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Bucky pads down the corridor in the tower, barefoot and hair dripping into his eyes. He’s carrying a bundle of clothing that he’s hoping he can sneak into the nearest laundry pile on his way out of the tower – he’s exhausted after missions enough that he sleeps here maybe once a week, so it’ll be good to have some fresh clothes around. He’s even kinda claimed one of the guest suites, one of the empty ones on Barton’s floor, since the guy never seems to be around much to use them.
Speaking of, Bucky dumps his clothes in with Barton’s, and finds the man himself in the communal kitchen area. He’s sitting on the counter with his feet resting on a stool, happily munching on some kinda brightly colored cereal and listening to Tony rant about Reed Richards. Every time Bucky catches Clint somewhere in the Tower he seems to be eating, and he’ll admit he’s got his concerns – do SHIELD even actually pay the guy?
“Hey Robocop,” Tony eventually winds down his rant enough to say. “Have you moved in without me noticing? I thought you were bunking with the Capsicle in Brooklyn.”
Bucky shrugs one shoulder, deciding to follow Clint’s example and grab something from Tony’s overstocked kitchen. He grabs a packet of Poptarts out of the cupboard, ignoring the parchment attached to the box that glows faintly gold. Pray you are worthy, mortal, it says, before you lay hands on this snack food of Thor’s. Bucky sure as hell ain’t anything like worthy, but he figures if it comes to it he can always blame Steve.
He tosses the poptarts in the toaster and grabs a bottle of milk from the refrigerator, taking a swig right from the bottle. Tony makes a disgusted noise; Clint holds his hand up for a high five.
“Steve’s shower’s busted,” Bucky eventually answers, wiping his sleeve across his mouth and putting the milk back in the refrigerator door. “I figured you wouldn’t mind me using one of the dozen you got, Stark.”
Tony snorts, probably at the possibility that he could ever have so few showers, and Clint cocks his head, suddenly interested. Bucky’s not often the subject of his laser focus, and he notices irrelevantly that the guy’s eyes are seriously freaking blue.
“What kind of busted?” Clint asks, a half-full spoon of brightly colored loops dribbling unregarded back into his bowl. “Are we talking flow rate, heat, leaking…?”
“Why are you asking?” Bucky asks, confused.
“Hey, I’m great at showers,” Clint says, and Tony busts out laughing right off.
“Sure, Barton,” he says, his tone full of amusement, “you’re a regular plumbing miracle. I’m pretty sure you’d knock yourself out in a shower before managing to fix anything.”
Clint ducks his head, smiling lopsided at the floor, and lifts his hand to rub the back of his neck, an uncomfortable two-step that Bucky’s kinda surprised to notice he’s recognised, that it’s somehow familiar to him.
“Tell Rogers I’ll take a look at it when I’ve got a second,” Tony continues, dismissive, and Bucky kinda glares at him a little before getting distracted by the toaster popping up. He grabs his snack, balancing the hot pastries on the palm of his metal hand, and heads over to where he left his sneakers.
“Hey,” he says to Clint on his way past, “you coming?”
Clint kinda blinks at him for a second, looking dopey as hell with his big blue eyes.
“Coming?”
“Shower,” Bucky says, pointed, and the grin Clint shoots him is the kind of unexpected gut-punch beautiful that actually almost knocks Bucky back.
“Right,” Clint says, and hops off the counter, leaving his cereal bowl on the counter like a heathen. “I’m great at showers.”
“You know, I heard that.” Bucky offers a grin of his own, and Clint hunches his shoulders a little, shoves his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants and grins at the floor.
The elevator ride is a strange kind of comfortable. They lean in separate corners and don’t bother making conversation, but Bucky’d usually be more on edge at this point. He figures his hind-brain has got used enough to Clint watching his back now that it’s willing to trust him even without a bow in his hand. And it’s not like Bucky wouldn’t; he’s seen the guy fight.
It takes them a little while to get a cab, and when they do there’s a puddle on one of the seats. The driver insists it’s only water, and it’s hot enough outside that Bucky’s not willing to wait for another, but it gets him Clint close up against his side, a long line of heat against him, and Bucky has to concentrate to stop his foot from tapping and giving him away. He opens the cab window instead and turns his face into the wash of hot traffic-scented air like it’s a cool fresh breeze. The cars are all backed up and their progress is painfully slow; Clint sings along low and crooning with something on the radio, and it’s another layer of awareness that Bucky seriously doesn’t need. It’s starting to feel a lot like he’s been missing something here, something that tugs at his belly and the inside of his chest.
They eventually pull up in front of the apartment building and Bucky hauls himself out of the back seat like his ass is on fire, pulling out his wallet and tipping the cab driver enough to make his 1940s heart quail a little in his chest. Clint clambers out a little more slowly, stretching himself out when he hits the sidewalk and leaning back against the baking brick of Bucky’s building. He tips his head back and basks in the afternoon sunlight, eyelashes resting against lightly freckled cheeks, and it takes Bucky a second before he remembers to fumble out his keys.
Inside, the lobby is cool and dim. Clint’s bright purple Converse squeak a little on the tiles. Of all the fuckin’ things, this is what catches in Bucky’s gut; he feels, all of a sudden, like he’s bringing someone home after a date, and it’s queer as hell how that works for him. He’s got years and people and places entirely gone, and yet he can remember this sick nervous feeling like he’s twenty years old again and trying to sneak Barb Morrison past the old lady downstairs. He rolls his eyes at himself and leads Clint up the stairs, two flights up and through their battered door, hollering for Steve as he dumps his keys on the phone table.
