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The van hasn’t broken down yet, and Clint can’t help but be absolutely relieved by that fact. The van is still going, chugging along strong. It looks worse than it is, really. Rusted and gross and banged up to beat all hell, but the bones of it are good and the engine is strong, and it’ll be plenty good enough to get Clint to New York and hopefully for longer than that because this van? This van is all he’s got.
As he drives across Illinois, dull and full of corn, Clint knows he’ll miss some stuff about Iowa. And the midwest at large, really. The smell of the morning air and the way it’s like taking a full breath without even trying to. He’ll miss the fresh dew on the grass and the way it left his sneakers wet when he walked (but more often ran) to school. And the way the sun lit up his mother’s favorite reading spot in the house. And her tombstone where he’ll probably never put flowers again.
He’ll miss Bobbi, too. She offered to help him get out of dodge, but he couldn’t get her in on any of it. If she knew where he was going or even that he was planning on leaving, she’d cave. Not under interrogation. Bobbi’s lips could stay sealed with any secret even when she was being questioned, that was something Clint was sure of.
But if she were, say, beaten within an inch of her life? No, he’d never forgive himself for getting her into something like that. So now she’s probably hundreds of miles away. Already, he wants to text her. But he can’t. No phone yet. He isn’t even sure how he’ll find money for a phone, but it’ll happen.
Iowa’s in the past. Clint’s determined to give himself a different future.
But the suburbs here are nice enough. He’s just taking a “detour”-- someone said that this area had a couple good clubs. Figures he could stop by, try to ask around for some money; people are normally nice, right? And so he’s hoping that these people will be nice, maybe he’ll be lucky enough to find a garage sale to get some new clothes. And after all, it’ll all be okay when he gets to New York.
Sticking it out for now though is the hard part.
But there’s a light at the end of the tunnel.
Or at least maybe some kind of torch along the way. He slows his van to a rolling stop as he sees this drum set and flips his sunglasses up to inspect closer. It’s a nice silver drumset with everything seemingly intact. It’s not necessarily clean, and it doesn’t look new either, but it seems like just the kind of thing he needs right now. Despite having no idea how to play the drums.
Clint looks over his shoulder into the back of the van, which is empty save for a couple of duffel bags and his one good pair of work boots. One bag has enough food to maybe last him the week, and the other is stuffed full of clothes.
Yeah, he has plenty of room for drums.
They’re just sitting at the curb outside someone’s house. Maybe it’s stealing, maybe it’s not. He’s not exactly sure of the etiquette. All he knows is that, in Iowa, if something is out at the curb unattended, it’s free for the taking. Usually, the faster it’s gone, the better.
So he throws the van in park and hops out. He circles around to throw open the back doors and starts loading the drum set in, piece by piece, as fast as he can.
Yeah, this is a torch. Not a light at the end of the tunnel. But maybe hope. In some weird way that involves drums.
New York is not as nice as he was hoping. He took a detour through Chicago to see the city. After all, half of this was about traveling and just getting out of the same old spot he’s been for the past eighteen years. The other half was leaving everything he’d ever known behind.
Clint enjoyed Chicago. The city had lots of dogs, and he even picked up a bouncer job on a night where a club’s bouncer had gotten hammered. Good news was that Clint looked just a couple years older than he actually was and could pass for whatever age would be considered old enough to be a club bouncer.
He made enough that night to get to New York with some money to spare, and with a couple of food banks along the way, he turned out just fine.
There’s a lot of shit he’s glad he learned in Iowa. Like food banks and how glorious they are. And how to stitch wounds because he got a real bad cut while loading that drumset in a couple days ago. It itches, but he can’t lean down to scratch it because he needs to pay attention to the road. The cars around him apparently don’t enjoy that he’s driving a massive white van, the kind that would probably abduct little kids or maybe suggest a bomb threat. And parking it is a nightmare in these itty bitty New York parking spots.
This whole place is insane, honestly. Just the smell is car exhaust and piss, but only in certain spots, but then the sky opens up through the massive buildings and there’s light spilling perfectly onto the street in geometric shapes, shining off of buildings and rippling like shallow water. There are homeless people in their pockets of the city, many with signs asking for help.
Those signs remind him that he’s lucky he’s got his van.
At least he’s almost there. He probably won’t get registered for school today, and he doesn’t know where the nearest library is yet. Hell, the college probably has a library, which will get him on a computer, which meant he can pick up Craigslist jobs until he can find a real job.
It’s all according to plan. The plan to forge a better life for himself by whatever means possible.
