Work Text:
Clint took a long drag from his cigarette, staring out into the street at nothing in particular. It was loud even for a Saturday night in New York. Almost loud enough that he wished he’d left his hearing aids inside before coming out for a smoke. Just as he was about to reach up and turn them down, a small group leaving a bar across the street caught his attention. A tall blond with muscles for days, a short, dark-haired guy in painted on jeans, and a petite redhead with killer curves all stumbled out the front door. The group was all boisterous laughter and easy smiles, and even from a distance, Clint could tell they were all gorgeous. A bit out of his league, no doubt. They looked put together, and although they weren’t looking his way at all, he was suddenly a little too conscious of the coffee stain on the front of his shirt. He frowned and snuffed out his cigarette, turning to head back inside to his shitty apartment, when he heard it.
“Bucky, no!”
Someone laid on their car horn and tires screeched. Clint’s eyes snapped up just in time to see a sedan hit the shorter man, which sent him tumbling over the car’s hood. Clint’s whole body tensed up in sympathy. He knew firsthand what that felt like. He was about to run over to help, when the guy landed on his fucking feet like he was in some sort of ridiculous action movie.
“I AM INDESTRUCTIBLE!” the guy shouted, pumping his fists into the air.
Clint laughed so hard that he snorted, and watched the other two usher him off the street. The blond checked him over for injuries, while the redhead waved and mouthed some sort of apology to the driver. Clint just gaped at them while they walked away. That was the most insane thing he’s seen happen to anyone who wasn’t him. Ever. Beautiful, wreckless, and prone to disaster just like he was. Clint wished he’d have run over to check on him before they’d disappeared down the block, but now he was gone forever, and didn’t that just suck.
A few beers and half a pizza later Clint was tossing and turning in bed, desperate for sleep that wouldn’t come. Even on boring nights he struggled to sleep. He was still a little jumpy from seeing the hottest guy he’d ever laid eyes on, bounce off a car. He knew it was pointless, but he couldn’t stop thinking about him for anything. He left his aids on the nightstand and stepped out onto the fire escape for another smoke. He’d have to be careful on the way back in. Last time he’d been out there, he fell on his way back in and knocked himself out. He slept like a rock, but woke up on the kitchen floor with Lucky licking his face. He gave up on any hope of sleep and pulled out his phone. Fuck it. He opened up Craigslist and went straight to the “Missed Connections” section. He typed out an ad, and against his better judgement added his phone number to it. He knew nothing would come of it, but what did he have to lose? Not a damn thing.
It was past lunch the next day when Bucky finally showed his face. Steve was washing their lunch dishes while Nat was curled up on the couch, scrolling on her phone. Bucky’s head hurt. Hell, his everything hurt. Now that he wasn’t numbed up with alcohol, everything ached and he just wanted to go back to bed for the rest of the day. He was halfway to the coffee maker when Steve handed him a glass of water and a packet of Alka-Seltzer. God, he hated that stuff, but it was better than the time he’d made him drink some sort of green, homeopathic smoothie bullshit. Bucky drank it down as soon as most of the fizzing stopped, and slid the glass back over to him.
“Can I have a coffee now? Ugh. Why do I feel like I got hit by a truck?”
Natasha laughed in the background, but didn’t say a word. Steve scratched the back of his head and tried to figure out if he was joking or not. When Bucky just looked at him, still confused, Steve sighed and decided to explain.
“Actually, it was a sedan, not a truck.”
Bucky stared and blinked a few times.
“What the fuck, Steve? Wait...you’re serious? I got hit by a car? That honestly explains so much about how shitty I feel.”
“Don’t worry, Buck. I’m sure no one saw.”
Bucky didn’t really care about that. Maybe he should, but he’d been out celebrating his last session of physical therapy. How in the hell hadn’t his arm been knocked clean off when the car hit him? Stark must really know his shit for it to have survived without so much as a scratch. A stifled laugh came from the living room. When Bucky turned to face her, Nat was barely holding it together. It looked as if she actually let herself start, she might never stop laughing.
“Oh, I wouldn’t say no one saw, Rogers,” she teased and tossed her phone to Steve, who took one look at it, shook his head and slid it across the counter.
Bucky read it three times over to make sure he wasn’t just still drunk, but based on what happened last night, there was no doubt this was for him. Right there in black and white, on the local “Missed Connections” section was an ad.
