Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The first time Clint meets Daredevil, he’s led on his back on the roof of an apartment building in Hell’s Kitchen, bleeding from several places.

Clint’s bleeding, that is.

The first time Hawkeye met Daredevil was in the middle of an Avengers thing – him and Buck were tracking the manufacturing of the latest idiot’s attempt at anti-enhancement weaponry, it led them through the Kitchen, DD is a control freak and had to supervise. He didn’t say much.

Technically, right now Clint is also Hawkeye. He’s wearing the fancy vest, bow resting on his thigh, definitely wouldn’t’ve have got shot without those things. But he never feels much like Hawkeye when he’s flitting round the city with no backup and no real plan. Hawkeye doesn’t pass out on rooftops ‘cause he forgot his goddamn phone and can’t call anyone. Kids have Hawkeye action figures.

So, yeah, he’s in Hell’s Kitchen, and he did, a little bit, bring some idiots with guns into Hell’s Kitchen, but he also maybe has a concussion, so it’s still a surprise when a guy wearing horns pops into his vision.

“You, uh, you alright there?” Daredevil asks. He’s probably raising an eyebrow under that mask. The maybe-concussion really wants Clint to ask how the shit he sees anything through it.

“Oh, y’know,” Clint says, waving one hand loosely, “I’m great. I just love rooftops, y’know? Good ambience. You’ve got a lovely neighbourhood for rooftops, pal.”

“Um. Thanks?”

Clint smiles at him. It definitely looks loopy as fuck. There’s definitely still a bullet in his thigh. Bad place for bullets, thighs.

“...You’re bleeding,” Daredevil says, after a couple beats.

“Yeaaah. There’s bullets in me.”

“Are you… doing anything about that?”

“Well, usually I’d drop by the Tower,” Clint says. He absolutely has a concussion, shit, he has no filter right now. Daredevil better not ask too many questions. “The Tower medics are way nicer than hospital nurses. And FRIDAY always helps me sneak out, she’s a darling – have you met FRIDAY? She thinks you’re cute.”

Daredevil’s mouth is open and Clint can just tell, somehow, his eyebrows are all scrunched up. Clint has that effect on people a lot. Especially when he’s concussed.

“Anyway, I don’t have my phone, and I kinda can’t stand up? But I’m meant to go to this thing with Steve tomorrow, so I figured I’d just lie here till someone came and got me. I probably won’t bleed out, Stark’s real good at finding me now. I think he put a tracker in my arm.”

“...Right,” Daredevil says. “You have a concussion.”

“Oh, yeah,” Clint grins. “And my leg fucking kills.”

There’s a while of silence then, where DD just looks at Clint, presumably thinking through his options. He’s always given the Avengers a wide berth, which is fair, but also sad, because now he’s just hovering over Clint and giving him ample opportunity to stare, Clint’s realising he’s really cute.

Not that all the sorta-government-sanctioned superheroes Clint hangs out with aren’t also great to look at – Steve alone is a gift from God above, and that Clint regularly gets to see him stumbling round half-awake in just his boxers is a blessing he doesn’t deserve – but he’s always out to collect more.

Eventually – probably after thirty seconds or so, but Clint’s ability to gauge time is seeping out his thigh with his blood – Daredevil pulls out his phone, from one of those mysterious suit pockets Nat is so fond of, and offers it to Clint. It’s just a shitty burner, three numbers saved but no names. Not that Clint could read them anyway. Everything’s kinda swirly.

On the third try, he manages to type Nat’s number in. As it’s ringing, he remembers he doesn’t actually know if she’s in the country, but he also can’t remember anyone else’s number.

Thankfully, she picks up, so he doesn’t have to call the Tower reception and beg to be put through to Stark again.

“Who is this?” Nat answers, all scary. Clint can feel his mouth curling up fondly.

“Heyyy, Tasha,” he says.

She sighs, heavily. Says, “Barton.” And means, what have you done now.

