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“Morning.”
“Hey,” Bucky says absently, tips his face up without taking his eyes off the television. Clint acquiesces to the unspoken request, presses a quick kiss to his lips and then another to the tip of his nose before he continues to the kitchen.
Bucky licks his lips and tastes blood on them, but he doesn’t bring it up.
There’s not anything he can say - he knows Clint won’t talk about it even if he does push, so he’s just going to remain in blissful ignorance while his boyfriend vanishes five out of seven nights and leaves his purple suit thrown over the couch.
The fridge opens and there’s a rattling noise as Clint fishes through the eight different jars of disgusting jam and two different cases of beer tucked in there. Bucky hasn’t bothered with groceries since he went out with Sam on a mission; the only edible thing there is a jar of homemade mayo he’s been eating with a spoon. The only thing he remembers to buy regularly is pet food.
The couch dips under Clint’s weight and Bucky turns his head to see him drinking one of the beers. There’s a dark bruise under his eye and his forearms are swathed in bandages, although it’s a better job than he normally does.
“We need cereal,” Clint says.
“What kind?”
“The kind that parents hide from their kids because it’s so loaded with sugar.”
Bucky sighs, slumps sideways until he can rest his cheek on Clint’s shoulder. “I’ll put it on the list. Why are you drinking at nine in the morning?”
“Seemed like more effort to get a cup and fill it with water,” Clint answers. That’s fair enough, so Bucky settles in a little more comfortably, lets his eyes drift closed. Clint smells like he’s been stealing Bucky’s shampoo again, some kind of nameless fruity smell for oily hair.
Lucky notices them and lets out a cheerful woof at Clint’s presence, wanders over to sit down on his feet and stick his head on Clint’s knee, one big dark eye silently begging for pats. Clint obliges instantly, ruffles his fur and lets out an amused huff when a long tongue lolls onto his jeans. Bucky goes back to watching the drama unfold onscreen, silently curses Natasha for getting him into The Bachelor.
“Wanna fuck?”
“Let me finish this episode,” Bucky says. “That, or you can do all the work while I watch this.”
“Romantic,” Clint remarks, bumps his cheek against the top of Bucky’s head. He’s obviously not that interested in having sex because he doesn’t move an inch from his spot, rubbing his thumb over Lucky’s ear and going silent. He’s deliciously warm and soft in all the right places, comfortable enough that it’d be easy to drift off.
Bucky keeps watching his show.
“I think I have a crush on Moon Knight,” Clint says, apropos of nothing.
Alrighty then.
“Huh,” Bucky says. “You gonna do anything about it?”
Clint shifts away from him at that, raises an eyebrow when Bucky looks at his face. He’s frowning a little, and Bucky’s tempted to kiss it right off his face but he thinks that might ruin the seriousness of the moment. Not that he feels like the seriousness is warranted.
“I want to know what he looks like under the mask,” Bucky says thoughtfully. “Is his hair white too?”
“What? No. It’s brown. Why would it be white?”
“I always imagined he was bald, like an egg. Like the moon.”
“Nah,” Clint answers, tips his head sideways. “Why’d you ask me if I’d do anything about it?”
“Because I was curious?”
“No, I mean. You’d… be okay with that?”
“With what, you and him? I don’t own you.”
“You do, a little bit,” Clint says, grins and nudges his side with an elbow gently.
Bucky’s not a possessive person. He’s spent too much time spent with everyone thinking of him as Steve’s offsider and then Hydra’s pet after that, and it leaves a bad taste in his mouth to lay claim on anyone. It’s different when Clint gives it freely though, it’s - something, for sure, to realize Clint’s serious about this thing between them.
“C’mere,” he says, leans in until he can taste the cheap beer on Clint’s lips.
Clint opens up for him and Bucky gets distracted by the softness and the heat of his mouth, he gentle scrape of teeth on his lip. He maneuvers himself onto Clint’s lap, cups his cheeks with both hands and uses his tongue until Clint’s making soft noises against his lips.
