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“Barton,” Bucky says, frustrated. “Get your ass back here, you stubborn asshole.”
He watches as Clint winks at him before the elevator doors close, and then lets out an exasperated sigh. Steve claps a hand on his shoulder briefly in a half-hearted attempt at comfort and then shifts away to talk to the medical staff milling around the common room. They’d defeated Madame Masque with a broken arm from Tony, a few nasty burns on Sam from where he’d been too close to an exploding computer, and pretty bad bruising from the rest of them. That’s what the doctors have managed to find, at least, because Clint was being absurdly wriggly when it came to being properly examined. And Bucky was more than certain he’d heard something crunch when Clint had hit that brick wall.
He lets the nervous-looking nurse inspect and disinfect a cut on his cheek, informing her that it’ll heal soon anyway, and waits for Clint to come back.
He doesn’t come back.
Bucky’s eyes slide over to Natasha when she sits herself next to him on the couch, neatly folding her arms. There’s a nasty-looking bump on her knee where she’d smacked it into Madame Masque’s chin, but Bucky figures Madame Masque had come out of it worse, even with Natasha in that uncomfortably short black dress, so it’s a win for them. It bothers him that even the Black Widow, with her trust issues and layers of personality, allows Stark’s mass of medical staff to look her over, and yet her partner won’t. Clint plays at being dumb, but even he should know it’s beyond stupid to pass up free doctors. Bucky sighs and slumps down further on the couch.
“You’re worse than Steve, and he’s one of the biggest mother hens I know,” Natasha informs him.
“Who d’you think had to watch Steve when he was getting into shit? I aged like, a hundred fuckin’ years running around after him. I should be two hundred,” he answers.
She’s not wrong, because he does have a tendency to fuss a little, but after being an emotionless robot for seventy years he’s entitled to care a little too much about his teammates. Even if he does mainly just fuss over Clint. Because Clint Barton is a complete disaster under those long eyelashes and blue eyes and that uncomfortably attractive smirk. And those biceps. God. If Bucky hadn’t been queer before the war, Clint definitely would’ve swung him over to that side. It helps that their personalities mesh so well, too, although Steve doesn’t seem impressed with the idea of two snarky snipers watching his back.
Natasha flicks something into his lap and he looks down to see a packet of the coffee beans Clint likes. He looks up at her face, which doesn’t give anything away, and then wonders how easy he is to read. Then again, it is Natasha, and she could probably tell he was going to go annoy Clint anyway, so the bribe is a good idea. He tucks it into the pocket of his jacket and gives her a quick smile of thanks before he gets up. Clint’s floor should have any first-aid equipment he’ll need, so he doesn’t bother to grab anything else. Tony waves a goodbye at him as he heads for the stairs and Bucky ignores him.
He’s not really sure whether Clint appreciates his advances or not, to be honest- the guy flirts back, most of the time, and when Bucky does something like giving him the last slice of pizza he gets this look on his face that makes Bucky’s heart feel too big in his chest. But. They haven’t actually talked about it yet, and they haven’t even kissed, so Bucky’s not entirely sure where he stands. He should probably get around to asking Clint one day.
Bucky arrives at Clint’s floor and wonders if there’s supposed to be an arrow sticking out of the door. Knowing Clint, it probably is. He pushes open the door and glances around, but there’s no sign of the blond in the main area. Maybe he’s snuck out- but he can’t have gone far, not in the condition he was in. Bucky’s almost certain something was broken, if not several somethings. He glances around and sees Clint’s vest thrown on an armchair, and his boots on the floor. Yep, definitely here. He approaches the bedroom door and hears muffled swearing, bites back a snort. What’s his thing with blonds who can’t take proper care of themselves, honestly?
He nudges the bedroom door open and is greeted with the sight of Clint sprawled out on the rumpled sheets, looking even more rumpled himself. What Bucky doesn’t get is the spandex-looking thing that’s half-on Clint’s upper body, half-twisted in his arms. It looks like a tank top, but uncomfortably tight, and from the way Clint’s face is scrunched up with near-agony, it’s not doing him any favours. Bucky sets the coffee beans down on a bench and takes a step inside the room. Clint’s too busy wriggling around and hissing in pain to notice him.