He tries not to worry that a flat tire could be the end of it. He doesn’t want to think that his dad or Barney could track him down. He wants to enjoy that there’s a whole world out there that he just doesn’t know about yet, that he may never know about, but maybe there’s a pocket he can carve for himself. Somewhere. Maybe.
He glances at the map laid out in the passenger seat and checks the address he scrawled on his hand at the last library. Brooklyn Community College. It’s the best he can do for now in terms of an education. He’s not sure what he wants to do yet, but he’ll figure it out.
A left here and then he should be there, at the admissions office, getting paperwork so that he can enroll for the fall. Maybe the spring if he can’t afford the fall, but he’s got a dozen copies of his high school transcript shoved in the glove compartment right now, and his grades weren’t bad even though his attendance was. He’s hoping for some kind of scholarship to at least take most of the stress off of paying for school.
If nothing else, he’s got a game plan. He’s got more opportunities than ever before. He’s got the whole world is his oyster schtick now. Right now, he’s only some sad semblance of a pearl, but that’s going to change.
The admissions office is here.
And this is the start of something new. (He makes a mental note to thrift the High School Musical soundtrack when he can.)
The summer was too quiet. Quiet in the sense that Clint never talked to anyone. Picked up odd jobs where he could, but never got to know anyone better than their first name and the role they were going to play in his life for the next however long they were relevant.
He only had a really good conversation with one person for the entire summer. He met a guy while on a job, his name was Russell, and during a quick lunch break between building scaffolding for construction projects, they got to talk.
While Clint wolfed down his PB&J, Russell talked about how he was just picking up odd jobs for a little while, just until he could afford to start up an organic public garden. He talked passionately about how he lived outside the city to save on rent and spent his train rides into the city reading books about things like irrigation and animal care; he planned to have chickens and maybe even a cow or two if the space allowed. But with New York, it was weird to think of having enough space for all of that. Let alone for enough light for the plants to grow.
And Clint remembers that entire conversation. Not word for word, but he remembers how excited Russell was about the project and how dedicated he was to giving back to the people.
It’s been two months since he’s seen Russell. Guy was gone after that day, onto the next job that would pay him just a little more and get him to his future a little faster.
It wasn’t even like Clint could blame him. He would’ve gone to other jobs, too. Worked two jobs over the summer, three when he could manage it. The highlights reel is pretty good too: construction worker, camp counselor, traffic director, security guard, and library custodian. And those are only the best ones.
At least now he’s back on a relatively regular schedule. Still got the library custodian spot for when he’s not wrapped up in classes. It’s a lightweight night job for him to handle, and he’s just glad that his summer’s occupational carousel of mayhem is done for now and that it paid for classes today.
Which is an entirely different experience because he doesn’t actually know what college is supposed to be like. For normal people, it’s probably parents dropping someone like him off in a dorm room. That would probably devolve into tears and goodbyes until a family-esque minivan rolled into the sunset, leaving the newly christened college student to fend for themself.
Then there’s Clint, in his minivan outside a building, waiting to leave for his first class. He’s got his textbooks shoved into his glove box except for the two that are crammed into his bag right now. He’s gotta take one to this European history class, and he’s got another for his architecture lecture later on. At least he didn’t need to buy a textbook for cosmetology.
There’s nothing stopping him from taking all these oddball classes. At least with cosmetology, he figures he’ll get free haircuts, even if they’re shitty. And maybe he’ll learn why they put gargoyles on buildings from his architecture class. If he can, he wants to take a music class next semester, and maybe he’ll be able to actually read sheet music for the drums, if drums even have sheet music. They feel like the kind of thing that comes through vibes instead of lessons.
“It’s gonna be a good day,” he tells himself for probably the fifth time before cracking his neck and rolling his shoulders. He watches people file past him between his van and the little two-seater parked to his left. Almost everyone looks at him like he’s gonna steal a little kid from some park today, but no, he’s going to go to class and be a normal human being and keep his hearing aids in and make the most of these classes.
Clint gets out of the van. He closes it and locks it and starts to walk towards the building, until he has to go back. He shoves the key back in the lock and grabs his backpack with all his books and his notebook in it; he shuts the door and locks it again and reminds himself that it’s gonna be a great day. Out loud.
Yep, he probably seems crazy.
The building is colder than he thought, so he’s glad he’s got the classic hoodie around the waist look from middle school. But a guy’s gotta live.
Three classes today, two classes tomorrow. Work every night this week. Clint takes a deep breath. He can do this.
He checks the crumpled up schedule that he pulls out of his pocket that he memorized last night, but in this current bout of stress and paranoia, he has to triple check it for the room number: H57. And the door’s open and other people are sitting in there already. From what few words Clint can pick out, it just sounds like small talk.