“You’re my favourite, y’know that?” he says, the words buzzing against Clint’s mouth.
“You’re the best person I’ve ever met,” Clint tells him, praising.
Bucky’s smoking on the fire escape when he sees the flash of white.
It’s too cold to be out here. The late-night-early-morning frost is clinging to everything, and Bucky’s definitely had worse - he’s the goddamn Winter Soldier after all - but it scrapes at the bare skin of his forearm where his sweater’s pushed to his elbow, bites at his face.
Apparently supersoldiers can’t be addicted to nicotine, but no one told his body that.
They don’t make a noise. There’s no noise tonight at all, not even cars or people shouting like there normally is. It’s a deadly kind of silence, and Bucky would be none the wiser except that he’s looking up at the just right time to see them, thinking idly about what the stars he’s staring at are called.
It’s easy to spot Moon Knight from a distance, at least. The cape isn’t very practical but it certainly makes a entrance, stark and blinding against the dark blue of the night sky. He’s standing up on the rooftop opposite Bucky’s - Clint’s - building, face turned towards something in the distance.
Bucky’s got to admit it’s quite the look, even if he’d never go for it personally.
It takes him a few more moments to spot Ronin, a flash of darkness against the white wall of Moon Knight’s cape. Bucky can see their empty, impassive black masks from here - he can’t make out the ring of gold on Ronin’s, but the eyes of Moon Knight’s are so white they’re almost luminous.
They look alien up there on the rooftop together, like two forgotten, unearthly creatures waiting for the world to end.
Bucky feels like he shouldn’t be looking directly at them for some reason, and then feels ridiculous for thinking that.
Ronin jumps over to their rooftop and Bucky watches Moon Knight stare in that direction. There’s no way of telling what thoughts are going through his head, but he stays there for a few long minutes, cape billowing behind him, until Bucky hears a clattering from inside their apartment.
“Bucky? You home?”
“Out here,” Bucky calls back distractedly, stubbing out his cigarette out on the railing.
Clint pokes his head out the window. His hair’s all messed up and he’s only wearing a pair of tiny green shorts, shorts that are slung low enough on his hips for Bucky to get a nice eyeful of the dusting of gold hair below his belly button.
“Whatcha doing?”
“Freezing my ass off,” Bucky replies, risks another look at the sky. He feels a jolt as he realizes Moon Knight’s looking right at him, and then he blinks and the man’s gone without any evidence that he was here in the first place. “Go on, get out the way, I’m cold.”
Clint shifts away obediently as Bucky maneuvers himself through the open window. He swears under his breath when his knee scrapes on the old wood of the sill, and splinters aren’t really a big deal but they’re annoying. He hates them.
Clint, to his gratitude, just heads for the drawer where they keep the first-aid kit. Bucky slumps down onto a chair and props his foot up on another, inspects the nasty shards of wood under the flickering kitchen light. God, they really need to fix up this place, it’s a mess. He wonders if Moon Knight knows DIY.
Unlikely, considering he owns a goddamn Mooncopter.
“You’re very accident-prone, you know that,” Clint tells him, but it’s in an affectionate voice as he crouches down with a pair of tweezers. He’s put on his reading glasses so he can see what he's doing and Bucky’s helplessly into Clint with glasses, the dark frames balanced on the bump where his nose has been broken one too many times.
It makes him look older, softer somehow. Bucky likes him so much.
“...at least it’s not the arm for the four hundredth time again,” Clint’s muttering when Bucky comes back to himself.
“I’m not that bad,” he protests.
Clint glances up at him over the rims of his glasses, cocks an eyebrow. “You know how many times I’ve lost an arm? Zero times. And I’m always getting hurt. You’re cursed or something, Buck.”
“Fuck you,” Bucky says, but there’s no heat in it.
“You already have fucked me,” Clint reasons, lips curling up in a faint smirk. Fair enough. “All done. You want me to kiss it better?”
“No,” Bucky grouches.
