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Bucky had had a day .
Granted, Bucky had a lot of days , but this one really took his last proper bad day, multiplied it by a few dozen and almost made waking up after 70 years of brainwashing and murder seem tame.
Almost.
Okay, obviously that day had been a lot worse, but it had been a long day, all right?
He’d gotten back from a shitty mission with Ant-Man that had gone pretty damn FUBAR in all directions at fuck o’early in the morning. He’d collapsed onto the bed in full gear, rifles and combat boots included, one particularly stubborn knife poking its handle into his thigh, and with exhaustion settled deep into his bones, aching all over.
Bucky’d woken up not two hours of restless sleep later, jittery and on edge. The mission hadn’t been even remotely bad memory-related, just some general scientist-gone-crazy that had apparently thought cloth was the way to world domination, but clearly his brain hadn’t gotten that particular memo. No, his brain was hell-bent on pointing out every single weak point in his apartment’s defense, red alarms blaring in his mind. Knowing he wouldn’t be able to actually go back to sleep until he did check everything, Bucky sighed and got up, his hands stubbornly not shaking.
Not for the first time Bucky cursed Tony Stark and his gigantic fucking tower, honestly, it was such a tactical nightmare. He had a full floor to scope out, going through the well-worn routine twice on muscle memory before he was reasonably sure he could go back to his bedroom and sit down without feeling like every cell in his body was preparing for an attack.
Tired and just so done , Bucky dropped down onto the carpet in front of his bed, forcing himself through a grounding exercise with a Widow’s Bite in one hand and a throwing dagger in the other, needing the comfort from the weapons, both the weight and his hands and the safety they gave him, his knuckles stark white with his tight grip.
When Bucky got his breathing (and his brain) slightly more under control, he slowly loosened his grip on the weapons in his hands, reminding himself again and again that he was safe, he was himself, he could breathe .
He got up on shaky feet, knowing he wouldn’t be able to get any more sleep. Deciding to forego the (quite frankly, shitty) coffee his own machine made, he went down to the communal kitchen where Banner kept his calming, herbal tea.
When Bucky’d just gotten to the tower, he’d spent many a sleepless night sat in the window sill, holding a cup of that very tea. One of those nights, when Banner was dealing with a bout of insomnia as well, Bucky had asked him why he kept his tea there instead of in his own quarters. Banner’s reply had been so simple that Bucky’d stopped dead in his tracks of raising his cup before fleeing the room altogether: “You’re drinking it, aren’t you? People need that sometimes.”
The day after that was the first time Bucky properly left the tower on his own, finding a small Japanese mom and pop store that sold so many different teas Bucky almost got overwhelmed all over again, but he’d powered through to find one he was mostly sure Banner would like. He’d raced back to the tower, thrust the package into Banner’s hands and run off to his room and hid there for three days, but when he’d come out again Banner had a steaming cup ready for him and smiled.
That tea had gotten Bucky through many a rough night, and now he really needed it to get him through what was looking to be a very rough morning followed by a very rough rest of the day. When he got to the room though, he stopped dead in his tracks at the sight of Steve and Tony curled up and asleep on his window sill. Of course it wasn’t actually his, but it was to a very tired , and sad , and aching part of his brain.
Bucky turned on his heels, guilt immediately crawling up his lungs, it was the fucking communal area, but goddamnit, he just wanted his tea and a semi-safe space to drink it. Furiously blinking back the tears that were threatening to come up any second, he stepped into the elevator, clenching his mug so tight in both his hands it would’ve surprised him that he hadn’t broken it yet.
It was a dumb fucking mug, one Bucky had been determined to hate, but couldn’t. One of the PR stunts the Avengers had done before Bucky came around had included pottery with kids and Clint had made the mug; all lopsided, bright purple and with a bullseye and a dog sloppily painted on. Bucky had accidentally taken it with him a few months ago and never returned it despite his insistence it was a terrible mug.
Bucky had stopped questioning modern technology around the same time the Spider-Kid told him what ‘thicc’ meant and why people on the internet apparently thought it applied to him, so when JARVIS had simply closed the elevator door and started going up without any input by Bucky, he just rolled with it, focused on the mug in his hands and not crying.
The doors opened into the familiar mess of a hallway that very much wasn’t Bucky’s. This barely registered to Bucky’s brain, just stumbling forward to where he knew Clint was sleeping in a haphazard tangle of sheets, dog, and probably arrows. When he stepped into the bedroom, the light was on low and Clint was already sat up and putting in his ears, sheets pooling around his hips, Lucky taking over most of the pillows.
Clint opened his mouth when he saw Bucky, but closed it immediately when he took in the sight in front of him, Bucky still in full battle gear, on the brink of tears and holding onto his mug like it was a lifeline. He immediately got up, not even sparing a second to think about the Black Widow boxer briefs he was in. As gently as possible, he directed Bucky to sit down on the bed, slowly extracting the mug from the death-grip Bucky held onto it.
