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rose_in_winterCharacters: Bucky/Clint, with appearances from Steve, Sam, Natasha, and Bobbi (past Bobbi/Clint)
Rating: Mature
Contains: References to offscreen violence, abuse, and darker aspects of modern gymnastics competition
Wordcount: 1795 this chapter
Notes: This was supposed to be 500 words of fluff about that Sebastian Stan Men's Health photoshoot and then, because I'm me, this happened.
Betas: n/a
Summary: Clint Barton gave up on gymnasts years ago, but when he meets Bucky Barnes at the Olympic tryouts, he's drawn to him. But Bucky has problems of his own, and the path to gold isn't easy.
Natasha sets a magazine down in front of him, open, and turns with her easy grace to sit tucked into the big chair to his left, picking up her book and opening it while she bites into an apple. Clint leans forward and the photo is a punch in the gut: a man holding an inverted iron cross on the rings, muscles standing out clearly against the light skin of his back. One arm is articulated metal; the light reflecting off it draws Clint's eye, and the shadows lead back to the thick musculature of his shoulders, long dark hair tied back, the clean vertical lines of his legs and perfectly pointed toes. Inset in the lower right corner is a portrait, and that hits even harder: deeply cleft chin, stubbled in dark brown, and eyes that look right through Clint.
It's not fair.
"Nat," he protests, feebly. She knows he gave up on gymnasts years ago.
He catches the hint of a curve to her lips before she crunches into the apple again, turning a page. He'd accuse her of doing it for show, but her focus is complete.
He tears his gaze away from the photos, skims the article. James Barnes--he knows that name. Barnes and Rogers are favorites to take home multiple gold medals this year if they make the team. Barnes is notable for competing with the prosthetic arm, while Rogers is the prototypical America's Boy.
Clint closes his eyes, then opens them again. He can't look away from that photo spread. The piece itself is trash: fluff about "overcoming," with that breathless bullshit inspiration porn that too many sportswriters engage in when they find someone whose body doesn't fit the standard model. But Barnes is compelling: there's a challenge in those eyes that says he knows exactly what the article is doing and he's there because he has to be, but they can't touch him and they can't fit him into their boxes, and damn if that isn't hotter than Clint wants it to be, because he gave up on gymnasts.
Natasha turns another page. "They're holding the team tryouts for gymnastics at NYU, the same week as archery," she says.
He's not going to ask why she knows that. He's not going to talk. It's safer that way. Natasha knows him too well.
"You could bump into him," she continues.
"I'm going to find you a dancer," he threatens her.
"You will not," she says, and it's true; he respects the line she drew, even if she's never told him why.
He tries to focus on the book he was reading before Natasha interrupted him, but he keeps looking at the photo spread instead, and cursing her mentally. Her ears are too sharp for him to do it aloud, however quietly.
Three weeks later, he's in New York City five days earlier than he strictly speaking needs to be for the tryouts, but fortunately Stark Industries, which is sponsoring him for the team, is a firm believer that their athletes need enough rest, and sent him up early. So it's definitely coincidence that he finds himself in the arena for the gymnastics tryouts. There's a space for other athletes to watch the tryouts, and with the aid of three coffees (his coach's advice be damned, it doesn't make him jumpy) he makes it early enough to watch.
It's surprisingly easy to slide back into the habits of watching, of knowing the moves and their point values. All the gymnasts at this level are elite, of course, but even within that stratum there are differences, and once upon a time, he knew how to see them all; it turns out he still does. He winces when Sam Wilson's grip on the high bar slips in his mixed-grip giant, but he successfully redirects it into a one-handed and Clint's jaw drops when he pulls off the following flip anyway. He's forgotten how good it is to watch people who are really good at this.
Rogers and Barnes are the last two in the rotation, and as good as Wilson was, they're astonishing. They fly around the bar, pulling off handstands, giants, pikes, and flips with the apparent ease that shows the years upon years of practice. He's mesmerized, and he stays that way through the next two rotations of floor and parallel bars. It's incredibly obvious that Barnes and Rogers are taking two of the four spots, and everybody else is fighting for the last two. There are some who might qualify for the extras, but the shape of the competition is apparent.
When the last scores are posted, it feels like coming out of a trance. Watching these competitions has always been like that. He checks the time on his phone and sees he has some of the afternoon left. Maybe he'll take in a museum.
"Well, well. I thought you'd never watch one of these competitions again." The voice at his side is familiar, and he turns to see Bobbi standing there. She meets his gaze with challenge, as though she's unsure of her welcome.
