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Bucky is done. He’s so fucking done, it’s not even funny anymore.
He used to think looking after Steve was the job that would give him grey hairs, given how many years of his life he’d spent dragging the tiny blond out of trouble. Being the best friend of Steve Rogers during the 1930s and 40s was a commitment that included more fistfights than one would reasonably expect.
He still worries about Steve, always will if he’s honest. But he figured with the man’s super soldier serum and years of experience fighting supervillains, Bucky would finally get a break. Fuck knows he has enough on his hands with working through 70-odd years of brainwashing and torture.
That was until the very first time he ventured into the communal floor of the Avenger’s tower - on Steve’s orders - and ran straight into the very walking disaster he only knew by reputation until then.
Clint Barton, Hawkeye , looked nothing like the skilled assassin whose file he’d read months prior. In fact, the man appeared so ordinary at first glance that Bucky wasn’t convinced he belonged there in the first place. He might as well have been a civilian that had somehow wandered through Stark’s impressive security.
It took Bucky a whole seven seconds to recognise the swollen and bruised face as belonging to the resident archer. He did a double-take, gaze flickering from the purple hearing aids to the garish pink crop-top that only accentuated the bandages wrapped around his ribs. He had one arm in a sling, the other hand holding a paper coffee cup and didn’t even spare Bucky a glance. Instead, Barton only ambled past him and flopped onto one of the couches with a pained groan.
“If you’re just gonna stand there, throw on the coffee machine, will you? Just gotta press the glowing button, it does the rest on its own. Even Steve’s figured that one out.”
And that was it. No questions, no threats. Not even a hint of suspicion. It made zero sense given what Bucky had read about the man. Someone with Barton’s background shouldn’t have just turned his back on the Winter Soldier just like that, no matter what Steve had told him.
He was an Avenger for fuck’s sake, surely they wouldn’t have let him join the team if he didn’t have some way to keep up with this superpowered colleagues. No way, he was stupid enough to feel comfortable around the brainwashed monster Hydra sent to kill his friends.
Meanwhile Clint just waved his uninjured hand over the side of the couch in the vague direction of the coffee maker, eyes seemingly glued to the TV screen.
Bucky didn’t know how to deal with the situation and that was dangerous.
Before he realised it, he’d already pressed the button on the overly complicated looking coffee machine that beeped cheerfully in return. He frowned, then turned on his heel and fled the communal floor.
Four months later, Bucky watched Clint dodge three lasers, an assault rifle, and what looked like a fucking railgun with millimetre precision, all while balancing on a tightrope between two fifteen-story buildings. The archer then proceeded to nail his shot without even turning his head, only to stumble over his own feet and smash head-first into the side of a fire escape, earning himself a concussion…
It didn’t take much more than that for Bucky to realise that the man is worse than neighbourhood punk, scrawny Steve Rogers.
Clint Barton is a mess. A stupid, reckless, unpredictable kind of mess that somehow manages to switch between ‘highly skilled assassin with a near uncontested kill record’ and ‘getting tripped by his untied shoelaces’ in less than a heartbeat.
It’s infuriating, frustrating, and irritating and all the words one might use to describe the walking disaster that is their resident archer. And the worst part of them all, is that despite it all - or maybe fucking because of it - he’s hot.
Bucky doesn’t even know why he’s attracted to the man. Maybe it’s the lopsided grin he shows everyone that morphs into a genuine smile when he’s actually relaxing. Maybe it’s he way he seems perfectly at ease around Bucky, never failing to come up with some mindless comedy or chick flick to watch as though he can tell that the ex-Hydra agent can’t deal with the gunfire and harsh noises of action movies. The way he trusts Bucky enough to take out his hearing aids: “You know sign language, just let me know if anyone wants something.”
Or how goofy he looks when he’s playing with that one-eyed mutt of his, trying to bait the lazy dog into performing tricks with scraps of food. How the muscles of his arms flex when he draws his bow, scarred back perfectly defined like he’s a statue escaped from one of the museums Steve keeps dragging Bucky to…
It’s horrible. Clint is horrible.
