Work Text:
"Can I call you sweetums?" Clint asks as he adjusts his cufflinks. They're small and fiddly and shaped like hydrogen atoms. It's what he gets for borrowing from Bruce. He straightens out his tie and checks himself out in the mirror over the sink. Not bad, if he says so himself.
"If you even think it, I'll punch you in the face," Bucky says. He steps into the bathroom, fidgeting with his jacket. He's got gloves on to hide his shiny parts. After getting the mission specs, Natasha had taken him to the barber. His hair is slicked back, leaving the sharp lines of his cheekbones visible. He looks almost like the guy from the old photos Steve pretends he doesn't still have.
"Aw, but baby, don't you want to know how much I love you?" Clint bats his eyelashes and ducks when Bucky throws a half-hearted punch.
Clint doesn't get to go undercover as often as he used to. His face is too well known and he does better as the eyes in the sky. But the mission called for two men, and out of the Avengers he's still the one with the least merchandise. It's a little offensive, if he has to be honest, but he guesses it still comes in handy.
"I didn't expect you to be so comfortable in a suit," Bucky says, reaching down to adjust the boys. Clint snorts.
"I used to do a lot of undercover," he says. "And weddings. I'll have you know I've got a magical piece of paper that lets me officiate weddings. You'd be surprised what the minister hears."
"The Catholics are rolling in their graves," Bucky says with a frown. He knots his tie and slides one hand over his hair. It's gelled down tight, but there's a little ducktail in the back that Clint refuses to point out. It's adorable. Bucky reaches forward and adjusts Clint's collar, fingers quick and precise. "Why didn't they send someone else in with you? Isn't it going to be a little obvious that I don't know half the shit they're talking about?"
"Recognizable faces," Clint says. He shoves Bucky out of the bathroom and grabs his wallet and mini microphone. He clips it under the knot of his tie, adjusting until it sits hidden against his chest. "Welcome to team invisible. Buck up, James. You get to pretend to be my sugar daddy. I'm a bit old to be called a twink, but I do look damn good."
"I'm going to kill you before the night's over," Bucky says darkly. Clint grins and links their arms.
"I love it when you talk dirty, sweetums."
---
They're supposed to make nice with author Jack Brown. He's a tall, thin man with fidgety hands, hunched in on himself in the corner. Every time someone talks to him, his hands shake. The man's a wreck, but his latest book soared to the top of the charts in record time. So did the string of suicides of its readers.
Clint doesn't believe in coincidences, and neither does SHIELD.
Jack is recently divorced. His ex-husband took the house and the dog and half the money from the book sales. The longer Clint watches Jack, the longer he's convinced that the man couldn't have intentionally help kill a couple hundred people, but that's not his call to make.
Bucky keeps twitching next to him, shifting his weight. His shoes are new and he keeps bitching that they pinch. For a man brought up in a time when suits were all the rage, he's visibly uncomfortable in it.
"They weren't this tight back then," Bucky hisses when Clint mentions it. Clint leans back and takes a moment to admire the fit of Bucky's pants. He's got a feeling that Tony gave the tailor a few extra instructions. Not that he's complaining.
"Deal with it, man. We're up." Clint turns his microphone on under the guise of adjusting his tie. He loops his arm through Bucky's and tugs him towards the corner where Jack is having a small meltdown. Clint feels kind of bad for the guy. He clearly belongs in a cave somewhere with a computer, not in a massive publishing party.
"Hi," Jack says weakly when they come to a stop in front of him. He cradles his champagne flute to his chest like it's going to protect him.
"Hey," Clint says. He offers his hand and Jack hesitantly takes it. His palm is clammy against Clint's. "You doing okay over here?"
"I- Yes. Of course." Jack glances over Bucky's shoulder and then down at his glass. "I'm not much for parties."
"I can tell," Clint says gently. "I'm Frank Babcock and this is my fiance James Dunham. We're big fans of your book." He pecks Bucky on the cheek, mostly for the uncomfortable glower Bucky gives him, and smiles at Jack.. "Look, I don't want to sound forward, but you seem- Are you afraid of someone here?"
Bucky elbows him. He's going off script, but Jack looks like he's going to piss himself any second. Jack shakes his head too fast and too hard. Champagne slops over his hand and onto his slacks. Christ, but he's pathetic.
