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In a compound filled with strong, gorgeous superheroes, Bucky found Clint to be the most beautiful.
There was no other word for it, really. ‘Handsome’ couldn’t possibly capture the grace of Clint’s movements, the arch of his back or the curves of his muscles, flowing like poetry in motion. Even when Clint was tripping over nothing, dropping shit on the floor, or hopping around on one foot after stepping on the Playstation controller, the way his body worked was nothing short of captivating.
‘Pretty’ wouldn’t cut it either, Bucky thought, because though the word frequently popped into his mind whenever he caught Clint’s eyes or zeroed in on the bow of the archer’s lips, ‘pretty’ wasn’t nearly enough. It wasn’t enough to describe the melody of Clint’s laughter, the depth of Clint’s loyalty, or the way his mind worked. As an assassin, always calculating, far more intelligent than anybody gave him credit for.
Except for Bucky, of course. Bucky found it easy to give Clint credit.
There were other descriptors that were often thrown around when people spoke about the Avengers. ‘Gorgeous,’ ‘hot,’ ‘sexy.’ Clint was, of course, all of these things as well. Bucky could barely breathe with how erotic he found Clint’s body, could feel heat spreading from his core to his fingers and toes whenever he watched Clint in action, whether on mission or in the range. Clint had awoken pieces of Bucky that he had thought to be long dead and ripped away from him and that in itself was gloriously, painfully beautiful.
Bucky was terrified of him.
He flinched when Clint sat too close and could only manage to growl one or two-word answers if Clint tried to strike up a conversation. Sometimes, Bucky’s heart would be beating too wildly to make out what Clint was saying, so he would simply not respond, eyes averted to the floor to avoid being caught staring. Because if Clint caught Bucky staring, if he knew how badly Bucky wanted to sit a little closer, pressed to Clint’s side...if Clint could feel the rabbiting of Bucky’s typically strong and steady heart whenever he was around, he would…?
Bucky didn’t know, and therefore Bucky didn’t do anything.
He knew the others had noticed, Clint included. It had taken time, so much time, but over the months Bucky had slowly acclimated to everyone at the compound. Stevie had been first, Bucky’s memories coming back whenever Steve would do or say something familiar. Bucky liked Sam, liked the snarky friendship that they had built between them. Bucky generally got on well with the gals, though there was a lot of residual tension that had to be resolved between himself and Natasha at the beginning, but she also felt familiar and Wanda was stellar at cards. When Thor was on planet Bucky would inevitably be sporting a braid or two in his hair before the God left, and he would often sit with Bruce in the basement lab when he needed to be quietly useful, handing Bruce tools, writing utensils and whatever else. It had taken Bucky more time to get comfortable around Vision because, well, he didn’t exactly know what was kosher when it came to interacting with that level of tech. Tony tried to teach him to talk to the AI in the compound like they were fellow team members and Bucky tried, often engaging with Friday and the bots when he visited Tony’s workshop for maintenance. That one there, Tony, that had been a tumultuous building of trust and forgiveness, but they had gotten there and Bucky would take a bullet for the man, no questions asked.
Clint, on the other hand?
Clint tried. He tried to engage Bucky every damn time they were in a room or on a roof together, sniping down targets or simply reporting aerial visuals. Playing video games and shooting together at the range had both failed for the same reason (being that Bucky would eventually get angry at how hard and fast his heart would beat at the sight of Clint’s hands wrapped gorgeously around the controller or his bow), and every time Clint had tried to share coffee or food with Bucky he had made a hasty exit because there wasn’t a fiber in Bucky’s body that didn’t illuminate at the pleased and satisfied sounds that Clint would make when something tasted good.
On missions, Clint would try to lighten the mood and was often successful, even with Bucky. Bucky found himself struggling to control the wide grin that would often threaten to escape when Clint cracked terrible jokes, and had once lost control and let loose a bark of laughter at a particularly witty statement that Clint had shot at Tony offhandedly. Bucky would never forget the surprise on Clint’s face at his laughter, nor would he forget quickly stomping it down before stammering an excuse to head back to his bunk on the jet. He hadn’t even been a part of the conversation, how creepy was he for eavesdropping?
