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A few weeks passed before Clint returned to the tower. Not that Clint was the one who clued Bucky in. Steve, who was blissfully unaware of Bucky’s interest in Clint’s movements, dropped the information casually. He’d been asking after Bucky’s schedule because he wanted to run some training simulations using two snipers.
Bucky was still feeling irritable about it when he usually would have retired to his rooms for the night, so he decided some stress relief was in order and spent a couple hours on the range, tearing the targets to shreds.
He was shocked when he let himself into his apartment to find Clint in his kitchen. He shook it off quickly, and started snarking as he crossed the room.
“I don’t know where you get off coming in…” he trailed off as he processed the sight in front of him. Clint was in what looked like pajamas and he was starting blankly into a bowl on the counter. Ingredients were scattered around him, and it was the most disorganized he’d seen Clint in the kitchen.
“Clint?”
There was no response, and Bucky suspected his hearing aids were out again. Unless he had his almost invisible mission ones in, because the bright purple ones he usually sported were definitely absent.
Bucky walked closer slowly, hands slightly outspread, like he was approaching a spooked animal. Clint kept staring down into the bowl, long past when Bucky would have thought he’d notice his approach. Bucky was almost at the counter before Clint spoke.
“Figured I owe you cookies. Tryna. Tryna figure out which ones. What to make.”
“Are you okay?” Bucky asked automatically. He immediately caught himself and felt foolish; Clint couldn’t hear the question.
Clint listlessly pushed at a couple items on the counter, a bag each of pecans and chocolate chips. “Why is this so hard?” he asked, voice cracking on the last word.
He didn’t think Clint meant the cookies, but maybe he did. When everything was awful even simple decisions could be overwhelming. He moved in tentatively, gauging Clint’s reaction. He startled a little when Bucky touched his arm but didn’t pull away so, trying his luck, he pulled him in for a hug.
Clint turned into his hold, clinging hard. He shuddered, breathing heavy, as he fought off tears. He let himself he held for several minutes before pulling away and turning back to the mess on the counter. His cheeks were still dry, and his breathing seemed a little easier, though he was still obviously avoiding eye contact.
“What kind of cookies do you want?”
He still wasn’t looking, so Bucky reached out to tap the bag of chocolate chips. Clint took a deep breath, the kind that made his whole body seem to slowly inflate, before letting it back out in a rush and then started gathering supplies. He was very careful to move around Bucky, not letting their arms brush together.
Bucky let him have his space until the first tray was in the oven, then grabbed him by the elbow when he tried to start scrubbing the dishes.
“Put them in,” he said and tapped his ears, sure Clint would get his meaning.
“I don’t want to talk,” Clint said mulishly.
“Tough luck.”
Clint shook his head and his arm free. He glanced over Bucky’s shoulder at the oven and said, “Thirteen minutes.”
Bucky turned to look at the oven, wondering what Clint was using to judge the time remaining, and Clint walked out. Bucky was too surprised to move, though once the door finished slamming shut behind him he swore loudly while throwing his hands up in the air.
He was irritated when JARVIS sounded a timer exactly thirteen minutes later and saw the cookies were perfect. He was tempted to throw them away to be petty, but didn’t. He did eat the rest of the raw dough instead of loading another batch in the oven, figuring Clint could bitch at him in person if he was mad the rest didn’t get baked.
Bucky tried to ask Natasha what was going on when he couldn’t nail down Clint the next day, but she was also in a mood and refused to answer any questions. Steve was a much easier nut to crack.
“The mission SHIELD borrowed Clint for was an absolute cluster, start to finish from the sound of it. The mission handler was busted down a rank and lost his leadership position, and two analysts were suspended pending review.
“The intelligence wasn’t vetted correctly and when Clint raised concerns on the scene they were ignored. Brighton, the handler got the timing wrong and the building wasn’t clear so Clint refused to take the shot but Brighton just instructed a different agent do complete the job. He got the target but it wasn’t clean and things went south pretty quick.” Steve’s tone stayed the even tone he took when he didn’t want to show how worked up he was over something.
“What else?” he asked.
“The target’s two young children were on the scene, one was killed during the fall out and—
“Oh, shit.”
“—Brighton told Clint it wouldn’t have played out that way if he’d, quote, just done the job he was paid to do.”
When Bucky didn’t get any baked goods left on his counter or in his fridge the next night he sent Clint a text that just read, ‘cinnamon rolls.’ He meant to stake out his kitchen but was deeply embarrassed when woke up the next morning without having stirred once. He was unacceptably out of condition if he couldn’t manage a measly single night awake.