And Bucky really, really wants to kiss that stupid smirk off his face.
Needless to say, his mood has been in the gutter lately. Between his frustration, the endless pining and a series of long, drawn out missions barely interesting enough to stimulate any of them, Bucky has been in one hell of a slump.
It’s gotten bad enough that even Steve has noticed - well, maybe the little punk is more perceptive than Bucky gave him credit for - and has been pestering him about the reasons. Which he’s not about to give into. It’s bad enough that Romanoff keeps giving him that judgmental look every time they’re alone like she knows exactly what’s going on in his head. She probably does, all things considered.
“Come on, man. Any more scowling and your face is gonna get stuck like that.” Clint is sprawled across the pilot’s seat of the Quinjet, one hand leisurely resting on the control yoke. He looks the picture of relaxation but Bucky can see the underlying tension in the line of his shoulders, the muscles of his jaw.
It’s their third relocation in two weeks of surveilling potential Hydra associates and if there’s one thing worse than being cooped up in safehouses, staring out of narrow windows at people going about their daily business, it’s being cooped up with Clint of all people. The archer’s off-duty clothes seem to be getting both tighter and more scarce the longer their mission takes like the man is somehow allergic to being covered up. Watching the object of his desperate pining walk around the Avengers tower in nothing but excessively tiny booty shorts is one thing, being stuck in a small room with it, is another one entirely.
Then there’s the matter of Clint’s tactile nature. It almost feels like the man has no boundaries at all and Bucky knows it doesn’t mean anything because he’s seen the way the archer acts around the others. Hell, he’s seen Clint sitting on Natasha’s lap on more than one occasion, throwing his arm around Steve’s shoulders, throwing his legs over Tony’s thighs… That doesn’t make all the casual touches any easier for the former Hydra agent to deal with.
Bucky is pretty sure, he’s ground down his molars by several hair widths with how tightly he’s been clenching his teeth on a regular basis.
He huffs out a breath, kicking the side of Clint’s foot. “Focus on flying this bird.”
“Eh,” the archer waves one hand, patting Bucky’s knee in what is surely meant to be a reassuring way. It makes Bucky’s fingers itch with the urge to grab it. Really, when did he get this desperate just to hold hands with a fella? It’s pathetic.
With a grunt, he shoves Clint’s hand off and from the corner of his eye, Bucky thinks he can see the other’s grin drop for a moment. He may have imagined it since the archer carries on like nothing happened: “We got this brilliant invention called an ‘autopilot’. ‘S long as you keep an eye on things, this baby will fly all on her own. Plus, Tony’s done some tweaking. We’ve got sick evasive manoeuvres and all that. Safer than a baby’s cradle, y’know.”
Bucky responds only with a snort, rolling his eyes and leaning back in the comfortable co-pilot seat. He crosses his arms in front of his chest, figuring he might as well try and catch up on some of the sleep he hasn’t been able to catch recently - for reasons not entirely unrelated to the walking disaster that is Clint.
“Just-”
He doesn’t get the chance to finish his sentence when a shrill alarm suddenly sounds out from the console and next to him Clint scrambles into action. “Aw, missiles, no.” Bucky hears him mutter, followed by a string of curses and a “might wanna hold onto something, Buckaroo”.
A second later, the Quinjet lurches to the side in a stomach churning manoeuvre that has Bucky gritting his teeth. Ever since he started regaining some of his pre-Hydra memories, the feeling of falling has been making his insides twist uncomfortably.
“Didn't you say something about sick evasive manoeuvres ?” He growls at the archer, who offers him a one-sided shrug. The previous grin has disappeared entirely, replaced by an expression of concentration and Bucky realises a second later that he's staring. “I trust your flying more than Stark’s tech anyway,” he grumbles.
“Aww, Bucky, you trust me! I'm so honoured.” Clint coos, his eyes still fixed on the dashboard, clearly tracking the red dots on the radar that are getting concerningly close. “If I wasn't busy trying not to let us get killed, I would totally put that on my dating profile: The Winter Soldier said I'm an awesome pilot.”