Steve had visited his room at the compound shortly after that, sitting down with Bucky on the couch and staring at him with those big, lost puppy dog eyes.
“Buck, what is it about Clint that makes you uncomfortable?” Steve asked, and Bucky choked on his swig of water.
“What? Nothin. He’s...fine.”
Bucky could hear the lie himself and didn’t need to look over at Steve to know that he was getting a disappointed glare/small concerned frown combo.
“You know, he asked me if he should ask to be reassigned to another team, or to lead training for new recruits. Asked if I thought it would put you more at ease if he wasn’t around as much.”
Bucky’s head snapped up at that, his chest feeling tight and painfully heavy. “What? No! I don’t. It’s not. I don’t want him to go anywhere. Ever.” Bucky could feel his throat tightening. “What did you say?”
Steve raised an eyebrow. “I told him that as two grown adult men I would like to see the two of you pull your heads out of your asses and talk about this.”
Bucky felt instantly defensive and deflated at the same time. “You said a bad word,” he shot back, mockingly. It only took a few seconds for him to fold under the unamused glare that Steve shot him at that, and all of the fight drained out of his body. Bucky groaned and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, face in his hands.
“I’m sweet on him, Stevie, and I don’t know what to do.”
When Steve didn’t seem to have a comment on the matter, Bucky looked up to see the jerk grinning at him fondly.
“Don’t you dare say anything involving the words ‘awe,’ ‘cute,’ or ‘adorable.’ I’ll hurt you, Rogers.”
Steve’s grin somehow managed to grow larger. “I think it’s real lovely, Buck!”
Bucky threw pillows at him until he got up and retreated towards the door.
“Talk to Clint!” Steve called on his way out. “Captain’s orders!”
The last pillow in Bucky’s arsenal didn’t even make a satisfying sound when it hit the door behind him.
*
Bucky could feel himself trembling as he rapped on Clint’s door later that night. Much later that night, technically the next day. Bucky had been pacing up and down the hallway debating for such a long time that nearly 45 minutes had slipped by and he was now knocking on his teammate’s door at an ungodly hour.
Perfect start.
Part of him prayed that Clint was asleep, hearing aids anywhere but in his ears so that Bucky could slip away with the knowledge that he tried to reach out. The other part of him thrummed with butterflies and energy, wanting more than anything to set his sights on Clint’s beautiful eyes. He wondered if he could draw a smile out of him before totally weirding the guy out. A smile would be the best possible outcome.
Fate decided for him that it would be the latter part of Bucky that got its satisfaction. Clint opened the door tentatively only a few seconds after Bucky knocked. Bucky froze, not having planned out what to say, and Clint simply gaped for a few seconds before swallowing and opening the door a bit wider.
“Huh. When I asked Friday who was prowling around out here, I didn’t quite believe her when she told me it was you. But here you are.” Clint didn’t sound upset about finding Bucky on the other side of his door. Nor did he sound particularly thrilled. He sounded unsure, Bucky decided, and at least that made both of them.
“Is. Is it okay? That I’m here, I mean,” Bucky stuttered out, hiding his hands in his hoodie sleeves and squeezing the cuffs tightly. An anxious habit.
Clint looked even more confused, and Bucky’s breath caught in his throat with how much he ached to smooth away the creases in the corners of Clint’s eyes.
“Yeah? It’s fine. As long as you haven’t finally made up your mind to murder me.”
Bucky knew that Clint was joking, could tell by the inflection in his voice and the spark in those eyes, but that did nothing to stop his stomach from dropping out in hurt. So Steve hadn’t been over exaggerating, then. Clint really thought Bucky despised him, was so surprised by him showing up at his apartment and it made Bucky loathe himself and how he had been treating Clint this entire time.