“Y’know the arms dealers? I take back everything mean I said about them. They are very comb– compi– compatent?”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Yeah. I’m in Hell’s Kitchen, on, uh–” He looks back to DD. “Where am I?”

Daredevil’s mouth is twisting like he can’t decide whether to smile or frown. “426, on 48th.”

Clint relays this to Nat, who sighs again. “It’s gonna take me at least an hour to get to you, you gonna be okay?”

“M’always okay.”

“You got shot, didn’t you.”

“Only a little.”

“Clint,” Nat says, in her lecturing voice, but she doesn’t follow it up with an actual lecture. She just sighs, again, and says, “We’re talking later.”

“Mhmm. Love you.”

“You’re a dumbass,” Nat says, and hangs up. That means ‘Love you too’.

Clint hands the phone back to Daredevil. “My ride’s gonna be an hour. Traffic, y’know.”

Daredevil pockets the phone, and keeps hovering. Understandable. Clint’s pretty sure DD is awkward as hell outside of fights, but no one ever wants to leave the guy with a bullet in his thigh alone.

“I’m gonna take a look at your thigh,” he says. Clint nods. It’s already pulsing with heat, that kind of throbbing pain that isn’t low so much as so high you start to interpret it as low after a while otherwise you go insane. It’s a miracle he hasn’t passed out, really.

Daredevil presses, lightly, at the bandage Clint tied round his leg. It sets off a new wave of pain that makes Clint’s vision go all fuzzy at the edges.

“You get shot a lot?” Daredevil asks. He’s probably trying to keep Clint from passing out.

“Ehhh. I mean, yeah, but they don’t usually actually make it into my flesh. Kevlar’s my best friend.”

“No healing factor?”

Clint shakes his head, then winces, yikes yep he’s lost some blood let’s not do that again. “Nah, I’m the squishy one. S’why Stark keeps inventing better kevlar. Keep telling him he should just invent me a healing factor, but ‘parently even though he’s got a million areas of expertise, none of ‘em are biology. And Bruce won’t fuck with people’s genes anymore.”

“...Right.”

Daredevil has pulled more bandages from somewhere – more magic pockets, prob’ly – and is tying them round Clint’s thigh. There’s maybe also gauze? Clint’s thigh feels very warm, but that’s probably the bullet wound.

“You’ve got good hands,” Clint’s mouth says. It doesn’t have his permission, but alas, concussion. “You’re not a nurse, are you?”

Daredevil huffs a laugh. It’s a nice laugh. “God, no. I’ve got a friend who’s a nurse, though. She’s shown me a couple things.”

“Everyone should know first aid,” Clint agrees. “Even if no one ever shoots at you.”

“Who was shooting at you, anyway?”

Clint says, “Oh, these guys who want–” then manages to snap his mouth shut.

Daredevil frowns at him. “If they’re on my streets, Hawkeye, I’d like to know who they are.”

“They were only chasing me, s’fine. I’ll run towards Queens next time.”

“Hawkeye.”

“Hey, no, s’fine. I can, I’m fine, they just got lucky. And Tasha’s gonna get ‘em now, anyway, so it don’t matter.”

Daredevil is still frowning at him. “Luck’s on their side, though, if you’re going after them alone.”

Clint points a finger at him. Or tries. His hands are heavy. “No, no, I can take ‘em, I was just– I couldn’t call, right, ‘cause Tasha’s got a thing and Kate’s in LA and Buck’s still pissed for the, the thing. With the cake. And I can take ‘em!”

“You have a bullet in your thigh.”

“And, when I don’t have a bullet in my thigh, I will take them. If Nat doesn’t first. She gets pissy when people shoot me.”

If Clint’s head was less full of cotton and bees, he’d definitely point out how it’s not like Daredevil has much room to talk, here, vis a vis backup and the using of it. Seems like, maybe, he’s nagging Clint so he doesn’t have to nag himself.

Clint doesn’t say that, though, just watches the shape of DD’s mouth some more. His lips are very red, like he’s been biting them. There’s a bruise on his jaw. Clint kinda wants to lick it.

