Eh. I wrote a thing. it’s a Bucky/Clint sick!fic.

“Well…this is awkward.”

“Is he still out there?” Bucky mumbled when he left Steve’s guest room and came into the living room. Steve nodded slowly.

“Last time I checked he was,” he said. Three days ago Bucky came to his apartment, told him that Clint is an ass and that he never wanted to see him again. Two days ago Clint had knocked, had asked for Bucky and when Steve told him that Bucky didn’t want to speak to him, he said he would wait beside the door.

“It’s almost two days,” Bucky said and Steve could hear the worry in his voice. After all that he had done, he still cared about the asshat.

“So what? He deserves to suffer a bit,” Steve shrugged. Bucky glared at him.

“Do you know if he has water?” He asked and Steve shrugged again.  

“I don’t care, Bucky.”

Bucky rose, went to the kitchen, fetched a bottle of water and brought it back to the living room.

“Can you give it to him?” He asked.

“If you want him to have water give it to him yourself,” Steve snapped. Bucky looked at him for a very long moment.

“Fine,” Steve sighed. He grabbed the bottle, went to the door and opened it. Clint sat beside the door but when he heard the door, he looked up, saw Steve and the hope in his eyes disappeared immediately. But then he looked into the apartment and he saw Bucky on the couch.

“Bucky!” he called and jumped up. “Bucky, please!” Steve slammed the door shut in his face. “I know you’re here and I know you can hear me,” he called. Bucky shared a glance with Steve, who rolled his eyes but left the living room and went to his bedroom.

“You’re making a mistake,” he mouthed.

“Bucky,” Clint’s voice came muffled through the door. “I love you!” Bucky pinched the bridge of his nose, but he went over to the door, leaned his back against it and slid down. “I love you and… I know that you hate me now and I can understand it. I just… I just wanted you to know… I wanted you to know that I love you,” Clint said. Bucky let his head drop against the door with a thud and closed his eyes.

“When… when you asked me… I panicked,” Clint said. “You know how it turned out with Bobbi and Laura and…” he was quiet for some time. Bucky just wanted to rise when Clint spoke again. “I didn’t want it to… to end. And it always ended when I married someone.”

“You said your marriages went fubar because they weren’t the right ones,” Bucky couldn’t hold back any longer. Clint was quiet for a long moment but then he answered.

“I know. Yet, I panicked. I know, my reaction was shitty and I want to tell you I’m sorry. It wasn’t because of you, because I would really love to marry you, it was… I’m an asshole, you know.”

Bucky rose and opened the door. Clint sat on the floor, his back against the wall and and looked up. “You’re not,” Bucky said and hunkered down. “I thought about it and… I shouldn’t have… you know… surprise you like that and…” he shook his head.

“Don’t,” Clint shook his head, “don’t do that. It was my fault, I behaved like a total ass and I deserve that you hate me.”

“I don’t hate you, Clint,” Bucky sighed. “Yes, you behaved like an ass, yes, I was hurt and yes, I should’ve talked to you before I just asked you out of the blue. But I don’t hate you.”

“You don’t?” Clint asked. Bucky smiled and put his hand on Clint’s cheek, leaned over and kissed him gently.

Eh. I wrote a thing. it’s a Bucky/Clint sick!fic.

“Gotham thanks you,” Batman says. He’s still doing that fake deep, rough voice. Natasha wonders if he’s had actual voice training or if he’s just wrecking his throat doing that. Probably the latter.

“Oh, it’s nothing, really,” Steve says. “I mean, you’ve really - really got it handled. We barely had to do anything.”

Natasha and Clint - who’s half slung over her shoulder and limping on a broken ankle - stop. Clint raises his eyebrows at her, and she half turns them so they can look.

Steve shield is leaning against his leg and he’s fidgeting with his mask between his hands. His hair is in sweaty spikes and he’s got some dirt on his face but under that he’s - yep, he’s definitely blushing. 

Batman either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care that Steve Rogers is flirting with him. It’s impossible to tell with the way his mask hides most of his face. He hasn’t taken off in a swoosh of black cloak though, and he’s looking directly at Steve. Natasha would bet that he probably does care, in the good way.

“You really have things under control here,” Steve says. He glances at Batman through his eyelashes. Natasha knows that regardless of whether Batman is interested or not, he’s lucky to have that mask on now. Everyone melts when Steve gives them that look. 

“I mean, it takes us a whole team to defend New York,” Steve continues. “And then all of the - others around the city. It’s just you here, isn’t it? That’s really something.”

Clint makes an indignant noise, but Natasha is watching Batman try not to smile. The mask doesn’t hide the little twitch of muscles around his mouth. He’s definitely interested. 

