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Clint’s whistling to himself, thumbing through the mail as he wanders back into the house, wincing at the sound of the screen door slapping shut behind him. They don’t get much mail, especially because they haven’t lived here long. Most of it is addressed to “Resident” or to the previous homeowner, who Clint has learned far, far too much about for someone he’s never even met.
“Anything for me?” Bucky asks. He’s leaning back against the kitchen counter with both his hands wrapped around a mug.
“Nope,” Clint says, tossing half the stack of mail into the trash. “Mostly for Meredith. How hard is it to fill out a change of address form?”
“That’s a federal crime,” Bucky says with a small smile, nodding at the trash can.
“Add it to my list,” Clint says, shrugging. “Did you make coffee?”
“Sure did,” Bucky says. He puts his own mug down to reach for one just behind his elbow, and when he hands it over to Clint, their fingers brush in a way that really shouldn’t be so exciting. “Here you go, husband.”
“Thanks,” Clint says, closing his eyes to savor the aroma and the steam before he takes his first indulgent gulp.
It’s not a big deal. It’s just Bucky making him a cup of coffee, like he would for anyone else, because Bucky’s a nice guy who does thoughtful things for everyone, not just the guy he’s pretending to be married to for the sake of the mission. It doesn’t mean anything special at all.
They’ve been renting this little Cape Cod-style home for almost two months, and the lines between the truth and the story are starting to get just a little bit blurry. Clint’s never imagined something like this for himself, the house with the painted shutters and the two car garage and the flowerbeds out front. Last weekend, Clint sat on the counter and watched as his husband thumbed through a battered copy of the Joy of Cooking and then proceeded to make a casserole for them to bring to the neighborhood block party. He was never supposed to end up here. It’s just a fantasy, a tantalizing glimpse into a world he’ll never actually be a part of, and he wonders how bad of an idea it is for him to indulge and enjoy it while it lasts.
“I heard something interesting on the news today,” Bucky is saying, and Clint is so focused on how good his jaw looks with his beard this length that he misses that Bucky is signing to him until it’s too late.
“What’s that?” Clint says, simultaneously signing Again.
“A dog saved a girl from drowning.” Pickup is tomorrow. “Not a big dog either. Just a little guy. Dove right into the reservoir and saved her life.” Bar downtown. Good vantage points.
“I love dogs,” Clint says absently. Is this the big one?
“I know you do,” Bucky says, and his voice is so fond, and it doesn’t mean anything at all. They pretend, the two of them. All the time, they always pretend, because they don’t know who’s watching, who’s listening. And it doesn’t matter what Bucky is saying with his voice, with his tone. Because with his hands, he’s saying This is the big one. We could be home by this time next week.
Clint’s never been less excited about the prospect of a mission ending.
They pretend, it’s pretend. Bucky puts his mug down on the counter and fits his right palm to Clint’s biceps, giving him a small, affectionate squeeze, and Clint tries to smile. This is who they are as a couple, as the fake couple they’ve been pretending to be all these weeks, as Rob and Hunter, married three years, met on Grindr of all places, Rob works as a tennis pro and Hunter works in finance but aren’t they just the sweetest couple that anyone has ever seen? So yeah, of course they touch each other. They’re tender. No one else has ever been tender towards Clint, not for one moment of his whole life.
“We should get a dog,” Clint murmurs, and Bucky grins at him.
“You’d spoil a dog, sweetheart,” Bucky says.
“But you’d let me have one,” Clint insists. “If I wanted one, you’d let me.”
“Of course I would,” Bucky says, his thumb still rubbing small circles over Clint’s upper arm, staking a claim for any hidden cameras to see. “You know I’m too sweet on you.”
He’s allowed to kiss Bucky. They’re married, and they do that, so he can, so he does. He takes the one step necessary to close the distance between their bodies, and he ducks his head and kisses Bucky’s mouth, one quick kiss and then one that lingers. He’s kissed Bucky dozens and dozens of times, some chaste, some more passionate. It’s an act, but it feels nice, and he’s going to miss it when they don’t have to do this anymore.
*
The intel turns out to be wrong, and they don’t make their bust, and the relief that Clint feels at their mission failure is downright unpatriotic. He’s not ready to give this up yet. It’s fucked up, and he knows that the longer it goes on, the more devastated he’ll be when it ends.
But nothing’s ever felt as safe as taking out his aids and getting into bed with Bucky. Clint’s never liked the dark, but it turns out he doesn’t mind it so much with Bucky’s arms wound around him. They hadn’t started out that way, each of them carefully sticking to their own sides of the shared bed. But as time passed, they found themselves waking up entangled in each other. Clint gets it. Bucky can’t date anyone else when he’s stuck pretending to be married to Clint, and his body wants touch and doesn’t care where it comes from. So over time, they’ve dropped the pretense, and they cuddle up together. They can’t do it with anyone else. It’s just practical.
“I’m sorry it didn’t work out,” Clint lies in a whisper that’s barely more than a breath, his lips pressed right to Bucky’s ear in the dark. It’s the only time it feels safe to be themselves, right before they go to bed.