Clint still leans in to press his mouth to the side of his knee anyway.
“D’you think Moon Knight likes you back?” He doesn’t mean to blurt it out, but it’s out there now. “I mean. Y’know.”
Clint doesn’t look surprised by the question. A thoughtful expression crosses his face and then he just shrugs, gets to his feet. He leaves the tweezers and his glasses on the kitchen table - disappointing - and offers a hand to Bucky, helps him up as well.
They head for the stairs and Clint doesn’t say anything until they’re tucked up in bed, his head resting on Bucky’s chest and one leg thrown over his thighs. It’s a hell of a lot warmer than the outside world was, although he’s quietly mourning the glasses. Neither of them fall asleep and Clint starts drawing aimless patterns on Bucky’s skin.
“It’s hard to tell with him,” Clint answers eventually. “Most of the time it’s the mask making it hard, but… yeah. Who knows what he’s thinking.”
“He is a little mysterious,” Bucky agrees. “No harm in asking him, right?”
“He did rip someone’s face off, Buck.”
“Wasn’t that just a rumour or something? People love exaggerating. The news channel still thinks I assassinated every politician that died in the last seventy years.” Sure, he’d killed a few of them, but not all of them. Journalists love to distort it so it looks a lot more dramatic than it actually was.
“...it’s totally a rumour, except that he actually did it,” Clint says
“Right. Well. ‘s not like we haven’t done fucked-up shit too.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” Clint answers. “I just - I don’t know. Being attracted to someone and trying to start a relationship with them are two different things. I’m worried it’ll go horribly wrong.”
“Could go horribly right, too,” Bucky offers.
“Yeah,” Clint says absently.
He doesn’t stop tracing patterns on Bucky’s skin and Bucky just breathes, looks up at the ceiling and wonders who put those glow-in-the-dark stars up there. Kate, probably. Or Natasha, if she was feeling mischievous, but it’s unlikely. Bucky’s pretty sure Clint hadn’t put them up there himself, even though he did put that purple lava lamp on the dresser.
“I think he’s lonely,” Clint adds, a while later.
Thinking about the way Moon Knight had watched Ronin leave, Bucky thinks he might be right.
You’ve worked with Moon Knight, right?
It takes Steve a few minutes to answer the message and Bucky busies himself with making sure his rice hasn’t burned. He’s not great at the whole home cooking thing, but he’s got a bet going with Sam right now and spite’s a hell of a motivator. Burning the rice is not an option. Mostly because this is his third batch and they’ll be out of rice if he tries to redo it again.
Bucky sneaks a glance at his screen to find the is typing… displayed on the tiny screen. He goes back to watching the pot on the stove until there’s a cheerful ping that indicates Steve’s finally finished replying. Would it kill the guy to type faster than a snail?
Briefly. Why?
Just curious, Bucky types back one-handed as he prods the onions in his frying pan with a fork to see if they’re crispy. What was your impression of him?
Steve takes another year to reply and Bucky might not age as fast as a normal human being but he’s pretty sure he’s grown a few grey hairs by the time his phone beeps again. It’s fine, he can pull off the sexy older man look. Clint calls him an old man anyway.
Marc’s complicated. He’s a good man. Doesn’t like following orders, though.
No one in the Avengers likes following orders, Bucky replies. Complicated feels like an understatement, considering the things he’s heard about Moon Knight. Isn’t that a requirement for joining?
No. What are you doing with Marc, Buck?
Nothing. Bucky throws the chopped-up beef in with the onions and looks around for the jar of sauce he’s misplaced. Wherever he’s put it, it’s damn well-hidden. He shuffles around a few different spices on the counter but nothing yields the jar he’s actually trying to locate. What the fuck? How does sauce just disappear into nothingness within a few minutes?
Please be careful. He’s dangerous.
The temptation to tell Steve that he’s not Bucky’s dad is overwhelming, but he manages to stamp it down. We’re all dangerous, Steve.
He means it, too.
