Breakfast

Cold. So cold. It’s silent save for the whistling wind. Cold. The pain is receding, replaced by a numbness that should be welcomed with open arms. Death doesn’t come. Frozen tendrils snake their way through the cold, ice in every cell. So cold. Fear tastes bitter, acidic. A fire starts somewhere, but it offers no heat. Blinding steel-grey surrounds the area; sheets of blistering cold crash like waves. The fire blazes larger. There’s still no relief. The numbness is fading. Needles pierce deeper than the cold. So cold. The sky above threatens to fall, to crush everything beneath its enormous weight. The fire is raging, consuming. The fire is in his bones. Cold. So cold. The world goes black at the edges; his vision is now pinpricks of bright silver against an immense darkness. His bones, his bones, how they burn. Oh, the agony, how it seeps into every fibre of his being. The cold suffocates him, freezes his lungs. He’s choking on the cold. So cold. Death, where art thou?

Death doesn’t come.

Whispers, words that are too loud yet not loud enough against the backdrop of pain and cold fire and ice. A sharp shiver twists its way through his nerves. The flames are still eating his bones; he shudders at the ice in his veins. So cold. Why hasn’t Death come for him yet? It’s almost over, soon it will be over… The words echo as he shakes violently. He can’t move. Cold. He’s frozen. So cold. No, not frozen. His head screams with the unending pain, the shock. His brain screams. His lungs ache. He can’t breathe. The screams don’t stop, even when the pain abates. The screams continue, reverberate through his brain. Make it stop, he tries to plead, tries but fails, the words lodging in his raw throat, twisting into more screams. Make it stop! We cannot stop, the procedure is started, the procedure… The cold is gone. The icy fire has given way to a blazing heat. The inferno roars louder than the screams. There’s the smell of burning flesh. He gags, retches, screams. Where’s the cold? The cold is preferable to the bubbling, boiling heat. To the flames melting away his existence.

Death doesn’t come.



A loud gasp breaks the silence of the dark as Bucky Barnes sits upright in his bed. His eyes flit from corner to corner of his room, but his brain registers nothing other than the piercing cold of his dreams – of his memories. He scrubs his right hand over his face; there’s the soft sound of machinery whirring when his left hand clenches into a fist. A strangled sound claws its way from his throat – something somewhere between a dry sob and a scream eerily similar to the ones still echoing through his brain. The tightness in his chest doesn’t loosen; his breathing is still ragged, harsh. Goosebumps dapple his skin, though the room is warm. The cold from his dream  has wrapped itself so closely, so securely, around him, that he isn’t sure he’ll ever be rid of it.

Bucky drags himself to lean against the headboard. His hands tremble as he searches through the nightstand drawer for the pack of cigarettes he’s been hiding from Steve. He knows his best friend will probably lose his mind if he ever finds out, but since Steve no longer lives in the apartment, Bucky’s pretty sure Steve never has to know. He lights the cigarette, dropping the spent match into the ashtray, and clambers off the bed to open the window. Once there’s an inch or two of space for the smoke to escape, he pressed his forehead to the glass; an absurd laugh escapes him when he catching himself relishing the warmth against his skin. The only light comes from a streetlamp halfway down the block. Nobody is walking the streets, and no cars pass by. All is quiet. Bucky turns toward his bed and sits on the edge. The cigarette dangles from his fingers as he stares at the wall. His eyes burn from fatigue and tears that he refuses to shed. It’s been weeks since he’s had a full night’s rest, every attempt aborted by the fact that he remembers too much, far too much, of his past. Not for the first time, Bucky wishes Steve hadn’t moved out.

The first time Bucky had one of his rough nights, he’d hidden it from it best friend, but Steve’s always known Bucky better than anyone. He’d made Bucky promise to wake him up if Bucky had another nightmare, ignoring Bucky’s protests and sliding two more pancakes onto his plate. The second time, Bucky had gone across the hall to Steve’s bedroom, hesitated in the doorway as the blond slept peacefully. It wasn’t long before Steve stirred, somehow sensing Bucky’s presence; he scooted closer to the edge of the bed, patted the mattress beside him, and Bucky immediately moved to slide in under the covers He’d fallen asleep with Steve’s breathing against his neck and Steve’s arm a welcome weight across his waist. After that, there was no hesitation: Bucky would be dragged to consciousness away from his memories, sneak across the hall, and shove at Steve until there was enough room for two in the bed. Then Steve and Tony had fallen in love, and Steve reluctantly moved out to live with Stark in the tower, leaving Bucky with a two-bedroom apartment that feels entirely too large, too empty, too…suffocating.

