Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Twenty-four hour coffee shops had been invented specifically for Clint, he would not be taking questions, thank you for coming to his TEDTalk. Okay, maybe not just for him, judging by the two other people who weren’t the disaffected barista, and the 2 a.m. cookie delivery joint definitely wasn’t just for him, but Clint had a bag of chocolate chip cookies and the biggest coffee the place sold brewing for him, and yeah. Places. For weirdos like him.

The barista announced the arrival of his beloved beverage and Clint got up like a shot and strode across the room, caught the toe of his shoe on the tile, and oh shit, collided with a woman at the counter reaching for the same coffee. He fumbled the bag of cookies, one precious treat jumping ship as the coffee cup tipped over. Turning, he caught the coffee at an awkward angle; the cookie hit the shoulder of her white shirt, leaving chocolate smears before she bounced it off her elbow and caught it.

“I guess this one’s mine,” she said, promptly sinking her teeth into it. “Mmm, soft baked. Good choice.”

The barista rolled her eyes and set a second, identical coffee on the bar.

“That’s mine, too.” She took the second cup, a half grin on her lips.

Clint blinked up at her. She’d pulled her brown hair back in a ponytail but flyaways haloed her face. Dark circles ringed her eyes. Clint had no room to talk; he looked like he’d rolled outta bed straight into a dumpster. But he could see where the coffee confusion occurred. And he couldn’t begrudge her the cookie.

She saluted him, tucked a couple dollars in the tip jar, and made her way back out onto the street.

“Huh,” he said. He blinked after her, pushed himself upright, and headed in the opposite direction toward the loft.

*

“Sorry, we just sold the last one. We’ll have more in a couple hours,” the barista said, not sounding sorry at all having denied Clint’s request for one of those giant, chocolate dipped rice crispy bars. It even had sprinkles. He pawed at the display case, throughly tempted to ask for the one on the plate. It was four in the morning and he just wanted it, okay? He settled for an extra pump of chocolate in whatever random coffee he’d selected. Maybe he should just get a bagel or something normal.

A light tap at his shoulder had him whirling around. A woman with brunette hair in a floppy, unkept bun smirked at him, a mix between pity and laugher on her face. She set her coffee on the counter and reached into the paper bag she held. A moment later she offered the bag to Clint, half a chocolate dipped crispy treat in her other hand.

“Since you shared your cookies with me last time,” she said, shaking the bag a little.

Clint took it, looked into the bag—yup, one half of a crispy treat all right—then back up at her. “Thanks.”

“No problem. Oh, and uh, you might not want to drink that,” she added, nodding to the cup the barista set out. “You had her put chocolate in one of the weird Captain Americano not-coffee things.”

Aw, coffee, no. Clint glanced at the red, white, and blue monstrosity and then back up at the menu. Strawberry syrup, sour blue something, cremé something else. And pop rocks. The futzing thing had pop rocks. With a sigh, Clint jammed a straw into it anyway and took a sip. Oh yeah. It was bad. He grimaced as the candy started fizzing in his mouth.

“Oh, that’s so wrong,” he said.

The woman’s eyebrows shot up, her lips parted, before she leveled a sly look at him. “You’re not trying to get me to feel bad for you so I’ll surrender the other half of my breakfast, are you?”

Clint opened his eyes wide in his best puppy dog stare. “Me? No. I’d never. Even though I’ve been craving one all night.”

She laughed, and then sank her teeth into her half of the crispy bar. “Glad to know I’m not the only one eating something ridiculous for breakfast.”

Clint took his drink and made his way to the door with her. “Early morning or late night?”

“I don’t really know how you tell at this point, but I guess since I haven’t sleep in 20 hours, and I’m headed back to work, I’m leaning toward late night. You?’

“Late night,” Clint agreed. “I have a particular set of skills; sleeping doesn’t happen to be one of them.”
She nodded. “Insomnia and I dated in college. We’ve got an on-again, off-again thing going and really, she’s a terrible date. Never picks up the tab. She’s a real drag.”

Clint chuckled, and took another sip of his drink, and oh, god, no. No, no.

The woman grimaced. “I hope you get some rest.”

“You, too,” Clint replied. “I’m gonna go ignore insomnia’s texts and hopes she gets the message.”

She slipped his Captain Americano out of his hand and gave him her untouched coffee. She dropped the multicolored abomination into a trash can on her way out.

*

Word had gotten out about the all-night coffee shop. Okay, it was early—1:30am in New York was like 10pm anywhere else in the world—but that did not make it okay because all the tables were full of chattering people and Clint wanted silence and coffee. Maybe banana bread. Definitely coffee. He ordered and waited, scanning the tiny coffee shop for some place to sit.

A familiar brunette sat in the back, her empty coffee cup tipped over and three books spread out in front of her. Clint thought her hair might have once been in one of those half up things Nat sometimes did, but most of it had fallen down. It framed her face as she pressed the heels of the hands against her eyes. Clint ordered a second coffee and slice of banana bread before making his way over.

“Mind if I table share?”

She looked up, the dark rings around her eyes as present as they had been the first time. “Uh, yeah, lemme just,” she said, trying to scoot her books into a pile so Clint could have a sliver of table space. He set the coffees down, tossed her empty cup into the bin and offered her a plate of banana bread.

“Thank you,” she whispered, taking the plate.

“Coffee’s for you, too. Looked like you could use a refill.”

“Bless you.” She reached for the cup with one hand and the banana bread with the other. Her eyes rolled in pleasure. “I wanted to get another but I didn’t want to lose the table and how is this so good, it’s so unfair.”

Clint smiled. “Right? I think by now I’ve tried everything this place makes. Banana bread is a classic. So,” he said tilting his head. Her books were a selection of anatomy, mechanics, chemistry, and sculpture? “What are you . . .researching?”

“Replicating basic humanoid function in order to build and potentially sell more advanced Life Model Decoys with a range of programmable functions from bank robbery to arson.”

She said it so nonchalantly around a mouthful of banana bread that all Clint managed to say was, “Um?”

The peal of laughter that rang through her sounded like pure mirth. “I’m a biomechanical engineer. I specialize in prosthetic construction and development.”

Clint felt momentarily dizzy with relief. “Oh. That’s. Really cool. The engineering, not the murder.”

“The murder bots are a different division,” she teased. “We’re testing out ways to potentially use the remaining neural pathways to the brain to make the prosthetics function more like previously existing limbs. My job is figuring out how to streamline the bulkier bits.”

“Must be interesting. And intense.” His mouth went dry. “A friend of mine has a prosthetic arm,” he said, tripping over the words.

“Really? Is he ex-military? I know they’re getting most of the experimental stuff. Does it work well for him?”

Clint took a long swallow of his coffee. “He—It’s okay. Works.”

The woman opened her mouth to say more when her phone went off. She scrambled to close and stack up her books, shoving the rest of the banana bread into her mouth before washing it down with another swing. “Sorry, I gotta run. Thank you for the snack and the drink. Really.”

She squeezed his shoulder as she hustled by. Clint watched her go. He felt pretty sure all the LMDs were based out of California for now.

*

Maybe he should just move in. Two forty-five in the morning, and a hot coffee was calling his name. Well. When wasn’t coffee calling his name? He rubbed his hands together, eyeing the board, when a familiar voice sounded behind him.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were planning these little run ins.”

Clint turned, a smile quirking his lips. “So those skill sets? They don’t include flawlessly executing plans to meet awesome women in different all-night coffee joints every day for a week at various hours.”

“Maybe you should reconsider the merits of dumb luck,” she said.

“Now, that,” Clint said, “that is my super power.”

She smiled, laughing softly. “Would it be weird if I told you I may have noticed you a couple times before we talked?”

Clint narrowed his eyes playfully. “Really?”

“A tall, handsome blond inexplicably sporting bandaids like they’re accessories? Yeah.”

Okay, well. That was—Clint knew he was attractive in an average, kinda forgettable way. He had great shoulders. He knew what it was like to roll outta bed, look in the mirror, and think, hot damn. But other people noticing? Pretty, very smart, funny science people? Clint could admit he’d been in a rut. Things were bad in ways he didn’t wanna think about. But he’d run into this lady for a week straight, at all different hours of the night, and she’d made him laugh and probably wasn’t a super villain, and hell, maybe he kinda wanted to keep running into her. She seemed nice.

Clint looked at her, her hair falling out of its braid and her pretty brow eyes, and yeah. Okay.

Oh shit, he hadn’t said anything. C’mon, Barton, get it together.

“You should see how many bruises I collect in a week,” he finally said. Nat was definitely gonna revoke his flirting license.

She laughed. “Professional skydiver? Roller derby champion? Clumsy dog walker?”

Clint rubbed the back of his neck. He was just off his game. He could recover. “I own a building. I’m a landlord. I do have a dog, though.” Clint pulled out his phone; his lock screen was him and Lucky at the park, Lucky’s front legs around Clint’s neck in a hug.

“Aw! What a good boy! What’s his name?”

“Lucky. Sometimes Pizza Dog.”

“That’s a great name but I wasn’t talking about the lab, and no way am I calling you Pizza Dog.”

Okay, he walked into that one. He moved toward the bar, grabbing their coffee cups and handing one to her. “I am clearly out of practice.”

“Don’t worry about it,” she said, turning her cup to take a sip. “You can chalk my sharp wit up to the two hour nap I managed today.”

Clint laughed. “I don’t know how much long my dumb luck is gonna last, but maybe,” he paused and then shrugged. “Maybe we could grab a coffee some time. On purpose.”

