Archive of Our Own ^beta

Just a Little Bit True

Never let it be said that the East Valley High Avengers let a little rain stop them from achieving victory.

The game ends 15 to 19, and yeah, it’s only a preseason exhibition game, but the Avengers and their rabid fans take about any excuse to celebrate, so they’re all pouring onto the slick field. They’re ringing their cow bells, they’re cheering, they’re slipping on the wet grass and sliding in the mud, they’ve already got the quarterback up on their shoulders, and Clint thinks the whole thing is just a little much.

It’s high school football, for fuck’s sake.

Still, he can’t help but watch the mess with his hands on his hips, feeling like he had at least a little bit to do with the team achieving such a specular if somewhat routine victory.

After all, the cheerleading squad is pretty much singlehandedly to thank for keeping the team and the fans’ spirits up despite the downpour, and Clint makes a fucking spectacular cheerleader.

He’s very bendy.

And also currently very wet.

He shakes his wet hair out of his eyes and turns away from the celebration on the field to grab his soaked sweater, wondering if this much rain means he doesn’t have to shower. He takes a surreptitious sniff to see how badly he stinks – cheerleading is a sweaty business – and catches Natasha rolling her eyes at him as he does.

He grins. “Thought you’d leave when the rain started,” he says.

Natasha is not a cheerleader. Natasha thinks cheerleading and school spirit are everything that’s wrong with the American education system.

She is, however, Clint’s best friend and has been since he first moved to East Valley, an awkward and unfortunate looking 8-year-old with a black eye and an asshole for a father. Before the other kids could move in like vultures and tear him apart, she’d taken him under her wing. Natasha had been terrifying the other kids since Kindergarten, so no one messed with Clint anymore, not even when he’d finally started channelling all his energy and acrobatic skill into cheerleading.

“And leave you to walk home in the rain?” she asks, slicking her hair back out of her face. “You’d catch a cold and bitch about it for weeks.”

Clint laughs, following her off the field. “But there’s a party,” he says, hopeful. “After party. At Tony’s. Maybe we should go.”

She tosses him a look over her shoulder, unlocking the passenger door of her beat up Civic.

“No.”

“But Nat,” he says, aware that he’s whining a little. He does his best to look charming, wondering if the rain and his wet hair and general messy appearance is helping or hurting his chances here. “Steve’s gonna be there.”

“I’ve never given a fuck where Steve chooses to spend his time,” she tells him evenly, sliding into the driver’s seat. “I’m not about to start now.”

Clint slides into the passenger seat with a wet squelch and huffs, crossing his arms over his chest and doing his best not to pout. “But Nat.”

“He doesn’t know you’re alive,” she says finally, turning on the ignition, turning the radio on with a bit too much force, and sliding into first gear. “You really think I want to spend my Friday night watching you make an idiot of yourself in public?”

“I dunno,” he says, already sensing his victory and grinning at her. “You did come to the game, so you’ve pretty much already done that. What can a few more hours hurt?”

She huffs. “I hate you.” But she turns east on Main Street instead of west, so Clint’s already won.

“It’ll be fun,” he promises. “We won’t stay long.”

“Just don’t get so drunk that I have to carry you out of there,” she grumbles. “And don’t do anything stupid. And don’t cry if he’s not there. Okay?”

“I’ve never done any of those things,” He lies cheerfully.

Natasha rolls her eyes but doesn’t argue.

*

The party is loud, like all of Tony’s parties are, and this is the kind of celebrating Clint can get behind. Everyone is dancing, drinking, smelling like wet dog, there’s laughing, flirting, and people making out on sofas, in corners, behind potted plants. There’s a pool out back and Clint has plans for just how he can show off on that diving board.

But first – he downs a beer, grabs another, and scans the room, searching for –

“Clint!”

Steve finds him first.

The problem with Steve is that, not only is he gorgeous, and broad, and muscular, with eyes the colour of a midsummer sky and the overall appearance of a Disney princess, he’s also incredibly, insanely nice.

Sometimes just thinking about it makes Clint throw up in his mouth a little.

But it’s impossible to hold onto that distrust of human perfection when actually face to face with it, so he meets Steve’s smile with a grin of his own. “Steve!” he says, beaming. “Nice job with the, you know…” He mimes throwing a ball, because Steve had, of course, thrown the game-winning touchdown, or whatever.

Truth time – Clint doesn’t know anything about football.

Steve’s cheeks go pink and he says earnestly, “It was a team effort, seriously. And nice job on the double front, you have to teach me that.”

Clint’s grin grows even wider. Natasha likes to claim he’s got a hero worship thing going on for Steve, but seriously, if anybody in this school doesn’t want to grow up to be just like Steve, they’re crazy. The fact that Steve actually thinks cheerleading is a sport with a high degree of difficulty and has been asking Clint to show him some moves when the football coach isn’t looking and shrieking about Steve injuring himself before the big game?

Kinda makes it hard to resist.

“Sure,” he says, and Steve slings an arm around his shoulders, dragging him towards the basement, where Clint can hear someone singing terrible karaoke.

It’s probably Tony. It’s always Tony.

“Sing with me,” Steve says, and Clint knows Steve’s just using him for plausible deniability to get closer to Tony – like Steve needs fucking plausible deniability – but he’s willing to go along with it, because karaoke is amazing, and Clint likes to stay as close to Steve as he can.

And not just because Steve is a paragon of perfection.

Because wherever Steve goes, Bucky usually follows.

And if Steve is perfection, than Bucky Barnes is next level entirely.

*

He’s not sulking, no matter what Natasha says.

Clint is just… ruminating. Thinking. Pondering life’s mysteries.

Sure, he’s slumped despondently on Tony’s ridiculously plush sofa, nursing a beer, and pouting while he does it. But he’s drunk, Drunk Clint cannot be held to the same standards as Sober Clint.

Steve and Tony are performing an enthusiastic and intoxicated rendition of You’re The One that I Want, and Tony keeps grabbing Steve’s ass and Steve doesn’t even seem to get that Tony isn’t being subtle, at all, and somehow, it’s adorable.

Clint wants someone to be adorable with.

Not just anybody, though. A very particular somebody. Somebody who hasn’t seen fit to show his goddamned (and very attractive) face at this trash fire of a party.

Which may or may not be why Clint is allegedly sulking.

He goes to take another swallow of his beer only to find the bottle empty, and this night keeps getting worse and worse.

“Awww, no,” he mumbles, peering into the bottle sadly. The kitchen is so far away and everything is dizzy.

Before he can muster up the energy to push himself up, the bottle disappears from his hands, replaced by a cold water bottle, and Clint spends far too long staring at it and trying to understand that level of sorcery.

And then someone drops down beside him on the cushy sofa and Clint turns his head and it’s Bucky.

The room suddenly seems brighter and he pastes a sloppy smile on his face, holding up the water bottle Bucky must have given him.

“Bucky!” he chirps. “Dude! Thanks! But I wanted a beer.”

He does his best to look charming and alluring and seductive but the combination just makes him list dizzily to the side.

Bucky shoots him a quick glare and says, “You puked in my shoes last time you were this drunk.”

“That,” Clint says, pointing at him. “Is a lie. Slander. I would never puke in your shoes. They’re delightful.” He peers down at Bucky’s feet fondly, squinting a little. He can’t even tell if Bucky is wearing shoes, to be entirely honest.

Bucky rolls his eyes and turns back to watch Steve make an idiot of himself and Clint sips his water like a good boy and tries to think of something clever and witty to say. He props an elbow up on the arm of the sofa, turns to face Bucky with a clumsy swing of his legs, folding them awkwardly underneath him, and then gestures with the water bottle, forgetting to put the lid on. He splashes himself, the sofa, and Bucky, and Bucky doesn’t seem at all surprised.

He just sighs and turns to look at Clint again and says, “What.”

Clint leers. “What’s a pretty thing like you doing in a place like this?” he says, wrapping his lips around the top of the bottle, swallowing. Choking. Coughing. Fuck, he’s a disaster.

Bucky pounds him on the back until he can breathe again and then says, “Steve’s sober ride home.” There’s a beat and he adds, reluctant, “You want a ride?”

Clint smirks and lets his blurry gaze run over Bucky slowly as he purrs, “I’ll ride you any time, Buck.”

“Jesus Christ.” Natasha’s there suddenly, grabbing him by the arm and jerking him up off the couch. He drops the water bottle and it spills on the carpet, which sucks because Bucky had given it to him. Like a gift.

“That was mine,” he says to Natasha, who ignores him. “Bucky gave it to me. Like a gift.”

“Fuck,” she says, smiling tightly at Bucky. “Sorry. I got it. He doesn’t need a ride.”

“I do need a ride,” Clint pouts. “I need a ride on Bucky, I need –”

She claps a hand over his mouth and apologizes again. Bucky just lifts his own water bottle in a lazy salute and says, “He didn’t puke on my shoes this time,” like that’s something to celebrate. Like that’s how low his standards for interacting with Clint are.

