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Bucky jolted awake, on high alert. The transition from deep sleep to hypervigilance was jarring. It hadn’t been a nightmare that had thrown him out of sleep — a shot of adrenaline had his heart rate elevated, but there was no feeling of terror or tears on his face.
Only a few heartbeats passed before he realized there were noises coming from beyond his bedroom door. They weren’t the stealthy sounds of someone trying to be quiet — which he had trained Steve out of back when they shared quarters but by way of a knife to his throat, on multiple occasions — but someone was clearly going through his kitchen cabinets.
Perplexed, he took a moment to decide what kind of arsenal he wanted to take with him — what kind of idiot would have decided raiding the Winter Soldier’s kitchen was a good idea, let alone at two in the morning? Probably it was somebody who lived in the tower, so he probably didn’t need to bring out the big guns.
Bucky glided silently across the room on bare feet, one throwing knife in hand and a larger blade tucked in the waistband he had just cinched tighter — he didn’t need the weight pulling his pants to the floor. Though the shock of that would probably figuratively disarm whoever was in the kitchen.
It wasn’t the most secure position, but he was unwilling to go without a second blade and he’d either use it within the next minute or feel comfortable putting it away, but he only had the one hand to work with. He opened the door with the barest of snicks and let it hang open while he proceeded forward to investigate the ongoing noise.
“Barton?” he asked, incredulous, when he saw the man framed by the fridge light. Barton didn’t react — and yeah, that tracked. The only idiot who would come steal from him in the middle of the night would do it with his ears out.
Bucky briefly considered throwing the knife to get Barton’s attention, but decided he didn’t want the damage to his cabinetry. Instead, he reached out and flicked the light on and then immediately back off. He didn’t have any desire to deal with the overbearing LED lights and clearly Barton was doing fine with just the range hood light on — he had assembled several items on the breakfast bar.
“Oh, hey, Bucky,” Barton said dully after he closed the fridge and turned to face him. Bucky had heard him without his aids in before and was used to the flat intonation that happened, but this felt like something else — hollow.
Bucky moved closer so he could sit the knife he was holding on the bar, but let the bench stay between them, then he pulled the other knife out to set it beside the first.
“All that for me?” Barton asked, and clearly made an attempt to laugh but the tiny quirk of his lips looked pained more than anything.
“Are you okay?” Bucky asked, pointing at Barton and fingerspelling the two letters. He had learned some of the basics but he wasn’t proficient by any means, but he was confident he’d gotten the question across.
“Didn’t know the arm came off,” Barton said instead of answering, and Bucky was filled with discomfort. He hadn’t been thinking about it when he’d come to defend his space, but he’d never let anyone on the team — except Steve, that punk didn’t count — see him without the prosthesis. He started to bring his other hand up to hide the stump, but forced himself to halt the motion. He wouldn't be ashamed of his body.
“This one,” he said and gestured at the empty space. Then added, with accompanying signs, “not sleep.”
“Cool. Cool, cool, cool. Uh. Sorry I woke you?”
“What are you doing, Barton?” Barton frowned and gestured at the counter, as if that explained anything, and seemed to be looking for words, but nothing came from his lips even as they opened and closed several times with false starts.
Bucky watched him, cataloging the dirty and torn uniform, the soot on his cheeks and twig in his hair, the exhausted slump of his shoulders as if standing upright was too heavy of a burden. He noted the bandages visible through the rips on his thigh and side; realized that the clothes weren’t settled correctly on his body — it was as if he’d thrown them back on after his trip to medical — one sleeve hung down over half of his hand while the other was rucked up several inches, exposing his wrist; a button had been left undone.
But it was the look in his eyes — haunted and shadowed — that showed more than anything that this was not just post-battle fatigue with a side of adrenaline preventing sleep.
He signed, you OK, again and watched Barton’s face struggle to remain neutral.
“Ran out of some ingredients before I left, and was gone so long my milk spoiled,” he said after a stretched out moment.
