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"Your roommate hates me," Steve says, and Bucky'd snort but he's a little afraid of what'll come out of his nose. He's got the annoying first stages of a cold - the sore throat, the snot, the pathetic coughing that's just not satisfying but is still enough to keep him awake at night. He's dealing with this - 'cos he's almost practically an adult, now - by refusing to get dressed, still in the sagging boxers he'd worn to bed, only now with Steve's sweater on top. He's got the sleeve folded over his hand, the other tucked into the kangaroo pocket where it's not gonna get in his way, and the hood drawn up over his head.
"No way Clint hates you," he says. "Clint likes basically everybody." The only person Bucky has ever met that Clint actively disliked was that one guy they'd seen kicking his dog - Bucky had had to wrap his arm around Clint's chest and physically force him away, for fear there was gonna be goddamn murder done. It was a little scary and - appallingly - a whole lot of sexy, and the only way Bucky had resisted kissing him was the sheer misery on the guy's face when the police had arrived and he'd realised they couldn't keep the dog. Bucky had wrapped him in as much of a hug as he could manage, instead, rocking him back and forth a little with Clint's cold nose tucked in to the crook of his neck.
That was the first time they'd hugged, but Clint took it like permission, like the invitation Bucky wouldn't ever have admitted out loud that it was, and suddenly his hot-as-fuck goofy roommate, with the idiot sense of humor and the muscles that went on for goddamn days, was also the guy curled up against his shoulder when they watched movies on Bucky's bed.
So yeah - Bucky's been basically fucked since almost the moment his assigned roommate showed up and introduced himself with an Iowan sunshine grin, but Clint... Clint likes basically everybody. Kinda hard to make that feel special.
Especially with how distant he's been acting over the last few days.
There's the rattle of the key in the lock and Bucky has to kick Steve when he chokes on a laugh - sure, maybe Bucky may have perked up a little, but that's just 'cos they've run out of coffee and there's no way Clint would've allowed that to stand. That's the only reason.
"Hey Buck," Clint calls from the entranceway, over extended rustling thumps 'cos he always has to kick his shoes off instead of removing them like a normal person. "Guy at the CVS recommended these weird Vitamin C supplements but I also picked up some of that pseudo-whateverthefuck in case it gets - oh."
He stops in the doorway, a couple plastic bags in each hand, and there's just a moment's echo of that awful lost-dog misery on his face before he sucks it up and aims for a smile.
"Hey, Steve."
He curls around the couch and steps over their outstretched legs, rustling and banging a few things in the kitchen before coming back out with a steaming mug that he pushes into Bucky's hands. Bucky can't smell anything right now but he's willing to bet that it's gonna taste like shit; nothing that particular shade of off-yellow is gonna be a good thing to put in his mouth.
"But coff-"
"Honey, ginger, lemon," Steve says, and smiles up at Clint brightly. "That's gonna be great for his throat, thank you." He says it with a meaningful look at Bucky, who mutters something that could, with a favouring wind, possibly be interpreted as thanks. Clint rubs the back of his neck and clenches his jaw before retreating into his bedroom and slamming the door after him.
"Huh," Bucky says, his throat grating annoyingly. "Maybe he does hate you." He took a sip and grimaced. "Maybe he hates me."
"Huh. Maybe." Steve gives him a weird sort of sidelong smile, and pushes himself to his feet, going into the kitchen and rummaging. "Yours is the second shelf in the refrigerator, right?"
"Don't eat the goddamn jello," Bucky says, slumping a little further into the couch.
"There's better stuff than jello in here." Steve reappears with a carton bearing a familiar logo.
"Shit, Angelo's? That's - that's not mine, no way I can afford -"
"It was on your shelf," Steve says, and sloshes the liquid a little, peering at it. "Chicken noodle, too." He grins at Bucky before he wanders back into the kitchen. "Don't think Clint hates you," he says, and Bucky scowls at the way he can feel the heat climbing into his cheeks.
"You haven't tasted this fuckin' drink," he grumbles.
Steve makes a dismissive noise and Bucky gives him the finger.
*
It's just - it's frustrating, is all.
Bucky's willing to admit that he may have been a bit of a nightmare at first. When he first got to college - which he'd only agreed to apply for because of Steve's relentless bullying - he'd been an antisocial mess. It hadn't been all that long since his accident, and he was still feeling uncertain and off-balance, and he'd been kind of counting on the fact that Steve would be there to carry his books and slap him upside the head when he needed it. Only then Steve had been accepted into art school. In Boston. Bucky'd only been able to cope with his stoic jaw for a couple days before he'd fought with him about it, and eventually he'd mailed off the goddamn acceptance letter himself.
So he'd been alone when he first got to college, and kind of a nightmare. Grouchy and snappy and scared in ways he couldn't articulate, until a blond trainwreck had walked through the door, stumbled over Bucky's discarded boots, tumbled into a forward roll and come up grinning. Clint'd started dragging him places purely through the power of his puppy-dog eyes, 'cos not a bit of it was a front. Clint takes your no and accepts it with the rueful smile that says he gets it, he wouldn't wanna do things with him either, and Bucky's about as capable of refusing it as he is Steve's goddamn stoic jaw.