Here goes nothing.
He’s faced so many things in his life that have been more nerve-wracking than this moment right here. And yet this is somehow worse. Probably because this is just starting over, and he doesn’t want to start over and fuck up his new life.
Clint crashes into a desk, front row-- he’s determined to make sure that he gets noticed by the professor. He’s not sure what he wants to do yet, which is why his course load is a mess right now. Alongside the history, architecture, and cosmetology classes he has today, his lineup for tomorrow is marketing and communications. He’ll find something he likes, hopefully, and will be able to stick to it and actually pick a major and then find himself somehow. After all, isn’t that what college is supposed to be about?
“Hello,” greets the guy next to him.
Clint’s a little startled because he hasn’t had an actual conversation with anyone in a month or so, at least not since Russell. He turns and takes a deep breath, about ready to say “hi” or something of that same caliber back, but he’s taken aback because this man has the most magnificent beard that Clint has ever seen.
“Hi.” Clint’s voice comes out so tiny, which is even worse because this guy is huge and probably five years older than him at least, and suddenly, as he’s looking around the room, this class is somehow more daunting because he’s like a baby walking into these classes. Half of these other people are older than him too, and some have piercings. He looks like a child compared to them: clean-shaven, bare skinned, and baby-faced.
Should he get a tattoo to fit in? Probably not yet.
“I am Thor,” and he offers a hand for Clint to shake and the biggest, whitest smile. “I have not seen your face in my classes, is this your first time under Professor Selvig?”
With a half-laugh while trying to process how boisterous this guy is, Clint pulls out his schedule and confirms the professor’s name. “Yeah, yeah, I guess it is.” He leans back in his chair and crumples up his schedule again. “Actually, this is my first college class. Like, ever.”
“Then you will be glad to have Erik as your instructor!” This guy, Thor, this really big guy, has a booming voice, which actually makes him strangely more endearing, and Clint has to spend about ten seconds trying to figure out if it’s because he’s a bear, the gay kind, not an actual bear, or if it’s because he’s just a genuinely really good person who also happens to be incredibly enthusiastic.
Clint likes him. But not in a gay way. Mostly. Maybe?
“Good to know,” he laughs and leans back in his chair and almost tips it over because thank you fucked up equilibrium. He grabs onto his desk and holds himself upright somehow and gets the chair back on all four legs just in time for an older guy to walk in with a nice brown briefcase satchel thing and a huge map.
And suddenly, it’s time for history class.
He’s got downtime between meeting up with Thor for lunch and he doesn’t have work tonight, so no need for a power nap. Clint picks up the drumsticks, the unbroken ones, and crawls through to the back of the van.
He kicks open the doors and lets the sunlight in and airs out the slight smell of week old McDonald’s. Clint smooths his hair and takes a deep breath and starts to pull his drums out piece by piece. He sets them out at the edge of his van and patiently gets them perfectly set up exactly how he wants them.
With a final sigh, Clint perches in the back of the van, just enough so that he can sit there and still reach his drums, and he starts to play.
It’s a little bit of a mess, and it’s a loud mess, but he’s getting the hang of the drums. He talked to a music teacher last week when he snuck into her office hours and watched a couple YouTube videos on the library’s computer, trying to figure out how to play and make it sound, well, better than a kid let loose in a kitchen. He played the bongos once in middle school, back before the budget cuts took away most of the music programs.
The building’s parking lot isn’t crowded, but some people slow down or even stop to listen. That doesn’t mean he’s any good, but it means he’s something to look at, something to pass the time. Entertainment.
Clint grins as he bashes the metal thing that he should probably know the name of, but no one else seems to care that he doesn’t hardly know what he’s doing.
He’s got a decent ear considering he’s half deaf, so a lot of this banging and bashing is just by feel and vibrations. Clint can hear it because his aids are charged up today, and he can tune himself in a way according to it sounding better or worse with each hit. It’s very much so a guess-and-check system while he still gets the hang of it.
But he’s picking it up pretty quickly.
And luckily, people are actually stopping to listen.
He decides to name his drums Paul.
For the last two years, Clint’s gotten really good at cleaning library bathrooms all year and pool bathrooms during the summer, but the money doesn’t suck. It means he’s actually bought some new clothes that don’t have the odd burn mark in them.
He hasn’t found a spot to live that’s not in the van, but that’ll come eventually, right? He’s got food and a space heater, and when Thor’s roommate isn’t around, Clint sometimes crashes on their couch.
