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The street-lights outside have long been lit, and Has-Beans is easing its way down into closing. All the overhead lights have been switched off now, aside from the ones behind the counter and in the back room, and the gentle glow of mismatched table lamps is illuminating the last few customers lingering over their drinks.
Kate's consulting the watering schedule on the clipboard she's holding, occasionally looking up and around like she's trying to orientate herself, which makes sense; someone insisted that Clint be the one to draw the plant map. Gwen's in the back doing something loud with the dishes, and Clint is kinda hoping that it involves making them cleaner but with Gwen you never can tell.
Clint's behind the counter, and he's elbow-deep in the guts of the backup coffee maker, unblocking it by hand in spite of the instructions of several manuals he's flipped through, and a very annoyed Natasha. Even in case of a mishap, one more scar isn't going to make much difference in the overall landscape of his body, and it's both quicker and cheaper than hiring someone to come do it for him.
It takes a while before the persistent noise attracts his attention. It takes a while, and Kate squirting him with the plant mister for the persistent noise to attract his attention, and he manages to flinch in exactly the least helpful way. Still, in the grand scheme of things knuckle skin is barely even useful, and he was gonna have to clean the machine out anyway.
Clint grabs a dish-rag off the clean pile and wraps it around his hand, then turns around to lean on the counter and offer the customers on the other side of it a helpful smile.
"Are you okay to take our order, sir?" the blond says, all politeness and angles, but the tone of his voice is pissy as hell. Clint considers him for a moment, looking around the store that is now almost empty, and then looks back at his bright blue eyes.
"We're closed," he says, frowning slightly. It's been a long day, and honestly he's looking forward to kicking off his shoes and his pants and curling up in front of the television with his dog.
"I'm aware that you're closed," Blondie says, a tic flickering the muscle in his jaw.
He's got a sidekick, too, one that Clint is way more interested in looking at. He's scruffier than his friend, long hair and stubble that's well on its way to beard. He looks kinda like he climbed out of a sexy dumpster, maybe a little awkwardly what with the one arm, and Clint wants to drag him into a shower with him and show him how shampoo works, along with a couple other things. He tries on a smile that he hasn't brought out in a couple years, really puts his all into it, but his attention's claimed again by the guy's angry friend.
"If you could do us a couple take-out cups that would be great," he says. "We've been trying to get your attention since before your colleague flipped the sign, right Bucky?"
His sidekick, Hot Bucky, shrugs one shoulder and stares down at the floor. There's an instant where the blond's expression just... freezes. Maybe cracks a little around the edges, and he steps just a fraction closer to Bucky and ducks his head, like Bucky's the only one he's gonna trust with an expression like that.
"It still counts," Blondie says, low enough that Clint couldn't hear it even if he had his aids turned up all the way. He probably shouldn't be lip-reading, either, but he's never believed all that much in shoulds. "You left the house, you -- way here, it still counts even if -- coffee."
"Sure," Bucky says. He lifts his head and shoots Clint a little smile, the barest upturn of his lips; something so small shouldn't be enough to pivot your life on, but Clint's pretty sure he's just fallen in love.
"Fuck it," Clint says. "What can I get you?"
"Language," Blondie snaps, prim as anything. "What would your manager say?" Bucky snorts and slaps a hand over his face, shaking his head into his palm like dealing with his giant proper friend is such a trial.
Clint turns around, a full 360, and pulls the Has-Beans ball-cap off his head.
"Yeah," he says. "I'm fine with it," and that eases Bucky into something even closer to a grin.
"You know you're bleeding, right?"
Bucky's voice is gravelly and low, and he sounds more than anything like he's gotten out of the habit of talking - maybe to anyone other than his friend. He darts a look around once he's spoken, to his friend and the floor and Clint's chin and the door, looking at the last kinda longingly like he's considering making a break for it.
"We've got a first aid kit," Clint says, with a shrug, and then - in case of the slightest possibility that it might make Bucky smile - he leans over to haul out the bright green holdall that lives under the counter and puts it in front of him.
"Jesus," Bucky says, involuntarily, and Clint shrugs and folds his arms over his chest, because he is very aware of where his attractions lie.
"I," he confides, "am kind of a disaster."
"At least you're pretty," Bucky says, and Clint can't swallow down the idiot smile that feels like it starts in his stomach and lights him all the way up.
Bucky's not smiling back maybe, not exactly, but the lines of his face have softened a little. He looks good in the dim light of the almost-closed shop; Clint can tell that there's baggage there, but he's got a freight train of his own full of it and that's never once held him back.
"So you want my number?" Clint says, and Bucky looks at him for a second, his blond friend's eyes bugging out at his side.
"Sure," he says. "Why the hell not?"
"0-60 in half a second," Blondie says, something kinda awed in his voice. "Jesus fuck."
"Language," Clint and Bucky snap in unison, and Clint's whole heart flips over at the smile he gets for that.