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Bucky stood at Steve’s left flank, offering silent support as Steve and Tony argued jurisdiction with several suits from some alphabet company. He didn’t know or care which one, he was tired and ready to go. If they wanted to claim control of the whole debacle that was fine with him. But Tony wanted first dibs on the technology and data, and these days more often than not, what Tony wanted Steve wanted.
So Bucky lent his menacing aura and reputation to the argument; he could see the uncomfortable glances at his left arm the agents kept forgetting to conceal so he knew his presence was valuable. But really, all he wanted was to drag his boyfriend to medical for the checkup Clint always tried to skip, and then go to bed.
Speaking of his boyfriend, Bucky realized he hadn’t heard any snark out of Clint’s mouth for several minutes; usually it was impossible to shut him up. He flicked a glance over to make sure the dumbass hadn’t snuck out of the room; then his eyes snapped back over as his brain caught with what he had seen and locked on Clint’s form. He didn’t look right – his posture was off, his face stark white and beaded with sweat, eyes unfocused and cast down as if it were too much effort to keep them up. Something was wrong.
“Barton, you good?” he called out, cutting across the argument dominating the room. Clint’s chin jerked up at his name and he latched his eyes onto Bucky’s.
“I don’t,” he huffed out ahead of a thick pause where he visibly swayed on his feet. “I don’feel so good.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth Clint collapsed where he stood like a string had been cut, crumpled on the floor faster than anyone could react.