“C’mon. In here, watch your hands,” he hears Clint saying, puts the phone down.
It’s pretty normal for him to be bringing people home - the latest was that kid, Bryce, who lives in the basement and looks at Bucky’s emails so he doesn’t have to. That was months ago though, and Clint’s been largely ignoring other people in favour of his nighttime vigilantism.
Bucky’s curious but he keeps doing what he’s doing, while subtly straining his ears to catch what’s going on. He doesn’t catch what the other person says but he hears the low rumble of a voice, rough like sandpaper on his skin.
“Pretty classy, right? Sure it’s nothing like your mansion,” Clint’s saying now. “Sit here, I’m gonna- let me grab some stuff. Don’t go anywhere.”
Bucky turns off the stovetop and turns in time to catch Clint hustling back to the main room, the larger box of first-aid shit they keep tucked under one arm. Alright, that’s interesting. He finally locates the jar of sauce sitting on top of a box of cereal and finishes up what he’s doing, drops the food into containers so they won’t be free for any bugs lingering around.
“You don’t have to take it all off,” Clint says. “I won’t make you strip on the first date.”
“You sure this is only the first date?”
That makes Clint laugh, soft and genuine. “Tip your head up for me, I’m gonna disinfect this before you start leaking goop all over the place.”
Bucky sticks his head around the corner at that. There’s respecting privacy and then there’s checking out what your half-naked boyfriend is doing with a stranger in your living room while you attempt to make dinner.
Nevermind, not a stranger.
“I don’t need help,” Marc Spector - Moon Knight - says, but Clint’s ignoring him in favour of dabbing at the mess of blood on his forehead.
Clint’s discarded the suit wherever he hides it but he’s still wearing his skin-tight leather Ronin pants and they cling to absolutely everything with no mercy whatsoever. Bucky’s kind of glad he’s looking from a distance because if he was any closer he’d be unable to resist the nearly-hypnotizing curve of Clint’s ass, and he’s even having trouble from here.
He feels some level of sympathy for Marc, who’s right at eye-level and only a few inches away from all that devastating musculature. Marc’s sitting on their couch with his hood pushed down and Clint’s standing between his spread knees, leaning over him with one careful hand on his scruffy jaw.
Bucky’s never seen Moon Knight without his mask off before. He’s… remarkably normal looking. Messy brown hair that curls over his forehead, scar through his left eyebrow, dark eyes that seem like they’re swallowing up all the light in the room. His gaze is completely fixed on Clint like there’s no room for anything else, like he’s unable to look away.
“Think this’ll be okay,” Clint says, stepping back. “Let me get that cut on your arm, too.”
Marc lets him remove the glove - and the razor-sharp blades, slide the sleeve up to his elbow. Clint’s gentle with it even though his teeth are caught in his lip. It’s a nasty slice on Marc’s skin, a few inches long and pretty deep. Two of Clint’s fingers on his right hand are in a makeshift splint and they both look like they’ve had a rough night, although Clint’s a lot worse off than Marc is.
That’s Clint for you, though. He uses patching someone up as a way to say he cares about them, without actually having to say it. He’d admitted once that it was a thing his brother had done for him - no I love yous, no hugging, no talking about how they felt, but sometimes Barney would throw an icepack at him or steal a box of themed band-aids and the world would feel okay for a few minutes.
Clint will do the things Barney didn’t do with him and he enjoys them well enough, to the point where he’s easily the most affectionate person on the team. He’ll still go back to the habit every now and then, however, and it makes sense he’d do this with Moon Knight, who seems a little hesitant about getting close.
The splint is making bandaging pretty difficult for him, though.
“Fuck,” Clint says, quietly pissed off.
“Move over, I’ll do it,” Bucky says.
He doesn’t even realize what he’s doing until he’s gently nudging Clint aside, taking the bandages from him.
“It’s fine,” Marc says uncomfortably, eyes darting around the room like he’s waiting for something to jump him.
