Breakfast

Halo is no longer fun since the team he’s scraped together is off doing ‘normal’ human things like sleeping, so Clint turns off his gaming console and pads to the kitchen for a drink. The light inside the refrigerator temporarily blinds him when he pulls the door open; once his vision returns, he grabs a beer, shuts the door. His comforter and pillow still sit on his couch where he left them when he woke up this morning. He nestles into the pile of blanket, grabs the remote control, and flips through the channels. He stops on a station that’s playing reruns of How I Met Your Mother, tossing the remote toward the table.

“Aw, remote, no,” Clint whines as the device clatters to the beige carpet, but he makes no move to retrieve it.

He knows he should sleep, that his body needs much more rest than he’s been giving it lately, but between the back-to-back missions, the memories of Loki and that damned sceptre, and guilt over so much that’s happened (his therapist must be so proud to know all her efforts have, thus far, been in vain), sleep isn’t so easy to come by. He gets enough to not get himself killed while in the field, because, let’s face it, Nat would kill him if he got killed. But it’s definitely not enough. The constant headaches are testament to that. With a sigh, Clint stretches out on the couch and settles in for hours of his favourite mindless sitcom; he’s been trying for months to get Maria Hill to watch the show, but she refuses, even though hello, she’s a dead-ringer for the woman who plays Robin Scherbatsky.

The clock on the cable box reads 4:39AM by the time he manages to fall asleep; his sleep is thankfully peaceful, uninterrupted by nightmarish memories. Instead, he dreams about stealing Robin away from Ted Mosby, hanging out with Natasha between missions, about his brother and late wife. He’s jerked into consciousness, away from the dimly-lit bar he’s in with Laura and Barney, by a loud banging; an oof escapes him as he falls, flailing, off the couch and onto the floor. Clint grimaces. He must be getting old or losing his touch if someone knocking on the door manages to make him flounder. He pads quietly to the front door, presses and eye to the peephole. His confusion grows when he sees who’s out in the hall. An undignified squeak sounds from his mouth when Barnes’s fist hits the wood again. Clint lets his hand drop from where it’s been reaching for the spare bow and arrow hanging above the frame; he slides the lock-chain from its place, twists the deadbolt, and turns the doorknob.

There is approximately forty-five seconds of silence between Barnes and Clint in which the super-soldier’s steel-blue eyes rake over Clint’s body. He’s suddenly hyper-aware of the drool leftover from his sleeping and hurriedly swipes it away. Then Barnes laughs, his face going from exhausted and hard to beautiful (Ugh, really, Hawkguy?), and Clint follows his gaze and instantly regrets ever opening the door. Or being born. Either one, really. He can feel his cheeks burning. Damn you, Natasha.

“They were a gift from Nat.” He blinks slowly, trying to deny the fact that he, Clint Barton, archer-assassin extraordinaire, is blushing like a schoolgirl. “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.”

Oh, no. Is… Is Barnes really flirting? Aw, no, not flirting! Clint’s well aware that he’s a train-wreck in all forms of flirting – at least, when it counts, anyway. Flirting with Tony or Steve is easy; there’s no true meaning behind his words then (because bedding Tony Stark and doing the kinds of downright filthy things he’s joked about really doesn’t sound like something Clint is interested in, and his casual way of slipping dirty innuendos into conversations with Captain America is only to see Steve blush, because it’s funny). Nat takes Clint’s flirting with a grain of salt, tearing him down in that affectionate way that only she can manage; he knows her love for him is there in her threats. But Barnes? Barnes is a whole ‘nother subject entirely. Speaking of the former-HYDRA-assassin-turned-good-guy… Mrs Collier is glaring at the both of them through the crack between her door and its frame.

“Sorry, sorry. He has no sense of good timing. Tragic, really. Won’t happen again.”

Barnes is watching him when Clint turns from closing the door. Clint, however, is too focused on willing the fire in his cheeks to disappear, to pay much attention.

“Let’s go on a date.”

Oh.

Oh.

So Barnes was flirting! It takes all of Clint’s self-control to not do a happy dance for finally having accurately recognised flirting. Instead, he blinks with purposeful slowness once, twice, then glances over at the cable box.

“At eight a.m.? No.” Yes. “I wanna sleep. Come back in a few hours.” Or don’t leave at all. Stay with me. “I might be okay to go, then. But right now? I’m dragging my ass back to bed and –”

“Please.”

