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When the last of the Doombots crashed to the ground with sparks crackling out of the weak point in its armor where Clint's arrow had embedded itself, Clint couldn't fight the urge to do a little shimmy. The victory had been hard-won, lasting long into the night, and fighting by the acid-orange of street lights was never the easiest when your weapon relied on precision and distance.
He looked up as someone called his name, his neck protesting the motion, and saw Bucky jogging over towards him. He was grinning a little and Clint quit dancing immediately, shaking out his shoulders like that was what he'd been doing all along.
"Hey," Bucky said as soon as he was close enough that he didn't have to shout, but he didn't stop moving until he was a little closer than friendly to Clint. His hair was windswept and he had a bruise cresting purple on his cheekbone, and when he smiled up at Clint he slicked his tongue over the cut in his lower lip. Clint had to work not to sway forward into him.
"How're you doing?" Clint asked, and lifted his hand to swipe his thumb gently across Bucky's cheek, like that was something people did with their colleagues. “Aside from covered in ash.”
"Good," Bucky said, the gray of his eyes almost swallowed by dilated black in the dim light. "Couldn't've done it without you, though."
Hopefully the half-light was enough to hide the colour rising into Clint's cheeks.
"Nah," he said, one hand lifting to rub at the back of his neck. "You guys would've been -"
"Don't do that." Bucky's voice was low and gentle with something sweet to it, and the sound of it coiled warmth up the line of Clint's spine. "How about you just let me tell you you're amazing?"
Clint ducked his head - unfortunately, as tall as he was, that just brought his face into closer proximity with Bucky's, and that gave rise to all sorts of unhelpful thoughts. Didn't help when Bucky licked his lip again, and - and Clint had to be imagining the tip-tilting of his chin. Right?
"Hey Buck," Steve called, and Bucky stepped back like he'd been caught at something, turning his head Steve's way. Steve was grinning as he walked over towards them and Clint cursed every inch of him from his cheery red boots to every flattened hair on his head. "Tony knows an all-night diner nearby," Steve told them, standing next to Bucky and swaying so their shoulders brushed. "You guys in for burgers?"
"Sure," Clint said, 'cos whatever moment he thought he and Bucky might possibly have been having, that moment was well and truly dead. "Sure, I could eat."
*
The diner was brighter-lit than the orange streets outside, and Bucky had muscled into the booth next to Clint so he had a decent view of his various bruises. He couldn't seem to tear his eyes away from the cut on the guy's mouth.
"You know you need to stop licking it if you want it to heal up," Steve said from across the table, and Bucky gave him the finger.
"You know I ain't gonna stop using my mouth," he snapped back, and then - jeez, the heat in the look he threw Clint, there was no way in hell that was imagined. That and the way he was sitting close enough that they were practically pressed together, Bucky's warmth all down Clint’s side... Clint wasn't sure what in hell he'd done to deserve this kinda luck, but he was hoping the Universe didn't realise its error any time soon.
They all ordered an assortment of burgers and shakes, Thor charming waffles out of the waitress even though it wasn't nearly time for breakfast. Every move Bucky made seemed to nudge him a little closer into Clint's side and Clint couldn't help delighting in the way he fit so perfectly there. He ate one-handed so he could rest his arm along the back of the booth and rest just the tips of his fingers on Bucky's shoulder. Something was unfurling in his stomach, soft and warm, and from the way Bucky kept giving him sideways half-grins he could feel it too.
By the time the team was ready to call it a night they were all yawning and Tony was promising that he was gonna let FRIDAY fly the jet.
"Me and Clint are gonna stay at the motel across the street," Bucky said, glaring Steve down when he opened his mouth to protest. "He can barely keep his eyes open," he continued, "and you know he ain't allowed out without supervision."
Clint couldn't keep a straight face and he accepted Natasha's smirk as his due. He and Bucky bid the others goodbye and wandered across the street while they headed for the quinjet, the two of them close enough that their shoulders kept brushing.
As Bucky negotiated them a room Clint resolved to himself that they'd talk in the morning, 'cos he was gonna do his best to make the case that this should be more than one night. He was determined to have that night, though, whatever the outcome, and he closed his fingers loosely around Bucky's wrist as he followed him out the front door and over to the stairs. He could feel Bucky's pulse beating through the fragile skin.
The motel wasn't fancy. The paint on the door was peeling and the curtains were a miserable shade of brown, but the place seemed clean enough for Clint's standards, which had never been particularly high. He stopped on the threshold though, wondering for a second if he'd misread this completely, looking from one to the other of the twin beds.
"Er," he said, and then bent to yank off his boots, wriggling his socked toes against the dark carpet. "I'm gonna use the bathroom."
"Sure," Bucky said, sounding a little absent.
Clint used the facilities and washed his hands, giving himself a quick pep talk in the mirror - 'cos there was no reason to be disappointed, asshole - and ignoring the clattering in the next room. When he walked out, he couldn't help grinning up at the nightstand perched precariously on top of the closet, and how its new position had allowed Bucky to do some furniture rearranging.
"Oh no," Bucky said flatly, nudging one of the beds the last few inches across with his foot, "there's only one bed."
"Oh no," said Clint, as Bucky prowled over towards him, reaching out to rest his hand on Bucky's hip so he could pull him close, "whatever shall we do?"