He doesn’t say that either. If there’s one thing being a spy for years and years is good for, it’s teaching you how to keep your mouth shut come hell, high water, or head wounds.

“If, uh,” Daredevil starts, all awkward again. One of his hands come up like he’s gonna mess with his hair, then stalls awkwardly mid-air, ‘cause his hair’s under his helmet. Buck thinks the helmet is ridiculous, but if it’s as armoured as Clint thinks it is now he’s got a good look at it, then sure, maybe DD looks like an idiot, but he’s never gonna be an idiot with a concussion. Maybe Clint needs a helmet. “I could. I can help?”

“Thought you didn’t fuck with Avengers business.”

“This isn’t Avengers business.” It’s not a question. Clint was lying on this roof a while before DD appeared – maybe it took him a while ‘cause he was handling Clint’s runaway arms dealers. That’d explain why they haven’t found him to shoot him some more. “And you’re not, uh.”

“A self-obsessed bastard with a hard-on for the law?” Clint suggests, and Daredevil huffs another laugh. “S’alright, Stark can be real fucking annoying even when he pays for your gear. You don’t gotta fuck with us.”

“I don’t want to find you bleeding out on my rooftops, either.”

“I said, I’ll go to Queens next time.”

“Not really my point.”

“You got something against Queens?”

“I’ve got something,” Daredevil snaps, suddenly real angry, “against you dying of entirely preventable injuries in a dumpster somewhere because you’re too much of an idiot to admit you need help.” His mouth snaps shut again, there’s a couple beats, and then he adds, more to himself, “Oh god, I’m being possessed by Foggy.”

Clint doesn’t ask who Foggy is. That’s secret identity territory, and he knows DD spooks easy about that. Which is fair – not everyone spent the last decade doing so much covert ops their real identity is just as inscrutable as their superhero one.

In fact, basically only Nat and him did that. Weirdly, very few spies become superheroes.

“I think I have too much concussion for this conversation,” Clint says.

Daredevil’s mouth twists, and he nods. “Yeah, okay. Your ride is taking you to hospital, right?”

“Near enough.”

Daredevil’s mouth stays all twisted, but he doesn’t try and sell Clint on the benefits of hospitals over other avenues of medical assistance, which is good. The hypocrisy could be fatal.

Instead, they lapse into silence.

Silence that lasts long enough for Clint to realise Daredevil wasn’t just hanging round to chat, and is actually, like. Guarding him? Or something?

“You don’t hafta hover,” he says.

“You have a bullet in your thigh, I’m pretty sure I have to hover.”

“Nat knows where I am now.”

Daredevil clicks his tongue. “Uh huh. You have a bullet in your thigh.”

“Ain’t there someone else who needs help?”

“Making sure Hawkeye doesn’t bleed out ranks over stopping petty theft.”

Clint groans. “Too much concussion to argue, fuck, fine. You win.”

Daredevil shifts out his crouch to sit, legs crossed, next to Clint. The slant of his mouth gets all pleased. Clint’s head is starting to join in his leg with the throbbing. Fuck, Nat better bring painkillers.

Time gets kinda woozy, after that. Daredevil keeps up talking – asks if Clint reads, reveals a love of pulpy fantasy, and then somehow that devolves until Clint’s going on his patented rant about The Martian film and all its many, many sings.

“–The whole point was that he didn’t, because it was a bad idea, and– Oh, hey, Nat.”

Natasha is standing a few feet away, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised. “Making friends?”

All the tension that had slowly seeped out of Daredevil while they were talking is back in an instant, like a switch was flipped. Clint wants to pet him, but his hands aren’t listening to him anymore.

“His bedside manner is better than yours,” he tells Nat, and then tries to sit up. Both Nat and DD hate this.

“Woah, bud–”

“Clint, Jesus, don’t–”

Clint drops back down. “Alright, alright, I live on this roof now. Okay.”

Natasha is now also at his side, with her calculating face. To Daredevil, she says, “Could you carry him?”