Bucky sits himself on the coffee table, gives enough space for an escape if it's needed. He gets it. “Let me help anyway?”
Marc doesn’t say yes but he doesn’t move away either, so Bucky takes that as a tiny victory and starts wrapping the wound, keeping his fingers light and careful. There’s no words from any of them as Bucky fixes him up, and Marc’s skin is cold enough that it’s almost worrying. The air feels rife with tension. Bucky's vaguely aware that he's not wearing anything protective himself.
Bucky glances up at Marc’s face and he’s doing that intense-staring thing again directed at Bucky this time, except up close Bucky can see how long his eyelashes are. He’s… quite pretty, actually.
Huh.
“I need to go,” Marc says, grabbing for his mask.
“Wait a second,” Bucky orders, goes back to the kitchen. He comes back with a takeaway container - they have so many takeaway containers - of food, gives it to Moon Knight. (It’s impossible to think of him as Marc with that mask on.) “There. For later.”
His gift is greeted with blank silence, but Bucky watches him hold onto it as he disappears out the window, and Clint’s smiling a little when he looks in that direction.
“Psst.”
“Psst, Bucky.”
“Buck!”
“What,” Bucky says, finally looking up from his book.
“Come check this out,” Clint replies, gestures for him to follow.
There’s no chance of finishing this book, is there? He hopes it’s not something dumb - then again, the last time Clint had wanted his attention it’d just been to point out an extraordinarily fat pigeon carrying a whole sandwich and Bucky had still been stupidly endeared by it. His boyfriend is a cat, basically.
Bucky sets down his book and follows. Clint seems pleased by that, bounces on his toes a little before he heads up the stairs. He’s been bored since his fingers got broken, which is understandable because despite the fact he’s ambidextrous, using only the one hand makes a lot of things more difficult. (Bucky would know.)
They end up on the apartment roof. It’s fucking freezing out here and Bucky’s only wearing one of Clint’s old bowling shirts. He doesn’t want to be out here.
“What’s-” Bucky starts, and Clint signs shut up abruptly without even letting him finish.
Before he can feel stung by that he’s gestured closer, and Clint peers around the corner again. No explanation is given. It’d be nice to have conversations like normal people, instead of this. Bucky wonders if they’ve got another problem with the overly-aggressive pigeons up here and leans around as well, one hand on Clint’s shoulder for balance.
“Oh,” he says quietly when he sees it.
‘It’ is Moon Knight sitting on the edge of their roof, legs dangling off the edge. He’s wearing the full suit, blades on his forearms and hood keeping his masked face from view as he looks at something to his left. The cape is thrown over his shoulders, billowing gently in a breeze that isn’t there.
Part of the cape looks like it’s being weighed down by something small and heavy.
It’s what Moon Knight’s looking at, and the breeze dies down for long enough that Bucky spots a familiar pair of triangular ears blending in with all the white. Goddamnit, Alpine. Moon Knight wouldn’t kill a cat, right?
Except that Alpine’s a brat - it’s Bucky’s own damn fault for spoiling her, and he’s got no doubt she’s going to tell Moon Knight exactly where to get off if he tries to remove her.
“Hold on,” Clint whispers, and Bucky didn’t even realize he was moving.
Moon Knight reaches out and it seems almost tentative when his gloved fingers brush the top of her tiny skull, and Bucky’s breath catches. He’s suddenly aware that he’s going to have to kill Clint’s new boyfriend if he causes any harm to her, and that’s really going to fuck up his relationship. Can’t he just have nice things without them going sideways?
Except Moon Knight isn’t hurting her - he’s petting her, gentle like he’s worried she’s going to break, kind of awkward about it, and Alpine’s rumbling purr is audible even from where Bucky and Clint are standing. Alpine being Alpine, she takes this as permission to get up and sit herself squarely in his lap instead, still purring up a storm and rubbing herself on him.
It’s particularly strange because she usually can’t stand sitting on anyone except for Bucky, and even Clint only gets a turn every once in a blue moon.