“Aww, no,” Clint says, feeling his heart break. “Aww, Tasha.”

“Come on,” she says, hustling him towards the stairs. “Time to go.”

He follows, waving sadly at Bucky and at Steve, who waves happily as Clint trips up the stairs.

Before they can make their escape, Sam Wilson appears, taking in Clint’s messy, drunken appearance with a smirk and a lifted eyebrow.

“Leaving already?” he asks Natasha.

“I told you I couldn’t stay.”

“Maybe we can hang out later,” he offers.

“Maybe.” She sounds non-committal, like she always does while talking to Sam, as if she doesn’t spend all the time she’s not talking to him belligerently wishing she was talking to him.

Sam laughs like he’s in on the game and holds the door open for them, offering to help haul Clint to Natasha’s car.

Clint doesn’t need anybody’s help, of course, and he proves it by trying to do a front flip off the porch.

He fucks the landing and ends up flat on his back, staring up at the stars, while Natasha curses in Russian and Sam helps peel him off the lawn.

It’s not his finest moment.

At least Bucky didn’t see it.

*

The only good thing about the next morning is that it’s Saturday and Clint doesn’t have to get to school super early for cheer practice so he can lie in bed and pray for death.

He manages it until about nine, when his dad bellows his name from downstairs, shouting something about mowing the lawn or Barney fucking up or the mud Clint tracked into the house — his head is buried under his pillow and he’s not wearing his aids and he can’t make out the words. It doesn’t matter, though. The simple fact is that if Clint expects to survive this hangover, he can’t do it here.

So he drags himself out of bed, grabs his aids, stumbles over to his window, and climbs out, shimmying down the tree right outside. He pulls his hood up, puts his sunglasses on, hunches over, and trudges miserably to Natasha’s place three blocks over.

She’s got a basement window, so all he’s got to do is slide it open and roll inside, landing on her bed. It’s cool and dark in her room – she’s not even here, and he rolls over a few times until he’s comfortably wrapped in her blankets.

She’s not surprised when she steps into the room, wrapped in a towel and smelling of apple shampoo.

She flicks the light on. “Breakfast?” she asks, amused, speaking clearly so he can read her lips as he drops his aids on her bedside table.

“Just leave me here to die,” he moans.

She turns the light off as she leaves because she’s a saint.

*
Natasha brings him coffee, which is pretty much the only reason Clint manages to force himself into an upright position before sunset.

He sits cradling the mug, hearing aids reluctantly in, blanket wrapped around his shoulders, miserably inhaling the sweet, sweet fragrance, while she idly swings back and forth on her desk chair, watching him with a faint smirk.

“Well,” he says finally, voice gravelly from disuse. “It’s possible that mistakes were made last night.”

“Possible,” she agrees.

He winces. “How bad?”

“Could have been worse,” she allows. “You kept your clothes on. You didn’t confess any ill-advised emotions all over anybody. Didn’t puke on anybody’s shoes.”

Clint closes his eyes, wrinkling his nose, and says, “When did the bar get so low for a relatively successful evening?”

“Around about the time you decided to develop a huge, massive, visible-from-space crush on Bucky Barnes,” she says.

“Grade four then,” he muses, sipping his coffee.

“You’re a mess, Barton,” she sighs, but it’s fond at least. “I’ve got something that might make you feel better.”

“Only death can save me now,” he tells her.

She ignores him, fiddling with a bracelet on her wrist and hesitating in an uncharacteristic show of uncertainty. Finally, she sighs and confesses, “Sam texted me and told me a bunch of people were going to the drive in tonight and asked if I wanted to come. They’re going for pizza after. He told me to bring friends.”

Clint brightens. “I’m your only friend!”

She nods reluctantly. “You are.”

“And Sam Wilson is BF-almost-Fs with Steve Rogers!”

She closes her eyes. “He is.”

“And where Steve Rogers goes, Bucky is sure to follow!”

“And you like to trail after Bucky like a lost puppy, I know.” She smiles ruefully. “So if you want, because you’ve had such a shitty day, I’m willing to suck it up and go, so you can come too.”

Clint snorts, pointing an accusing finger at her, and says, “Don’t even deny that you want to go. You want to climb Sam Wilson like a gorgeous, funny, sarcastic and attractive tree, Natasha Romanov, you can’t lie to me.”

She glares at him -- the sort of glare that would scare a lesser man into silence. “Don’t push it, Barton,” she says. “I can change my mind. Or go without you. You’re probably too hungover to manage it anyway.”

Clint’s suddenly feeling much better. He drains his coffee, hops out of bed, and says, “I’m going, I’m showering, I feel great! Do you have any Advil?”

She rolls her eyes and tosses a bottle at him, which Clint fails to catch because he’s got terrible reflexes at the best of times. But he bends over, scoops it up, and hurries to the bathroom before she can change her mind.

*

Luckily for Clint, he’s got a drawer full of his things at Natasha’s place, so he doesn’t have to sneak home to get changed or wear his bedraggled and stained pajamas. Luckily for the rest of the world, all of the clothes he’d left at Natasha’s are a size or two too small, so they show off his ass and his arms and his chest to peak perfection.

The drive in costs $12 a car and, despite rolling with Tony Stark, Steve is a cheap bastard, so they carpool, meeting at an abandoned lot a block away and crushing as many people as possible into two cars.

Clint ends up in a trunk with Bucky and it’s like all of his sexual fantasies come to life.

Well, most of them. Some of them.

The shitty part is that apparently Bucky is claustrophobic.

They’re only in the trunk for a few minutes, but the sounds of everyone else crushed into the interior of Sam’s car is muffled, so Clint can very clearly hear Bucky’s breathing growing panicky.

“Hey,” he says, voice hushed. “You okay?”

“Fine,” Bucky grunts, and before Clint can argue or find a way to turn this into a Moment, the trunk pops open and Steve is yanking Bucky out of the trunk and they’re having some sort of hushed argument that Clint can’t hear.

His hearing aids make it nearly impossible to pick up on softer levels of sound when there’s too much going on, and right now, he’s got Tony shouting concession orders, Sam chatting up Natasha, Rumlow teasing Bruce about something, and the trailers starting on the big screen, so Clint just watches as Steve leads Bucky away.

He gets popcorn, which is sweet, and ends up crushed in the middle of the backseat of Sam’s little car, Natasha on one side and Sam on the other, the snacks all piled up on his lap.

Bucky isn’t even in the same car, which sucks, and there are two dudes Clint barely knows in the front seats.

It’s not the worst time he’s ever had. The movie is alright, Natasha pretending to shoot down Sam’s admittedly amazing flirting is amusing, and, well. Popcorn.

There’s an intermission half way through and a mad scramble for bathrooms and drink refills, and when the dust has settled, it’s possible that Clint has thrown Natasha to the wolves, abandoned her and weaseled his way into the other car.

He’s in the passenger seat, Bucky in the driver seat beside him, massive bowl of popcorn between them. Tony and Steve are in the back seat together, and Clint is forced to listen to Tony’s ridiculous flirting and Steve’s obliviousness for far too long.

The highlight is when he accidentally brushes Bucky’s hand in the popcorn bucket, and later, when they share an exasperated look when Steve somehow manages to duck and dodge Tony’s very obvious attempt to slide an arm around his shoulders.

It’s pretty much the best second half of a movie Clint’s ever seen.

*

They cram into two booths at the pizza place and Tony orders eight times more pizza than they could ever need -- it’s amazing. Natasha even somehow manhandles Clint into the booth across from Bucky, who is, of course, next to Steve, who is beside Tony, who is holding court with his credit card and far too much energy for the hangover still lurking in Clint’s belly.

The grease helps, settling the popcorn in his stomach, and Clint eats an inadvisable about of pizza. It keeps his mouth busy and he doesn’t say anything stupid, which helps in his newfound goal of not humiliating himself in front of Bucky.

The highlight comes when he accidentally kicks Bucky under the table and Bucky looks at him. Clint flashes his most charming, flirtatious smile and winks. Sure, his mouth is full of pepperoni and extra cheese, but he’s trying out the strong, silent thing that works so well for Bucky.

Bucky just blinks and ducks his head, hair falling into his eyes and Clint just wants to kick him to get his attention again.

He doesn’t, though. He’s going for strong and silent. Not desperate for attention. It’s a whole new thing for him.

They leave the pizzeria and pile back into the two cars. Clint ends up stretched across a bunch of laps (none of which are Bucky’s, so he doesn’t bother to see which ones). They spill out at the empty lot where the rest of their cars are waiting, and, rather than split up, it seems like everyone intends to loiter.

Tony is challenging everyone to various tests of skill, most of which seem to include someone climbing up on someone else’s shoulders in a thinly veiled attempt to weasel his way onto Steve’s well-muscled back.

