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Fifteen minutes before Bucky’s due to arrive home, Clint gets a text from Tasha that’s just the skull and crossbones emoji with no other information. She tries to stay out of other people’s business, so she reserves this particular warning for when Bucky’s had a really, really bad day. Clint appreciates the heads up, placing a bottle of white wine in the fridge and waiting to see what type of mood Bucky comes home in.
Usually when he’s had a bad day, Bucky is angry, dynamic, the annoyance rolling off of him in waves. He can’t stop venting about which asshole surgeon insulted him in front of a patient, or how a first-year resident who’s only been there for three weeks ordered a medication that a patient was clearly allergic to, like has he ever even checked a wristband? When he comes home like that, he’s a flurry, stomping from one end of the house to the other as he takes off his scrubs and starts the washer, padding back into the kitchen in his boxers to microwave a Hot Pocket, sitting on the counter with legs swinging as he tells Clint he can’t keep doing this, he can’t, he’s surrounded by idiots for twelve hours of the day and he’s not gonna survive it.
And Clint normally just waits patiently, plating his Hot Pocket for him and watching quietly as he takes a bite too quickly and burns his mouth on the too-hot cheese, pouting sullenly as Clint pours him a drink and kisses his neck and listens to him complain until he runs out of words and looks at Clint, hazy, frustrated, and says, “Are you going to fuck me to sleep or what?”
And then Clint will lean into him, stepping between his thighs, and Bucky kisses him hungrily, feverishly, biting at his lips and wrapping his legs around Clint’s waist, and he slides down from the counter into Clint’s arms, and Clint haltingly carries him to their room and tosses him onto their bed and takes him apart and ruins him until he can finally get his head to shut up and let him fall asleep.
Tonight is not like that, though.
When Bucky comes in, he’s so quiet that Clint doesn’t even hear it, doesn’t even realize he’s there until Bucky walks into the kitchen, still in his scrubs and an oversized hoodie, duffel bag clutched in both arms like he doesn’t know where to put it. His head is down, his feet shuffling as he hesitantly walks into the room.
“Hey, babe,” Clint says, and Bucky’s head jerks up. “Didn’t hear you come in.”
Bucky doesn’t say anything, just blinks and swallows, and his eyes are skittering around like he doesn’t know what to look at, like maybe he’s not sure that he’s all the way here right now.
“C’mon, babe,” Clint says, more softly now. He walks over to Bucky, keeping his steps slow and evenly paced, like he’s approaching a scared animal. “Can I take that bag from you?”
“Okay,” Bucky whispers. Clint takes the bag from his arms, then presses a quick kiss to Bucky’s forehead. He smells like antiseptic and sweat.
“Are you hungry?” Clint asks, but Bucky shakes his head. “How about you hop into the shower, and maybe you’ll want to eat something after.”
“Okay,” Bucky says again, but he makes no move to walk towards the bathroom. He’s looking at the floor now, and he just seems...stuck.
“You want me to go with you?” Clint asks gently. “I can wash your hair, babe. Get you all nice and clean. Pour you some wine and tuck you into bed.”
“Please,” Bucky says, and he looks at Clint, and there’s a mournful, haunted look in his eyes that punches Clint in the guts, makes him silently vow to redouble his efforts to take care of Bucky, to be soft and careful with him, to make sure he can rest and relax tonight like he needs.
“Let’s go,” Clint says. He drops the duffel bag at his feet, just leaves it there in the kitchen to retrieve later, and he drapes his arm around Bucky’s waist, coaxing him towards the bathroom. Bucky falls into step beside him, and halfway down the hallway, he rests his head on Clint’s shoulder.
When they get to the bathroom, Clint heads over to the shower and fusses with the taps. It always takes a bit for the hot water to kick on, and he wants it to be perfect by the time he gets Bucky under the spray. Bucky is already toeing off his shoes, but then he stops, just staring down at his socked feet.
“I’ve got you,” Clint murmurs. He unzips Bucky’s hoodie and eases it down over his arms. That seems to snap Bucky back into focus, and he pulls off his scrub top and his long-sleeved Henley as one. He holds the inside-out garments in his hands, glancing hesitantly over his shoulder.
The rule is that Bucky’s gross scrubs are only ever allowed to be on his person, in his duffel, or in the basement ready to go into the wash. They are filthy and full of germs and occasionally covered in fluids that neither of them want incubating in their home.
But just this once, Clint thinks fuck it.
“It’s fine,” Clint says, taking the shirts from Bucky and dropping them onto the floor. He’ll bleach the bathroom tomorrow while Bucky’s at work. He crouches down, easing Bucky’s scrub pants down over his thighs. “C’mon, step out for me.” Bucky’s socks get tangled in his pant legs as Clint pulls them down, one side then the other. And then he’s naked and beautiful before Clint, almost ready to step into the shower.
Clint stands back up and carefully works the elastic out from Bucky’s ponytail, letting his matted hair cascade down over his shoulders.
“Let’s clean you up,” Clint says gently, and Bucky nods and tries to smile.
“Thanks,” Bucky says as they walk towards the shower. Clint tests the water temperature with one hand -- perfect. “I had…. It was not a good day today.”
“I know, babe,” Clint says. “Let’s wash it all off.”
Bucky steps into the shower first, and he tips his head back and closes his eyes, lets the spray get him right in the face. He stays there for about thirty seconds before he takes a few steps back, and Clint is ready with his sleeves pulled down over his hands, awkwardly reaching over to catch the drops running down Bucky’s face, stopping them from getting into his eyes.
“You still want me to join you, or do you have this under control?” Clint asks.
Bucky takes a while to answer, and Clint shifts his weight from side to side as he waits.