“Seems like a good sign,” Clint remarks quietly, and Bucky can’t help but agree with him.
The only thing that alerts him to the figure on the fire escape is the animals.
There’s no sound, no discernible movement behind the curtains that Bucky always closes in the morning because Clint sleeps until lunchtime. He likes doing little things to help, like keeping the light out in the mornings and putting Clint’s shoes by the door. (It works because Clint will return the favour by fixing Bucky’s hair and restocking the chips.)
Bucky’s trying to take up knitting. Trying being the key word because he has no clue what he’s doing, and he thinks Natasha just bought him yarn and needles as a joke but he’s stubborn as fuck and refuses to give up that easily. The knitting tutorial he’s watching has not helped him whatsoever - he’s pretty sure this woman is trying to kill him rather than help him.
He’s trying to succeed at a scarf when Lucky lifts his head from the couch and looks at the window, tail wagging already.
Bucky puts the yarn down, thinks maybe Kate or Natasha. He’s about to start berating her for the goddamn wool when Alpine stops batting at the piece of string she’s found and makes an inquisitive mrow at the window.
He silently reaches for the knife under the couch cushion.
He puts it back a second later when he sees the flash of white, although it’s a three-piece suit and not a cape. “New costume?”
“Mister Knight,” comes the reply. “Less trouble with the cops.”
“Fair enough,” Bucky says, watches him come through the window. “What’s going on?”
Bucky’s greeted with silence for a long beat, as Lucky winds circles around his legs.
Moon K- Marc- Mister Knight seems uncomfortable with being here, and Bucky can’t figure out exactly why he’s here in the first place. They weren’t out last night - he knows because Clint decided last night was date night, and even though he’d misplaced his hearing aids they’d mostly signed at each other and had a nice night anyway.
(Thinking back to what they’d been doing in bed for date night, no wonder Clint’s dead to the world.)
“I found these,” Mister Knight says, reaches into his pocket and pulls out a familiar pair of bright purple BTEs.
They stand out even more against the white of his gloves and Bucky wonders, for a second, if Hawkeye and Mister Knight would be just as striking as Moon Knight and Ronin. Who let two men look that good while fighting crime, honestly? Bucky’s not strong enough for this.
“Oh, yeah,” he says, snapping out of it to gently take the hearing aids. “Thanks. Seriously. They break a hell of a lot but he’s too proud to ask Stark for new ones, y’know? Pain in the ass.”
“About that,” Mister Knight answers, scratching the back of his head.
“Hm?”
“I might’ve gotten someone to fix them up a little,” Mister Knight says. “I know it’s- it was hard for him to understand me with the mask, and I’m learning sign language too slowly.”
“It’s hard to catch onto,” Bucky answers absently, looks down at the aids. Hopefully Clint won’t grumble too much about it - he accepts help from Bucky, so he might be alright with help from a different person he’s interested in. He tucks them into his shirt pocket so he doesn’t forget to give them back to Clint.
“Problems that aren’t solved with fists aren’t my specialty, but I tried,” Mister Knight remarks.
“It’s nice,” Bucky says. “Thank you.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Still,” Bucky says. “Take the gratitude.”
The mask doesn’t help with discerning any kind of mood - why are they all blank and expressionless, it’s impossible - and Mister Knight’s just standing there, which doesn’t give Bucky any clues. Alpine’s started pawing at Mister Knight’s shoes insistently, looking up at him for attention.
Mister Knight glances down at her but doesn’t move, and Bucky wonders if it’s out of shyness or something else.
“Clint’s asleep,” he adds. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Mister Knight says. “This isn’t a social visit. I brought your container back, too.”
Bucky receives the Tupperware gratefully - he’d used the red ones when he’d given the food to Marc, and those ones are his favourites. (Clint’s favourites are the Captain America-themed ones, because of course they are.) They’ve been washed out and cleaned already and he raises an eyebrow at Mister Knight, although he doesn’t get any clues back.
“Was it any good?”
