Chapter Text
Bucky still doesn’t have a couch, but he has furniture. One wall is completely taken up by what Clint can only call a “cat palace.”
The side table is still where it always sat, in the sunniest part of the apartment, but the plant looks as if it has been, at some point, in mortal peril. Now it has to share its sun with the presumed cat, and there may or may not have been a sibling squabble or two.
At least that’s what Clint assumes happened, because the only evidence of the cat so far is the cat palace, the former healthiest plant in the building, and Bucky’s shirt, which is absolutely covered in white fur.
“New roommate?”
Bucky looks down at himself and shrugs just in time for a fluffy white cat to emerge from the side table and hop up, almost upending the plant entirely (again?). He runs a hand over his face. “New owner,” he signs. “Now, I sublet from Alpine.”
“You know,” Clint signs, keeping his words slow. “I’ve been thinking about getting a new couch for my place lately…”
Bucky snorts. “I’m still gonna keep having sex with you. Even if it’s in a boring bed.”
“Beds are awesome for sex,” Clint disagrees. “Significantly lower chance of falling off the edge.”
“Is that an issue for you?”
Clint spends a while staring at Study of Cat and Plant in Sunbeam , debating how honest he wants to be. Eh, fuck it. “Generally, yes,” Clint admits.
“Seein’ as I don’t have a bed… D’you happen to know of one we could mess up a bit?”
“Mine’s a Cal King for a reason,” Clint says promptly. “And Lucky’s trained to stay downstairs.”
They both look at Alpine, who stares at them, unblinking.
“Want to come down to my place?” Clint offers.
“Fifteen— Uh, half an hour,” The Winter Cat Dad amends after looking down at the sheer amount of fur on his shirt.
Clint’s glad Bucky is looking down, because his heart just honest to god went ba-BUMP on him, and he doesn’t even know what his face looks like. “Half an hour’s great,” he manages, once Bucky’s looking up again. “But a little fur never hurt anything.” He holds out a surprisingly steady hand for all that their relationship has wobbled its unsteady way to this point.
Bucky snorts. “At least let me change my shirt.”
“It’ll just get covered in dog hair,” Clint says with the philosophical tone of a man who long ago made his peace with pet hair getting everywhere.
“I’m not going to disappear in half an hour,” Bucky says, more gently.
It feels like he might, but that could be Clint still recovering from the stress of waiting two days for him to wake up after letting Tony mess around inside Bucky’s brain. Clint’s entitled to a little clinginess. “Move in with me,” Clint says instead of answering Bucky properly.
Bucky blinks and blinks again.
“You spend half your time in my place anyway,” Clint points out reasonably.
“You’re really trying to get me to stop paying rent, aren’t you?” Bucky laughs.
“No,” Clint admits, swallowing against the dryness in his throat. “I just…” He folds his hands over his knee and looks past the plant and the cat, out the window. “I once proposed after knowing someone for eight days,” he says, neglecting to mention that the marriage lasted three days. “I don’t over-think these things.” It could be argued he doesn’t think about these things at all before blurting them out, but that would be wrong, too. “There’s plenty of room for the cat condo.”
“That wall is full of arrow holes. I’m not letting you use my cat for target practice.”
“I would never!” Clint presses a hand to his chest. “And besides, I can always go down to the range to—“ Here, his words are cut off by Bucky’s kiss.
Bucky pulls back and says, “You’d give up your target wall for the cat?”
“Sure. I know your relationship with the cat is still new and all, but he’s gonna be living there, too, right? It’s only polite to give him his own space.”
“Conveniently downstairs,” Bucky says. “Where he can’t see into the bedroom.”
“Well, I mean, it is a loft.”
Bucky kisses him again, something Clint could see himself easily getting used to. “We’ll train him to stay downstairs with Lucky.”
“Barnes, have you ever trained a cat?” Clint just hopes Bucky isn’t shy when it comes to being eyed by said cat.
“No. Why?”
“You don’t train cats; cats train you,” Clint explains. “Evil little bastards. Yes you are,” he coos to Alpine, who’s deigned to come within arm’s reach and rub against Clint’s hip. “Yes you are a sweet little serial killer, aren’t you?”
