"You remember that mission last week?" Clint asks.
"Uh-huh.” Bucky rests the phone against his shoulder to free up his other hand. He's at his computer - still, as ever, impressed by how far technology's come - reading a lengthy and somewhat tedious article about the political situation in eastern Ukraine, since that seems like something he should keep up with in this line of work. He knows some of the history of the region first hand, but that knowledge is a good twenty years out of date, and even the things he does know have enough gaps and holes that he's got to brush up on all the rest of it as well.
"The way you shot that one guy." Clint speaks slower than usual, and Bucky can imagine the empty beer bottles on the coffee table of his always-filthy apartment. Bucky's wouldn't be much tidier if it weren't for a combination of military discipline and being best friends with Steve Rogers for too long.
Probably Clint's on that ratty couch of his, feet up on the table, bottle in one hand and the phone in the other. Or the phone on speaker, maybe; there's a tinniness that comes with speakerphone that's present now that Bucky thinks about it. He wonders where the dog is, then pushes that thought from his mind. None of it actually matters. He's just bored and sometimes he tends toward recreating scenes in his head from scant data. It's a talent, and an annoying one.
Clint says, "How many other guys'd you get?"
Bucky thinks on this, switching the phone to the other ear as he does. "Three. Why?"
"Dunno," Clint says. "I was thinking about it."
Bucky bites back a frustrated groan. He hopes Clint isn't suddenly having second thoughts about his line of work or something. He doesn't want to talk a drunk Barton back into killing people, to re-convince him that what they do is sometimes necessary. Hard men - and women - making hard decisions; all that bullshit. He's not sure he'd be able to.
Clint says, "How'd you get the other ones?"
Maybe not second thoughts, Bucky thinks. He remembers clearly enough, and doesn't want to lie and say he doesn't, lest he make Clint and then by proxy the rest of the Avengers worry about his memory's integrity after so many brainwashings. Unless they're already worried - whatever, he can rattle it off easy enough. "The first one came at me with his knife. I saw him coming. Grabbed his wrist, broke it, took his knife and got him in the throat with it. Shot the second one. The third ..." Bucky pauses.
"I think I shot him too."
"You think?" Clint says. There's something weird in his voice. "Where?"
"It was a bit after the others," Bucky says. He would have stopped there, but Clint's insistent, and he may as well. "I got him ... okay, yeah, first in the knee, then through the head. It would've just been the headshot but there was that other guy who tried jumping me - you shot him - and the angle was wrong. Couldn't get a clean shot otherwise."
"Go back," Clint says. His voice is a little lower than earlier, and Bucky can hear him breathing where he couldn't before. "The second one, the other guy you shot. How'd that go?"
Bucky frowns at his phone. "Are you -"
"Where'd you shoot him?"
"Her," Bucky corrects, needlessly, then, "Are you getting off on this?"
"Nnnno?" Clint tries. "Definitely no. Wow, gross. Just tell me about the chick you shot."
Despite his best judgment, Bucky does. He talks about lining up the shot, about firing last-minute and too-close, and Clint says, "So the blood on your face was from -"
"Well, her and the first one," Bucky says. "Got all over my clothes, too."
Clint sighs. The frantic rustling noise, barely audible over the phone, quickens.
"I can't believe you're getting off on this," Bucky says. "Your drunk ass calls me at three AM just to hear me talk about killing people? Seriously?"
"Aww, Bucky -"
"This's the weirdest thing anyone's ever done to me, and one time the Russians brainwashed me into thinking I was an accountant," Bucky says. Then, before Clint can apologize or make it weird, he says, "Anyway, so I shot her point blank and she practically falls on me. Awkward, right? God, that mission was a mess. And it started out so smooth, too. That first shot was fucking perfect. You were there. Right between the eyes. I shoulda known it wouldn't go easy, after that, but right then - you know what it's like making a shot like that, right?"
Clint doesn't say anything. Bucky can hear him breathing.
Bucky keeps talking.
A vague noise from the other end, indeterminate and faint. Muffled, like maybe Clint's making whatever stupid sound he's making against his sleeve instead of into the phone. Bucky goes on talking anyway - it's easy enough now that he's gotten started, just rambling about the mission, until Clint says, "That's, uh. You can. Y'know. Sorry. Fuck, sorry, I wasn't trying to - bye!" and hangs up.
Bucky just laughs helplessly before undoing his pants, tossing the phone aside and leaning back in his chair. His life's so fucked sometimes.