His baking fairy had definitely visited. The stack of sticky buns on his counter smelled like heaven.
Bucky grabbed the plate and headed to Clint’s room. Clint didn’t answer his knock or the text he sent. “He in?” he demanded of JARVIS, who confirmed he was. “Wake him up or let me in.”
“You haven’t been granted access, Sergeant Barnes.”
“He hasn’t been granted access to my rooms but gets in anyhow, so either let me in for fair turn about or Imma let myself in.”
“Well, when you put it that way,” came the dry response, a tone that usually only appeared around Tony. “I am certain it was oversight on Agent Barton’s part not to reciprocate.”
“Yeah, oversight,” Bucky muttered, before tendering his thanks. It paid to remain on JARVIS’ good side.
Once he was in the apartment proper he could hear Clint snoring in the bedroom. He set the plate on the counter, got the coffee pot started and filled a large glass with water.
Clint’s bedroom was exactly the level of disaster Bucky was expecting, but he expertly dodged the junk and clothes littering the floor and made his way over to kick the foot of the mattress. Clint shoved up just enough to glare blearily at Bucky before collapsing back onto his stomach.
Bucky kicked the bed again, holding the glass out in front of him with a threatening waggle that Clint didn’t even turn his head to see. Bucky tried kicking the bed once more, this time closer to where Clint was determinedly burying his head in his pillow.
Bucky extended his hand out and tilted just far enough for a few drops to fall from the lip of the glass. Clint tensed when the cold water hit the back of his neck and growled, “You better fucking not,” without moving any further.
“Or what?” Bucky asked knowing full well Clint couldn't hear him, and gave the bed another kick. He decided he’d give Clint another ten seconds to cooperate. Right as he started to tip the glass again Clint rolled over to glare at him. He pulled the glass back and took a sip, feigning innocence.
“What do you want?” he demanded, grouchy.
Bucky gave him an unimpressed look and gestured toward the door with the glass, accidentally sloshing a bit on the floor.
“Go away, I’m not in the mood.”
“Get up anyway.”
Clint glared but Bucky wasn’t going to be cowed by a grumpy archer, and just stood there patiently until Clint huffed with irritation. “Fine.”
He threw the blankets off and stalked to his ensuite in only his boxers. Bucky retreated to the kitchen while Clint got himself pulled together enough to face the morning.
Clint looked slightly mollified when he saw the large mug of coffee sitting out for him.
Bucky waited until he’d polished off the first mug. “Heard ‘bout what happened. Weren’t your fault.”
“You think I don’t know that?” Clint snapped. “And I still ain’t gonna talk about it.”
“Don’t have to, that’s all I wanted to say. Eat these with me.”
Clint eyed him suspiciously but settled onto the barstool and shoved half a roll into his mouth. His eyes were half closed with pleasure while he chewed, icing smeared on his chin, and Bucky had to resist the urge to swipe it off with his thumb. Or his tongue.
He distracted himself from that thought by taking a bite out of his own roll. He didn’t bother to hide the moan and was pleased when Clint flushed. “These are really good,” he said between bites. “Like, damn. How’d you become such a whiz in the kitchen?”
“Told you, just picked it up here and there.”
“You want to quit super heroing and open a bakery I’ll back you,” Bucky told him, half serious.
“Nah. Won’t be any fun if it’s a job.”
“Fair.” He started on a second one and washed it down with coffee. “Tell me about our wedding trip.”
Clint choked on his cinnamon roll. Bucky moved to pound his back but was waved off as Clint recovered. He watched with amusement and Clint buried his bright red cheeks in his hands and struggled to get his air back enough to rasp, “What?”
“You still taking me to your brother’s wedding, ain’tcha?”
“I mean, yeah, I guess. You still want to do that?”
“Should be a nice break. Haven’t been to that area before. While I was me, anyway.”
“What, you were assassinating corn farmers?”
“All that farm land was great for hiding secret labs and genetic experimentation. Hydra had it’s fingers in a lot of pots.”
“Weird.”
Bucky shrugged and started on another roll. Half the plate was gone already.
“You want to drive it or fly? It’s a two day drive but then we don’t have to deal with a rental.”
“Or airports.”
“Sure you can put up with me in a small box for two days?”
“Four days with the return,” Bucky pointed out. “And when you put it that way… Yeah, I think it’d be fine.”
“Alright. Cool. I’ll book rooms.” Clint went to reach for second roll and saw the plate was empty. It was Bucky’s turn to blush as Clint roared with laughter.