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“Why the fuck can’t Stark run his own background checks,” Clint grumbled as he threw his car into park. He grabbed his belongings before hauling himself out of his seat and making his way across the parking lot. “Why the fuck do I have to go to the police just to get fingerprinted?”
If Natasha were here, she would slap him over the head and remind him that Stark’s government contracts meant they needed FBI approval before having full access. But screw Natasha and her logic -- this was a giant goddamn hassle and Clint reserved the right to whine about it.
He paused just inside the entrance, eyes shifting between the two counters in the lobby. To the left was a window with a sign that said “Civilian Affairs,” with an arrow pointing to a button labelled “Ring for Service.” In the center of the room was a large mahogany counter with three uniformed officers behind it. A captain’s badge was pinned to the chest of a large blond beefcake patiently explaining to a stooped older woman that no, he did not have the authority to confiscate her neighbor’s dog just because it barked all through the night. A woman with curly brown hair and pristine red lipstick barely repressed a smile as she stamped a form and handed it back over the counter. The third officer, a sergeant based on his badge, had long brown hair pulled back in a bun and the perfect hint of stubble that made Clint want to rub his face along that jawline like a goddamn cat.
Whelp.
Clint turned left and pressed the button for service. A woman in a flower blouse waddled into sight.
“Yes?”
“Hi, I’m here to be fingerprinted?”
“Other counter,” the woman said, and slowly made her way back to her desk.
The other counter. Great. Clint got into line behind a hipster who was loudly popping his gum. He fidgeted as he waited, watching as the county’s 10 Most Wanted played on a large plasma screen across the lobby. Number 2, wanted for strangulation and attempted murder, was distressingly attractive.
Get it the fuck together, Clint.
“Next.”
Clint tore his eyes away from the screen towards the officer who had spoken. It was tall, stubbly, and handsome. Of course. Clint groaned and shuffled up to the counter.
“How can I help you?” Clint’s eyes flickered downwards towards the man’s name tag. Sergeant Barnes .
“I need to get fingerprinted for a job,” Clint said, shoving the card across the counter towards Barnes.
“What kind of job?”
“Working security for Stark Industries. FBI needs to clear me for government projects.”
“You’re working for Stark. Interesting.” There was a distinct Brooklyn lilt in Barnes’s voice, and Clint had to stop himself from staring at his lips to see how they curled around every vowel. “Hey Steve, did you hear that? This guy’s got a connection to Stark!” The blond captain, still trying to talk down the old woman who was attempting to press charges against a Chihuahua, bristled at the words.
“I’m working, Sergeant Barnes,” Captain Beefcake said. “Why don’t you focus on your job?”
Barnes mumbled something under his breath, which Clint thought was, “Why would I want to do that?” But then again, his hearing aids were wonky at times, so he probably misheard.
“License and $20, please,” Barnes said.
“Wait, I have to pay you to take my fingerprints?”
“Yes.”
“That’s dumb.”
“...Yes.”
Clint began to rummage around in his pockets, pulling out his wallet to search for cash. Why the fuck did he have so many ones? Oh, right. Drag brunch.
He handed a thick stack of one dollar bills to Barnes, who raised an eyebrow. “Are you a...waiter?” Clint wanted to sink into the floor. Waiter was for sure not the way dude was planning on ending his sentence.
“It was for a --” drag show “--Fashion show?”
Barnes laughed, as if he totally bought Clint’s story. “Of course. Take a seat sir, there’s a few more people ahead of you.”
Clint went to sit down, his gaze fixed on the TV so he could avoid staring at Sergeant Jawline, who definitely thought he was a stripper. He had barely settled in the chair when someone called, “Mr. Barton?”
He stood up quickly and almost sank back down as a wave of dizziness hit him. “Yep?”
Sergeant Pretty Eyes motioned towards the counter. “Is this your stuff?”
“Oh. Yeah.” Clint wandered back to the counter to grab his keys, wallet, employee contract, and cell phone. He pocketed it all sheepishly.
“Just make yourself at home, why don’t you?” Sergeant Barnes smirked. “Steve, civilians are wrecking the precinct.”
“Sounds like a personal problem, Sergeant Barnes. And it’s Captain Rogers at work.”
“That was rude, Cap ,” Barnes said lightly. He turned back to Clint. “You can sit down again.”
