winterhawkkisses:

Bucky let himself out onto the roof through the access door, crunching across the gravel there without any sort of attempt at secrecy. It was the kind of day where the cold settled into the bones of you, aches along the length of them; it was pain-cold and the sharpest shade of gray. His hair whipped across his face and he was grateful for the leather jacket he wore, and he was grateful for the hooded sweater and the blanket he’d bundled up in his arms, because the idiot curled up by the low parapet had a hospital gown flapping against his bare legs.

He didn’t give Clint time or space to protest, ‘cos he was practically blue. Just got straight to bundling him up, careful of his ribs and the cast around his left arm, swaddling him up until his hair was wild with static and he was twice the size he oughta be in Bucky’s arms. Of course he got him situated there; once he was incapacitated and unable to do accidental damage to himself or others, Bucky insinuated himself behind him and pulled him back against his chest, his feet planted flat and his knees crooked up to provide a little more of a cage for him, make him feel a little more surrounded and safe.

The difference was immediate and welcome, but Bucky still didn’t like the fine tremble of Clint against his chest. He wrapped his arms around him, careful to keep the pressure light, and traced his lips along Clint’s neck, across the cold line of his jaw. Clint made a soft noise and leaned into it, and Bucky’s lips curled into a smile against frigid skin.

“Why’ve you got to do this, huh?” he asked, low and warm and gentle and the polar opposite of everything that was the sound of the wind.

Clint shuddered a little and pressed backwards into him.

“Every time,” Bucky said, rubbing his hands up and down Clint’s arms over sweater, over blankets, still feeling the ridge of the cast, the solid reminder that he hadn’t been fast enough to help. “Every damn time you gotta tumble yourself outta the hospital bed, and I’ve gotta track you down and make you look after yourself.”

“Well you make such a pretty nurse,” Clint croaked, and Bucky nipped at his throat, a punishment. Clint sighed, tipped his head back onto Bucky’s shoulder, stared up at the miserable sky. “I do it,” he said, “’cos someday pretty soon I’m not gonna be able to crawl out of that bed, and it scares the shit out of me.”

“I won’t let anything happen to you,” Bucky answered, quick as breathing, quick as the heartbeat that suddenly thumped rabbit-fast in his chest.

“Nothing about this is on you,” Clint said, suddenly stern, but only so long as he was talking about Bucky, ‘cos he could only ever be fierce for someone else. His voice softened back into something that Bucky thought was like snow, soft and gentle and cold until suddenly it was heavy enough to pull down the roof on you. “I’m getting old,” he said. “Everything hurts more, everything bends less, every injury is a little closer to pulling me out of this.” He let out a breath that Bucky could see. “And this is everything. I don’t know what I’m gonna have when everything is gone.”

“Me,” Bucky said, monosyllabic ‘cos of the fist around his throat, ‘cos he could barely swallow or breathe. He pressed a kiss to Clint’s frozen cheek, scared stupid and fierce. “You’ll have me, Jesus Clint, you -”

His usual approach was useless here. He couldn’t squeeze tighter, rock him a little, show him with his strength and his solidity that he’d always stick around; maybe that wasn’t what Clint needed, maybe he’d always needed Bucky to make himself weak with words.

“I love it,” he said, helpless. “I love that you’re getting old. I love that every new line on you that I get to learn is another sign of how long this’s been going on, and of how I get to keep you now.” Clint snorted, and Bucky pressed his mouth to the lines right by the corner of his eye, the ones he figured were halfway his from how many times he’d made Clint grin. “I don’t know how to tell you I love you in ways you’re gonna believe,” he said, making a warm spot for Clint on a frozen rooftop, knowing him well enough to seek him out every time.