Still, he’s gotten into two semesters of music classes now, and the teacher has given him the backhanded compliment of “wow, you’re really good for someone with hearing aids” and Clint took that with exactly the kind of smile he had to.
The world isn’t perfect, but at least there’s always alcohol for whatever bright sides or downsides it might bring.
With his fake ID giving him an extra couple years, he slips into the bar at age twenty, glad that he can look a little older than he is with too many years beaten and scarred into his skin. He almost wishes Thor would’ve come with him tonight just so they could have a guys’ night out, but he’d had plans with a pretty scientist girl.
And Clint takes all of five seconds to survey the room before spotting an empty seat up at the bar next to a lonely guy, and his brain says, That one.
So he sidles up and perches himself on a stool before leaning over the counter and waving down the bartender for a beer. And as soon as he’s served up, he leans a little closer to the guy to his right and goes, “I’m Clint.” And the words come out like the most casual thing in the world.
The guy next to him looks him up and down, has probably already assessed that he’s underage, and then returns the introduction, equally casual although with a bit more caution: “Bucky.”
“So what’s your story?” Clint opts to ask, not wanting to touch the name thing because it seems too easy. Clint, also, has made a basic assessment of this dude. He’s got a military haircut and slouched shoulders; tonight’s probably his night off, and his opportunity for a decent time. Maybe Clint’ll be the one to give it to him.
“A guy with a face and a life.”
Clint can’t help the way his lips curl up in a grin because finally. Someone who sounds like fun. Difficult. But fun. He’s kind of figured out what he does and doesn’t want at bars. Everyone he’s met in school, in classes, at his odd jobs, they all feel like they’re putting it out there, ready to let him into some big secret of their lives. But not this guy. This guy was here for a drink and nothing else until Clint sidled up next to him.
So he might as well feed this guy, maybe get him interested. Clint just came out for a good night and some fun times, but he’s found that he’s become distracted from the rest of the room, like everything else is just background music compared to what this guy’s got going on. “I’m in college,” he says, figuring he can feed some information. “Kind of feeling out school, so don’t ask what my major is, I don’t even know. Also, I’m actually deaf.” He gestures to his hearing aids, tapping one of them and ignoring the feedback it gives off as if in protest. “So that’s fun.”
Bucky’s still analyzing him, brows knit together.
“I moved to New York about two years back, yeah,” Clint continues, feeling a little pathetic, and maybe he should just lose all hope now. “This is the best bar I’ve found within a two block radius of my apartment. My new apartment, anyways. Just moved to be a little closer to campus.” He’s lying already and swallows a thick lump in his throat, figuring he’ll throw himself out on a line here, before saying, “Can’t find the gay bar on this side of town though, so I’m still hunting for one.”
“The good one’s on Atlantic.” And Bucky takes a sip of his own beer, and Clint can see him relaxing, allowing only the faintest trace of a smile.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Victory.
It’s two hours later when a buzzed Clint walks out of the bar with Bucky at his side, the older man shaking his head and blinking slowly as Clint just talks in his rambling sort of way about how ridiculous his music class was last semester and how the teacher hated him for being so loud all the time. Of course, he blames it on being deaf.
Bucky’s just smirking, hands shoved in his pockets, listening to Clint. And he’s seemingly got only got one observation from their night together: “You talk a lot.”
“I’ve got a lot to say.”
Bucky shakes his head, and his smile broadens. After a second, he pulls one hand out of his pocket and withdraws his phone before handing it to Clint, still as casual as the moment they met. “Hey, put your number in that.”
Clint’s not exactly shocked, but he does raise a brow. He was pretty sure he’d just made a damn good friend, but something about Bucky makes him think that maybe there could be more than that. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” And Bucky amends that with, “Not a lot of friendly people in Brooklyn. You should at least have someone nearby to call.” There’s a slight pause. “Just in case.”
He tries very hard not to look too pleased with himself, but Clint takes Bucky’s phone and punches in his number before firing off a text to himself; his phone rings in his back pocket. It’s a flip phone with limited minutes, but it’s something that’s his. “Now I’ve got someone to call.” His grin is cocky.
“Don’t sneak into bars underage anymore,” Bucky warns lightly before heading off in the direction of a motorcycle.
Clint blinks a couple times at the motorcycle, trying to process that as a whole while at the same time knowing that Bucky’s fine to drive on the account that he’s had plenty of water to flush out his system and not enough beers to even hit a buzz because Clint kept distracting him the whole time, keeping him asking concisely worded questions rather than drinking.
“Will do,” laughs Clint whole-heartedly, but he’s lying through his teeth, and Bucky seems to know it.