"You want to step outside for a moment?" Bucky asks. He takes Jack's glass and sets it on the bar beside him. When Jack startles, Bucky holds his hands up. "I'm a war veteran. I understand anxiety. The fresh air will help." Jack narrows his eyes. Clint blinks at the both of them. Now who's going off script?
"Maybe it will," Jack says.
That's when the bomb goes off.
Bucky grabs Jack and drags him off, ignoring Jack's shouting. Clint hops on one foot for a moment, unstrapping his gun, and runs off towards the explosion. The noise inside the hall is incredible, people screaming and walls crumbling. Clint pushes people towards the doors as he runs, giving shouted orders.
He makes the call for help and follows the shadow running away from the wreckage. Rookie mistake number one: being present when the mayhem happens. His suit makes it harder to run, his strides shorter, the weight unfamiliar, but the idiot Clint's chasing is slowing down. It's either a trap or a botched job. There's only one way to find out.
"Stop or I shoot," Clint yells. The figure keeps moving. Clint aims, pulls the trigger, and forces himself to run faster when the shadow falls.
"It wasn't supposed to be this way," the man on the ground says. He's clutching his bleeding thigh, rocking back and forth in a way that makes Clint feel nauseous. Under the poorly applied camouflage makeup- which makes no sense at all in a building setting- the face is familiar. Everett Brown. Jack's ex-husband.
"You didn't plan on blowing up the party?" Clint asks as he kneels beside him. He checks Everett's thigh- he didn't hit the femoral artery, that's always a bonus- and pulls his tie off. His suit is a goner. No surprise there.
"He was supposed to kill himself," Everett sobs. Clint sighs and uses his tie to lock Everett's hands behind his back. Not that it looks like Everett's going anywhere any time soon. He's too busy feeling bad for himself. "I wrote the instructions for him."
"Agent Barton checking in," Clint says into his mic. "I've got the bomber. Also, he seems to know how the book is connected to the suicides. Barnes has relocated Brown for safe keeping. Bringing up the bomber now."
"It was supposed to kill him," Everett wails as Clint drags him to his feet.
"Buddy, I don't care," Clint says. He pushes Everett towards the exit and ignores his sounds of pain. Job done. Maybe he can go back and get some of those tiny crab cakes from the kitchen. He deserves tiny crab cakes as payment for his suit.
---
"I can't thank you enough," Jack says. His hands are still shaking, but his eyes are clear. He's hanging onto Bucky's arm, unable to tell that it's not quite human or not really caring. When he realizes it, he takes a step away and shakes his head. "And here I am hanging all over your fiance'. I insist on taking you to dinner as payment for- for everything."
"That's not-" Bucky starts, flinching when Clint elbows him.
"We'd love to," Clint says. When he'd gone to the kitchen, the tiny crab cakes had been burned. His stomach grumbles underneath his bloody shirt. He wraps an arm around Bucky's shoulders and pulls him closer. Bucky's surprisingly warm against his side. "Maybe somewhere private, though. I'm not really fit for public right now."
"Of course," Jack says. He smiles- it's a little wobbly, but it's better than before.
Jack takes them to a small cafe and pays for the back room. Clint orders a quarter of his weight in sandwiches and little cakes. Bucky steals half his food instead of ordering his own, much to Jack's apparent pleasure.
"I remember when Everett and I were at that stage," Jack says as Clint raps Bucky's knuckles with his fork. He sounds wistful. Clint wonders if he knows his ex-husband tried to blow him up yet or not. "How long have you been together?"
"Three years," Bucky says on autopilot. They'd gone over their cover story so many times Clint could repeat it in his sleep. They don't really have to keep it up now that the job's over, but Clint's a little reluctant to let it drop. "We met at a work thing. Frank has a way of getting under your skin." Clint grins around a mouthful of chocolate silk pie and waggles his eyebrows. Bucky rolls his eyes, but he's definitely smiling under that super soldier glower.
"You look good together," Jack says. He twists his hands together, thumb skimming over his left ring finger. "Good luck with the wedding. I don't mean to be a downer. It's just- love isn't always everything."
"No worries," Clint says. He smacks a wet kiss against Bucky's cheek, laughing brightly when Bucky pinches him under the table. "We're a good team." Jack smiles and nods.
"I can see that," he says softly.
They talk about his book, about the publishers pulling it from shelves due to an investigation that Clint and Bucky already know everything about. Jack seems less anxious away from the crowd. He doesn't seem put out about the book being pulled. If Everett was involved in the writing of it, Clint can't blame him.
