Smoke Damage
“Look,” Bucky says. He’s been strategizing this for a week. Since he had to leave Clint at the club things have been tense between them. Clint hadn’t even asked for an explanation, just shrugged it off as ‘fine’, but if things were heating up between them before, then they’re cooling down rapidly now. It hadn’t helped that Clint went and got himself in hospital after tackling a stupid Doombot.
Clint looks up from the comic he’s reading upside down on the sofa, his legs hooked over the back, his head dangling down.
“It just… doesn’t make sense for us to always be cooking two different meals,” Bucky says. Logic is how he’s approaching this. It’s safer that way. “So we should eat together. One night. This week. I can cook.”
Clint looks at him, his eyebrows drawn together, but his expression’s difficult to read upside down.
“Our schedules don’t exactly match up,” Clint points out.
“Friday,” Bucky says. “You teach the early class and I have the evening off.” He had come prepared.
“You know my class times?” Clint asks. Is it weird that Bucky knows that? They live together; it should make sense that Bucky has noticed something like that. Shouldn’t it?
“Of course I do. I live with you,” Bucky replies.
“Oh… right. I just… I didn’t know you were paying attention.”
“I pay attention to the important things,” Bucky says. Clint opens his mouth as if to ask something else, so Bucky decides to press the advantage of Clint’s confusion. “Seven o’clock Friday OK for you? Unless you’ve got other plans?”
“No. No other plans… just,” Clint looks conflicted. “Thought you might have plans. I guess you and… You have to make the most of your spare time. You and your… uh. Your schedules can’t sync up that much.”
“What?” Bucky asks, because even by Clint’s standards, that doesn’t make a lick of sense. The blood has definitely rushed to his head. “Me and who? Steve?” Granted, he and Steve have difficulties spending time together outside of avenging, but they see each other enough. “We don’t have to spend all our time together, you know.”
“Right,” Clint says, looking shifty.
“We’re not attached at the hip.” Bucky blames Steve for that, making such a big deal in the press releases about their friendship.
“Is seven good for you?” Bucky asks. His tone must be too sharp, because Clint looks startled.
“Yeah. Seven’s fine.”
“Good.”
Bucky walks away. He swears he used to be good at this.
It’s not until he’s out later that night he realises Clint doesn’t know who he and Steve are, so why would he assume…?
*
Bucky is not supposed to be on call on Friday. Not for anything less than the end of the world. Of course, he’s not discounting that, but by his calculations they’re not due another apocalypse for a month.
He forgot to take into account the flu.
“Ant flu?” Bucky says over the phone. “That’s not a thing, Steve.”
“Apparently it is now and both Ant-man and Wasp have come down with it.”
“What about Thor?” Bucky asks.
“Trapped in another dimension,” Steve tells him, as if that’s normal. But being an avenger does put certain things into perspective; if Steve doesn’t sound worried, it’s probably not worth worrying about.”
“Spider-man?”
“He said something about a project being due,” Steve sounds unsure.
“What about–”
“Buck. You know I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t have to.”
“This is bullshit,” Bucky tells him.
“Come on, Avenger. That’s not the attitude we need.” If Steve’s using his ‘good ol' Cap’ motivational voice then he must really be desperate. Bucky restrains himself from calling Steve some truly uncomplimentary names and looks down at the groceries in his cart. It’s only being on call. With a bit of luck, nothing will happen.
*
Luck is not on Bucky’s side.
The call comes in at 3pm, just as he’s getting back to the apartment with the ingredients. He’s planned this evening out. He has recipes.
He’s just opening the fridge when his card buzzes in his pocket. Bucky’s whole body freezes for a moment as he looks down at the cream in his hand, then he swears, shoves it into the fridge and heads to his room to get his gear. It’s only 3. It can’t take more than 3 hours.
It takes 5 hours.
With the flying fish monsters and the co-ordinated attack on the Empire State Building, leaving tourists fleeing everywhere and very much in the way, Bucky doesn’t much notice the time. He does notice that it’s suddenly dark, however.