"I thought so too," he says. "You look good." She does; she has healthy color in her cheeks, where the cheekbones no longer cut like blades, and even under her light top and jeans, he can see that the shape of her face doesn't lie: she's put on weight, and it sits comfortably on her.
Her smile is quick, and real. "Thanks," she says. It's awkward as hell, but it's the awkward tension of people who haven't talked in a long time, not the simmering tension of people who can't talk without fighting, which is good. "Watching a friend, or someone you want to make friends with?"
"Just curious," he says.
She laughs. "I know you better than that," she says. "I can introduce you, if you want."
He can't decide if it's sweet or kind of creepy that his ex-girlfriend is volunteering to introduce him to someone he'd like to ask out if he wasn't keenly aware he'd botch the job. "You're worse than Natasha."
It's just a flicker, but he catches it, and no, Bobbi being here and saying hi to him isn't an accident at all, is it? He mutters a curse and looks around. Natasha is, of course, nowhere to be seen; she's always safely away from the chaos she starts.
He feels her hand lightly on his arm. "Don't be too mad at her," she says. "For what it's worth, I think you two would get along great. Come on."
He's leaning toward creepy, definitely, but he lets her lead him out of the stands and down toward the locker rooms. "So what are you doing these days?" he asks her as she flashes a badge at the security folks that lets her lead him into the labyrinth under the arena reserved for competitors and their coaches.
"Health coach for the team," she says. "Trying to keep them from following the same path I did."
He whistles, low. It takes a special kind of steel to go back to what tore you down and fight the same problems every day for someone else. "Jesus, Bobbi."
"It's all right," she says, "but I appreciate the thought."
He looks for the right words, comes up empty. "If you need anything," he says, and then he doesn't know what else to say. He finishes with, "My number hasn't changed."
She squeezes his arm. "Thanks, Clint," she says, and he can hear the sincerity. Then she looks past him. "Hey, Bucky!" she calls.
He looks where she's looking and the overhead fluorescent lights glint off the metal arm as Barnes turns to face them. He's freshly showered, dressed in jeans and a grey T-shirt, his hair pulled back in a ponytail. Despite the terrible lighting, he's even hotter in person, somehow. He walks toward them with a gym bag slung over his shoulder.
"Bucky?" Clint murmurs to her. She ignores him.
"Hi, Bobbi," Barnes says, and glances at Clint, curiosity in his eyes.
"Bucky, this is an old friend of mine, Clint Barton. Clint, James Barnes."
"Call me Bucky," he says as he extends his right hand for a shake.
Clint shakes his hand, feels the calluses from long hours on various apparatus. "Nice to meet you. And I'm sure you hear this from everyone, but you put on a hell of a show."
Bucky smiles, quick and light. "Doesn't get old to hear it." He glances down at Clint's hand as if noting Clint's own calluses. "How do you know Bobbi?"
"I shot an apple off her head once," Clint deadpans, and knows Bobbi has checked his competition schedule when she only sighs instead of punching his arm.
Bucky raises an eyebrow. "That sounds like a story," he says.
Clint shrugs and grins. "I like doing trick shots."
"So you're a marksman?" Bucky asks.
"Archer," Clint corrects him, but without heat; it's a fair question. "Qualifiers for us start on Monday for the US team to the World Archery Championship."
"So you have some time to breathe before you have to compete," Bucky says.
"That's the idea." Clint shrugs. "It's been a long time since I watched gymnastics, but it seemed like as good a time as any."
Bucky gives him a curious look, but before he can ask, someone shouts his name from the other end fo the hall and Bucky flinches, everything about him going briefly flat and cool.
"That's my coach," he says. "I've gotta go." He hesitates a moment, runs a hand through his hair, then says, "Can I have your number?"
Clint stutters for a moment before he drags his brain back into place. "Yeah, sure." He takes the phone Bucky hands him and punches in his number fast, checks it to make sure he didn't screw up, hands it back. Bucky drops him a quick text that just says "hi" and he sends back the same, not knowing what else to do. Bucky smiles again, and turns to jog to the other end of the hall, where his coach is waiting.
Clint lets out a long, slow breath. Did that just actually happen?
Bobbi escorts him out of the athletes' area, but she doesn't tease him, just walks quietly with him until they're past security. "It's good to see you, Clint," she says, and her lips turn up into a smile. "I guess maybe I'll see you around more."
"Goddamn it, Bobbi," he says, and she laughs. He leaves the arena and heads back to his hotel room, where he proceeds to act like an absolute dumbass by checking his phone every five minutes even though there's nothing there to see.
