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“They made commemorative stamps of us,” Bucky says as they’re climbing up the girders. Clint grunts a bit. He’s not a supersoldier, OK? He hasn’t got the lung capacity to climb up a building while still making small talk. And, yeah, maybe superheroing is a young man’s game.
He gets to a point at which he can break for a moment and looks up, taking a moment to admire the view, because Bucky’s ass is always worth a second glance. What was Bucky saying? Oh yeah… stamps.
“I think I remember them,” he says. And he does, a hazy sort of ‘huh’ at seeing them among Coulson’s collection in their display case.
“I got one all to myself, so did Steve,“ Bucky continues, still talking like this is a walk in the park. The wind’s getting pretty strong now, but his voice is still clear through the comms, though if the whistling gets much worse, it’s going to futz with Clint’s hearing aids. “The others all had to share.”
“Well, I guess you guys did die,” Clint reasons, aware that his voice sounds haggard. Bucky laughs.
“And here was me thinking that it was because we were so pretty,” he says. “I mean, they’d never have been able to sell a stamp with just Dum-dum’s face on. People’d pay to have you take him away again.“
“I thought– “ Clint swings himself up, his body twisting to come up on Bucky’s right “–they taught you to respect your elders, back in the olden days,” he says, waggling his eyebrows when he catches Bucky’s eye. He gets a smirk for his trouble, then Bucky lifts one arm – not even the metal one – to grasp the metal above him, and pulls himself up slowly, one-handed. He makes the whole thing look effortless; it’s highly irritating, only made more so by the fact that it’s also kind of hot.
“Yeah, that’s why I’m always so polite to you, old man,”
Clint thinks about how he probably should have done some more stretches earlier. He thinks about how much he is going to ache tomorrow. But he knows where Nat keeps her bubble bath and he’s prepared to risk her wrath.
Or rather, he’s prepared to frame Wilson for the theft and watch the ensuing fireworks with some popcorn.
But climbing is his thing and there’s no way Bucky’s getting away with calling him old. No one calls him old.
It is on.
Clint throws himself into climbing, using every trick he knows, and all the muscles he has. He’s still more flexible than your average person, and archery’s been kind to his biceps.
They reach the arranged perch at pretty much the same time, and Clint’s grinning even as he has to take a moment to drag in some deep breaths. Bucky doesn’t mention anything, but then Clint just kept up with a supersoldier, so he’s not feeling too shabby.
His legs are going to kill him tomorrow.
“Never thought I’d get my face on a stamp,” Bucky says. “My ma… she’d have bought out the shop, sent everyone we knew a letter. God, and Becca woulda teased me something terrible.“
Clint wonders if they’re going to make Avengers stamps one day. He’ll probably end up sharing – they’ll give the solo places to Cap and Iron Man. Maybe the Hulk. It’s not like you could fit anyone else on the stamp with the Hulk. He pulls his bow out of its case and tests the string.
"It’s funny to think of it,” Bucky says. “All those people out there with stamps of me.” He starts to set up his rifle, his hands gentle and careful, like they always are. Clint watches them, like he always does. Maybe it’s weird, but he does like watching Bucky take care of his guns. Bucky waves a hand across the city. “How many folks out there do you reckon have licked my backside?”
Clint splutters, blinks, stares, lifts his eyes from the caress of Bucky’s hands over black gunmetal, to see the man in question quirking an eyebrow in amused challenge.
“Not sure I’d like to speculate on that one, Barnes,” Clint says, when he regains control of his voice.
“Well, you said you remembered them,” Bucky says, his voice is light as he looks away through the scope, adjusting his aim to track their mark. Clint’s not an idiot, no matter what he likes people to think, and he knows a proposition when he hears one.
“Not… I didn’t use one, I just… it was one of those display sets. I never…“ He’s aware that he’s making no sense, but Bucky’s managed to make stamps sexual. Who can make stamps erotic? Stamps are dusty, dry things, but somehow… futz. Clint’s always been one to jump first, look second. "Pretty sure I’d remember licking your backside, Barnes.”
“You bet you would,” Bucky says. “Four o’clock, our pal’s got some company.” Clint looks down and he can see them, tracks their movements, pulling an arrow from his quiver to point at them.
“Got them, you keep the main guy covered.“
“Sure,” Bucky agrees. “So… would you like to?”
“Would I like to what?” Clint asks, distracted.
“Lick the back of my stamp,” Bucky says.
“You move fast for a pensioner,” Clint says, his tongue finding words, even as his mind is lost, tracking the men below and finding just enough power to provide some imagery. “Pretty sure you’re supposed to buy me dinner first.”
“Got a protein bar in my jacket.”
“Well, when you put it like that,” Clint says. He’d roll his eyes, but they’re too busy watching the men below. Things are about to get ugly.
“Fine,” Bucky says. “When we’re done, I’ll take you out somewhere classy.”
“Nowhere with a dress-code,“ Clint says, “and nowhere where they try to take your coat.”
“How about I just buy a pizza and we eat it in front of your TV again?” Bucky says. Clint’s mind sticks on the again for a moment, because it’s true. That’s how they’ve ended up at least six times in the last two weeks. Not always pizza, but just the two of them, on his sofa, laughing at some terrible film or TV show – or each other.
It occurs to Clint that maybe he’s been a little oblivious.
“No dress code?“ he asks.
“Clothing is entirely optional,” Bucky tells him.
“Sounds like my kind of date.”