She raised an eyebrow, smiling. “Like a date?”

“Yeah, like a date.” He nodded. Date was good. Getting out. Meeting people. Not wearing yesterday’s socks.

“I guess we should exchange names then? I feel kinda weird calling you Cute Coffee Guy in my head.”

“I’m Clint,” he said, raising his coffee cup.

She bit her lip, eyes on his cup before looking down at hers. “So you are,” she answered, holding up her own cup, Clint’s name messily scrawled across it.

Clint looked at his coffee. Laura. “If your name isn’t Laura, I’m gonna be real embarrassed.”

Laura bumped her shoulder into his as she stepped away from the counter. She pulled a pen out of her purse, set her coffee on the table, plucked the cup out of Clint’s hand and wrote her number on the side.

“Uh, I’m going to have to try not to lose this,” Clint said.

Laura gave him a shrug and tapped her coffee cup against his. “If you do, at least you know where to find me.”

Chapter Text

Steve found Bucky sitting on the couch, phone in hand. From the expression on Bucky’s face, the screen remained blank. Maybe it was the photo of Steve when they’d first gotten Ledi, or something from the gym, or another spam bot. Whatever it was, it wasn’t a text message from Clint. He crossed the room and sat down beside his husband, resting an arm around Bucky’s shoulders. Ledi perked her grey head up from Bucky’s other side, stretched, and padded over to curl up in Steve’s lap.

“Hey, sweetheart, why don’t we head over to Sam’s? He’s grilling on the roof. It’s a nice day. We should get out for a bit.”

Buck leaned into him. “I don’t wanna go.”

Steve hated the misery in Bucky’s voice. “Five minutes? We put an appearance in, and then we can go for dinner somewhere else?” He pressed close, laying a kiss on Bucky’s cheek. “I’ll text Sam before we get there. Ask if Clint’s arrived, and if he has, we’ll skip out. If he hasn’t, we stop in. Deal?”

Buck shrugged. Steve threaded his fingers through Bucky’s hair. Clint bolted the night Buck had tried to apologize after the Barney Incident. A few days after, Nat had texted them that Clint was okay, he was home resting, he needed some time. Six weeks passed without another word, and for a month now Buck had sent Clint messages the archer never replied to. Steve had been beside Buck a number of time the little ‘message in progress’ bubble popped up, but nothing had ever come through.

They’d seen him twice, both times at Sam’s, and both times Clint avoided them, saying hi but not quite making eye contact, keeping close to Nat and Sam. Steve understood why Bucky didn’t want to go; Steve knew Clint was avoiding being alone with either of them. Despite Clint promising Buck they were okay, the distance had taken its toll on their friendship.

“Hey,” Steve said, gently turning Bucky’s head. “I miss him, too. At least we know he’s in the city. He’s alive and getting better. Natasha said he needed time, and we both know how badly he was injured. Clint’s probably still dealing with his trauma. He’ll answer when he’s ready.”

“I fucked it up, Steve. He’s not hiding from Sam or Nat, even Tony said he’s seen Barton. He’s avoiding us,” Buck answered. “He’s avoiding me.”

Steve rose from the couch and took Bucky’s hands. He hated seeing him so upset and Steve wished the phone screen would light up with a text. It didn’t, of course, so Steve coaxed Bucky to his feet. “Five minutes. Then we’ll go wherever you want for dinner. I’m pretty sure I also have tickets for that new science installation at the history museum. You can tell me all about space exploration and ancient architecture,” he added, grinning a little. Bucky lived for that stuff; a part of Steve wished he could take Buck to another World’s Fair—now World’s Expo, which didn’t have the same ring—but it wouldn’t happen for another year or so. He regretted not enjoying the Stark Expo, knowing the whole thing charmed Buck from the start.

Sparing one last glance at his phone, Bucky tossed it onto the cushions and wrapped his arms around Steve. “Okay. Five minutes. And then we’re going to that new sandwich place with the giant milkshakes.”

Steve hugged him tight. “Whatever you want, pal.”

*

They left about thirty seconds before Clint arrived, Steve making their goodbyes as Buck shoved his hands into his pockets and waited by the door. Halfway to the restaurant, Steve bumped his shoulder into Buck’s, offering him a smile. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

“Me, too. This sucks.”

“Yeah.”

It did suck. Buck and Clint had been attached at the hip since the week after they met, and if they weren’t physically together, they were on the phone trading gifs and stupid pictures. Steve missed walking into surprise pizza and movie nights, missed getting squished into the side of the couch with Bucky lounging against him and Clint trying to lounge obnoxiously against Bucky. Things lacked color without their friend.

Still, Steve determined to make this a good night for Bucky, and Steve had never backed down from a challenge. The fact that their evening ended with Steve almost getting his nose broken (again) after some anti-vaxxer started shit ran pretty par for the course. Buck had gotten them home, gotten the peas out of the freezer, and wrapped them in a wash cloth before pressing them to Steve’s black and blue cheek. The bruising was spreading toward his eye, but it was worth it for the small smile on Bucky’s face as he muttered curses, ending with, “Punk.”

“Jerk.”

“You start that fight on purpose?”

“In this, the year 2019, do I really have to do anything to start a fight?”

“Good point,” Buck said. “I wish I could marry you all over again.”

Steve laughed, wincing a little. He cuddled into Bucky. It would never cease to amaze him that they were here, together, and had an entire future ahead of them. “I love you.”

“I love you, too. Thank you, Stevie. For today.”

Steve looked up at him and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “I’m glad you had fun. And I’m glad you never get tired of pulling me out of fist fights.”

Bucky moved the peas to kiss Steve full on the lips, and Steve melted into the touch. It stung a little when Bucky pulled back, having reached around Steve for his phone.

“Anything?”

Buck stared at the screen a moment before shaking his head and turning the phone off completely. He set on the coffee table before facing Steve. Sadness lingered in his eyes, but Buck was smiling, and Steve would count that as a success. “C’mon, baby doll. You, me, the bag of veggies, and a nice hot bath?”

Steve kissed him back, nipping at Bucky’s bottom lip. “Ditch the peas and you got a deal.”

*

Bucky eventually turned his phone back on. He’d been teaching more classes at the gym and taking on a few personal training clients. When Buck stopped by the gallery to pick him up on their way to Stark Tower, Steve was treated to the curator, Lucy, gushing about the “super hot guy” who’d wandered into the front room. Bucky plied his trademark half smirk when Steve threw his arms around Bucky’s neck and leaned in for a kiss.

He’d politely introduced Lucy to his husband, James, before leaving for the afternoon. The “why didn’t you tell me your husband was hot” look she shot him behind Bucky’s back had him chuckling to himself. It felt like a lifetime since they’d had a good day. Tony had texted Buck that morning about finishing the modification that would allow Bucky to disguise his metal arm. The sun was shining, the temperature felt great, he was hand-in-hand with his best guy. Everything felt perfect.

JARVIS took them down to Tony’s lab, where he was waiting with goggles on his face, a leather apron around his waist, and a blowtorch in his hand. Bucky glanced over him. “Stark, you wanna get kinky, you gotta treat us right. Dinner first.”

“Please, like I don’t wine and dine you both after our little sessions,” Stark shot back. “Spangles stop doing the costume role-play?”

“Nah, he spanks me good and makes me call him Captain,” Bucky answered, gliding past Tony to take a seat in his usual spot. Steve, now bright red, almost regretted the two of them finally making up and bonding over a love of explosives and breaking things under the guise of target practice.

“Always thought he’d be a daddy. How’s the arm?”

“Still attached.”

“I see that, Tin Man,” Stark answered. He waved the hand not holding the blowtorch, summoning schematics for Bucky’s arm. Steve caught glimpses of the x-rays, but the full rigging and attachment were both fascinating and gut-churning. The scientists had gutted Bucky’s shoulder to shove the metal into place, anchoring it with pins and rods and pistons anchored into bone. Tony had spent hours studying the mechanics and devising a plan to fix the deteriorating parts and lessen the weight Bucky carried from the prosthetic, but none of them were willing to risk a surgery before Tony reached 100% certainty and confidence in the procedure.

Finally, Tony set the blowtorch aside, pushed the goggles on top of his head, and rubbed his hands together. “So, we’re installing a disguise protocol that will mask the metal and give surface level texture. If you feel like reaching out and touching someone. Consensually.”

Bucky rolled his eyes. Steve popped up on the table beside them. Steve never could figure out how Howard just thought of stuff and made it happen, and watching Tony was no different. He may not get it, but he loved listening to the plans. “So if anyone touched Bucky, they’ll just feel skin?”

“That’s the idea. Of course, if there’s prolonged contact, the illusion won’t necessarily hold. The tech was more easily applied to that facial screen Red had due to lack of contact. Unless you go around getting handsy with peoples’ faces. Good new is the interface will hold through heat, rain, snow, killer robot apocalypse, and daily use. It shouldn’t crack unless the arm takes sufficient damage.

Bucky’s brows shot up. “Good to know.”

Tony produced a small roll of tools from only he knew where and started opening the panels in Bucky’s arm. Buck had promised Steve it didn’t hurt, but it kinda freaked him out anyway. That, and Bucky kept his head forward as Tony tweaked and twisted until Bucky’s forearm was entirely splayed open.

