Whoops, Wrong Drink

3

Clint, on the other hand, is less happy.

While Bucky is in the shower, he calls Natasha.

"Nat, I think I found him," he says quietly and breathlessly into the phone.

"Good. Turn him in," comes the distracted yet somehow still severe response.

"Uh, well, about that," he stammers, trying to figure out a way to tell the Black Widow that he doesn't want to see the Winter Soldier also known as sexiest Starbucks employee ever behind bars for the rest of his life.

"You aren't defecting, are you? Or is Tony right about you?" Natasha sounds amused.

"Natasha, please. I just.... I need time."

"Clint. This man is hunted. He's dangerous." Natasha's voice carries more concern than stern warning.

"I know. Nat, I know. But just give me a little more time to see for sure if he's our man."

"I'm fairly sure it's not that hard to tell if he's your man or not."

Clint winces at that particular choice of words, specifically because they were probably deliberately chosen to poke at his frankly flamboyant homosexuality that only Natasha knows about - and that's only because she caught him in a very... compromising position one night.

"Well I guess we'll just have to see," is the forced reply.

"Look, if you're convinced the soviet-era hunk of metal-muscle isn't going to kill us all then give me a call and I'll come over to make sure you're not wrong." Natasha has a soft spot for Clint, and has ever since she met him. She trusts his judgement to the end, although Clint is very sure that does not extend to this situation and she will be keeping tight watch on his apartment until he calls for her to come over. But then, it is gracious enough that she is throwing protocol into the wind and not alerting the rest of the team immediately that Hawkeye found the Winter Soldier.

"Thanks, Nat," Clint replies, relieved.

He hears her laugh on her end of the line. "Of course, Clint. Don't get your ass killed," she says before hanging up.

Clint sighs and puts his phone down. He hears the shower turn off. Five minutes later, the shower is still off, and there is no Bucky. He flips a switch on his new coffee machine and it starts making a pot of the drink. Five minutes lengthens into ten, then fifteen. Still no Bucky.

Bucky, meanwhile, is in the bathroom, with the loose t-shirt and boxers Clint lent him for the night on. He's staring in the mirror at his arm. His metal arm. He has been staring at it for the past fifteen minutes, as if that will somehow disguise it. Make it into flesh and blood.

He hears a knock on the door. He ignores it. He hears another knock. He ignores that. Then the doorknob starts to turn.

The door opens - the speed of one trained assassin against another. Bucky was too slow.

One single thought goes through his mind.

"Shit."

He sees Clint's eyes go immediately to his arm. He braces for the impact of a violent body atop his. He won't fight Clint. He can't say why.

His flesh hand grips the sink as he prepares for Clint to attack him, probably with a knife and a backup SWAT team.

He watches Clint's shoulders heave with a sigh, and his hand fall from the doorknob.