Bucky and Natasha get shipped off to Argentina for a week to track down and 'deal with' a rogue group who've decided that human civilization's had a bit too long and are trying to wipe humanity off the earth by triggering the sudden mass eruption of basically every volcano, everywhere.
Bucky's not quite clear how the science works - part of him insists it shouldn't be possible - but SHIELD and Reed Richards seem to think the threat is real enough, and so they go and take care of it.
He lies on his back in the hotel room, arms behind his head.
Natasha asks, "You alright?"
"You seem distracted." She shrugs it off. "I'm going to take a bath. Let me know if it looks like the world's going to end."
Natasha can take hours in the bath. She grabs the gelato she bought earlier out of the mini-fridge/freezer by the TV and vanishes and Bucky knows he probably won't see her again the rest of the night.
He gets out his phone.
"Danny Rand's drill-it-yourself-dentist," Clint answers. "You drill 'em, we fill 'em."
"What the fuck, Clint?" Bucky asks, laughing. "Danny's not even a dentist. The fuck?"
"Is - Bucky?" Clint squawks.
"Is that how you greet everybody, or am I just special?"
"That's - I didn't recognize the number," Clint says. "It's been a long day. Cut me some slack."
"It's only eleven there, isn't it?" Bucky says.
"Yeah. Still. Long day. What time is it in ... classified?"
Bucky snorts. "That's classified, too. How's New York? Any new alien invasions this week?"
"Not so far, knock on wood." He actually does, too, or it sounds like it; Bucky grins at the phone. Clint's a fucking idiot sometimes. It's kind of great. "What's up, is there a crisis? Do I gotta be somewhere?"
"You don't gotta be anywhere," Bucky says, easy, letting the Brooklyn drawl creep back into his voice as he talks. "You at home?"
"Yeah. I thought I didn't have to be anywhere."
"Well, it woulda been weird if you were someplace else," Bucky says. "It's just that me and Nat just finished up a mission, and I thought, y'know, you'd like to hear about something you didn't see with your own fucking eyes. Seriously, you were right there, Clint."
"Shut up. What?"
Bucky closes his eyes, resting his free hand on his stomach. "We've got twelve guys in custody right now. There were seventeen at the base. You do the math."
"I'm no good at math," Clint says, which is a goddamn lie.
"That's a goddamn lie," Bucky says. "I got three of 'em. Nat got the rest."
"Oh," Clint says. Then - "Oh, shit. Look, I wasn't - this doesn't have to be, you know, it was. I was drunk -"
"You want me to tell you about it or not?"
"I mean, yeah," Clint says. "Yeah, fine, go ahead."
"Go ahead, he says." Bucky laughs. "You're such a charmer. Anyway, so it went like this."
Somehow, since that first drunk phonecall, Clint and Bucky haven't actually run into each other face-to-face again. It's been more than two months. Clint's been in and out of New York doing things for SHIELD. Bucky's been on three more missions of his own, though only two had fatalities. The other was escorting a deep-cover spy to safety and it went off smooth and easy, and Bucky's almost disappointed. He knows that's the ideal situation - a mission where nothing goes wrong shouldn't be anything more than a pipe dream, but there it was.
Nothing goes wrong after, either. The spy delivers the information he gained and goes into witness protection. It's frustrating right after, though, because part of him's starting to like calling Clint after missions.
He's not sure he gets it, but he's very slowly piecing together what does it for Clint and what's - if not bad, then indifferent. It's like putting together a really weird and kind of fucked up sex puzzle, and that metaphor fell apart before it even got off the ground. Bucky rubs at his temples.
The point is that the mission goes over fine and there's no reason to call Clint, not after that. It'd be the most boring phone sex in the world - oh, yeah, I followed the guy for three blocks, then we both got in the same car and left the city. Yeah, it was like a six hour drive. He was really into Springsteen. Didn't speak a word of English though. That's not going to do it for anyone, not even Clint.
Natasha says, "Oh, no, not you too."
"Clint," she says, rolling her eyes.
"Uh." Bucky pauses. "Have you been looking at my phone records or something?"
"No." She gives him a look - obviously not. He trusts her, and knows it was a stupid question. He shrugs, and she says, "Well, I guess you could do worse."
"Clint's not that bad," Bucky says. "And we're not even - I don’t know, it's just this … this phone thing. I haven't even seen him in forever."
"Well, you're both adults," Natasha says, waving a hand at him as she pulls off her jumpsuit and changes into sweats and a t-shirt. "Have fun."
Bucky's in New York.