“Not one of my talents, no.”

“Okay. If I take his right?”

There’s more negotiating, and some complicated leveraging of Clint’s body. Clint misses almost all of it – his leg hates moving, turns out. He must pass out, briefly, finally, because next thing he knows he’s sprawled in the backseat of Nat’s car and Daredevil is dithering.

“I promise I’m taking him to a qualified medical professional,” Natasha says, amused.

Clint’s pretty sure DD’s got some kinda guilt thing going on here, that it’s his fault Clint got shot ‘cause it was on his turf, and that’s why he won’t leave Clint alone. Which is sweet, but really, Nat can handle him. Handling him is basically her job.

“Hey,” he pipes up, making both of them jump (not visibly, but he knows what startled ninja looks like), “Gimme your phone? I’ll give you my number, then you can call me tomorrow so y’know I’m not dead.”

Natasha quirks an eyebrow at him, and he sticks out his tongue. He’s allowed to make friends, dammit. He meets all his best people when he’s got bullets in him.

“Uh,” Daredevil says, all deer in the headlights. “Sure?”

He hands Clint his shitty burner phone. Clint puts in his number, without a name, because he respects good opsec. Then he lets his head drop back onto the backseat and says, “Okay, passing out for real now.”

He hears Nat’s quiet laugh, and then everything goes black.

Somehow, after he gets out the Tower, Clint ends up on Bucky’s couch instead of his own.

Bucky and Steve’s couch, technically, but Steve is off somewhere being menacing at politicians, and Bucky is stood over him looking pissed off, so functionally it’s Bucky’s couch. It’s a very nice couch.

“Clint.”

Bucky, like Nat, has this way of making a single word into a whole lecture. It’s one of Clint’s least favourite things about him.

“I was handling it,” he whines. Bucky continues to look pissed off.

“Shoulda called.”

“It was like, four guys–”

“Clint. Shut up.”

Clint shuts up, and throws an arm over his face so he doesn’t have to keep looking at Bucky’s angry eyebrows.

“You’re an idiot,” Bucky says. “Call us, next time.”

Clint nods, and doesn’t argue, and is just about to ask if Buck’d mind him using the TV to catch up on Discovery when he remembers Daredevil.

“Oh, shit, where’s my phone? Buck, do y’see my phone, where the fuck did I–”

Bucky hands him his phone. It’s dead. Before Clint even opens his mouth, Bucky hands him a phone charger. Clint signs ‘love you’ with the hand not turning his phone back on, and Bucky rolls his eyes but signs it back.

When his phone lurches back to life, he has six missed calls from an unknown number and at least one new voicemail.

Whoops.

Instead of bothering with the voicemail, he just calls the unknown number. It better be Daredevil, like ten people have this number.

“Hawkeye?”

Oh, thank God. “Heyyy, so, funny story–”

“Your phone died while you were on the good drugs and you didn’t notice?”

“–Yee-es. Are you a detective? What did I have for breakfast?”

“Poptarts,” Daredevil says immediately, which is just unnerving.

“Okay, what the fuck? Did you bug me?”

Bucky is making kind of a scary face. Clint waves at him to try and convey ‘go away let me flirt in peace’. Bucky just keeps making the scary face, so Clint wedges the phone between his ear and his shoulder and signs, “Go away, nosy fuck.”

“I, uh,” Daredevil is saying, and Clint refuses to ignore him, turns to face the ceiling so he can’t see Bucky’s hands. “I’ve listened to a lot of Kate’s… Kate has a lot to say about you.”

“Aw, Katie,” Clint says, grinning fondly. “She didn’t tell me you know each other.”

“We have mutual friends.”

“Yeah, Katie’s friends with everyone. Anyway, I’m alive! And I don’t even have any bullets in me anymore, ain’t that great.”

“It is,” Daredevil says, dry.