Clint throws open the backdoors to his van, but not before sneaking one last look at Bucky, who’s swinging one leg over his motorcycle. He sees Bucky doing the same, taking that one last look. And Bucky seems to smile and then it freezes, and Clint’s pretty sure that Bucky just put together that the apartment thing was a damn lie, that he probably sleeps in the van. Still, Clint smiles back at him and flops down into his van, careful to avoid landing on Paul, and pulls the doors closed behind him, knowing he’s not in any shape to be driving anywhere tonight whether he wanted to or not.
So he rolls down the front windows just a smidge to get some airflow in the van, and he ends up listening to the noises of the night, listening to the sounds spilling from the bar and the bustle of the city as it swells to life in the darkness. His eyes slide shut as he tucks an arm under his head like a makeshift pillow, really glad that he just happened to be in the right bar at the right time.
At the same time, as Bucky’s slipping on his helmet a couple parking spots away, his brain is saying That one.
It’s less than two months later when Clint is sprawled across Bucky’s lap, which is completely normal at this point because Clint’s just friendly, right?
That question has been itching on Bucky’s tongue for a few weeks now because this is completely normal: Clint pressed close to Bucky, Clint interlacing their fingers, Clint finding every excuse to not leave Bucky’s apartment and not just because the van’s stench is a little ripe in this warmer weather. And Bucky’s trying to convince himself that it’s just because Clint lives out of his van, but that’s not the point. The point is whether or not they’re dating.
It’s vague, to say the least, but Bucky’s pretty sure they’ve got something good going here. They go out to dinner often. They watch movies side-by-side. They’re happy together. And Bucky wants to say it, but he can’t bring himself to put it into words.
“Y’kno what?” Clint asks, and when Bucky replies with a little questioning hum and a sip of his beer, Clint continues, “We don’t watch enough romcoms.”
“‘cause they suck.”
Clint shrugs a little bit before tilting his head up to look at Bucky. “I dunno, I like some. Most are pretty brutal, but I like some.” And then he settles back in against Bucky, turning to watch the tv screen as explosions fire off.
He keeps his mouth shut because he wants to say it. He wants to card his hand through Clint’s hair and kiss those sweet, chapped lips. Bucky wants to be able to initiate more without pushing the boundaries, but he isn’t sure where the line between friends and more than friends starts and ends with Clint. If anything, it seems to be a dotted line, a faint one at that.
There was one point, maybe a month ago now, that Clint had to ask why Bucky knew where the gay bar was, just for clarity’s sake, and Bucky had a feeling Clint was fishing, so Bucky explained the demisexual thing, which he was pleasantly surprised to find that Clint was pretty understanding about, and he actually asked a couple questions, which Bucky found especially encouraging.
Which makes now all the more frustrating because Bucky likes the thought that Clint was fishing, but he doesn’t like that Clint hasn’t acted on it.
Fuck, if Clint’s not going to act on it, he has to. “Are we dating?”
Clint pauses and looks up at Bucky, maybe he’s a little confused, maybe he’s a little hopeful, but he responds with, “Maybe?” There’s an awkward shrug, and if that doesn’t sum up Clint as a person, Bucky isn’t sure what would. “I think we kinda are.”
“Oh thank God,” breathes Bucky because Christ, this has been eating him up for weeks, and now he can rake his fingers through Clint’s hair and kiss those dry lips and hold him even closer.
“If you were trying to act like we weren’t dating, you were very bad at it,” chides Clint, but he doesn’t have time to say much more because Bucky is leaning down and kissing him because finally. It feels like finally.
For almost two hours after that, they make out on Bucky’s couch like a couple of horny high schoolers.
It’ll take them two more months to say “I love you”.
It’s not easy for Bucky to keep in mind that Clint feels like a temporary fixture in his life, a bandaid in a way. Because Bucky knows he’s not here full-time, that this won’t be his life soon enough.
But he’s head over heels fucked up in love with Clint.
Still, he’s waiting in the college parking lot on his bike with a second helmet that he bought for Clint, waiting for his boyfriend to get out of class so they can grab lunch before he has to be back for cosmetology, which is like the third time he’s allegedly taken the class and yet Bucky hasn’t seen him change his own goddamn messy hair.
He stretches out his back, checks his phone, and leans against the handlebars. He’s been working his own odd jobs for too long, mostly in construction, and he finally enlisted today. Doesn’t want to tell Clint even though they both knew it was coming at some point.
But when the counselor had asked whether he wanted to leave sooner or later, he hesitated. Because he couldn’t just up and leave Clint. Not with how integral the man had become to Bucky’s life, just forcing him to get comfortable with himself and to talk more when he would otherwise be alone on his couch with a beer.