Guy that got hit by a car in front of Billy’s last night
I was outside smoking. You were crossing the street and got hit by a car. You bounced off the hood and landed on your feet yelling something about being indestructible.
The other night I almost got trapped in a dumpster because I was going after a pizza that I thought I wanted to take home with me. I’ve also recently slept on my kitchen floor.
I think we’d be a good fit for each other. Move in with me? Let’s get married?
Bucky’s cheeks were beet red by the time he looked up to see his two roommates looking at him expectantly.
“Shut up.”
He thrust Nat’s phone back into her hand and went back to his room. His head hurt, his cheeks and ears burned with embarrassment, but the smallest spark of hope set a light in his chest. He’d been a wreck when he got his medical discharge from the Army and came home with one arm. He’d jumped at every little noise, hadn’t bothered to shave or wash his hair for far too long at a time. He was still seeing a therapist for that, but he was much better off than he had been. He would never be the playboy he was before he deployed, and he’d given up on being set up. It was awkward and forced and just...the worst. But this ad, whoever wrote it clearly didn’t care that he was a bit of a wreck. He grabbed his phone from his nightstand and pulled up the ad again. He added the number to his contacts under “Dumpster Dude” and fired off a text before he could chicken out.
Clint’s phone buzzed in his pocket. Text and holy fuck he hadn’t actually thought the guy would reply. Especially after his word vomit about getting trapped in a dumpster. Who even hit on someone like that? Christ, why had he thought this was a good idea. He opened the email, surprised to see anything other than “get lost, freak” written there.
Buy me dinner first and I’ll think about it.
Right below the text, was a phone number. His phone number. Well, his or a serial killer who liked to rid the world of losers like Clint. Ehhhh, maybe he’d better check. If hot guy turned out to be a serial killer, that was one thing. And while he was prone to risky behavior anyway, he’d rather not get murdered by some rando.
How do I know you’re you?
It was long enough between his message and the reply that Clint was about to give up. He’d finished another two cups of coffee before his phone buzzed again, and fuck if it wasn’t worth the wait. The Indestructible Hottie was in front of a steamed over mirror that looked like it had only just been wiped clear enough to take the picture. He was dripping wet and shirtless, and Clint assumed, naked. He couldn’t see the towel, therefore the towel didn’t exist. And was one of his arms metal? He was like some kind of cyberpunk wet dream. Yeah, that one was staying on his phone forever.
Clint was halfway through typing out another marriage proposal when he changed his mind. Instead, he shrugged out of the hoodie he’d been wearing for the last two days and pulled on a shirt that he tore the sleeves off of. He may not send a half-naked, post-shower selfie, but he knew his biceps were his best feature. He took a quick peek in the mirror, frowning at the crows feet at the corners of his eyes. No way this pretty young thing was going to go for an old guy who couldn’t let go of punk. He fingered the purple-dyed tips of his short mohawk and recorded a short video message.
I hope you like pizza, ‘cos if not, that’s a dealbreaker, gorgeous. Meet me at Bravi Ragazzi in two hours? I mean, if you’re free. You’re probably not, this is dumb. I’m going to stop talking now. Anway. Two hours.
Two hours and seven minutes later, Clint crashed into a GrubHub delivery person because of course he did. He apologized profusely, handed the guy a few dollars because he felt bad, and hoped like hell that his date was later than him. No such luck though, because before he could get up off the floor, a metal hand reached out to help him. When he stood to his full height, Clint had to look down at the other man. He hadn’t realized the other night just how short he was. Clint was a full half a foot taller than he was. He offered a lopsided grin, and got the most beautiful smile he’s ever seen in return.
“I’m Clint. You’re really short. I mean...hot. But also short.”
“No, I’m Bucky. You’re just freakishly tall. And after seeing that epic entrance, I think I’d rather get married than eat dinner. Especially if your biceps are even close to as amazing as they were in that video.”
Clint’s jaw dropped and his eyes lit up, but before he could come up with a witty reply, his stomach growled loudly.
“Aw, stomach, no.”
Bucky laughed and tugged his hand, pulling him toward a table. “Dinner first, then.”
“Yeah, dinner first. I’ll propose again after we have breakfast in the morning. I make killer pancakes.”
“If they’re that good, I’ll marry you before lunch.”
The teasing between them was easy. It felt right, like somehow all the weird parts of them just fit together. Neither of them was fully serious, but they weren’t fully joking either. Either way, it worked.
“Careful, short stuff, I might hold you to that.”
“I’m counting on it.”