The video call ringtone sounds through his living room, and Alpine curls around the doorframe from his bedroom at the first obnoxious beep. Clint insists that it’s ‘cos Bucky feeds her right after they’re done; Bucky teases him about how much Alpine loves Clint’s face, which is becoming more and more unsubtly transference every goddamn day. Either way she comes to curl up in the crook of Bucky’s warmer arm, pawing at the screen when the ringtone echoes a little too long.
When the screen finally lights up into an image it’s a different one than usual. Instead of Clint’s face - which is becoming scruffier and scruffier as the weeks go by, his hair getting longer and softer and more tempting with every day that passes - the view is of Clint’s apartment. An odd sort of angle on it, too. It seems like the computer’s down at ankle height, showing an expanse of floor that could do with a sweep, a pyramid of beer cans leaning drunkenly against the kitchen counter and not one sign of life.
It takes a second for the slight movement to register; the camera’s moving gently up and down, almost in pace with Bucky’s breathing.
“Bad day, huh?” Bucky says.
There’s a long sigh, from just below of the camera’s field of view. A blur of movement - like the laptop almost tipped over off his chest - and then there’s a jumbled view of Clint’s mouth and chin before he’s got himself sorted, clearly holding the laptop up over himself, the shot framed by Clint’s beautiful biceps and his face surrounded by all the detritus on the floor.
“Hey, Buck,” he says. His voice is low and tired-sounding, and he’s got purple bags under his eyes, and he looks soul-deep dragging miserable. Mostly Bucky wants to wrap him up in a blanket - or his arms - and shove him back into bed, which is a new kinda low, because his bed-related imaginings are usually a hell of a lot more creative than that.
“Hey,” Bucky starts, but Clint’s already talking again.
“Not gonna be entertaining company today,” Clint says, and the view spins as he sets the laptop back on his chest, but not before Bucky sees a telltale glint of silver slip sideways outta his eye. “You’ve probably got better things to do -”
“Nothing’s better than talking to you,” Bucky says, and the laptop’s next trip downward is a little shakier. “I ever tell you about the time Steve and me accidentally hijacked the Staten Island ferry?”
Clint’s ‘no’ is a little thick, and he’s maybe not so responsive as usual, not at first, but by the end of the story Bucky’s got him laughing, and Alpine’s just about ready to start gnawing at Bucky’s face.
“You should probably go,” Clint says, ‘cos honestly it’s getting a little hard to make himself heard over Alpine’s protests, so Bucky unplugs the laptop and carries it with him to the kitchen, filling Alpine’s bowls while he tells Clint all about his first job. It’s nothing talk, anecdotes and stories, descriptions of people he’s remembered and ones that Steve’s told him he once knew. He refuses to let Clint hang up on him when the guy has to use the bathroom, and he heckles his pizza choices when he microwaves a couple slices - first thing, Clint says, a little abashed, that he’s eaten all day.
Eventually Bucky’s sprawled out sideways on his bed, head pillowed on his bicep, Clint’s face - finally on screen - pillowed in a mirror of his position, and wearing the slightest smile.
“Thanks for this,” Clint says. He’s become a little more talkative over the evening, although he’s still not contributing much; Bucky’s throat is kinda sore, but there’s worse he’d do for Clint.
“Well it ain’t the way I’d thought about getting you into bed, but it’ll do for now.”
Clint’s eyes widen, lamplight dyeing the blue darker, and Bucky bites his tongue, hoping like hell that - for this - Clint’s got something left to say.
