frame, and the nurse tuts, so he smiles winningly and shoves his phone in his pocket, following him through to the back.
He’d taken out one of his aids when he left for the restaurant, figuring he ought to keep at least one of them dry, so it’d taken him a second to process what he was hearing. The thump could’ve been almost anything, but the high-pitched yelp had had him ducking straight into the alleyway, running towards the noise even as his eyes took a second to adjust to the lack of light. Mostly it’d been a confusion of motion: two guys, or three; a sharp movement; a blur of gold that let out another of those pained yelps. Clint’d been swinging before he could even see straight, and if it’d been daylight he’d’ve taken them all out. As it was he was holding his own, doing okay, regretting a little the flowers that were getting crushed beneath their feet. Then one of the guys had pulled a gun, and the dog had snarled and gone for him before he could do more than wave it threateningly.
It’d seemed like the least Clint could do, after that, to carry the dog here and insist that the doctor try to save its damned life.
Clint follows the nurse into one of the side rooms, going instantly to the metal table where the dog is lying. It looks a mess, taped and bandaged and with a gauze pad over one eye, and Clint reaches out, his heart aching a little, before shoving his hands in his pockets where they can do no harm.
“Is it going to be okay?”
“He’ll make it,” the vet tells him, her voice low and soothing, “but I’m afraid the required surgeries and care won’t be cheap. Is he your dog?”
“He’s -” Clint says, but both their heads turn towards the door as there’s a commotion in the waiting room, followed by the door slamming open. Bucky storms in, drenched and wild-eyed and sweeping Clint into his arms for all of a second before he pushes him away again, holding him at arms’ length and looking him up and down. Clint can see him cataloguing the rips in his suit, the rose petals hanging off the soles of his shoes, the places where he’s bleeding and bruising and sore.
“Jesus fuck you scared the shit out of me,” he says, hauling Clint in again but carefully, “if I hadn’t been able to get Tony to track your goddamned phone -”
“Hey,” Clint says, “happy Valentine’s. I kinda got you a dog.”