Ten minutes passed, then fifteen. Finally Clint was called behind the counter. He walked around, hoping to find some administrative stooge standing next to stacks of paper and ink. Nope. Sergeant Barnes stood next to something that looked like a large fax machine or scanner.
“Stand here,” he instructed, pointing directly in front of the machine. Clint obliged. “Give me your hand.” Clint awkwardly held out his left hand. “Other hand.”
Sergeant Barnes grasped the back of Clint’s hand, folding down his thumb so all four fingers stood out. He pressed Clint’s fingers against the scanner. Then he gently unfolded Clint’s thumb and pressed down again. He repeated this with Clint’s left hand.
“Alright, I’m going to need each finger individually.” Sergeant Barnes grasped Clint’s right index finger and pressed the pad against the screen, rolling it back and forth. Clint’s scalp tingled at the opposing sensations of the Sergeant’s callused fingers and the smooth glass.
The screen flashed red. Rejected .
The sergeant repeated the motion, rolling Clint’s finger from left to right as the machine scanned his print. He licked his lips, brows furrowed as if he were trying to figure out exactly how Clint’s finger was trying to cheat the system.
Rejected .
Third time's the charm. They moved onto his right middle finger.
Rejected .
This was taking so much longer than it needed to. Clint wasn’t sure how much longer he could last with Sergeant Pretty Face touching his skin, licking his lips like that.
Rejected .
“I’m not sure my ego can take much more of this,” Clint said, breaking the silence.
Sergeant Barnes chuckled. “Not used to rejection, Mr. Barton?”
“No, the opposite. If I needed constant rejection I’d go to Jones'.” Real casual, Clint, sneaking the name of a gay bar in there. Smooth as gravel.
“I find that hard to believe.”
Accepted . “Ring finger.”
Clint’s blush deepened with every finger Sergeant Barnes grasped. When the last fingerprint was finally accepted, Clint yanked his hand away with so much force that Barnes raised an eyebrow.
“Um, do we have to re-do them with ink on my card?”
Sergeant Barnes looked like he was suppressing a smile. “No, we print them directly on the card. We have the technology.”
“Oh, okay. So can I go?”
“You need to wait for your card to print, then we need a few signatures.”
Clint lurked by the counter, twiddling his thumbs while Barnes stood by the printer. He glanced at his watch -- had he really only been here for 30 minutes? It felt like hours, at least. Weeks even.
Sergeant Barnes came over with the fingerprint card, sliding it across the counter to Clint. He handed over a pen. “Sign here, and here on your receipt.”
Clint quickly scribbled an illegible signature in the corner of the fingerprint card, then turned to leave.
“Wait! You need your license.”
“Oh. Right.” Clint reached for his license, blushing again when his fingers brushed Barnes’s. The sergeant grinned.
“Have a good afternoon, Mr. Barton.”
Clint rushed out the door, beelining for his car. He fumbled in his pocket for his keys, and saw the Sergeant’s pen in his hand. Great. Now he was a bumbling idiot and a pen thief. He dumped everything on the passenger seat, then rifled through to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything.
His license wasn’t there. Shit.
Clint searched through the pile again, then once more for good measure. He circled his car, then scoured the parking lot between him and the station. No license.
He threw his head back and groaned. He had absolutely no desire to show his face in the police station ever again. But he needed his fucking license.
Bumbling. Idiot.
Clint shuffled through the doors, hand rubbing the back of his neck. His gaze swept over the floor, looking for any sign of his license. Nowhere in sight. Shit.
“Can we help you? Again?” Sergeant Barnes looked way too amused about Clint coming back into the station.
“Uh, yeah. Has anyone brought my license back in?”
“No, last time I saw it was when I handed it to you. About thirty seconds ago.”
“Oh, okay. It must be in my car.” Clint shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Then he approached the desk and gently laid the pen on the counter. “I stole this. Accidentally. Well I didn’t steal it more just forgot to give it back --”
“Oh good,” Barnes said, outright smirking at Clint now. “Hey Steve, we can call of the search dogs for the pen thief, he turned himself in!”
“Stop bullying the civilians, Bucky!”
Sergeant Barnes -- Bucky -- shrugged. “Pen thieves deserve bullying.”
“Probably,” Clint said. “Well I’ll just, uh... keep looking outside for my license.”