Normally, Clint would be all up in shenanigans like that, but he’s feeling quiet and his head is pounding and really, he just wants to go home.

It looks like Natasha is finally actually lowering herself to have some sort of conversation with Sam, though, so Clint’s okay with hanging out.

He wanders over to where Bucky’s standing alone, leaning against a tree and watching Steve hoist Tony onto his shoulders with the air of someone prepared to administer First Aid or a beat down or whatever the situation calls for.

Clint shoves his hands in his hoodie pocket and hunches his shoulders and says, all casual, “So, I should apologize for last night I guess.”

“Last night?” Bucky asks, not bothering to take his eyes off Steve and Tony as they face off against Rumlow and Sharon. Like he doesn’t even remember Clint getting wasted and making an ass of himself.

Clint doesn’t know what’s worse, humiliating himself or not being worth remembering. “Yeah. At Tony’s?”

Bucky finally looks over at him, shoving his hair out of his face and shrugging. “It’s fine,” he says. “Didn’t puke, so. I’m surprised you’re even here.”

“Natasha was invited,” he says, defensive. “Sam said she could bring friends. We’re friends. I totally count.”

Bucky smirks, just a little. “I meant I figured you’d be too sick,” he says. “You were kinda out of it.”

“You remember?”

Bucky looks at him like he’s an idiot. It’s probably warranted. He turns back when he hears a shriek, just in time to see Sharon tumble from Rumlow’s shoulders and hit the ground laughing.

It’s dark, the light from the street lamps barely hitting this far into the empty lot, and Clint thinks suddenly that Bucky looks lonely. He usually looks lonely, even though he’s always surrounded by happy, loud people. He holds himself apart though, quiet the way he has been ever since the accident that took his left arm back in the eighth grade.

Clint can remember Bucky before that, of course. He wasn’t exaggerating when he told Natasha that his crush first started in Grade 4. Back then, Bucky had been sharp and funny and full of mischief, though it was always Steve who got them into real trouble. Anyone who tried starting trouble with Steve quickly learned that Bucky had a temper.

And then the accident happened and Bucky had missed months of school. He’d come back different.

Clint doesn’t want to talk about loneliness or anything, though. He wants to throw out a few pick-up lines and see what sticks.

Instead, he says, “Why do you even come to things like this? It doesn’t seem to be your scene.”

Bucky shrugs. “Wherever Steve is, that’s my scene.” He shoots Clint a knowing look. “Kinda like you. Though for different reasons, probably.”

For a long moment, Clint doesn’t understand what he means. What different sort of reason could Clint have for being wherever Steve was?

And then it hit him. The truth. His scene was wherever Steve was because Bucky was there.

What if Bucky knew? What if Steve knew? What if everybody knew?

He squeaks, a helpless, panicky sort of sound, and it gets Bucky’s full attention, but before Clint can turn purple or start flailing or babbling or running for cover, Natasha is there, eyes narrow and smile sharp.

“Ready to go?” she asks Clint, and Clint just nods wildly, letting her pull him away.

He climbs into her car, panting, and it takes half the drive home for him to get enough air to wail, “I think he knows I’m in love with him!”

“You’re not in love with him,” Natasha reminds him. “You’re just infatuated with his…” She gestures vaguely. “Greasy hair and general air of menace.”

“Oh yeah,” Clint remembers soberly, letting his forehead fall against the window. “And his eyes. And his jaw, have you seen his jaw? And his muscles. And his whole….’I don’t give a fuck about the world’ attitude. I wish I had an attitude, Nat. A ‘don’t fuck with me’ attitude. Oh god, he totally knows.”

“He doesn’t,” she reassures him.

But he’s not sure he believes her.

*

Clint spends Sunday doing yard work while Barney sits on the deck and smokes and pretends he’s helping. Their dad’s at work and Clint knows if they don’t have the grass cut and shit tidied up by the time he gets home, there will be hell to pay, but he also knows that Barney’ll find some way to make it Clint’s fault, so he grits his teeth and works his ass off.

And the next morning, at five fucking AM, he rides his bike to school and stumbles out onto the field for cheer practice.

It’s hard to be coordinated enough to toss and catch girls this early, but he’s on his fourth cup of coffee and that definitely helps. He’s not really much of a fan of the tossing and catching girls while they get to flip around and look all sassy and athletic, but it’s a key part of the performance, and he’s already fucked up and dropped girls a handful of times – enough that they’ve threatened to not let him do his gymnastic-style solo mid show if he doesn’t get his shit together. And he doesn’t actually want anybody to get hurt. He takes his responsibility very seriously!

He’s just easily distracted and easily bored and he’d much rather be the one flipping through the air and looking sassy than the one on the ground.

“Alright, Barton,” Maria calls, after he’s successfully proven that he can focus long enough to toss Kate up and catch her again. “Show us what you’re thinking.”

He’s been working on a new solo routine of flips and leaps and spins and Maria always lets him end the practice by showing off a bit if he can focus long enough not to drop anybody.

“You’re gonna love it,” he promises her, and then he’s running, jumping, flipping, and he sticks every landing, gets just enough height to pull off the more complicated flips, and even manages to land with a graceful flourish.

The other cheerleaders all clap appreciatively, the two other dudes roll their eyes because they’re totally in this to get laid and not to show off their flexibility, and practice breaks up just as the football team jogs out of the locker room to run some drills.

Clint is still panting when he heads over to the bench to grab his stuff, and he almost trips over his own feet when he sees Bucky sitting there, hunched over in a black hoodie, staring at him while Natasha chats fake casually beside him.

As soon as Clint notices him, however, Bucky jerks his gaze away and scowls a little. He says something to Natasha and gets up, walking away just as Clint drops onto the bench beside her.

“What the fuck,” he says.

“Saw him lurking around the bleachers,” Natasha tells him with a shrug.

“Probably waiting for Steve,” Clint says.

She smirks. “He wasn’t watching Steve.”

Clint does his best to nag her, but Natasha won’t explain what she means. He’s on a new mission to avoid Bucky now that he’s pretty sure Bucky knows about his stupid crush, so Clint lets it go.

*

After the rush and adrenaline of cheer practice, school is pretty boring for Clint. He isn’t much interested in economics, history bores him to tears, and reading the books required for English puts him to sleep. Math is a highlight, but that’s because Steve’s in his class and Clint likes to bug him by passing him notes with dirty jokes on them and watching Steve blush and get flustered and distracted.

Steve is so much fun to wind up.

After math, Clint makes his way to the cafeteria for lunch, where he and Natasha have a nice table by the window pretty much on reserve. All the lower classes are too afraid of her to take it.

This lunch time, however, he steps into the cafeteria and Tony calls his name. “Barton! Get over here!”

Clint blinks at the table right in the centre of the room where Tony and all his attractive, popular friends sit, including Steve and Bucky, and finds Natasha already there, sitting beside Sam and looking belligerent.

Clint glances at his regular table wistfully, but the idea of sitting alone makes his stomach hurt, so he goes over to Tony’s table and squishes in between Rumlow and Bruce and picks at his sandwich.

Steve kicks his foot under the table and when Clint looks up, he mouths, “You okay?”

Clint shrugs and nods and doesn’t look at Bucky. Steve doesn’t look convinced.

“Hey,” Rumlow says, nudging Clint with his shoulder and smirking. “You sure were fucked up at Tony’s on Friday.” He laughs.

Clint winces and laughs, but it sounds a little off. “I didn’t know you were there,” he says.

“Surprised you remember anything at all.” Rumlow snickers. Clint’s never really liked him.

“He wasn’t that bad,” Bucky says, and Clint looks at him, startled. Bucky doesn’t like to talk much in big groups like this.

Rumlow grins. “Well, yeah, you’d think that. He was all over you. Good thing Romanov was there to drag him home.”

“Don’t be an ass,” Bucky says, but Clint is too busy scrambling up out of his chair because Rumlow is hitting a little close to home and Clint really doesn’t want to deal with this right now.

“Just remembered, homework,” Clint says quickly with a fake smile. “Gotta go.”

Bucky frowns and Natasha, who isn’t sitting close enough to hear what Rumlow had been saying, looks up and says, “You okay? Where are you going?”

He waves her off and says, “Homework, it’s fine, I’m fine, I just – don’t worry, Rumlow, I’m never gonna drink again, so… So Bucky’s virtue is safe with me. Everyone’s virtue.” He laughs. It’s a little shrill.

Before anybody can say anything, he turns and walks away, only tripping over his own feet once, abandoning his sandwich and his dignity.

*

Three days later, Clint has successfully managed to avoid Bucky, Steve, Tony, Sam, and all their assorted friends. Natasha, because she’s amazing, has made it easier, probably by consorting with the enemy (Sam) to find out where they were all going to be and making sure that she and Clint were on the opposite end of the school.