Bucky takes a final drag from his cigarette, stamps it out in the ashtray, and grabs a book from the pile on the floor. The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. Black Widow – no, Natasha – had given it to him shortly after his ‘rehabilitation’; he still uses the note as a bookmark. Her written words give away nothing to anyone but him: All scars heal. He’s thankful that she’s forgiven him. He turns to page forty-two and picks up where he left off. By the time he finishes, the sun is starting to peek from beyond the horizon. The clock on the bedside table reads 6:03AM. He grabs his phone from the table, sliding his fingers across the screen and unlocking the device.

Are you up?

Steve’s response comes quickly: Yeah, about to go on a run with Sam. How’d you sleep?

About as well as if I hadn’t
tried to sleep at all.





I know you would, punk. But no. I’ll be okay.

Managed 5 hours night before last.



Since about three. Don’t worry about me.

You enjoy your run. Tell Stark I said hi.



I’m fine, Steve. Honest. A bit bored out of my
mind, but out of my mind is a good thing right now.



Bucky knew it was coming before the message even appeared on the screen. Steve has sent he same thing nearly every morning since he began living in the tower. Bucky’s response is usually the same “No.” He doesn’t want to get out of the apartment. He knows the couple down the hall isn’t actually a pair of newlyweds who can’t afford a house right now, but two SHIELD agents assigned to keep things from going south. Not to mention the handful of other undercover agents who pass by the building like clockwork: Bearded Guy stopping out front to wait for Husband-In-6B at eight; Athletic Woman jogging with a baby buggy at ten; Hot Dog Vendor pushing the food cart at noon; even Homeless Joe who sleeps by the front stoop every night carries a gun and rank courtesy of SHIELD. Bucky has no doubts that if he leaves the apartment, someone will know, and then he’ll be followed by not-so-covert agents who may have passed their qualification exams but can’t fool him, a former assassin, into believing they enjoy taking long walks while on the phone using generic code phrases that he can break easily. So, Bucky has sat, for nearly four months, in the apartment he used to share with his best friend.



Barton’s a brat.



Bucky stares at his phone, jaw dropped slightly. He doesn’t know how to respond to the text. A new message comes in before he can think of an acceptable reply.





Shut up.

Punk.

He lets his head fall forward, pressing the edge of his phone against his forehead. He should have known that Steve would know. Though Bucky wouldn’t call the relationship with Clint “close,” Clint is really the only one besides Steve that Bucky prefers to willingly interact with. Stark manages to somehow bring any and every conversation back to the mechanical arm; Dr Banner is rarely around. Natasha is as closed off as Bucky, so he avoids the awkward silences by avoiding being in the same room. Clint, though… The quiets with Clint have never been strained. His humour is dry, crass, even self-deprecating, and Bucky’s found he enjoys spending time with the Avenger. He’s not sure exactly, but somewhere along the way, he began looking forward to Clint’s visits to the apartment. Those haven’t happened since Steve moved out, thinks Bucky as he finishes another cigarette.

Maybe Steve is right. Bucky stands, pulls on a pair of plaid cotton pyjama pants, and heads to the bathroom. Once he’s done his business and brushed his teeth, he makes his way to the front door. He hesitates, rubbing at his temple. Leaving the flat, being in public around other people… It’s a slightly terrifying prospect. But Steve is right. So with a steadying breath, he pulls on his hoodie and shoves his phone into the pocket along with his keys and wallet. He steps out into the hallway, turns to lock the door behind him; he can feel eyes on him, though he’s quite alone in the corridor. He ignores it and begins his trek down the stairs.

There’s a noise like a chain being pulled tight from somewhere behind him. He turns to see a sliver of a face peering between the edge of the door and its frame, dark eyes narrowed in agitation. Bucky doesn’t say sorry, but he does flash a quick smile before continuing to pound a fist – his right one; the left would cause too much damage – against the cheap wooden door. After approximately five minutes, the locks scrap, the thin chain rattles, and the knob squeals shrilly as it turns. Bucky lets his hand fall when Clint comes into view. An incredulous laugh threatens to escape, but Bucky manages to swallow it down in time.