The former Hydra assassin's eyes narrow. Yes, he knows what a dating profile is and yes, he feels a stab of irrational jealousy thinking about Clint going out on dates with random people… He forces the thought to the back of his mind because now is certainly not the time.
In fact, now seems to be a very, very bad time because the alarms are going absolutely haywire and Clint is cursing up a storm. “Bucky, Buck, buddy, you might really wanna hold on because-”
The archer doesn’t get to finish his sentence before the Quinjet is suddenly rocked violently.
“Clint?!”
Clint grimaces, his knuckles white where he’s gripping the yoke, clearly trying to stabilise the aircraft.
“Clint, did we just get hit by a missile?”
Another crash and out of the window, Bucky can see the distinct flickering of flames.
“Clint? Are we crashing?”
The archer produces an unintelligible noise, not taking his eyes off the controls. “Yes, yes and yes! Might wanna grab a parachute, baby-”
Bucky’s brain blanks out for a second after being called baby . The next thing he knows is Clint grabbing his arm, pulling him towards the back of the Quinjet - or what remains of it - thrusting a parachute bag into his arms and giving him that goddamn lopsided grin that makes his insides squirm funny.
Then, Clint flings himself out of the burning aircraft, pulling Bucky with him.
It’s touch and go from there: Watching the Quinjet crash into the side of a mountain only to wind up in a firefight with the goons of the day. Bucky wants to think at least it’s a nice change of pace from the torturous days of stakeout duty but then Clint does that stupid thing again where he takes unnecessary risks.
Bucky watches him dive out of cover, right in front of the dude with the AK and, yes, he does manage to pick up the knife Bucky threw minutes ago and nail the guy right between the eyes but it doesn’t change the fact that he nearly got himself turned into swiss cheese. And Bucky can feel his heart hammer against his chest, fingers cramping as he shoves the next mag into his rifle with far more force than necessary.
They make it out. Bucky takes a round through the forearm. It’s a through-and-through and it’ll take at most a couple days to heal thanks to his knock-off super soldier serum but fuck if it doesn’t sting like a bitch.
In the hassle of Steve dragging him to see Banner and get him stitched up, their usual back and forth of ‘you need to be careful, Buck’ and ‘you’ve never been careful a day in your life, Steve’, Bucky loses sight of Clint. He’s probably with Natalia and somehow that makes the coil in his chest tighten even further.
Bucky is angry. It’s not all he is, but the anger is what he can focus on. It’s months of frustration and pining and watching the human disaster that is Clint throwing himself off rooftops and into gunfire.
He’s done. He’s so fucking done, it’s not even funny anymore.
“I gotta go.” Bucky pushes himself out of the chair.
He ignores the pointed look Steve gives him and his: “You should get some rest, Buck.”
Instead, he just waves a hand and makes for the elevator. It’s irrational, of course, he knows it is but with every step he gets more agitated. By the time he reaches the communal floor, his face is knitted into a scowl, lips pressed tightly together and his fists are clenched at his sides.
Natalia is sitting on the couch alone, a book propped up on her long legs that are folded beneath her in a way that can only be comfortable for someone as flexible as her… or Clint with his stupid carnie athletics. Bucky would be lying if he said he hadn’t fantasized about that flexibility before, how easy it would be to fold the other man in half, test, just how nicely he can bend his legs back, how they would feel wrapped around his neck…
“Where’s Clint?” He growls, forcefully pushing the inappropriate thoughts aside as they only fuel his irritation further. If he doesn’t do something now, he’s going to lose it.
Natalia isn’t at all phased by his tone or demeanor. She gently rests her finger on the page, as though to mark the passage she was just reading, though they both know she doesn’t need a reminder like that with her photographic memory. The redhead shrugs one shoulder. “I haven’t seen him.”