“I don’t know,” Mister Knight says. “I’m used to MREs and things I can throw in the microwave. It didn’t give me food poisoning, if that helps.”
“Can you get food poisoning? Does your - god? - let you get food poisoning?”
“You know about-” Mister Knight breaks off, but his voice was surprised. Like he’s shocked Bucky knows anything at all about him. Clint doesn’t say a lot about Marc Spector’s personal life, but Bucky’s got friends and they know things, and he doesn’t like the idea of running into things blindly so he does his research.
“I pay attention,” Bucky says. Hopes it doesn’t come off as creepy.
“I understand,” Mister Knight says. “My, ah. He isn’t interested in helping me with menial tasks these days. I make a bad decision, I suffer for it.”
“Don’t we all,” Bucky answers dryly, gets a snort for it.
“I’d better go.”
As Mister Knight’s heading out the window again - no splinters again - Bucky holds the Tupperware close and thinks about this mysterious, strange man that watches Clint’s back when he can’t.
“Thank you,” he says again.
Mister Knight doesn’t reply, but it’s okay.
“-Moon Knight and Ronin seen in the collapsing building while trying to subdue an unknown threat,” the news says, and Bucky’s blood runs cold.
The newsreader doesn’t elaborate any further. Luckily the footage they’ve shown is near Brooklyn and Bucky knows exactly where that pizza place in the corner of the screen is (thanks to Clint.) He doesn’t think twice about it, just grabs his guns off the rack and fishes his vest out of the laundry before he jumps off the fire escape and into the alleyway.
They’ll be fine. Bucky just needs to make sure they’re fine.
He’s not sure Moon Knight and Ronin can die, but he keeps seeing Clint’s broken fingers and dark blood making steady trails down Marc’s face behind his eyes.
Moon Knight and Ronin are different from Marc and Clint in some weird unnameable way, but Bucky can’t just switch between himself and the Winter Soldier the way they can. He is the Winter Soldier and the Winter Soldier is Bucky Barnes, the absence of a mask doesn’t change that. Identity is fucking weird.
He makes it to the right street in time for the rain to start belting down on him, and in time to shoot a Hydra goon carrying a glowing machine of some sort. The machine crashes to the ground and Bucky barely spares it a cursory glance before he heads for the ruins of the building. He’s already soaked to the bone and it’s getting hard to see.
From the looks of it, it was at least three stories before it collapsed. There’s shards of glass and concrete everywhere, and no sign of any wayward vigilantes. Shit, Bucky should’ve asked that guy about it before he’d shot him. Too late for it now, though.
“Hey,” he calls out. “Hello? Anyone alive?”
No reply.
Then he sees the scrap of white sticking out from under some rubble, along with a black and gold-gloved hand. His breath catches and then the fingers in the glove wiggle at him, flail slightly, and Bucky’s lungs remember how to work again. He tucks his gun away and grasps a chunk of rubble with his left hand, tosses it aside.
“Clint?”
“Hey, Buck,” a voice says weakly from somewhere underneath the mess. Bucky keeps digging. “Come here often?”
“Fuck’s sake,” Bucky says instead of replying, grunts as he finds a particularly large piece of - roof, floor, wall, whatever the hell it is - and lifts it to hip height, stops when he sees movement underneath it. There’s a scrabbling noise and the gloved hand disappears, sucked back into the shadows.
“Hold it for a second longer,” Clint says, sounding strained, and then something underneath the concrete pushes it up a few more inches.
Bucky holds it steady and waits, ignoring the strain in his legs and back as Clint rolls out from under it. He’s dirty and his mask’s been lost somewhere, along with the sword and one boot. Clint lies there limply for two seconds and Bucky feels cold until he sits up and grasps one white glove, tugs Moon Knight out after him.
They both sprawl on their backs for a moment, as Marc tears off the mask and breathes. Bucky drops the concrete and it makes a crunching noise on the way back down. He’s just glad it wasn’t a human it’s crushing.