Clint’s hair is sticking up in random spots, causing him to look very much like he stuck a fork in an electrical socket; a long, red line splits his face in uneven sections, and Bucky has to admit that he never would have guessed Clint sleeps face-down. A small trace of drool disappears from the corner of his mouth when he swipes a hand across his face. He glares sleepily at Bucky, but Bucky is no longer paying attention to Clint’s face. Instead, his gaze is sweeping down Clint’s bare torso, the compact muscles and slim build, all the way to –

Bucky can’t stop his laughter now. Clint looks down, confused; his expression shifts immediately.

“They were a gift from Nat,” he mumbles, and is he really blushing? “What are you doing here at the ass-crack of dawn? I’m sure it isn’t to see me in Iron Man boxers.”

“No, but that is a sight I’m glad I got to witness.”

Clint’s cheeks turn an even deeper shade of red. A hand scratches nervously at the back of his neck. The person across the hall is back, clearing their throat obnoxiously through the crack in the door. Clint offers apologies while ushering Bucky inside.

“Let’s go on a date.”

The words hang in the air without Bucky’s permission. Clint blinks slowly a couple times before he glances at the clock displayed on the front of the cable box.

“At eight a.m.? No. I wanna sleep. Come back in a few hours. I might be okay to go, then. But right now? I’m dragging my ass back to bed and –”

"Please.”

Silence fills the dim living room, as Clint stares at Bucky. The minutes drag on; Bucky averts his gaze to the floor as if the beige carpeting will somehow solve all of his problems. His brain races to come up with the right words to convey to Clint that this is a good idea, that Bucky’s not a complete lunatic, but he doesn’t get the chance.

“Fine. Let me put on pants. And a shirt. ‘Cause of the whole ‘no shirts, no shoes, no service’ thing.”

“Make sure they’re pyjamas. It’s a breakfast date for a reason.”

Clint waves a hand over his shoulders and disappears into his bedroom. Bucky smiles widely at the fact that, while his invitation was certainly less than the smooth James Buchanan Barnes charm of the 1940s, Clint still accepted. A sense of…something makes a home in his chest, warm and dizzying and solid. He paces around the living room. There’s only one photo on top of the entertainment cabinet; Bucky assumes it’s Clint’s brother, judging by the similarities in physical appearance. Clint’s only mentioned him once, but Bucky knows the topic is off-limits. One corner of the living room is dedicated to two recurve bows, a quiver, and the remnants of a target. The couch has a pillow and quilt as if Clint was sleeping on it before Bucky’s arrival. Bags of chips and soda cans cover every inch of the cheap coffee table; Bucky rolls his eyes at the sight. Before he can examine any further, footsteps near, and he turns. And stares. He’s pretty sure his jaw is dropped open. His expression probably looks ridiculous, but he can’t help it, not with Clint wearing that.

“What the Hell are you wearing?”

Clint spreads his arms wide with a huge grin. “I’m Leonardo, man!”

Bucky stares at the bright green, one-piece pyjamas that Clint’s changed into. The front is decorated with a cartoon-style depiction of the bottom of a turtle shell, with a belt cutting across it. A large L sits in the middle of the belt buckle. It’s when Clint pulls the hood up that Bucky’s shock – and mild horror – grows. Cartoon turtle eyes stare back at him, surrounded by a light blue ribbon – except that both the ribbon and belt are just as cartoonish and drawn –on as the shell.

“Who the...Who’s Leonardo?"

"What?” Clint lets his arms fall. “C’mon, really? You’ve never seen Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles? That’s, like, blasphemous or something. We’ve gotta watch it. Come on. I’m sure I can find it on the internet.”

“Later. For now, we’ve got a breakfast date to get to.”

“Right.”

Once Clint has managed to slide his feet into his boots, a five-minute struggle full of cursing and “Stop laughing at me, Barnes!” due to the fact that his pyjamas cover his feet and keep pulling tight every time he slipped the footwear on, he follows Bucky into the hall. Bucky waits while he locks the door, then they make their way to the streets outside. A quick cab-ride and small wait later, they slide into a booth thankfully in a back corner. It’s quiet as they peruse the menus; there are few patrons in the restaurant. Clint must see something he likes, because he suddenly giggles – honest to God giggles – and does a quick little dance on his side of the booth.

“Barton, are you sure you’re an adult?”

He smacks at Bucky’s hand with a fork. “Physically, yes. But life’s not worth living if you don’t let your inner child out to play every once in a while.”

“That was surprisingly insightful. How bad does your head hurt now?”