Bucky returns her deadpan stare and the corner of her mouth twitches with amusement. “But if you’re finally going to do something about that stupid puppy crush, he’s probably hiding on the roof to avoid getting lectured by Stark or Rogers.”
“Hm.”
He turns to leave, stalking right back towards the elevator when he hears Natalia add: “If you two don’t sort this out, I’m going to stop sabotaging his Grindr dates. If you even know what that is.”
Bucky huffs out a breath. “I do know-” he’s half turned when he sees the slight shake of her shoulders, realising that he fell for her attempt to get a rise out of him. “Fuck you.”
She waves a hand over her shoulder, motioning for him to go on in the unspoken ‘you owe me one’ way.
“I am afraid this will not increase the elevator speed,” Jarvis chirps up from the speaker, just above where he’s tapping the fingers of his metal arm against the elevator wall. “Mr. Stark was very clear in his instruction not to exceed safe speeds outside of emergency. The system does not indicate an ongoing emergency situation, do you wish for me to contact Mr. Stark on your behalf?”
Bucky rolls his eyes, gritting his teeth as he looks up at the slow moving number of floors. Why does this tower have to be so fucking tall? “No. There’s no emergency,” he replies through gritted teeth.
It feels like an eternity until the soft ding finally announces that he’s arrived at the roof and by this point Bucky can feel the anger tingling under the skin of his palm.
He didn’t expect to spot Clint right away. They’ve been up here together before, during those times when everything was getting too much for Bucky and he couldn’t stand Steve’s incessant mother-henning anymore. Clint promised to show him a place where no one would bother to look for him, where no one could eye him with distrust or like they knew he was just a minute away from snapping back into his Hydra conditioning.
They always sat on a ledge in the shadow where the big ‘A’ joins the lights of the skyline, their legs dangling over the abyss.
“Sup?”
Now, Clint is just standing at the edge of the landing pad, leaning against the railing, seemingly lost in thought. His right wrist is bandaged, likely sprained from his earlier stunt and it instantly brings back images of him bruised and bloodied. Of all the times Bucky saw him wearing splints and casts, all the times he nearly offed himself doing something a super soldier would be fine doing but not a regular human. As skilled and trained as he is, Clint doesn’t have the same durability as the rest of them, nor does he have a metal suit to protect him.
Clint is just a man. A stupid, reckless and utterly charming man with freckles that Bucky wants to kiss one by one…
“Bucky?”
Bucky is stalking towards him before he knows what he’s doing, not stopping as he invades Clint’s personal space. The railing crunches where he’s gripping it with his prosthetic hand, his fingers indenting the sturdy material. “I’m so fucking tired of your bullshit, Barton.”
They’re chest to chest, he’s caging Clint against the railing, pushing their chests together until he has to tilt his head to look him in the eyes. Wide eyes that are staring back at him, pupils dilated in surprise. “Bucky, what is this about?”
His voice is rough even to his own ears, emotion bleeding through the words. “Your stupid stunt earlier. Your… all of it. You act like you’re one of them! Like you’re gonna heal the same way Steve and I do, like you’re not…” Fragile. He chokes on the word because it feels wrong because Clint isn’t weak, he’s capable and competent and as deadly as all of them are but he doesn’t have another way to put it.
“Like I’m not what, Bucky?” There’s anger in Clint’s eyes now, his expression darkening. “I know I’m not like you, I know I’m no fucking super soldier. I’m just a guy with a bow and arrow trying to keep up with a bunch of mutants and gods and genetically engineered killing machines.”
Bucky flinches and a flash of regret crosses Clint’s face. “You know that’s not what I mean, I-”
“Important,” Bucky cuts him off before the archer can continue his rambling.
Clint blinks. Clearly stunned, then his features morph into a look of confusion. “What?”
“You act like you’re not more than just your skills. Like your usefulness in the field defines you. Like all you are is just how well you keep up with the other Avengers and there’s not people who want you for just you .” His anger and frustration are finally boiling over. “You think you’re so fucking smart for pushing people away with your dumbass act because you’re scared of making any real connections, even the rest of your team. But there’s people who care, who are gonna hurt when you get hurt, who are gonna be messed up when one day one of your stupid stunts doesn’t work out!”