“Need some help?”
Clint twitches, and then peers up at him. Bucky can see the hard curve of his stomach. It’s- it’s a nice stomach, but he’s not supposed to be ogling, he’s supposed to be helping.
“I think my ribs are cracked,” Clint says conversationally, although Bucky can hear the pain underneath it.
“Whatever this is, it’s probably not helping. Pressure on cracked ribs is bad,” Bucky answers, reaching forward to brush his metal fingers against the edge of the top. “Looks uncomfortable.”
“It is uncomfortable, Buckaroo,” Clint replies through gritted teeth.
Bucky watches with some trepidation as the blond arches up off the bed, twisting this way and that like he’s trying to get it off. It’s completely futile. The thing doesn’t budge, apart from where the thinner material’s ridden up his stomach. With what probably are indeed cracked ribs, it’s looking impossible. Clint lets out a pained whine and flops back down on the bed, looking pale and worn-out. Bucky flicks out the knife he keeps in the waistband of his pants. Clint’s eyes flick to it, then back up at Bucky with something close to resignation, and he sits up and offers his side so Bucky can cut it off of him.
“What’s it for?”
He gets the feeling this is a question Clint probably doesn’t want to answer the question, but running around in something this constricting can’t be good for him even normally, and with cracked ribs it’s even worse. It vaguely reminds Bucky of his Hydra outfit, but even that wasn’t this uncomfortable. Clint looks around and sighs with displeasure at where his tac vest and undershirt is visible from the doorway. He glances up at Bucky again, looking uncharacteristically uncomfortable. Bucky finds the bottom of the top and feels around for a join in the fabric.
“It’s a binder,” Clint says finally. He looks upset- his lips are curved up in some semblance of a smile, but the look in his eyes says something else entirely. “Compression vest.”
Bucky doesn’t really know what either of those things mean, so he cuts the seam of the binder instead and starts gently working his way up Clint’s ribs, being careful not to nick skin along the way. His knuckles brush along Clint’s warm skin and he wonders if he’s overstepping boundaries, because Clint looks down at the floor and huffs out a breath through his nose like he’s stressed. It doesn’t actually seem directed at him, though, so he keeps working on slicing up the binder. It takes a few long seconds before Clint actually says anything else.
“Remember when Tony sat you and Steve and Thor down and started that god-awful PowerPoint Presentation about queer people?”
Bucky snorts. “Did he think that they just fuckin’ appeared out of nowhere after the war? Honestly. I nearly shot his computer. Steve liked it.”
“Steve was in the middle of a gay panic then,” Clint answers dismissively. “He kept bugging me about bisexuality for weeks. Anyway, that’s not the point. Remember the bit about people with differing gender identity?”
Bucky raises his eyes to Clint’s, catches a bare flicker of anxiety before it’s smoothed over.
Oh.
Oh.
“...Have we been using the wrong pronouns all this time?”
Clint snorts out a laugh. “No. No, Barnes, definitely a he. One hundred percent corn-fed Iowa man here, although… some conservatives might like to argue otherwise, if they knew. ”
Bucky finally gets through the last bit of string on the binder and looks back down. There’s a lot of bruising, already blooming in truly horrific shades of blue and purple along the skin of his side, and Jesus Christ that must have hurt, especially with the pressure of this. No wonder Clint ran off to get rid of it. He’s hyper-aware that this probably is a big thing for the archer, telling someone, and he wonders if anyone else has gotten this close. Clint’s probably only allowing it now because he’s hurt and needs help, but he’s letting Bucky touch him, gently press at his side quickly to feel for any abnormalities. He gets a stifled hiss of pain for his efforts and leans back on his heels so Clint can peel off the binder. He thinks he might know what’s going on here, so he shrugs off his jacket and hands it to Clint without looking. As Bucky’s staring absently at the coffee beans, he gets a muffled laugh of amusement and the jacket’s plucked from his hands.