The waitress comes by before Clint can do much more than give Bucky a flat look. Bucky orders something sensible for a breakfast meal: a spinach and mushroom omelette, three eggs over-medium, and two pieces of wheat toast, along with a cup of coffee. Clint, on the other hand, points to something on his menu; the waitress doesn’t bat an eyelash at his choice, so Bucky is hopeful that his friend’s “inner child” has taken a break and allowing him to order something normal. Two mugs and a carafe of hot coffee are slid onto the table amidst their silence. Clint stirs a few packets of sugar into his drink, takes a sip, and then clears his throat.

“So…What brought this ‘breakfast date’ to fruition?”

Bucky swallows a mouthful of coffee, grimacing at its weakness. “Steve says I need to get out of the apartment, since I haven’t been out since he moved in with Tony.”

“Oh, yeah. I forgot about that. How are they doing?”

“Good, I guess. I don’t really ask about their relationship.”

“Not a big fan of Tony’s, I take it.”

“He’d be all right if he wasn’t always trying to poke at my arm.”

Clint nods, understanding exactly why Bucky finds Stark so irritating. “Yeah, he’s not the best at remembering boundaries, but Steve loves him, so he can’t be that bad.”

“Steve’s also the scrawny, immuno-compromised kid from Brooklyn who got in too many fights because he didn’t know how to walk away. Plus, he thought the sun shined right outta my ass. So his perspective is flawed.”

“I’ll give you that,” laughs Clint as he raises his cup and drinks.

The pair is quiet again; Bucky finds a disconcerting stab of panic in his chest. The reason he likes Clint the best is because he allows Bucky to set the limit on conversation: what’s okay to talk about, what shall never be brought up again, if talking is even going to happen. The only time Clint shut down a part of their discussions was when the topic landed on his brother; his face had gone hard, his blue eyes like ice, and his voice was somehow both hollow and angry when he said “We are not talking about him.” Bucky hasn’t brought up Barney since. But now, in this setting, Bucky is suddenly speechless. Nothing and everything sounds like great conversation, all at once. He almost wishes he hadn’t asked Clint out, at least not without a lot more preparation,. He draws in a deep, steadying breath. This is Clint. Clint won’t judge.

“The apartment is too big now.” Clint looks up from his tasks of sweetening his second cup of coffee, so Bucky continues, “I know it’s physically the same size, but without Steve, it just feels bigger.”

“Bet it’s quieter, too.”

“That it is.”

“Look, I gotta apologise, man. I should’ve come by, hung out some. It’s gotta be Hell being in an apartment alone all the damn time. I just… I wasn’t sure if you’d want me to. I mean, you seemed all right with it, but Steve was there, and I didn’t know if my visits were still okay after he moved out.”

“I thought you were only coming to visit Steve and just kinda including me since I was there.”;

“Nah, man. Hanging out with you is cool as shit.”

“Barton, what the fuck are you eating?”

The waitress snorts out a laugh before walking away. Clint grins, reaching for the blueberry syrup by the window. Bucky watches in grossed-out fascination as the other man drowns his pancakes in the stuff; there are sprinkles in the pancakes! Bucky can do nothing but shake his head at Clint’s overstuffed cheeks.

“Are you part-chipmunk, Barton?”

Clint manages to swallow the large mouthful of food without choking. “They’re called cupcake pancakes, Barnes. You should try them.”

"No."

“C’mon, live a little.”

“No. That is literally diabetes on a plate. You are going to go into a diabetic coma and die, and I’ll have to deal with Stark on my own, and then Fury will kill me for letting his best archer-assassin die right in front of me."

“I’ll be fine. Here, got a pen?”

“Do I look like I carry a pen on me? Where am I gonna put it, up my ass?”

Clint flags down a passing waiter, who stands looking rather gobsmacked as Clint pulls a pen from the blue apron and writes furiously on the napkin that came wrapped around the silverware. Once he’s done, Clint returns the writing utensil, waves the waiter away, and hands the napkin across the table. Bucky raises and eyebrow but glances down at the note.

I, Clinton F. Barton, am fully aware of possible consequences of eating cupcake pancakes from IHOP for breakfast. James B. Barnes has advised against my meal choice, but I ignored him. Don’t kill him if I die, please. Thanks, Fury, I owe ya one!

Signed –

At the bottom is a scrawl that can hardly be called a signature. Bucky pauses, rereads the note, before crumbling into laughter. Clint has a wide grin on his face as he shoves another bite of pancakes into his mouth; a warm spot, the same one from in the apartment, flares beneath Bucky’s breastbone at the sight. He doesn’t say anything, merely gets started on his own breakfast.