A metallic thud brought Steve’s and Bucky’s attentions back to Tony. He’d tapped a tiny screwdriver against the red star. “Any thoughts about upgrades or redesigns? You don’t have to keep the classic silver finish, I got all sorts of colors. Maybe a red and gold deal? Or red, white, and blue to match your patriotic paramour? Solid black might be nice. I know you’ve got the guyliner punk vibe going on.”

“I’m keeping the red star,” Buck said, quiet but firm. He’d been debating it for months, but never out loud. In the past, Steve had occasionally caught him staring at the arm in the mirror; Buck hated it, but his tone now invited no discussion.

That didn’t mean Tony wouldn’t ask. “Uh, sure thing, but why?”

Bucky’s voice stayed firm. “It’s mine. I own it. It’s as much a part of me as anything else, and I’ve worked damn hard to reclaim it. The star stays. You can touch up the paint, though.”

“Easy enough, Tin Man. Hey JARVIS, while I’m thinking about it, put in an order for that purple paint Merida likes for his BTEs. I swear, his blood is purple. Between his comms, the hearing aids, his bows, the arrows, the uniform, and quiver, I outta start calling him Grimace. There’s nothing but purple.”

Steve caught Bucky’s expression falter. Derailing bird boy talk needed to happen, and quick. “I don’t understand that reference.”

Tony stared at him, blinked, and said, “Never mind.” Success.

Despite himself, Steve craned his neck to watch Tony’s actions. Bucky’s arm whirred louder, the plates shifting. Buck closed his eyes. Steve hopped off the table and took Bucky’s right hand in his.

His husband looked up at him, a fond smile on his lips. “Doesn’t hurt, Stevie.”

“I know. Doesn’t mean it’s comfortable.”

“Of course it’s uncomfortable,” Tony interjected. “Do you have any idea how old and outdated this thing is?”

Bucky twitched his metal fingers, causing whatever Tony was working on to snap at him. “I have an idea. The question is can you upgrade it?”

“Can I upgrade it? Can I upgrade it! Are you fucking kidding me, Terminator? Can I upgrade it,” he muttered.

He kept grumbling to himself over the next hour as he removed and replaced components, installed the disguise interface, and reconfigured the arm. DUM-E rolled by with a small can of red paint and a polishing cloth. Tony even threw in a detailed cleaning. Steve couldn’t help but grin.

“You keep flirting with my husband, Stark, we’re gonna have a problem.”

“You gonna tie me to the desk and punish me?”

“Sorry, left my harness at home,” Steve said. Buck laughed. They might antagonize the hell out of each other, but Buck and Tony getting to be friends made Steve endlessly happy.

They stayed for dinner, Tony insisting he couldn’t—and shouldn’t—be allowed to eat all the Thai he’d ordered by himself.

Chapter Text

Being a spy and an assassin and having the drive to do what needed to be done occasionally had unexpected perks. Clint giggled, adjusting the massage chair settings as the tiny fish nibbled at his feet. If he thought too hard about it, it kinda freaked him out. Fish. In a pedicure foot tub. They got a particularly ticklish spot and his face mask cracked around the mouth. It might have coffee in it, but it was, in no way, coffee flavored. He took a sip of his coffee flavored coffee and readjusted the cucumber slices over his eyes.

Natasha, lounging in the chair beside him, laughed softly. They’d helped the owner of one of the most exclusive spas in Manhattan when her divorce got hit-man level dicy and had been rewarded with no-questions-asked access to the spa whenever they called. Who knew hot towels were such a godsend? And the arm and calf massages. He could stay here all day.

Clint let his head loll a moment before picking one of the cucumbers up and taking a bite. “I’ve missed best friend pampering dates.”

“Me, too,” Nat answered, sighing in contentment as her nail tech rubbed Natasha’s arm. “It’s nice when it’s the two of us.”

Uh oh. Sure, Nat got sentimental, only when they were alone. Clint sighed. There was never any use pretending he didn’t know she was on to him. “Her name is Laura.”

“I knew it. Former SHIELD? Freelance? One of Maria’s friends?”

“Biomedical engineer. She’s a civilian.” Cause hey, why not be honest?

Natasha took the cucumber slices off her eyes. “Clint.”

“I know,” he answered, eating his second cucumber slice. “It’s not ideal, but I like her, Nat. She’s nice. She’s normal.” She’s collateral, he nearly heard Nat say.

Instead, Nat nodded. “She good to you?”

“Yeah. She works a lot, but she loves coffee. We’ve been to three new places, including one where they do processing tours for the in-house roasts. Seen a couple movies. Done a couple dinners.” He shrugged. “Laura just got out of something pretty involved and isn’t looking for anything serious. I’m good with casual. I’m good at casual.”

Nat kept quiet for a moment, dropping her cucumber slices in the trash as the woman working on her started painting her toes the same deep purple Clint had chosen for his finger nails. The moment she caught Clint’s eye, he knew she understood and supported him. “You deserve something good, Clint. Someone good. If you enjoy her company and she makes you laugh, then I’m glad for you.”

Clint lowered his gaze; his toes were painted dark red to match Nat’s nails. “I know the risks.”

“I know you do.” She reached out to gently squeeze his wrist. “You’re allowed to have friends outside the group. You deserve to be surrounded by people who are kind. If you like Laura, I like Laura. I’ve always trusted your judgement when it comes to someone’s character. And it’s clear she’s done you good. You look a little lighter.”

He offered her a smile. Clint knew Nat had his back no matter what. “I feel a little better. It’s nice spending time with her. She’s funny. She’s smart. She’s pretty cool.”

“Not as cool as me, though, right?”

His smile bloomed into something more real. “Never. You’re the coolest woman I know.”

Nat beamed right back before her gaze turned sly. “You kissed her yet?”

Clint kicked a little water at her, careful not to toss a fish by mistake.

*

Laura’s couch was so comfortable, it should be a crime to sit on. Clint felt warm and secure way before the cuddles started, and adding Laura to the mix made the whole experience better. She’d complimented his nail polish (which he miraculously hadn’t chipped for a week), Blade Runner played on the screen, they were halfway into their second pizza, and suddenly, kissing happened.

Her hair felt soft and silky, her lips barely parted as they brushed against his. Laura sank her fingers into his hair and yeah, that was nice. He shivered, darting his tongue against her bottom lip, and Blade Runner became background noise.

Honestly, Clint couldn’t be entirely sure how they made it from the couch to the bed, but he’d lost his shirt and Laura’s dress decorated the floor in the corner. He held her thighs apart, licking into her and against her clit, and the moaning, screaming, and swearing as she arched into her (third? fourth?) orgasm made Clint all warm and melty inside.

Laura dragged him up for another sloppy kiss. She bit his lip, the sharp sting sending his blood humming. Clint smirked, moving back down along her body when Laura slipped a hand between them and tugged at his jeans. He recoiled, feeling like a bucket of cold water had been upended over him.

An excuse perched on the tip of his tongue as he moved out of arm’s reach. Laura sat up, pulling the sheet over her chest, worry etched in her forehead. “Whoa, hey, Clint, hold on,” she said. “What happened?”

“It’s fine, I’m okay. We’re okay. I gotta—I’m gonna go,” he babbled. Stupid mouth.

“Hey,” Laura repeated, softening her voice. “If I did something you weren’t okay with, I’m sorry. If you want to leave, you can, but,” she pause, licking her lip. “I’d prefer you talk to me.”

Clint stared at her, bewildered. His partners were usually flings, his go-to tactic blinding them with orgasms and sneaking off quietly. On the rare occasions there had been more . . .Clint’s comfort levels weren’t taken into consideration. Laura was different, though. They were friends. She liked him, and he liked her, and—

He sat down on the edge of the bed. “I don’t know how to talk about it.”

Laura nodded. “Is it okay if I touch you?”

“Yeah,” Clint answered.

She pressed her hand against his back. “You don’t have to tell me anything. I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

“I’m always okay,” Clint muttered. “I . . .don’t—I’m, I’m bad at words.”

“I’m not judging you or how you feel or what you want. If you don’t want to have sex, we won’t.”

“It’s not that, it’s,” he started. Clint paused, drawing in a breath. “I don’t like sex. I love pleasuring my partner, I love kissing and cuddles, but I don’t like sex. Never have.” Laura nodded again, rubbing small circles against Clint’s back. “Never figured out how to mention that in a timely manner…”

She squeezed his arm, smiling softly at him. “Thanks for telling me.”

That sick feeling faded away as Clint rested his hand over hers.

“What can I do for you? I want you to feel good and I want to give you what you need.”

Clint offered her a smile. “Cuddles.”

She bit her lip on a grin. “Naked cuddles? It’s a little awkward if you’re wearing pants and I don’t want to ruin your jeans. If you’re not comfortable with that, I might need you to help me find my underwear.”

“Lucky you, I love naked cuddles.”

He stripped down and slipped beneath the covers. Laura held him, settling his head against her shoulder and threading her fingers through his hair. “I’m sorry someone made you feel like you couldn’t be honest. You’re a great guy, Clint. I don’t want you to ever be afraid to ask for what you need.”

Clint pressed a kiss to her cheek and snuggled down, dosing as she worked her fingers against his scalp.

*

For a moment, Clint didn’t remember where he was. The bed sheets smelled like sex, he didn’t recognize the room, and he was alone in the bed with three decorative pillows. Laura walked in a minute later, carrying two coffee mugs on top of a box.

“Morning, sunshine,” she said. She was dressed in an oversized shirt, socks on her feet. “Well, late afternoon. I had these glorious plans to make breakfast and realized I never made it to the store for eggs, so I offer you hot coffee,” she continued, handing him one of the mugs before setting the other on the bedside table at her hip, “and cold pizza.”

