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Something wet pushes at Clint’s face, drawing him from the pleasant depths of slumber. He frowns, distracted. He’d been dreaming about shooting off the side of a pier, out into the ocean, hitting targets as they swayed up and down in the waves, slow and meandering. Bucky had been there in his dream, watching Clint as he hit target after target, telling him which ones to aim for next and laughing, metal arm glinting in the sun, just like the sparkling of the water. Clint sinks back towards the sensation and the images, but then there’s the unpleasant sensation of hot, wet breath on his face, a sloppy lick over his brow jarring him back into consciousness proper-
“Aw, Lucky,” he says groggily, feeling the vibrations of the words even though he doesn’t hear them, trying to shove the dog away. “M’sleeping, go away.”
Lucky noses at his face, and Clint feels the mattress dip next to him. Exasperated, he blearily opens his eyes and comes nose to nose with Lucky, who has his front paws on the bed and is looking at Clint expectantly. Clint faintly hears the echo as he barks, the sounded muted and foggy. Lucky bounces in a circle, tail wagging furiously, and then he butts Clint’s face again.
Clint gives up. He throws out a hand, curses as he knocks the lamp on his bedside table over, groping around until he finds his phone. He squints at it and sees five missed calls, all from Bucky. Dammit. He needs to start taping his phone to his forehead when he sleeps so he doesn’t miss it going off on vibrate.
Lucky jumps away from the bed, vanishes down the stairs. He comes back again a moment later, barking again and then rushing back down.
“Yeah, yeah, I got it,” Clint says, and reaches for his hearing aids. He turns them on and slips them into his ears, and immediately hears the sound of Lucky barking madly, and a sharp hammering on the door to his apartment. He looks at his phone again, frowning. Five missed calls from Bucky and someone trying to knock the door down; it doesn’t take a genius to work out that it’s connected.
“Coming,” he shouts, hitching his sweats up as he rolls off the bed, grabbing the shirt he’d been wearing the day before and pulling it over his head, slouching down the stairs. If it is Bucky at the door then something’s wrong – Bucky wasn't even supposed to be back until tonight. Clint had last seen him a fortnight ago before SHIELD had packed him off to Argentina with Steve and Nat; a goodbye of sorts that had consisted of a half watched film, a half-eaten pizza and several rounds of rather athletic sex on the kitchen counter.
He opens the door, and finds Bucky standing there, looking grim and determined. He’s holding a hand to his chest, over his jacket.
“I need your help."
“What happened?” Clint asks, and staggers as a warm weight thumps onto the back of his legs. He throws out a hand to catch his balance against the wall.
“Lucky!”
Lucky jumps up, barking madly. Bucky normally loves the dog, fusses over him and talks easily at him in a way he doesn’t with people, but today he jumps back, shoving Lucky away with his metal hand.
“No,” he shouts, and Lucky drops to the floor, sitting back and whining, obviously as confused as Clint about what's going on.
“What the hell?” Clint asks, and then notices the lump under Bucky’s jacket, the way his hand is cradling said lump to his chest.
“What have you done?”
“You gonna let me in or not?” Bucky snaps, still holding out his metal hand to keep the dog down.
Not at all satisfied with the amount of information he's been given - because if Bucky has been caught up in trouble or caused trouble whilst in Argentina, Clint doesn't really want it following him back here; he has enough trouble with Russian gangsters without adding Argentinians to the mix, thanks - Clint mentally groans and then steps back, and Bucky ducks into the apartment and walks straight over to the counter. The counter they’d had sex on before he left.
“I cleaned the counter,” he says, and then suppresses the urge to groan and hit his head against the door. He shakes his head at himself, kicks the door shut.
Bucky doesn’t seem to notice. “I found-” he begins, and then looks around. “You’ll help me right? And you won’t tell anyone?”
“Yes,” Clint says, and then immediately regrets not leading with, “With what?”
Bucky hesitates, and then he unzips his jacket a little, slipping his regular hand inside. He moves carefully, deliberately. Lucky trots up again, shoving at Clint’s leg with his nose. He pushes him away distractedly, and watches as Bucky draws his hand out of his jacket, holding the tiny body of a filthy ginger kitten.
Clint stares at him. “What the fuck are you doing with that.”
“I found it,” Bucky says, staring down at his hand like he’s not exactly sure what it is he’s seeing. He presses his lips together and then holds the body out towards Clint. It’s very small and very still. “I thought you’d know what to do.”
