Work Text:
Clint was used to people finding him annoying, or a bit “too much” at times. He was used to being scoffed at, glared at, and at times downright ignored by other agents, and even his friends here and there. He typically didn’t give a shit because his friend circle was small, and who cared what any of the other agents thought? Sometimes he tried his hardest to be a smartass because it would mean less engagement with people that he didn’t particularly want to be friendly with.
In short, Clint was fine when others showed a blatant dislike for him.
But when it came to Bucky, Clint didn’t feel fine about it at all. It was painfully clear how much Bucky despised him, and the ache of that hatred burned like a constant wound in Clint’s chest. Not only because Clint wasn’t exactly sure what he had done, other than perhaps trying to hard to make Bucky feel welcomed into their dysfunctional little family, but also because it was unbearably important to Clint that this warped, funny, beautiful man like him.
So, Clint might have been harboring a bit of a crush. Or maybe he was a little obsessed. No big deal, it was all fine, the object of his strangely powerful affection didn’t have to feel the same way. It wouldn’t be the first time.
But it would be nice if the fucker would at least entertain the idea of being in the same room as Clint, though. It was immediately noticeable, from their first interaction after the Rogues reported back to the tower, onward. Bucky had seemed receptive enough when Steve had introduced them properly, up until the moment he had taken Clint’s hand and met his eyes.
“Welcome, Bucky. ‘M Clint. I know we met before, but it’s nice to finally meet you for real.” It had seemed like a normal enough thing to say. Clint hadn’t choked to stuttered or anything. He had even managed to smile like an actual human being. Regardless, Bucky’s eyes had gone all big and round and he had snatched his hand back like Clint was a hot stove, nodded at Clint once, and shuffled away like Clint smelled bad.
For the record, Clint had smelled just fine. He checked.
Clint wasn’t known for giving up easily. The guy had talked to so many people that day, so Clint had chalked the incident up to Bucky feeling overwhelmed. He gave Bucky space, though he didn’t miss the way Bucky watched him out of the corner of his eye (of course he didn’t miss it. He highly doubted Bucky missed the way he did the same. It was all a bit ridiculous, really). After a few weeks, Clint found the perfect opportunity to try again.
He didn’t question why Bucky was awake and in the team kitchen at 2:30 in the morning. To do so would be hypocritical if he thought about it too hard, and so he didn’t.
“Hey, Barnes. Can’t sleep?” Clint asked as soon as he walked in the door, announcing himself with plenty of time before joining Bucky in the space. Bucky’s body went rigid but he didn’t move, allowing Clint to move around him to put on a pot of coffee.
“Coffee at this time?” Bucky mumbled, and Clint’s heart sped up. His voice was always rich and warm when Clint heard him talk, but this time it was aimed toward him and shitbiscuits, four words and Clint knew for damn sure that he was in a lot of trouble.
“Coffee at any time. If I have a motto, that’s it.”
Bucky mumbled something else, and Clint reached up to turn up his aids. He hadn’t been expecting company. Bucky tracked his movements as he did so.
“Sorry. What was that?” Clint asked, pulling two mugs from the cupboard. Bucky didn’t stop him from doing so, and therefore Clint filled both to the brim with brew.
“Said I thought your motto was that you just can’t seem to miss?”
Clint elegantly spilled half of his coffee over his hand, steam rising from his skin as he swore under his breath. “Fuck fuck fuck, coolcoolcoolcoolcool, that’s perfect. Ah,” he said, reaching over and grabbing some paper towels to mop up the mess, “didn’t know you were paying attention.”
Bucky’s mouth moved into something small and unsure, and Clint swore that it was a smile. He took a sip of his coffee before nodding toward Clint’s hand. “Shouldn’t you maybe run some water on that?”
“Uh, probably,” Clint said and shrugged, lifting his mug up to his own lips. The coffee was dark and hot and strong, and he groaned with delight, his eyes closed in bliss. It was exactly what he had needed. He licked his lips and set the mug down, sighed and opened his mouth to ask Bucky if he wanted any cream or sugar.
He did choke on his words then, the room empty, Bucky’s steaming mug of coffee sitting on the counter still filled to the brim save a sip.
