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“Bucky,” Clint whines. “Bucky, ‘m drunk.”
“I’d never have guessed,” Bucky answers dryly.
Clint drapes himself a little more securely over Bucky’s lap. He’s heavy and deliciously warm, and it’s an effort for Bucky to keep his expression down to an amused little curve of his lips. Subtle is the key here, or he’s never going to hear the end of it. Clint’s forehead knocks up against his collarbone and Bucky catches his hips and steadies him, carefully doesn’t react when his fingers hit warm skin. Clint doesn’t seem to have noticed or cared that his shirt’s ridden up.
It's kind of cute, how - cuddly? Is that the word - he gets when he's drunk.
Bucky inhales, scrunches his nose up when he catches a whiff. “Fuck, did you just drink one of everything?”
“More like two,” Clint answers cheerfully, without the slightest bit of remorse. He smells like he’s been swimming in the stuff. Bucky would be worrying about alcohol poisoning if he hadn’t seen Clint do this every time they somehow escape the clutches of death. Even if he hadn’t, he’s fairly sure that alcohol isn’t what’s going to kill Clint Barton.
Bucky, on the other hand.
“Wanda and I tied at darts,” Clint informs him, sitting up enough that his lips brush Bucky’s ear. His hands are splayed over Bucky’s chest under his unzipped leather jacket, and it feels faintly possessive even though Bucky knows it wouldn’t be happening if Clint was sober.
“Wanda was cheating,” he answers rather than going down that avenue. He’s making the choice to just enjoy the night while it lasts, take advantage of the way Clint’s sitting on his thighs and pressing up close. “If she didn’t use her powers then you’d win every time.”
“Aw,” Clint says, sounds pleased. “You’re my favourite, Buck.”
“Sure,” Bucky agrees. He’s pretty sure he isn’t, because he only gets this when Natasha is away on a mission, when Wanda would rather hug Vision close and Bruce isn’t feeling cuddly, but he’ll take it. It happens more than he expects it to. Being the last resort is something, at least.
“I can feel you thinking,” Clint mutters, and his breath is hot on Bucky’s skin. “Sounds painful.”
“Sometimes it is,” Bucky allows, because it’s not like Clint will remember this in the morning. Sometimes his chest aches a little too hard to ignore, and he’s got to tighten his grip on Clint because Bucky’s scared he’ll be there and gone again within the space of a blink. That this might be a fluke, or it might never happen again and he’ll be forced to go back and hide out on Steve’s couch and pretend he doesn’t have a crush the size of the sun.
But luckily Clint can’t read his mind, so it’s safe.
Bucky glances over at the clock, then around the room.
It’s late enough that the bartender is cleaning up for the night. Morning. Whatever. The place was rented out by Tony so they didn’t have to deal with the public, so there’s just Wanda and Vision talking in low voices in the corner and then Steve looking absently at his phone. Bucky feels a little sorry for him. It must be rough, having your girlfriend and your boyfriend out on a mission while you’re stuck in the Tower.
Then again, at least Steve has a relationship. Bucky’s not sure if it counts as one relationship or two, he doesn’t really want to ask. Knowing about Steve or Sam’s sex life is disgusting, and even the idea of Natasha’s is terrifying.
That’s probably what had started this thing, with the two of them. Looking after Clint isn't a hardship, in any case.
Bucky gets it. He wishes he could still get drunk too. Clint makes it look pretty entertaining.
“They have shots with edible glitter in them,” Clint says absently. “D’you think maybe-”
“Nope, that’s it, you’re cut off,” Bucky interrupts. “You can have water and that’s it, Barton. I don’t care if there’s glitter.”
Clint makes a disgruntled noise in his ear instead of responding verbally. Bucky doesn’t budge an inch. In this situation, he’s supposed to be the responsible one. No matter how sure he is that Clint won’t die of alcohol poisoning, it’s not sure enough for any more shots. He waves a hand to catch Steve’s attention, points to Clint’s mess of bedhair and then the exit. Steve’s used to this routine by now, so he just nods acknowledgement and then goes back to his phone.
“Alright, time for bed,” he orders, and Clint squirms closer than Bucky would’ve thought was even possible, fists his hands in Bucky’s shirt. He doesn’t say anything, though, just breathes, and Bucky sighs like this entire thing is a hardship to cover up the warmth bubbling in his chest. “Can’t walk?”
“I could,” Clint answers, but it’s not confident enough for Bucky to take him up on it.
“Hold on,” is all the warning he gives. They’re both familiar enough with the routine by now that it’s all that’s needed before Bucky gets his arms under the curve of Clint’s ass and stands up. Clint wraps around him enough that he’s secure and presses his nose against Bucky’s neck.
The bartender gives them a funny look as the Winter Soldier heads towards the exit with Hawkeye clinging to him like an oversized koala and yeah, maybe it does look weird from an outside perspective. Bucky just ignores them and starts to walk the two streets to Clint’s apartment, quietly wishes the bar was further away. The only noise that breaks the silence is the cars passing by, and the faint rasp of Clint’s breath in his ear.