“Good luck,” Bucky said, and the jerk had the audacity to wink at Clint.
Clint kept his eyes fixed on the ground as he wandered back to his car. He was sure there was some way he could be a bigger idiot, but damn if he could figure out how.
Light reflected off something under his car. Clint knelt to get a better look. His license sat under the very middle of the undercarriage, just out of his reach. He considered wedging himself under the car, but the thought of any of the officers catching him crawling in the dirt made him want to walk into the ocean.
“Fuck it, I’ll just back up,” Clint mumbled. He got in the car, holding the key extra long until the ignition caught. The engine finally rumbled to life, and he threw the car into the reverse. He backed up until he could see his license on the ground in front of him, then got out of the car to walk around the front.
Only to have his car come barreling towards him.
“Fuck!” Clint managed to leap out of the way, dodging the open door to keep from getting crushed by his own vehicle. Well, apparently this is how he could be an even bigger idiot; he had put his car in drive instead of park. The car continued to roll past him. While there was a curb ahead that might stop it, beyond that was a hill and a major, six-lane road. This looked bad.
“FUCK FUCK FUCK!” Clint sprinted after his car, catching up to the driver’s seat. He had no idea what to fucking do. Jump in? Surrender to his fate and assume the fetal position? In the end he opted for hopping on one foot and using the other to reach into the car and slam on the brake.
The car came to an abrupt stop, and even though it hadn’t been going all that fast, the tires screeched with the effort. The change in momentum caused the metal door frame to slam into the back of his shoulder.
“Fucking ow!” Keeping his foot on the brake, Clint reached in to shift the car into park.
“Sir? Are you okay?”
Aw, people, no.
Clint took a deep breath, steeling himself to face another human. He turned slowly, attempting to grin.
Oh fuck. It was Captain Beefcake and Sergeant Stubble.
Steve looked genuinely concerned, jogging across the pavement to place a hand on Clint’s shoulder. Bucky, on the other hand, was doubled over with laughter, leaning heavily against the building to keep himself upright. Clint’s grimace turned into a slight smile. He may be a total dumbass, but at least his existence was amusing.
“Yeah, I’m fine. Banged my shoulder a little.” Steve immediately took his hand off the offending body part. He looked at his hand, like he didn’t know what to do with it now that it couldn’t physically reassure Clint, then let it fall awkwardly by his side.
“I’m glad you’re fine. We saw everything through the window and thought for sure you were going to get bowled over.”
“Do you have any idea --” Peals of laughter. “How hard it is --” Choked, barely suppressed giggles. “To hit yourself with your own car?” Bucky pushed himself off the building and crossed the parking lot to join Clint and Steve. He had finally stopped laughing, but the dopey grin on his face and his shaking shoulders showed that he was barely keeping it together.
“It’s probably happened before, right?”
Steve offered him a small smile but shook his head. “I’ve never seen an accident report where an empty car ran over the driver.”
Clint buried his face in his hands. “Great.”
“What the fuck were you doing anyways?”
“Bucky! Language!”
Bucky glanced at his watch. “It’s after five, my shift’s over. I can talk however the hell I want.”
Steve sighed. “You’re great for the public image of the department.”
“I know, right?” He turned to Clint. “Seriously, how the hell did you manage that?”
“My license.”
“...We should take your license away?”
“No!” Clint looked up, alarmed. The smiles on Steve and Bucky’s faces hinted that they were probably joking. “My license was under my car, and I couldn’t reach it.”
Steve walked around the front and knelt down to reach under the car. He stood up, Clint’s license in hand. “Okay, so you backed up to get the license,” he said as he walked back towards Clint. “But your car didn’t keep rolling backwards.”
“No,” Clint muttered. “No, I must have put it into drive.”
“Why?” Bucky sounded mildly exasperated, which to be fair, is how most people who talked to Clint for any period of time ended up sounding.
“It’s muscle memory! You back out of a parking spot, you put your car into drive so you can get the hell out of dodge.”
Bucky was shaking his head, holding his forehead in his hands and looking like he was about to burst into laughter again. Steve smiled sympathetically.
“That’s understandable,” he said, and he must be a great liar because his voice sounded incredibly sincere. “Well, I’m glad you’re alright, sir. Unlike some people -- “ He shot a glare at Bucky, “-- my shift isn’t over. Have a good afternoon.”