*
For the next month, Bucky left the room whenever Clint entered, and it all but drove Clint up the fucking wall with frustration, particularly because when they were working, everything was fine. More than fine, actually. Fury had wanted Buck on sniper duty with Clint and so they shared missions together frequently and perched together just as often. They were in the same spaces, large and small, and they flowed so well together that it was heavenly. Bucky’s technical terminology needed a little updating but he caught on so damn fast, adjusting his speaking patterns on the comms until it seemed as though he had been with the team organically since their formation. He had Clint’s back, always, and he would take commands just as easily as he would give them as they vied for position to take out targets from their vantage points. Clint loved every moment of working with Bucky, every heartbeat and rush of adrenaline that came along with it.
And then, as soon as they would step on the jet to go back home, Bucky was back on ice. With him, at least. He seemed to be thawing out with everyone else, and Clint would be a giant futzing lying liar who lied if he said that didn’t goddamn hurt.
And then one day on their way home from mission, as Clint was snarking Tony about one thing or another (he was only half paying attention), Clint heard Bucky burst out laughing from behind them. He swiveled around in surprise to see a broad grin on Bucky’s face, laughing pouring from his lips as though it couldn’t be contained. Clint’s heart ached ferociously, and he couldn’t stop himself from grinning stupidly back. As soon as Bucky noticed Clint noticing him, Clint watched the transformation happen; Bucky forced the laughter down, forcefully neutralized his face, and spat out a few words about going to lay down in his bunk until they got home.
Clint watched Bucky’s back as he turned the sharp corner down the short hall of the jet, and for a horrifying moment, his eyes burned as though he might actually cry.
“What the fuck was that?” Tony asked, and there was no sarcasm there, which made Clint hurt worse.
“I don’t think he likes me very much,” Clint whispered. He didn’t have the energy to say he didn’t know, because he did know and lying took too much out of him.
“Huh,” was all that Tony said. “Have you thought about bringing it up to Steve?”
Clint had thought about it, but talking to Steve about it would be like giving up, and he had barely even tried with Bucky. He knew a thing or two about trauma himself, and he also knew that James Barnes had been through a fuckton of it. Bucky didn’t have to like him. Bucky didn’t owe him jackshit, regardless of the feelings Clint had fluttering around in his gut.
“I will if I need to,” Clint said. Tony dropped it after that, but Clint didn’t.
*
“Bucky’s taken a liking to video games,” Sam mentioned to Clint one day, apropos of nothing. Clint thought for a moment about asking a few follow up questions, namely ‘so what?’ or ‘and?’ or something along the lines of ‘what makes you think I care?’ but something stopped him. Namely, the fact that it was Sam coming to him with this information. More than the rest of them, Sam was good with people. He was good at noticing people, good at reading their needs, and good at caring for others. He did things with purpose and was thoughtful about his actions; sharing this with Clint wasn’t pointless.
“Thanks, man,” Clint said instead, patting Sam on the shoulder as he got up from the couch and headed towards his own apartment.
“He’s at Steve’s place!” Sam yelled after him, and Clint smiled on his way out the door.
Five minutes later he was knocking on Steve’s door, a few PS4 games in his hands along with his own controller. It was Bucky who answered, and he looked obviously surprised to see Clint standing on the other side.
“Friday told me it was you,” Bucky said, and he sounded as though he was accusing Clint of murder. Clint brushed it off.
“Well, it’s me. Wanna play?” Clint held up the game selection for Bucky to eye. He watched Bucky gaze at the colorful covers and hesitate, before nodding and stepping back. Fireworks exploded in Clint’s chest. Bucky liked games. It didn’t take someone as perceptive or intelligent as Clint to notice that Bucky got competitive even during missions, but he enjoyed games of a calmer, tamer nature as well. It was endearing to watch him play cards with Wanda silently, exchanging small smiles with her as they tentatively learned how to not terrify or be terrified of one another. Clint had nearly giggled himself into fits from the corner of the room when Bucky had tried to teach Thor, Natasha and Vision how to play Euchre; there had been a split second where the two of them had shared a look, Clint and Bucky.
These guys are ridiculous. Bucky’s look had announced.
You’re not wrong. Clint’s grin had expressed.
Clint thought about that moment often. Though he expected that it would soon be replaced by the moment he was currently sucked into, because Bucky was yelling at the tv screen as Clint pummeled ruthlessly into him.