“I could’ve paid,” grumbles Clint as they climb into the back of a cab.

“You’ve said that half a dozen times already, Barton. Just shut up and concentrate on not dying, okay?”

“I’m not gonna die. I’m absolutely fine.”

Bucky gives the driver Clint’s address and settles back into the seat. His head falls back onto the headrest; his eyes close without permission. Suddenly, there’s a heavy weight on his shoulder, and he turns his head to see Clint leaning against him.

“Sorry I woke you up so early.”

Clint shrugs. “It’s all right. I don’t mind. Besides, your shoulder is quite comfortable.”

“That’s…good to hear. But you’re tired. What time did you fall asleep last night?”

“About four-thirty or so,” yawns Clint with another jerk of his shoulder.

“This morning? Why didn’t you tell me to fuck off so you can sleep instead of letting me drag you to IHOP at eight o’clock in the morning?”

“Because you’re worth missing sleep for.”

Bucky catches the driver’s eye in the rearview mirror; the other man looks away, and Bucky wants to hide his suddenly burning cheeks. By the time they pull up outside of Clint’s apartment, the Avenger is asleep again, and Bucky feels steadier. He nudges Clint awake, then, ignoring the questioning gaze of the cabbie, helps him from the backseat. Nobody wastes a second glance (or even a first glance, for that matter) as Clint and Bucky make their way across the sidewalk and through the front door of the building. They come to a stop in front of Clint’s flat; Bucky stares at a spot over his friend’s shoulder and inhales slowly, deeply.

“Thanks, Barton. For…for coming with me. I had a good time.”

“So did I,” replies Clint almost immediately; Bucky meets his eye and is surprised to see Clint looking nervous. “Uh, think we can do it again?”

Bucky’s breath hitches in his throat, but he manages to rasp out, “Only if I can kiss you right now.”

Clint smiles, a soft, sweet smile that transforms his face, and moves closer. Bucky swallows down his nerves, cupping Clint’s jaw with his flesh hand, and brings their mouths together. Clint’s lips part at the gentle press of Bucky’s tongue; Bucky can feel his head spinning as he explores the inside of Clint’s mouth, the mingling tastes of coffee, frosting, blueberries, and an underlying hint of cinnamon toothpaste. He pulls Clint against him, his fingers digging into the other man’s lower back, and Clint moans softly. Bucky can’t remember ever having had such an intense, heady kiss; he doesn’t want to stop, he just wants more. When they finally part, Clint’s cheeks are flushed, his eyes hooded and dark, lips reddened and still parted as if they haven’t quite gotten the memo that the kiss is over. Bucky presses one, two, three more gentle kisses to Clint’s mouth, then takes a step back. He doesn’t drop his arms from around Clint, who swallows and breathes in sharply.

“So, uh, I take it as we’re gonna do this again? The date, I mean. Although I’d never say no to kissing you more, because damn, that was amazing. I feel like an old lady with an irresistible urge to fan myself. Where the Hell did you learn to kiss like that? Whoever taught you did a good job. Did I say ‘damn’? Because damn."

“Yeah, you did,” Bucky laughs quietly, leaning his forehead against Clint’s. “And yeah, I wanna do the date and kissing thing again.”

“You, uh, wanna come in, get some more sleep?”

Bucky hesitates, fear stinging through his body. The last thing he wants to do is have another nightmare, especially in front of Clint. But then Clint smiles gently, understanding in his blue eyes, and he unlocks his front door, pulls Bucky to follow. Once the door is closed, he faces Bucky and leans up to kiss him softly, just a gentle press of his mouth to Bucky’s; his fingers lace through Bucky’s own as he fits himself against the planes of Bucky’s body.

“I know what it’s like, Buck. Cuddling helps.”

There’s a smile on Bucky’s face ten minutes later as he lies on his back in Clint’s bed, one arm under the pillow, his metal one gentle as it traces designs on Clint’s skin. Clint has a leg thrown over Bucky’s, and an arm rests heavy against the middle of his torso. Soft puffs of breath warm Bucky’s chest where Clint has laid his head. It took less than two minutes for Clint to fall asleep, despite the massive intake of sugar and caffeine, and surprisingly, Bucky’s not too far behind. He presses his lips tenderly to Clint’s hair.

“Yeah, we’re definitely doing this again,” he promises on a whisper to the room around him, as his eyes slip closed, and he jumps head-first into sleep.