Clint's also in New York. Both of them are in the same city at the same time.
Bucky has no idea what to do with this information. They talk on the phone sometimes, and sometimes he listens to Clint jerk off while he talks about killing people, and then gets himself off after, more on the thought of Clint getting off than anything. He doesn't know if Clint knows it gets him off, and he doesn't know if that'd matter to Clint anyway.
Probably the whole thing should stay relegated to the telephone, a post-mission ritual. The phone calls with Clint are like the most relaxing debriefings ever. That small comfort isn't, Bucky realizes with some surprise, something that he wants to lose.
But he keeps wondering and wondering whether it'd be the same face to face. Part of him just wants to watch Clint touch himself, wants to know what it looks like when Clint has his hand wrapped around his dick, how his face looks listening to Bucky. Another part - and the larger share - wants to know if it'd work if that was Bucky's hand. Or if Bucky could fuck him and talk him through it. Or, or, or.
There are a lot of options, is the thing, and Bucky's thought of most of them by now.
He doesn't have anything new to share, but then he realizes he doesn't need anything new. He's been killing, off and on, since '41. Some of those memories he doesn't want to touch, but there are plenty he thinks he can talk about.
The idea of asking Natasha whether it's a phone-only thing crosses Bucky's mind, but he shudders at the thought - it just seems weird, asking her that, and a little invasive, so he doesn't bother.
Without giving him too much more time to dwell and stew over it, he calls Clint.
"'Sup," Clint says.
"What, no weird rhyming bullshit this time?"
"You're calling from your own phone for once," Clint points out. The last few phonecalls have been prefaced by improbable business advertisements. The little rhyme about Tony Stark's laundromat had been baffling, and Bucky wishes he could remember it if only to try and pitch the idea to Stark himself, but he can't right now, and anyway, it's not important. "I've got your number programmed in."
"Oh, sure, fine, use logic," Bucky says. "That's real kind of you. Thanks, pal."
"You're welcome, buddy." Clint adds, quickly, "God, that was the worst retort. Sorry. I'm not feeling witty tonight."
"That's fine. You okay?"
"Yeah, yeah," Clint says. "So what's ... how are you?"
"I'm good," Bucky says, and then - "You wanna get some pizza, maybe?"
"I can grab a six pack of some bullshit microbrew on the way over," Bucky offers. "Something super expensive."
"Is everything okay?"
"It's fine! It's fine." Bucky presses his hand to his forehead and breathes out through his nose. "I just figured we could hang out. Never mind; if you're busy -"
"I just didn't think - you can come by, it's no big deal."
"Right," Bucky says, and, true to his word, buys the fanciest microbrew he can find at the liquor store nearest Clint's. That's not as fancy as it could have been had he gone somewhere closer to Williamsburg than Bed-Stuy, but it's still overpriced and the labels are still ridiculous collector bullshit so it'll have to do.
"I realized I wasn't sure what kind of pizza you liked," Clint says as he opens the door. "So I haven't actually ordered yet."
"Pizza is pizza," Bucky says. "As long as there's a crust with tomato and cheese on it, I'm fine with whatever else happens."
"So aliens could invade and it'd be cool?" Clint takes the six pack of fancy-ass beer from him and goes to set it on the coffee table, picking up a few older bottles and taking those to the kitchen.
Bucky only halfheartedly follows after him, drifting a little as Clint wanders the apartment. "If the aliens were a pizza topping."
"C'mon, sit, we'll look at a menu," Clint says. "I didn't even realize they had pizza when you were a kid. It's weirding me out."
"Seriously?" Bucky asks, laughing. "That's what you - I've been back long enough that even if we hadn't ... What? Should I pretend I've never heard of this ... peet-suh?"
"Shut up! I don't know what you ate back then. I thought it was all boiled goose, all the time."
"I'm gonna kick Steve in the nuts next time I see him," Bucky decides. "He keeps using that line about how we boiled everything back then. Just because it's true doesn't mean he's gotta go telling everybody. You gotta let the past lie sometimes."
Clint grins at him. "Pepperoni?"
"Sure," Bucky says. "Pepperoni pizza, there you go. Classic."
Clint makes the call.
"If you wanted pizza so bad, what'd you come all the way over here for?"
Bucky looks away. "Y'know. The usual. I was hungry. Didn't feel like being alone. I thought maybe - I don't know. Maybe you weren't doing anything."
"Nice, thanks," Clint says. "That's me. The superhero who doesn't do anything. Pew pew, shoot some arrows then I'm out."