Laura opened the box like a bank robber opened a briefcase full of money, with a flourishing gesture and a smirk on her lips. Four slices of fridge-chilled pepperoni goodness sat on the greasy paper. Clint grabbed a slice, eyes rolling in pleasure as he took a bite.

“Mmmm, breakfast of champions,” he groaned. “Futz yeah.”

She laughed, climbing back into the bed. “Glad you approve.”

Clint devoured another mouthful. This was futzing perfect. “You’re the best.”

“I know,” she answered, picking up a slice and digging in. “Last night was fantastic. I have no idea how you do that thing with your tongue, but you should teach classes.”

“And give away my secrets? Pfft,” he scoffed. “No one would pay me what that talent is worth.”

Laura leaned into him, all warm and soft. It’d be a long time since Clint dated someone with curves; it was nice.

She pressed a kiss beneath his jaw. “Wanna watch the season finale of Dog Cops? We missed it last night.”

Clint grinned. Futzing perfect was right.

Chapter Text

Bucky waited by the door as the last few people trickled into the room, “Class in Session” sign in hand. As usual, he’d had a few super early arrivals; prime yoga mat real estate was a Thing. His playlist droned softly in the background. Two minutes, and he’d put on the sign out.

“Dude, when are you doing that Marilyn Manson class?” one of the guys asked.

A smirk curled Bucky’s lips. “I’m working on it, I swear. Plus I gotta find an inoffensive time slot and send out a notice. I don’t think everyone’s down for shock rock and relaxation, plus I kinda like this job.” And yeah, maybe he’d gotten in a little trouble after someone complained about his playlist selections, but he didn’t go for traditional whatever.

He stepped through the doorway and hung the sign on its hook. “All right, it’s that time. Find a comfortable seated position and we’ll get started shortly.”

The door hushed closed behind him before flinging open again, the person batting the heavy curtain out of the way as they tried to take off their sock, hopping on one foot over to the shoe cubbies. They shoved their stuff into an empty compartment. Buck furrowed his brow as he fixed the curtains, the smell of coffee hitting him. No fucking way.

Hope and sadness shot through him. He tried to keep his voice neutral. “Barton?”

Clint turned around, the edge of his coffee up in his mouth. “Uh. Hey.” He shifted his attention to side of the room. “Sorry I’m late—coffee. I brought coffee.”

The woman—Laura—chuckled and held up a second water bottle and towel.

“Oh, yeah. Right.” Clint downed the rest of his cup and put it on another empty shelf. “Sorry.” He picked his way over to the space beside her.

“You need a mat,” she whispered. “Weren’t there any downstairs?”

“You can borrow mine,” Buck said, stepping over and toeing his mat toward Clint. Clint looked up at him, gaze immediately falling to Bucky’s left arm. After a few seconds, he moved the mat beside Laura and sat back down. Buck wanted to talk to him so bad he could taste it.

No time for awkward reunions. “There’s a couple new faces here this afternoon. If we haven’t met before, my name is James. Is there anyone here brand new to yoga?” A couple hands went up. “Welcome. As always, this is your practice, I’m simply here to provide guidance, and let’s be honest, eye candy. You always have the option to modify a pose or skip it entirely. If you need a break, child’s pose is available for you, or just find a comfortable seat. I do have water breaks in my routines, but feel free to grab water or towel off whenever you need.”

“Before we get started, I do have one announcement that you’re probably gonna hate. I know this is hot yoga, but due to complaints, management has asked us to inform you that shirts must stay on at all times, which means sports bras and bare chests are not an option.”

The class groaned. “Yeah, I know, we’re all disappointed, but now you can’t say I didn’t tell you. Do with that what you will. Everyone find a comfortable child’s pose, knees wider than hip distance apart, arms stretched long in front of you, and we’ll get started.”

He stepped over to his phone and clicked over to the right playlist. “I’ll be coming around offering hands-on adjusts. If you’d prefer not to be touched, moved your right hand off the mat.”

A few people did, Barton included. A pang lit through him, but Buck had a job to do. They moved through the warmup and the first series of flows without issue. “Grab a sip of water, towel off, we’ll meet back on the mat soon.”

Buck reached for his own water, eyeing Clint. Barton hadn’t looked at him once. Well, not directly. He shifting, uncomfortable in his skin. So much for them being okay. It felt just like Sam’s ill-fated cookouts; Barton was in the same room, but a million miles away.

The rest of the class went fine, Buck demonstrating getting into and out of poses safely, making jokes, business as usual. Barton, coordinated for once, definitely showed off for Laura. He should have put it together when Barton crashed into class, but Laura had asked about bringing a guest a couple weeks back, and, well—that explained it, he guessed.

“Start to wiggle your fingers and toes. When you’re ready, bend your legs and plant the soles of your feet on the floor, rolling onto your right side. Gently push up to seated, eyes closed, and bring your hands to heart center.”

He turned the low light all the way down and then sat on the space at the at the front of the room. “Thank you for sharing your journey and your practice with me today. Namaste.” The class echoed him. “If you have any questions, feel free to ask. I’ve got a couple minutes before I need to rush home. My cat got into my husband’s paint and now there are little green paw prints on the sofa, the carpet, and mysteriously, the walls.”

Buck grabbed the roster from the cubby to mark how many people had shown up, and almost ran into Clint. He handed Bucky’s mat back, wiped down and rolled up.

“Thanks,” Barton said.

“Sure.”

Laura slipped her arm through Clint’s. “I can’t believe you know each other.”

“Yeah, small world,” Buck answered. “My husband and I have known Clint for a couple years.”

“We’re gonna head out; I think we have a lunch date. I wanted to say thanks for letting him join. It was a great class.”

Buck fixed a smile on his face. “Glad you enjoyed it. Barton, text me later?”

“Yeah, sure,” Clint said, pulling Laura’s things out of the cubby before grabbing his.

Laura glanced between them, but didn’t say anything. Clint held the door open for her and they slipped out, leaving Bucky feeling tired, drained and more than a little heartsick.

*

He dropped his bag on the floor next to the couch and walked straight into the kitchen to wrap his arms around Steve.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Steve started. He changed gears the second he realized Bucky was upset, setting down the spoon he’d been using to stir the pasta. “What happened?”

“Guess who showed up in one of my classes today.”

“Clint? Really?”

Buck nodded, pulling away. “With his girlfriend. Laura’s been one of my regulars since the second week I taught classes. She’s nice. I like her.” He leaned against the counter on the opposite side of the their kitchen, arms wrapped around himself. “Explains why Clint hasn’t been talking to me.”

“I don’t see him as the type to get a partner and than ditch his friends.”

He shrugged. “He still wouldn’t look at me. I’m not upset he has a girlfriend, I just— He didn’t tell me. It’s not the first time someone’s decided they didn’t wanna pal around with me anymore. Didn’t expect it to hurt this bad, though.”

Steve set the stove on low and walked over to Bucky, cupping his hands against Bucky’s cheeks. “I’m sorry, Buck.”

“Me, too. I gotta take the hint, right? He ghosted me. Kinda wish he’d broken up with me instead of lying.”

Steve’s grim expression said enough.

And that’s what hurt the most. Barton promised, but it meant nothing. He pulled his phone out of his pocket; six hours later, no message. Buck thumbed to the text chain between him and Clint. Each message had a little timestamp and ‘read’ beneath it. He’d sent everything from get well soon gifs to apologies to “I miss you, bro”s and . . .at some point Buck had to admit the feel was no longer mutual.

He hovered his finger over the “delete” button for a long time before he pressed it.

*

Steve let Buck mope around the apartment and eat a whole pint of ice cream for dinner for one day, but after that, it was a week of damage control. They made they’re way through the green market, Steve having promised to make his ma’s Irish stew for dinner. Buck hadn’t come over for dinner often since Steve’s ma spent most days at the hospital, but it one of the few meals Steve managed to get right.

Onion, leaks, carrots, cabbage, and of course, potatoes. Maybe some celery. Oh, and stock. He’d sent Buck to decided whether he wanted lamb or beef. Steve devoted himself to the herb section when a tall familiar blond caught his eye. Sure enough, Clint and Lucky were walking through, Lucky wagging his tail in glee while Clint looked like he hadn’t slept well in days.

The thought crossed his mind to say something, or try to. Then again, Clint’s radio silence had stretched for almost four months. Steve sighed, dropped some thyme into his basket and went to find his husband. Buck had been doing better and Steve wanted to spare him an awkward run-in if he could. Thankfully, Steve caught him and wrapped an arm around his shoulders.

“What’d you decide?”

“Beef. I know it’s not traditional, but the cuts looked better. Grabbed some Guinness, too.” He held up the beer.

“You know ma didn’t put that in her stew,” Steve said, bumping into Bucky’s shoulder.

“Add it or we can drink it, doesn’t matter which. Or we can make that awesome chocolate mousse.”

Steve grinned, leading Bucky toward the checkout. He caught sight of Clint again, and this time he knew Clint had spotted them. Lucky wagged his tail faster, tongue lolling as he looked up at Clint and back at Steve. Clint leaned down to scratch his pup between the ears, refusing to make eye contact with Steve, before walking away. Steve watched him go. He missed Clint, and from the raw expression Steve glimpsed, Clint missed them, too.

His heart hurt as they took their groceries and went home, Buck none the wiser.

