Clint Barton’s hands are scarred, long-fingered and striped with tan lines from his fingerless shooting gloves, and when he signs they move with a brisk kind of grace. It belies everything Bucky normally associates with Clint, who can be profoundly clumsy for someone who makes his living in stealth and acrobatics.
He’s always liked Clint and his contradictions.
Do you want any? Clint shakes a bag of tortilla chips and raises an eyebrow.
Bucky shakes his head.
If you change your mind, they’re on the counter.
Some days Bucky can tell as soon as he opens his eyes. It’s always the same, like the world’s gone and grabbed him by the throat, squeezing until his tongue feels thick and it’s hard to swallow. He doesn’t speak. Can’t, really. Everything stops in his throat.
On these days, people are very polite.
Move over. You’re taking up the whole couch.
I am not, Bucky signs back. He is still clumsy with these new words, but Clint just grins, and plops down in the adjacent loveseat instead, comfortably within Bucky’s line of sight.
So, baseball or movie?
Cubs and Oakland A’s.
Bucky leans his head back against the couch, resting his eyes. He can hear Clint sit up, flip on the TV and mute it, then shuffle back into the kitchen and reopen the bag of chips.
When he hears the telltale flop of Clint throwing himself back onto the couch, he raises a flat hand to his chin, palm in, then brings it down gently.