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Clint first learned about four leaf clovers in first or second grade. St. Patrick's day hadn't meant much to him before --or even after-- other than it being an excuse for adults to buy more beer. He'd been fascinated with the stories told at school that day though, and had been eager to go to the clover patch at recess. Clint found three four-leaf clovers before they were all called back in, and he'd been rather naively excited to share that news when he got home. Holding the delicate stems carefully between his thumb and pointer finger.
His father had given Clint three broken bones for it. The old man drunk off his ass and screaming that Bartons never had good luck.
Clint would learn over the years that four leaf clovers were uncommon, and that he just seemed to have a knack for spotting them. Didn't even have to get down and search for them. He could just glance down at a patch of clover and pick out two or four or even six of the things. They stood out clearly to him in a way that confused others when he tried to explain it so he stopped bothering after a bit.
He'd pick one or two a day at least to bring home. His young mind thinking he could bring some luck around by sheer volume if nothing else. He never made the mistake of showing them off again though. Instead he took to hiding them. They'd be in his sock drawer, pressed between the pages of mom's book, shoved deep under Barney's mattress, and any little place Clint could think of that dad wouldn't look in.
Thing is, four leaf clovers weren't lucky at all. At least not for Clint. They didn't do a goddamned thing to stop dad from wrapping his truck around a lightpole and leave Barney and Clint alone in the world.
Clint stopped picking clovers after the first two foster homes declared they couldn't handle Clint and Barney. He stopped even looking at clover patches after the first home they got sent to after gaining the reputation for being unmanageable.
Life has taught Clint that Bartons really don't have any luck at all, and he's learned that it's best to just roll with the punches anymore. Hurts less in the long run when you expect it and don't get your hopes up for something as thin as luck.
He’s all but forgotten his obsession with clovers when Thor manages to land Earthside in time for Tony to teach him all the wrong facts about St. Patrick’s day and declare it was time for a bar crawl. A brilliant idea when half the group has a metabolism that doesn’t allow them to get drunk, and two of the rest don’t drink at all. Not that it mattered as Tony has apparently been having a rough time lately and, as usual, been hiding it from everyone else until he got the chance to become messy drunk enough to spill his guts at 2 AM while sprawled out on a bench in Central Park.
Clint watches a couple patrolling cops attempt to appear professional when faced with Steve being earnestly sorry about being there after closing hours. It cracks entirely when Steve goes into a bit of a wistful story about how the park was better than the one he remembered growing up. Going by the incredulous stare Bucky is wearing as he listens in Clint’s pretty sure that Cap’s putting on a sob story to deliberately distract them from their jobs, and has to hide a grin because there’s no way the cops were actually going to kick the Avengers out. Not even with Nat and Thor trading a large and obvious bottle back and forth, or Tony getting pissily upset at Bruce’s insistence that he’s not a therapist.
When Clint looks down and spots two four leaf clovers near his foot, he doesn’t give a second thought to leaning down to pick them. Letting the stems settle into the gaps of his fingers as he struggles to remember what he’d actually been told about them. He’s sure that there had been some story told in school that didn’t boil down to just ‘Good luck, yay!’ Some vague memory of a woman with brown hair in a bun wearing a flower patterned dress and reading from a book that doesn’t get sharper the longer he tries to examine it.
“Looking for luck?” The memory slips away at the quiet question, Bucky’s boots making a soft noise a fraction of a second before he’d opened his mouth.
“If it weren’t for bad luck, I’d have none,” Clint says easily and eyes the overlapping joints of Bucky’s hand, the only part of the metal arm visible past his coat, before nixing the idea. Instead he twists the stems carefully together before slotting them into the open loop of the zipper that rests just under the man’s chin. The only sign he’ll give that the chill in the air bothers him. “Think I might actually be cursed, things always get worse for me if I try to keep any for myself.”
Causation and correlation can kiss his ass. No lucky clover’s been able to help him and he’s long over trying to change that. If there is any luck to be had in the plants then someone else is going to have to find it. At least if the bad luck transfers, Bucky will be able to handle it.
“I don’t think it’s luck of any kind when you’re the one actively making the decision to jump off buildings, sweetheart,” Bucky drawls out as he steps up to lean against Clint. Their shoulders pressed gently together as Bucky reaches up to touch the clovers with one finger before burying his hand back into his pocket.
“Don’t they stop being considered buildings when they lose all structural integrity?” Clint asks philosophically as he shoves his hand into the same pocket to wrap his fingers around Bucky’s icy cold ones. A shift of his weight is all it takes to get them both walking away from the others.
The park grows quiet quickly enough and Clint’s able to catch the rough chuckle Bucky lets out as they set out on a proper stroll. Fingers interlaced and shoulders brushing together the whole time. Clint doesn’t dare to call it luck of any kind that they’re not interrupted, but even a Barton can acknowledge good fortune when it chooses to visit him.