“That’s just wrong,” Bucky says. Bucky shakes his head, reaching over to run a fingertip under Alpine’s jaw, getting a purr and headbutt for his efforts and sitting back. “He’s a doll.”
“It doesn’t matter what you say,” Clint says, “only how you say it. And isn’t he just a fluffy ball of disaster waiting to be unleashed on this world, yes he is.” Clint grins at Bucky, reaching out to scratch gently at Alpine’s chest. “He’s a good cat,” Clint decides, even as Alpine sinks claws into his wrist to hold his fingers right there for more scratching.
“I’m kinda attached to him,” Bucky agrees, wincing as Clint puts up with a few rabbit kicks before pulling his hand away and giving Alpine a last scratch under the chin.
“Where’d he come from anyway?”
“Fire escape,” Bucky says, gesturing out the window. “Guess he was living on scraps from the cookouts. But then it started getting chilly at night, and we weren’t up there so much, so…”
Bucky’s kitchenette now contains the nutritional value of almost one pop tart plus twenty cans of assorted cat food.
“Oh, you poor sucker,” Clint says, sounding not in the least put out about it.
Alpine swishes his tail and hops back up next to the plant, which gives a dangerous wobble before settling.
“Yeah,” Bucky agrees. “Got a thing for strays in distress, I guess.”
“To be fair, I wasn’t in distress until you decided to use me as a human shield,” Clint says. It’s hard to believe that’s where all of this started, but here they are. Somehow.
“Pretty sure the babka was worth it in the end,” Bucky says.
Clint gives him a long stare, trying to figure out if that was a metaphor or not.
Apparently not.
“What? That bakery’s amazing,” Bucky says, as if it’s any kind of revelation. He’s on a first name basis now with Tomas, who keeps throwing in a freebie when Bucky visits.
Clint still isn’t convinced it’s not meant as an apology-slash-bribe.
Bucky shrugs, because he’s shameless in his appreciation of fresh baked goods, and, evidently , low level bribes. It’s enough to encourage Clint to learn how to bake.
Maybe.
Clint winces internally, remembering the pie crust incident, and decides to leave colorful swearing at baked goods to the British. Less property damage.
>>>———>
“Steve,” Tony says, staring up at the sign above the small brick complex. “—You realize I could make a single text and have any dog breed in the world delivered to the tower for you. Shape, size, sex, color…fully trained…”
“Or,” Steve says, slipping out of the car and stretching, “we could go meet the local shelter dogs of Brooklyn and see if we hit it off with any of them.” He ducks down to look into the car window to see Tony, who is still clutching the wheel, though at least the engine is off now. “Come on.”
The driver’s side door slams, and there’s a brief sound of jogging before Tony catches up with Steve. “Just let me know when you want me to make that text.”
Steve rolls his eyes. “And you just let me know when you fall in love with the most adorable mutt you’ve ever seen.”
“Adorable is not my chief criteria,” Tony says, even if he’s been fluffing Lucky’s ears and calling him the handsomest boy for the better part of a week now. “Intelligent, housetrained, and low shed.” Tony ticks them off on his fingers. “Not necessarily in that order.”
“Uh huh,” Steve says, pushing the door open and ignoring the “closed” sign.
“Mr. Stark, Mr. Rogers.” A bear of a man slips easily from behind the counter and holds out his hand to each of them to shake. “You can call me Abe. Sheryl passed on your interest in our dog walk day.”
“In what, now?” Tony picks up a flyer that does, indeed, advertise: “Walk a Dog Day.” In the afternoon.
Abe neatens the stack of flyers once Tony folds one and tucks it away in his jacket. “Think of it as a meet and greet, only more of a Mutt & Greet,” Abe says with a grin.
“Stop trying to make “Mutt & Greet” work, Abe,” a girl’s voice calls from behind the counter, and Abe bursts into laughter.
“Come on. Mutt & Greet is a great name for it. I’m just underappreciated for my marketing genius.”
Privately, Tony thinks of Clint’s sense of humor and realizes Abe may not be entirely incorrect. “Fine,” he says with a look at Steve. “How long do we have before the masses descend upon us?”