Chapter Text

Laura set a plate of brownies in the middle of the table, followed by two cups of coffee. Clint rubbed his hands together before plucking one of the middle brownies out of the stack and taking a bite. Chocolate mocha goodness melted on his tongue. His personal life might be a disaster, but brownies never failed him. Laura sat across from him and loaded up her own plate; middle brownies were the best and there were only four. He paused, watching her take a bite, relishing the moment her eyes went wide.

“Holy shit, these are amazing!”

Clint grinned. “Doctoring box mix is my other superpower,” he said. “I’m just glad you wanted to make brownies. I futzing love them, but it’s one of those foods you don’t think to just make, you know?”

“Yeah,” she answered. Clint looked up. Laura didn’t sound excited. She’d seemed a little apprehensive when she’d invited him over but then they’d put on a movie and made out, ordered in tacos. Everything seemed normal.

Laura took a deep drink from her mug and set it down too precisely. Clint went cold all over, the ache in his chest he’d mostly ignored clawing at his ribs. “I’m up for a promotion,” she finally said.

Clint’s worry vanished. “That’s great! Congratulations. Man, you scared the hell outta me.”

Laura offered him a tiny smile. “If I get it, they’re relocating me to the West Coast. I’ll know by the end of the week.”

“Oh.” Clint pushed his plate away. “Is it a good opportunity?”

“Yeah, it is. Great, in fact. I’d go in a heartbeat, except. . .well. Us.”

Clint nodded, reaching for her hand. He felt sick inside. “Then go if you get the chance.”

“Where does that leave us, though? I like you, Clint, a lot. Long distance is a bitch and I can’t ask you pack up your life and go with me. I know you love New York.”

He swallowed. “I guess we wait to see what happens and go from there.” He squeezed her hand briefly before reaching for his coffee. It tasted bitter. He liked Laura, too. Losing her would suck, but—

Don’t think about it, Barton.

But in bed that night, Laura curled against him, Clint couldn’t think of anything else.

*

She got the job.

Her company hired movers to help her relocate. She’d have a company apartment. Her first day started in two weeks. Clint went over to help her pack, still trying to ignore the feeling in his chest like his heart might implode.

She plopped down on the couch and wrapped her arms around him. “Thanks, Clint.”

“No problem.”

Laura looked at him, sadness in her eyes. “You can come with me, if you want. Lucky can play at the dog parks. We could do something stupid like taste all the coffee in Disneyland. We could try long distance.”

Clint stroked her hair. He hated this. He hated it so futzing much. “Why don’t you get back to me once you’re settled? It’s a lot, moving, starting a new job, learning a new city. We could. . .just be friends, for now?”

A small smile twitched at the corners of Laura’s mouth. “Okay. Friends it is. I’ll call you when I get settled?”

He nodded. “Yeah. Good luck, Laura. You deserve the best.” Clint hugged her tight, making his voice lighter than he felt. “And I’ve spent some time on the West Coast; I’ll text a list of the best coffee joints.”

Clint hugged her, trying to ignore the rending pain in his chest. One step at a time. Breathe. Squeeze tight. Breathe. Kiss her cheek. Breathe.

Let go.

Breathe.

“Bye, Laura.”

Smile. Futzing hell, that hurts.

Breathe.

Close the door.

Breathe.

Chapter Text

Steve left the gallery early to pick Buck up from the gym; lunch dates with his husband had become a weekly tradition, and Steve floated happily in domestic bliss. He fully acknowledged he was a sap and he fucking deserved every bit of his hard-won emotional stability.

And maybe he enjoyed being that guy who enjoyed how hot his husband was and wanted to show off.

He happened to walk up as the door opened, Bucky following a brunette outside. She hugged him.

“Thank you. I’m gonna miss you, but I didn’t wanna leave without saying goodbye,” she said.

“I’m glad you did. And if you’re ever back in town, I’ll sneak you in for a class or two,” Buck answered.

Clint slipped out behind them and the brunette turned to him. She must be Laura, Steve realized. Buck lit up when Steve approached; Laura’s eyes widened, and Clint ducked his head.

“Laura, this is Grant,” Bucky said, wrapping an arm around Steve’s shoulders. “Sweetheart, this is Laura. She’s one of my favorite students even though she’s leaving me for a job in California.”

“Holy shit,” Laura squeaked. “The infamous Grant. James talks about you all the time. It’s nice to finally meet you,” she said, offering her hand.

Steve shook it, his face heating. “Congratulations. And I hope he’s told you good things. . .”

“Only the best,” Buck answered.

Laura beamed. “Damn, and I can’t even brag to the rest of the class I got to meet your husband.” She reached for Clint’s hand; he still hadn’t looked at either of them. “I guess we need to get going. Brunch plans. Thanks again, James.”

“Good luck, Laura. Keep in touch, yeah?”

She nodded, holding up her free hand in a little wave before walking away with Clint.

Steve waved back, watching them go. He caught Clint looking back at them in the reflection of the window, a familiar expression twisting his face. Steve opened his mouth, but Clint and Laura turned the corner, out of sight.

His cell phone rang at 2am. Steve sat up, personally offended to have his sleep interrupted, and reached for his phone. Nat’s number flashed across the screen. He swiped to answer, brow furrowed.

“What’s up?” he asked. Buck stirred beside him. Rowdy cheering, jeering, and yelling filtered through the connection, accompanied by the sound of broken glass.

A male voice answered. “You Steve?”

“Yeah, who’s this?”

“Got a friend of yours here carving up my bar top with a ka-bar. Come get her.”

“Where is she?” Steve asked, getting out of bed. Natasha would never hand over her phone. Not willingly. “What happened?”

“Red here’s downed two bottles of my priciest vodka while ranting and raving, showing off her knife. She knocked out two guys who tried to take it from her, and when I told her she was cut off, she threw her phone at me. Your number was on the screen. You coming or what?”

Steve shoved his legs into his pants, phone cradled between shoulder and ear as he waved Bucky down. “Yeah, I’m on my way.”

“What the fuck is happening?” Buck asked, squinting at Steve as he danced around for his other shoe and a shirt.

The man gave Steve the address and hung up. “Nothing good. I’m taking the bike. Text you when I’m on my way back.”

Buck sat up. “Is she okay?”

“I’m going with no,” he answered, stealing a kiss before moving through the apartment, swiping up the keys to his motorcycle, and heading out into the night.

Steve arrived in time to catch Natasha snarling at the bartender in Russian, the point of her knife deep in the wood of the bar top. It slid deeper as she stood, and a for a moment, Steve though she planned to wrench it free and jam it into the man’s neck. He came up beside her, covering the hand holding the knife with his own.

“Fuck off, Rogers,” she snapped, pulling her hand away. “Who called you to ruin the fun?”

“You did,” he answered. Steve plucked the knife out of the wood and pulled the sheath off Natasha’s hip. No sharp objects for the Russian spy.

Nat, being Nat, immediately fought back. Her movements, usually graceful and deliberate, had turned sloppy. She tried to scratch at his face, but he caught her wrists. Nat struggled, the not-so-alledged-anymore two bottles of vodka robbing her of her focus.

Not only was Natasha upset, she was drunk. Her eyes were red rimmed and bloodshot, and Steve swore there were tear tracks along her cheeks. Whatever she’d defaced the bar with was in Russian. Steve sat down beside her, still holding her hands. “Natasha, talk to me.”

“Buy me another drink,” she replied, leaning in and batting her lashes. “And give me back my knife.”

Steve motioned to the bartender, signaling for two waters. Nat scowled. Steve clinked their glasses together and waited. Her glare melted, leaving her vulnerable. Steve had never seen Natasha look so small.

“He’s going to get himself killed,” she said. “He’s always been reckless and stupid, but this . . .Steve, it’s an actual death wish and I tried talking to him, I tried making him listen, and he . . .Clint has a pathological need to be useful, but he’s drowning and I can’t save him.”

Nat shook her head. “I thought at first it was Laura. He liked her, she was good to him—for him—but after. I knew he was taking missions but they got more dangerous and he . . .Steve, he lied to me, and we don’t have secrets.” She curled up against him, burying her face in his neck. “I don’t know what to do.”

Wrapping his arms around her, Steve held her tight. Clint and Natasha were inseparable—always had been. Neither he nor Buck had heard from Clint in weeks, but he’d always tell Natasha if he left. “Oh, Nat. I’m so sorry.”

“We had a fight,” she said, voice thick with tears. “We’ve never fought, not like that. I’ve been trying to help him, and he doesn’t . . .I can’t fix this.”

Steve set his hand on the back of Nat’s neck, rubbing circles against her back with the other. He let her cry, wishing he could fix this, too. Natasha had always been strong, in control, poised. If he needed Steve to catch, he would. “Come on, Nat. You can crash with us tonight.”

She nodded, letting Steve help her out of the bar. She wrapped her arms around him, face pressed into his leather jacket. He felt her shaking the whole ride home. Steve’s heart broke for her. Nat without Clint was like him without Buck; they could survive, but it would be miserable.

Buck waited in the kitchen when they came him, a mug of tea in his hands. Steve smelled the strong smoky blend of his favorite Russian tea, cut by tart cherry jam. Natasha offer him a weary smile as she took it. Buck curled an arm around her before looking to Steve. “I made up the guest room.”

“You can stay as long as you like. There are towels in the linen closet in the bathroom. Shower. We’ll feed you breakfast,” Steve offered.

“Thank you,” she answered, then took a sip from her mug. “You always make the best tea.”

“Spasibo. Na zdorovie,” Buck answered. He swayed a bit on his feet, gaze distant.