He’d chosen the delayed entry program, so he had at least a few weeks or months to get ready for basic training. Then he’d be gone for a few months. Then he’d either come back and eventually get deployed again.
It was what he’d wanted to do since high school. It was part of his family legacy. But he’d hoped to figure something else out, to find a job he liked so he could settle down. And now he found a guy he loved and didn’t wanna go. But he didn’t like the odd jobs either.
It didn’t matter. He’d enlisted, and Clint would have to be okay with that.
“Hey, where’re we going?” Clint asks, shaking Bucky from his thoughts. He’s already pulled the helmet on and is swinging his leg over the bike and settling in right behind Bucky. There’s no greater comfort in the world than having Clint that close.
“The office I’m tempin’ for has a free buffet on Fridays, figured we could go snag some of that and then eat in the park.”
“Sounds good.” And Clint leans forward so their helmets clang together and he says a muffled, “Sorry.”
It doesn’t fucking matter because he’s Clint. He’s the goddamn love of Bucky’s life. A mess and a shitshow and a stubborn asshole, but Bucky wouldn’t want him any other way.
“Hold on tight.”
He feels Clint’s arms around him, his hands even gripping into Bucky’s jacket a little.
They take off.
So Bucky telling Clint to not sneak into bars was an utter waste because now Bucky’s the one with him when he sneaks into bars. It’s entirely counterproductive and ridiculous, but damn do they have some seriously fun nights on the town.
It’s the end of a particularly good night when Clint goes to get in the passenger seat of his ugly ass van. He’s not drunk enough to need a cab but not sober enough to actually go anywhere, but it takes about ten seconds before Bucky makes a quick, sloppy decision and hops in the passenger seat to straddle Clint.
“Hi there,” laughs Clint, his face tinted pink from the liquor. His hands meander up and down Bucky’s thighs. “The passenger seat isn’t meant for two people, Buck.”
The response is a snort as Bucky tugs the door shut, barely missing the toe of his boot.
Grin widening, Clint hooks his fingers into Bucky’s belt hoops and pulls him closer abruptly, which causes Bucky to bang his head against the roof with a hiss. “Sorry, sorry,” mumbles Clint. He reaches up to run a hand through Bucky’s clipped hair, all short and military-like and absolutely beautiful. Clint is constantly in awe of how beautiful Bucky is. “You okay?”
“Fine.” It’s not mad, it’s not passive, it’s just Bucky.
“Y’kno, this is cute and all, but why’re you on top of me, babe?”
There’s a delay as Bucky just watches Clint. “I thought I was… Never mind.” He shakes his head, but he still wears a smile.
“There’s not enough room in here for that, Buck,” Clint laughs as he throws one arm over his eyes. “And besides, do you want our first time to be in my shitty van?”
Bucky snorts. “Nah, I guess not.” He shifts backwards and stares at the van’s roof for a while. “Sorry.”
“S’fine.” Clint wriggles so he settles into the seat more before letting out a comfortable sigh, still shielding his eyes while also letting one hand meander slowly along Bucky’s thigh. Everything is nice tonight. The air is buzzing, but that might just be Clint buzzing. Alcohol is nice. When Bucky pays for the alcohol, it makes it even nicer.
“Hey, uh, what’s that?”
Clint blinks an eye open to see Bucky nod towards the trunk. “Uh…” He’s not sure what all’s back there right now, his food storage rolled everywhere after a hard break, and there’s a decent chance that there could be a homeless person in hiding-- it’s happened before.
Arching his back, Clint leans and shifts and uncomfortably groans before he’s able to crane his head to look into the back of his van. “Oh, you mean Paul?”
“The- The drums?” Bucky asks with a raised brow. “First off, you never told me you played drums-”
“You didn’t ask,” defends Clint with a decisive finger in the air and a slight slur.
“-and secondly, you named your drum set?”
Clint settles back into the seat, a grin on his face. “Yeah, yeah, I, uh, I never had a dog as a kid.” There are so many times where he feels like he’s over-sharing with Bucky, but at the same time, it always feels right. They’re already locked in each others’ orbit, so why does it matter how much he shares? “So, like, naming things wasn’t a thing before, but now that I’m here, yeah, I can name my drums.” He bites his lip for a second. “I named him after the Beatles.”
There’s a long pause that only sounds louder as a cop car bursts past the big white van with the sirens at full blast.
“You do know that Ringo played the drums, right?”
Clint groans. “Fuck.”
The school parking lot isn’t the same as Madison Square Garden, but people stop and listen and toss him a couple bills or spare coins here and there. He even got a gift card for a coffee shop once. It only had two dollars on it, but that’s still better than nothing.