The fish monsters bodies are littering the streets in pulpy, gunky blobs. Steve is reuniting a small girl with her relieved parents and Bucky is tired and covered in fish guts.
“What time is it?” he asks of no one in particular. Dinner’s going to be late. He needs a shower before he starts making it, and sure, he’d like to sleep for a week, but Bucky Barnes is going to wine and dine Clint Barton if it’s the last thing he does, which is looking pretty likely at this point.
“12 minutes past 8,” Stark replies, flying overhead.
“What?” Bucky asks. “Fuck.” That’s over an hour after the time he’s supposed to be having dinner with Clint. They should be well onto dessert by now. “Fuck,” he repeats. “I’ve gotta go.”
“Decontamination first,” Steve says.
“Fuck decontamination,” Bucky says with feeling. “I’ve got a date. I mean… I had a date.”
“Sorry,” Steve says. He does actually sound sorry. “We don’t know where these things came from; we need to clean up before we do anything else.”
“I’m already over an hour late,” Bucky says. “I wasn’t even supposed to be on call today.” He kicks one of the oozing fishy corpses, which oozes resentfully onto his boot.
“Just bat your pretty eyelashes at him, I’m sure he’ll understand,” Stark says.
“I was meant to be cooking,” Bucky mutters. He’d had plans: home-made pizza and pie for dessert. He’d bought wine. He’s not even sure if Clint likes wine, but… He’d been going to cook.
He hears Stark wheezing a little down the line.
“You cook?” he asks. “Do you have an apron? Is it frilly? Oh my god. I can see it now.”
Bucky does have an apron. It was a gift from Sam; it says ‘Prick with a fork’ on the front. Sam thinks he’s funny. Sometimes Clint wears it to cook bacon in the mornings, when he’s only in his boxers. Bucky loves those mornings.
Bacon and half-naked Clint dancing round the kitchen, shaking his ass to whatever ridiculous pop song is on the radio, if he’s got his aids in, or in his head, if he hasn’t. What’s not to like?
He reaches the decontamination showers eventually and Stark steps back to let him go first.
“Never let it be said I stood in the way of true love.” Bucky glares at him, but Stark just grins back, unrepentant.
*
It’s past nine when Bucky finally turns the corner onto their block. He smells the smoke first, then he sees the fire engines and the crowd of people.
It takes roughly five seconds after that to find the plume of smoke and trace its billowing path back to a window. A window that he knows is only one over from the one he’s been climbing in and out of for the past 3 months (apart from that one time he got the wrong window and walked in on Clint… and the ice cubes).
He breaks into a run, hurling himself towards the throng of rubberneckers in the street, pushing through them towards… an ambulance?
He knows he’s swearing under his breath in English and Russian as he physically pushes people out of his way. His eyes take in the scene, even while his brain is just thinking ‘Clint, please don’t be dead, you stupid fucker.’
He finds Clint sitting on the back of the ambulance with a breathing mask on. Lucky is lying at his feet, looking fine.
A police officer, bags under her eyes, steps in front of him.
“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to–”
Bucky growls at her and he can see her hand going to her belt.
“Bucky!” Clint’s voice calls. “That’s my roommate. He’s good.” Bucky looks over the officer’s shoulder and his eyes lock onto Clint’s, who suddenly looks like the deer in the proverbial headlights.
“I don’t think the smoke damage is too bad,” Clint says, cringing. Bucky raises an eyebrow because Clint’s hooked up to an oxygen tank, when he isn’t taking the mask off to talk – like an idiot. “And I swear I’ll replace anything that’s ruined. Fuck.” He looks mournfully up at the apartment. “I was trying to – you bought all the stuff and the recipe. I thought…”
“You were trying to make dinner?” Bucky asks.
“Uh… yeah. It didn’t go too well.”