There’s a beat, a conversation floundering kind of beat, and Clint thinks for a second Daredevil’s gonna make excuses and hang up – that’s kinda his MO, he’s not really one for friends and especially not if you’re an Avenger – so Clint says, “So, I’m on house arrest for, God, longer than I wanna think about, hot tip do not get shot in your leg, you wanna, uhh. You watch Star Trek?”

Bucky, who is still leant against the wall listening to Clin’t private conversation because he’s a bastard with no respect for anyone’s privacy, raises an eyebrow and says, “You better not be inviting a stranger to my house, punk.”

“He’s not a stranger,” Clint protests. “He knows Katie.”

Bucky doesn’t say Kate Bishop has more friends than sense, but Clint knows he’s thinking it. Bucky is also not really one for friends. If Bucky had his way, him, Steve, Sam and the dogs would move to a cabin in the middle of some forests somewhere not even on any maps and only re-emerge every five years to check Nazis haven’t taken over the government again.

“Uh, “ Daredevil says. “I don’t really watch TV?”

“Oh, fair. You play board games?”

Bucky is pinching the bridge of his nose. Bucky is the one who dumped Clint on his couch instead of Clint’s own, perfectly good couch, so he can put that face away, he definitely brought this on himself. If he doesn’t want to watch Clint woo the Devil’s of Hell’s Kitchen, he can carry Clint to the subway.

“What, like Monopoly?”

“Nah, like Pandemic. Settlers of Catan. Y’know, there’s cards and little bits of plastic and it takes hours and you might end up screaming at each other– okay I know that sounds just like Monopoly, but these ones aren’t about how actually owning property is theft.”

There’s another pause, longer this time, and Clint’s just taken the phone away from his ear to check Daredevil didn’t hang up when he says, “Yeah, okay.”

Fuck yes.

“Great! I’m at the Barnes-Rogers residence, but I can kick them out if you want– Oh shit, wait, it’s like two in the afternoon, you probably have shit to do. Sorry, I forget how normal people live. Are you free later?”

Bucky is giving Clint the same kind of face he makes at videos of puppies running too fast and falling over their own feet. Clint sticks his tongue out at him.

“I can be free now,” Daredevil says, and Clint grins triumphantly. “I– Technically I’m meant to be researching something, but my coworkers are always telling me I work too hard, I can skip out early.”

“Like, right now early?”

“Uhhh,” the faint sound of something that’s probably paper rustling, “In like, half an hour? And it’ll take me an hour to get to– Brooklyn, right?”

“Yep, don’t worry, the balance of the universe is maintained, Steve Rogers still lives in Brooklyn.”

Daredevil laughs, quietly. Clint grins wider.

“Oh, also,” he adds, as Bear walks into his line of sight and sits on Bucky’s feet, “A dog is here? If Buck goes the dog goes, he’s a service dog. He’ll ignore you until you ask otherwise, but he’s pretty big.”

“I don’t need you to kick Bucky Barnes out his own home, Hawkeye.”

“Okay, but are you saying that because you’re a polite young man, or because it’s true? ‘Cause I have done far worse things to Bucky than make him sit in the park with his dog for a few hours.”

“If I go to Bucky Barnes’ house without meeting the man himself, I think my partner will actually murder me.”

“Oh, that’s fair, that’s fair,” Clint says, then rattles off Buck’s address, and lets Daredevil go finish up at his day job.

The second he drops his phone on the couch, Bucky asks, “The hell you think you’re doing?”

“Expanding my collection of fucked up vigilantes, obviously.”

“By brute force?”

Clint shrugs, waving a hand at Bear till he comes over to say hi. He should probably check where Lucky is at some point. “He doesn’t seem like the kinda guy who’d appreciate subtlety.”

“What, ‘cause he runs round beating the shit out of his problems?”

“Lil bit? I dunno, I just got a vibe. He’s all… prickly, but defensive prickly. Makes me wanna wrap him in a blanket and make him cocoa.” He shrugs again. “Also, y’know, he definitely beat up my arms dealers and was then tryna interrogate me about them, so he’s at least a bit just after my intel. Which is fine, I will trade intel for hangouts.”