“Me?” Clint asks, astounded. He steps forwards, feeling uneasy. The kitten is still not moving. “Bucky, I think it’s-”
“No, no it’s not,” Bucky says, and makes a noise in the back of his throat, still holding out the little body towards Clint. “I thought – you found Lucky-”
“I took the damn dog to a vet,” Clint says, shaking his head. “I’m not qualified for this.”
“Please,” Bucky says. “Take the goddamn kitten, Clint.”
“It’s your fucking kitten,” Clint replies, though he does step forwards. He prods at the little ginger body and exhales as it moves, twisting around in Bucky’s hand and letting out a high-pitched meow. It opens its eyes, dazedly squirming around. “Shit. Fuck. Right. Keep hold of it, keep it warm.”
He runs into the bathroom, digging through the cupboard to try and find a clean towel. “Where did you even find it?” he yells, almost tripping over his own feet. "Fuck, I thought you were on the run from Argentinian gangsters."
"You're not even supposed to know where I've been," Bucky calls back, sounding suspicious.
"You'd let me know if my building was about to be swarmed by Argentinian gangsters, right?"
"Your building is not going to be swarmed by Argentinian gangsters," Bucky calls back, somewhere between irritable and exasperated.
"Okay, good," Clint says, finally finding a towel. He walks back out of the bathroom, jogging over to the washer-dryer. He throws the towel in, slams the door shut and turns it on a drying cycle to warm it up. "So, where did you find it?"
“In a box,” Bucky frowns down at the kitten. “There were four. This was the only one that...”
Jesus, the man can shoot a suspected Hydra agent at point blank range without even blinking but he can’t bring himself to talk about some dead kittens. Nat is going to have an absolute field day when Clint tells her.
“Okay,” Clint says. “When did you get back?”
“About an hour ago,” Bucky says, still looking at the kitten like it’s a bomb about to go off.
“And you came straight here,” Clint says, pausing.
“Yeah,” Bucky says. “I was cutting through the alley next to the building site, the one near the subway. The box was just behind a dumpster.”
“Have you been to debrief?”
“No,” Bucky says, shaking his head.
“You came here, instead of going to debrief,” Clint iterates. “You were in the company of Steve Rogers and made the effort to get away from debrief to come here instead.”
“Hey, Steve’s not actually that much of a stick in the mud,” Bucky says, and he shrugs like it’s not a big deal, like he doesn’t really care. “I did try and call you.”
He sets the kitten down on the counter, and it immediately starts to meow, standing up on tottering legs and looking up at Bucky with huge blue eyes. Bucky stares back at it, and the kitten's meows turns loud and indignant.
“Pick it up,” Clint says, exasperated.
“It’s filthy,” Bucky complains.
“No filthier than you’ve been before,” Clint points out, and Bucky glares at him again. Clint sighs and then reaches out for Bucky’s hand, holding his wrist and turning it palm up, scooping the kitten up and dropping it in Bucky’s hand. “There we go,” he says and he presses Bucky’s hand back towards his chest. The kitten stops yowling, curling up against Bucky’s chest, wide eyes looking around.
“Aw, it likes you,” Clint says, and Bucky sighs, shoulders slumping.
“I only picked it up because it climbed out of the box and followed me,” Bucky admits. “I told it to fuck off.”
“And let me guess, it didn’t listen?” Clint says, fighting back laughter.
Bucky scowls. “I had to pick it up, it would’ve followed me into the road.”
“Sure,” Clint says, and Bucky’s scowl deepens.
“If you tell anyone-”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Clint says, and pauses. “What’s it worth? How much to keep quiet?”
“You’re an asshole,” Bucky mutters, looks down at the kitten. “And so are you.”
“Just because me and it are proof that you do actually care about other living creatures,” Clint says. He looks down at the dog, who is looking at the kitten with his head cocked to the side, his one eye bright and interested. “Yeah, and you. He loves you too.”
“Do not,” Bucky says.
“Shut up,” Clint says, and he reaches out to scratch the kitten behind its ears. “Drop the Winter Soldier act, bro.”
Bucky's scowl returns. "It's not an act."
"It is totally an act," Clint replies. "Which you're totally undermining by rescuing adorable yet tragic fluffy creatures."
Bucky narrows his eyes. "I think if you look back on it, the last tragic creature I rescued was actually you."
Clint's mouth falls open in affront, and he reaches out and lifts the phone off of its cradle. "Calling Steve. Telling him you've taken up rescuing kittens." He begins to dial, looks up, humming contemplatively. "Hey, didn't you once rescue him from an alley?"