“All morning,” Steve says, taking a Mutt & Greet flyer of his own and following Abe into the back where they can already hear a chaotic opera of barks and yips.
“It’s breakfast time,” Abe says, pitching his voice just loud enough to be heard over the cacophony. “Sounds about like this in my house, too.”
“How many dogs do you have?” Tony asks, a bit dazed from the assault of sound.
“Huh? Oh, just three. They’re good girls. But the kids, man…whoo.” Abe unlocks a wire door and leads them straight into the chaos of rows and rows of dogs in varying stages of eating, waiting to eat, and banging their empty bowls around the cages like food bowl demolition derbies.
“How about a nice lab?” Tony asks Steve, sticking close to him. “I could have a puppy delivered by the time we’re home.”
Tony throws his hands into the air, giving up when Steve ignores him to crouch down in front of a cage, greeting a black and brindle mega mutt that just can’t contain itself for the sheer joy of being in Captain America’s presence.
Not that Tony finds that at all unrelatable, but come on, “Have some chill,” he says to the dog, who is rubbing itself along the chain link, wiggling from nose to tail.
“Aw, she’s allowed to be excited,” Abe says, cheerfully unlocking the cage and clipping a leash to the dog’s collar. “She spent a few months in the clinic under observation before she was released to her foster family.”
“What happened to her?” Steve lets the dog examine him before reaching out to scratch under her collar, earning himself several enthusiastic smacks from her wagging tail as she tries to wind herself around his legs.
“Cars,” Abe says darkly, like a man who has never, doesn’t, and will never own a car and holds a personal grudge against them. “She came in with fractured ribs and a punctured lung. She was lucky someone was paying attention when she was hit.”
Steve passes a gentle hand down the dog’s spine and looks over at Abe. “Can we walk her?”
“Normally, I’d warn you that she’ll pull your arm off,” Abe says, “but somehow, I think you’ll be okay.”
Bondi, as the brindle mix turns out to be named, has exactly no chill whatsoever, paws scrabbling on the cement floor, trying to pull an immobile Steve along behind her once he has her leash in hand. “Aren’t you going to walk anyone, Tony?”
Tony stuffs his hands in his pockets, looking a bit overwhelmed by the reality of the dog shelter and sticks close to Steve. “I’ll take a support role here,” he says.
Abe offers an amused grin Tony’s way. “They’re just excited to get out of the cage. She’ll calm down after a few games of fetch.”
“Bring on the soggy tennis balls,” Tony says with only a small grimace.
Abe laughs. “Oh, you’re gonna love the ChuckIt.”
Tony does, in fact, love the ChuckIt almost as much as Bondi does.
>>>———>
The problem with beds, vs couches and convenient vertical surfaces, is the intent. Neither of them is a shrinking violet, but sitting on the bed, side by side, Clint’s aware that he and Bucky are watching each other from the corners of their eyes while they take off their boots.
“This is ridiculous,” Clint says, flopping onto his back with one arm thrown over his eyes. “Completely ridiculous.”
Bucky lies down somewhat more deliberately, head propped on his metal hand. “Problems, doll?” Because while he may not have heard what Clint had to say, the body language is universal.
“First,” Clint says, holding up one finger, “I’d like it stated for the record that I have zero problems being called ‘doll’.”
“Noted,” Bucky says with solemnity that holds up to scrutiny if Clint ignores the twitching at the corner of his lips.
“Second,” Clint says with a groan, “the whole point of falling into bed together for steamy hot sex is, well, actually having the steamy hot sex, which is something that sounds a lot more awkward while we’re sitting here fully dressed.”
Bucky’s eyebrows lift. “Is this a request for me to strip in the other room?”
“What?” Clint asks, because that just didn’t compute. “Why would I—?”
“I dunno. You shy?” Bucky isn’t even trying to hide the smile now. Asshole.
“Bucky,” Clint sits up, “baby, please take a moment to reflect on the course our relationship has taken over the last six months.”
“Hey, I’m not the one who gets a hot guy into bed and then has an attack of the vapors.” Bucky lets himself fall onto his back and grins up at the ceiling.
Clint smacks him square in the middle of the chest and signs, “I am not having the vapors. Jesus. I thought you were from the 1940s, not the 1840s.”