Bucky didn't follow Steve back into the precinct. Instead he stood in front of Clint, that manic grin still fixed on his face.
“You sure you’re okay?”
“Physically fine. Mentally... probably fine. Besides wanting to melt into the ground because you witnessed me being a moron during my entire visit here.”
“Nah,” Bucky said. “I thought you were endearing.”
Clint stared at him. “Did you get hit by a car?”
Bucky laughed. “No, no I didn’t. Maybe I just have a thing for disaster blonds.”
“Are you allowed to hit on me? Can policemen do that?”
Bucky shrugged. “I told you I was off duty. Should I stop?”
“I think I could stand to hear a bit more.”
“So you’re getting a security job at Stark Industries, right?”
“Yeah, they recruited me from a private security firm,” Clint replied. “They want me to take over the division that protects Stark at public events.”
“Protect him from stuff like getting hit by cars?”
Asshole. “Cars, crazed stalkers, Latverian dictators.”
“Impressive,” Bucky said. “Well since we’re both in the business of protecting people, maybe we should go to Jones' and discuss things further. Exchange tips and what not?”
Clint gaped. “Sure, I’d love your tip. TIPS.” He buried his face in his hands again. Oh good, Bucky was laughing at him some more.
“Let’s start with a drink, then we’ll see how we’re feeling about exchanging tips .” There was an emphasis on the last word that made Clint think it was safe to look up. Sure enough, Bucky had a shit-eating grin on his face.
“Give me your phone,” Bucky said. Clint handed it over wordlessly. Bucky opened up the messaging app, raising an eyebrow when he saw the last text was from ‘Definitely Not Tony Stark’. He sent himself a text message, then handed Clint his phone back.
“Jones', tomorrow at 8?”
“Yeah,” Clint said, his voice faint. How the fuck had he managed to pull a date out of this mess? He cleared his throat. “Yeah,” he repeated, “That sounds great.”
Bucky smiled. “Text me.”
“Definitely.”
“You going to be able to get out of the parking lot okay?”
“Fuck off,” Clint said. He paled slightly when he realized he was talking to a cop. But Bucky wasn’t really a cop anymore, right? He was just a guy.
Bucky stepped closer to him, brought his mouth within inches of Clint’s ear. “Would rather fuck you.” Then he winked, turned on his heel, and strode back into the precinct whistling.
Clint got back in his car and sat for a full minute, unmoving.
What the fuck just happened?
Bucky leaned against the wall outside of Jones', scanning the line that was forming in front of the door. He knew the bouncer, so the line didn’t worry him, but the fact that Clint hadn’t shown up yet was a little distressing.
Steve had teased him mercilessly for picking up a guy at the station.
“It’s not like he came in for questioning or was charged with anything!” Bucky said. “He needed fingerprints for a background check. For a very prestigious job.”
“The guy nearly ran himself over with his own car.”
“I know,” Bucky sighed dreamily. “He’s perfect.”
“Sometimes I worry about you Buck.”
From the moment Clint had first texted him -- “You’re #1 on my Most Wanted list” -- Bucky was physically unable to put his phone down. Bucky had had Clint’s number for all of eighteen hours, but they had spent nearly every one of them, give or take a few for sleeping, texting each other. Bucky learned that not only was Clint a certified human disaster (although he admitted that yesterday was a bit extreme even for him), but a dog rescuer and self-proclaimed pizza connoisseur. Bucky, in turn, told him about how he was more of a cat person, but would beat him in a pizza eating contest any day of the week.
It was fifteen minutes passed their meeting time when Bucky felt his phone vibrating in his pocket. He pulled out his phone and saw Disaster Clint as the caller ID.
“If you’re calling to cancel our date after I’ve been waiting here for fifteen minutes, I’m calling the police,” Bucky said, not bothering to answer with a traditional greeting.
“You are the police,” Clint replied. He was definitely somewhere loud, but it didn’t sound like the typical noise of a Brooklyn street. Bucky’s stomach clenched. He was going to get stood up.
“I will call Steve on you.”
“He is pretty intimidating, would not want to be on the receiving end of that shovel talk. But no, I’m not calling to cancel. Well, not exactly.”
