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Hawkeye takes a seat in the mess hall with his tray in front of him. Staring blankly at the unfamiliar selection of Wakandan food, he keeps up the facade, preventing his emotions from leaking onto his expression.
The mild distraction pounding in his chest also made his eyes blurry as he observed. Unsure of what he had picked out of the cafeteria while shuffling down the queue made him lose his appetite. Whatever was on his tray was not the main point of focus as of now. There were bigger, pressing matters to worry about.
Ever since The Archer put words to the strange phenomenon happening to his body, he has not been the same. Increased pulse, sweaty palms, wandering eyes, even his aim faltering whilst taking certain sight lines in combat! He could only rule out so many coincidences before excusing all his problems on the weather. Only to realise it was not in fact the weather, but a person. And not just any person, his teammate of all people.
The worst symptom of his problems was… Hawkeye’s thoughts had been wandering. A house of Zen, a quiet mind, clouded by shorter and shorter periods of patience. During particularly long missions, protecting the flank routes and covering the rear, Hawkeye would accidentally let his mind roam through thoughts unrelated to the mission. A shocking revelation, he knows. Being bored on missions, which could take days, maybe weeks– who could have thought?
It was only natural for someone who did not like being in his own head to start making up conversations and scenarios in his free time. And a lot of free time he did have.
Occasionally losing focus did not sound outrageously serious on paper. However, if you consider the fact that he is the sole protector of the team’s strategists when they are being dived during combat, being distracted can mean a death sentence. Hawkeye was not fronliner, nor a proper flanker, and preferred to keep his coworkers close in case he needed assistance.
Those which were less mobile, at least, who mutually preferred to keep to the back. The strategists kept his ass safe, it was only natural for him to return the favour.
Hawkeye knows this, and yet… wandering thoughts lead to wandering eyes aimed true to his frontline. The source of all his bodily phenomenon, The salvation to his boredom and the clouds painting his perception. Being bored more than being in the action leads to one finding entertainment in his observations.
The Archer cannot help but admire his teammates work– more specifically how fucking nice Bucky looks chasing down the enemies from a distance.
Sure, hitting sweet headshots and sending the opposition back to their spawn point is satisfying and all. However, how cool can one be whilst hitting the perfect midair pose-- only to be tailing after enemies again, and again… and again… There was a powerful aura which came with soaring so high up in the air, it blocked out the sun rays cast over the battlefield.
Bucky might not have wanted it, but he performed like he belonged in the spotlight. Like he belonged, touched by light and attention. He is the perfect peeler, the perfect pocket, and just the perfect soldier.
Being in the middle of the action was not Hawkeye’s favoured position, alas, Bucky makes the front line look so beautiful with powerful plays and coordination. It almost makes The Archer jealous. Of Bucky? Or of the frontline? Which one did he truly want to bask in?
It's been hot in the Intergalactic Empire of Wakanda recently, and operations in its realm had not been easy on the skin due to the temperatures. Bucky arrived during mission briefings in a not-so-winter-soldier-adjacent outfit. Borrowing the arsenal of Shuri, Princess of Wakanda, herself just to keep the high heats of the sun and combat separate.
To an untrained eye, it was just another skin tight superhero suit which conveniently kept the sun out. But to Hawkeye, it was a skin tight superhero suit which left nothing to the imagination. At least with baggy, military issued pants, knee pads and a puffy vest, he could pretend it was simply the form he was eyeing. And nothing else.
The Archer made attempts not to stare– too much, that is. Attempts to interact with The Soldier as little as possible to keep his mind at bay. To keep the image he had of his teammate as pristine as it deserved to be, lest he defiled it with vision more than he had done. Knowing where his mind usually went in private, bored-out-of-is-mind moments, he did not want to consider where else it would go, if allowed too much detail.
Because… Hawkeye has been thinking… thinking a lot. Thinking so much, it kind of– sort of– hurt his brain a little.
About how much he liked Bucky’s hair and had not realised it was getting long enough to be tied up. Having his, definitely not man-crush, in a matching hairstyle to himself did not do healthy things to him.
About How much Bucky’s muscles were toned, hidden away underneath the coverings of his usual uniform, and how much he liked the sound of Mr. Barnes’ chuckles. The Soldier did not speak much over their communications device, and never seemed to stop Hawkeye from speaking at all. But like throwing a bunch of sliced cheese at the wall, something had to stick one day.