Steve put a hand on his arm. “Are you okay?” he whispered.

Buck held up his left hand, gesturing at the side of his head. Dissociating.

Oh. Steve nodded and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Do you need anything?”

Buck shook his head, and Steve led Natasha to the guest room to get her settled in. By the time he came back, Buck was gone, tucked back into bed. Steve busied himself in the kitchen; he had some shortbread cookies Nat might like, absorb a bit of the vodka. If she wasn’t hurting tomorrow morning, he’d think she was a super soldier, too.

Natasha, wearing one of Steve’s soft, baggy flannel shirts, wandered into the kitchen to deposit her empty mug into the sink. “Thanks for letting me crash, Steve.”

“Any time,” he answered. “You’re family.”

“Family,” she repeated quietly. Arms wrapped around herself, she leaned hard into Steve. “He’s my family. I—You have to talk to him. I can’t fix this, and you need to talk to him.”

Steve nodded, holding her close and rubbing circles along her back. “I’ll try. If I can get him to stay in speaking distance for longer than a hello.”

“No.” Her voice cut through Steve’s attempts at reassurance. “Steve. He needs you. Both of you. I can’t help him, and if he doesn’t stop, I’m afraid he’ll—“ She shook her head. “He’s reckless, but this is a free fall. I’m not the one he needs right now.”

He kept rubbing her back, nodding. “I’ll talk to him. We’ll find him. I promise. Let’s get you to bed, Nat. You’ll feel . . .well, probably not better, but . . .”

She nodded and let Steve move her back toward the guest room. He turned down the comforter and sheets, let her crawl in, then tucked the blankets around her. “Buck and I are just down the hall if you need anything. Bathroom’s next door. Get some rest.”

Natasha snuggled down and closed her eyes. Steve waited until her breathing evened out before returning to his own room. Buck stared at the ceiling, marking Steve’s progress as he crossed to his side of the bed and settled in.

“Is she all right?” Buck asked, voice quiet.

“No. But she will be.”

Buck closed his eyes. Steve knew Buck wouldn’t really sleep, and frankly, neither would he.

Natasha didn’t get out of bed until late afternoon the next day, and she immediately curled up against Bucky on the sofa. Steve made her tea and toast, keeping the curtains drawn and the lights low. He tried to get her to open up again about Clint—where he was, what he was doing—but she wouldn’t say, hiding her face in Bucky’s neck and only accepting headache meds and cookies.

Steve and Buck took care of her, and Steve started trying to figure out where or how he’d manage to catch Clint. Worry sank in his gut like lead and deep down, he believed he might know why Clint had been avoiding them for so long. His heart ached in an unexpected but familiar way. They had to find him. Now.

Chapter Text

“Clint’s in love with us.”

Bucky damn near shattered the mug he was washing. Steve had never been known for his subtlety, but give a guy some warning before coming outta left field like that.

“What?”

“Clint’s in love with us,” Steve repeated, and now that Bucky looked at him, he saw Steve wore an expression of absolute certainty.

Eyes wide in disbelief, Bucky did the only logical thing: he laughed.

Of course, laughing only made Steve frown.

His brows knit, his patented ‘No, I Mean It’ face on full force. “I think we should date him.”

Bucky stopped laughing. He set the mug on the drying rack, grabbed the dish towel to dry his hands, replaced it, and caught Steve’s eye as he walked past. “No.”

“But I made a list,” Steve continued, earnest to a fault. He pulled notebook out of his back pocket and flipped through the pages. “And I have evidence. Are you really not going to take this seriously?”

“Take what seriously, Stevie?” Buck said, tone even, turning back to him. “I know you. You’re a fixer. It’s pathological. And I get why you wanna fix this so bad, but declaring we should date him? You don’t want this.”

His jaw clenched. “Don’t tell me what I want, Buck.”

Buck put his hands on Steve’s shoulders, holding him steady. “You know I wish I could make this better, but whatever this is,”—he waved his metal hand at Steve’s notebook—“it ain’t it. Some half-considered notion that we invite someone into a relationship to fix him? That’s not smart, Steve.”

Steve poked Bucky in the chest. “I’m not just leaping into this,” he tried.

His expression softened. Steve had always been quick to solve any issue, and Buck knew his heart was in the right place. Bucky’s superpower had always been staying levelheaded and talking some sense into his best friend. “Yes, you are. I’m not saying you haven’t thought about it, but I know you haven’t considered what this—inviting him into an intimate relationship— would mean. Not for you, not for me, not for us. And not for him. Why are you convinced that this is the answer?”

Steve opened his mouth and closed it again. “I just know.”

Buck cupped a hand against Steve’s cheek, rubbing his thumb against Steve’s cheekbone. “That isn’t a reason.”

Chapter Text

Buck stared at his groggy face in the mirror as he brushed his teeth. Who the hell decided mornings should be so early? Every now and again, he thanked whatever Hydra jackass bothered to get him an actual dentist. Buck closed his eyes, the gentle buzzing of the toothbrush luring him back to sleep. Steve moved past him—damn early bird—and a sharp plink startled Buck out of his doze. A purple toothbrush sat besides Steve’s bright blue, star spangled one, occupying the space reserved for Bucky’s black one. He furrowed his brow, watching Steve through the mirror as Steve busied himself styling his hair.

He didn’t have to wait long. Steve kept his eyes on his task. “He practically lives here anyway.”

Buck rolled his eyes so hard he thought he might have a seizure. He spit into the sink. “Steve, we haven’t seen him in months. Why does he need a toothbrush in our bathroom? Guest room, sure. Nat has one. You can put it with hers.”

“But he belongs here, Buck. The toothbrush stays.”

He could resist the urge to garrote his husband with dental floss. He could. “Steve, we talked about this.”

Steve ran pomade through his hair, tussling his blond locks. “No, you told me what I didn’t want and then refused to actually consider what I was saying.”

“Because you don’t want to date Clint. And this?” Buck said, picking up the purple toothbrush. “This is not better than ambushing me with your great fix-it plan.”

Resealing the pomade, Steve opened his moisturizer with a bit more anger than usual. He rubbed his hands together and worked the product into his beard. Buck silently cursed his distracting handsomeness. “Fine. My approach was heavy-handed, but I’m not wrong. Clint’s place is here, with us.”

Buck sighed and braced his hands against the countertop. Clint had always fit into their little family and Bucky would never deny that. He missed Clint. Steve missed Clint. There was a Barton-shaped hole in their lives, but Steve refused to see the bigger picture.

“Babydoll, listen,” Buck started, pushing himself upright. “He’s not a lost pet. We can’t adopt him and we can’t keep him because you think it’s going to make him happy. He doesn’t need a toothbrush, he needs a therapist. Jumping into a relationship with me didn’t magically fix me. It didn’t magically fix you. We tried being good friends and reaching out. We tried giving him space. A toothbrush does not fix this.” Buck lowered his voice. “Why are you convinced this is the answer?”

Steve uncapped his lip balm, applied it, then dropped it onto the counter, where it started rolling. “Because it’s better than doing nothing.”

Buck caught the lip balm and set it back in its place with one hand, picking up the purple toothbrush with the other. “That’s not a reason, Stevie.”

Chapter Text

Say what you would, but Bucky enjoyed folding the laundry. For someone who’d spent the majority of his life freezing to death, the warm scent of freshly cleaned clothes provided a comfort he’d been lacking, something like home. It was disgustingly domestic and he felt fine with it. Plus Steve tended to just throw the socks in the drawer.

Ledi sniffed at the edge of the basket, glanced up at Buck, and plopped right on top. Buck rolled his eyes. Steve shuffled in behind him. He stopped to pet the kitten—who gladly accepted the attention—and turn to help put Bucky’s neatly folded laundry in the drawers.

“You have more workout clothes than anyone I’ve ever met,” Steve said, picking the pile up off the bed.

Buck smirked. “You complaining about how often I wear those sleek, form-fitting pants?”

“Not at all. I hate that they barely leave anything to everyone else’s imagination.”

“Selfish,” Buck answered, turning around to find Steve surrounded by clothes, sliding an empty drawer into the dresser. “Rearranging so I’m tragically forced to wear nothing at all?”

“So we have some extra drawer space. Ow!” Steve put a hand to the back of his head and shot an offended glance at the balled up socks Buck had nailed him with. “What was that for?”

“You gonna tell me it’s for Clint?”

The tips of Steve’s ears reddened. “What if it is?”

Buck sat on the floor in front of him and pressed Steve’s face between his palms. “Stevie, listen to me. I know your heart is in the right place, I know you think you’ve thought this through—yes, I looked at your list—and I don’t think you’re hearing me. Once you set your mind on something, you are extremely difficult to dissuade, but Steve, I want Barton back as much as you do and this,” Buck said, waving at the empty drawer, “is not going to magically fix it. Clint is depressed and he’s isolating himself to the point where not even Nat can get through to him.”

Steve grabbed Bucky’s wrists and pulled his hands from his face. “Which is why he needs us.”

“He needs a therapist. He needs to be able to deal with his trauma. He needs to figure out how to cope and how to move forward. We both know it’s not easy, and we both know he needs support.”

“What do you think I’m trying to do, Buck? I want to help him! I want him to come home.”

“And that is a very different thing than making him our boyfriend. Bringing him into a relationship is not a healthy plan. It doesn’t benefit any of us in the way you want it to. Do you know what you’re asking for?”

Steve shoulders dropped. “I want him to come home.”