“Then what exactly are you calling to say?” Bucky’s voice was tight. Why the hell was he getting so worked up? He had known this guy less than a day, and he was sure most people would look back on missing a date with a human disaster as dodging a bullet. Bucky thought that he would probably look back on it as a missed opportunity.
“I’m in the ER.”
Bucky opened his mouth to tell Clint to fuck off, then remembered how Clint had nearly run himself over with his own car . Okay, so he definitely wasn’t getting stood up. “If you were anyone else, I would accuse you of blowing me off. But you’re you, and you’re -- “
“A human disaster, yeah,” Clinit finished. “I was really looking forward to our date, I promise. Can we reschedule for tomorrow?”
“What hospital are you in?”
“Saint Mary’s.”
“That’s only a block away from Jones'.”
“...I got injured on my way.”
“How the fuck did you get injured badly enough to require hospitalization a block away from the bar?”
Clint sighed. “I’ll tell you later, promise. Let me buy you dinner tomorrow?”
Upgrading from drinks to dinner was definitely raising the stakes in the dating game. Bucky was flattered, impressed that Clint was that committed to seeing him again.
But damn. Bucky really wanted to see Clint tonight. Partly to make sure he was okay, but partly because he knew yesterday’s parting words had left Clint flustered, and he was dying to know how Clint would react when he saw him.
“Bucky?”
“Dinner sounds great,” Bucky said. “But are you going to file a restraining order against me if I walk the 100 feet to Saint Mary’s and come see you?”
“You can if you want,” Clint said, his words tumbling out quickly. “But they just stuck me back in the room while the doctor looked at my x-rays.”
“X-rays? What the fuck did you do to yourself?”
“I’ll tell you when you get here. But they may not let you into the room.”
“Please, nurses love a man with a badge.”
“...You brought your badge on our date?”
“Of course. Had to impress you somehow.”
“I already knew you were a cop, dumbass.”
“Keep insulting me and I might not put out, Barton.”
“I already knew you were a cop, you handsome, handsome man.”
Bucky smiled into the phone. “That’s better. I’ll see you soon.”
He put on his best Don’t Fuck With Me glare, parting the crowd on the sidewalk so that he could reach the hospital quickly. It seriously was ridiculously close, what on Earth had Clint done to himself?
Bucky followed the signs towards the emergency room, wrinkling his nose as he entered the waiting area. The lobby was chaos, all crying children and coughing adults. One man at the nurses station was insisting that he didn’t need to see a doctor before getting some pain medications -- they had prescribed him opiates previously, they could just give him some more, right? Bucky almost intervened, but remembered that he was off duty and here on a mission. Besides, the nurse was more than handling herself.
He wandered down the hall towards what appeared to be the treatment area. He pulled out his phone, about to ask Clint where he was exactly when a hand on his arm stopped him.
“Excuse me, sir, you can’t be back here unless you’re with a patient.” The nurse’s voice was stern but kind. Bucky turned to look at her.
“I’m meeting someone --” Bucky said, glancing at her nametag. “-- Christi. He’s around here somewhere.” Christi seemed unaffected by the use of her name or the smile Bucky shot her way. Damn, was he losing his charm?
“Who are you looking for?”
“Clint Barton.”
“Are you family?”
“Unfortunately no,” Bucky said, reaching into his back pocket. He flipped open his badge, revealing the gold shield to the nurse. “I’m a cop. Just need to talk to Clint.”
Christi looked distinctly unimpressed by the badge. “Do you have a warrant?”
“Excuse me?”
“Do you have a warrant --” she squinted at the name on his badge, “-- Sergeant Barnes?”
“No, I just need to talk to him.”
“You’ll have to find Clint on your own time then, he’s here getting medical treatment.”
“I--”
“Nurse Christi!” Bucky and the nurse both turned down the hall, where Clint’s head was sticking out of a door. “Nurse Christi, hi!”
“Clint, so help me God, if you disconnected your IV again --”
“No, I’m still hooked up! Please let my dumbass boyfriend through, I need him to hold the hand that isn’t broken.”
Bucky wasn’t sure what took him longer to process, the fact that Clint referred to him as his boyfriend or that Clint had only one functioning hand. He quickly rearranged his open-mouth stare into what he hoped was a winning smile for Christi.
Christi raised an eyebrow. “He never said he was looking for his boyfriend, he just said he needed to talk to someone as a cop. Pulled out a fancy badge and everything.”