“I will leave,” Bucky threatens, standing up. He grabs the cord of the phone, pulls it taut. “I will give this beastie to you and go to debrief.”
“No you won’t,” Clint says, trying to keep the phone out of reach without ripping the cord out. He lifts it up above his head as Bucky crowds him, twisting the cord around his wrist in several easy loops, fingers stretching out for the phone. The kitten lets out an indignant meow as its jostled by the movement, still cradled against Bucky's chest. Clint laughs, turning around and leaning back as far as he can, the cord straining as it wraps around his shoulders. “You leave me with your mangy ginger fluffball and I’ll call Stark and tell him your latest mission is rescuing kittens.”
“I will kill you,” Bucky says as he pulls Clint all the way around so they're face to face again, but the corner of his mouth is curling up. They're sufficiently tangled in the cord that he can't reach any further - and they can't really move all that much - and it's so ridiculous that Clint can't help but smile back, and then he reaches out to slide his free hand onto Bucky’s face, cupping his cheek. Bucky shuts his eyes, breathes out for a long moment before turning his face to kiss Clint’s palm. The metal fingers that had been reaching for the phone drop to Clint's shoulder, but the cord is still wrapped tightly around his wrist; there's a moment of strain and then the cord pops free from the phone.
"Shit," Clint says. "You owe me a phone."
"Who the hell even has a phone on a cord these days?" Bucky says, and his fingers tighten slightly on Clint's shoulder. There's another meow and he looks down at the kitten, thumb stroking gently against it's side. “Don’t tell anyone,” he says, and brushes his jaw against Clint's, stubble scratching in a way that makes Clint shiver.
“You’ll have to keep my mouth otherwise occupied,” Clint says with a raised eyebrow.
“Awful,” Bucky groans, and Clint laughs. Mindful of the kitten, he leans in to brush his mouth over Bucky's but Bucky pushes him back, shaking his head. “You are awful, Clint Barton, and I don’t know what I’m doing here-”
“Falling madly in love with my wit and endless amount of charm-” Clint says, and he’s still laughing as Bucky cuts him off with a kiss.
“Shut up,” Bucky says against his mouth. “Fine. Guess I’ll have to stay then.”
“Stay the night?” Clint asks, and Bucky looks surprised for a moment. “I mean, if you want me to help look after the fluffball, we can’t take it back to the tower without Steve and Tony noticing it-”
“Sure,” Bucky interrupts, and he smiles crookedly. “Just because of this thing though, right?”
“Oh yeah,” Clint says. “Just for that.”
Bucky nods, and his eyes are warm. “You’re on.”
The sunlight slowly creeping through the windows of the loft draws Bucky from sleep, a gentle wake up as the room is steadily bathed in soft, warm hues. The blankets around him are soft, comfortable and smell like Clint, and he actually feels like he could stay here for quite some time.
He turns his head atop his pillow, careful not to move otherwise. Clint is still fast asleep, mouth hanging slightly open and hair mussed across his forehead. Bucky watches him for a moment, and finds he’s glad that he’s there. He's not going to say it out loud, but he missed Clint like hell whilst he was in South America. More than he expected to, considering they've only been a sort of thing for a few months. Realizing that they were even a thing was horrible at first, because he's come to think of Clint as a good thing, and good things never last for Bucky.
Though this time, instead of going south, the good thing seems to be turning into a great thing.
A soft noise draws his attention; he looks down at the small body that’s curled up on his chest, watching as the kitten yawns, stretching one of his front paws out, tiny claws extended.
“Shhh,” Bucky whispers, and the kitten opens bright blue eyes. “Go back to sleep, beastie.”
Lucky grumbles from the end of the bed, legs twitching in his sleep. Bucky looks at him, then back at the kitten who is standing up unsteadily, padding up Bucky’s chest to meow right in his face.
“Shush,” Bucky whispers insistently again, even though Clint won’t be able to hear the high-pitched meowing without his hearing aids in. “I will drop you out of the window, I swear.”
The kitten pads off of Bucky’s chest and onto his pillow, curling up right in the crook of his neck, against his metal shoulder. He’s warm and fluffy, fur soft and almost ticklish against the skin of Bucky’s neck.
“I don’t even like you,” Bucky says.
The kitten starts to purr, a comforting rumble against both metal and skin.
“I’m naming him Charms,” Clint’s sleepy voice says, slurred and rough.
Bucky looks over. “Charms?”
Clint smiles, still not opening his eyes. Lucky’s tail thumps against the bed, and on impulse, Bucky leans over to kiss the edge of that smile.