"That's not what I -"
"I know, I'm kidding."
"Okay." Bucky looks at him. Without meaning to, he licks his lips, then swallows. Clint looks at him. "You know you're a good marksman. Best shot I've ever seen. That's not the point, I wasn't trying to - I just thought. I've been around a while. Got some stories."
"Stories," Clint repeats, then waits, looking thoughtful.
"Guy like me, in my line of work?" Bucky holds up both hands, palms turned upward. "I thought you might be interested. I don't know. It's - never mind, it's stupid. How long until the pizza gets here, again?"
“Like half an hour? This place is really fast. I think they kind of hate me for always getting delivery, since they’re like a block away.”
“You tip though, right?”
“And pay the fucking delivery fee,” Clint says.
“So it’s fine,” Bucky says. “They get fresh air, you get pizza, everybody wins.”
At this latest repetition of the word pizza, Clint’s dog comes trotting into the room, claws clicking against the scuffed wood floor. The dog rests its head on Bucky’s knee, looking impatient and pleading.
Bucky scratches the dog’s head. “All right, so that idea crashed and burned. What do you have on your DVR?”
“It didn’t crash and burn.” Clint replies too-fast, leaning forward, his eyes gone huge. They’re very blue, Bucky notes. He doesn’t think he knew Clint’s eyes were blue before. “You shot yourself down talking about pizza, I figured we weren’t talking about it.”
“We don’t gotta talk about it,” Bucky says. Once upon a time he had all sorts of bravado, danced with all sorts of girls, all across Europe. He’d been such an arrogant little shit, and he’s pretty sure a lot of that was an act but he wishes he could find that kind of courage again now.
“You’re the one who invited yourself over,” Clint points out. The corner of his mouth twitches, then breaks into a full-blown smile. “You haven’t even gone on any missions since the last one, have you? What were you gonna tell me?”
Bucky breathes out, slow and steady, and shifts his weight, angling himself toward Clint. He puts an arm on the back of the sofa. He’s spent a lot of time wondering what Clint looks like while he’s talking to him, trying to imagine Clint’s expressions.
The dog, looking dejected, circles at his feet and then lies down.
Bucky’s pulse sounds steady in his ears, loud and regular and percussive as an 808. They make music with computers now, imitating the sounds of real instruments sometimes, and other times going off and making something else you’d never hear naturally. His left hand closes over his knee. “I’ve got a good seventy years of experience, you know. I can’t even remember half of it. But some of it’s still up there.”
He taps at the side of his head with his right hand.
Clint pushes a hand through his close-cropped blonde hair. He looks, briefly, concerned. “When you were the Winter Soldier?”
Bucky says, “Honestly? I still am. I’m never gonna not be. Look. The first mission they ever sent me on, it was the middle of December just outside of Riga. There was this German scientist, still hiding out from the German occupation, I guess. He had a wife there. No kids yet, at least. I don’t know if they thought - maybe they figured I couldn’t handle kids. I did later.”
His fingers flex against his knee, and his arm whirs, recalibrates. The plates shiver. An ambulance roars past, sirens blaring, but it’s not enough to hide the sound of metal settling back against itself.
“Ah,” Clint says. Bucky watches his throat as he swallows, then his eyes dart up to catch Clint’s lips parting on a shallow breath.
“I caught him outside,” Bucky says. “It took a while to get him and his wife alone. They were always at dinner parties, meetings, whatever. I recorded a lot of it. They were working against the state the whole time, but finally, this one night, I guess he and his wife wanted to go watch a meteor shower. There was snow on the ground. It was freezing. I had this stupid parka - hood up and everything. I must’ve looked like a ghost, you know?”
Clint reaches blindly for a bottle of beer, not taking his eyes off Bucky. Bucky watches his hand grope for the cool glass before finally getting hold of it, barely succeeding in not knocking the bottle over. Clint takes a long drink, letting his eyes close for a moment. His throat works as he gulps down almost half of it at once.
Bucky keeps talking, eyes on Clint the whole time. He breathes through his nose, and wonders what he looks like to Clint right now. His face feels warm, but the lighting in here is dim, one of the lightbulbs in the fixture above them burnt out. He takes a drink from his own beer then sets it back down on the table. “But I followed them. They drove; I had this motorcycle. Ridiculous. Finally got ‘em alone, way out in the middle of nowhere, both of them sitting on this old German car.”