“Who thinks this is fun?” Bucky muttered a few seconds later, chest heaving. Clint laughed.
“Everyone except for you thinks King of Fighters is fun. You should see Steve and Tony play.”
That did make Bucky huff out a sound of amusement, and Clint took it as a win. Clint motioned towards Bucky’s controller.
“You’ll have an easier time if you use the joystick controls, though. You should have plenty of dexterity if your prosthetic based on what I’ve seen. Watch.” Clint exited fighting mode and went to a practice screen, and walked through a few combos using the arrow controls and then starting showing off his skills with the joystick. When he looked up to encourage Bucky to try, he found himself on the receiving end of a glare that was capable of burying him six feet beneath the ground, stat.
“Bucky, what-”
“Don’t.”
It was the only word Bucky managed, and it was brash and growled so lowly that Clint barely heard it. He sat and questioned whether or not he had actually heard it at all until Steve walked into the room a few minutes later, drying his hair with a towel.
“Where’d Buck go? It sounded like you guys were having fun in here.”
Clint swallowed, trying to dissolve the hard stone pit lodged in his throat. He didn’t answer Steve, choosing instead to shoot off a salute and walk out of the apartment, leaving his games where they were. He would find them on the mat outside of the door to his own apartment the next morning, and it was that action that made Clint decide to stop trying.
*
No longer trying to get Bucky’s attention or make Bucky see that he was a friendly worthy of being trusted should have led to the diminishing of Clint’s feelings somewhat. That’s what Clint had figured would happen, at least.
That is not what happened. Aw, fucking feelings, they were the worst.
Instead, the more distance that Clint gave Bucky, the more relaxed, calm and content Bucky appeared whenever they were all together. It was an odd feeling that would overtake Clint in those moments. The crinkle in the corner of Bucky’s eyes as he smiled with the others was like an arrow to the heart, and it’s salve at the same time.
Fuck. That was a lot like love. Clint was not a fan of love, and love was not a fan of Clint. But he could think of no alternative explanation that would lead him to do what he did after another week or so passed.
“Can I have a word, Cap?”
Steve looked up from where he sat at his desk in his office on the second floor of the Tower, the “Official Floor” as it was deemed by the team. Rather than looking even more stressed to see Clint in his doorway, Steve’s features smoothed out into a warm, welcoming smile.
“Of course. Come on in. Grab the door?”
The door had barely latched before Clint opened his mouth and started verbally spewing all over Steve, who was his friend (of course) but also his commanding officer.
“Okay so I don’t know what I did to fuck up with Bucky, but I obviously did something to fuck up with Bucky and he’s been so much happier since I’ve just left him alone so I think you should probably boot me from the team.” Silence. “So,” Clint licked his lips and leaned his back against the closed door, “that’s it, really.”
He watched Steve’s face go through a few complex actions before settling on something that Clint could only describe as pained refusal to accept what was happening.
“You want to transfer.” It was a statement, and a false one, but Clint nodded regardless.
“I figure I could train onboarding SHIELD agents or even prospective field jockeys for when we’re called out to mission. Wanda and Sam need some more training, Vis needs to learn, like, a shitload about being in the field, things like that too. Just. I make Bucky uncomfortable, Steve, and you can deny it up and down all day long because he’s your best pal but if you do I’ll call you on your bullshit because I know you noticed. You can’t not notice, Cap.” Clint struggled to keep his voice steady.
Steve sighed and it wasn’t a typical sigh. Like everything Steve said or did, that sigh had layers to it, and suddenly Clint felt foolish. He leaned forward, away from the door, and grabbed the handle to let himself out.
“Anyway, that’s it. I know I don’t technically need your approval to put in a transfer request to Fury, but your approval would mean a lot, Ca-Steve.” Clint took a step over the threshold.
“I’ll talk to him, Clint. Don’t. Not yet. Just? Give me some time to see if I can try to sort things out, yeah?” Steve’s voice was tired, with an undertow of pleading, and it was Clint’s turn to sigh. He pushed away the urge to preen at the idea of Captain America wanting to keep him around, and instead shot off a half salute.
“You got it. Thanks, Cap.” Clint left the door open on his way out.