He’s also been skipping math. Whatever. Math isn’t important in real life, right?

It’s a hazy, hot late summer day and he’s sitting out on the quad at lunch, waiting for Natasha, when Bucky drops down to sit beside him at the picnic table.

Fuck.

“Hey,” Bucky says, all casual, leaning back against the table and stretching his legs out, squinting in the bright sunlight.

Clint looks for somewhere to hide but there’s nowhere. “Hi,” he says finally, slumping a bit.

“Steve’s kinda sad.”

“He is?”

Bucky nods, turning to look at him. “Yeah. You said you’d teach him that flip thing, and he hasn’t seen you around all week.”

Clint pokes at his sandwich for a bit and then says, “You’re pretty protective of Steve.”

“Well, I could tell you how fucking sad Sam is that Natasha’s been staying away, but I don’t give a shit,” Bucky says easily. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” Clint lies. “I’m just… Natasha and I just…”

“Rumlow’s a dick,” Bucky tells him. “So if it’s Rumlow, just ignore him.”

“Rumlow’s always been a dick,” Clint agrees. Bucky waits patiently and Clint finally says, reluctant, “Listen. I know you don’t… like me.”

“I like you just fine.”

Clint blinks at him. “You don’t seem to like anybody. You just… hang around Steve. And put up with everyone else.”

He shrugs. “No one else seems worth the time.”

Except Bucky is here right now, making time for Clint. Because Clint’s making Steve sad. Clint’s shoulders slump. “Maybe you and I could… like. Just be friends. And forget all the awkwardness.”

Bucky’s watching him closely. “Puking in my shoes was kinda awkward.”

Clint flinches. “Yeah. Sorry.”

“But we could be. Friends, I mean. If that’s what you want.”

It isn’t. But it’s probably more than Clint deserves. “Okay. Sure. Yeah. I’m a great friend.”

“And if Rumlow keeps being a dick, I’ll kick his ass,” Bucky says easily, before getting up and walking away.

Clint watches him go. Sure, they’re just friends now, but he still gets to appreciate the view, right?

*

“Sam asked me to Homecoming but I won’t go if you don’t want to. Besides, I don’t really like him,” Natasha says Friday as Clint climbs into the passenger seat.

He rolls his eyes. “You do so like him. You think he’s charming. I guess he is, a bit.”

“Do not,” she says calmly, throwing the car into first gear and easing out of the parking lot. “Not enough for Homecoming, anyway. It’s basically one big pep rally.”

“Yeah,” Clint agrees. “But I’ll be there, and I look amazing in my cheer outfit.”

There are purple pants involved. It’s amazing.

She snorts and says, “That’s always been a draw for me,” but it’s so toneless, she probably doesn’t mean it.

“Lying again,” Clint tells her. “But you should go. Sam’s a decent guy. And Bucky told me the other day that he’s been sad since you haven’t been around as much.”

She shoots him a quick look. “Was that when you decided to let him down gently and just be friends?”

“That’s when I decided to let him off the hook and be friends to pretend this whole awkward shit show never happened.”

She laughs. “Sure. Okay. How about this. I’ll go to Homecoming with Sam if you go too. With a date.”

“That isn’t fair! I have like, zero prospects! Where am I supposed to get a date?”

They’re pulling up to Clint’s place when she says sweetly, “Gee, I don’t know. Good thing Sam invited us to the lake tomorrow. There’s bound to be a few prospects there – I heard a certain BFF of Steve’s doesn’t have a date yet. Maybe you could –”

“We’re just friends,” Clint hollers as he piles out of the car.

She drives away laughing.

*

There are many things that Clint isn’t good at. Math. School in general. Walking without tripping over his own feet. Holding his liquor. Basic human interactions.

But he’s very, very good at showing off his acrobatic skills on the swinging rope over the lake.

When he’s not being laughed at, Clint loves, loves, loves being the centre of attention.

So it’s entirely possible that he’s showing off.

It’s not his fault that the swinging rope is the perfect opportunity to try out new tricks and stunts, flipping and rolling in the air before falling to the lake below.

It’s also not his fault that he happens to be wearing a pair of very tight swim trunks, no shirt at all, and that he happens to have fucking amazing arms that are shown to their best advantage while holding his body weight as he swings out over the lake.

He loves the lake, and it’s the perfect day for it. The water is warm, dozens of his classmates have swarmed the beach, and he and Steve are trying to outdo themselves with airborne acrobatics while Tony leads a cheering section and shouts scores after each jump.

He’s clearly biased in Steve’s favour, but even he can’t deny the awesomeness of Clint’s abilities. Besides, Clint’s hearing aids aren’t waterproof, so he can’t hear the scores anyway.

All he knows is that he’s kicking ass.

Steve finally calls for mercy after Clint manages to land a perfect backflip, and Clint lazily paddles on his back towards the shore while a violent game of chicken erupts nearby.

He leaves the water, shaking it out of his hair and wrapping his towel around his shoulders, popping his hearing aids in. Sam’s on Natasha’s shoulders in the lake, which is hilarious and amazing and Clint is totally cheering for them as they face off against Steve and Tony.

He finds a place in the sun to stretch out and watch, rubbing absently at sand that’s drying on his belly, when Bucky comes out of the shade to sit beside him. He’s wearing jeans and a hoodie despite the heat, and hasn’t gone anywhere near the water.

“Gonna swim?” Clint asks him. Bucky shoots him a look and a small smile.

“Can’t do much swimming,” he says, and Clint feels like an idiot. Of course swimming would be difficult with only one arm. He wonders then if Bucky’s self-conscious about it, if that’s why he’s always wearing bulky sweaters.

But Clint’s hardly about to ask. Instead, he shrugs and says easily, like he’s not thinking of how much it would suck to lose your arm, “Could get you a water wing if that’ll help.”

Bucky blinks at him, looking stunned, like no one’s ever made a damned joke about his arm before, and Clint has a few seconds to worry if maybe he shouldn’t have, and then Bucky’s laughing harder than Clint’s seen him laugh since the accident.

“Are you shitting me?” he asks, still laughing.

Clint looks back over the water. He can see Steve watching them with a big, dorky grin on his face, probably as startled by the laughter as Clint is, and he rubs at the dried sand on his stomach again and doesn’t bother answering.

When he looks back at Bucky, he finds Bucky looking away from his stomach quickly. Bucky clears his throat and says, casual, “You looked pretty good up there.” He jerks his chin up towards the swinging rope, where Sharon and Maria are trying to dare each other to jump.

Clint feels like his entire body lights up, which is an incredible overreaction to a casual comment from a friend about his acrobatic ability.

“Yeah?” he asks, beaming.

Bucky nods. “Don’t listen to Tony,” he says, still not looking at Clint. “You totally won.”

“I did,” Clint agrees happily. Bucky glances at him with a small smile.

Clint is totally rocking this friendship thing.

*

They end up at Tony’s again for another party, and this time, Clint is not going to make an idiot of himself.

He avoids the alcohol, loses Natasha within twenty minutes, and ends up finding a place to hang out by the pool in a sinfully comfortable lounging pod. He’s pretty sure he could sleep here.

He’s watching the game of water volleyball in the pool when Rumlow flops onto the giant chair beside him.

“Hey,” he says with a grin, holding out a beer. “Brought you this.”

“Dude, no,” Clint tells him. “Never drinking again, remember?”

“If you’re worried about climbing all over Barnes again, I could give you a better alternative.” Rumlow pops the can open with a smirk, and Clint just stares at him.

“Are you… trying to get in my pants?” he asks finally, because what the fuck.

Rumlow shrugs and says, “Why the fuck not, right? You’re easy.”

Clint laughs, startled. “I am not!” He’s never actually hooked up with anybody, if he’s being honest, and he’s only kissed Natasha once, during an ill-advised game of spin the bottle. He’d sort of been too busy obsessing over Bucky to notice anybody else.

Rumlow takes a long swallow and says, “You’re loss. Whatever.” But he drops a heavy hand on Clint’s thigh anyway.

Clint laughs again and kicks it off. “Seriously,” he says. “What are you doing?”

“C’mon,” Rumlow says, rolling his eyes, setting the beer aside. “It’s not like Steve’s gonna give you what you want.” His hands are back on Clint’s legs again, sliding up around his hips, and Clint’s had about enough.

He kicks his way free, rolling his eyes, and saying, “Dude. I don’t think you know what I want.”

He turns to go, leaving Rumlow there looking pissed, and runs straight into Bucky, who catches him before Clint can trip over his feet and fall into the pool.

“Bucky!” Clint says, pleased.

Bucky isn’t even looking at him, too busy glaring at Rumlow. “What the fuck,” he says, calm.

“Huh? Oh.” Clint rolls his eyes. “Rumlow. Being a dick. Same as always. Where’s Steve?”

Bucky finally looks at him, scowl deepening. “Steve?” he echoes.