“Okay. What are you making me?” Bucky didn’t know enough to try signing along with that, but Barton must have been able to read enough on his lips to parse it out. He looked surprised, probably had assumed he was about to be evicted out of the apartment, but Bucky didn’t want him to be alone with whatever was going on through his head.
“What do you want?”
“Cheesecake.” Barton squinted at him, then mouthed the start of the word before echoing it back, then burst into a laugh. It was small, but it was real, and made the worry in Bucky’s chest lighten, a warm sensation filling in the gap.
“You’ve got a lot of confidence in my abilities considering most people think I’m a disaster in the kitchen.”
“You’re only a disaster when you don’t make an effort.” Barton either didn’t understand the words or didn’t want to acknowledge them.
“Also, you don’t have any cream cheese.”
“Next time.”
“Cookies or cake?”
“Cookies.” He knew the sign for cookie, but it needed a second hand. He briefly considered retreating to his room to get his prosthesis, but decided against it. He didn’t think Barton wanted conversation and he didn’t really know enough sign to provide it; he just needed company.
He settled himself on a stool and watched as Barton competently maneuvered around his kitchen, pulling out a bowl and utensils without any hesitation. How long had he been searching through his kitchen, that he knew where everything was? Was this not the first time Barton had helped himself to the space? He didn’t ask and they stayed in companionable silence while Barton added and mixed ingredients, not once referencing a recipe.
He was folding in chopped walnuts and chocolate chips when Bucky noticed a stray tear creeping down his cheek. Bucky started to get off of his stool, move around to offer comfort, but as soon as Clint noted the movement his entire body stiffened, so he sat back down. If Clint didn’t want to acknowledge it, he could play along. He couldn’t stop himself from imagining what might have happened on the mission.
Clint was balling the dough onto a cookie sheet lined with parchment paper when Bucky got off of his stool; he gave Clint a wide, obvious, berth as he moved into the kitchen to the coffee pot. He dumped the old grounds out and scooped in new ones, filled the carafe at the sink before pouring the water into the machine and turning it on. Clint’s eyes were watching him when he returned to his stool while the machine worked its magic, and he didn’t know how to read the expression in them.
Once Clint had slid the tray into the preheated oven Bucky got back up and gently nudged Clint into his living room, and then onto the couch. He retreated to the kitchen to fix a mug of coffee; he knew Clint usually took it black for his first mug or two, but once he was more awake would add creamer. He didn’t have any of that, but he added enough milk to achieve a light brown — much milkier than his own preference — and carried it into Clint.
Clint was clearly exhausted; Bucky knew he normally greeted a cup of coffee with grabby hands, over the top enthusiasm played up for laughs. This time he limply stretched out a single hand, and Bucky wanted to wrap his hand around Clint’s, support the weight of the mug until he had a better grip, offer something. Solidarity, comfort? But with the single hand it was too difficult to pull off the move while transferring the mug and Clint pulled away too quickly to try and execute any kind of maneuver. Clint managed to take the mug without even letting their fingers brush.
Clint signed a slow “thank you,” fingertips pressed to his lips before his hand dropped heavily to his lap. Bucky returned to the kitchen to get himself a coffee, and upon settling on the far side of the couch saw Clint’s eyes were half-lidded. It wasn’t long before they had slipped shut; Bucky put his own drink on the coffee table so he could liberate Clint’s half-empty mug from Clint’s lax fingers.
He pulled an afghan from his linen closet and draped it over Clint’s body; and didn’t bother to wake him when the cookies were done. It was easy enough for him to pull the tray from the oven and move them to a cooling rack.
He didn’t think Clint would thank him for watching him sleep, so once the oven was off and the kitchen tidied he forced himself to crawl back in his bed, where he lay awake, wondering what he was supposed to do with the desire to wrap Clint in his arms and not let go.
When he got up the next morning Clint and half of the cookies were gone. There was a note next to the remaining cookies that just read: “buy creamcheese. -C”