Bucky lifts lazy hands to answer. “I’m not the one suffering from the vapors. Should I get you some smelling salts?”
“I’ve changed my mind,” Clint signs. “I hope you and Alpine will be very happy together.”
Bucky laughs and pulls Clint over on top of him. There’s not much room between them to sign, so Bucky says, “Are you in a hurry to be somewhere else?”
“…No.”
Bucky leans up and kisses him, capturing the back of his neck in his metal hand, the touch gentle. “Good,” he says, sliding his other hand into Clint’s hair and pulling him back down for a second, longer kiss, smiling into it. “I’ve got the day off,” Bucky says between kisses, and licks his way into Clint’s mouth, just a teasing dip of the tongue.
The groan that tears itself from deep inside Clint’s chest vibrates against Bucky’s skin.
“Still nervous?” Bucky asks. His metal hand hasn’t moved other than to give Clint’s nape a gentle squeeze.
“I wasn’t nervous,” Clint objects in a voice that sounds like — yes — he’s letting go of the nerves. Because he was nervous, which is a completetly stupid thing to be.
“Sure,” Bucky agrees easily, and Clint can feel the flex of Bucky’s abs this time when he leans up to kiss Clint again with a kiss that skirts the line of filthy promises.
“I wasn’t,” Clint insists between kisses, shoving Bucky’s shirt to his ribs to get at those abs with his hands, feeling them quiver with laughter.
Bucky reaches out and takes Clint’s hearing aid out of his ear, setting it on the bedside table and turning on the light. “How about now?” He asks, tracing a finger behind Clint’s ear where the BTE had been resting.
Clint shivers, nosing against Bucky’s cheek and pulling back enough to be seen. “What nerves?” Clint’s a little dazed, yes, turned on, definitely, but nervous? Nah. Life’s too short.
(He is still, for the record, the tiniest bit nervous.)
Fortunately, it seems as if Bucky has enough nerve for three of him, rolling them over and closing his mouth over the join of Clint’s neck and shoulder, biting down until he feels a moan in Clint’s chest.
Nerves? What nerves?
>>>———>
They leave the shelter with Bondi happily trying to pull Steve toward Tony’s Audi and Tony hanging back, because maybe the shelter has a blanket he can borrow to lay down over the back seat before—
“Bondi, up,” Steve’s saying, back door open, and Bondi hops into the car, sitting right in the middle of the back seat, spine straight and tongue lolling, like she belongs there.
Steve is clearly smitten, and so, “You’re driving,” Tony informs him. He wants plenty of space to dodge that tongue if Bondi decides to get affectionate on the way home. He tosses Steve the keys and slides into the passenger seat, casting a stern look at their (?) dog. Tony’s brain loops that back around a few times as he and Bondi stare at each other. He and Steve have a dog. Together.
This should seem like a more momentous step than it is. Unless it is a momentous step. But it’s not like they’re adopting or having babies, is it?
“Stop thinking,” Steve advises, leaning across the center console to kiss Tony on the lips.
When Tony pulls back, he realizes Steve has one hand planted in the center of Bondi’s chest as she leans forward, straining toward them, happily panting. He raises his eyebrows at Steve.
“We’ll train her that tongue kisses are for people,” Steve promises.
“First,” Tony says. “We train her in that one first.”
Steve gives Bondi a scratch before letting her go, and laughs when she darts forward to give Tony a loving lick from jaw to hairline. “She just wants to show how happy she is.”
“Ugh,” Tony says, without any heat to it. He reaches back and scratches Bondi under the collar to keep her occupied. “Distractions. We need distractions.”
“Pet store?” Steve asks.
“Pet store,” Tony agrees.
>>>———>
Bucky has Clint’s left knee pinned to his chest. Clint’s eyes are closed, and a flush has spread from his cheekbones to his sternum. Bucky taps gently at Clint’s temple until Clint opens dazed eyes to look at him. “OK?” Bucky signs, hips stilling against Clint, the metal arm and hand holding him in place firmly enough that all Clint can do is try to squirm closer, pulling Bucky in with his knee and heel.