*
When Clint opened the door to find Bucky shifting his weight on his feet and gripping tightly onto the sleeves of his hoodie, he felt his eyebrows rise in shock. Friday had told him that Bucky had been the one knocking, but it seemed too good to be true, unless Bucky had gotten pissed that Clint had taken their issue to Steve. Fuck. Clint hadn’t even considered how Bucky would feel about that.
Clint swallowed and inched the door open. “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.”
Rather than look angry, Bucky looked scared of Clint, and oh sweet baby Jesus, Clint didn’t like that at all.
“Is. Is it okay? That I’m here, I mean,” Bucky asked, eyes shifting between Clint and the floor. His timidness threw Clint; this wasn’t the growling, broody asshole that he had grown to know and lo- well. He wasn’t used to it, bottom line.
“Yeah? It’s fine. As long as you haven’t finally made up your mind to murder me.” Clint tried for joking and could tell by the way that Bucky froze that it had fallen terribly short.
When Bucky spoke in response, he was so quiet that Clint had to strain to hear him.
“I don’t hate you. So you’re safe.”
Aw, Bucky, no.
“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 said quickly, wondering 1. What was happening and 2. How he had fucked up this badly in such a short amount of time.
“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?”
Clint’s stomach fell through the floor, and his blood rushed hotly through his veins. He could feel Bucky’s voice in his mind, saying his name, and Christ if the shape of Bucky’s mouth forming around those five letters didn’t send him for a tailspin.
“That’s the first time you’ve ever used my name. Didja know that?” Clint wasn’t sure why he blurted that out, exactly, but he was dangerously close to becoming completely uncontained.
Bucky rubbed his face, and Clint wondered if it was simply part of being a super soldier that made Bucky and Steve look so futzing tired all the time.
“Dammit, I really don’t wanna have this conversation in the hallway. Can I come in, or no?”
Clint simply stared. That? He hadn’t expected that. “Sorry. I’m an ass. Come on in.”
Clint stood stock still as Bucky inched his way past him and into the apartment, and he smelled so damn good that Clint held his breath for a few beats. He couldn’t remember the last time he had burned this badly over someone’s scent, and when he closed the door and turned to see Bucky sitting down on his couch, he panicked and did the only thing he could think to do.
Clint veered into the kitchen and put on a pot of coffee.
“Coffee, Barnes?” He called out, already pulling down two mugs. Both of them were Hawkeye mugs, because Tony thought everybody’s ego was as big as his. Clint couldn’t serve Bucky coffee in a fucking Hawkeye mug, so he put one back and started rifling around the cupboard for an alternative.
“You know it’s two in the morning?” Bucky called back, and there was a hint of teasing in his voice. Clint’s face broke out in a smile and he closed his eyes to try to calm the thundering in his chest.
And that was his first mistake.
The Hawkeye mug that he had returned to the cupboard teetered on the edge for a moment before deciding to be an asshole. It crashed to the floor near Clint’s feet, shattering into far too many pieces, in Clint’s opinion. He yelped, and then suddenly Bucky was right there, eyes wide but gauging the scene as only a trained operative would. Clint bent down to pick up the pieces, trying to hide the red blush he knew had to be creeping up his neck.
“Everything alright in here?” Bucky asked, voice steady.
Clint made a huffing sound, embarrassed. “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-”
A chunk of ceramic started to slip out of Clint’s grasp to the floor, and he grasped at it desperately, the sharp ache of his skin splitting registering before the sight of blooming blood. “Aw, futz!” Clint gasped, depositing the shards into the trash and moving automatically toward the sink as though on autopilot to tend to his wound. He could see instantly that the cut was deep, had gone through all layers of skin, and he swore at himself internally.
“Aw, no. This might need stitches,” he said apologetically. He kicked himself, because of course, he would have to be clumsy and land himself in medical when it seemed as though he and Bucky might be on the cusp of having an actual adult coversation-
“Can I take a look?” When Clint looked up, Bucky was standing right beside him, mere inches away. Clint weighed the risks and benefits of handing himself over to Bucky in his head and made his decision quickly.
“Uh, sure. Why the hell not.” Clint held out his hand and watched the blood seep from the wound. Unperturbed, Bucky reached out with both hands and grasped Clint’s with a firm yet gentle grip. The juxtaposition between the warmth of his flesh hand and the coolness of his metal hand caused Clint’s eyes to flutter closed for an instant. Too much. This? Was too much.
