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There are some nights when the bar is so busy that Clint doesn’t get a real break until it’s closing. He’ll end up eating two baskets of fries throughout the night while he mixes drinks and pours beers from the taps and from bottles alike. His body and mind are on complete autopilot until last call is rung at 2AM and he’s given a blissful break for an hour until the bar closes.
Other nights, they’re nearly bone dry, with just their regulars coming in for a drink or two before leaving to enjoy the rest of their night.
Bucky is one of those usuals, a guy who always sits to himself on the very end corner of the bar. He doesn’t talk much—only ever uses his voice to order what he wants, but even some days, none of the bartenders ever need him to tell them what they want. They just automatically know what he’s coming in for. Occasionally, though, Bucky will change his order up—and it’s usually only ever when Clint is behind the bar.
Clint grins as he leans his palms against the edge of the bar, head tilting slightly to the side. “Your usual?” He asks, prompting Bucky to interact with him in one way or another.
Bucky slowly shakes his head, fingers nervously tapping against the counter. He’s watching Clint intensely, dark eyes flitting all around the bar, almost like he’s trying to look at anything but Clint standing right in front of him.
With a curious hum, Clint’s head tilts a bit further. “No usual? What’re you looking for tonight, then?”
He stays quiet for a minute, eyes finally flicking towards Clint’s face. Clint’s grin widens as he crosses his arms on the counter, leaning forward a bit further. Bucky clears his throat as he sits up a big straighter on the stool, mirroring Clint’s position.
Their faces are the closest they’ve ever been. Clint can see the depths of Bucky’s eyes, the intensity of them. He’s never really noticed that he only has one arm—the other is metal, a prosthetic, as that hand lays flat against the countertop. He nearly feels vulnerable, standing here in front of Bucky’s very calculating gaze.
When Bucky opens his mouth next, the words that come out are nothing that Clint is expecting from him.
“Lookin’ to maybe take you out.”
Clint blinks—and then his eyes go wide, his breath hitching just slightly. He almost feels the need to reach up and readjust his hearing aids, because there’s seriously no way he just heard this gorgeous, brooding man say that he wants to take him out.
“You… wanna go on a date,” Clint says slowly, standing up straight. “With me?” He points to himself, emphasizing the question.
Bucky nods, and Clint finally notices the rising colour to his cheeks and ears. Bangs hide part of his eyes, falling into Bucky’s face, and Clint bites the inside of his cheek to keep himself from smiling too much like an idiot. He’s going to have a great story to tell Natasha when she comes in later, especially because she’ll want to know why he’ll be looking like he’s on Cloud Nine.
Squaring his shoulders a bit, Clint lets himself grin more naturally as he gives Bucky a slow nod in return.
“I get off pretty late,” Clint says, patting the bar counter lightly. “Or early. Depending on how you look at it.”
Bucky’s eyes flick away, then return just as quickly. He swallows, then shrugs one of his shoulders, almost shy. “Could take you on a day off instead, if y’want.”
Clint can’t help but chuckle, his body relaxing as his flirtation comes naturally. “How bold of you, Mister Bucky. For a first date?”
Snorting quietly, Bucky’s demeanour also seems to relax. He doesn’t seem as awkward or shy now, happy to return the flirtations without much hesitation now. “Seems a bit rude to make you go on a date right after a shift at the bar. You’ll be tired, yeah? You could use the rest.”
Clint lets out a hum, his grin softening into a smile. He pretends to throw hair over his shoulder, a glimpse of his purple hearing aid front and center. “I do usually need my eight hours of beauty sleep,” he says.
Glancing towards the rest of the bar, Clint notices there’s no new patrons yet. He looks up to the giant, neon clock above the shelves of the bar to see that it’s only 12:17AM. Natasha won’t be in until 3AM, because she usually stays to clean the bar and kick out any vagrants who try to stay behind.
“But you’re lucky,” Clint finally settles on saying, reaching down below the bar counter to grab a pint glass. He sets it down onto the table and smiles, bright and rather genuine. “You’re cute enough to risk losing a few of those hours.”
Bucky’s ears go red again, and he huffs out soft laughter that he tries to hide in his jacket. When he looks back up at Clint, there’s a relieved smile on his face, and Clint’s heart is already traitorously trying to skip a beat.
“Glad you think I’m worthy of it,” Bucky murmurs, fingers fidgeting on the counter. “So… I’ll grab you around 3?”
“Yu-p,” Clint pops the ‘p’ as he takes the pint glass over to the keg of Guinness, pulling the tap down. “You’re even luckier that it’s me—I know the best combination Chinese-Mexican-pizza place. It stays open ‘til 4AM.”
Bucky raises an eyebrow at Clint’s restaurant choice, but he does nothing to argue against it. As Clint slides the now full glass over to him, Bucky takes the offer gratefully and pulls it up to his mouth, downing about half of it in one gulp.
Clint nearly sighs dreamily.
He’s always been a sucker for men who are great at chugging their alcohol.