“Yeah.” Clint drags him away by the wrist, mostly just wanting to get away from Rumlow. “You know. Blond. Muscular. Super attractive. We should go find him. Hey, are you going to Homecoming?”

“Homecoming?” Bucky echoes again. “What?”

“You and Steve. Homecoming. Natasha says I need a date before she’ll agree to go with Sam, and we both know you’re dedicated to Sam’s happiness, so I was thinking –”

“Steve’s going with Tony,” Bucky says bluntly. “So. Not with you.”

Clint frowns. “Well, yeah, I just thought maybe – I guess… I mean, do you know anybody else? Who might want to go with me?”

“Maybe Rumlow,” Bucky snaps, which is really just a dick comment, but before Clint can reply, Bucky tugs his wrist free and turns and walks away.

What the fuck.

*

With one week to go to Homecoming, cheer practice gets super intense, and Clint’s solo section gets more and more complex.

It helps to have somewhere to channel his super secret broken heart over Bucky turning him down, asking to be friends, and then being a weird friend who’s sometimes awesome and sometimes a dick.

It also might super secretly help that Bucky continues hovering around and watching with Natasha. Clint likes showing off. Sure, maybe he’s got the personality of a dumpster fire, but he ass still looks amazing on the field.

Tuesday morning, Bucky actually waits around after practice, scowling.

Clint offers him a sunny smile anyway. “Hey,” he says, and Bucky’s scowl deepens even as he shoves a cup of Starbucks coffee at him.

“Sorry,” he says.

“For what? For coffee? No one ever has to be sorry for coffee, coffee is amazing.”

“For being an asshole,” Bucky says.

“Oh.” Clint takes a sip and moans, closing his eyes. So good. “Nah. No apologies needed. We’re friends. What are friends for if not random bouts of unexplained moodiness.”

“Kate says she’ll go with you,” Bucky says abruptly, and Clint opens his eyes to find Bucky staring determinedly at the ground, still scowling. His cheeks are a little pink.

“Kate?”

“To Homecoming. She’s, uh. Nice.” He shrugs, looking incredibly uncomfortable. “You’ll like her. I think.”

Clint just stares at him helplessly. It’s one thing to turn Clint down, it’s another to try to find someone willing to go out with him. “Uhm. Okay,” he says. “Thanks?”

Bucky nods and walks away.

Seriously. What the fuck.

*

Kate is amazing. She’s flexible and light, easy to toss up and down, loud when the cheers call for it, and really pretty. She’s also hilarious, sarcastic, and a bit of a bitch.

But Clint doesn’t really want to go with her to Homecoming.

And he’s pretty sure she just agreed as a favour to Bucky, or more likely, Steve.

“So, my dress is gonna be purple,” she tells him, which makes sense. Not only is purple the official school colour, it’s also the best colour. “So don’t clash with that.”

“Okay,” Clint says. “My suit’s purple too, so.”

“Nice.”

He nods, she grins, and that’s it. She heads off to class and so does Clint. It’s not quite the high school musical he was looking for.

But at least it’s officially a date, so now Natasha is forced to go with Sam. Hopefully, by the end of the night, they’ll have gotten over whatever will-they-won’t-they game they’re playing and move on to being sappily in love or whatever.

Not that Clint’s jealous. More like begrudgingly confused.

But he has a date, so. Things have to be looking up.

*

On Wednesday, Maria goes shrill and a little crazy and decrees that they’ve got to practice morning, noon and night – essentially before school, lunch time, and after school. Homecoming isn’t just a big deal for the football team, it’s also pretty much the beginning of Official Cheerleader Season too, and she keeps shouting about their timing and their heights and Clint’s leg extensions.

Clint’s legs are amazing, but whatever.

Thursday morning, Clint’s dragging himself out of bed at 5 AM, and just as his dad’s crashing through the door, drunk and angry.

The best part about this crazy cheer schedule is that Clint’s barely seen his dad all week.

“Where’ve you been, Dad?” Clint asks, warily keeping his distance. His dad is a dick at the best of times, and drunk is hardly that. “It’s morning.”

“Me?” His father snaps, loud and slurred. Barney, passed out on the sofa, moans at the noise. “Where’ve you been, boy? Wasn’t any dinner when I got home last night.”

Which meant he’d had no choice but to go out to whatever bar he’d spent the night at. Right.

Clint rolls his eyes. “I told you,” he said. “I had practice after school all week.”

His dad’s blood shot eyes narrow and he snarls, “So now fucking high school football’s more important than your dad?”

Barney snorts. “Football,” he mumbles, blinking at Clint blearily. “More like fucking cheerleading.”

Clint feels the ground shift beneath his feet, his stomach clenching unpleasantly, because, damn it, his dad didn’t know. When Clint had floated the idea in freshman year, his dad had lost his shit, going into a weeklong rant about heteronormative bullshit that Clint had cheerfully decided to ignore.

Cheerleading didn’t make him less of a man and neither did really, really wanting to make out with Bucky Barnes.

“Barney,” he hisses, but it’s too late.

His father is shouting, his words too filled with slurring and rage to make much sense, but the anger comes across clear as day, as does his raised fist.

Clint stumbles back, arms coming up to protect his face with an instinct he’d developed as a child. It doesn’t matter; his father’s fist clips the side of his face, near his temple, and Clint stumbles back, tripping over his own goddamned feet.

He hadn’t even noticed he was that close to the basement stairs until suddenly the floor isn’t beneath his feet and he’s falling hard. It’s a brutal, graceless fall – he catches his shoulder, his mouth, his hip on the corner of separate steps before slamming his face into the railing, trying to catch himself. His dad is still shouting, something about how no child of his is going to embarrass the family this way, and Clint giggles a little hysterically because if only he knew about the whole bisexual thing, he wouldn’t be this mad about something as stupid as cheerleading.

And then, just before he hits the concrete floor, he tries to catch himself with his left foot, wedging it awkwardly against a step as he scrabbles for something to hold on to to slow his fall and instead, his foot twists at a brutal angle and something snaps.

The pain is white hot and searing and he’d scream if he hadn’t already knocked the air out of his lungs.

*

“Tasha?”

“It’s 5 AM, Barton, this better be good.” Her voice is muffled, soft with sleep.

Clint closes his eyes and takes a shaky breath and says, “I think I need to go to the hospital.”

There’s a beat of silence and then she says, voice suddenly sharp and cold, “Give me five minutes.”

*

He misses practice and by the time he gets out of the hospital with a cast on his ankle, he has thirty seven threatening texts from Maria. He’s also missed half a day of school.

His dad doesn’t bother to call or text at all.

“Maria’s gonna kill me,” Clint says, nervous, as Natasha drives him home.

“I’ll tell her you did your best to negotiate with the doctor,” Natasha reassures him. She looks grim, her mouth tight, and Clint knows she’s furious. She never handles Clint’s dad very well.

Clint had tried his best to negotiate with the doctor, asking hopefully if he’d be okay in a day or so after she told him to rest and take it easy. Her look of exasperation and firm, “Six weeks, minimum,” had broken his heart.

Clint closes his eyes and takes a deep breath when Natasha pulls up outside his house. “Thanks,” he says. “Can you grab the crutches for me? I don’t think I can manage –”

She shuts the car off. “Stay here,” she says, leaving the radio running as she marches into his house.

Clint just watches her go, eyes wide.

She’s back ten minutes later with his backpack, his books, and a duffle bag, which she tosses in the backseat before climbing back in, doing up her seat belt, and turning the car on.

“What—” Clint starts to ask, and she says calmly, “Mom’s already set the guest room up for you. You’re not going back there.”

Clint looks away quickly, blinking back tears and clearing his throat. “Okay,” he says, voice small, and Natasha just turns up the radio a little.

*

Five AM. Pain medication finally sinking in.

Clint shifts a little on the bench, balancing his crutches and his notepad, watching as the cheer team runs through a routine they were trying to adjust now that Clint couldn’t be part of it. He jots down a few notes, winces when Kate takes a tumble, and then, as they set up again, Bucky suddenly joins him.

“What happened to you?” he says, all casual, not even looking. Clint knows what he looks like, even discounting the cast, which Natasha had signed in large looping letters. His bottom lip is split and swollen and he’s got two stitches by his eye, which is turning a spectacular shade of purple.

“Fell,” Clint says. It’s not technically a lie.

Bucky finally looks at him, eyes narrow, and he reaches out, pressing his thumb to the clear skin right alongside the nasty bruise around Clint’s eye. Clint knows what it looks like – he’s seen enough bruises left by his father’s fist. But before he can pull away, Bucky lets his hand drop.

“Okay,” he says, quiet. “But if you change your mind about that, let me know.”

For a wild, amazing moment, Clint imagines Natasha and Bucky teaming up to teach his dad a lesson and it makes him smile, even though smiling hurts like a bitch. He blames the pain for the way he suddenly wants to cry.