See, that's what's so frustrating. They've been at college long enough now that they've moved out of dorms, got their own little place together, small enough that they're tripping over each other half the time. Clint's just about his favourite person, besides Steve, although they're sure as hell favourites in different ways. And yet, somehow, Clint's never been around when Steve has come to visit. Every time he's somehow contrived to be visiting his friend Nat, or staying with his asshole brother, or working at some kinda archery camp.
(Don't even get Bucky started on Clint working with underprivileged kids, okay. It starts with ranting and ends with Steve laughing at his drunken desires to adopt babies with the guy. It ain't pretty.)
He just really wants them to like each other. He thinks, if Clint would stay in the room for more than five goddamn seconds, that they'd really get on. He spent basically the first month of them knowing each other singing Steve's praises, because he was already fuzzily thinking long term - like a yard big enough for dogs, like a white picket goddamn fence - and there was no kinda future he could picture without Steve being there, front and centre.
And now it's more than a year down the line and Bucky's made no progress on either front; Clint's barely spoken two words to Steve, and Bucky can't go drag him out of his room, dazed into compliance with makeouts, because somehow he still hasn't made a goddamn move.
So yeah. Maybe Steve's right to laugh.
*
"You're an asshole and a terrible roommate," Bucky announces when he returns from taking Steve to the bus station. Clint, who's practically climbed halfway into the fridge to get at the leftovers of the pizza he apparently hadn't been hungry enough to come out and share, stiffens. Then he lets out a long breath, and his shoulders slump.
"Yeah," he says, "I know." The line of his back - which Bucky works really hard to not think about, because there is a possibility it will kill him - is so dejected and pathetic that Bucky lets out a sigh and walks over to lean against it, sling a loose arm around Clint's neck. It takes a second, but then Clint relaxes back into him, rests his temple against Bucky's, reminds him once again how well they fit together, like this. It's the most perfect hell Bucky can imagine.
They end up on the couch, Bucky hugging a pillow with his feet in Clint's lap, Clint with his hand resting warm on Bucky's ankle, his thumb brushing lightly back and forth across his skin.
"I just want you guys to get on," Bucky says quietly, when the onscreen explosions are taking a time out, and Clint pinches the bridge of his nose and looks so unhappy that Bucky wants to punch whatever made him look that way, only he can't understand how the hell that it's him.
"I know," Clint says, and he lets out a breath, heavy with things that he's not saying, and then drags his mouth into a smile that at least look like he's trying. "I'll do better, I swear."
Bucky nudges Clint's thigh with his heel.
"Come to Boston with me this weekend," he says. "Steve's got some kinda art show thing, we can steal all the free drinks and pretend we know shit about art."
"Bucky -"
"Please?" Now he's said it out loud it sounds like the best idea ever. Bucky's been dreading it a little, having to impress all of Steve's college friends, having to actually interact somewhere in public where Steve's attention can't be fully on him. Honestly it's sounded like the stuff of nightmares, and if Steve hadn't mentioned it so casually, practically breaking in half with his efforts to keep it off-hand... "Please, Clint, it'd mean so much to him. Plus you'll probably be saving me from hyperventilating in a janitor's closet -"
"I don't -"
"- comin' out wild-eyed and angry and trying to fight art students with a mop -"
Clint's fingers squeeze a little around his ankle, and the corners of his mouth are tipping up into that dumbass grin that Bucky's kind of in love with.
"Sure," he says, finally. "Fuck it." And then his grin goes a little lopsided, and he huffs out a near-silent laugh. "Somewhere Natasha is really mad at me right now, and she has no idea why."
"She needs a reason?" Bucky has endless respect for Clint's friend Natasha; in another universe, one where Bucky is a little less enamoured with dick, he's pretty sure that together they could take over the world.
"Nah," Clint says, face all fond like it always gets. "Guess not."
Bucky tucks away the tiny ball of jealousy, the one that wants Clint's smile to be that uncomplicated when he looks at him, and takes another sip of another mug full of disgusting lemon-ginger-honey drink.
*
The coach ride up has been the best kinda torture. Clint hustling him into the window seat so no one will stare at the space where his arm used to be. Clint sitting by his side, close enough that they were practically all pressed together from shoulder to knee. Laughing themselves stupid over in-jokes with such tangled layers of shared meaning that they barely even have to say a word to each other for the punchline to be there, ready and waiting for them to stumble over it.
They'd be so good together. Bucky would swear that it's not just him, confident enough about it that - fuck it. He's gonna say something. He's got that fizzing giddiness in his stomach that comes with the best kinda decisions, the ones you just know are gonna turn out all right, and it's helped on its way when Clint comes out of Steve's tiny bathroom wearing his only good suit.