“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, his gorgeous eyes meeting Clint’s. Clint fought the urge to laugh and instead nudged a nearby cupboard with his foot.
“You keep a first aid kit in every room?” Bucky asked with the barest hint of amusement.
“It’s cute that you think there’s only one in here, Barnes. Really,” Clint snarked back, unable to stop himself from smiling a bit himself. Within a minute Bucky had fished out the appropriate supplies and was tending to Clint’s wound.
“Ya know, you can call me Bucky. Everyone else does.”
Clint felt like Bucky had punched him in the stomach. And then possibly kicked him while he was down, because why would Bucky be trying to help and comfort him when Clint clearly made him so damn uncomfortable? These old men and their martyr complexes.
“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.” Clint’s heart ached as he forged ahead. “I know you don’t.”
Bucky sucked in a breath and made a soft noise in his throat as though he was the one getting minor surgery in the kitchen at ass o’ clock in the morning. Clint wanted to question the meaning behind it, he wanted to so badly, but instead, he let Bucky focus on mending him, enjoying Bucky’s touch to his content. Bucky worked quickly but thoroughly, and by the time he was finished wrapping the ace bandage around Clint’s hand, Clint was boiling over with a melancholy feeling of tenderness that was fucking brutal. He tried to push it away, tried to talk himself out of the moment, only to be sucked right back into the thick of it by the feeling of Bucky’s hand covering his own, his fingertips resting over Clint’s pulse point in his wrist. Clint snapped his head up, searched Bucky’s gaze for some kind of hint as to what the hell was happening.
“You're right, you know,” Bucky whispered “I don’t like you the same. Never have. I’ve tried, and I just can’t manage it.”
Within himself, Clint shattered. He had known it to be true, of course he had, but hearing it finally confirmed by Bucky himself hurt far more and cut far deeper than he had expected it to. “That’s why I went to Steve,” Clint managed to say without sounding like he was going to break down in tears. “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 had surprised him multiple times that evening, but not as much as he did when he stepped even further into Clint’s space then, reaching forward and wrapping the cool fingers of his prosthetic around Clint’s other wrist. Clint tried to breathe steadily.
This couldn’t be happening. He was Clint Barton, and he was in love with Bucky Barnes, and there was no way that Bucky-
“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?”
Color exploded in Clint’s vision, the question sounding like a foreign language, and if Bucky’s thumbs brushing over his wrists weren’t there to ground him, Clint would have floated away.
Oh, well then. Clint had been wrong a few times in his life, but it appeared as though this time he had been really, really wrong.
“You mean, you really don’t hate me?” He asked, because he needed the confirmation.
Bucky laughed at that, and Clint would have burned down the world in that moment if that would be what it took to make sure that Bucky never stopped.
“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,” Bucky said, an accent seeping into his voice that Clint hadn’t quite heard before, and suddenly Bucky Barnes was standing in front of him. The Bucky from before, the one that Steve always talked about being charming, sweeping folks off of their feet.
Clint, thoroughly swept, groaned against his own wishes at the term of endearment and leaned in with no real intent other than to just be closer to Bucky, to share the same space. Their foreheads resting together, Clint shifted his grasp and had to keep from bucking his hips as the pure satisfaction that zapped through his body at how well their fingers fit together.
“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.”
Even up close like this, Clint could see Bucky’s eyes widen, could feel a short burst of breath escape from Bucky’s lips onto his own.
“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, and fuck if that wasn’t good enough for Clint. He surged forward, careful not to consume Bucky like fire, slotting their lips together and covering Bucky’s mouth as fully as he could. Bucky tasted like sweetness and smokiness and something to be coveted.
“Bucky” Clint whispered, over and over again as they parted and came back together. Clint’s body moved automatically at the sound that Bucky made in response, moving Bucky backward until he was firmly placed between the counter and Clint’s body. Words, Clint thought to himself, I need to find words. He moved down and took the milky expanse of Bucky’s throat into his mouth, tasting the skin with his tongue before coming up for air.
“You,” Clint said with as much reverence as possible, joy coursing through him, “are fucking divine.”
Bucky’s resulting smile put the sun to absolute shame, but that was okay with Clint. He was revolving around an entirely different star, anyway.