Clint knocks his other knee against Bucky’s upper arm, and he suspects the grin he can feel stretching his face isn’t doing his dignity any favors. “YOLO,” he signs and stretches his arms toward the headboard, giving Bucky another nudge. “Now put your back into it.”
Bucky laughs, and Clint can feel the gentle whir of the plates recalibrating in Bucky’s arm. He turns his face and kisses the inside of Clint’s knee. “You sure about that?”
Clint flexes his legs, folding himself double and pulling Bucky all the way down for a proper kiss. He pushes Bucky back just far enough to see Clint’s lips. “Do I look sure?”
“You look like a pretzel,” Bucky says, giving Clint a thorough once-over.
“Sexy pretzel,” Clint corrects, arching his back, a groan rumbling in his chest when Bucky slips deeper.
Bucky buries his face in Clint’s neck, trying and failing not to laugh even while his flesh hand trembles against Clint’s thigh with the movement. His stubble tickles, and Clint shrugs his shoulder until Bucky looks up. “What?” Clint signs, one handed, before letting his arm drop back to the mattress above his head with the other one.
“Never say that during sex again,” Bucky says with helpless tears in the corner of his eyes. “That’s not even funny.”
“My love language is laughter, baby,” Clint says happily, nudging Bucky back into motion.
>>>———>
The pet store visit goes about as well as one could expect with an excitable dog getting her first taste of freedom since the accident.
That is to say, it’s chaotic, it’s overwhelming, and apparently just embarrassing enough that Tony tells Steve he’s going to go and check out the treats. “Treats are important in dog training, right?”
Steve just laughs at him and kisses him on the cheek. “She’ll calm down. Abe promised.”
“I’m holding Abe to that promise,” Tony says, eyeing Bondi at the end of her leash, wagging her tail madly at the German Shepherd on the other end of the aisle.
“You can hold me to that promise,” Steve says with all the confidence and determination of a first time dog owner. Then again, he is Captain America, so who knows. Maybe he’s right. If anyone can exhaust the inexhaustible, it’s Steve “ I can do this all day” Rogers.
Tony wanders back the way they came, past the guinea pigs (a guinea pig would be so much easier), birds (the noise would drive him insane), snakes (okay, why?) , and bettas ( eh ).
He eyes the dog treats, looks around for Steve, and slips back across the main aisle, where a little black and white schnauzer is laying in a wire kennel with her head on her paws, watching everyone and their dogs go back and forth. Tony is distantly aware that her facial hair is better groomed than his is at this time of day.
“Hey,” Tony says, crouching down to dog level between the “ADOPTIONS TODAY!” sign and the cage, holding out a hand for the little dog to sniff. “Had enough of the crazy for one day?” he asks when the dog smells him and looks up to his face. The stubby little tail wags, and the dog gets up, makes a full body stretch, and walks over to nudge Tony’s hand through the wire, throwing in the most decorous lick Tony has yet to experience.
It’s surprisingly charming instead of slobbery enthusiasm. He pulls out his phone and calls Steve. “So, uh, since we’re apparently a dog family now,” Tony starts, “what would you think about maybe having two?”
>>>———>
Clint wakes to a warm, purring pressure on his back, a numb foot trapped under Lucky, Bucky’s metal arm slung over his waist, and coffee in an all-day size insulated mug on the side table.
He’s absolutely feeling the love tonight. He’s also feeling incredibly overheated and wriggles until he’s able to extricate himself from the pile of fur and Bucky.
Clint’s half way through the all-day mug, Alpine winding between his ankles before he realizes there’s something wrong with this picture.
He stares at Alpine.
Alpine stares back, tail swishing.
Clint checks his living room for a cat tower. No cat tower. Just the cat.
Clint cradles the coffee in his left arm and walks back up the stairs to the loft to nudge Bucky awake. “Your cat is freaky,” he signs.
“I don’t call your dog freaky, and you let him steal pizza from the box.”
“I think that’s what’s called normal dog behavior,” Clint signs.
“So you’re just the freak who lets him.”
Clint shrugs. “Pretty much. But speaking of freaky cats?” Alpine jumps over the side of the bed and curls up on Bucky’s chest.
Bucky laughs. “Your window is open.”
And so it is. “We’re not telling Tony about this,” Clint signs quickly.