“You ever think of making friends with normal people?”

Clint barks a laugh. “Christ no, have you met me? Only things I know to do with normies are interrogate them without them noticing and herd them away from danger. And lift their valuables.”

Bucky says, “Fair,” then pushes away from the wall and points a finger at Clint. “Alright, we’ve got an hour and change, where the shit’s your dog?”

Chapter Text

By the time Daredevil knocks on the door, Lucky is curled up on Clint’s feet, fast asleep. He wasn’t that hard to find – Buck basically just stood on the corner of Clint’s block till he slinked out an alleyway. He’s got some kinda sixth sense for when Clint’s injured.

Daredevil, to Clint’s half-surprise, is in street clothes. A suit and tie, and no mask. Round, dark tinted glasses. A white cane in one hand.

Huh.

Bucky looks Daredevil over, looks the layout of the ground floor of his house over, and says, “Clint’s on the couch – eleven paces forward, three paces right. We getting your name, too?”

Daredevil’s face does something complicated and grimace-adjacent. “Does it matter?”

“Bud, you’re good people. We respect good people’s privacy,” Clint says, keeping his tone light. “You can bail right now, if you want. Won’t tell a soul.”

Daredevil’s eyebrow quirks in a way that probably means he doesn’t believe that for a second, which is fine. Clint’s got a lot of experience with skittish, paranoid bastards. Skittish, paranoid bastards is his entire social circle.

Also, Nat definitely already knows, but DD’s an idiot if he needs to be told that.

Daredevil walks, slowly but confidently, over to the couch, and says, “Matt. Matthew Murdock.”

Oh.

“Clint Barton,” Clint replies, just to be sure the playing field’s level. “My ears don’t work, ‘cause of childhood blunt force trauma.”

Matt’s eyebrows go up the tiniest bit, more like he’s widening his eyes than on-purpose raising them.

“So,” Clint continues, determined, “my board game plans ain’t as accessible as they could be, which can be fixed but not in the next ten minutes. What d’you do for fun? And don’t say sparring. If I pull my stitches Nat’ll set all my arrow caches on fire again.”

“You eaten lunch?” Bucky adds, never one to pass up an opportunity to motherhen.

“Uh, no,” Matt says to Bucky. Rookie mistake.

Bucky nods, and disappears in the kitchen, Bear on his heels. Lucky lifts his head to watch them go, but drops it down again without getting up. Which is fair – last time he took his eyes off Clint, Clint did get shot. He’s gonna have an overprotective blonde shadow for a week at least.

“Sit, already,” Clint says, “There’s an armchair–”

Matt sits down without waiting for Clint’s directions, and Clint files that away. “I don’t really… do much,” he says. Clint snorts.

“No shit, you’re a full-time lawyer and you’ve made all organised and petty crime in your neighbourhood your business. But it’s cool, barely any of my friends have hobbies, I can work with it.”

Matt gets all tense again. He’s facing the wall, not Clint. Clint would really like to be able to turn off the threat assessment part of his brain off. “I never said I’m a lawyer.”

Oh, fuck, whoops. “I, uh, I followed the Fisk shit very closely?” Clint mentally crosses his fingers. If Matt doesn’t believe him about this, any hope he has of winning the guy’s trust is dead in the water. “I swear, I had no idea of your name ‘til you said it, I just have a good head for ‘em. And, well, I spent 2015 splitting my time between getting way too involved in the organised crime in my neighbourhood, and going the tiniest bit batshit about the possibility of absolutely anyone being a secret Nazi. Good work, by the way, with Fisk.”

Thankfully, Matt relaxes. Not completely, but enough. “Thanks,” he says, in an ‘aw shucks’ kinda way. He’s cute when he blushes. “Speaking of being overly involved in organised crime…”

Clint drops his head back onto the arm of the couch and groans. “I am on too many pain meds to discuss arms dealers, Matt, I’m holding onto coherency by a thread.”

“Just wondered if there was anything I could do to help,” Matt says, innocently. Clint makes another aggrieved noise.