“Every hero needs help sometimes,” Batman says. “I admire your ability to lead a team and take care of them.”

“Oh,” Steve says, his blush deepening. “It’s nothing. They’re all great at what they do, it makes my job easy.”

“Nonetheless,” Batman says. “It is admirable. Perhaps we could discuss tactics some other time. Over coffee, perhaps?”

Steve lights up. Natasha raises her eyebrows and Clint sounds like he’s choking on air.

“Yeah! I would love to,” Steve says. He sounds like a golden retriever looks when it’s wagging it’s tail so hard it’s butt wiggles.

“I’ll give you my personal number,” Batman says, and his mouth has definitely softened from the stern line it’s usually in. “No sense using the team line for non-emergencies.”

Clint is still choking when Natasha turns them around again and pulls him away.

“Who’s that?” Bucky whispered quietly. He had grabbed Steve’s arm and looked at the man who sat on the couch on the other side of the room. Steve looked over his shoulder into the living room and smiled. SHIELD had released him in Steve’s charge this morning and Steve had brought him to the new HQ to introduce him to the Avengers.

“Clint Barton,” he said without lowering his voice. “Hawkeye. He’s one of the Avengers.” The man held a book in his hands and nibbled at his thumbnail while reading.

“Shh!!” Bucky whispered again. He didn’t want to the other man to know that he talked about him.

“He can’t hear you,” Steve said. Bucky’s head spun around and he looked at him.

“He’s deaf?” His head snapped back and he looked at the man on the couch. This moment Clint looked up and in his direction, stared at him for a long moment, winked, before he turned back to his book. “Are you sure he can’t hear us?”

“Yes,” Steve confirmed. “He doesn’t wear his hearing aids when he’s in the tower but his peripheral vision is way better than yours and mine.”

“How do you communicate?” Bucky asked and looked back at Steve.

“ASL,” he shrugged. “We learned it.”

Clint rose, smiled, came over to them and made a few gestures.

“What did he say?” Bucky asked.

Steve smiled. “He said it’s nice to meet you.”

“Can you… can you tell him it’s nice to meet him, too?” Bucky asked and swallowed. Now, close to Barton, something happened, something he hadn’t felt in like ages. It felt as if he had butterflies in his stomach and the reason was the beautiful smile of the  man in front of him.

                                                  ***

He met Clint again the next morning, he came into the kitchen where Bucky just poured himself a cup of coffee. He wanted to ask him if he wanted one, too, but they were alone and no one could translate. Bucky looked around, saw some post-its on the counter and grabbed them, scribbled ‘Do you want one?’ on it and gave it to Clint. The man furrowed his brows, but then smiled and nodded.

It wasn’t easy but they could communicate until Bucky would’ve learned ASL, too. They swapped post-it notes the whole morning, talked about lots of stuff and somehow it became their thing. Even months later, when Bucky was fluent in ASL and he and Clint already had a few dates, he left him a post-it note every morning, just a short message that made him smile.

Last night they had had a date and for the first time Bucky had spent the night in Clint’s apartment. But when he woke the bed beside him was empty. He frowned and looked around confused. The bed was cold and Bucky turned around to rise and then he stopped when he saw the post-it on the bedside table. Bucky read the message, blinked a few times, reread it and a warm feeling spread in his whole body.

Bucky just falls face first onto the couch when they get home, like all the overlapping voices, the demanding questions, they’ve just fritzed his brain out. Clint wrestles his boots off him and tosses them towards the door, then ponders what’s on offer in the refrigerator for a while. There’s varying levels of prepared and appealing; after some consideration he peels and plates a banana, sets a box of cereal, bowl, spoon and milk carton on the coffee table and brushes the hair out of Bucky’s face so he can be sure he’s seen it. Then he whistles for Lucky, locks the door behind them, heads out into the cold.

The bowl’s in the sink when he gets back, which was more than he expected. He puts the cereal back on the counter next to the second hand recipe books Steve bought them, and takes a swig of the milk before putting it away. The refrigerator light kinda startles him, ‘cos evening’s crept into the flat without him noticing. He could supplement it with the ghostly blue TV glare, but if he’s only got a little energy left he’s gonna spend it hauling off his clothes, shuffling himself through a shower before bed.

He doesn’t think about much. He’d sing, but he’s forgotten the words to almost everything he knows, sunk deep in the cotton balls that are all that’s left in his head. Post-press latitude, longitude - lassitude? Lost somewhere far off and sea-surrounded, anyway, his consciousness barely bobbing and ready to sink.

Mr Barton tapped at the walls, maybe a little unreasonably disappointed that the hollow space had once been a chimney, not a secret passage.