Bucky can't help but gape a little. It ain't gonna replace the way Clint looks in the mornings, soft and sleepy and rumpled in tight shirts and threadbare sweats, but this is definitely a new entry on his list of fantasy material. The jacket sleeves are a little too short, and it's straining across Clint's biceps, and he looks like he's half strangling himself with his tie - and he's done this, dressed up like this, to support Bucky, maybe that does make it the most beautiful he's ever looked.
"Come here," Bucky says, pushing up to his feet and grabbing Clint by the wrist, his pulse weirdly fast against the palm of Bucky's hand. He pulls Clint closer and hooks his finger over the knot of Clint's purple tie, easing it a little looser and centering it, tucking his collar into place. He's focused on his task, working so hard not to get distracted by the way his fingers keep brushing the skin of Clint's neck that he's genuinely a little startled when he looks up and grins and Clint's face is so close.
It's one of those moments where the whole world kinda takes a step backwards. Eases itself away out of courtesy for the universe-level weight to this second right here. Clint's eyes are dark and focused in on Bucky's mouth, and it feels like a cliche when Bucky licks his lips but that sure as hell doesn't stop him. And there's this moment of tilting - of mutual tilting, and Bucky's heart is pounding so goddamned hard in his ears that it takes him a second more than it ought to to process what Clint's said.
"Fuck, Bucky," with strain, with real awful effort in his voice, "I think I'm gonna have to move out."
"What?" Bucky says blankly, his heart skipping over a beat or two before it plummets. "Wait, what?"
And Clint clenches his fists and steps away, and Bucky genuinely thinks his heart is maybe breaking, so of course that's when Steve knocks all friendly at the door and hustles them out into a cab.
Boston is lovely in the falling dark, all lit up and green and beautiful. Bucky stares resolutely out of the cab window, ignores Steve's conversational gambits, watches the scenery blur.
Steve's college is a little battered around the edges, worn out but done up nice. Bucky waves him away to where he's gotta stand and talk to people about his paintings, and when Clint goes left Bucky goes right to wander between the canvases and wonder what the hell he did wrong.
He must've been too obvious, maybe. Must've smiled too wide. Must've been wrong, the giddy feeling in his stomach an unreliable narrator of his life's events. Apparently it’s a bad idea to trust your gut, but that’s what he’s been doing since Clint first smiled at him and it hit him right there - or maybe a little higher, somewhere behind his ribs.
Bucky rubs a hand over his face, straightens his jacket, pushes his hair back behind his ears. It’s Steve’s night, now, so the feelings can wait until he gets back to New York, to the little apartment with the one purple wall in the living room, the arrow holes, the dumb photo collage that’s full of Clint.
There’s a bit of a crowd gathered in front of Steve’s painting, and it’s not until Bucky insinuates through it that he sees it’s not ‘cos of Steve’s talent. Steve’s got a hand clasped to his reddening cheekbone, and there’s a dark haired woman standing by him, fists clenched, and -
“Clint?”
He’s sprawled on the floor at Steve’s feet, wiping a little blood away from his lip, and Bucky’s crouched down by him before he even registers the decision to move.
“Shit,” he says, hovering uselessly, used to having the world’s best-stocked medical cabinet to hand. “The hell did you do to yourself?”
“Sorry,” the woman says overhead. She’s got a cut-glass English accent, the kind they have in those old fashioned dramas that Clint pretends he doesn’t watch. “That was me. He hit Steve and I - well, I reacted, I’m afraid.”
Bucky glares up at Steve.
“What the hell did you do?”
“Nothing!” he protests, and Clint makes an angry noise.
“Like hell you didn’t,” he says, scowling. “I saw you with her. Bucky doesn’t deserve -”
“With her?” Bucky interrupts, bemused, and Steve startles, like there’s something he forgot.
“Sorry,” he says, “Bucky, this is Peggy. Peggy, I’ve told you about Bucky.”
“Ah,” she’s smiling, and her eyes have a mischievous light in them that Bucky just knows he’s gonna learn to fear. “It all makes sense now.”
“Holy shit.” Bucky gives her an up and down look, and at least sixty percent of it is for show. “What’s a dame like you doing with a punk like him?”
“Cuckolding, apparently,” she says, and extends her hand to Clint. “I am sorry for punching you, but I rather think you’ve got the wrong end of the stick. Steve’s my boyfriend, you see,” and she gestures, for some reason, to Bucky, “not his.”
Bucky’s eyes fly to Clint’s face, quick enough to see him dumbfounded, his mouth dropping open and his eyes going wide. He looks like he’s had the foundations of his world kicked out from under him, and apparently one of those foundations has always been the belief that Bucky was dating Steve.
“Holy shit, you’re an idiot,” Bucky says, slow and with dawning delight.
“I - yeah, I’m getting that,” and Clint’s smile is spreading too. “So you’re single?” he asks, like he should’ve maybe asked a year and change ago, and Bucky slaps him around the back of the head and tangles his fingers in the messy hair there, pulling Clint forward awkwardly so he can press their smiles together.
“I had better fuckin’ not be,” he says.