“We all want him to come home. He’s part of our family. More than getting him home, we need to get him help. Real help. And we are not trained to give that to him.”

The looks of misery on Steve’s face broke Bucky’s heart. “I . . .don’t know what else to say.”

Buck slid around to sit beside Steve and wrapped his arms around him. He rubbed Steve’s back, rocking him gently. “Are you in love with him?”

Steve shook his head. “No. But I dunno. I don’t know how to explain. I love him, of course, I love all our friends, but it’s not like it is with you or Peg. He just belongs here. I know he does.” Steve sighed, resting his head against Bucky’s shoulder. “I saw him that day at the market, and the day I met you at the gym. I could have brushed it off once but the look he gave you—the look he gave us—Buck, that’s how I used to look at you when I thought I’d never have a chance with you.”

“Oh, honey. I care about him, too. I want him to be happy, and healthy, and whole. Even if he is in love with us, Steve, we can’t fix it by loving him. The last thing he needs is to be in a relationship, especially one with us. It’s not as simple as casual dating. We’re married. To throw him into this would be unfair to all of us. I know where you’re coming from, honey, I do, but you gotta see that leaping into this is bad plan.”

“I want him home, Buck. I don’t want to make things worse,” Steve answered.

Buck hugged him. “I know. We’ll figure this out. I promise.”

Chapter Text

Steve tipped his head back in invitation, the bright red sex flush working it’s way down his chest as Buck worked him over. Buck leaned in and kissed him hard. Steve panted into his mouth and angled his neck, and Buck obliged, sinking his teeth into the join between Steve’s neck and shoulder. He moaned, raking his nails across Bucky’s shoulders.

Buck smirked, hefting Steve’s leg higher, thrusting into him fast and unrelenting. He could feel the fire pooling low in his belly, the edge of orgasm in sight. Steve’s breath hitched and Buck sent them both over the edge before collapsing, sticky and spent. Steve curled into him and nuzzled his neck. Buck held him close, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

It took a minute before Buck realized Steve was talking. He must have dozed off. “What?”

“Bed’s big enough for three of us,” Steve muttered into Buck’s chest.

The warm after-sex glow faded. Goddamn it. “Steven.”

“Just saying. It is.”

Buck rolled over and shoved a pillow onto Steve’s face, pressing down until Steve flailed and tapped out. “There is only room enough in this bed for the two of us,” Buck said, a tight knot of anger in his chest. Steve had been doing this song and dance constantly, but now the scale tipped from irritated to upset and Bucky was done. They’d fucking talked about this, and yet, here they were again.

Steve pushed the pillow away and sat up, expression crestfallen. “Whoa, hey. Talk to me. Buck—“

“Enough,” Buck snapped. He threw the sheets back and got up, stalking to the bathroom where he slammed and locked the door. He showered quickly, hoping the action would calm him down. It didn’t. He toweled off and pulled on his sleep pants before opening the door.

Steve stood outside, sadness written on his face. “Bucky, I’m sorry. Please talk to me.”

And as much as Buck wanted to feed into that anger, he didn’t. “You have been railroading me for days about this, Steve. We agreed that this was a bad idea.”

“No, you said it was a bad idea. I never agreed. You think I’m jumping to some outlandish conclusion, but I’m telling you he’s in love with us. Why else avoid us as much as possible?”

“Because I almost murdered him, and oh yeah, he blames himself for us getting hurt. He feels guilty. He feels responsible. Were you even listening to me?”

“He’s self-destructing because he doesn’t think he belongs here,” Steve countered. “I know you think I just want to fix this, and you’re not wrong about that, but Clint belongs here. He belongs with us.”

Buck locked his gaze on Steve’s and Steve actually took a step back. “Do you know what it means to say yes to this? If we start a relationship, Steve, you can’t change your mind. You can’t take it back. We have him for the rest of his life.”

Steve’s expression soften. He matched Buck measure for measure. “I know what it means.”

“Are you in love with him?”

His expression shifted into uncertainty. “I don’t… know.”

“Do you even know why I’m pissed?” Buck asked. Steve clenched his jaw and didn’t answer. “Not once have you considered whether or not I want this. You assumed I’d be on board and when I said no, you doubled down. How would you have felt if I waltz in and out of the blue asked your permission to sleep around with my best friend? You, Stevie, never shared well, and I cannot imagine that would have gone down without a fight.”

“I didn’t ask to sleep with him, Buck.”

“No, but what will do you if he asks? We’re his boyfriends, right? It’s more than platonic at that point. Have you even considered what you’re willing to give? You know as well as I do that it isn’t just hanging on the couch watching movies and eating pizza.”

“I know that.”

“Do you?” Buck snapped. “Because I know where I stand, Steven. Sure, I’ve always been a little bit in love with him, but I know what my boundaries are. Did you even consider that? No,” he continued, advancing. “I worked damn hard to get where I am. This marriage? This is ours. There is no room in my marriage for a third person. It’s you and me, then you and me and him. But we absolutely cannot start a relationship without getting him help. This is not a ‘kiss and make better’ situation.”

Steve balled his hands into fists and stepped back into Bucky’s space. “Well I want him. Maybe I’m not in love with him, Buck, but I want him. I want him here, with us, where he belongs. I want to give him a family, a home; I want to fill this hole in our lives that sprang up in his absence. I know the way he looked at us—at you, at me—and I know being with us makes him feel safe in a way he’s maybe never felt before. I want to be there. I want to protect him. I want him.”

Buck stepped around his husband, and snatched up his jeans and a shirt. “I’m going out.” He dressed quickly, shoved his feet into his boots, grabbed his leather jacket and walked out of their apartment. He was out on the street before Steve’s protests reached his ears. Hands in his pockets, Buck turned right and kept walking, letting the buzz in his head die down. Steve had always been immoveable once he’d made up his mind, but this? Buck had made his point. Over and over.

He stopped and bought a latte he wouldn’t drink, trying not to fume. He loved Clint, yeah, and maybe he could find his way to being in love with him, but Bucky balked at the idea of an open marriage. Realistically, Clint wasn’t a threat, but he’d worked hard to make his own space—and a space for him and Steve—and throwing Clint into a relationship with them felt… claustrophobic.

Buck thought perhaps he’d have been open to the idea if Steve hadn’t jumped in straight away. He hadn’t bothered asking what Bucky wanted, whether he’d be okay having a third person in their lives. No, he came careening in and refused to let up. Steve hadn’t given him time to think, to consider, to—

The cup gave up the ghost, sending latte over his gloved metal hand. Buck glanced at his clenched first before he threw the cup into the nearest trashcan and sighed. Steve’s constant insistence had worn him down, leaving a bone deep exhaustion. After the Barney thing, Buck had gone back to therapy three times a week, plus the weekly check-ins with Stark about the new arm. Between that, the constant migraines, the ache in his shoulder. . . Buck had more than enough on his plate and the thought of dealing with his shit plus trying to juggle Clint’s… it was all too much. And he was furious at Steve for not realizing or caring that Buck couldn’t handle it all.

He was right, after all; Clint would need therapy. He would need his space, but if they were his boyfriends, he’s also need them. He’d need Bucky, and Bucky couldn’t promise he’d have anything to give. He missed his best friend. He wanted Clint home as much as Steve did. Sighing, Buck turned around. He need to talk to his husband.

Steve waited on the couch when Buck eventually made his way back to the apartment. He stood in a flash, the worry and sorrow on his face twisting Bucky’s gut. “Buck, I’m sorry. I pushed too far, and I shouldn’t have. I didn’t ask, I just—“

Buck held up a hand. “I’m sorry I walked out, but I need you to listen to me,” he said. “I have a lot I’m dealing with between the arm and therapy. I’m angry because you didn’t ask what I wanted. What I needed. What I’d be willing to give.”

Steve stepped back and nodded. “What do you want, Buck?”

“I want to establish some boundaries. This is our marriage. It’s you and me, no one else.” Steve’s face fell; Buck held up his hand. “That bedroom is ours. I need a space that is mine. For now, unless we invite him in, that room is off limits. We have a very long way to go in this relationship, but it’s our marriage, and then it’s the three of us.”

“What are you willing to give?”

“Time, a safe space. He likes being held. But Steve, I can’t be the only one to take care of him, and I don’t want to leave you to take care of us both. It’s not going to be easy, and it’s not going to be a magic fix.”

Steve nodded again. “I understand. And getting him here isn’t going to be easier, either. I hope once he is though, he’ll stay.”

“If we do this, Stevie, I don’t want it to change us. Any of us. Who we are and who we are with each other. I want my best friend back. Even if we’re more, I want want—I need us to stay us.”

“We’ll take it one step at a time. As slow as we need.”

Buck leaned into his husband, hugging him tight. “Let’s go get us a boyfriend.”

Chapter Text

When he dropped Bucky off at the Tower for another maintenance session with Tony, the last thing Steve expected was a phone call from Tony himself. Not a text. Not a message from JARVIS. An honest to God phone call. Steve’s instincts jumped immediately to ‘who’s dead?’

“Tony?” Steve answered.

“I know you and Barton aren’t on speaking terms or whatever, but I’m worried. Me. King of Self-destructive Behavior. He won’t talk about it—fine—and I don’t know why I’m calling you other than you’re… you, and I need help. Did I mention I’m worried? It’s making me reach out and touch someone.”

Steve shook his head, letting Tony get to the end of his ramble. “What happened?”

