Chapter Text
Kansas City, Missouri
November 1869
The Broadway Hotel features all the latest conveniences, including running water in every room, and Clint is in heaven.
As Bucky tips the bellhop and starts unpacking their bags, Clint is already running the bath, turning the hot and cold taps and exclaiming over the clever drain.
“C’mon, Bucky,” he urges, already carelessly shedding his clothes. “Are you coming or what?”
Bucky leans into the bathroom, raising an eyebrow at the clawfoot tub. “Do you really think we can both fit in that?”
“Won’t know until we try!”
Bucky rolls his eyes, pretending to be grumpy, but Clint knows better by now. When Bucky is really upset he gets quiet and withdrawn, not grumbly like he is now.
They do in fact both fit into the tub but it’s a tight squeeze, Bucky nestled against Clint’s chest and Clint’s long legs folded around Bucky’s smaller frame. Clint takes his time, rinsing the dust of travel off of them both. He works Castile soap into Bucky’s hair and gently rinses it out, brushing the tangles from the wet strands with his fingers. He’ll cut it again soon, so he can better see Bucky’s lips, but he likes it long like this too.
When Bucky turns around to try to return the favor things get a little more heated, and it’s not Clint’s fault that so much water ends up on the floor. He just can’t help pushing up a little into the soft wet heat of Bucky where he is straddling Clint’s hips, reaching up to try to get at Clint’s hair. And since the action places Bucky’s nipples tantalizingly in front of Clint’s mouth, well — Clint is only human, and he knows too well the lovely noises Bucky makes when Clint sucks gently on each sensitive nipple, the way it makes Bucky arch and squirm against the grip of Clint’s callused fingers around his lean waist.
So maybe it’s a little bit Clint’s fault that the water sloshes everywhere, and that he probably still has some soap in his hair by the time Bucky herds him out of the bathtub, giving him only the most cursory of swipes with a towel before walking him backwards towards the bed, kissing him every step of the way.
Bucky has the foresight to throw the towel onto the bed and Clint falls back onto it easily, but when he tries to drag Bucky down with him Bucky resists.
“Nuh uh,” he says, a wicked gleam in his eyes. “I wanna try something. Roll over for me, would you?”
Clint rolls over, wrapping his arms around the pillow and closing his eyes. He’s not sure what Bucky has planned, but he trusts him.
He feels Bucky’s weight settle over him, straddling his lower back. Then Bucky’s hand, gentle on the back of Clint’s neck before squeezing firmly, grounding him in that way that just makes Clint melt, soft and pliant.
“Beautiful,” Bucky says. He leans down, pressing a kiss to the edge of Clint’s jaw, and then another to each of his shoulders, treating the scars like any other patch of skin. It’s so tender it brings a lump to Clint’s throat, making him swallow hard as Bucky continues downward, pressing soft kisses in a trail down his spine.
“Spread those long legs of yours a little more for me, sweetheart,” Bucky instructs, voice low and rough already as his fingers trail down Clint’s inner thighs, and Clint complies.
He can tell that Bucky is kneeling behind him but has no idea what he’s about. He hasn’t heard Bucky open the tin of oil yet, isn’t even sure if he packed it, and he can’t stop himself from tensing up a little bit, anticipating that first touch but not knowing where it will land.
It comes in the form of Bucky’s palm, heavy with promise at the small of Clint’s back. Bucky rubs a little there, thumb tracing the divots that flank the base of Clint’s spine, before drawing his hand down, cupping the curve of Clint’s ass. Clint feels the rasp of Bucky’s cheek against tender skin, and then —
“What?” Clint says, jolting with surprise, almost choking on his inhaled breath as Bucky’s palm spreads him wide and his tongue presses against Clint’s hole, hot and wet.
He feels Bucky lift his head a little. “This alright, sweetheart?” he murmurs, breath puffing hot against the sensitized skin, and Clint nods frantically, pressing back against Bucky’s fingers.
“God — please — do that again,” he manages and Bucky doesn’t hesitate for another moment, setting to work with slow, insistent laps of his tongue.
Clint buries his face in the pillow, trying to smother the helpless noises he’s making. He thought he knew everything two people could do in bed but he’s never even heard of this, never imagined how unbelievably good it would feel.
“C’mon, sweetheart. Get on your hands and knees for me. Up you go.” Clint takes a minute to process the words and then he’s struggling to comply. His legs feel shaky and sluggish, his breathing uneven.
He tries to stop his hips from hitching up but he can’t help pressing into the rasp of Bucky’s stubble and the sinuous warmth of his tongue. Bucky seems in no hurry, maddeningly deliberate in his pace, until Clint’s breath is stuttering and catching. His body is undulating, seeking friction but not finding any.
Then Bucky adds first one finger and then a second. He must have brought the oil after all, because the slick glide of his fingers, tongue lapping around them, has Clint sobbing. Bucky’s fingers are thick and a little rough and just relentless, gliding over that spot inside Clint that sends jolts of lightning down his spine, needy little punched-out noises escaping him with every drag of Bucky’s fingertips.