“Just sucks that I can’t cheer tonight,” Clint confesses.

“Then why the fuck are you up this early?”

“Taking notes. Observing. Helping.” He shrugs.

Bucky nods and it’s quiet for a moment as the squad starts the routine again. Clint watches, but he’s not really seeing it this time.

“I never liked being the foundation anyway,” he admits, watching as they effortlessly toss Kate high enough to complete her twist. “Always wanted to be a flyer.”

Bucky’s still watching him. “Why weren’t you, then?”

“Other guys aren’t really into the idea of tossing a dude,” Clint says with a small grin. “Especially those two. Just in it to get laid. And not with me. Besides, it’s just a matter of strength. Girls are lighter, so it’s safer.”

“I’d toss you,” Bucky says, and Clint turns to look at him in time to see his cheeks go a little pink. “I mean, if I was a cheerleader. With two hands. And you… wanted me to.” He trails off.

Clint’s eyes widen a little and for a moment, he can’t think of what to say to that other than, “Oh god, yes, toss me, please toss me, any time you want, I am so up for that.”

That, he’s pretty sure, would violate the shaky terms of their friendship.

So instead, he opens his mouth and says breathily, “Okay.”

Which isn’t really all that much better.

But before he can spend too much time wishing for the ground to open up and swallow him, Steve, sweaty and dressed in his practice gear, is calling his name and jogging across the field.

“Clint! Oh my god, what did you do? How are you going to cheer like this? Are you okay? Let me sign your cast.”

And by the time Steve’s done, Bucky is gone.

*

“This is brutal,” Clint complains, as he hobbles down the hallway, doing his best to dodge panicking freshmen who are running late for class. Natasha’s carrying his books, which is sweet of her, and also glaring daggers at anybody who looks like they’re going to slam into Clint and cause him to lose his precarious balance.

“We can skip and hang out in the library,” she offers, because the library has so many cozy chairs. Clint has had many naps in the library.

“We just did that,” he grunts. “The librarian will get suspicious. Crutches hurt my armpits.”

She rolls her eyes and opens the classroom door for him, dropping his books on his desk and helping him arrange his crutches.

“Wait for me after class, I’ll come help you,” she says, before slipping out the door.

The teacher, who’d paused class to watch with raised eyebrows as Clint had burst in with a lot of dramatic flailing, whining, and graceless crutch maneuvering, resumes the lesson, and Clint sighs, wishing he was still sleeping in the library.

He slips another pain pill and does his best to make himself comfortable.

*

He manages to hobble through the day with Natasha’s assistance, and then she abandons him after lunch, when he’s on his way to math. He blames Sam – Sam definitely has something to do with this. Natasha wouldn’t abandon him for anyone, but he’s not above suspecting Sam of somehow locking her in a broom closet somewhere so he can try out some more of his smooth pick-up lines on her.

Either way, he’s alone and he’s got two crutches and a stack of books to manage, and he’s not graceful at the best of times, so. It’s a shit show.

“You’re going to hurt yourself,” Bucky says, appearing out of nowhere and scowling, just as Clint thinks maybe he’s mastering this whole stupid process.

He takes Clint’s stack of books Clint beams at him. “Bucky! Hey! I’ve been looking for you! But chasing anyone down on crutches fucking sucks.”

“You’re going to be late for class,” Bucky says. He grits his teeth and it does amazing things for his jawline.

Clint stares for a moment and then blinks and remembers that they’re just friends. Sometimes moody, hot and cold friends. So he says, “It’s okay. I get away with so much now that I have crutches.”

He takes a few awkward steps with his crutches and Bucky keeps pace with him, trying to balance Clint’s books and his own books as he does.

It’s sweet. It’s possible that, back when he was young and pure and less inclined to think with his dick, Clint had fantasized about Bucky carrying his books to class for him, all nice and old-fashioned and stuff.

To be fair, in the fantasy, Clint hadn’t been on crutches, and he also hadn’t paused to think about how awkward it would be to carry a giant stack of books with only one arm to do it with.

“Thanks,” Clint says, carefully navigating his way around a couple of seniors making out on the floor. “Natasha was going to help me, but I don’t know where she is.”

“I don’t mind,” Bucky says. “Anything you need, just—”

And then Clint takes a misstep, his crutch slips, he swings wildly to the side, his precarious balance fails him, and he’s going to fall on his face and it’s going to be the worst and –

And it seems to happen in slow motion, almost. Bucky tries to catch him – but he hasn’t got a free hand to do it with. The books fall from his grip and hit the ground in an avalanche of aging textbooks. Clint starts falling forward, arms wind milling wildly –

And then he crashes into a firm, muscular, warm chest and finds himself cradled in the amazing arms of Steve Rogers, resident white knight.

“Whoa,” Steve says, eyes wide and impossibly blue. “You okay, Clint?”

“Yeah,” Clint says, and if he sounds breathless, it’s not because he’s dreamed of being in Steve’s arms. Truly. It’s because he’s a graceless mess of a human being who’d nearly fallen flat on his face at the feet of his reluctant friend who he’s secretly got a giant crush on.

But maybe it looks like something else. Steve is cradling him gently against his broad chest, staring down at him with wide eyes and Clint is staring up at him with shock and gratitude and a bit of confusion, and they are surrounded by books that Bucky had done his best but hadn’t been able to hold onto. Just like he hadn’t managed to catch Clint.

And then Steve says, “Oh, your books. Let me grab those for you. Bucky, you okay?”

“Yeah,” Bucky snaps. “Jesus, Steve.”

Clint can’t see why Bucky’s mad at Steve, it’s not like Steve had tripped him, but Bucky looks pissed, grabbing his own books as Steve picks up Clint’s.

“Bucky was carrying my books,” Clint says faintly, because he’d really liked Bucky carrying his stupid books, damn it.

But Steve just smiles like sunshine and says, “It’s alright, I got it. We’re going to math anyway, right?”

“Jesus, Steve,” Bucky says again, before storming off down the hall.

Steve watches him go, frowning just a little, and Clint says uncertainly, “Maybe he thinks you tripped me.”

Steve doesn’t look all that convinced.

*

The pep rally is painful. They’ve put Clint in charge of music for the cheer team, a sad consolation prize because they do feel badly that he’s gotten himself injured right before the biggest cheer event of the season.

He’s got a seat front and centre, and someone’s even provided a milk crate to prop his foot up on.

The team is in the middle of their second routine when Natasha slides into the seat beside him, looking just a tiny bit sheepish.

“Sorry,” she says. “Sam —”

“Did you at least put the boy out of his misery and promise to go to the dance with him?” Clint asks, rolling his eyes.

She sighs. “Yeah. And made out with him in the janitor’s closet.”

Clint solemnly holds his fist out for a bump and it’s a testament to how badly Natasha feels about not carrying his books to math for him that she actually gives him one.

They’re quiet for a few moments, watching Kate fly through the air as the other girls do a series of flips and tucks in the front. It’s good, but Clint’s solo would have been better.

“That’s where my solo was gonna be,” he tells her, because his heart is aching a little bit.

She slides an arm around his shoulder and squeezes. “Would have been epic,” she tells him, head on his shoulder.

It really would have been.

*

Possibly the most frustrating part of breaking his ankle is that Clint can’t move. He can’t get any of his frenetic energy out, can’t randomly start showing off with handstands and somersaults. All he can do is awkwardly hop around on crutches, or find himself a cozy place to sit down and look pretty.

The bonfire after the pep rally is a shit show of fossil fuels, underaged drinking, dancing, and making out in the bushes. There are a handful of fights, too, but Clint’s never really cared about that part.

To be honest, he’d never cared about the dancing and the making out either until his injury kept him from dancing or wandering around hoping to run into someone willing to make out with him.

He’s sitting in the back of a pickup truck, stretched out on a pile of blankets while Steve sketches on his cast in the firelight, Tony sitting beside him and trying to get him drunk. Natasha and Sam are in the cab of the truck, talking and probably making out, and Bucky is nowhere to be seen.

He’s gotten really good at disappearing, and it’s weird, because Steve is here and, for the first time, Bucky’s not shadowing him.

Clint leans his head back and looks up at the stars and the sparks from the nearby fire swirling up into the sky and sighs. His face is aching, his ankle is aching, Natasha had threatened to take his pain killers away if he abused them anymore, and he’s still not drinking.

“Hey.”

Clint turns his head, blinking lazily at Barney, who’s come sidling up to the side of the truck. “You graduated two years ago,” Clint reminds him. “When did you become the older creep hanging out with high schoolers?”

Barney shrugs. “You didn’t come home.”

“Nope.”

“Dad’s pissed.”

Clint doesn’t care. He lets his head fall back again, silence stretching between them.

Finally, Barney says, “I didn’t know he didn’t know.”

“Of course he didn’t know,” Clint says. “Why would I tell him? I knew how he’d react.”