“Yeah, because he’s a dumbass. Please?”
Christi sighed, then motioned Bucky down the hall. “After you, Sergeant Boyfriend.”
“Thanks,” Bucky said. He gave Christi a genuine smile, which she returned, then strode towards the doorway from which Clint’s head was still protruding. “Get into your room, you jerk.” He ushered Clint in, motioning towards the bed. “You’re pulling on your IV lines.”
“Only because I needed to talk to Nurse Christi,” Clint said, climbing awkwardly onto the bed. One hand was wrapped in gauze and under an ice-pack. He looked up to meet Bucky’s eyes, and yes there was the blush Bucky had been hoping for.
He smirked, hoping to get Clint’s cheeks to flush further. “So I’m your boyfriend, huh?”
Bucky’s grin grew predatory as Clint’s face turned scarlet. He reached out to cup his cheek, and could feel the heat radiating off Clint’s skin. Clint leaned into the touch and smiled, eyes closed.
“Only said it because she wasn’t going to let you in.”
“You could have said I was a friend.”
“I’m on the good drugs?”
“Okay, I’ll give that one to you,” Bucky said. The hand on Clint’s cheek slid along his jawline. Bucky gently lifted Clint’s chin, forcing him to open his eyes and meet Bucky’s gaze. He pressed a soft kiss against Clint’s lips.
“What was that for?”
“Well usually I’ve kissed a guy before he starts calling me his boyfriend,” Bucky said. Clint ducked his head.
“You’re not gonna sic your police buddies on me for being a creep, right?”
“Nah,” Bucky replied. “Then I’d have to admit I abused my position as a cop to get into the hospital and see the guy I’m dating.”
“Such flagrant disrespect for your badge.”
“See? We both went a little over the top so I could get in here with you.”
“Yeah,” Clint said, smiling up at Bucky. “Yeah I guess we did.”
Bucky reached out to touch Clint’s bandaged hand, pulling back quickly when Clint hissed with pain. “What did you do to yourself, Clint?”
“I hurt my bones.”
“Your bones?”
“Yeah you should see,” Clint said, sounding a little too excited for comfort. “Nurse Christi!” He shouted, loud enough for Bucky to jerk away, cussing. “Nurse Christi I need you!”
A few seconds passed, then a very harassed-looking Christi appeared in the door. “Clinton Francis Barton, what did I tell you about yelling at me when I’m with other patients?”
“Did she just full name you?” Bucky whispered, shrinking away from the door slightly. Clint at least looked chagrined.
“That you’d smother me with a pillow so that you could pay attention to the people who aren’t here every other weekend.”
“Don’t make me murder you in front of your boyfriend.”
“Wait, why are you here so often?” Bucky asked, looking between Christi and Clint. It was becoming increasingly obvious that their rapport hadn’t just developed in the few hours Clint had been in the ER.
Christi narrowed her eyes. “How long have you been dating this mess?”
Right, Bucky was supposed to be Clint’s boyfriend and know all about his clusterfuck life. “Long enough to see him almost run himself over with his own car.”
Christi just nodded, like getting hit by his own car was just a typical Tuesday for Clint. “So then you know why he’s a constant pain in my ass. Okay, Clint. Why did you pull me away from a vomiting 12-year-old?”
“Because I love you and want you puke free?”
“Why else did you call me away?”
“Can you pull my x-ray up on the computer? I want to show Bucky my bones!”
“I’m sure he’s seen your bone plenty of times,” Christi muttered darkly. She ignored the twin looks of horror and embarrassment on Bucky and Clint’s faces, and made her way to the monitor on the far side of the room. She typed at a speed that made Bucky a little dizzy, then stepped away after an x-ray popped up on the screen.
“Your bones,” she announced, voice deadpan as she looked at Clint. She turned to leave, before stopping to point a finger at Bucky. “If he needs anything else, just let him suffer.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She smiled at Clint. “I like this one.” Then she was gone, off to help some poor spewing child.
Bucky gestured to the screen. “So, these are your bones.”
“Yeah, I broke five of them!”
Bucky whirled to face Clint. “What the actual fuck?”
Bucky began to protest as Clint pushed himself off the bed, then reached out to steady him as he leaned dangerously towards the side of his injured hand. He led Clint over to the monitor so that he could point at the fractures.