Bucky’s making sounds too, little possessive rumbles and growls vibrating against Clint’s skin as Bucky’s tongue and fingers fuck Clint deep and filthy, like taking Clint apart is the most delicious thing he’s ever known.
“Bucky,” Clint gasps out. He’s sweating and shivering, with no idea what his next words will be. “I can’t —”
He feels Bucky pull back just a little. “Shhh, sweetheart,” he croons, his fingers never stopping for a moment. “You can. You’re gonna come, just like this.” And then he bites, a quick nip to Clint’s ass that has him crying out in shock, before he works a third finger inside.
The pure confidence in Bucky’s voice is inarguable, and Clint can’t do anything but let his head sag between his shoulders, giving himself over fully to sensation. He can see his own cock hard and flushed, fat drops of precome rolling off the tip, tagging his belly with every jolt of Bucky’s fingers. He can’t feel anything except the hot press of Bucky’s tongue and the way his body is stretched tight around Bucky’s thick fingers as they pound into him, faster now, Bucky’s tongue licking deep and hungrily.
Clint is whining almost continuously, shaking with overstimulation. Tears, hot and embarrassing, prickle his eyes, his heart pounding, his pulse thundering in his ears. He feels his spine arch with tension, taut like his bowstring just before the snap of release.
When he comes it starts deep in his belly, furling outward until he’s shaking with it, cock spurting as he spasms around Bucky’s fingers and tongue with a desperate keen.
“That’s it,” Bucky murmurs, gentling his touch as Clint sags down to the bed, his numb, trembling limbs finally giving way. “You’re okay, sweetheart. That was good, right?”
It feels like it takes the last of the energy Clint has in his body to turn over, off of the ruined towel and onto the clean sheets.
He looks up through heavy-lidded eyes, his heart stuttering as he gets a good look at Bucky for the first time since they started. Bucky looks wrecked, his lips red and puffy, his chin glistening with either oil or spit or maybe even both.
“Y’r incre’ble,” Clint manages, his throat raw just from the noises he’s been making.
Bucky grins, finding a clean corner of the towel and wiping his face with it.
“Y’din’t —” Clint says. His voice sounding blurry even to his own ears. He reaches out clumsy fingers, to where Bucky’s cock is still stiff and flushed red, arching up to his belly. “C’mere.”
He pulls Bucky down, but instead of pushing inside Bucky just slicks himself and presses into the crease of Clint’s hip.
“This is good,” Bucky says, eyes fluttering shut. “God, sweetheart, I think I coulda come just from the noises you were making alone.”
Clint hums happily, loose and pliant as Bucky starts to rock into him, cock sliding slick against his skin. Every rub of his belly over Clint’s spent cock sends shivery little aftershocks through him. With one of Clint’s hands wound in Bucky’s hair, tugging gently, and the other on his ass, pulling him in tight, it doesn’t take long until Bucky is coming too, thrusts going sharp and greedy like he’s held back for too long before he spills against Clint’s flushed skin.
Bucky flops down next to Clint. He looks beatific, his dark eyelashes fanned out against his cheeks, his lips parted, skin glowing with exertion. Clint can’t help reaching out, placing his palm to Bucky’s rosy cheek, reveling in how Bucky sighs into it, leaning into the touch. His eyes flutter open and he smiles at Clint, slow and sweet.
“You can rest, sweetheart,” Bucky says. “I’ll wake you up when it’s time.”
Clint tries to keep his eyes open, not wanting to miss a moment of Bucky’s beautiful smile, but he’s wrung out in the best way possible, and he feels himself slide almost immediately into sleep.
“C’mon, sweetheart.” Clint blinks awake to find Bucky leaning over him. Bucky’s wearing pants and his shirt is on but unbuttoned. “You gotta get dressed and I’m gonna need help with this infernal necktie.”
Clint must have been out cold — Bucky seems to have cleaned them both up at some point. He pushes himself upright, running a hand over his face to try to wake himself up.
“Think they serve coffee downstairs?” he asks hopefully, and Bucky smiles, crooked and fond.
“I’m sure we can scare some up,” he says. “Now hurry it up a little, we don’t want to keep the lady waiting.”
Clint jumps out of bed at the reminder, shoving himself into his own clothes. They are nicer than any he’s ever owned before. Bucky had dragged him to a shop in Abilene a few weeks ago and watched like a hawk as the tailor exclaimed over Clint’s broad shoulders and lean waist, making him blush.
Clint smiles a little at the memory of how they barely made it back to Freedom’s Reach before Bucky was stripping his old clothes from him to run his hand over all the parts the tailor had admired. And that was nothing compared to Bucky’s reaction the first time the new suit, fitted to him exactly, arrived on the stage and he had tried it on. Why, Bucky had practically torn the buttons just trying to get Clint out of the jacket —
“Penny for your thoughts?” Bucky says. Clint looks up, startled, to find Bucky standing in front of him, collar up and a tie looped around his neck.