Bucky holds up his right hand and crosses his heart with the other, visibly amused by the realignment of the plates in his arm when he does so. “I don’t think you’ve got much to worry about with the Winter Soldier in your bed.”
He makes a strong point.
“My window’s open, too,” Bucky signs. “He came down the fire escape on his own.” He rubs Alpine behind the ears with his flesh hand and earns a rumbling purr.
“So let’s get this straight. We’ve got the dumpster fire Avenger, the pizza dog, and the fire escape cat.”
“And the Winter Soldier.”
“One of these things is not like the other,” Clint sings off-key, but it’s not like the only hearing occupants of the apartment are in any position to judge him.
Bucky snickers. “Yeah. Only one of ‘em’s an antique.”
“I’m not sure people can qualify as antiques,” Clint signs before prodding Bucky gently in the ribs.
“I’m old enough.” Bucky stretches and tucks his metal hand behind his head, signing one-handed, “What do you want to bet I’d break the record bid in Madripoor?”
Clint thinks about it and his heart gives a lurch in his chest. “Don’t you dare.”
“I could detach the arm and try Sotheby’s,” Bucky signs, no longer even pretending not to wind Clint up. “All above board and legal.”
“Then you get to explain to Tony why you’re coming crying to him for a new arm.” Clint nudges at Bucky until he can lie down next to him on the bed.
“Please. Tony would sell a kidney to make me a new arm,” Bucky signs, and it’s completely possible he’s not wrong.
“Why are we talking about selling human body parts all of a sudden?”
Bucky looks at his left arm and raises his eyebrows. “Human?”
“It’s attached to you, so yes,” Clint signs with finality.
Bucky’s smirk softens into something warmer and he stretches to brush his lips over Clint’s temple.
“What was that for?”
“No reason, doll. Just felt like it.”
>>>———>
Tony and Steve sit side-by-side at the dog park, Tony with a coffee in one hand, and his phone in the other. But for once, he’s using his phone to take dog pictures. “You know, they need professional headshots.”
Steve looks at Tony a little bit like he’s crazy and a little bit like Steve’s completely smitten. To be fair, both are true. “Why do our dogs need professional headshots?”
“They’re public figures now,” Tony says absently, snapping another picture of Bondi rolling blissfully in the grass, tongue lolling. “Always control the narrative.”
“I think you’re taking that a bit far,” Steve says, only to be interrupted by a familiar bark. He breaks into a grin before he’s tackled by Lucky executing a complicated full body wiggle and facial lick move that’s a surprisingly coordinated attack.
“10 points out of 10 for the dog from Bed Stuy,” Tony says, narrating as he films Steve laughing while laughing as he hauls Lucky up and away from his face. Tony looks over his shoulder at Clint and Bucky heading their way while Lucky bounds off to investigate the new dogs.
“Is there a purpose to the dog stalking?” Bucky asks.
“Excuse you,” Tony says, “We’re here on legitimate canine business.”
Bucky looks at Clint and quickly signs what he thinks he saw Tony say, eyebrows raised.
Clint nods and shrugs. “That’s what he said,” he signs.
“Huh,” Bucky says, looking from Steve and Tony to the two dogs sniffing in circles with Lucky. “Missed him that much?”
“It was so quiet after he went home,” Steve shrugs. “Meet Bondi and Dame Olivia Galilei.”
Bucky looks from one of them to the other and back again. “Okay, who names their dog ‘DOG’?”
Everyone looks immediately at Tony, who pauses, mid-sip with his coffee. “Technically, I named her Olivia, after Galileo’s daughter, Livia.”
“Then why isn’t she DLG?” Clint asks.
“Because then she wouldn’t be DOG,” Tony says with the kind of logic he clearly relies on frequently when it comes to naming things.
“Because Tony is Tony,” Steve says at the same time. They’re both correct. Steve whistles, and then throws a tennis ball across the dog park.
Tony shrugs and owns it, taking another picture of the three of them chasing madly after the ball, Bondi in the lead.
“Lucky is still the best dog,” Clint says when Lucky overtakes Bondi and proudly races back with the ball, Bondi and Olivia on his tail. Clint accepts the ball and hands it over to Bucky without looking at him.