Whilst quipping one of his usually goofy comments, after a victorious mission, Bucky seemed to finally find one of them funny enough to laugh at. A choir to his ears, a skip in his heart, and fuel to the unholy fire in his core.
Denying it any longer did not help Hawkeye in the slightest. He needed to admit it to himself straight up. Hearing Bucky’s soft laughter made him feel things. Strange to say the least… Okay, the man made The Archer horny.
Thinking about Bucky tearing people to shreds, one by one, made him horny. Witnessing Bucky peel that skin tight, superhero suit off himself in the locker room, sweat drenched strands of hair sticking to his skin like chiselled marble, made Hawkeye horny.
Ever since his mission in Antarctica, the mission where he saved Bucky, the two of them had always been close. Close in proximity and close in conversation. Hawkeye had grown fond of The Soldier, as more than just a coworker. He did not want to ruin the quality of their relationship due to his inability to keep heat out of his pants. It was probably due to the weather anyway, yeah, must be.
After taking one look at his teammate naked back with this realization, Hawkeye rushed himself out of the locker room. Nearly bolting to the cafeteria past all the scientists, the guards, and civilians. The Blond needed something else to think about. Anything else besides James Buchanan, Fucking, Barnes wriggling himself into every inch of Hawkeye’s mind.
Like a parasite infesting every aspect of his thoughts. “What would Bucky think about this?”. More along the lines of “I should show this to Bucky.” or anything between the path of “I can’t wait to see what Bucky will do about this” and “I hope I get teamed up with Bucky again.”
All great thoughts, all PG for the audience at home. And yet, the not so PG slivers of sick would always penetrate Hawkeye’s intrusive thoughts when he became a little too comfortable.
They made him think about how nice Bucky’s voice really is, and how pretty he looks when he talks, and how he calls for Hawkeye’s name. How beautiful his naked back was in the fluorescent light, glistening off battlefield muck, and how his battle hardened muscles ached to be mended.
“My back hurts.” Bucky had softly commented while undressing his suit.
Flashed images of himself, relieving The Soldier’s spine of his stress, blinded Hawkeye. How he could easily pick the other up from behind in a professional, back cracking manner. A firm hug from behind, to stretch and pop the spine out.
Bucky stretching his neck from side to side called for Hawkeye to slide his fingers over the muscle fibres, and nestle at the junction of aching shoulders. He could help and be of use. He could feel Bucky’s skin flushed against his own.
Although, before The Archer had developed his thoughts further, the same nasty territory he usually enters during mission downtime, he had already escaped the scene.
In hopes of blending himself into the crowd in the facility, to organise his brain rot, The Blond lost track of how long he had been sitting in the mess hall.
A man places his tray across from Hawkeye, waiting for him to slowly tilt his eyes up to meet, before speaking. Bucky hovers over his seat, unamused and freshly washed. His face is on full display, free from his mouth guard, as he nods to greet.
“Do you want to talk about that?” The Soldier asks and takes the seat on the opposite side of the table.
“No.” Hawkeye simply states.
Unsure if The Soldier was referring to why he had bolted out of the changing rooms, or something else.
Bucky continues. “Okay, buddy. Do you want to talk about why you’ve been avoiding me lately?”
Obvious to everyone but Hawkeye, the two of them had been inseparable on and off missions. Like shadows of each other's moves, to the point where their sudden separation was odd to even the members of their strike team. Although, in Hawkeye’s experience, he believed he had simply been following The Other man around like a lost chick. Putting some space between them should not be that weird, would it?
“How did you find me?” Hawkeye questions.
Bucky pokes around his food and considers. “You’re not a difficult man to find. Besides, you’re the only idiot staring at his untouched food for twenty minutes while everyone else has clear plates.”
The Archer looks around the room, embodying fewer people now than when he arrived, “Ah, would you look at that.”
“Clint.” Bucky calls for attention. “You’ve been thinking a lot lately. I can tell, and I’d like to help.”
“Hah. ha. Nooo, who told you that?” Hawkeye stiffens and is only met with amused stares.
“You did. If you’re not talking, you’re thinking and every time I look at you, you look away. Clearly with something on your mind.”
