Play Fighting
“Uh, Clint? Steve?” Rhodey's voice sounds so tentative and apologetic over the speaker that Clint knows immediately what's going on. “Sorry guys, but I think you might be needed in the gym.”
Of course they are, because God forbid that Bucky and Pietro could inhabit the same space for more than fifteen minutes without coming to metaphorical (and sometimes quite literal) blows. Exchanging a look of misery with Steve, Clint sighs heavily as they make their way towards their boneheaded boyfriends.
The harsh sounds of yelling in a mixture of Sokovian, Russian and English assault his ears as they approach the gym. Clint can only follow one of the three languages being screamed but it's enough to know that it's the usual fight.
Bucky, still adjusting to post-Winter Soldier life, likes the slow, quiet life and Pietro...well, Pietro can't do slow. It's been a barrel of fun with those two sharing the same space. Not.
As they push their way through the doors of the gym, Clint is just glad to see that there's no bloodshed this time. He'll never forget the heart-rending terror of walking into one of Pietro and Bucky's fights to find Bucky's metal arm wrapped around Pietro's throat, squeezing the life out of him. That had been one of the early fights and, thank goodness, they've never been that bad since, normally restricted to yelling and the occasional punch, but Clint still lives in fear of it happening again.
He and Steve have this down to a fine art now, Steve wrangling Bucky easily and Clint dragging Pietro away until his back is against the wall.
“You good, Cap?” Clint calls over his shoulder.
“All good here, Clint.” Steve assures him and Clint can hear Bucky's curses as Steve pushes him out of the room, finally allowing Clint to centre all his attention on to Pietro.
He has this part down to a fine art now, too. There's only one thing that will calm Pietro down when he gets worked up like this and, if Clint were to admit it to himself, the method that works is almost worth putting up with these damn arguments in the first place.
Pushing a trembling Pietro out the door and towards the open doors of the elevator, Clint commands him to kneel, watching as the shudder of released tension escapes from Pietro's body. Yeah, this part he doesn't mind.
*
It's late and Clint is sleeping like the dead. Pietro pads out of their room and into the shared kitchen, hungry for pancakes after their earlier activities.
He freezes when he sees the glint of metal illuminated by the fridge light. It seems as though he wasn't the only one in need of a late night snack.
Bucky closes the fridge door and raises his eyebrow at Pietro. “Pancakes?” he asks politely.
“You read my mind.”
As the batter is bubbling away in the pan, Pietro stretches and Bucky smirks at the fresh bruises that are revealed as his t-shirt rides up.
“Have fun?”
Pietro grins lazily. “Always. Definitely worth it. How about you?”
Bucky chuckles. “No complaints. You know, we probably should find an easier way to ask for what we want. That's one hell of a right hook you have.”
Pietro hums around his pancakes. “Probably. We could always admit that we've been faking the fights since the time you nearly killed me.”
Bucky pouts, like he does every time someone brings that up. “I did not nearly kill you, you were barely even blue.” He elbows Pietro in the ribs, causing Pietro to wriggle out the way with laughter.
“Jack-ass.”
“Brat.”
They grin at each other before returning to the pancakes.
“OK, we tell them tomorrow.”