Winterhawk Writing

20

Clint woke up, feeling out of place and off in a way he couldn't describe. He blinked up at the ceiling, his eyes swollen and the skin of his face tight and dry. He was waiting for something, something that had been such a small part of his routine that when it didn't happen he couldn't place it. So he reached for his hearing aids and the sudden gut wrenching pain of loss took his breath away.
"Oh fuck," he choked through the desert that had become his tongue and hunched in on himself. It took long minutes of hiccuping deep breaths to get it all under enough control from him to even stand up and go drink water straight from his bathroom faucet.
He pulled back to choke for air and couldn't tell when the gasps had become sobbing again. He stumbled back to sit on the edge of the bathtub, pushing furiously at his eyes as if to block the tears. His borderline desperate movement knocked a bottle into the tub and the loud crash startled his next sob right out of existence. He blinked away the blurriness of his tears and let out a ragged sound at the sight of the vanilla scented shampoo.
"Fuck, fuck," his throat ached and his entire body was urging him to just go lay down again, but he grabbed the bottle, staring at it blankly for a moment before hurling it against the wall.
The lid popped off and the white liquid splattered everywhere. Clint studied the mess before shuffling out of the bathroom.
Coffee. Coffee always made him feel better. The routine of it all was so familiar he didn't even have to think as he poured water into the machine, put enough coffee in for an entire pot, and got two mugs down. He poured a few tablespoons of half and half into each, adding sugar to the black mug. While the pot filled up he pulled down a bowl for cereal and poured that for himself before getting out all of the ingredients Bucky used for his protein shakes.
And froze.
And stared at the ingredients before turning slowly to stare at the black mug. He didn't know if he wanted to scream and throw more shit around or sink onto the floor and sob himself to sleep again. The tears felt hot against his cheeks and he wiped them away with the back of his hand, willing himself to get his shit together for just a few fucking minutes.
Clint dragged the trashcan over and swiped the ingredients into it before grabbing the black mug, creamer and sugar still in it, and tossed it in as well. He tied the bag off and set it by the front door so he could take it to the dumpster if he ever actually left his house.
He poured his coffee and sat at the stools, letting the steam heat his face.
Bucky was gone. Out of his life and never to be seen again. The past four years had meant nothing and Clint was too tired to feel anything but numb anymore.
Yesterday he had woken up, Bucky had handed him his aids, like he did every morning, and went to take a shower. While Bucky showered Clint would make himself useful by making the coffee and getting their separate breakfasts ready.
Bucky would go to work, Clint would go to work. And when they each got home at four they would sit on the couch to watch Dog Cops, make out a bit, and talk.
Except yesterday morning, after Clint had gotten all of the shit out for breakfast, Bucky had come out with his hair still dry and an exhausted look on his face. Clint had asked if he was okay and Bucky asked for Clint to just sit down and listen.
This isn't working out.
At first the words didn't register and Clint stared dumbly up at Bucky for what felt like hours until Bucky continued.
I thought I could handle this all. He had gestured to Clint, and then the farmhouse. But I can't, I just- it.. I can't anymore, Clint. I really thought I could but.. I'm moving back in with Steve today.
Clint had sat there, unable to form a single fucking sentence. So he sat and Bucky packed and left without so much as another goodbye.
Clint never bothered to call into work. In fact, he still hadn't gotten around to do it. He had just turned off his phone and crawled into bed.
Cold coffee shook Clint out of his stupor and he swallowed it painfully. He looked up at the oven clock and saw that forty-five minutes had passed since he first sat down.
His throat had a lump in it again, and even coffee couldn't fix Clint today. So he left it right next to his cold mug from yesterday and went to lay down in bed again.

Sad Clint hours :(