“That is inherently false.” Hawkeye corrects. “Sometimes the opposite happens. Sometimes I talk even with something on my mind, and stay quiet with nothing on my mind. Who knows what happens up in there, really? And hypothetically, if I had something on my mind it might as well have just been something simple, like, oh say the weather. Isn’t it hotter than anticipated in Wakanda? I think so.”
“Clint.” Bucky calls again.
He calls it so sweetly, and soft. Patience stitched into the seams with a smirk on his lips. Hawkeye could listen to that man talk for days, about anything in the world in his rugged deep purr, but the way he calls for The Archer remains his favourite sound of all. The Soldier leans on his palm and simply observes. Not with the usual trained calculation or keen mapping, but with an amused bend to his lower eyelids. A gentle face, softened by the life he lives as a free man.
The Soldier is free to choose whatever he wants in life, and he chooses to sit with Hawkeye, again and again. Chooses to be by his side and listen to him yap about everything.
“You admit you look away from me, then?” Bucky adds.
Hawkeye lightly blushes and averts the eye contact, underlining the accusations standing against him. It was difficult to look at his teammate for too long, the soft expression in front of him was a reminder of what he had fantasised being done to it.
Bucky also looks damn good in civilian clothings. A t-shirt and cargo pants has never looked sexy on anyone, but for a man who’s been brainwashed and forced into uniforms for the majority of his adult life. Man looks damn good as a normal person.
“I have been very patient…” The Archer mutters.
Bucky scoffs as a response. “If you’re talking about our stealth mission the other day– then no, you don’t. You have the patience of a small child, Barton.”
Hawkeye relocks eye contact with a play-hurt expression. “Please. I have the patience of at least a normal-sized child.”
“Why would a sniper take the lower flank route to move around? You have a whole upper floor all to yourself.” Bucky emphasises with his hands. “And yet I find you halfway into their team.”
“Hey! Let me flank however I want. I was fine up until you drew attention away from the main fight. No one was looking at me until you walked over.” Hawkeye interjects.
The Soldier chuckles and returns his head to his palm. He looks longingly and begins to eat, only after Hawkeye had been forking pieces of food into his mouth. Cold, but still on the delicious side. Relaxing in banter somehow brought back Hawkeye’s appetite.
“So it’s not the missions you’ve been thinking of, then.” Bucky states.
Hawkeye shakes his head. “Missions are the last things on my mind, right now.”
“Then what?” Bucky tilts his head.
Leaned backwards in his seat, The Blond contemplates if he should be telling the truth. Of how he had been feeling as of late, of how he feels towards his friend now that there were proper words attached to those feelings.
“Oh, boy. It’s a little embarrassing. I don't know if I should say it out loud or just keep it to myself in a little locket.” Hawkeye half jokes.
Bucky sits patiently and eats his food, listening to the usual Hawkeye bleed into frame. It felt normal again, to just sit in each other’s presence and banter about nothing. It felt like it belonged.
How does Hawkeye tell someone that he enjoys their time and space.
That he had noticed how his arm is graced, and his shadow is followed closer than normal.
How Hawkeye is kept just a foot closer than everyone else and always on the non-metalic side when they walked.
How does one tell someone that the stars feel closer, simply by being in the same room? How the air feels damp and warm, in a way that feels addictive.
How he feels loved like no one else has done before. The shift of earth, the turn of tide,
The feeling of his safety close behind.
It felt like walking for the first time, into arms who were ready to catch.
And he never thought about growing attached.
Was falling for Bucky everything he had hoped for? Not really.
But, oh’ how he made the stars feel closer.
It was no longer friendly banter, and sportsman-like team spirit that kept Hawkeye around. It was personal longing and lust. He felt needed and equally valued, being two honorary members in the “no superpowers avengers club”. Equal on every playing field as a person and a colleague.
“You kinda feel like you tryna get away from me.” Bucky interrupts the silence. “If you do, I won't move.” *
Hawkeye snaps back to reality. Thinking about what that comment actually means, he scrambles to make up an excuse. “Lefty, no. It’s not that serious. I was just…”
The mental slot machine of made up excuses spins, and clicks into place, one column at the time.
“I was thinking about how long your hair was getting and that you might want to get it cut soon.”
The Soldier stares blankly. “Is that what you have been thinking about?”
“No, yeah. Believe it or not, that’s more or less what I’ve been thinking about.” Hawkeye lies, flashing an award-winning smile.
