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Put Us Back Together Right

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The first time was after one of Tony’s Stark Initiative Fundraisers. Or, well, during it probably.


Clint was drunk. Not the ‘What did I do last night?’ kind of drunk, but more like the ‘I know I’m about to do something incredibly stupid but it’s okay, I’m drunk enough that the inevitable rejection isn’t going to hurt that much’ kind of drunk.


Only, that’s not how it happened.


Clint finished off his… fourth? Fifth? Vodka something that Natasha had bullied the bartender into making and put down his empty glass. He made an attempt to straighten his bow-tie and make sure his shirt was tucked in and, well, there was nothing to be done for his hair.


He walked across the room full of fancy-ass people who knew what the fuck they were doing with their lives and came to a stop in front of Bucky.


Bucky - who shouldn’t be allowed to wear formal wear of any kind, ever again, because it wasn’t fucking fair to see him like this when he was already unattainably hot in everything else ever - arched in his eyebrows in a silent question to Clint.


Because Clint had, of course, crossed the entire room and just stopped right in front of him. As if he was going to challenge him to a fight or- or- fuck. Clint really hadn’t thought this through.


Clint impulsively held his hand out and Bucky stared at it, storm cloud eyes narrowing slightly as he considered the hand, considered Clint. 


But then Bucky’s left hand was sliding into Clint’s right and Clint was stumbling towards the dance floor, and Bucky was at his six, along for the ride.


One dance turned into another and then another, and then they were stumbling into an elevator and their hands and mouths were all over each other before Jarvis even closed the doors to the elevator car.


Clint really had no clue where Jarvis was taking them - hell, for all he knew or cared Jarvis was just holding the car and letting them have their wicked way with each other - but he really, truly couldn’t care even a little less than he already did.


Because Bucky’s tongue was in his mouth and Clint’s hands were full of Bucky’s ass, and frankly there was no moment in Clint’s life that could compare to the pure electric thrill of Bucky’s hands gripping his arms and jerking his tux jacket down.


Jarvis took them to Bucky’s apartment, because Jarvis wasn’t as drunk or aroused as Clint so, you know, he did the logical thing. 


They stumbled through the hallways, knocking into furniture and shedding clothes on their way, until they were naked and Bucky was pushing Clint down onto his bed and looking down at him like Clint was the best thing he’d ever seen.


In the morning, Clint woke up with a pounding headache, a pillow wet with his own drool under his cheek and Bucky draped over his back like the world’s most aggressive weighted blanket.


It was an effort - an arduous, awkward effort - to climb out from under Bucky without waking him up, but eventually Clint managed the feat.


He was just stepping into his tux pants - he’d given up on the hunt for his boxers after five fruitless minutes and had only haphazardly buttoned his shirt - when he noticed movement.


Bucky was standing in the open doorway to his bedroom, naked and sloe-eyed and gorgeous.


He was smiling at Clint.




The next time was after a mission. Bucky and Sam were sent to handle a terrorist cell in Tangiers, and when they came back, Natasha hauled Sam’s ass to medical and Bucky stood listlessly in the conference room where they’d held the debrief and refused to interact with Steve or Tony.


So Clint tugged on his arm, waited for Bucky’s eyes to meet his, and then threaded the fingers of his right hand into Bucky’s left and pulled him away.


They went to Brooklyn, bumping against each other as they stood on the subway for the ride out from Manhattan, and Clint relinquished his hold on Bucky as they navigated the stairs up to the street again.


But Bucky followed him, first to Clint’s favorite dive pizza place, where they put away two pies and two pitchers of beer between them, and then back to Clint’s apartment in Bed-Stuy.


He let Clint undress him, let Clint use his mouth and fingers to trace over his skin, to taste the scars and muscles and strain of the Winter Soldier on his body.


After, Bucky curled around Clint in the bed and held him close.


In the morning, Bucky was gone.




The third time was Steve’s birthday. There was a party - because of course there was a party - and there was champagne and cake and literally hundreds of people Clint didn’t recognize.


At some point, Steve and Bucky and Clint found themselves on top of the Tower, wind making a mess of their hair and trying to steal Steve’s voice as he regaled Clint with stories of his and Bucky’s youth.


Bucky sat between them, right arm slung over Steve’s shoulders and left arm a firm, cold brace from Clint’s right shoulder to his left hip as Clint leaned into his side.


It was warm, even with the breeze, and after all of the champagne and cake, Clint struggled not to fall asleep, fully aware that pitching off the Tower while napping was not how he wanted to go.


Eventually, Bucky shook him awake and towed him along to his apartment in the Tower. They shucked their clothes and climbed into bed, and Clint let Bucky hold him close again, and they fell asleep with their legs tangled together.


In the morning, Bucky kissed Clint with minty fresh breath and refused to let Clint out of bed to brush his own teeth for more than an hour.




The fourth time, Clint was sitting at home watching Dog Cops, Lucky asleep at his feet, a half-eaten pizza on the coffee table, when the door to his apartment opened.


He’d given Bucky a key months before, but this was the first time he had used it.


Bucky toed off his shoes by the door, locked it behind him and climbed onto the couch to sprawl lengthwise, head in Clint’s lap and feet dangling off the other end. Cautiously, Clint carded his fingers through Bucky’s hair.


They made it through two episodes like that, Clint finding a rhythm and pressure that wasn’t quite pulling on Bucky’s hair, but also wasn’t not.


Then Bucky rolled over and tugged Clint’s sweatpants down his hips and gave him the slowest, most intense blowjob of Clint’s life.


After, Bucky tucked Clint’s dick away and resumed his earlier position. 


Eventually, they fell asleep like that and didn’t wake up until Lucky licked Clint awake and demanded to be taken out for a walk.




The fifth time was on the Quinjet, after a mission that maybe could have gone better, but had gone good enough in that no civilians had died and no bad guys had escaped, and sure, maybe Clint had been shot and maybe there had been a lot more property damage than anyone was comfortable with but - no dead good guys.


Natasha and Sam were in the cockpit, getting them the hell out of there, and Bucky decided to play nurse and ripped Clint’s mostly destroyed shirt off and started to patch him up, eyes looking thunderous and mouth set in a tight, pale line as he washed away Clint’s blood.


He patched Clint up, stitched up a cut that was too deep and wide for just a bandage, and then carefully taped up his wrist and checked for any missed injuries.


And one thing led to another, adrenaline being what it was and Clint not being able to stand Bucky’s grimace, and Clint shoved his own pants down and crawled into Bucky’s lap, and together they fumbled with Bucky’s pants until they were out of the way.


Twenty minutes later, Sam found them still like that, muttered something about pasty-ass horny white boys before he went back to the cockpit and had Natasha tell them, over the comms, that they were fifteen minutes out from the Tower.




Bucky preferred Clint’s coffee to whatever the fancy MIT-worthy coffee makers at the Tower put out, and he made up for the coffee theft by making scrambled eggs.


They ate them standing up, shoulders bumping together and Lucky whining at their feet, eternally hopeful for a crumb or ten. 


After, Clint dragged Bucky into the shower with him and Bucky buried his fingers in Clint’s hair when Clint knelt at his feet and gave Bucky’s dick a - well, not a bath or a shower, that was for certain.


Bucky dried them off, running the towel over Clint’s shoulders and face like he was fragile or precious or something Clint wasn’t.


“I love you,” Bucky said when their eyes met.


A world of emotion, a dictionary of words, burned in Clint’s throat.


He managed to swallow, managed to breathe.


“I know,” he said.


Bucky smiled and leaned up to kiss him.