“Did they know -”
“That I was gonna kill ‘em?” Bucky laughs. “I asked them - I don’t remember, I think I asked for directions. The husband went to dig around in the car for a map and I pulled a knife on his wife. For some reason I couldn’t stand to kill her right on the hood of the car, so we backed up into the field. She was struggling, but I had a hand over her mouth.”
He holds his right hand up, palm turned toward Clint, fingers curved around. He can remember the warmth of her breath against his skin. “She fucking bit me, too. And she had this scarf. This bright green scarf, I had to get it out of the way. Her husband saw what I was doing before I managed to get at her neck.”
Clint’s hand creeps down, like maybe he’s going to touch himself or maybe he’s trying to hide that he’s hard now, though it’s too late for that. He looks down toward the floor for a moment, then back at Bucky, hopeful and challenging. “Can I -”
Bucky grins, showing his teeth. “I thought you’d never ask.”
Clint undoes his belt, letting out an amused breath through his nose when he fumbles with it. Bucky’s fingers twitch. Clint gets his pants open and shoves them down, letting his dick spring free, finally.
Bucky stares; when he looks up, Clint has his lower lip caught between his teeth. “I finally got her scarf off, and her husband was almost to us when I got her jugular. Blood everywhere, seriously. But she was facing him, and her blood was pouring out and the spray got him, you know? He looked so horrified.”
Bucky laughs and shakes his head. “I don’t know what he was thinking, you know? Maybe he thought he wasn’t gonna die, that this was just an - example, or something random. Bad luck. Her blood was still - it was slower, after that spray. She stopped breathing. You know.”
Clint’s hand moves, up and down, fingers tight around himself.
“He tried to turn and run, and it’s not - he was fat, old. He didn’t get very far. I tackled him to the ground. There was … they’d told me what to say. I don’t remember anymore; I guess it was classified.”
“Too bad,” Clint says, voice unsteady. He leans forward.
Bucky leans in toward him, too, lets his fingers wrap around the back of Clint’s neck. In his other hand he still has the bottle of beer. He presses his mouth to Clint’s ear and lets his voice drop to something just above a whisper. “Something about how we knew what he’d done, and that this was from the KGB, and they hoped … I don’t remember. It was a lot easier to kill him, though. Wasn’t even wearing a scarf, just this stupid hat - the kind with the earflaps. It’s weird how much I remember. It was so fucking cold out.”
“Russian winter,” Clint says, needlessly, and Bucky reaches down with his right hand. He covers Clint’s fingers with his own.
“Is this okay?” Bucky asks.
Clint exhales, nodding, eyes wide. “Uh-huh.”
“Yeah.” Clint’s voice is rough.
Bucky’s heart is pounding, that same steady kick, steady as ever. Clint’s hair is cut short and he rubs his nose against it, lips moving against the curve of Clint’s ear as he talks.
“You wanna know the weird thing?”
Clint’s head inclines slightly, and he presses his cheek against Bucky’s, breathing hard.
“I’m pretty sure - if you gave me a choice, right now, on whether or not to kill that guy and his wife? I’d do it again,” Bucky says. “It’s not even a question. He wasn’t a good man. She was just as bad. Is that fucked up?”
“Shit,” Clint says, startled into almost-laughter, his breath catching.
“Right? He tried to put up a fight, sort of, but he wasn’t - he was soft. Probably sat behind a desk pushing paper around his whole life, maybe tattling on his coworkers, I don’t know. Fucking Nazis, man.” He pulls away, just so he can look Clint in the eye. Clint manages a crooked and panting smile.
“And it was stupid, but I think I wasn’t use to this thing yet.” He taps his metal fingers against Clint’s neck, just to prove a point and make it clear what he means. “I dropped my knife. Maybe it was too cold? I don’t know. Next time I woke up they did all these calibrations. But I drop my knife, and it’s like, shit, now I have to kill this guy by hand. I know how to do that - that’s about all I knew - but it’s less convenient.”
Clint’s shoulders rise and fall with each shallow breath. He shoves his face against Bucky’s neck, chapped lips moving senselessly against the thin skin of his throat.
Bucky pushes Clint’s hand away so it’s him alone jerking Clint through it, though the angle’s awkward for his wrist. The sound of skin on skin drowns out the sound of his heartbeat. He’s dimly aware, in a distant, abstract sort of way, that he’s hard, too, and vaguely glad to be wearing loose pants today. Mostly he’s aware of Clint.
He’s aware of his hand curled around Clint’s dick, of working it with a steady, steady rhythm. He speeds up. Clint says, “Fuck, fuck.”