“It’s fine, Barnes. I won’t spontaneously combust if you look at my tits.”
Bucky’s just startled enough by the way Clint says it that he turns his head and catches the blond settling the black leather over his shoulders. He takes a bare second to take in the subtle, soft curve of Clint’s chest and then moves his gaze back to his face. Clint’s expression is somewhere between amusement and stress, the curve of his lips in a not-quite smile. He looks like he’s waiting for Bucky to say something, and Bucky’s not entirely sure what he’s supposed to say, because he doesn’t really care apart from the insistent worry that the binder-thing is hurting Clint’s ribs.
“I’m going to get some painkillers,” he says decisively. “And ice. You stay there.”
Clint doesn’t reply, just looks at him with dark eyes as he gets up and heads for the kitchen. And now’s really not a good time to be making a move, but something in him is satisfied at the way Clint had looked wrapped up in his jacket, vaguely possessive. It doesn’t stop him from finding an ice-pack and the paracetamol, and a packet of skittles he’d found in the cupboard. He returns to the bedroom to see Clint still sitting in the same place, looking vague and out of it. He hasn’t zipped up the jacket, and there’s still a stripe of paler skin visible, coloured with ugly bruises. Bucky winces a little in sympathy and then hands Clint the pills, scouting around for the television remote.
“Does this change anything?” Clint asks, quiet.
“Not unless you want it to,” Bucky answers, flicking the TV on.
It seems to be the right answer, because Clint sags a little in what looks like tired relief and the smile on his face looks a little more genuine. Bucky changes the channel until he finds a movie he thinks is Clint’s style, explosions and a smart-mouthed yet ridiculous British spy, and sits down by the headboard. Clint looks at him contemplatively and then shuffles back until he’s half-sitting, half-lying in Bucky’s lap. He’s warm. Bucky sighs and grabs the forgotten ice-pack, setting it on Clint’s ribs, and gets a squawk for his efforts. Clint doesn’t try to stop him, though, and even puts his own hand over the skin-warmed metal when Bucky goes to move his hand. Bucky wonders if he’s wrong about this changing things, because this is a lot of trust from Clint and he’s not entirely sure he’s deserving of it.
“I’m not a girl,” Clint says.
“Didn’t think you were,” Bucky replies. “Pass the skittles, yeah?”
“Can’t believe you like the yellow ones, man. That shit’s gross.”
Bucky hopes the others aren’t expecting them, because after that Clint mutters something about being an ordinary boring human with a fragile body and snuggles more firmly against Bucky’s chest, and by the time the movies credits are running he’s fast asleep. Bucky cards his hands through Clint’s hair and picks out all the purple skittles, leaving them in a separate pile on the duvet for when Clint wakes up. He’s happy to just sit quietly for a while, enjoying the low hum of the television and the softer sound of the blond breathing. Steve doesn’t like it much when he gets quiet, probably thinks the Winter Soldier’s coming back somehow, but he liked it even before all the shit that happened during the war. His life’s been so much crazy that the quiet moments are something he’s more than happy to sit through.
He eats a yellow skittle and smooths a piece of hair sticking up on Clint’s hair. Clint remains happily, comfortably asleep, and Bucky raises an eyebrow at Natasha when she peeks in. She takes in the scene quietly and her own eyebrows raise fractionally. Bucky tucks his jacket a little more securely around Clint and her lips twitch up into a smile. He shrugs and she points to her own ears, then at Clint. Right. Hearing aids. He’d forgotten about those. Probably not comfortable to sleep in. He deftly unhooks them from Clint’s ears and sets them down on the nightstand. Natasha gives him an approving thumbs up and then signs at him, I left some Chinese in the fridge. Hurt him and they’ll never find the body.
Wouldn’t dream of it, he signs back, but Natasha’s already gone.
Bucky settles Clint more comfortably against him and closes his eyes.