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As much as Clint Barton loves Dog Cops, especially the season two finale, he’s having a hard time focusing on the epic takedown happening on screen, what with how he might have just completely destroyed the one good thing he has going for him.
He frowns, glances at the door that Bucky had just walked through, and frantically tries to get his brain to cooperate and remember exactly what the fuck he’d managed to say.
“I’ll grab dinner on my way back, shouldn’t be later than seven.”
“Don’t bother if it’s anything but pizza.” Clint grabbed Bucky’s arm as he passed behind the couch, dragging it sloppily over his head so he could press his lips to Bucky’s wrist.
A chuckle, a ruffle of Clint’s hair. “It’ll be a surprise. You won’t be upset about it.”
Clint let his eyes leave the screen to grin up at Bucky, who poked him on the nose before stroking Lucky’s back in parting. “I’m never upset when you come home.”
Bucky’s eyes widened briefly, so quick Clint’s distracted brain hardly noticed, then he gave a slow smile and walked backward to the door, one arm sweeping down to gesture at his body. “Ain’t got no reason to be, when this is what I’m bringin’ with me.”
Clint paired his raised eyebrows of agreement with finger guns, and Bucky’s laughter left a smile on his face and a warmth in his chest long after he was able to hear it moving down the hallway.
It wasn’t until nearly twenty minutes later, when the episode switched over to a commercial for the new highrise some corporation just built in their mad dash to gentrify the last holdout stretch of Washington Heights, a pair of concerningly attractive people acting excessively happy on the screen, that Clint realized just what he’d said.
What he’d confessed.
What he’d revealed.
“Oh, fuck,” Clint whispers. He looks down at Lucky. “Did I just ruin everything?”
Lucky, incredible as he is, doesn’t have an answer for Clint, unless the shift of his head from one paw to another with an audible sigh is actually confirmation of Clint’s fears, or the slight slouch of his shoulders is really agreement that Clint is, in fact, a self-sabotaging idiot, or the fact that he didn’t bother to open his eyes is really a sign that Clint should go ahead and start dialing Natasha’s number to invoke their promise to each other that they’d kill the other should they ever do something that crossed the line they’d set for themselves, or —
But no, Clint’s probably reading too much into Lucky’s response, or lack thereof.
He is, after all, a dog.
“Sergeant Whiskers would tell me if I fucked up,” Clint says to the top of Lucky’s unsympathetic head. “I forgive you anyway, though.”
Clint runs Bucky’s expression through his mind again. He’d smiled, right? And it was a normal one, matching any of the hundreds that he’d sent Clint’s way in the months since they’d started hooking up. The problem with trying to remember an expression, though, is that Clint had been too caught up in how he’d felt in the moment, thinking about Bucky bringing food back with him tonight, to really fixate on the spread of his smile, to notice whether it had taken too long, or had been an attempt to cover up some other emotion. In the moment it had seemed normal, but now… goddammit.
Clint stands and turns to the door as though facing the right way will help him remember exactly what Bucky had looked like when Clint told him that he couldn’t wait for him to come home.
See, ‘home’ is one of the words on Clint’s list, that list that exists in his brain whenever he admits to himself that he’s actually organized enough to attempt to avoid the disasters he fears the most.
Disasters including, but not limited to: scaring Bucky away with the sheer amount of emotions Clint’s been unable to prevent himself from developing, having Bucky realize that Clint has slowly but surely been moving more and more of his stuff into Clint’s apartment, and the manifestation of that one nightmare where Clint confesses how utterly obsessed he’s become with Bucky Barnes in the middle of a debrief that somehow includes not only all of the Avengers, but also a panel of every single one of Clint’s discerning exes.
“At least I don’t have to worry about that one,” Clint mutters to the door, which rudely does nothing to assuage his fears while also doing nothing to help Clint remember if Bucky’s eye- widening before he smiled could be interpreted as a signal that once he left he’d never return. “But then, better to be safe, just in case.”
He switches off his phone to prevent getting any Assemble alerts and reminds himself that neither Jess nor Bobbi have been stateside for the past two months. He throws the phone through the doorway into his bedroom and tells himself that he’ll be responsible and turn it back on tomorrow.
That’s assuming, of course, that Bucky comes back as promised and doesn’t immediately tell Clint that he’s coming on too strong and that whatever they have going on between them needs to stop and while they’re talking about it, he might as well let Clint know that he regrets ever getting involved; in fact, it’d sort of been a mistake that he just didn’t really know how to get out of and —
“Lucky,” Clint says, as calmly as he’s ever said anything, “I think I’m catastrophizing again.”