He wouldn’t consider himself good, but for mostly self-taught, Clint doesn’t suck. He’s barely a step up from the far more talented people with buckets in Central Park; the only difference is that he’s got the hi-hats and cymbals to round out his sound. Doesn’t make him excellent by any standard, just gives him a decent leg-up.
It’s a particularly mild day when he’s got Paul mostly packed up and put in the back of the van, tucked away real nice behind the driver’s seat so that Clint’s food can have the spot behind the passenger seat. Still, there’s someone standing there as if waiting for him to play more music.
He keeps packing up, trying to make it obvious that there isn’t any more music happening, but eventually he caves to her intense stare. “I’m, uh, actually about to head out.” Clint’s seriously concerned whether or not he’s going to get mugged right here, but she seems small enough, maybe he could take her in a fight.
Who’s he kidding? He’s made of skin and bones and slightly smelly clothes.
“Yeah, I know.”
Clint shuts the back doors to the van and uses the key to lock it up. “So, what’re you waiting on?” he asks, stuffing the key into the pocket of his (Bucky’s) sweatpants. “I’m, uh, I’m gay, if you were wondering, so--”
The woman’s nose crinkles in momentary disgust. “Yeah, that won’t be a problem.” Her tone doesn’t sound homophobic, more like she’s offended he suggested that she might be into him. She rolls her eyes and seemingly tries to lessen her very intense stare, although it’s not very effective and Clint isn’t any less intimidated. “I actually know a couple guys who are looking for new friends, and you seem like you could also use friends.”
There’s a very fine line about whether or not Clint should be offended by that or not, but again, since he probably can’t take her in a fight, he decides, “Yeah, yeah, I could probably use friends.”
He’s got Thor and Thor’s girlfriend, Jane, and obviously Bucky. But with Bucky’s basic training coming up, the world has felt like it’s closing in around Clint.
“Good.” Her voice sounds delightfully surprised, but her face betrays that, no, she’s not surprised at all, that she entirely expected this, and Clint’s a little bit concerned. But also, she seems nice enough and he’s pretty sure she tossed a couple coins in his (Bucky’s) baseball cap that’s still on the ground, so he’ll swallow his fears for the day.
She slips a card into his hand. “There’s the address, we’re throwing a party on Friday, no alcohol, no drugs, just hanging out. Think sober thoughts. And feel free to bring the drums.”
Clint nods a little bit. His lips purse. He’s not a stupid man. “Your friend who needs friends… did they just get out of rehab?”
Her brow knits. “I just want you to know that I’m serious about no alcohol or anything. If you end up coming, that is.”
He flips the card a couple times in his hand, like a nervous tick. With a glance, he can see a scrawled address on there in pretty cursive. “I’ll be there,” he says with a smile, “but, uh, I don’t think I caught your name?”
“Natasha.”
“Clint.”
“So a questionable woman propositioned you to attend a party in the middle of the parking lot?”
Clint shrugs before nodding, feeling a little bit like a bobblehead. “Yeah, but I mean, you could come with, if you wanted.”
Thor stares at him like he’s grown a third eye. (Or, according to his Ancient History textbook, maybe he’d grown an Eye of Horus, but in the past year of hanging out with Thor, Clint’s realized he’s very bad at history.) “I am not a man for parties. And aside from that, I have a lot to get done for classes, and some research with Erik to manage.” Creases fold above his nose and between his brows.
“But it wouldn’t be so weird if you came with me, y’know?” Clint thumbs through pages of his notebook as they wait until Professor Selvig gets in. Clint likes to show up ten minutes early and Thor is usually twenty minutes early, but that’s mostly because Clint lives in the parking lot when he’s not at Bucky’s apartment, and Thor spends most of his time in the library, so it’s easy to get to class early. “It could be you and me and Bucky and… and her and her friends. It’ll be fun!”
Skeptical. Yes, that’s the right word for it. Thor is definitely skeptical of this whole idea.
“Okay, buddy,” Clint levels, “you’re like one of two friends I have here, and the other friend is a guy I’m dating, so he doesn’t really count, and it would mean a lot to me if you would come with so that I don’t look like a total loser.”
“Clint.” Thor takes a deep breath and puts a hand over Clint’s, which isn’t weird at all, actually, the big guy is super affectionate. “I am much older than you, so I do believe it would be worse if you did indeed take me to this occasion.”
Also, Thor was right.
Why did Clint only have older friends?
The next sigh makes the hair on Thor’s upper lip quiver just slightly. “But if you would prefer, Jane is out of town, and I have no other plans for the weekend, so I could accompany you.”