At the end of the meal, Clint's heavy with food and surprisingly good conversation. Every once in awhile Bucky knocks up against him, knees and shoulders pressing together. It's a good show for a con they don't have to run anymore. The more he thinks about it, about how hands on they are with each other, the more he realizes it isn't really an act. Well, huh.
Jack thanks them again and drives them back to their hotel. He wishes them good luck on their wedding. Clint feels a little bad about lying to the guy. He's got enough of that in his life already.
"You played the war veteran card," Clint says when they're back in their room, poking Bucky in the chest. Bucky shrugs and unknots his tie. It hangs loose around his neck, a little crumpled. The bare strip of throat at his collar looks oddly pale and vulnerable.
"I am a war veteran," Bucky says. He rolls up his sleeves, the metal of his arm still a shock, no matter how many times Clint's seen it. "A couple times over, now."
"Sympathy grabber," Clint accuses. He throws his ruined jacket on the floor by the bathroom door and strips out of his bloody shirt. They should probably bag everything and toss it out before housekeeping shows up in the morning, but Clint refuses to be bothered. It's on the floor, which means it's the hotel's problem now. Bucky snorts.
"Says the guy that used our upcoming nuptials to get free food." He adds his gloves to the growing pile on the floor and flexes his metal fingers. Clint stares at them and wonders, for a brief, confused moment, what Bucky feels when he touches things with them.
"You weren't complaining when you were eating my baklava," Clint says. He shucks his pants and grabs the sweats he'd left on his bed. They're half as old as he is, soft and worn and full of holes from wear. Once upon a time, there had been a logo on the side. Now it's just a darker patch of gray.
When he turns around, Bucky's down to his boxer briefs and undershirt. The strong line of his shoulder is broken by the join of his metal arm. Clint's seen him in less than this- perk of the job- but something about the tie wrapped around his hand, something about the way his hair is stuck up at the back of his head, gel long expired, feels different.
"You should do your hair like that more often," Clint blurts. He's standing between their beds, sweats still dangling from his hand, staring like an idiot. Bucky raises an eyebrow. Clint shows his teeth and bends over to put his stupid pants on. He's food drunk and about to crash from a sugar high. It explains the weirdness enough for him.
"You should wear a suit more often," Bucky says after a moment. He peels his undershirt off and chucks it at Clint's head. Clint picks it up off the floor and pulls it on over his head without thinking about it. The cotton is still warm from Bucky's body and smells a little like sweat, a little like copper and metal. "Or that. That's good, too."
"I make everything look good," Clint says. He can't quite make himself look at Bucky, which is weird. Bucky's his partner, his sniper buddy. His chest shouldn't feel tight thinking about Bucky stealing his food and taking comfort in his touch. "It's a gift."
Clint flops down onto his bed- soft, sweet mattress with cool sheets that don't smell like metal at all- and grunts when Bucky lays down across him. Bucky's still shirtless, his skin hot through Clint's clothes, and his metal arm is heavy where it rests against Clint's stomach.
"You talk a lot, you know that?" Bucky asks. Up so close, his eyes are remarkably blue. Clint can't breathe. He's not sure if it's because Bucky weighs a metric ton or because his chest is doing that weird crushing thing again.
"Part of my charm," Clint wheezes. The smell of Bucky's hair gel and cologne is strong under the smell of ash. It's familiar and good and kind of homey. The corner of Bucky's mouth lifts.
"Ever think about shutting up?" He asks. Clint shakes his head, nose knocking against Bucky's jaw. The scrape of stubble kind of hurts, but Clint also kind of wants to do it again. "Good."
Then Bucky's leaning down, mouth brushing soft and sweet over Clint's. For a second, Clint wonders if this is how Bucky used to kiss the girls back in the day, wooing them with nothing more than his mouth. And then he remembers that Bucky's kissing him and reaches up to pull him closer.
"We do make a good team," Bucky says when he pulls away, his mouth skimming over Clint's jaw to the soft place behind his ear.
"Yeah," Clint agrees breathlessly. He runs his fingers through Bucky's hair, gel crushing against his fingertips, and guides him back into another kiss. Bucky's not quite laying on top of him anymore, but Clint's chest is still tight around his lungs.
"What d'you say, Frank? Want to make it a thing?" Bucky asks. His metal hand has somehow found its way to Clint's cheek, one finger tracing the arch. Clint presses into it like an overeager cat.
"You bet, sweetums." Clint snorts when Bucky digs his knuckles into his side.