Lucky’s collar jingles at his name, and Clint spins around to face him.
“I mean, if Nat was here she’d be telling me I was catastrophizing, right? That’s what this is?” He paces in front of the television set, Lucky’s eyes following him. “I’m being unreasonable, irrational. Getting ahead of myself. Jumping the gun. Mountains. Molehills —what even is a moleh—not the time, Clint. Just because I fucked up and said something that maybe let Bucky know how fucking stupid I am for him doesn’t mean that the world is ending, even if it feels like it.”
He pauses in front of the couch and wonders if the walls are actually closing in around him.
He deems this unlikely and resumes his pacing.
“Okay, so this is what I’m thinking.” He looks at Lucky, who blinks to inform him that he’s paying attention. “Alright, so. We know that Bucky is smart — I mean, he’s an assassin, fuck, he’s the assassin, or he was, whatever, he’s still got the skills — and you don’t become the stuff of legends without being smart enough to fucking survive for so long and complete all those ops he did back in the eighties, or hell, do you remember that one report from ’72, with the prime minister and that houseboat and Jesus fuck, but he’s one talented bastard, isn’t he?”
Clint realizes he’s grinning dopily over the top of Lucky’s head as he plays the mental movie reel, not for the first time, of how he imagines Bucky to have gotten away with that particular mission, then shakes his head to focus.
“He’s smart, is what I’m saying. He’s observant. He’s in control of his life, his decisions. He’s not the type that’s going to put up with someone just because it’s awkward to break up with them.” Clint pauses and scratches at his chin. Behind him, Detective Fluffernutter drops one of her famous one-liners, and he mouths along in sync before continuing.
“All I’m saying is that I’d be dumb to think that he hasn’t noticed that I’m basically fucking in l— in lo—” he stumbles, chokes, then rolls his eyes in exasperation. “Fucking in love with him, good god do my attachment issues go deeper than is functional if I can’t even tell you,” he gestures at Lucky, who’s finally raised his head in interest, “the truth of how I feel.”
Because, if Clint is honest with Lucky, and possibly even with himself, he knows that love, if that’s what this is, this absurdly deep, all-consuming emotion that sweeps through his veins like fire every time Bucky walks into a room, is exactly what he feels for Bucky. He knows why, too.
Even before they started sleeping together months ago, although, fuck, it might have been over a year at this point, Clint had been more than a little bit in awe of everything that Bucky is. It hadn’t taken much, and it definitely hadn’t taken long for his stupid heart to start pitter-pattering like the glutton for punishment it is whenever Bucky so much as looked at him, or did something as dangerously attractive as, y’know, exist.
One of the other lists that Clint’s got running in his brain, this one kept locked away in that part of his mind that he only allows himself to access on days when he’s feeling especially accepting of himself, which come around on average once every four and a half months, barring any colossal fuckups or pizza shortages, keeps track of all of the reasons why Clint and Bucky just, well, fit together.
It includes things that most of their teammates would pick up on— things like the fact that they’re both snipers, or how they both get along eerily well with Natasha. Or even how they both have a penchant for being found down at the range in the middle of the night, beating back their fears the only way that makes sense to people who are haunted by ghosts and phantoms that lurk in the corner of every slip into sleep.
It also includes the things that Clint guards carefully, locked away in his chest, the ones he rarely lets himself think about, should thinking about them too much make them vanish like just about every other source of comfort he’s ever held too tightly to in his life.
Things like how Clint can make Bucky smile in almost any situation, even when he’s irritated with Steve, frustrated with his inability to remember something from his childhood, or torn up after shaking awake from a nightmare, his expression easing from fearful and panicked as soon as he sets eyes on Clint’s dumb face.
Things like how they’d fallen into a perfect pattern of precision on the second all-call mission they’d been on together, more instantly in sync than Clint’s ever been with anyone, even Nat. If Clint thinks hard enough about it, he can still feel the race of pleasure up his spine as he’d spun around on the rooftop after Cap gave the all clear, meeting Bucky’s eyes across the expanse looming over Broadway between their two buildings, and found a grin on Bucky’s face that he knew mirrored his own.
Things like how Bucky always knows where to find Clint on days when Clint hides himself away from everyone and everything, and how he somehow knows which of those days Clint really would be better off alone, and which of those days that his flight from reality is trailed by a desperate desire for someone, please, anyone to come and find him and let him know that he’s worth finding.
Things like how Clint doesn’t even think about it anymore when he goes to start the two coffee pots on his counter simultaneously most mornings, or finds one full and the other half empty, him and Bucky having long ago figured out that while neither are willing to share their coffee, they’re both more than willing to do everything they can to give the other a better start to their day.
