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    Summary

    “Three o’clock,” Natasha says and Clint looks automatically, not registering the glint of mischief in her eyes until he’s already looking.

    “Why is he stripping,” Clint whispers, outraged.

    Bucky Barnes is standing a few meters away from them, tugging his shirt over his head. He doesn’t wax his chest during the winter months, apparently, because there’s a trail of dark hair that Clint really, really wants to get his mouth on. He’s stuck staring like an idiot as Bucky throws his shirt over the door of the firetruck, every inch of his ridiculously hot upper half on display. He can almost feel the brain cells in his head frying just from the sight.

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