The word Barnes whispered takes a few seconds to register in Clint’s brain, but then he realises that Barnes has said please. And how can Clint say ‘no’ – actually say ‘no’ and mean it – when Barnes says please in such a small, pleading tone, looking so vulnerable while standing in the middle of Clint’s living room with heavy purple circles under his eyes? Because while Clint loves purple, he definitely does not love purple marring Barnes’s face like that. He bites his lip when the other man turns his gaze to the floor; he sighs silently.

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

The smile Clint receives in return is dazzling. He waves off Barnes’s reminder of it being a ‘breakfast date’ and disappears into his room. Once his bedroom door is shut, he begins panicking like a fifteen-year-old girl going on her first date. What the fuck does someone wear on a date, especially one for over breakfast? He’s not even sure if he has appropriate pyjamas. He either sleeps in boxers or nude, depending on whether he actually makes it to bed or just sleeps on the couch; and he’s one hundred percent sure that going anywhere out in public in only Iron Man boxers or his birthday suit is severely frowned upon. Something in his brain clicks, and he stifles a gleeful laugh as he rummages through his closet for the pyjamas he knows he has. Once dressed, he heads to the bathroom to finally piss; he brushes his teeth without hesitation, though his mind whispers that it isn’t strictly necessary since all he’s going to do is eat then come home for more sleep. It’s not like Barnes is going to kiss you.

“Shut up, brain,” mutters Clint to himself as he flips the light switch, dousing the bathroom in darkness.

Barnes is staring at the cluttered coffee table, an expression of pure distaste on his face, when Clint makes his way down the short hallway. He’s ridiculously giddy as Barnes turns to face him – and stares, jaw dropping open and eyes widened. Clint shuffles forward and waits for his friend to say something.

“What the Hell are you wearing?”

Clint fights the laugh but can’t quite manage to supress his grin as he spreads his arms wide. “I’m Leonardo, man!”

Bucky’s silent again, his grey-blue eyes roaming over the pyjamas Clint is now wearing. Though they’re actually pretty horrific, Clint loves the TMNT one-piece pj set. That say a lot about the tragic mess that is Hawkguy, his brain murmurs, but he ignores it in favour of getting a closer look at Barnes. He’s wearing a pair of black-and-white plaid cotton pants and a plain grey T-shirt under a black hoodie. On his feet are a beat-up pair of heavy duty boots; he has his left hand shoved into the pocket of his sweater. Clint hates the haunted look in Barnes’s eyes, so he pulls the hood of his onesie pyjamas over his head just to see what kind of reaction it will receive. He’s not disappointed: Barnes gapes at him even more, his mouth opening and closing silently. Finally, he manages to speak.

“Who the… Who’s Leonardo?”

Aw, Bucky-boo, no.

“What? 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.”

Clint’s already got the “Top-Ten-Most-‘Must Watch’-Worthy” episodes in his head, but he’s forced to abandon the mental list when Barnes reminds him of their plans. As soon as his boots are finally on (and c’mon, did Barnes really have to laugh that much?), Clint grabs his keys and wallet, follows Barnes into the hall, and turns to shut and lock the door. Clint hails a cab which is made more difficult by the fact his eyes don’t seem to want to stay off of Barnes, because seriously, no one should look that damn good, especially at eight in the morning. The ride of IHOP is even worse, because Clint’s stuck inhaling every single scent Barnes is carrying on him: the Old Spice deodorant, the fresh odour of whatever laundry detergent he uses, and cigarettes. That last one shouldn’t be so…sexy because smoking is bad, mkay? (Seriously, don’t do it, kiddos), but on Barnes, it works. Somehow, Clint manages to not make a fool of himself during the ride, which is a miracle in itself, but Clint figures he has at least the next hour to get through, so he doesn’t count it as a win – yet.

They’re seated in a back corner booth with no sightlines from the windows and a relatively clear path to the exits. Barnes says nothing as he picks up his menu, so Clint does the same. There, in the centre of the second page, is the best thing he’s seen since his ‘date’ showed up outside his door: Cupcake. Pancakes. He doesn’t realise he’s giggled (Again with the schoolgirl bit?, he whines to his brain) or started doing a jerky jig in his seat until he hears,

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

In seconds, Clint has his silverware unrolled and is smacking at Bucky’s right hand with his fork, and whoa, when did Barnes become Bucky? He’s blaming sleep-deprivation, if anyone asks. “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?”