Bucky transfers the ball to his left hand and banks it off the corner post of the far fence.
Tony eventually looks up from his phone, swiping away a notification, exasperated. “What the hell is it with you two trending on #DuaneReade, anyway?”
Bucky takes a long drink from his water bottle and shrugs, accepting a soggy tennis ball from Bondi this time. “You romance your way, and I’ll romance mine, Stark.”
૮ ･ ﻌ･ა >>>———>
Lucky has the best life. He has a bed. He has a stuffed bunny rabbit (most of it anyway). He has two humans and a cat and a bowl with his name on it.
If his vocabulary was bigger, this is what he’d be hearing:
“…holy shit. Did you seriously get this far with just your thighs?”
“Yeah. You got a problem with that?”
“None. At all.”
“…are you going to help?”
“Honestly, you seem to have this entirely under control. I thought I’d just sit here and watch — ack!”
“Hold this.”
“This isn’t actually how I expected to be spending the evening.”
“Well I wasn’t expecting to spend last night on the floor, but here we are. Hand me a 2A.”
“A what now?”
“Seriously? Haven’t you built one of these before?”
“Bucky. You know me. Do I look like a guy who follows the instructions?”
There is a long beat of silence.
“That’s how you end up on the floor.”
“To be completely fair, we were still on a mattress on the floor. I’ve spent most of my life sleeping on mattresses on the floor.”
“Yeah. So’ve I. And I say we can aim higher than Hydra level hospitality. Hand me one of those.”
“So I hold this and you screw it together?”
“No. I changed my mind. If I let you build it, we’re just going to end up on the floor again.
“Oh, come on. I used to build and strike the bleachers at every stop on the road. They never crashed.”
“Clint, hand me the board.”
“I’m just saying, your thighs could use a rest, and I’m here now, so—“
A quiet sigh. Thuds.
“My thighs haven’t even begun to work. You stay over there and hand me things.”
“Not that I mind sitting here and watching you and your thighs partner up on this project, at all, but I set up and struck the big top, too. Never needed the instructions…you’re holding them upside down.”
“They don’t make sense!”
“And anyway, Steve helped me put together the last one. It wasn’t all on me.”
A ping of metal off of wood.
“And why can’t they put a fucking handle on the fucking wrench? They could sell wrenches with handles. I’d buy one.”
“…You could use the metal arm.”
Footsteps, clink of metal against metal. A longer sigh.
“Okay, fine, get down here and help me put the damn bed together, Mr. I-Don’t-Need-No-Instructions.”
“We could have bought a simple frame. We don’t need the side table things or the headboard.”
The quiet crumpling of fabric and lingering slide of lips and tongues.
“We need the headboard.”
“Okay.”
“And I need board 2 fucking A. That one. Yes.”
“Grumpy.”
“Well, my boyfriend broke the bed last night and isn’t exactly helping me put together the new one.”
“You won’t let me!…And anyway, we broke the bed. We. That was a joint effort.”
“Pass me 3C and a long screw.”
Quiet snickering.
“You sure? That’s what broke the bed.”
“You’re a riot.”
“Aw, don’t be like that.”
Skin moving against skin. Prolonged silence punctuated by the occasional snap or clap of hands talking.
“Seriously, Bucky, I’m awesome at furniture.”
“Okay. Fine. Come help.”
But Lucky doesn’t have that much vocabulary, and the sun is warm, and he rolls onto his back, stretches, and takes a nap.
He wakes to the sound of two humans panting, and the quiet squeak of a mattress spring.
“…I thought you said my thighs needed a rest.”
“What—oh my god, yes, do that again—what do you think I wanted them rested for?”
“The dresser?”
Squeaks stop.
“Bucky! No! Come on!”
Silent pause.
Lucky perks up his ears. Walk? Food? Play?
Laughter. A squeaked protest from the mattress and a series of thuds.
Talking hands and a moan.
Lucky stomps circles into his bed and lies down, paw over muzzle, and sighs, eye turned upward to the loft.
“Bucky—Buck—“ A stuttered gasp that makes Lucky cock an ear.
“Told you we needed the headboard.”
Lucky closes his eye and goes back to sleep.