“No, it’s fine, Nat and Buck are handling it. You stay in your Kitchen, okay. Cops in Brooklyn are way more, what’s the word – They arrested me once, okay, and I’m an Avenger. Sure, I weren’t on Avengers business, but they didn’t know that.”

As if summoned by his name, Bucky appears in the kitchen doorway. He’s got a tea towel thrown over one shoulder, which is always hilarious. He asks, “Pasta sauce opinions?”

Clint makes a noncommittal noise, deferring to Matt. Matt says, unsure, “Uh, I don’t mind?”

Bucky makes an unimpressed face. “I ain’t cooking something you don’t wanna eat, Murdock, gimme something.”

Matt does something that isn’t looking Bucky up and down but, presumably, has the same results, and also really ups Clint’s desire to ask invasive questions about any superpowers he may or may not have. Then, with an expression of resolve, Matt stands up and asks, “Show me what you’ve got?”

So then Matt disappears into the kitchen as well, and Clint doesn’t follow, because he has a hole in his leg. To pass the time, he texts Nat.

You: any idea what daredevils deal is?

Nat replies within seconds, which pretty much only happens when she’s on high alert about his well-being.

Nat: Organised crime, kids, Catholicism, Frank Castle, C-PTSD, justice, ninjas

You: ok b honest did u know all that already or did u spend the past 2 days tailing him

Nat: You can see his apartment building from Stark Tower

You: u can see like half the city from the tower

Nat: If he stood on his roof you could count how many fingers he’s holding up

You: ok. fair

You: wasnt asking for all that tho

Nat: Not every vigilante in New York wants to be your friend

You: uhh blatantly false???

You: im amazing n every1 loves me

Nat: Eh. You’re alright

You: awww i love u 2

Nat: You picked your dog up, right?

You: [image: blurry close-up of Lucky asleep on Clint’s legs]

Nat: And your meds?

You: oh Thats why my teeth r buzzing

Clint calls, “Buck, d’you have my meds?”

Bucky appears in the doorway with the next level up of unimpressed face. He says, “No, dipshit, I’ve never met you before,” then chucks one of the Stark Industries tote bags they all compulsively steal at him. It hits Lucky, who makes an angry wookie noise. Clint strokes his head in sympathy.

Inside the bag, besides Clint’s meds, is a bottle of cheap cola, a pack of nicotine gum, three boxes of the fancy dog treats, Clint’s fidget cube, and a pack of double stuff Oreos. Clint beams at Bucky. Bucky rolls his eyes and ducks into the kitchen again, but he’s grinning too.

You: i like bucky more than u

Nat: No you don’t, he’s going to sneak vegetables into your food

You: dont remind me i dont want another scurvy lecture

Thanks to the pain meds, even once he’s taken his normal meds and is chewing some gum time is kinda wobbly, so it takes him by surprise when Bucky and Matt walk back out the kitchen carrying plates of food. Nat refused to properly gossip about Matt, because of her weird rules about friendship and gathering your own damn intel, Barton, so he’d just been regaling her with the latest Dog Cops subplots.

The pasta sauce is tomato and the pasta looks like the fancy stuff Buck makes himself. Clint’s plate is covered in a healthy layer of cheese, because Bucky is Clint’s favourite, hidden vegetables or no.

“So,” Clint says, once Matt is settled in the armchair again and Bucky is cross-legged on the floor, Bear pressed to his side like a dog who can be trusted not to help himself to any food within reach, “I don’t gotta tell you I have an ulterior motive, right?”

“I’m not joining the Avengers,” Matt says, immediately. Bucky snorts.

“Strongly agreed,” Clint says, and Matt’s eyebrows shoot up. “Applications for the Avengers ended when aliens hit New York and they reopen never, we are a trainwreck, no one else has a chance in hell of fitting in.”

“That’s… not an opinion I’ve heard before.”