Clint shoots Bucky a flat look but stays quiet as he orders his stupid sensible breakfast. When the waitress looks at Clint, he smiles widely, points to the pancakes he wants, and asks for white toast and coffee to go along with the platter. She nods, writing down his order before walking away. The appraising look Bucky bestows upon him makes him think that Barnes is going to be in for a rude awakening when he sees Clint’s plate. Clint nearly moans at the smell of coffee as a carafe and mugs are slid onto their table; he succeeds, once again, in not making himself out to be a fool and pours himself some nectar of the Merciful Gods (except Loki, because fuck Loki).

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

Clint privately agrees with Steve about Bucky needing to get away from the apartment, breathe in some fresh air, but he’s not going to tell Bucky that. He actually does value his life, regardless of what Nat says. Besides, he’s actually having fun. They bash on Tony a bit, then Bucky talks a little crap (affectionately) about Steve, then… Bucky goes silent and still. Clint catches a glimpse of something eerily similar to anxiousness on Bucky’s face, but it’s gone as soon as Bucky draws in a breath and admits that, basically, he’s lonely. And damn if that doesn’t make Clint feel guilty. He’s always thought that his visits to the apartment were mainly to humour Steve and that Bucky just tolerated Clint’s presence. But now, with the former-Winter Soldier confiding in him that he thought Clint was just tolerating him… Well, that certainly changes things. Clint mentally vows to spend so much time in Bucky’s apartment that Bucky is going to get sick of him.

“Barton, what the fuck are you eating?”

Clint ignores the waitress’s snort of laughter, grinning, and drowns his cupcake pancakes in blueberry syrup. He cuts a large portion, stuffs it in his mouth, and almost spits it right back out when Bucky shakes his head. Clint struggles to not choke as he swallows; a laugh is quickly forcing its way out of his throat at being accused of being a part-chipmunk, but the food washes it down.

“They’re called cupcake pancakes, Barnes. You should try them.” When Bucky refuses, Clint presses on, “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.”

Clint forces himself to not react to Bucky calling him the “best archer-assassin,” because really, how many archer-assassins are there in the world? (Clint’s pretty sure he’s the only one – at least in this universe.) And Bucky had said Clint is Fury’s best archer-assassin so it wasn’t a flirtation. Or much of a compliment, if Clint’s going to be honest. Instead of mentioning it, he flaps a hand noiselessly in the air.

“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?”

I’ve got something you can put up your ass.

Aw, Hawkguy, no.

Okay, so maybe he’s lacking too much sleep if his brain is shamelessly propositioning Bucky then declining that proposition (even if said proposal is purely mental and not verbal). Add on to that the fact he is literally shoving a hand into a waiter’s apron without permission, and yeah, he’s at least a hundred percent sure he should get some sleep soon. He replaces the pen in the poor man’s apron, hoping he’s not going to have a sexual harassment lawsuit against him, and slides the napkin across the table. Everything is worth it – Clint can see rainbows and unicorns floating around the booth – when Bucky laughs. Because when Bucky laughs, really laughs, his entire face transforms; he’s almost identical to the pictures of 1940s James Buchanan Barnes that Clint’s gotten off to many times – wait, what? Bucky’s eyes are lit up, alive, as his shoulders tremble with the force of his amusement. Clint has never seen anyone more beautiful, including the time he saw Nat naked. There’s a twinge of guilt as he remembers Laura, but he knows she’d understand. He grins at his friend and takes another bite of his pancakes. Bucky gazes at him for a moment after he’s calmed down before giving Clint a soft smile, and Clint feels like he could melt with the sweetness in that quirk of Bucky’s lips.

“I could’ve paid,” he repeats again, because if he doesn’t half-heartedly complain about who picked up the tab, he’s bound to bring up the fact he can still feel the warmth of Bucky’s thumb against his bottom lip, swiping up a bit of frosting and syrup that Clint missed with a napkin, or he’ll mention that he definitely noticed the note disappearing into Bucky’s pocket as they stood up from the booth, so yeah, the bill is a much safer subject.

He can hear the eye-roll in Bucky’s voice as he tells Clint to shut up and not die. Somehow, Clint’s brain vetoes any willpower he has, because he’s suddenly leaning against Bucky with his head on Bucky’s shoulder, and fuck. Bucky smells even better now with the aroma of coffee added into the blend. He resists the urge to bury his nose into Bucky’s neck and sniff at him during the ride back to the apartment.

“Sorry I woke you up so early.”

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

“That’s…good to hear,” and holy cow, did Bucky actually hesitate? And does he really sound amused, or is Clint just imagining it? “But you’re tired. What time did you fall asleep last night?”