“We can check on the roof,” his partner said consolingly, “if it’s wide enough it still could be.”

The realtor - Jade, 26, who really wasn’t paid enough for this - laughed nervously and gestured at another door.

“The basement is currently unfinished,” she said, “although of course it’d be lovely when developed - maybe a gym?” She said, in appreciation of the pair’s collective biceps, “or,” she was inclusive, she’d taken classes, “perhaps a playroom for kids someday?”

Mr Barnes barked out a laugh. Mr Barton didn’t. Jade pushed up the intensity of her smile a little and headed for the kitchen.

“And of course,” she said, ignoring the hushed snippets of ’ - don’t you want -?’ And ‘I hadn’t thought about - ’ as she listed features and measurements and and adjectives galore.

“We could always leave the basement as is until we decide,” Barnes said, quirking a hopeful smile at Barton. “I’m sure we can find ways to put the space to use.”

“Who’s that?” Bucky whispered quietly. He had grabbed Steve’s arm and looked at the man who sat on the couch on the other side of the room. Steve looked over his shoulder into the living room and smiled. SHIELD had released him in Steve’s charge this morning and Steve had brought him to the new HQ to introduce him to the Avengers.

“Clint Barton,” he said without lowering his voice. “Hawkeye. He’s one of the Avengers.” The man held a book in his hands and nibbled at his thumbnail while reading.

“Shh!!” Bucky whispered again. He didn’t want to the other man to know that he talked about him.

“He can’t hear you,” Steve said. Bucky’s head spun around and he looked at him.

“He’s deaf?” His head snapped back and he looked at the man on the couch. This moment Clint looked up and in his direction, stared at him for a long moment, winked, before he turned back to his book. “Are you sure he can’t hear us?”

“Yes,” Steve confirmed. “He doesn’t wear his hearing aids when he’s in the tower but his peripheral vision is way better than yours and mine.”

“How do you communicate?” Bucky asked and looked back at Steve.

“ASL,” he shrugged. “We learned it.”

Clint rose, smiled, came over to them and made a few gestures.

“What did he say?” Bucky asked.

Steve smiled. “He said it’s nice to meet you.”

“Can you… can you tell him it’s nice to meet him, too?” Bucky asked and swallowed. Now, close to Barton, something happened, something he hadn’t felt in like ages. It felt as if he had butterflies in his stomach and the reason was the beautiful smile of the  man in front of him.

                                                  ***

He met Clint again the next morning, he came into the kitchen where Bucky just poured himself a cup of coffee. He wanted to ask him if he wanted one, too, but they were alone and no one could translate. Bucky looked around, saw some post-its on the counter and grabbed them, scribbled ‘Do you want one?’ on it and gave it to Clint. The man furrowed his brows, but then smiled and nodded.

It wasn’t easy but they could communicate until Bucky would’ve learned ASL, too. They swapped post-it notes the whole morning, talked about lots of stuff and somehow it became their thing. Even months later, when Bucky was fluent in ASL and he and Clint already had a few dates, he left him a post-it note every morning, just a short message that made him smile.

Last night they had had a date and for the first time Bucky had spent the night in Clint’s apartment. But when he woke the bed beside him was empty. He frowned and looked around confused. The bed was cold and Bucky turned around to rise and then he stopped when he saw the post-it on the bedside table. Bucky read the message, blinked a few times, reread it and a warm feeling spread in his whole body.

Bucky curled tighter, tail curled firmly over his nose so all he could smell was explosions and smoke and only the faintest trace of all the blood. His ears were still ringing and he’d never thought that’d be a relief, that he’d be thankful that he couldn’t catch the distant drumming of anyone’s heart, but then he’d never dared to think about what’d happen if one of those beats were to stop.

His nose he’d dealt with, but he could still taste blood on his teeth.

Something cut through the ringing. A howl, high and uncertain and unfamiliar, and Bucky flinched out of his defensive coil just in time to see the stumbling, half-falling jumble of limbs and fur and *tail* oh thank fuck, thank -

“What’s the meaning of life, the universe and everything?” Tony asks, a little meanly in Bucky’s opinion, ‘cos Clint’s taken a beating in this drinking game and while his answers have been getting increasingly hilarious, he also seems to be having trouble remaining vertical.

Clint stares down into his cup, thoughtfully. Bucky’s a little afraid that he’s gonna try drinking out of it again, and has legitimate concerns that there’s a point the human liver just gives in and explodes. He reaches out and snags the rim of Clint’s cup, hooking two fingers inside it and tugging it downwards, and Clint squints at him for a second before his mouth spreads into a goofy looking grin that’s made entirely of sunshine. 

“Bucky,” he says, low and slow and languid, and Bucky laughs. 