Rating: Mature
Contains: References to offscreen violence, abuse, and darker aspects of modern gymnastics competition
Wordcount: 1795 this chapter
Notes: This was supposed to be 500 words of fluff about that Sebastian Stan Men's Health photoshoot and then, because I'm me, this happened.
Betas: n/a
Summary: Clint Barton gave up on gymnasts years ago, but when he meets Bucky Barnes at the Olympic tryouts, he's drawn to him. But Bucky has problems of his own, and the path to gold isn't easy.
Natasha sets a magazine down in front of him, open, and turns with her easy grace to sit tucked into the big chair to his left, picking up her book and opening it while she bites into an apple. Clint leans forward and the photo is a punch in the gut: a man holding an inverted iron cross on the rings, muscles standing out clearly against the light skin of his back. One arm is articulated metal; the light reflecting off it draws Clint's eye, and the shadows lead back to the thick musculature of his shoulders, long dark hair tied back, the clean vertical lines of his legs and perfectly pointed toes. Inset in the lower right corner is a portrait, and that hits even harder: deeply cleft chin, stubbled in dark brown, and eyes that look right through Clint.
It's not fair.
"Nat," he protests, feebly. She knows he gave up on gymnasts years ago.
He catches the hint of a curve to her lips before she crunches into the apple again, turning a page. He'd accuse her of doing it for show, but her focus is complete.
He tears his gaze away from the photos, skims the article. James Barnes--he knows that name. Barnes and Rogers are favorites to take home multiple gold medals this year if they make the team. Barnes is notable for competing with the prosthetic arm, while Rogers is the prototypical America's Boy.
Clint closes his eyes, then opens them again. He can't look away from that photo spread. The piece itself is trash: fluff about "overcoming," with that breathless bullshit inspiration porn that too many sportswriters engage in when they find someone whose body doesn't fit the standard model. But Barnes is compelling: there's a challenge in those eyes that says he knows exactly what the article is doing and he's there because he has to be, but they can't touch him and they can't fit him into their boxes, and damn if that isn't hotter than Clint wants it to be, because he gave up on gymnasts.
Natasha turns another page. "They're holding the team tryouts for gymnastics at NYU, the same week as archery," she says.
He's not going to ask why she knows that. He's not going to talk. It's safer that way. Natasha knows him too well.
"You could bump into him," she continues.
"I'm going to find you a dancer," he threatens her.
"You will not," she says, and it's true; he respects the line she drew, even if she's never told him why.
He tries to focus on the book he was reading before Natasha interrupted him, but he keeps looking at the photo spread instead, and cursing her mentally. Her ears are too sharp for him to do it aloud, however quietly.
Three weeks later, he's in New York City five days earlier than he strictly speaking needs to be for the tryouts, but fortunately Stark Industries, which is sponsoring him for the team, is a firm believer that their athletes need enough rest, and sent him up early. So it's definitely coincidence that he finds himself in the arena for the gymnastics tryouts. There's a space for other athletes to watch the tryouts, and with the aid of three coffees (his coach's advice be damned, it doesn't make him jumpy) he makes it early enough to watch.
It's surprisingly easy to slide back into the habits of watching, of knowing the moves and their point values. All the gymnasts at this level are elite, of course, but even within that stratum there are differences, and once upon a time, he knew how to see them all; it turns out he still does. He winces when Sam Wilson's grip on the high bar slips in his mixed-grip giant, but he successfully redirects it into a one-handed and Clint's jaw drops when he pulls off the following flip anyway. He's forgotten how good it is to watch people who are really good at this.
Rogers and Barnes are the last two in the rotation, and as good as Wilson was, they're astonishing. They fly around the bar, pulling off handstands, giants, pikes, and flips with the apparent ease that shows the years upon years of practice. He's mesmerized, and he stays that way through the next two rotations of floor and parallel bars. It's incredibly obvious that Barnes and Rogers are taking two of the four spots, and everybody else is fighting for the last two. There are some who might qualify for the extras, but the shape of the competition is apparent.
When the last scores are posted, it feels like coming out of a trance. Watching these competitions has always been like that. He checks the time on his phone and sees he has some of the afternoon left. Maybe he'll take in a museum.
"Well, well. I thought you'd never watch one of these competitions again." The voice at his side is familiar, and he turns to see Bobbi standing there. She meets his gaze with challenge, as though she's unsure of her welcome.