Clint clears his throat a little, sure that he must be blushing. There’s a standing mirror in the corner and Clint guides Bucky over to it, crowding in behind him to knot the tie. “I’ll tell you about them later,” he growls, deep and low into Bucky’s ear, just to make him shiver. “Or else we’ll never get there in time.”
Clint takes note of how Bucky’s eyes in the mirror go dark and hot, and he presses a little closer than necessary, letting Bucky feel every inch of him along his back. He reaches out a hand and snags Bucky’s jacket where it’s waiting on the back of a chair, watching in the mirror as he helps Bucky into it and smooths his palms down the front, the gold ring on his left hand gleaming in the lamplight. The left arm of Bucky’s jacket is pinned up neatly, the dark blue wool skimming Bucky’s lean frame and making his eyes glow an icy blue.
“You look beautiful,” Clint can’t help but murmur.
Bucky turns, hand sliding inside Clint’s jacket to cradle his ribs through the thin linen of his shirt, his own ring cool and hard in contrast to the warm press of his fingers. “That’s the pot calling the kettle black,” he says, cutting off Clint’s retort with a hungry kiss.
By the time they tear themselves apart they are running a bit late, and have to take a few more moments to straighten up their clothes anew. Clint’s skin is still buzzing as he and Bucky descend the grand staircase to the main lobby, hand-in-hand. Bucky gives Clint’s fingers a squeeze and Clint squeezes back, their rings clinking together as they head toward the dining room.
“Clint Barton!”
Clint’s head snaps up, feeling a wide smile spread across his face as he spots her across the busy lobby. The bow they sent her months ago is perched proudly on her elaborate updo, and she’s wearing a fancy dress, all silk and lace with a stylish little velvet collar.
She runs toward them and Clint barely reacts in time to catch her, swinging her around as she hugs him tightly, before setting her gently to her feet. Her wide petticoat swirls around her and then settles.
“Why, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes!” she says. “Look at you, Clinton Francis Barton, all dressed up fancy and glowing like the noonday sun!”
“I could say the same for you,” Clint teases. “The book tour seems to be agreeing with you.”
“Not half as much as matrimony seems to be agreeing with you,” she says, eyes sparkling.
Clint flushes suddenly, realizing that he’s been remiss. “Gosh, where are my manners?” he exclaims. “Miss Darcy Lewis, I’d like you to meet my husband — James Buchanan Barnes.”
“Mr. Barnes!” Darcy exclaims, bright eyes looking him over from head to toe as he takes her offered hand, bowing chivalrously over it. “At long last we meet! And I have to say, Clint’s letters didn’t do you justice!”
Bucky straightens up. “Please, call me Bucky,” he urges.
“That’s because Bucky was helping me write all the letters at first,” Clint interjects. “Any time I tried to tell you how beautiful he was he got all shy and said I’d just have to wait until I could write it myself.”
Bucky’s cheeks pinken adorably. “Well, it worked.” He winks at Darcy. “I’m sure you noticed that Clint wrote the last one himself. He’s become quite adept at both reading and writing,” Bucky says, nothing but pride in his voice.
Now Clint can feel himself blushing. “Nothing like having written a whole novel,” he says, trying to shift the attention from himself before he spontaneously combusts. “You won’t forget to sign it for us, will you Miss Lewis?”
“Of course not!” Darcy says, smiling fit to burst. “I’m pleased as punch that you thought it worth reading.”
Her smile grows a little wicked. She loops her left arm in Bucky’s, and gathers Clint up on the other side, dragging them both towards the dining room.
“And now, I think you two handsome men should take me to dinner and tell me all about how you met, and what happened afterwards. Don’t think I don’t know that your letters were missing some juicy details. Why, Mr. Barnes — Bucky — did I ever tell you what I thought the first time I saw Clint? Let me tell you, the first time I saw him I said to myself, ‘Darcy Lewis, this man is prime matrimonial material or I will eat my hat …’”
Clint’s eyes meet Bucky’s over Darcy’s slight frame, and they share an amused glance. I love you, Clint mouths. It’s getting easier to say every day, especially with how it elicits Bucky’s incandescent smile every time.
I love you too, Bucky mouths back, Clint reading the familiar words easily from his lips over the backdrop of Darcy’s vivacious chattering, and together they escort the lady to dinner.
Art by the fantastic quicksillver!
[ID: A close-up and then larger view of Clint and Bucky standing in front of a full-length mirror, their backs to the viewer but their front shown clearly in the reflection. Clint stands behind Bucky with one hand on his shoulder and the other tying his tie, gold wedding band gleaming on his ring finger. They are both dressed in historical Western clothes as described in the final scene of the fic, and the left sleeve of Bucky's jacket is pinned up.
Art by the amazing aukanemin!
[ID: Clint and Bucky stand in Western gear, in tones of light browns, golds, and creams, with a golden prairie, sunset, and hills with darker trees behind them rendered in a painterly style. Clint holds his bow and wears a quiver on his back. Bucky's left sleeve is empty and pinned up around his missing arm. Both men wear pants, shirts, and vests, and have straps for weapons at their waists, while Bucky also wears a long dustcoat.]