“I think I have this under control,” Bucky says eventually, “but I would still like for you to join me. If you don’t mind.”
“Of course I don’t mind,” Clint says. He shrugs off his boxers and his t-shirt, kicking off his socks and slipping out his aids before following Bucky into the shower. As he pulls the shower curtain closed, he feels Bucky’s arms encircle him from behind, feels Bucky’s stubbled cheek pressed to the space between his shoulder blades. He stands there for a moment and lets Bucky hold onto him, only turning around when he feels Bucky’s embrace loosen.
“I love you,” Bucky says when Clint’s facing him. Clint ducks his head and kisses Bucky’s shower-slick lips, gentle, gentle.
“Love you, too,” Clint says. “Lemme wash your hair.”
Bucky rolls his eyes, but he smiles, just a little. It’s not a big smile, not one of those eye-crinkling smiles that lights up his whole face and makes Clint’s insides go all swoopy. This one is smaller, more controlled, but it’s the best expression Clint has seen on Bucky’s face all night, so he’ll take it.
It’s not a secret that Clint is obsessed with playing with Bucky’s hair, and it’s also not a secret that Bucky absolutely loves having his hair played with. Clint takes his time, getting a good lather going before lovingly stroking the suds through Bucky’s hair, scratching at his scalp, making sure not to miss one single spot. Bucky closes his eyes and lets Clint work, and his face looks relaxed, contented. Clint can’t hear a damn thing with his ears out, but he wouldn’t be surprised if Bucky was purring.
Clint washes out the shampoo methodically, making sure every strand is squeaky clean before switching over to conditioner. Clint never uses it himself, but he’s pretty sure his hair is beyond redemption, whereas Bucky’s just comes to life with a little bit of care and attention.
When Bucky’s hair is all clean, when his body is all scrubbed down and carefully exfoliated, Clint just stands with him under the spray for another few minutes. He kisses the droplets of water collecting at his hairline, and then he kisses a trail down his cheek, along his jaw. His hands start out cupping Bucky’s shoulders but they creep lower, feeling the powerful muscles of his chest, Clint’s fingers idly playing with Bucky’s chest hair as their lips finally meet.
“Okay,” Clint finally says, breathless and well-kissed. “Okay. I’m gonna pour you some wine, and you’re going to drink it while I braid your hair, and then we’re going to bed.”
Bucky nods and turns off the shower. Clint steps out, idly swiping at his hair with a towel before fitting his aids back in. He puts on the same boxers and t-shirt he was wearing before, ignoring Bucky’s disapproving groan. Whatever, he was already clean before the shower. He leans back against the closed door and watches as Bucky towels himself off, not making any attempt to disguise how interested he is in the lines that Bucky’s body make. His boyfriend is hot, fucking sue him.
“One more day,” Bucky says, lips quirked.
“One more day,” Clint says, “and then you’re mine for three days in a row.”
“And what are you going to do with me?” Bucky asks, finally giving Clint a genuine smile.
“Dunno,” Clint says, shrugging. “You might be too tired to keep up with what I’m planning.”
“I won’t be,” Bucky says, eyes shining. “I’ll be well-rested and ready for you, sweetheart.”
“You’d better be,” Clint murmurs. “I have a lot of plans for you. Go get dressed, babe, I’ll meet you in the bedroom.”
Clint heads back to the kitchen. He pours an extremely generous serving of chilled wine into an oversized coffee mug that says Nurses Do It For Twelve Hours Straight and adds a straw. He grabs a string-cheese from the fridge and walks back to their room.
Bucky’s already sitting crosslegged on the floor at the foot of the bed, and he makes grabby hands for the wine when Clint enters the room.
“What’s with the cheese?” he asks suspiciously.
“Wine and cheese,” Clint says, handing them both over. “It’s a thing. I’m being fancy for you.”
“You’re ridiculous,” Bucky mutters, but he dutifully opens the cheese stick and begins peeling off strings of it.
Clint settles himself on the bed so that Bucky is between his legs, and he just takes some time to comb his fingers through Bucky’s damp hair, working out the tangles. Fuck, he loves his hair.
“Okay,” Bucky grumbles eventually. “Put away your boner and braid it already so we can go to bed.”
“Shut up and drink your wine,” Clint says easily, but he begins braiding Bucky’s hair, methodically shuffling strands from one hand to the other as he weaves a damp, loose plait.
“Your hands feel nice,” Bucky mumbles in between sips of wine.
“I know,” Clint says, tugging lightly on the braid. “I’m very good at this. All done, baby.”
“I’m not done my wine,” Bucky says forlornly. He takes out the straw and brings the mug to his lips, taking a long, long gulp. “Okay, now I’m done.”
“Let’s go to bed, beautiful,” Clint says. “See if we can get you more than six consecutive hours of sleep for once in your life.”
“I doubt it,” Bucky murmurs, hoisting himself up from the floor and crawling onto the bed. “Thanks. Sorry I wasn’t good company tonight.”
“You’re the best company,” Clint says. “You’re my favorite. Always. No matter what.”
“Right,” Bucky says with a snort. “I’m a fuckin’ prize.”
“Hey,” Clint says softly. “You are, babe. To me you are.”
“Okay,” Bucky says, sighing. “Thanks. I mean it. I love you.”
“Love you, too,” Clint says. He takes out his aids as he and Bucky get settled under the covers, Clint on his back, Bucky curled up against his chest. Clint kisses his forehead and wraps his arms tight around Bucky, and Bucky sighs again and kisses Clint’s chest.
Clint knows Bucky isn’t ever going to get it, isn’t ever going to see that even nights like this are better than being alone. But it’s okay. Maybe it will sink in for him eventually. Because Clint’s going to keep taking care of him for a long, long time.