“It wasn’t his fault you fell.”

Clint turns to look at him, and he sees Barney study his bruised face for a moment before wincing and looking away. “I didn’t know he’d do that.”

Clint sighs. “You never do. It’s fine. I’m fine. And hey, he got what he wanted. No cheerleading for me.”

Barney fidgets for a moment and then says, “When you coming home?”

“Don’t know. When I can fight back, maybe.”

Barney flinches and then says, “It’s not the same with you not there.”

“Is it better?” Clint asks.

Barney shakes his head and then says, “Dad’s sorry too.”

“He’s always sorry, when he’s sober. Especially when I’m not there to cook him dinner. But I know it’s not your fault. It’s just… how it is. It’s fine. I’ll come home eventually. Okay?”

Looking relieved, like he got the absolution he was looking for, Barney nods and mumbles something about seeing him later, and Clint’s glad to see him go.

And then he realizes that Steve and Tony are staring at him and that they heard all of it.

Clint’s face flushes and he tries pulling away, running away, before they can say anything, but it’s awkward with a cast, especially when that cast is on Steve’s lap. Steve holds onto it and doesn’t let him go.

But instead of talking about what Barney had said, Steve says, quiet, “I’m done the drawing, do you want to see?”

Grateful for the reprieve, Clint sits up, squinting in the firelight at the scene Steve has sketched out in permanent marker on his cast.

“Is that me?” he asks, tracing the drying ink with his fingers.

“Yeah. You’re a flyer, like you want to be,” Steve says, still quiet and gentle. “See? You’re doing a flip in the air here.”

But Clint isn’t looking at the drawing anymore, he’s staring at Steve, because he never told Steve about that. He never told anyone. Just Bucky.

“How did you know about that?”

Steve looks up at him, careful, like it’s important, and says, “Bucky told me.” Then he looks back at the drawing and says, “And here’s Bucky, he’s waiting to catch you.”

Clint looks down and sees the drawing of Bucky, with two arms and a mess of hair in his face. The little drawing of Bucky has his tongue sticking out in concentration. “Bucky talked about me?”

“Clint,” Steve says. “Bucky always talks about you.”

Clint looks away quickly, blinking back stupid tears because his brother always fucks with his head, and he’s not emotionally prepared to try to figure out what that means when combined with how Bucky can’t seem to be around him for longer than five minutes at a time, even when they’re trying to be friends.

“Bucky hardly talks at all,” he says, ignoring how his voice shakes a little.

“He talks to me.” Steve shrugs.

Clint looks back at him, taking a deep breath. “Bad things?”

“No. Well. Sometimes.” Steve grins a little. “He bitches about you all the time, actually.”

His shoulders slump. “Oh,” he says. “Thought so. He can’t seem to be around me very long. I mean, I know I have a… strong personality. And I irritate the fuck out of people. And—”

“Clint,” Steve interrupts, rolling his eyes. “He bitches about how you need someone to take care of you.”

Clint flops against the back of the truck bed and throws up his hands and says, “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with that.”

“Just… think about it,” Steve suggests. “He’s… he’s the best guy I know.”

Clint really doesn’t need anybody telling him how great Bucky is. The problem is Bucky doesn’t seem to think Clint is great in return.

He pulls away, carefully, pulling his knees up as best he can with the cast and wrapping his arms around them. “We’re trying to be friends,” he says to Steve. “I’m trying really hard.”

Steve frowns and looks like he’s going to say something else, but Tony tugs on his hand, leaning over to whisper something to him, and Steve looks back at Clint once before nodding reluctantly. They slide off the truck and Steve heads to the cab, saying something to Natasha before following Tony off towards the table with the drinks.

A few minutes later, Natasha climbs into the back of the truck with him, curling up beside him and laying her head on his shoulders.

“Steve thinks you look tired,” she says.

“I feel tired,” Clint confesses, going limp against her.

“Time to go home?”

Clint considers it for a moment and then says, “What if Bucky shows up?”

She sighs, tightening her arm around his shoulders. “You’re a mess, Barton.”

“It’s part of my charm.”

But he’s not sure it is, not really.

And Bucky doesn’t show up.

*

The Homecoming dance takes over the gym the next evening, decked out with crepe paper streamers and banners made by the Social Club. There’s a disco ball, a fair amount of lights, a smoke machine and a DJ who seems determined to make his way through the entire Spice Girls musical catalogue before the night is over.

Clint has been abandoned by his date – Kate had apologetically asked him if he minded if she hung out with her friends who could actually dance and he hadn’t minded, not really — and Natasha, who was dancing with Sam and seemed to have relaxed her pretend belligerence since the whole making out in the closet incident.

Clint runs into Steve as he’s making his way over to the benches along the wall, and Steve smiles and says, “Hey, wanna dance with us?”

‘Us’ is Steve and Tony, and Tony instantly tries communicating that Clint ought to say no with exaggerated movements of his eyebrows.

Clint smiles a little. “Nah. Can’t keep my balance,” he says.

“I’ll hold you up,” Steve promises earnestly, but Clint doesn’t want Steve to hold him up.

He looks around and says wistfully, “Is Bucky here?”

“No,” Steve says. “You wanna dance with Bucky?”

“I don’t think I can dance with anybody,” Clint confesses.

So Steve helps him to the benches and gets him a drink of punch before Tony dumps his bottle of vodka in it which is super nice of them.

He’s absently singing along to Viva Forever and watching Tony finally convince Steve to make out with him on the dancefloor and then the smoke machines kick up to high gear and Clint can’t even amuse himself with his voyeuristic tendencies as he loses sight of everyone on the dance floor.

He wonders if he’s fulfilled his obligations to Natasha. He put on his suit, he showed up with a date, he hung out with her while she continued to play hard to get with Sam. Surely he can leave now.

But he doesn’t like the idea of Natasha possibly looking for him later and worrying about him. He also doesn’t have a way home without a ride from her. Usually he’d just walk, but. Crutches make everything more brutal than it has to be.

The smoke is getting suffocating though, so he gets up and grabs his crutches and makes his way out the side door.

There’s a handful of students out there smoking and he hobbles a little ways away, finding a seat on a low stone wall and sitting down gratefully, letting his feet hang and taking deep breaths of the fresh air.

It’s a nice crisp breeze, fall is finally coming, and he closes his eyes.

“You look like you need a smoke.”

Clint squints as Rumlow joins him, holding out a smoke. It’s not tobacco.

“What’s with you always trying to get me incapacitated?” Clint asks and Rumlow shrugs, taking a drag of the joint.

“You always seem kinda high strung,” he says. “Just trying to help you unclench a bit.”

“I’m not high strung. I just don’t wanna unclench with you,” Clint tells him.

“Saw Rogers and Stark hooking up on the dance floor,” Rumlow says, nice and easy. “Figured you were out here nursing a broken heart.”

“Over Steve and Tony?” Clint cocks his head, confused. “They’ve been building up to this since they were kids.”

Rumlow leans back, kicking his feet out and lazing on the wall, smoking his joint until it’s gone. He tosses the bud, stretches his arms up over his head, and says, “So, we gonna do this or what?”

Clint, who’s just decided to head back inside because his peace and quiet was ruined when Rumlow decided to join him, says, “What? Do what?”

Rumlow rolls his eyes. “Hook up. My car’s just over there.” He jerks his head towards the parking lot and Clint can’t help but laugh.

“What are you talking about? Why would we hook up?”

“You can’t tell me you don’t want me,” Rumlow says.

“I can tell you that. I’m pretty sure I have told you that. Repeatedly.”

“Just like Steve’s told Tony. And Natasha’s told Sam. I know how the game works. I just thought we could cut to the ending bit. Steve broke your heart. Let’s go fuck.”

“You… I… No. That’s not what’s happening here. You’re an asshole. And I don’t hook up with assholes? At least, not your kind of asshole.” Because Bucky had his moments. “Listen. Sorry you got the wrong idea, but…” Clint gathers up his crutches and hauls himself up onto his feet. “I’m gonna head back inside.”

“Are you serious?” Rumlow curses, standing up as well. “You’ve just been wasting my time?”

Clint can’t help but laugh again. “Sorry? I didn’t know? I mean, you don’t even like me. So.”

“You don’t have to fucking like someone to fuck them,” Rumlow snaps. “All you’ve gotta do is take it, and you’ve been doing that for everyone else, so why the fuck not me?”

“I – what?” Clint shakes his head. “I think you’re confused. I haven’t – and even if I have, that doesn’t mean I owe you anything, or… listen. You’re kind of being a dick, so I’m going to go inside. Okay?”

He starts trying to make his way back towards the door, but Rumlow gets frustrated and shoves his shoulder. “You don’t just get to walk away,” he says.

Clint doesn’t care what he has to say, but he staggers forward, trying to catch himself on his broken ankle, which hurts like a bitch. He manages to stay on his feet but it’s a near thing, and it pisses him off.

