winterhawkkisses:

“James Buchanan Barnes you goddamn son of a fuck!”

Steve hunched his shoulders automatically, the last bite of pancake falling off his fork. Bucky, unfazed, unerringly stabbed it and shoved it in his mouth with a sticky grin. 

“Of all the assholes I could’ve fallen in love with -” Clint’s voice faded out a little, muffled by distance, then rang out with renewed strength, “ – smarmy good-for-nothing handsome fuck-face rat bastard!” 

Clint thumped down the stairs like he bore an individualised and long-held grudge against each and every one of them. 

“Conniving,

corkscrew-twisty, thieving dick,” Clint growled as he rounded the bottom of the stairs and came over to where they were sitting. “Morning, Steve.” 

“Hey, Clint,” Steve said, hesitant. 

“Morning, Clint,” Bucky echoed with an utterly relaxed and sunny grin. 

“Fuck you, you fuckin’ fuck.” Clint took a step closer to Bucky, and all sorts of never particularly buried instincts reared up in Steve, had him half out of his chair before he registered the care with which Clint slid his hand into Bucky’s hair, the way Bucky pressed up into the kiss like he was breaking the surface, like this was all he needed to live. Steve focused down on his mug like it held the secrets of the universe, his ears turning pink. He’d seen Bucky in more compromising situations, of course, but this was – well, Steve was pretty sure this was how Bucky looked when he was in love, which felt like an imposition somehow to watch. 

Clint pulled away slowly, his thumb running across Bucky’s cheek and a bemused, hopelessly adoring look on his face. 

“Morning, asshole,” he said, in the gentlest tone Steve’d ever heard from him. “Don’t steal my fucking coffee.”