“I don’t hate you,” Bucky said, dropping his eyes from Clint’s face to a spot above Clint’s shoulder, in his apartment. “So you’re safe.” The last words came out barely above a whisper and Bucky couldn’t stand how weak he sounded.
“Hey. Hey? I know I’m safe. I was just trying to use shitty humor to deflect that fact that I’m hella nervous, it’s kinda what I do.” Clint sounded apologetic and this wasn’t going at all how Bucky wanted it to go.
“That’s just it, Clint. I don’t want to make you nervous. I, uh, I know that you requested a transfer from the team, because of me. I was hopin’ we could talk about that?”
When Bucky shifted his view back to Clint, there was a red blush deepening on his cheeks. Bucky figured it was because of his knowledge about the transfer and was totally taken aback by Clint’s response.
“That’s the first time you’ve ever used my name. Didja know that?”
Bucky rubbed his face in exasperation. “Dammit, I really don’t wanna have this conversation in the hallway. Can I come in, or no?”
Clint looked startled for a moment before stepping backward and motioning inside. “Sorry. I’m an ass. Come on in.”
Bucky moved past Clint, trying not to lean into his body heat as he did so, and stood awkwardly in the entrance leading to the rest of the apartment. Clint closed the door behind him and motioned Bucky forward, urging him to the living room. Bucky took in his surroundings; mismatched yet comfortable looking furniture, an old coffee table with moisture rings scarring the wood, a large television screwed into the wall and so many blankets thrown over nearly every surface. Bucky sat on the couch, sinking down tentatively, and looked up to start explaining himself. His voice died in his throat when he realized that Clint hadn’t followed him into the room.
“Coffee, Barnes?” Clint called from the kitchen. With nobody around to notice, Bucky let himself smile in amusement. Amusement, adoration, same thing.
“You know it’s two in the morning?” Bucky responded. He heard Clint chuckle as he clattered about. The chuckle quickly turned into a groan, immediately followed by the crashing sound of breaking glass. Bucky jumped up from the couch and made it to the kitchen in three strides.
“Everything alright in here?” Bucky asked, stopping just short of where Clint was leaning over in the kitchen entrance. Clint was picking up pieces of a broken mug, gathering the ceramic in his hands. Clint huffed.
“Fine. Standard fare. I can shoot a two-inch target on the ground from the sky, but I can’t manage basic human functions.” Clint sounded self-deprecating, and Bucky’s heart sank.
“Clint-”
“Aw, futz!” Clint yelped, body jumping slightly. Bucky could smell the blood before Clint even stood up to toss the remains of the mug into the garbage and step to the sink to rinse the fresh cut on his palm.
“Aw, no. This might need stitches.” Clint’s voice was resigned and tired, as though this happened a lot. Come to think of it, Bucky did notice that Clint often sported bandages, wraps, and a plethora of colorful bruises most of the time. Bucky often thought that the purples, greens and yellows against Clint’s skin were aesthetically pleasing, a story to be read on the archer’s flesh, one that Bucky was all too interested in reading.
Bucky swallowed and stepped closer to where Clint was rinsing his palm.
“Can I take a look?”
Clint’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Uh, sure. Why the hell not,” he said slowly, pulling his hand from under the stream of water and extending it towards Bucky. Bucky gingerly took Clint’s hand in both of his own and leaned down to get a better view.
“A stitch or two probably wouldn’t hurt, but glue should hold it just fine. You got a first aid kit around here?” Bucky asked. Clint responded by nudging the cupboard beneath the sink with his foot. Bucky shot him an exasperated look.
“You keep a first aid kit in every room?”
“It’s cute that you think there’s only one in this room, Barnes. Really.”
Bucky let go of Clint’s hand and fished the kit out from under the sink. It only took him a moment to rifle through the contents and set aside what he needed. He worked silently and Clint stood stock still, as though afraid to frighten Bucky out of the room.
“Ya know,” Bucky started, as he dabbed at Clint’s palm with clean gauze, “you can call me Bucky. Everyone else does.”