"I thought so too," he says. "You look good." She does; she has healthy color in her cheeks, where the cheekbones no longer cut like blades, and even under her light top and jeans, he can see that the shape of her face doesn't lie: she's put on weight, and it sits comfortably on her.
Her smile is quick, and real. "Thanks," she says. It's awkward as hell, but it's the awkward tension of people who haven't talked in a long time, not the simmering tension of people who can't talk without fighting, which is good. "Watching a friend, or someone you want to make friends with?"
"Just curious," he says.
She laughs. "I know you better than that," she says. "I can introduce you, if you want."
He can't decide if it's sweet or kind of creepy that his ex-girlfriend is volunteering to introduce him to someone he'd like to ask out if he wasn't keenly aware he'd botch the job. "You're worse than Natasha."
It's just a flicker, but he catches it, and no, Bobbi being here and saying hi to him isn't an accident at all, is it? He mutters a curse and looks around. Natasha is, of course, nowhere to be seen; she's always safely away from the chaos she starts.
He feels her hand lightly on his arm. "Don't be too mad at her," she says. "For what it's worth, I think you two would get along great. Come on."
He's leaning toward creepy, definitely, but he lets her lead him out of the stands and down toward the locker rooms. "So what are you doing these days?" he asks her as she flashes a badge at the security folks that lets her lead him into the labyrinth under the arena reserved for competitors and their coaches.
"Health coach for the team," she says. "Trying to keep them from following the same path I did."
He whistles, low. It takes a special kind of steel to go back to what tore you down and fight the same problems every day for someone else. "Jesus, Bobbi."
"It's all right," she says, "but I appreciate the thought."
He looks for the right words, comes up empty. "If you need anything," he says, and then he doesn't know what else to say. He finishes with, "My number hasn't changed."
She squeezes his arm. "Thanks, Clint," she says, and he can hear the sincerity. Then she looks past him. "Hey, Bucky!" she calls.
He looks where she's looking and the overhead fluorescent lights glint off the metal arm as Barnes turns to face them. He's freshly showered, dressed in jeans and a grey T-shirt, his hair pulled back in a ponytail. Despite the terrible lighting, he's even hotter in person, somehow. He walks toward them with a gym bag slung over his shoulder.
"Bucky?" Clint murmurs to her. She ignores him.
"Hi, Bobbi," Barnes says, and glances at Clint, curiosity in his eyes.
"Bucky, this is an old friend of mine, Clint Barton. Clint, James Barnes."
"Call me Bucky," he says as he extends his right hand for a shake.
Clint shakes his hand, feels the calluses from long hours on various apparatus. "Nice to meet you. And I'm sure you hear this from everyone, but you put on a hell of a show."
Bucky smiles, quick and light. "Doesn't get old to hear it." He glances down at Clint's hand as if noting Clint's own calluses. "How do you know Bobbi?"
"I shot an apple off her head once," Clint deadpans, and knows Bobbi has checked his competition schedule when she only sighs instead of punching his arm.
Bucky raises an eyebrow. "That sounds like a story," he says.
Clint shrugs and grins. "I like doing trick shots."
"So you're a marksman?" Bucky asks.
"Archer," Clint corrects him, but without heat; it's a fair question. "Qualifiers for us start on Monday for the US team to the World Archery Championship."
"So you have some time to breathe before you have to compete," Bucky says.
"That's the idea." Clint shrugs. "It's been a long time since I watched gymnastics, but it seemed like as good a time as any."
Bucky gives him a curious look, but before he can ask, someone shouts his name from the other end fo the hall and Bucky flinches, everything about him going briefly flat and cool.
"That's my coach," he says. "I've gotta go." He hesitates a moment, runs a hand through his hair, then says, "Can I have your number?"
Clint stutters for a moment before he drags his brain back into place. "Yeah, sure." He takes the phone Bucky hands him and punches in his number fast, checks it to make sure he didn't screw up, hands it back. Bucky drops him a quick text that just says "hi" and he sends back the same, not knowing what else to do. Bucky smiles again, and turns to jog to the other end of the hall, where his coach is waiting.
Clint lets out a long, slow breath. Did that just actually happen?
Bobbi escorts him out of the athletes' area, but she doesn't tease him, just walks quietly with him until they're past security. "It's good to see you, Clint," she says, and her lips turn up into a smile. "I guess maybe I'll see you around more."
"Goddamn it, Bobbi," he says, and she laughs. He leaves the arena and heads back to his hotel room, where he proceeds to act like an absolute dumbass by checking his phone every five minutes even though there's nothing there to see.