“Then there’s also how he always makes sure to say goodbye to you, too,” Clint tells Lucky, crouching down to meet his eye, winking one of his own closed so that Lucky knows they’re on an even playing field. “And remembers to always order extra takeout for you. We had to work on Katie Kate for months to get her to do that, but Bucky remembered to do it the first time he came over after meeting you, didn’t he?”
Lucky nudges his nose forward into Clint’s, huffing out a breath.
“Disgusting,” Clint informs him, then knocks their foreheads together, running his hand down under his collar, scratching at the scruff there. “But you’re not wrong.”
He tips further forward, slowly pressing Lucky back into the couch until he’s smooshed flat on top of him, Lucky struggling just enough so that he gets his head out from under Clint’s neck in order to pant hot breaths out over his shoulder instead of directly into Clint’s face. He’s used to Clint’s bodily affection, though, and otherwise allows himself to be mashed into the cushions.
“All of this to say,” Clint mumbles into Lucky’s fur, “maybe Bucky isn’t really that surprised that I consider my apartment to be his now, just as much as it is mine.” He burrows even closer, pressing his face in so that his eyes are forced to close, as though that’ll protect him from his own honesty, from the hope that lifts his next words. “Maybe he was just surprised that I was willing to say it. Maybe he considers this — us — to be his home, too.”
Clint holds his breath as he lets that wild, wild dream flutter through his chest, faith-filled wings beating loudly from his heart, up through his ears and down to his wrists, and when he has to exhale in a gust all at once, the gasp that follows is only partially due to the weeks-unwashed scent that fills his nose.
It’s also partially due to the lightness that permeates his heart at the thought of Bucky wanting to be here, wanting to stay, wanting to accept Clint for who he is; it’s the thought that maybe, just maybe, Bucky hadn’t been fooled for a second that this was ever less than everything Clint has ever wanted.
It’s also partially due to the door to Clint’s apartment banging open, and Lucky, notwithstanding his status as best dog in the world, reacting to the unexpected noise by kicking Clint directly in the nose.
Clint lets momentum carry him backward, tipping him off the couch and onto his ass, and when he brings his hands to his face in response to the pain blossoming there, familiar for years of managing to put his face too close to various peoples’ — or animals’— body parts, he has to part his fingers to see an apologetic Bucky standing in front of him.
Clint sighs and closes first the spaces between his fingers, then his eyes. “Not a bleeder this time, Lucky boy.” He presses gently at the bridge of his nose, then pinches in between his eyes. “Now I know sometimes I get lost in my head and time is all relative anyways, but Bucky’s really back, right? I’m not just making things up?”
And then because for some reason, even after years of living with Clint, Lucky still hasn’t devised a way to respond to him verbally, it’s Bucky who answers instead.
“Talkin’ to your second best guy again, sweetheart?”
Clint feels a brush of air as Bucky crouches down onto the balls of his feet in front of him, and then two hands, one cool and one warm, are gently prying Clint’s palms away from his face.
Clint looks balefully up at Bucky and ignores the thump of his heart at the expression on Bucky’s face that’s at least 40% fondness, 30% laughter, 30% concern, and 100% fucking attractive. “I didn’t think you’d be back until seven. Unless I’ve actually lost my mind this time, which is fair, I might’ve, except for how it’s still the same episode of Dog Cops on as when you left, so I’m thinking it’s really only been a few minutes.”
“It’s only been a few minutes,” Bucky confirms, one thumb reaching up to trace softly from between Clint’s eyes to the end of his nose, his other hand cradling Clint’s jaw securely. Clint shivers. “I’m a little bit confused how you managed to hurt yourself that quickly. Usually I can leave you alone at least an hour before you come to any bodily harm.”
And Clint means to tell him that he was doing just fine, thank you, and would’ve continued to be just fine, actually, had Bucky not banged into the apartment like he owned the place, but instead he feels like the entirety of his being is caught in the space between Bucky and himself, stretched into infinity in the brackets of Bucky’s hands, pinned down and splayed out by his cautious gaze, so open and concerned and completely, entirely focused on Clint.
So instead, Clint says on an exhale, “I thought maybe I’d scared you away because I called this your home, and I thought maybe you’d never come back because you realized how much I love you.”
The moment lengthens between them, but this time all of Clint’s focus is on Bucky, so he doesn’t miss the widening, then crinkling of his eyes, and he doesn’t misinterpret the hitch of his smile, and he doesn’t have to wonder what Bucky really means when he pulls Clint forward against his chest and murmurs, “Shoulda known you were tyin’ yourself up in knots about that. Probably been in here monologuing to Lucky since the second I walked out the door, ain’t you?”
