For the nonny who wanted Pride xx
There should be more of a variety of gay clubs, in Clint’s opinion. It’s all about the pounding bass, the diva hits, the sweat and the grinding and he gets that, he does, but when you’re a deaf PTSD suffering clumsy archer with no rhythm, sometimes all you want is a really gay bagel.
So when he sees the rainbow flag sticker in the window next to the gorgeous looking cupcakes, when he takes a step back and realises the damn shop’s called Cake Boys and there’s pride flag bunting strung in honour of the day, there’s really no other option but to push open the door with a cheerful ‘ting’ and take a lungful of warm sweet air.
There’s a guy behind the counter when Clint walks in, and Clint offers an automatic grin. The guy eyes him up and down - his shirt’s a little tighter than usual, and his jeans are somehow trailing glitter - and walks through the beaded curtain behind the counter. Someone else gets shoved out in his place (and there’s no question it’s a shove, he almost crushes a cream horn).
“Hey,” the guy says. Unlike the first guy - dark hair, stubble, beautiful in the way of things that can kill you - this one’s like a perfected version of Clint. Clint hates him, just a little, on principle. “What can I get you?”
“No clue,” he says, honestly. “Never had that much of a sweet tooth.”
“Cheese danish?” The guy asks. His name tag says 'Steve’, but it’s been doctored to 'cap'n Steve’ and has a red star sticker half hanging off the edge.
“Sure,” Clint says. “That sounds great.”
“Hey Buck,” Steve hollers, “cheese danish ready?”
“Yeah, yeah, keep your freakin’ shirt on,” is the growled reply, and then the guy from before emerges, carrying a tray of faintly steaming pastry. He’s got his hair tied back but a couple strands have fallen free, and Clint gets a sudden and inexplicable urge to carefully tuck them behind the guy’s ear. He’s pretty sure it wouldn’t be welcomed, though, the way the guy’s glaring at him.
Steve bags up a danish, takes Clint’s money and makes change, and the whole time Clint’s the subject of a grey-eyed stare. He takes a bit of the danish almost absently, has to suck in air quickly to cool the lava he’s choking down, and it’s a second before the taste hits.
“Holy shit,” Clint says. “Holy *shit*.”
“Good?” Steve says, with the confidence of someone who knows there can only be one answer.
“Marry me,” Clint moans, unashamed, and Steve laughs and jerks his thumb at the angry kitchen guy.
“Bucky’s the baker,” he informs Clint. “I mostly just stand out front and look pretty.”
“Don’t want to intimidate them with the sexy death glare?” Clint says, and Bucky - whose name tag proclaims him to be 'Sarge’ and has a star and a skull at either end - looks a little startled for a second before turning abruptly and pushing back through the bead curtain, looking a little pink.
Steve watches him go, grinning fondly, and Clint feels a little pang at the obvious affection there. Obviously the both of them are too hot to be single, but Clint can pine over Bucky’s face a little if he wants to.
“Thanks,” Clint says, raising the pastry a little in a toast.
“No problem,” Steve says, and flicks another little grin over his shoulder. “Hope we see you around.”