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It’s just sharing a bed.
C’mon, Clint — pull yourself together; it’s just sharing a bed.
He scolds himself mentally, looking at the double bed in the motel room. Because sure — sure, he’s absolutely a professional. And he’s shared beds with countless people, going all the way back to his circus days when everyone ended up cramped together to save space and conserve heat, up until now, with agents and handlers and — on occasion — a suspect or two, as well.
It’s nothing new, or daunting.
And yet —
And yet it absolutely is. Because this isn’t the circus, or a mission, or anything remotely familiar he can draw on from experience. Not at all.
This is real life. Private life. A road trip with an unlikely friend who actually may hate Clint anyway, if the way he levels scowls and glares at him is anything to go by.
And it’s not just anyone, either; it’s Bucky Barnes who — by the way — is hot like the god damned sun and beautiful in the kind of way that it absolutely going to stop Clint’s heart.
That’s the same Bucky Barnes who does not seem to be having multiple internal crises at once right now, and had considered the bed with little regard before promptly throwing his bag down on one side, declaring it to be his because it had the best sight-lines.
And in the meantime, all Clint’s brain has been able to do is curse him, stutter over half formed thoughts, and then curse him a little more just for the hell of it.
“Sure, I’ll . . . Other side,” Clint mumbles his way through a reply, as articulate as always. His response is certainly delayed, given the fact that his two brain cells appear to be functioning at a solid forty percent at this moment in time.
Bucky pats him on the shoulder once, firm and somewhere between reassuring and mocking, but doesn’t say anything to the same effect. “I’m gonna shower and change. Don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone.”
Clint has the sense to look mildly affronted, lifting his hands as he does so. “You’re only gonna be in the other room.” He tries for their usual snark, thinking that maybe his mind is finally coming back online.
The look Bucky levels him with communicates everything it needs to; like that ever stopped you before. And Clint’s not ashamed to admit that his sentiment is absolutely justified, so he lets Bucky go without another word. Listens to the lock on the bathroom click, and the shower with its presumably shitty water pressure start up, and throws himself down onto his side of the bed.
His side — it makes it sound like they’re an old married couple, Clint thinks. Feels the ruby red of a blush burn it’s way into his cheeks.
—
Clint’s already changed by the time Bucky finally re-emerges. (Honestly, it’d be a surprise if there’s any hot water left for any of the other motel guests.) Changed and on his side of the bed, comfortably beneath the covers and pretending that his heart isn’t beating a little too fast — like he’s some high schooler waiting to ask his crush to the prom. (Not that he ever experienced that, but it feels like a good enough comparison.)
Bucky doesn’t talk, really. Just grumbles a little as he walks around, and carefully puts his duffel bag in a place that’ll be easy to grab, if for some reason they need to make a quick getaway. (Not that they should, but it’s a habit that’s hard to kick.) And then scatters a few weapons around the room, just for good measure.
“Everything good?” The archer asks, propping himself up a little on his elbow, finding it almost soothing somehow to watch Bucky go around his routine.
“Yeah,” Bucky nods, smiles a little in the softest, gentlest, way that makes Clint swoon because fuck — fuck, it isn’t fair! That smile from him, is like a grin coming from anyone else, and who let him look like that. “Everything’s good.”
He doubles checks everything he’s done, observes out of the one window they have just to be sure, and then shuffles towards the bed.
He looks endearing, Clint decides, in the plaid pyjama pants he’s wearing and the — hey hold on a second — the on-brand Hawkeye purple hoodie that he’s got on, which definitely belonged in Clint’s wardrobe once upon a time. He’s been looking for that thing for months! And here Bucky Barnes is, casual-as-you-please, wearing it and looking better than Clint ever did.
Oh, that’s so not fair.
“What’re you staring at?” Bucky asks, eyes narrowed at Clint, before promptly flickering down to his outfit. Realisation settles in after a moment, his eyes widen just a fraction in a tell he’s willing to give away, and then he simply shrugs it all off. “Other people’s clothes are always nicer.” He states, and Clint isn’t really sure what it means, but there’s the slightest tinge of pink sitting high on Bucky’s cheeks and he’s willing to go along with it regardless.
He hums, a kind of tease, but not quite. And Bucky rolls his eyes back. And this feels easy. This comfortable back and forth they have going, except now Clint is starting to think that it’s not easy at all; while he’s been thinking that this has been banter, teasing, it’s quite possibly slipped passed that and into this grey area of flirting that he doesn’t quite understand.
So, of course, it’s only right that Bucky takes it upon himself to help him understand it.
He joins him in the bed, pulling back the covers, and pressing himself just a little closer to Clint than is strictly necessary; he can feel the warmth coming off of him. His breath on his skin.
And then — well . . . all systems go offline from Clint, because Bucky hot like the god damned sun Barnes is kissing him. All soft, and nice, in the way that fills his head with static and little else, before slowly moving onto something a little . . . Just, more. Biting and insistent, in a way that’s so Bucky, and is the best thing Clint Barton has felt in his entire life.
When Bucky pulls away, he’s left feeling a little startled. It’s been a quick turn around, to say the least. His brain only started putting things together properly perhaps an hour ago. But it’s okay; their lives always move fast, and this is a development that he’s certainly ready to roll with.
“I can hear your brain working overtime from here.” Bucky sounds so unbelievably fond that Clint’s surprised he doesn’t combust there and then, he nudges Clint’s shoulder; pushes him onto his side, and fits himself to the curve of his back. As if this is something they’ve done for years. (Not that Clint’s complaining.) “Go to sleep, Barton.” He adds through a smile, because he’s definitely trying to kill Clint off.
So he hums again by way of responding, let’s himself melt into this — right here. Lets himself have something nice, and believes he deserves it.