CHALLENGE ACCEPTED @artbyfliff @storyhoard
Bucky didn’t know why he was awake at stupid-o-clock in the morning. It happened with a frequency that pissed him off so it wasn’t like he was unused to it. He shuffled sleepily to the bathroom, figuring he may as well take care of business since he was awake anyhow. Maybe then he’d be able to sleep in.
Done, he stumbled back out of the bathroom, yawning hugely and pushing his hand back through his mussed hair. He staggered to a stop when his sleep-heavy eyes fell on a form he recognised all too well.
Fucking Barton. In the wrong fucking room. Again.
“Barton, you-” Bucky started in a growl, advancing on the bed with every intent of literally dragging the idiot to the door and tossing him out.
But the words died in his throat when he registered the ugly purple bruising and fresh cuts picked out by the soft lamplight. He halted, metal hand hanging in space between them and his eyes sharpened and narrowed as he catalogued each injury. Clint looked like he’d gone ten rounds with fifteen other guys and the bandaids hastily slapped over many of the injuries did little to hide them.
Clint’s breath hitched and Bucky’s eyes snapped up to his face. It was hidden in a pillow he was clutching like a lifeline, bruised and battered fingers curled into the soft material. He was trembling.
Fuck it. He was crying.
Bucky shifted uncomfortably, scattered thoughts - please don’t cry. Fuck. Barton. Come on. It’s the middle of the night. Stop that immediately - tumbling through his mind but, thankfully, not to his mouth.
Clint didn’t give any sign that he’d realised Bucky was there. His shoulders were drawn up and tense, shaking every so often with the silent tears he was hiding in the pillow.
Bucky shifted again and once more pushed his hand through his hair. Part of him wanted to flee back to the bathroom and see out the night there. Then the tiniest sound escaped from behind the pillow.
Bucky sighed and climbed into bed behind Clint, pressing his spine the length of Clint’s and hoping it would be enough to comfort him. He knew someone’s mere presence could soothe him through his nightmares.
Clint twitched and another muffled sound got away from him. Bucky felt him tense and his own body responded in kind, some weird sympathetic reaction he couldn’t quite explain.
Clint wasn’t calming. Now that they were pressed together, Bucky could feel the intensity of his sobs. It must have been a bad mission. Worse than usual.
He rolled over and - fuck - Clint tensed and flinched like he expected another blow. Instead, Bucky smoothed his metal hand across Clint’s shoulder, down his arm to his wrist and his fisted hand. His fingertips spread between Clint’s white knuckles, trying to get him to ease his death-grip on the pillow. His chest pressed against Clint’s back and he kept his breathing even and steady.
He wasn’t new to this sort of thing. He’d held Steve so often the same way when he couldn’t catch his breath, used his own body’s rhythms to calm and right the erratic failures of Steve’s.
It worked just as well now. Clint’s breathing slowly evened out until it mirrored Bucky’s and he began to relax, muscle by muscle until his hands lay more lax against the pillow and the bed and he didn’t have his entire face buried any more.
“Was bad,” he whispered eventually as Bucky stroked his hand back up to his shoulder and left it resting there, one leg curled slightly over Clint’s own.
“Shut up, idiot,” Bucky said softly. “Get some rest.”
Clint’s mouth twitched like it wanted to smile but couldn’t quite manage it. He closed his eyes and Bucky continued the slow stroking up and down his arm from his shoulder to his elbow.
Eventually, Clint drifted off to sleep and Bucky’s hand stilled against his shoulder. He sighed. “You are a complete idiot, Barton…” he muttered, then with another deep sigh; “And why do you smell like freaking dumpster?”
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