“The robots found Baron in the lab this morning with his dog. He’d curled up on a table. Legolas, not Lucky. DUM-E covered him in work towels. He knows my no-questions-asked policy, but he looks bad, Steve. Running head-first into the jaws of death bad.”

“Shit. The other night I had to pick Nat up from a bar. She’d gotten drunk and started knifing the bar top.”

“Did Red and Birdbrain break up? Is this the messy aftermath?”

Steve ducked into a doorway, looking back toward the Tower. “I don’t think they’re an item, but they’re not talking to each other at the least.”

He could almost see Tony rolling his eyes, but Steve did catch an audible swallow. “He left here ten minutes ago. Do I . . .should I go get him? Have a planned sleepover instead of finding him crashed out with the robots? I could send Pepper. She’s better at everything.”

“I’m still in the city. I’ll head back your way. And no, Tony, Pepper isn’t better at everything. Just most things,” he conceded.

“Aw, you do care.” Tony paused. “If it doesn’t go well with Clint, send him this way. And Steve?”

“Yeah?” Steve turned, pushing his way back toward Stark. Clint could get pretty far in ten minutes.

“How long has it been since you’ve seen him?”

He licked his lips. “Three months. A handful of times in between. He’s . . .avoiding us.”

“He’s not well. And coming from me, that’s very very bad.”

Steve shook his head. “No, I wouldn’t imagine he would be. I’ll text you when I find him.”

“Wait!” Tony called, and Steve put the phone back to his ear. “What do you mean, ‘I wouldn’t image he would be?’ What do you know?”

“I don’t. I have a theory.”

“Gonna share?” Tony goaded.

“Nope.”

He scoffed. “Rude. Fine. Just . . .let me know if there’s anything I can do, okay? Anything.”

“We will,” Steve answered, spying a golden lab the next block over. “Don’t try to grill Bucky. He’s taking Clint’s absence hard. Just tell him to meet me at home when you’re done.”

“10-4, Spangles.”

Nicknames were back; Tony must feel more at ease. The lab nosed at his owner; Steve caught Clint’s profile, the hollowness in his cheek, the dark circle beneath his eye. “Target spotted. Gotta go,” Steve said. He hung up the phone and popped it into his back pocket, then pushed his so-called hot librarian glasses onto the bridge of his nose and slipped into mission mode; getting to Clint required delicacy, finesse, and strategic planning.

He went for the dog.

The moment Steve brushed by Lucky, the lab barked and pounced on him, tongue lolling, tail wagging, demanding pets and love. Steve laughed, pretending he hadn’t noticed him. “Aw, hey boy! Fancy meeting you here.” He let Lucky give him kisses, ruffling Lucky’s ears and patting his side. “I missed you, too. You get some good walks in?”

Steve looked up at Clint, letting himself appear half distracted by Lucky. Tony hit the nail on the head; his friend looked worn down and weary, and absolutely broken. “Sorry to hijack your dog. I was just on my way back from the fancy art store.”

“Hey, Steve,” Clint said, not making eye contact. He shifted foot to foot.

“Okay, boy,” Steve said to Lucky, trying to stand and stop clogging the sidewalk. “You should come over. Ledi misses her favorite playmate.”

Lucky sat, turning his head toward Clint, a big grin on his face. Clint scratched Lucky’s head. “Maybe another day.”

“Oh?” Steve asks, voice light. “What are you two up to today? It’s one of New York’s three nice days a year.”

“Walking. Groceries. Headed back to Brooklyn.”

“Me, too. We can catch the train.” And throwing all his War Bond Selling Charm into overdrive, Steve ushered Clint into the subway, aimlessly chattering on about work, painting, that one weird film festival he’d gone to, all while playing with Lucky—who played his part fantastically and followed Steve without question. Clint wouldn’t let his pup go, and Lucky refused to walk away from Steve. He’d pulled a page out of Bucky’s book, channeling effortless charm and nonchalance until they’d not only reached Brooklyn, but the top floor of Steve and Bucky’s apartment building. Clint seemed as drawn to Steve as Lucky was, but he blinked and startled like he didn’t know how he’d gotten to the apartment’s front door.

Perfect.

The second he had the door open, Lucky ran off like a shot. Bucky greeted the lab as enthusiastically as Steve had. Ledi picked her head up, looking from Lucky to Clint to Steve before yawning and curling back up. Traitor.

Clint flinched when Steve shut the door behind them, and looked anywhere except at Bucky. “Hey, bro,” Buck said, giving Lucky a pat on his belly. “Good to see ya.”

“Yeah, you, too,” Clint mumbled.

Steve turned up the charm. “Buck got pizza. We were gonna watch some trash TV and chill out. You should join us. Have you seen the new Bake-Off season? Not that Bake-Off is trash. We usually binge weird documentaries and stuff. Go on, sit down,” he said, waving Clint over to the couch.

He sat. Ledi looked up and chattered at him until he bowed to her glory and scratched the top of her head. Ledi uncurled, kneading at Clint’s shoulder. Buck tossed the pizza boxes on the coffee table and Clint visibly stiffened as he dropped onto the couch. Steve turned on the television.

Clint didn’t look at the pizza. He held himself stiffly, eyes fixed on the screen, Lucky curled up between him and Buck. The hand Clint tangled in Lucky’s fur attempted casual, but Steve read the tension in every inch of their friend’s body. Bucky glanced from Clint to Steve. This was bad.

It went on for longer than Steve wanted. He’d hoped once he’s gotten Clint home, the archer would relax, but the longer he stayed, the more miserable Clint looked. The second whatever they’d put on ended, Clint stood up and started with the “well that was fun”s and the “see you around”s. Buck glanced at Steve, and Steve stared at Clint’s hasty retreat. Bucky stood too, mouth open to halt their friend, and Steve did what he did best.

He ran headlong into the fray.

“Do you want to be our boyfriend?”

Buck and Clint stared at him in dumbfounded silence before Buck hissed, “Steven,” and shot him a look that should have set the couch on fire.

Clint’s expression stayed utterly blank, eventually cracking into manic grin. Buck startled when Clint started laughing; Steve cringed. He never wanted to hear that sound again. The laughter gave way to a gut wrenching sob, and when Clint eventually looked up at them, he was furious.

“Sure. Have a laugh. Wow, that Clint, he’s an absolute disaster. He’s so fucked up, he fell for his two best—very married—friends. And of course, here they are, living it up like it’s a joke cause Clint’s entire life a one big gag wrapped in a dumpster fire coated in garbage. I should have known. No, I futzing knew you’d mock me like everyone else because why would you be different? You’re supposed to be different, but I never, never get what I want, I’m so stupid. Why do I never learn?” He tore at his hair, hyperventilating, the words continuing in a rush.

Buck held his hands out; Clint shifted back. “Don’t.” Lucky put himself between Clint and Buck, and Buck lowered his hands.

“Clint, we’re not mocking you. Why would we do that?”

“Because everyone does!” Clint shouted. “I’m not as stupid as I pretend to be, but that means pretending I’m not hurt when I’m dying because Clint Barton’s too dumb to help himself. Too dumb to notice, not that it matters. Not that he matters. Use him and throw him away—“

Steve finally remembered how his legs worked just as Buck wrapped his arms around Clint and pulled him in tight. “You’re not dumb. You’re not worthless. We’re not throwing you away. You’re my best friend, and you matter more than you know.”

Pressing a hand against Clint’s back, Steve leaned in. “We want you to come home, Clint. We miss you. We want to help.”

Buck squeezed him. “Come home. We’re here. We’ve got you.”

Clint shoved them away. His eyes were red, his skin flushed, all the anger and hurt etched across his face. “You don’t mean it. You can’t. Why would want me when you—“ he gestured between them. “You. You’re lying. You don’t want me, no one wants me. I’m broken. But sure, tease me. Have a laugh. It’s all a great big joke because who the hell would want me?”

Buck shot a pained glance at Steve. “Barton, look at us. We’re not laughing. This isn’t a joke. Why would we hurt you like that?”

“Because everyone hurts me!” Clint spat. “Everyone. Every time. And I never futzing see it coming.”

Steve lowered his head. “We’re not trying to hurt you, Clint. I meant it.” He looked up, catching Clint’s gaze. “We meant it.”

Clint held his ground. “Why?”

“Because we miss you,” Steve answered. He glanced at Buck. They’d hashed this out over and over, and . . .Steve wasn’t in love with Clint. But there was one thing Steve held as an absolute certainty. “I want you. I want here, with us. For as long as you want to be here. We have a Barton-shaped hole in our lives. You’re our family. You belong with us. Clint, you’re not broken, or damaged, or bad. You deserve to be happy, to have the things you want.”

Buck nodded, opening his arms. “Just come home. We’ll figure out the rest.”

Clint stared at Bucky, slightly panicked, then cut his glance at Steve. Steve smiled, willing Clint to trust them. The archer took one step forward and Buck wrapped his arms around him, letting Clint hide his face against Buck’s neck. Steve embraced both of them. The tension melted out of Clint’s frame, his arms tightening around Buck.

Buck shot Steve a “What now?” look. Excellent question. He had to text Tony, but Clint was exhausted and needed rest. Needed them. Steve nodded toward the couch and Buck guided Clint back over. Steve sat beside them. Lucky curled up across Clint’s legs and settled in, but Clint took a long time to let himself relax into Bucky. Steve waited until Clint dozed off to text Tony that they had him, then rested his hand on the back of Clint’s neck. The archer relaxed entirely.

Steve knew there was a long way to go before Clint got back to the Bird Boy they knew and loved, but at least they had him home.