After a quick detour to the kitchen and back to set the water to boil and to put Bucky’s tea on the counter, Clint returned to find Bucky in the exact same position he’d been left in. It wasn’t the first time and it probably wouldn’t be the last time Bucky had shown up at Clint’s place like this, and while they’d never talked about afterwards, Clint did feel sure what to do. Bucky was a lot like him, in that respect, needing human touch and direct contact to feel grounded again, to feel real .
Methodically, allowing Bucky to catalogue all his movements, Clint undressed Bucky, getting rid of the heavy tac gear and weapons. Bucky let it all happen, not reacting in a way that Clint decided to take as good for now. Leaving him in just his undershirt and tac pants for now, Clint ran back towards the kitchen to make Bucky’s tea.
Pressing the hot cup into Bucky’s hands, Clint undid Bucky’s pants, happy to note that Bucky was still present enough to move his hips to allow him to slide them off.
The lack of tactical gear made Bucky breathe more deeply, pulling him out of the deepest part of his mind that had gone mission-focused in a way that reminded him all too much of Hydra missions. Clint slowly raised Bucky’s arms, moving the cup to his mouth so he could slowly sip the steaming tea, too hot for normal people probably, but a good way to ground Bucky into the present and with the serum he could deal with the heat easily enough.
It dimly registered in the back of Bucky’s brain that Clint had gotten his tea at some point. He couldn’t find the energy to comment on it, nor did he particularly feel like doing so. Voicing that out loud would mean addressing just how often he’d shown up at Clint’s like this. They didn’t do that.
When Bucky had finished his tea, Clint slowly pushed him back onto the bed, tucking the blankets in before sliding into bed beside him, a comfort beside him and the familiar weight of Clint’s arm thrown over his waist, pulling him even closer, Lucky settling in behind Clint’s legs, the same way they always fell asleep when either of them had had a day .
A comfort, a safe haven, their bubble.
Their bubble Bucky fled from as soon as he woke up again, tails between his legs. Clint also never mentioned that, was happy to let him, only mumbling something into his pillow as he turned over again when Bucky slipped out of bed, the need to shut himself in, to lick his wounds after the vulnerability. Clint got that all, another reason Bucky held him so close to his heart, kept showing up time after time again.
They could help each other, then hold a Dog Cops marathon the evening afterwards, egg each other on on the comms during missions, and in general find new and creative ways to annoy Steve into long rants to the eternal delight of the rest of the team.
All fun and games, until moments like these.
Because goddamnit, Bucky didn’t want to leave. He wanted to drink Clint’s quite frankly shitty coffee with him first thing in the morning and walk Lucky with him.
Which.
He already did, most days. He knew where Clint kept pretty much all his stuff, he had become an integral part of Bucky’s routine and life, a fixture like not even Steve was. That was. Huh. Something he hadn’t realised right up until this moment. However, he wanted more than that. He just wanted to wake up next to Clint, to not run away, to have Clint see him after those moments of being vulnerable, to sleep in his bed on good days, not just on bad ones.
That realisation really should have been more of a shock, but instead felt like the most natural thing, just an added extra to how he felt about Clint, an extension rather than a completely new thing.
Behind him, Clint shifted, slowly waking up before freezing, probably realising Bucky was still there.
“Buck? What are you,” he rubbed one hand over his face before turning to the nightstand to get his ears. “You awake?”
Bucky nodded, turning around to face Clint, cataloguing all the little details in Clint’s face that he’d never allowed himself to look at. The smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose; the countless small scars from either bad guys or simple clumsiness and teenage acne leftovers; the small gap in one of his eyebrows; those blue eyes with laughing lines starting up around them.
Eyes which currently looked more confused than anything, Clint starting to squirm under Bucky’s gaze. Fair enough, Bucky knew he should say something, but he couldn’t stop himself from tracking Clint’s face, those full lips mesmerizing him, making him lean in without conscious input from his brain.
The confusion on Clint’s face gave way to a small smile, one hand coming up to cup Bucky’s jaw, thumbing over his cheekbone with an almost reverent look in his eyes. The clear emotion made Bucky’s throat close up, all too much , too soon, unspoken words that had been hanging between them for so long that Bucky had never noticed them.
Luckily, Clint closed his eyes, leaning the rest of the way in to press his lips against Bucky’s, just a sweet, soft press of lips against lips, before he pulled back again, face lighting up at the sight of Bucky’s smile. Clint quickly dove back in, pressing kiss upon kiss against Bucky’s cheeks, lips, the tip of his nose, until they were both giggling too much to call it much of a kiss, just closeness that made a warmth unfurl in Bucky’s chest, spreading through him like molten lava.
“Guess that one was a long time coming.”