Now he’s no longer focused on finding Clint and the man doesn’t seem to be in any immediate danger, Bucky can see the side-eye their neighbours are giving them.
“I mean, I figured you’d bought all the stuff. And the recipes were out. So you must have been called away or something.”
“Steve had an emergency,” Bucky says. It’s not a lie, though it’s not the whole truth. He’s been rehearsing it for five blocks because ‘fucking fish monsters attacked and I was covered in their guts’ isn’t a sentence you can say when you’re trying to maintain a secret identity. At least the holo-projection on his arm didn’t short out this time.
“Right,” Clint says.
“And my phone was out of battery,” Bucky adds. He’s still not quite used to that aspect of the future, never being out of touch.
“Yeah. So… I thought I’d try to make it instead,” Clint says. “But–” He looks up at the apartment again and Bucky follows his gaze.
The amount of smoke coming from their apartment has lessened.
“Seriously, I’ll pay for your stuff.”
“It’s fine,” Bucky tells him.
“Naw, I really should.”
“It’s fine!” Bucky says. He knows how little money Clint has to spend, and it’s Bucky’s fault in the first place for not remembering to call to reschedule.
“Oh… okay then,” Clint scratches the back of his head, avoiding Bucky’s gaze. “I called Nat. I’m staying with her and Sam tonight. I guess we’ll have to see how much of the stuff we can save tomorrow. She says you can stay, too.”
“No need,” Bucky says, narrowing his eyes in thought.
“Of course,” Clint says, slumping a little further.
Natasha arrives to pick him up, then, with Sam in tow.
The quirk of Sam’s mouth speaks volumes, so Bucky gives him the flattest look possible. It has no effect other than to make Sam’s smirk grown to unbearable proportions.
“I’ll… uh… see you, then?” Clint says. Lucky stands up when he does and pushes his face into Bucky’s hand. It’s automatic to pet him.
“Yeah,” Bucky agrees, but he’s distracted.
Natasha and Clint wander towards her car, leaving Sam to smirk at Bucky.
“Shut up, Wilson.”
“I’m not saying anything, Barnes.” But he grins, bright and wide. “See you. Say hi to Tony for me.”
“I’m not calling Tony,” Bucky says to his back, but Sam’s already gone.
He calls Steve. Tells him what’s happened. Steve is determined to help, because of course he is.
They’ve barely been allowed back in the building before Tony texts him, asking for pictures of the damage, for insurance purposes or something.
It’s ten minutes after that when the cleaning crew arrives to help them and then the deliveries start.
Bucky would complain, but before he even starts, Tony texts again.
I’m not doing any of this for you. I like your boyfriend. You think his insurance will cover this? I’m covering everyone else in the building too.
So Bucky doesn’t complain.
It still smells of paint the next morning when Clint and Natasha show up. Steve got them breakfast from the coffee shop on the corner and they’re eating pastries on the couch when Clint walks in.
“What the fuck?” he asks, looking around. Bucky catches Natasha’s smile of approval over Clint’s shoulder.
“Nothing a bit of cleaning couldn’t fix,” Steve says cheerfully. If Clint knew Steve well enough he’d be able to tell the guy’s talking complete bullshit. But luckily for Bucky, Clint has no clue how to read Steve’s smile. Steve offers the box and Natasha takes one delicately with a thank you.
“You–” Clint gasps at him and Bucky shrugs. “The oven–”
“I have a good insurance policy,” Bucky says. Again, it’s not entirely a lie. It’s just that his insurance policy happens to be called Tony Stark and likes throwing its money at worthy causes.
“But…” Clint says.
“Say thank you and have a croissant,” Natasha tells him.
“But…”
“You’re welcome,” Bucky says, letting himself smile a bit at just how gobsmacked Clint is. “Just don’t set it on fire again.” Clint blinks and nods, before frowning as something catches his eye.
“Is that my coffee maker? I don’t remember it having that many buttons.”
“Amazing how different things look when they’re clean,” Steve says, still with a shit-eating grin.
*