Bucky doesn’t answer with words, because Clint wouldn’t have been able to hear them. But he turns his face towards Clint’s, rubs their noses together in a way that is probably just Bucky misjudging their closeness in the dark. And then Bucky kisses him goodnight, like he does every night, because they’re married. And if he takes a little bit longer than usual tonight, if his tongue lingers in Clint’s mouth even though no camera would ever be able to tell the difference, well, he’s probably just working out his frustration at the mission falling apart at this stage.
Clint falls asleep in Bucky’s arms, and he wakes up in Bucky’s arms. It’s Saturday, and there’s nowhere they have to be. Bucky normally wakes up early to go jogging like some sort of maniac, but he’s still asleep, and Clint tucks his face into Bucky’s neck, sleepily kisses the warm skin above his t-shirt collar, and falls back asleep.
The next time Clint wakes up, he’s alone. He grumbles and stretches, and then he pads downstairs in his boxers. There’s no sign of Bucky in the house, but the coffeepot is on, and there’s a note taped to his favorite mug that says Tracking down a lead. It’s signed with a heart and the letter H. The lead makes it sound like it’s something secret, but the H means it was written in character. Clint doesn’t know what that means, but maybe five or six cups of coffee will help him figure it out.
It’s another few hours before Clint hears Bucky pull his car in the driveway, the neighborhood dogs all barking to greet him. Clint is wondering if Bucky has eaten today, if he should make him a sandwich or something. The front door opens, and he hears Bucky step inside, and then he hears something else step inside, something with frantically clattering toenails that woofs inquisitively as it runs down the main hallway into the kitchen with Bucky chasing after it, and--
“A dog!” Clint falls to his knees in delight as a pile of golden fur launches itself at him and proceeds to enthusiastically lick his face. “Did we get a dog?”
“Got you a dog, sweetheart,” Bucky says fondly, and Clint has never been so happy or so confused in his whole life. The dog flops onto his side, exposing his stomach, and Clint immediately scritches at his tummy.
“Thanks,” he says softly. “You didn’t have to do this.”
“Course I did,” Bucky says. “Look at the two of you together. You’re in love.”
“Jealous?” Clint asks idly, watching his fingers trail through the coarse hair on the dog’s stomach. Bucky got him a dog.
“Maybe,” Bucky says, and his voice is so quiet that Clint has to look up at him.
“Thanks,” Clint says again. “Thank you.”
“Just wanted you to be happy,” Bucky says with a shrug, and he looks a little bit uncomfortable, which is not in character for Hunter at all. Hunter is lavish and adoring, always. Hunter is not uncomfortable to tell Rob how much he cares. Clint looks at Bucky’s hands, waits for the coded message or the explanation about how this is part of the mission, but there’s nothing.
“I am happy,” Clint says, and it feels like the bravest, most honest thing he’s ever admitted. “You make me very happy.”
“I love you, Rob,” Bucky says with his voice, at the same time that his hands say I care about you, Clint.
“Love you, too,” Clint says faintly. His palms feel sweaty, and his hands feel suddenly too big and ungainly, and he wipes them off against his sweatpants.
Bucky looks so serious, like Clint has never seen before. He walks across the kitchen and sits down on the floor next to Clint, their shoulders and thighs brushing. Bucky puts his hand on Clint’s cheek, a gentle touch that coaxes him to turn his head so they’re facing each other.
“I’m going to kiss you,” Bucky says gruffly, and Clint nods. Bucky closes the distance between their faces, and right before their lips touch, in the fine space where their breath mingles, Bucky whispers, so quietly that Clint’s aids just barely catch the words, “I’m going to kiss you, Clint,” and Clint presses his fists hard into his own thighs and nods again, stupid and confused and just trying to stay grounded to reality.
Clint and Bucky have kissed so many times now, but this time feels different. There is hesitation in Bucky’s movement, a stuttering of their mouths against one another, an uncertain brush of tongue. Bucky kisses a question into Clint’s mouth, his hand trembling against Clint’s cheek.
“Yes,” Clint whispers against Bucky’s mouth. He lets his lips part for Bucky’s tongue, and he fumbles his hand into Bucky’s, fingerspelling B-U-C-K-Y into his free palm over and over and over, oh god, Bucky, it’s Bucky. They’re kissing, he’s finally really kissing Bucky.
“You mean it?” Bucky mumbles against his mouth, kissing him deeper, holding his face more possessively, and all Clint can do is whimper and clutch Bucky’s hand, digging his blunt nails into the skin of Bucky’s palm like he’s holding on for dear life.
“I mean it,” Clint whispers when he finally pulls back for air. Bucky smiles at him like that’s the best thing he’s heard in ages, and Clint has to kiss him again, the corner of his mouth, his jaw, the slope of his nose. He wants to kiss every inch of his handsome, kind face.
“We’ve got a dog now,” Bucky says, and his voice sounds light and hopeful. “That’s a serious commitment.”
“Good,” Clint says, slumping down so he can lay his head on Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky touches his lips to Clint’s forehead, rubbing them back and forth in a lazy, sweet kiss, and the two of them stay right there sitting on their kitchen floor, petting their dog together.