“Oh fuck,” Clint says. “I really thought we were goners there for a second. Thanks, Buck.”
He starts laughing and after a second Marc joins in, voices rough and weary, slightly hysterical.
There’s blood and dirt smeared on their faces and they look exhausted. Bucky’s got to admit it’s a relief though, listening to their voices as Marc gets up, offers a hand to Clint and pulls him to his feet as well.
It takes him a minute to realize he’d been scared for Marc as well and maybe, just maybe he has a type, and that type is impulsive, hopelessly attractive idiots with no regard for their own personal safety.
“Oh god, that was a mess,” Clint says, reaching over to grab Bucky in a hug. “Thanks for jumping in and rescuing me.”
“Anytime, Barton,” Bucky answers, holds onto him as tight as he can without it being painful.
Clint’s cold and wet to the touch, but he’s breathing fine and nothing important seems to be broken so Bucky’ll take it as a win. He takes it as more of a win when Clint presses his lips to Bucky’s forehead, then in a careful line down his nose and onto his lips.
“I’d be lost without you,” Bucky says, because he has to.
“Yeah,” Clint says, gives him a rueful smile. “Good thing Marc saved my ass by jumping in front of that hit, huh?”
They both look to the side at that, to where he's standing.
The rain is running down Marc’s face and drops of water are sticking to his eyelashes, his nose, catching on his stubble. He’s just watching them and when he notices Bucky watching back he looks away quickly, casts his eyes up at the darkened sky instead like he’ll find answers there.
Bucky wonders if he’d imagined the want he’d seen on Marc’s face because it was so much, too much, but he thinks maybe not because Clint makes a funny noise next to him and reaches for the cape, tugs Marc in close until he can fit their mouths together.
Jealousy’s a funny thing. He honestly wasn’t sure how he’d feel about Clint and Marc kissing.
Now he’s seeing it close-up, though, he’s just transfixed and a little turned on, and completely bewildered by how much he wants to be in the middle of it. They’re kind of beautiful like this - Clint’s gloved hand is gentle on Marc’s neck and Marc’s got his face tilted up just a little to receive the kiss, and Bucky’s pretty sure they’re both smiling.
Clint is for sure, because he’s grinning too hard to kiss properly now.
It’s… cute.
“Thank you,” Clint says quietly.
“I’ve died before. It’s not as fun as it sounds,” Marc replies.
Clint steps back and cocks an eyebrow at Bucky as if to say alright, your turn.
This wasn’t what they’d discussed but Marc’s looking at him like he’s waiting, and Bucky realizes he wants to. He steps in close - and realizes he’s shorter than both of these assholes, is quietly disgruntled by it - as he places a hand on Marc’s shoulder. (The cape is softer than he expects it to be. Strange.)
“This okay?”
“Yes,” Marc says. “I- yes, it’s fine.”
“Good,” Bucky says, can feel Clint’s gaze on him as he leans in close, lets his eyes slide shut as their lips meet. Marc’s hands land on his chest - just touching, not pushing or pulling, and the kiss is sweeter than he’s expecting it to be.
They separate and Marc’s gaze flicks over to Clint, back to Bucky like he’s not sure how to proceed. Bucky’s half-expecting him to leave again, and he’s not sure he could blame Marc if he did leave because this isn’t exactly a normal situation.
“I know you’ve got this whole lone wolf thing going on,” Clint says. “But- would you want to come home with us? Just for tonight? I’m kind of scared you’ve got a concussion.”
“I…” Marc starts. He trails off for a second and looks at something past Bucky’s shoulder, a flicker of guilt in his eyes. Then he shakes his head, droplets of water spraying everywhere, pushes his wet fringe back from his forehead. “One night.”
“One night,” Clint repeats, nodding, but Bucky knows that face. It’s the same face he’d worn when he’d brought Bucky home, the same one for Bryce and Lucky and Cassidy living on the floor below them.
They’re keeping Moon Knight, apparently, and Bucky feels surprisingly okay with that.