“See? Radius, ulna, two metacarpals, and my thumb!”
“How did you manage that a block away from the bar? You were literally one hundred feet from me.”
Clint rubbed the back of his neck and looked away. “I got distracted by a dog and tripped over my shoelace.”
“You broke your arm. In five places . Tripping over your shoelace?”
“It was a really cute dog!”
Bucky scrubbed a hand down his face. For someone who was about to be in charge of the security of one of the most public figures in New York, if not the country, Clint seemed to have very little awareness of his surroundings. “I’m sure it was.”
“It had a bow-tie.”
“Oh well, if it had a bow tie, then it was definitely worth all the broken bones. Man, is it always like this?” He regretted the question immediately, because Clint’s face fell.
“Um. Kind of? It’s usually not this extreme.”
“Clint --”
“No I get it, okay? Most people don’t reveal they’re a disaster until at least the fifth date --”
“Clint!”
“No one wants to start a relationship with someone who doesn’t have their shit together --”
Exasperated, Bucky did the only thing he could think of to get Clint to shut the hell up. He yanked Clint towards him, ignoring his yelp -- Of pain? Indignation? Whatever. -- and kissing him thoroughly. It took a moment for Clint to relax into the kiss and begin to move his lips against Bucky’s.
Bucky pulled Clint closer to him, and was feeling smug about the small whine that escaped Clint’s lips before Clint muttered, “My bones!” against Bucky’s mouth.
“Why can’t you just say your hand?” Bucky asked, pulling away.
“My bones is way more fun.”
“Clint, I wasn’t asking that as a judgement. I genuinely wanted to know.”
“Yeah, it makes sense, then you can make an informed decision about whether you actually want to go to dinner tomorrow --”
“Shut. Up.”
Clint’s teeth clacked together as he snapped his jaw shut. He wilted slightly under Bucky’s glare.
“I wanted to know if it was always like this,” Bucky said. “So that I could determine how much money I needed to set aside to bribe Christi with chocolate and flowers.”
“What?”
“Your roguish charm is only getting you so far, pal. You want real VIP treatment? Candy.”
“Are you, a Sergeant in the NYPD, encouraging me to bribe local medical professionals for preferential treatment?”
“Not at all,” Bucky replied. “I’m saying that I’ll bribe local medical professionals so you get preferential treatment.”
Clint’s grin was blinding, and Bucky felt his heart drum a ridiculous melody against his sternum.
“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me,” Clint said. He let Bucky guide him back towards the bed and yawned widely. “Drugs make me sleepy.”
“Rest,” Bucky said, pressing a quick kiss against Clint’s forehead. “I’ll go see if I can hunt down a doctor, get that hand taken care of.”
“Find someone to straighten out my bones,” Clint muttered, letting his head fall back against the pillow.
“Forget Christi, I’m going to smother you if you keep talking about your bones. This is not the context in which I want to think about bones.”
“What context do you want to think about?”
“Don’t be coy,” Bucky said. He leaned in for another quick kiss. He was so fucking screwed. “You know I’ve been thinking about boning you since yesterday.”
“Classy, Barnes,” Clint said, sounding offended, although the deep blush indicated otherwise. Bucky grinned, and wandered off to find a doctor.
By the time the doctor came in to cast Clint’s arm, Christi had already come to remove Clint’s IV and shove a bottle of prescription pain meds into his palm. Bucky held Clint’s uninjured hand and pressed kisses against his palm when the doctor manipulated his other wrist into the optimal position, then wrapped it with padding and plaster.
It was amazing, Bucky thought, that this absolute dork in a purple cast was the new head of Stark’s security team.
“Shit,” Bucky said. “Is being injured going to mess up your job?”
“Nah,” Clint said, pulling his hand from Bucky’s grasp just so he could wave it dismissively. He linked his fingers through Bucky’s again. “Stark knew exactly what he was getting into. Who do you think made my ears?” Clint used both of their hands to gesture to the purple hearing aids hanging over his ears.
“Uh,” Bucky mumbled, and now it was his turn to blush. “I didn’t notice you had hearing aids.”
“Oh,” Clint said, then shrugged. “I guess there has been a lot going on since we met.”
“I’m a cop. Who was standing next to you taking your fingerprints for like twenty minutes.”