“Well, yeah, the adoring public’s gotta think we’re a well-oiled team – and we are, don’t get me wrong, but we are also a bag of cats. There's a reason every alphabet org there is hates working with us, y’know?”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Everyone hates working with us ‘cause none of us respect any authority ‘cept Potts.”

“Oh shit, Pepper should run the CIA– No, no, not the point.” Clint returns his focus to Matt, who now looks amused. “The point is, you’re our people. I don’t know why everyone’s so hellbent on being a lone wolf, when me and Nat ran with SHIELD we had guaranteed backup and it was great.”

“I’ve been doing this three years,” Matt points out, reasonably, the you never gave a shit before implied loud and clear.

Clint ticks said years off on his fingers. “I was busy with my entire extended support system turning out to be Nazis; you retired for a hot minute then let everyone think you were dead; Katie had a whole thing and there were still Nazis everywhere.” He pauses for a couple mouthfuls of pasta, then adds, “Anyway, Avengers is the big stuff. Now we’re finally getting somewhere with the Nazis there’s a lot less Avengering, so we can actually pitch in with the little stuff.”

Clint nods. “And, y’know, local politics. Steve is, right now, yelling at people about– SESTA? Is it SESTA today?” Bucky nods.

“I know some people fighting that,” Matt says, looking intrigued.

Clint and Bucky share a version of their ‘jesus christ why is steve Like This’ look. “Absolutely Steve’ll want to talk to you about that,” Clint says, “but, again, I am not trying to recruit you into all our shit here. We have a lot of shit. You, also, have a lot of shit. I’ve heard humans need to sleep, sometimes.”

Matt rolls his eyes. Which ain’t a very comforting response.

“We practice self-care in this house,” Clint says, firmly. “If I gotta, so does everyone else.”

“Speaking of,” Bucky says, standing up and gathering up the empty plates, “People with three-day-old bullet wounds have to sleep even more than normal. You’re due more pain meds, yeah?”

Oh, yeah, that’s why Clint’s leg’s been getting louder about the throbbing and the fire and all that. “But Matt just got here!”

“Matt’s been here over an hour.”

“Exactly!”

Bucky narrows his eyes. “Bud, you are only awake right now because the meds are wearing off. Matt’s free to come over again anytime – and I mean that, I love them but him and Steve are fucking useless in the kitchen, they think it’s fancy if it don’t involve the microwave – but now, right now, you are napping.”

Clint huffs. Matt looks incredibly amused.

“If I don’t get going soon, Foggy’ll probably assume you’ve kidnapped me and sic Frank on you, anyway,” he says, getting to his feet. “I’m definitely coming back, though. I haven’t had pasta that good in years.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere,” Buck says. 

Clint huffs again, but says, “Fine. Though, wait, one sec–” He pulls his phone out, then adds, “Oh, I’m getting my phone out, I just need to text someone…”

[knife emoji x3]

clint: hey yall know daredevil

Natasha: Barton this group chat is not just where you store all your friends

clint: yes it is??

Steve: everyone in here is your friend

Steve: everyone you’re friends with can’t be in here

clint: i need a proper answer i am on the good stuff

Natasha: When you’ve known him longer than three days, we’ll talk

Natasha: Go to sleep already

clint: u n buck ARE psychically linked!!! just admit it!!!!!

Natasha: You texted me when you took your last dose in case you forgot

clint: convenient excuse

“Okay,” Clint says, locking his phone so he doesn’t have to see Natasha’s counterargument, “Never mind, I was outvoted. But, uhhh, lemme know when you’re free? Text me. I don’t think I’m actually retaining info right now.”

Lucky lifts his head again at the sound of Matt walking to the door, and Clint adds, “Oh! Wait! Also, pet my dog, you can’t leave without petting my dog. He’s giving you the puppy eyes.”

Matt scritches behind Lucky’s ears, thus winning Lucky’s undying loyalty. Then he thanks Bucky for the food, again, and promises to text Clint, again, and then leaves. Bucky stares at Clint until he takes the next dose of pain meds, and Clint makes it through the cold open of a Dog Cops episode before sleep ambushes him.