Bucky eases backward up against the couch, pulling Clint with him, and Lucky leans forward, suddenly interested in his ability to lick the side of Bucky’s face and Clint’s neck at the same time.
“Shoulda known that it takes even less time for you to bring yourself emotional harm, don’t it, doll?”
Clint grumbles, shifting in Bucky’s arms, sliding his knees around to brace Bucky’s hips, his arms circling around his waist. “No, I’m fine.” He can’t see it, nor feel it, but in response to the disbelieving eyebrow he knows Bucky’s raising, he continues. “I mean, yeah, sure, me and Lucky have been talking up a storm, but I’m fine, really. No harm done. Only a little bit of panic, just the smallest bit of catastrophizing.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Mhm,” Clint hums. He picks at the back of Bucky’s hoodie, at the hole in the hem Clint had torn on barbed wire on a mission down in Texas three years ago. “I’m thinking maybe you were okay with me calling this home for you.”
Bucky’s snort of laughter pushes air into Clint’s face, and he turns to the other side, pressing a quick kiss to Bucky’s neck as he does. His move serves the secondary purpose of getting away from Lucky’s wandering tongue.
“‘Course I’m okay with that,” Bucky says. “Why else would this be where I sleep every single night, Clint?”
“Is it really every night?”
“For nearly six months now. I haven’t even been up to my floor in weeks, you ridiculous, ridiculous human, except for last week when you were complainin’ about missing my comforter and I went to bring it down for you.”
“It’s a nice comforter.”
“It is,” Bucky agrees. One hand trails up and down Clint’s back, the other resting securely on his hip. “You know JARVIS is programmed to send any alerts for either of us to this apartment now, and we only got one invitation to Stark’s gala last month.”
“Thought that was just for convenience. And for saving money.”
“This is Stark we’re talkin’ about.”
Clint narrows his eyes and forces himself out of the crook of Bucky’s neck, where admittedly, he wouldn’t mind staying for the rest of the day, if only that didn’t mean he wouldn’t get to see Bucky’s stupid handsome face. “Okay, but also, did you hear what I said?”
“I always listen to what you say.”
“Bucky.” Clint reluctantly releases his hold on the back of Bucky’s hoodie so that he can bring one hand to his shoulder, bracing himself in the sturdiness of Bucky’s body and gaze alike. “I said lo—, I love — fuck you, emotional constipation— I said I love you. And I think you’re telling me that you’re okay with that. I think you’re trying to do that whole ‘actions speak louder than words' thing by showing me how dumb I am not to realize that you love me, too.”
“You’re wearing my sweatpants and a Winter Soldier novelty tee-shirt right now,” Bucky points out. “Whereas for some godforsaken reason, I’m wearing a purple hoodie. Also, I take Lucky for more walks than you do at this point.”
Clint tries to fight the grin that’s attempting to split the seriousness of his composure. “Bucky. This is not how we communicate clearly.”
Bucky licks his lips and grins back at him, and Clint wants to kiss it away.
He valiantly resists, but it’s a close one.
“You’re my first choice to do anything with, Clint. I’ve let you single-handedly destroy my diet. You got me to break my years-long habit of morning runs with Steve.”
“You never liked waking up that early anyway.”
“I let you beat me in the range four out of five times each week.”
Clint raises an eyebrow at the word choice, and Bucky rolls his eyes with a huff. His grin tempers a bit, and he’s serious the next moment. “Yes, Clint, this is home for me.”
“And yes, you’re okay that I love you?”
“And yes, I love you too,” Bucky replies, clear and straightforward, like it’s a given instead of a complete shock to the entirety of Clint’s system. “Just had to wait until you were ready to hear it, is all.”
Behind him, Lucky inches forward, filling the space on Bucky’s shoulder where Clint had been only moments before. He exhales noisily, and Bucky’s grin grows because the fucker knows exactly what a goddamn adorable picture the two of them make together.
“That’s what I’m saying, buddy,” Clint tells Lucky, then looks back at Bucky. “Well then, what did I tell you? No use coming home without pizza, yeah? And if not that, isn’t there supposed to be some kind of surprise? Don’t tell me that my surprise is just a love confession, come on, I need something tangible. Optimally something I can eat. Preferably with cheese.”
“Ridiculous,” Bucky says, like it’s some kind of insult, but he kisses Clint anyways, and Clint admits to himself that yeah, okay, if he’s being honest with Lucky, with Bucky, and fine, maybe even with himself, it’s more than a little obvious that Bucky loves him.