Bucky says, “So I was still figuring this arm out.” His fingers tighten at the back of Clint’s neck. “They must not’ve let me practice with it much, I don’t know. It was - heavy. Weird. But I punched this guy and it was - god. I’d never hit anybody that hard. I’d never been able to hit anybody that hard. His nose just snapped, and it was so loud, you know? Listen, we were out in the middle of nowhere and I had this guy on his back in the snow, and the sound of me hitting him was just the loudest fucking thing. There were - the sky was full of shooting stars and it was so fucking quiet except for me punching this guy.”
Clint says, “How’d you -”
“How’d I kill him?” Bucky laughs. “I just kept hitting him. That’s it. Nothing special, just - over and over. It was like - I could have killed that guy a thousand other ways, but I got so focused. Like I was letting out my anger, but I didn’t even know what I was mad at, and that just made it worse.”
“Shit.” Clint laughs again. “Did - ahh.”
Bucky turns his head closer toward Clint’s and breathes in deep. His hand works. “That night - there were so many stars. I don’t think I’ve seen that many stars since then, and they just kept falling, and I couldn’t stop hitting this guy. Like I was on autopilot. I guess I was. I pulled back my arm, like I was winding up to pitch a ball or something. You ever see a guy get his skull punched in?”
Clint drops his forehead to Bucky’s shoulder and lets out a loud breath that hisses through his teeth. His dick jumps in Bucky’s hand; he gets tense in the moment before he comes, then relaxes, quiet.
He’s so quiet about it. There’s come all over Bucky’s hand, and Clint squints down beneath them then sits back, stretching his arms above his head. He grabs a half-used napkin from the table, tossing it at Bucky.
“Classy,” Bucky says.
“So now you worry about classy.” Clint rolls his shoulders back, then eyes Bucky again. Puts a hand on Bucky’s leg. His eyes are the blue of a lake in winter, frozen over with treacherously thin ice. The muscles of Bucky’s stomach clench as he leans toward Clint. “D’you want me to -”
The doorbell rings.
“We ordered pizza. Great. That’s good timing.”
“Yeah, yeah, shut up,” Clint says. “Gimme your wallet. I might pay you back if you remind me. You know what else I’m good at, besides the bow and arrow?”
“Am I gonna regret hearing this?” Bucky asks, digging in his back pocket for his wallet before tossing it to Clint. “And do up your fucking pants before you get the door.”
“Oh, shit,” Clint says, rearranging himself. “Thanks. But no, c’mon, guess what I’m good at.” He’s halfway out the door as he says this.
“I don’t know,” Bucky calls after him. “What?”
“One second.” At the sound of Clint leaving, the dog gets up and follows him out into the hall, with the click-click-click of his claws against the wood again.
Bucky laughs, and lets himself fall down across the sofa. He folds his arms and presses his face to the cool metal, smiling to himself.
“I’m good at eating pizza,” Clint says, when he comes back. He shoves things off the coffee table haphazardly to make room for the pizza boxes. “And you carry way too much money. You’re gonna get mugged.”
“Am not,” Bucky says, wiggling his metal fingers without bothering to look up. “I’d like to meet the mugger who’d try.”
“The pizza thing isn’t what I was gonna say, anyway.”
“I’m not guessing.” Bucky’s voice is muffled, and he has to repeat himself a few times. The dog puts its paws up on the couch and licks his neck, then tries to climb on top of him, movements tentative like if he tries for long enough then Bucky will move out of the way.
“Fine, fine, I’m good at blowjobs. And the whole, you know.”
Bucky reaches over to scratch the dog’s head, which at least temporarily calms it down enough that it stops trying to get on the sofa. “You know?”
“Eating girls out,” Clint says. “Which doesn’t matter right now, but just for the record.”
“Great, thanks. I’ll keep that in mind. Put it in your file at SHIELD.” The dog licks at his hand, and Bucky lifts his head long enough to stare at it, then decides he doesn’t care. He smiles again, glad the expression’s mostly hidden thanks to how he’s lying.
“I’m just saying, we finish this pizza and then I’m going down on you.” Clint pauses. “Unless you don’t want me to. If it’s just a, you know, whatever -”
“I’m not turning down a free blowjob.”
“What, you usually pay?”
Bucky sits up finally, just so he can throw a ratty couch cushion at Clint. Clint shrugs it off and shoves in next to him on the couch.
“Anyway.” Clint’s next sentence is said around a mouthful of pizza. “Thanks for the pizza.”