Clint shrugs, yawning, “About four-thirty or so.”

“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?”

I tried, but you just had to go and say ‘please.’ Besides, I don’t wanna tell you to fuck off. I wanna tell you to fuck me.

No. Bad brain.

“Because you’re worth missing sleep for.”

Okay, yeah, way to go, Brain; good brain. Bucky doesn’t respond, which leaves Clint sleepily panicking that he’s said the wrong thing. But when thirty seconds, then a minute, then two pass without him being forcibly ejected from the taxi as it drives down the street, Clint relaxes, even manages to doze off with his head still on Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky pays (yet again), and the cab disappears from sight; Clint maybe milks it for what it’s worth as Bucky helps him up the three flights of stairs to his apartment. Anything to keep Bucky’s hands on him. When they stop, Clint looks up at Bucky to see him staring at a spot just past Clint’s shoulder.

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

Oh, thank fuck.

“So did I.” Smooth, Barton. He inwardly grimaces at the speed with which he’s replied even as Bucky’s eyes find his. “Uh, think we can do it again?”

Something passes over Bucky’s face then, and Clint almost becomes a puddle of tragic mess right there in the hallway when Bucky responds with a husky “Only if I can kiss you right now.” Because yes, a million times yes. The next thing Clint is aware of is a warm hand on his jaw and dry, hot lips against his. Is this really happening?, he manages to think to himself even as his mouth opens under Bucky’s and all rational thought leaves his brain. Bucky tastes like coffee and bacon, undertones of mint and cigarettes and something else that leave Clint’s head spinning; Clint regains enough mental function to declare Bucky’s mouth his favourite taste in the world. His giggle turns into a quiet moan as he’s pulled flush against Bucky. The only thing keeping him grounded is the press of the other man’s fingers against his lower back. Unfortunately, Bucky pulls away much too soon for Clint’s liking, but then there’s one, two, three more gentle presses to his lips. Clint swallows down his impulse to beg for more, inhales quickly. It’s good that’s a rather tragic chaos, because he can’t stop the word-vomit that follows.

“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."

Bucky laughs quietly, leaning his forehead against Clint’s; Clint wants nothing more than to tilt his head up and kiss the senses out of Bucky. He doesn’t, though, so yay for self-control! That willpower nearly flies out the proverbial window when Bucky says he wants to do the date thing again kissing included. Clint invites him inside for more sleep, because as fun as this morning has been already, there’s a strong desire to do something, anything, to remove those purple bags from under Bucky’s eyes. That’s when Bucky goes still; Clint can see the panic and fear in his eyes, and yeah, Clint definitely understands that better than anybody – maybe better than even Captain Spangly-Pants. So he smiles, unlocks the door, and pulls Bucky inside. The front door has barely closed when he kisses Bucky gently, a chaste press of lips to lips. Threading their fingers together, he invades Bucky’s personal space again.

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

A pleasant sort of surprise flits across the super-soldier’s face, and Clint realises it’s the first time he’s ever called Bucky anything other than ‘Barnes,’ ‘Grizzly,’ or ‘Grumpy-Bear’ – at least out loud. With another smile, he leads Bucky to the bathroom and fishes out a new, unopened toothbrush from the bottom drawer. He hands it to the other man; it takes a minute, but then Bucky smacks Clint over the head with the package.

“You’re a fucking menace, Barton.”

Clint snickers at Bucky’s narrowed eyes and continues to brush his own teeth. Bucky still doesn’t look amused as he opens the box to pull out a Captain America toothbrush. They don’t speak as they brush their teeth, then take turns to use the bathroom in privacy. Clint slides beneath the covers next to Bucky, leaving a few inches between them, but then Bucky wraps an arm around him and pulls him close. Clint lays his head on Bucky’s chest and listens to the steady beat of his heart. The rhythmic thumping lulls Clint into a restful dozing, not quite awake but not asleep; he shivers as Bucky’s metal fingers slide softly over his skin, whining when Bucky pulls his hand away. There’s the sound of Bucky shifting slightly, a light pressure against the top of Clint’s head.

“Yeah, we’re definitely doing this again.”

At Bucky’s whispered promise, Clint smiles drowsily, snuggles closer, and lets himself be soothed into sleep by the rise and fall of Bucky’s chest as he breathes, the heartbeat beneath his ears reassuring Clint that this is really happening, that Bucky is really here. The last thing he thinks is Aw, Bucky-bear, yes.