Steve ducks his head through the window to the fire escape, grinning as he sees Clint behind Bucky’s shoulder.
“Hey, Clint,” he says, and swings his legs over the sill. They leave the window open most of the year, ‘cos air-conditioning’s a luxury and what’ve they got to steal? Plus the sound of traffic outside, of horns blaring and distinctly Brooklyn swearing, it anchors Bucky on bad nights.
“Hey, Cap,” Clint says, “I hear you’re having problems with your shower.”
Steve frowns, looking kind of confused. “I – wasn’t aware you were a handyman,” he says, and the doubt in his voice puts the glare back on Bucky’s face, partly for the second person doubting Clint’s abilities, and partly for the crooked grin on Clint’s face that says he doesn’t blame them.
“I’m kind of a landlord,” Clint says, awkward, “had to find my way around a wrench.” He looks at Bucky and his grin kinda firms up a little. “You got some tools I can use?”
So it turns out that Bucky didn’t exactly think this through. See, he’s a guy with one arm, and even with the metal prosthesis there are accommodations that have to be made. He’s got a leather tool belt that Clint is seriously delighted by, that he slings around his hips straight off, and the weight of it tugs his sweatpants down a little. Not much, but enough that his shirt doesn’t quite meet his pants, enough that there’s a slight glimpse of a line of golden hair that has Bucky’s tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth.
He’s honestly confused how he hasn’t noticed this before. Objectively, sure, he’s noticed Barton’s attractive; he’d challenge anyone not to notice his damn arms. But this more specific focus, this attention that’s caught and he’s finding tough to drag away, that’s something that’s new – and something that Steve has noticed, if his smirk is any indication. Bucky shoots him a glare that has him choking on a laugh, and Clint smiles along even if he looks a little lost.
“Bathroom?” he says, after a second, and Bucky nods, his shoulders tight, and leads him through to the hallway off the lounge. He grabs his bedroom door and hauls it shut on his way past, and Clint kinda flinches at the slam.
The bathroom has frosted glass panels set into the door, letting some light through into the hallway; the window is huge and has a slatted blind across it after Steve realised how much the lady in the next building had been staring. Everything’s black and white and scrubbed to a high shine, but there’s a pool of rusty water sitting under the shower head, and the gentle tap of dripping water breaks the silence.
“Did I piss you off?” Clint asks, uncertain, and Bucky looks at him, startled.
“Doing what?”
“That’s what I’m asking,” Clint says. “You seem kinda tense.”
“And you assume that’s you?”
“Pretty much always,” he answers, with a rueful grin. He toes off his sneakers and sets them down outside the bathroom door, and the hole in his left sock is doing ridiculous things to Bucky’s heart and seriously, this is becoming a worse idea by the second.
“I’m fine,” Bucky says, shortly, and Clint gives him a dubious look before climbing into the bathtub, bicep stretching out the tight sleeve of his shirt as he reaches up to feel around the base of the shower head. “And I’m – getting coffee,” Bucky adds, turning on his heel and heading for the door.
“Sure,” he hears behind him. “Fine.”
Steve is out on the fire escape again, sketchbook resting on his hitched up knees, but he swings himself inside at the sound of Bucky gently beating his head against the refrigerator. He puts his hand in the way and cups Bucky’s forehead when he just lets his head rest there, whimpering faintly under his breath as Steve’s thumb brushes at his hairline.
“Aaw, Buck,” Steve says, and the gentle amusement in his voice is honestly a little hard to take.
“Did you know I have a thing for Barton?” he asks, pathetically.
“Yup.”
“Ever think about maybe telling me?”
“You’ve been staring at him whenever he’s not looking for a solid month now. I kinda figured you knew.”
Bucky sighs and rolls his head back and forth against the palm of Steve’s hand, denial and confusion in one.
“Apparently,” he says, “I’m a fuckin’ idiot.”
“Well that one,” Steve answers drily, “I knew.”
“Punk,” Bucky says, and pushes himself upright, leaning over to flick a switch on their coffee-maker. Steve’s got his earnest face on, opens his mouth to say something sappy and stupid, and Bucky holds up his finger.
“Tony,” he says, warning, and Steve flushes pink and closes his mouth again.
“You’re right,” he says after a second. “Good talk.” And he ducks out onto the fire escape again, burying his blush in his sketchbook that is filled with studies of skilled hands and dark hair.
Bucky pours two coffees and is just about to head into the bathroom with them when Clint appears in the doorway, his shirt now bearing a large wet patch and clinging to his skin.
“Just needed a new rubber -“ he says, but trails off as Bucky puts the mugs down hard, pushes a hand through his hair.
“Are you freaking kidding me?”
“What?” Clint asks, backing up a couple steps as Bucky advances on him, his eyes intent on the gleaming droplet of water that’s making its slow way down Clint’s neck. Clint stops when he hits the wall, eyes confused but unafraid, and Bucky gently reaches up to trace the line the water has taken with his fingertip, feeling Clint swallow hard against his skin.
“I swear to god you’re gonna be the death of me, Barton,” he says, low and soft.
“Hey, who’s touching who here?” Clint fires back, his mouth curling up and his blue eyes dark.
“I’m all for making it mutual,” Bucky says, “just say the-“
Clint cuts him off with his mouth, pressing forward against him like Bucky’s not the only one that’s been looking, that’s been wanting. One hand rests on Bucky’s hip and the other slides into the hair at the nape of his neck, taking a firm handful and making Bucky groan low in his throat as Clint smiles against his lips.