Clint looks at him like a deer in the headlights, brows furrowed like he’s not certain if he should be angry at having all of this thrown at him out of nowhere. “Bucky, what, what is this about?”
It’s too much. James Buchanan Barnes may have been a smooth talker, someone who could charm the pants off of damn near anyone he wanted back in the forties but Bucky isn’t that man anymore. He’s been broken and put together wrong like some fucked up puzzle, has been trying to figure out what the fuck is even left of him and he struggles to figure out how to say what’s on his mind.
So instead, he kisses Clint.
It isn’t tender, all tongue and teeth and built-up desperation. It only takes a few seconds before Clint is kissing him back just as eagerly, enough so that it almost makes him falter. But Bucky has been thinking about this for too long to back out now. Even if he gets pushed away in a minute or two, he’s gonna take what he gets and deal with the consequences afterwards.
Instead, Clint’s arms end up around his neck, fingers shoved into his hair, tugging at his semi-loose bun. He kisses like a starving man, like he too has been pining for this as long as Bucky has, which can’t be but-
Clint brushes against the bandages on his flesh arm and he flinches instinctively, sucking in a harsh breath.
“Sorry, fuck, are you okay Buck?” The archer looks panicked. “Is it bad, I-”
Bucky doesn’t let him finish his sentence. He grabs Clint’s face in his hands and pulls him into another kiss.
The archer melts into it, though he’s clearly trying to avoid Bucky’s entire left side, which is fair but also makes him desperate to feel more of Clint. More of his hands, of his touch and skin and whatever he can get away with.
“Hey there, for someone who talks big about being careful, you’re being a little reckless yourself, dont’ya think?” There it is, that lopsided grin that Bucky loves so fucking much it drives him crazy.
He huffs, leaning back a little but not backing out of Clint’s space. “Yeah, well, it’s your fucking fault.”
Clint cocks his head, looking for all the world like that stupid mutt of his. “Why’s that?”
Bucky throws up his left hand and instantly regrets it when it makes his bullet wound scream at him in protest. “Are you allergic to wearing proper clothes or something? I had to watch you walk around in nothing but those short… shorts for weeks ! And then you go around touching and spreading your legs like you’re tryin’ to drive a fella mad and the fucking touching-”
The archer snorts. “Bro I thought I really thought I was barking up the wrong tree. Like, I don’t know how much more obvious I could get but you weren’t picking up any of the hints I was dropping, so…”
Bucky stares at him. “You. No.”
“Yes! Bucky, you know what the first thing is that I said to Nat when Steve brought you in?” Clint smirks. “ He is totally my type. ”
“Seriously?”
Clint shrugs with one shoulder, a gesture awfully reminiscent of Natalia, though a little less graceful. “Give or take a couple weeks.”
Weeks. That means Clint has been interested in him for even longer than he has… “I can’t believe you.”
“Well, it’s not like I can just go up to Captain America’s long lost brother in arms who has been recovering from eighty years of Hydra brainwashing and go ‘hey, you’re hot, wanna fuck’.”
Bucky shakes his head, unable to stop the smile that tugs at his own lips. “You could’ve asked me out for coffee.”
“And that would’ve worked?” Clint gives him an incredulous look.
Considering that during those months Bucky only ever left his floor on the tower when Steve dragged him out or to watch movies with Clint in companionable silence. And then later for his first Avengers missions. “Yeah, maybe not.”
The archer huffs out a laugh. “See. But y’know there’s this neat little coffee shop down the street if you wanna catch up on that. Or-”
He pauses and Bucky arches an eyebrow. “Or?”
Clint’s grin widens, his gaze flickering down to where their chests are still pressed together. “Or we could keep making out until Steve is ready for another torturous debriefing.”
Bucky hums. His thumb brushes over a fading bruise on the other’s cheek. “Yeah, I think coffee can wait.”