Pumping one fist in the air causes Clint’s desk to rattle, which means he settles down into his seat again real quick, keeping his arms and legs inside the chair at all times. “I’ll text you the address for Friday.”
There should’ve been a “Think Sober Thoughts” sign on the wall for how neutered this party was considering what Clint and Bucky’s nights usually looked like. Hell, even a wild night with Thor usually ended with him in a drinking challenge slamming back a growler’s worth of beer in his dress.
The mix of oddballs here really shows how willing Natasha was to pick up Clint from a goddamn van in a parking lot, and that probably should’ve been a dead giveaway enough that maybe Clint should’ve steered clear of this party.
Apparently, Bucky had recognized someone and had veered off into the small apartment’s kitchen. Clint can’t figure out how offended to be by that, but at least Thor is by his side, so Clint knows he’s safe here no matter what.
The space is small, two couches set up facing a tv, there’s oddly a keyboard set up and apparently turned on. Paul’s down in Clint’s van (it was a comically awkward ride with Clint driving, Bucky in the passenger seat, and Thor in the back trying to fend off all of Clint’s bouncing around items), and Clint now isn’t sure what the premise of this “hangout” actually is.
Natasha appears from somewhere, and her resting-murder-face is no different, so Clint understands now that severe look is just her baseline. “Glad you came,” she says curtly.
“Me… too?” Clint really wishes he had a drink.
She then gestures around the room to a variety of people who seem wrapped up in their own conversations. “Tony, it’s his party.” Her words imply something, and Clint picks it up with a slight nod. “Pepper. Bruce. And I think your other person seems to know Steve…”
“Bucky, my boyfriend,” Clint clarifies, withering a little under the idea of whether that may change in the next few months, but he can’t worry about it right now. “And this is Thor.”
Thor’s hand dwarfs Natasha’s as they shake hands. “Any pronouns,” he encourages. “And I am glad you are helping Clint make new friends. He needs them.”
Clint withers some more.
Natasha’s brow quirks upwards, but she says nothing about that, only turns around to the others and strides off.
Bucky returns, and Clint leans in with a rapid “where the fuck did you go” just as Bucky mutters quietly, “It’s a set up.”
“What the fuck does that mean?” Clint asks, now not sure what the fuck is going on.
Thor has to lean down a bit more to ask, “Why are we whispering?”
“We might want to get Paul,” Bucky says under his breath, which leads to Thor asking softly, “Have I met Paul?”
From the kitchen, the guy that Natasha pointed out as Steve is walking into the living area with a guitar.
“Oh, good idea, Steve, some music would be fun.” It’s Pepper who says this in an absolutely canned sort of way, like she and Natasha had cooked this up over coffee weeks earlier and scripted it out.
Steve, one of the most handsome men Clint has ever seen, must be in on it because he sits casually on the couch. “Yeah, maybe we could do like karaoke? But without the machine?”
Thor nods along to this idea, buying into whatever is being pitched.
Begrudgingly, Tony seems to agree with this once prodded by Bruce a few times and encouraged with, “I’m sure Steve knows some Queen.”
“Is this a Parent Trap?” Clint asks Bucky after Thor wanders over towards Steve to apparently talk about his guitar. “What the hell-”
Bucky holds up a hand to slow Clint down. “Steve and I went to high school together, he’s good people.” He leans in and kisses Clint’s forehead. “And also, The Parent Trap is about parents, not music.”
Clint glares at Bucky, who only rolls his eyes and adds, “I was already worried you wouldn’t really have anybody once I go and, honestly, knowing Steve’s involved, I feel better about… whatever this scheme actually is.”
It’s the first time Bucky’s said as much, that he’s worried about how Clint will handle the universe without him, and Clint has to swallow and take a breath and try to shake that feeling to stop it from eating him alive. They’ll be okay, they keep saying as much. Clint can finish school, Bucky can make money for them both, it’ll be okay. It’ll be okay.
As much as Bucky’s words sound somewhat detached from his body, like he’s trying not to wear his heart on his sleeve, Clint knows that might be the most he’ll get out of Bucky about it until the problem gets even closer. And even then, they’ll only have the promises of “we’ll be okay, we’ll be fine” to buoy them through.
Clint leans into Bucky for barely a moment, and Bucky presses a brief kiss to Clint’s temple before saying, “Please try. For me.”
With a nod, Clint doesn’t look to Bucky. They’ll have later. They’ll have forever.
Clint clears his throat, cracks his neck, and asks, “We all know Bohemian Rhapsody, yeah?”