He spins around and snaps, “Listen, I get that you have some fucked up ideas of consent and sex and whatever else, but don’t fucking touch me.”

Rumlow twists a fist in Clint’s shirt and jerks him forward with a snarl. “You think I want to touch you?” he hisses. “You’re a mess, Barton. You’re a walking disaster. Whoever beat the shit out of you did the world a favour, you had it coming. You—”

Clint has had just about enough of the past few days. He’s in pain, he’s suffering a bit of a broken heart, he dressed up in his stupid purple suit hoping to impress a guy who hadn’t bothered coming to the dance, and now Brock Rumlow wouldn’t keep his goddamned hands to himself?

Fuck it.

Clint slams his fist into Rumlow’s face with all the strength he can muster. It hurts when his knuckles grind against Rumlow’s cheekbone, but the pain is lost under a rush of smug satisfaction as Rumlow’s face snaps to the side, his lip splits, and blood runs down his ugly, ill-fitting and boring black button up.

“Fuck you,” Clint snaps, and before Rumlow can hit back, Clint shoves him, sending him tumbling over the low wall they’d been sitting on, landing in a bloodied, cursing heap.

Clint’s probably about to get the shit kicked out of him again, but he can’t regret it. Punching Rumlow in the face is the highlight in a pretty shitty week.

“Clint? Are you… what’s happening?”

Clint spins around as best he can and Bucky’s standing there, partially illuminated in the light spilling from the door opened to the gymnasium. His hair is scraped back in a messy bun, he’s wearing another black hoodie and jeans, he’s clearly not dressed up for a fancy dance at all, and yet, he’s there. None of the rest of it matters.

“Hi,” Clint says, voice embarrassingly breathy, but whatever. He smiles at Bucky and then behind him, Rumlow groans and starts levering himself to his feet.

Bucky looks from Clint to Rumlow’s bloodied face and steps closer, growling. “What did he do?”

“Got handsy. Called me a walking human disaster. Said I deserved it when my dad punched me in the face,” Clint says easily. “But I got it handled. Don’t worry.”

Bucky doesn’t look like he agrees, and Rumlow seems to think that getting back at Clint in the face of Bucky’s disagreement isn’t worth the fight.

He skulks off to the gym, probably to wash his face off in the bathroom, and Bucky looks like he’s going to follow before Clint grabs him by the wrist.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, because Rumlow doesn’t matter.

Bucky turns back, looking hesitant. He shrugs. “Steve said you were looking for me,” he says finally, a muscle flexing in his jaw as he looks away.

Clint stares at him for a long moment, trying to piece it together – how Bucky keeps disappearing, how he runs hot and cold, how they’re trying to just be friends, how he apparently talks about Clint to Steve, how angry Bucky got when he tried to carry Clint’s books and couldn’t manage it, how the friends thing doesn’t seem to be working the way it’s supposed to.

And he thinks maybe Bucky doesn’t want to be friends at all.

He steps closer, carefully testing out the idea, and Bucky’s eyes instantly fly to his, looking wary.

“What are you doing?” Bucky asks, nervous.

“I was looking for you,” Clint confesses. “I’m always looking for you.”

Bucky looks down at Clint’s lips and swallows and says, voice low, “Why?”

Clint isn’t sure he can find the words, it seems too much of a risk, so instead, he closes the distance between them and kisses him.

It’s sweet and a little off-centre and Clint is afraid to breathe or move but it feels like the whole world shifts around him.

Which sucks, with the cast and his crutches.

The kiss knocks him off balance but before he can fall, Bucky’s got him, his arm tucked around Clint’s back, holding him close. And Bucky kisses him back, careful and achingly gentle and this is it, this is perfect, this is everything Clint has been dreaming about since the fourth grade.

And then Bucky jerks away, eyes wide and panicky and he lets Clint go.

It takes a moment to catch his balance, and by the time he does, Bucky’s already backed up out of his personal space, looking like he’s about to bolt.

“Don’t go,” Clint says quickly. “You keep disappearing. Just… I’m sorry. Just stay.”

“You don’t get to do that,” Bucky tells him.

“Because we’re just friends?” Maybe Clint read it wrong.

Bucky shakes his head violently. “You don’t get to kiss me because Steve goes and breaks your heart.”

“Steve?” Clint echoes, completely lost. He sits back down on the wall, dropping his crutches and absently rubbing at his hand which is beginning to ache from hitting Rumlow. “Steve didn’t break my heart. Why do people keep saying Steve broke my heart?”

Bucky stays standing, glaring into nothing, his jaw tight. “I get it,” he says. “He’s Steve. I know what he looks like and I know what a great guy he is and I get it, okay?”

Clint frowns at him. “Are you sure you didn’t get your heart broken by Steve?”

“Jesus Christ,” Bucky snaps, finally dropping down to sit a careful distance away from him. “No, Clint, Steve hasn’t broken my fucking heart. My heart is fine.”

“Well,” says Clint, slow as he tries to piece together what the fuck is going on. “So’s mine. Mostly. I mean, a little bruised like the rest of me, I guess.” He looks away quickly. “But Steve’s never touched it.”

“Clint,” Bucky says, exasperated. “You follow him around wherever he goes.”

“Yeah.” Clint’s getting tired of this entire thing, so he’s honest. “Because that’s where you usually are.”

It’s Bucky’s turn to look stunned. “But Steve—”

Clint kicks his unbroken heel against the wall and stares down at his swinging foot, saying, “I lost most of my hearing in the fourth grade, ironically after my dad kicked me down the stairs. I came to school a while later, bruised all to shit, with hearing aids in, and kids are fucking dicks. They started in on me before class even started, and by lunch time, Natasha already had a week’s worth of detention from kicking the shittiest kids in the balls for me when they tried to break my hearing aids or scream in my ears to see if I could hear them.” He takes a deep breath. “At lunch time, a couple kids cornered me back behind the school and they kept saying shit about my family and my dad and my hearing and I tried to fight back but they were bigger than me.”

“Clint,” Bucky says, quiet, but Clint’s not done yet.

“I thought they were gonna beat the shit out of me and I was so sick of having the shit beat outta me but before they could hurt me too much, Steve burst onto the scene.” He smiles a little, fond, and says, “Remember when he used to be small? He started shoving them and shouting about bullies and telling them to pick on someone their own size and a fight broke out and he was so fucking small, I tried to keep him from the worst of it and ended up getting smashed in the face, which was already a shit show. Blood everywhere, went flying, landed in a heap. And I thought they were gonna kill Steve but before they could, there you were.” He hesitates, glancing at Bucky.

“Clint,” he says again, but Clint just shakes his head.

“I was so scared thinking Steve was gonna get hurt because of me. I wasn’t worth that. And before he could, you just. Showed up. And sent those kids running. And you picked Steve up and dusted him off and called him an idiot and then you helped me up and you.” He swallows hard and his voice breaks a little. “And you said if I had any more trouble with those punks, to just let you know.” Clint lets out a careful breath and says, “You probably don’t remember.”

Bucky laughs a little, shaking his head. “Of course I remember,” he says. “Fucking tragic blondes. Between you and Steve, I’m lucky I got through elementary without an anxiety disorder.”

“You do?” Clint asks, eyes wide.

“You know what else I remember? Coming to school in junior high after the accident and being so fucking angry and just waiting for someone to comment, someone to say something, anything, that I could take offense at. And Steve kept offering to carry shit for me or tie my fucking shoes or open my juice box and I just wanted it to stop for one goddamned minute. And then I was trying to open my locker and I couldn’t get it to work and you stopped and asked me if I needed a hand, with this goddamned smirk on your face.”

Clint winces. “It’s possible my flirting was a little… rough back then,” he says.

Bucky ducks his head and hides a smile and says, “First time I laughed since the accident.”

Clint slides a little closer. “I was never into Steve,” he says.

“You flirt with him all the time,” Bucky admits. “It drives me nuts.”

“There’s a difference between flirting for the hell of it and flirting with intent,” Clint tells him, scooting another inch closer. “I save all my best lines for you.”

Bucky bites his lip to hide a growing smile. “Those were your best lines? I’m beginning to regret everything.”

Clint hesitates. “You are?”

“No,” Bucky says, and then he kisses him. It’s a much different kiss than the other had been, and Clint’s glad he’s sitting down for it or he’d probably fallen right over.

As it is, he almost falls off the wall anyway.

“You’re a disaster,” Bucky tells him, catching him before he tumbles and pulling him close for another kiss.

He sounds fond and it’s kinda true, so Clint doesn’t argue.

*

The next day, someone steals Clint’s father’s truck and smashes it into a brick wall and there are no witnesses, so. That sucks for him.

Clint doesn’t tell anyone about how Bucky so casually asked about his dad’s make and model the day before.

The end.