“You got your keys?”
“Left pocket,” Clint mumbles, sounds like he’s half-asleep already. For all the muscle packed in on his body, he feels soft like this, pressed up tight with his thighs wrapped around Bucky’s hips. Bucky stops at the door with the H on it, shifts Clint’s weight onto just his left arm as he pats around for the keys.
“’s so hot you can do that,” Clint adds, and Bucky thinks maybe he heard that wrong. He continues with his search, tries not to think about how it means he’s patting Clint’s ass. The keys are pretty deep down in the pocket and he nearly overbalances and drops his armful of drunk Clint Barton trying to get them out.
There’s a Winter Soldier charm on them. Kate’s doing, probably. He wouldn’t even begin to dare think that Clint had put it on there himself. Bucky gets the keys in the lock with some difficulty and then nudges it open with a boot. Clint makes a displeased noise when he’s dropped onto messy grey sheets. Bucky doesn’t react for a second, too busy taking in the view.
He tries not to, normally. There’s a glance or two when they’re fighting or on the range, when he can see the curve of muscle and the sharp concentration in those blue eyes. It’s extremely distracting but ultimately worth it, because Clint shooting is almost pornographic. Otherwise he keeps his eyes off, looks at someone else when it’s a group conversation and stares over Clint’s shoulder when it isn’t.
Here, though, he doesn’t have to.
No one’s watching where he’s looking, least of all Clint, who’s sprawled out lazy and soft on the mattress. He’s kind of stupidly beautiful, even though he smells like forty different kinds of alcohol all at once. The shirt’s ridden up his stomach and Bucky gets to look at the muscles there as well as his biceps. Mostly, though, he likes looking at Clint’s face, the little curve of a smile on his lips, the freckles he can’t actually see in the shitty lighting from the streetlamp outside.
Clint shifts and Bucky averts his eyes immediately, walks to the bathroom. There’s a glass he keeps there for these situations and a pack of aspirin, and he fills it automatically. He catches the eye of his own reflection. The Bucky in the mirror looks a little guilty, like he feels bad about his current life choices. He probably should be. The Bucky on this side goes back to Clint.
He sits the water down on the beside table and because he’s weak, he looks again. Clint’s lashes are dark against his face, and there’s a high chance he’d already had a few of those glitter shots because there’s some smeared on his lips. Bucky doesn’t realise he’s moving in to wipe it off until his fingers are an inch away from Clint’s face.
He freezes. That’s crossing a line. He doesn’t- he can’t just- especially when Clint is fucking unconscious-
“Don’t you get tired of this?”
Bucky sees Clint’s lips move, but he doesn’t really register the words. “What?”
“You know what I’m talking about,” Clint answers without opening his eyes. He sounds tired and strangely lucid. Bucky doesn’t move an inch, the fear ice-cold in his veins. “This thing where I get stupidly drunk just so you’ll take pity and touch me. This thing where you pretend you don’t like it.”
Bucky always complains about the people who see Clint’s softness, his status as the more human Avenger and think there’s nothing else underneath. He’s chewed interviewers out for questioning Clint’s place on the team. Hell, he’s defended Clint’s place on the team to Clint himself. All of that, and he’s still managed to fatally underestimate how much Clint Barton sees.
“You think it’s pity?” is what he says.
Clint blinks his eyes open and Bucky misses the sunlight, because then he can see the colour of his irises properly. “I don’t know what you think,” Clint answers with a wry little smile. “We never talk about it.”
“Do you.” Bucky pulls his hand away when he realizes he’s still reaching out. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“Maybe? I don’t know. I‘m a little ineb- inebber- too many shots. In the morning?”
Bucky’s stomach flips. He doesn’t even know what Clint wants to say. Whether he wants to stop this completely or if he wants to shout about Bucky’s stares and the urge to touch, always to touch him. The problem is, even if that is what Clint wants, Bucky will give it to him. “Okay.”
He turns around, prepares to go. Steve will be around somewhere still, they can head back to the Tower together. Clint normally gets up when midday is approaching, so he’s got at least seven hours to burn before he can text and they can decide where to meet up. Instead, he’s pulled short because of the fingers grabbing onto the edge of his jacket.
“Get in the damn bed, Barnes,” Clint says. “Or I’ll puke on your shoes.”
“Attractive,” Bucky comments dryly, over the frantic beat of his heart. “You’re a real charmer, Barton.”
Despite the sarcasm, he still slides his jacket off, kicks off his shoes and then helps Clint get his, lingers a little with his thumb on one bare ankle. He still gets the hearing aids and sets them on the bedside table beside the aspirin, careful. He still rolls into the space Clint leaves him and tries not to smile too hard when Clint throws a leg over him and splays his fingers out on Bucky’s chest the way he had in the bar, and here it feels even more casually possessive.
Clint presses an absent kiss against the metal of his shoulder where he can barely feel it. It’s dumb. He’s being stupid. There’s no way this can possibly feel as right as he thinks it does. Bucky’s not sure if he wants to burst into tears or laughter.
He doesn’t do either.
He might just be grinning at the ceiling, though.