“So?”
“So, if you weren't so fucking hot I would have been way more observant.”
Clint grinned. “Aw, you think I’m hot?”
“Shut up,” Bucky groaned. “But seriously, this won’t affect your new position?”
“It’s mostly about coordinating everyone else,” Clint said. “Unlike you, I have amazing observational skills. Also, do you see how heavy this thing is? It’s totally perfect for bludgeoning security threats in the face.”
“No using your cast as a weapon!” A voice called from the hall. Bucky looked over his shoulder to see a blur of blue scrubs that could only be Christi booking it to some other emergency.
“She just wants to ruin all my fun.”
“C’mon, let’s get out of here.” Laughing, Bucky helped Clint to his feet, then led him out of the hospital. “Do you need me to call you a cab?”
“Nope,” Clint said, popping the ‘p’. “I live super close.”
“I’ll walk you home then.”
They were quiet most of the walk to Clint’s building, not saying a word as Clint entered the code and shuffled down the hall to his apartment. Without warning, Clint pushed Bucky against the wall, pressing the length of his body against Bucky’s as he claimed his mouth with a searing kiss.
“Want to come in and meet my dog?” Clint murmured against his lips.
Bucky laughed. “Does that line work on the guys you bring home, Barton?”
Clint smiled and kissed Bucky again. “Most of them.”
Bucky pretended to think about it. “What’s your dog’s name?”
“Lucky.”
“Well,” Bucky said. “Unfortunately you are incredibly drugged, so neither of us will be getting lucky tonight. I’ll see you tomorrow for our date, okay?”
Clint sighed. “Yeah, okay. You better put out, though.”
“Classy.” One kiss devolved into three before Bucky was finally able to get away. “Goodnight, Clint.”
Clint let himself into his apartment, turning to wave at Bucky before closing the door behind him. Bucky couldn’t stop himself from touching his lips, remember how Clint felt, tasted.
He smiled the entire way home.
“Here.” Bucky waited until Clint has settled at their table, then handed him a carefully wrapped present.
“You got me a gift? For our first date?”
“Second,” Bucky corrected. “And no, I didn’t. It’s for Lucky.”
“You... got my dog a present?”
“Yeah? Is that okay?”
“Definitely,” Clint whispered. “It’s more than okay, thank you.” Clint stared down at the box in his hand. For a moment Bucky was terrified that he had made some sort of mistake, because there was a maelstrom of emotions playing across Clint’s face. Then Clint cleared his throat and frowned down at his broken hand which was carefully wrapped against his chest. “I don’t think I can unwrap this.”
“Oh, right!” Bucky took the present back, then slid his finger carefully under the tape.
“No, you’re doing it wrong!”
“What?”
“It’s my present, I’m living vicariously through you. You gotta tear into it, just rip that shit apart.”
“It’s technically Lucky’s.”
“Yeah, and he opens his present with his teeth .”
“Well, I’m not doing that.” Bucky dug his fingers into the paper and pulled, making a show of ripping the paper off of the box.
“Awesome. Take the lid off and give it to me!”
“You’re very demanding.”
Clint pouted. “I’m injured.”
Bucky rolled his eyes. “You’re going to milk that for all it’s worth, aren’t you?”
“ Five of my bones, Bucky. Five!”
“So I heard.” Bucky lifted the lid, then handed the rest of the box across the table to Clint.
“It’s a bow tie.” A smile slowly spread across Clint’s face, smooth as oil on water. “Just like the dog yesterday.” He handed the box back to Bucky, who accepted it with a grin.
“I was thinking,” Bucky said. “That if you got used to seeing Lucky in a bow tie, then maybe you wouldn’t trip over yourself the next time you saw a fancy dog.”
“Aw, are you worried about me?”
“Let’s just say I have a vested interest in your bones staying where they are,” Bucky said. He brought Clint’s hand to his lips, pressed a kiss against his knuckles. “Well, I can think of one bone I want somewhere else.”
“Do you talk to all the civilians like that, Sergeant Barnes?”
“Only the ones who turn themselves in for stealing my pen.”
Clint’s smile was brilliant, his laughter contagious. Watching him, Bucky could tell this was the start of something new, something exciting. If he weren’t terrified to admit it, he would say it was the start of something life-changing.
He could feel it in his bones.