Clint winced, and Bucky figured that it had less to do with his injury than with Bucky’s statement.
“That’s nice of you, but you don’t have to do that, you know. Try to make me feel like you like me the same as them. I know you don’t.”
Clint sounded so matter of fact about it that Bucky couldn’t help but make a wounded sound. Not knowing what to say (and trying to parse out a million things that he wanted to say), Bucky focused on holding Clint’s wound together with his metal fingers as he applied a strip of medical glue to the small, deep cut.
Clint didn’t try to fill the following silence that surrounded them, either. It stretched between them as Bucky covered Clint’s palm with a large bandaid, followed by an ace bandage wrap. Bucky wrapped Clint’s hand with care, as much as he could muster, enjoying the shockwaves that traveled through his body whenever his fingers brushed Clint’s skin. Once finished, Bucky found that though he could easily drop Clint’s hand and break their contact, he really didn’t want to. Instead, he rested the fingers of his flesh hand on the paper-thin flesh of Clint’s wrist, covering Clint’s hand with his own.
“You're right, you know,” Bucky whispered, daring to look into Clint’s eyes. “I don’t like you the same. Never have. I’ve tried, and I just can’t manage it.”
To his credit, Clint didn’t pull away, or step back, or punch Bucky in the face. Though he couldn’t hide the maelstrom of hurt that flickered over his features, he simply nodded.
“That’s why I went to Steve. I know you’ve worked real hard to make a home and a team here, Barnes, and I don’t wanna be the asshole that stands in the way of that.”
Bucky’s heart was fit to burst, and he reached forward with his metal hand to wrap his fingers around Clint’s other wrist and stepped closer into Clint’s space. Clint simply let him, and fuck it if Bucky didn’t feel like crying.
“What I meant is that I like you more, Clint. I can’t stand it, bein’ in the same room with you, because all I wanna do is touch you like this and I don’t know if this is okay. Is it, okay?” Bucky brushed his thumbs over Clint’s wrists as he spoke, the warmth keeping him grounded.
Clint’s mouth fell open a little, eyes widening as Bucky’s words sunk in.
“You mean, you really don’t hate me?”
Bucky laughed and it sounded bright even to himself. Clint’s cheeks grew rosy red at the sound, and Bucky thought that maybe his touch wasn’t entirely unwelcome, after all.
“No, sweetheart. The only thing I hate about you is how I can never manage to find the right word for how fuckin’ beautiful you are.” The words rushed out of Bucky, a confidence flowing through him that he could remember feeling way back when, in another life, even if only a little.
Clint let slip a small groan, the sound sparking something in Bucky’s belly. Clint leaned forward, forehead resting against Bucky’s own, moving his hands until their fingers were intertwined.
“Christ, Barnes, you’ve got no idea. I don’t think this is real, probably got a concussion somehow, cuz this is better than anything I’ve been dreaming about since you got outta that comically small fuckin’ car at the airport. I tried so hard, wanted to be close to you, never thought this would be the reason why I couldn’t be.”
That long, Bucky thought. Longer than I’ve wanted this, fuck.
“Clint, I know I said I don’t hate you, and I don’t think I really could, but I might crawl outta my skin if you don’t get your lips on me right now,” Bucky pleaded, barely finishing his statement before Clint complied, covering Bucky’s mouth with his own in a kiss that was far more tentative than Bucky had thought it would be, but also warmer, softer, and perfect.
“Bucky” Clint whispered between kisses, in the moments that they separated before slotting back together. Bucky keened, and Clint responded enthusiastically, pressing his body into Bucky’s and trapping him between himself and the counter. Clint whispered his name, over and over again, causing Bucky’s head to spin and his body to float, creating a coiling hot burn of want throughout his body.
“You,” Clint gasped as he kissed down the column of Bucky’s throat, “are fucking divine.”
And Bucky smiled because that’s what it was, the word he had needed all this time, and he couldn’t wait to discover all the ways in which they could be divine, together.