“Yeah, that’s me,” he says, and Clint looks at Tony. 

“Bucky,” he says, with a little more conviction, and Tony raises an eyebrow. 

“Bucky is the meaning of life?” 

“Yup,” Clint says. “Alla the important bits.” He waves a hand and huffs out an alcohol soaked breath, his eyes sliding closed for a second. “Why’s the sun come up? Bucky. Why do - why is the - the world goin’ round? Bucky.”

“This is gold,” Sam says, somewhere in the distant world that apparently still exists beyond the ringing in Bucky’s ears, and he’s glad Sam’s an asshole, glad he’s gonna get to watch this again, get to convince himself it really happened. 

“What’re we fightin’ for?” Clint asks, rhetorically, smiling to himself like the world’s spinnin’ him just right. “Bucky.” 

It’s too much, it’s - he can’t - Bucky lunges forward and cups Clint’s jaw in his palm, tilting the guy’s head up, stroking his thumb against Clint’s cheek and ducking until he can get eye contact, take a stab at maintaining it. 

“I love you, Clint,” he says, almost angry with it. “Okay? I love you, asshole,” and Clint snuggles into his palm like he’s gonna fall asleep there, kisses the heel of Bucky’s hand. 

“Not gonna ‘member,” he says, happy and tired and smiling like he’s simple, and Bucky kisses him on his eyelids, the fragilest place he’s got. 

“Aaw, Bucky, no,” Clint said, and tried to wrestle the pillow off him, eventually managing to thwart his efforts to drown himself in feathers by straddling his belly and putting his biceps to good use. Of course, then he had to contend with the arm Bucky had flung over his face - flesh and blood, his metal hand was curled into the sheets at his side - but that one was a little easier to get around.

“Hey,” Clint said, soft and gentle as the sunlight that was making its slow way across the bed. He started carefully easing strands of hair out from under Bucky’s arm, teasing them out and brushing them back into place to clear his forehead for a kiss. He eased himself down after he was done with that, laying himself on top of Bucky and pressing gentle kisses against his morning-harsh stubble. “Hey, sweetheart,” he said.

Bucky huffed a protest into the skin of his arm, but he didn’t resist more when Clint nudged it upward with his nose so he could ease in around the edges of it, get his mouth on Bucky’s mouth, off centre and a little clumsy and the best possible way to start the day.

“Sorry,” Bucky eventually croaked, his mouth easing down a little at the edges in the perfect inverse reflection of Clint’s. “It’s been - ”

“A long time, I get it,” Clint said. He was still hard, still working at not rocking against Bucky’s thigh, but that really wasn’t any sort of a problem. “I don’t need anything outside of this.”

Bucky scowled up at him, but it couldn’t hold out long against whatever stupid smile Clint could feel he was wearing. Bucky surged up, pushed into Clint’s kisses, dove past gentle and sunk in deeper. Clint only managed to keep his hips still with an effort, made harder - heh - still when Bucky’s cold hand ran over his ass.

Bucky drew up one leg between Clint’s, and he couldn’t bite back his groan quite in time, rocking into it in a stuttering moment’s movement that had Bucky hissing at the uncomfortable damp, but he wouldn’t let Clint pull away.

Pizza tastes best cold, a little rubbery, between 3 and 5 am. Clint’s done the research, okay, he knows.

That sounds kinda facetious, but it’s more true than looking at him’d have you believe; his food blog is all kinds of successful, racking up the awards, paying for his apartment building and the endless medical bills for his dumb dog. He’s the kind of guy who’s invited to restaurant openings, now, shambling up in a purple Henley and worn jeans, grinning lopsided and embarrassed at the press. Somehow, he’s ended up friends with Tony Stark, who couldn’t stop laughing when Clint’d compared some up-and-comer’s escargot to ‘bronchitis backwash’ and kept inviting him over to insult craft beers.

So pizza maybe isn’t exactly what he’s known for, but pizza’s what he knows best. Cold, rubbery, 3-5am and, inconveniently, a 24 hour cooling off period for optimal rubberisation.

Now night pizza, it ain’t exactly a culinary wonderland. Tends to the dregs and the good-enough-for-drunks, poorly presented and with a focus on the smell. Clint has been lured by skilful wafting too many times to be anything other than wary when he walks past the new place on 9th, takes in a lungful of basil and garlic and cooked meat and melted cheese.

It’s the pizza sweet spot, 3.45 with the night shaking out its feathers and settling in all warm and close, clouds holding in the last of the fall’s remaining heat. The air in his apartment had felt a little too thick for breathing, but out here it’s fine and beautifully fragrant, and he’s heading through the door before he even takes note of the name.