Whether or not the deception was bought would forever remain a mystery, however the attempt made Bucky laugh nonetheless. And when he shook off what little anxiety had been building up in his body, The Soldier twirled a lock between his fingers.
“I suppose it is due for a new hairstyle soon. You don’t know any good barbers around here, do you?” Bucky asks.
Fucking nailed it. Lie successfully bought.
“I’ll do it.” Hawkeye jumps to conclusion. “I know how to cut hair.”
Hawkeye had every only been cutting his own hair in the mirror, making the statement not far from the truth. Calling it lying would be far-fetched. But at this point, he was high off the liars train, and did not know how to stop himself. To his surprise, Bucky did not need more convincing to agree to the notion.
After finishing their meal, they asked the kitchen staff to borrow a pair of scissors and a single use, plastic apron to be used as a hairdressing cape. They return to the now empty changing room to execute their mischief before Hawkeye is reminded of a slight inconvenience.
“Wait, you just washed your hair.” Hawkeye comments.
Bucky turns around with the bar stool chair he had stolen from somewhere on the way to the locker rooms. “I could always wash it again when we are done here. It's not a problem.”
“But isn’t that like a pain in the ass, though?”
“Barton, the only pain in my ass is you, right now.” Bucky scoffs and takes off his t-shirt. “Now cut my hair before I regret giving you a pair of scissors.”
“A pair of scissors are just two swords bolted together, and I’m quite–” Hawkeye widens his eyes in surprise and shields his face with his hands. “--Woah, we are getting naked! Okay, I didn’t quite expect that.”
“You have seen me shirtless before.”
Hawkeye makes awkward hand gestures. “This is true, but I have never seen you shirtless with a pair of scissors two inches from your head. There's a difference.”
Bucky raises a brow, unable to hide his smirk. “State the difference, then.”
They both fall silent, awaiting the next dialogue line. Neither party being good at comebacks, Hawkeye is naturally the first to fold.
“You’re right. There’s no difference. I’m just going to start now.”
While Bucky seats himself on the stool, Hawkeye covers his shoulders with the plastic apron and stands behind The Soldier. Gently gracing the hair revealed it to still be damp to the touch, cold from its previous wash. The dark hair was soft, straight locks easily slipping between Hawkeyes fingers.
He had accidentally given Bucky head pats before, unable to fight the muscle memory. It was the same sensation as back then. And just like the first time he had combed his fingers through The Brunet, there was no resistance.
Hawkeye took a deep sigh before twisting sections of hair between his fingers to cut and style. A few snippets at the time, both here and there. No plan or system in place, The Archer simply cut out of pure vibes. Whatever would look best and whatever styling tricks he had seen off TV.
Bucky did not seem to notice, the very least. He was sitting patiently still and enjoying the experience. Because when Hawkeye moved around to the front to trim the bangs, The Soldier had his eyes closed with a permanent smile on his lips. Maybe a little rose to his cheeks too, but that could have been a mirage due to the weather. That or Hawkeye’s imagination was playing tricks on him.
“I think I’m done now.” Hawkeye finally announces and brushes the hair back, letting it naturally fall into place.
Viewing Bucky from the back, The Soldier bobs his head from side to side, feeling the length. His hand reaches up from underneath the plastic cape to run his fingers up his neck.
Hawkeye did not want to admit the sight of Bucky’s nape was mildly attractive– but it was pretty attractive, not going to lie. The Archer looked away out of respect.
“I thought you’d cut off more.” Bucky comments and turns around.
Hawkeye shrugs. “I like this look on you, it looks good. Like I said, it was just getting a little too long. Do you want me to cut off more?”
Bucky shakes off the louse hair on his cape and strolls over to the closest mirror outside the showers. Inspecting his own reflection, he discovers that his hair was reset to its original length. A centre parting, layers blending into a wave down to his neck starting from just below his ear lobes. The edges around his silhouette were split, swooping upwards in a spiky pattern. It was obvious that the hairdresser did not know what they were doing.
But Bucky smiles anyway. It was like he had returned to his default uniform, without actually putting it on.
“No, this is perfect.” Bucky nods at himself in the reflection, admiring the details a little too long.
Hawkeye feared he had made some irreparable mistakes which were too obvious. It almost felt like being evaluated for a grade. But if he had to evaluate himself, he would say it was a perfect execution. With the amount of times he had been observing from a distance, Hawkeye was bound to get somewhat close to its original shape.