galwednesday:

Shout-out to the Stucky discord for helping brainstorm the pet names!

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Clint looked around the conference room with satisfaction. The decorating committee had leaned extra hard into the non-denominational theme for this non-denominational holiday party, so the only nod to the season were the paper snowflakes taped onto the windows. There were rainbow streamers twisted above the doors, and Clint had appropriated a trailing strand of royal purple and was now wearing it around his neck like a crinkly paper boa. Most importantly, Clint had managed to snag a table near the back that was strategically positioned between the bar and the buffet table, and he’d claimed one of the leather roller chairs that didn’t squeak. The night was off to a good start.

The Stark Industry bigwigs were having a much more formal gala on the atrium level, but Clint was but a humble security guard, so he was down in the building’s largest conference room with the rest of the peons. The joke was on the important people, though, because the peons got all the same delicious catering without having to sit through speeches from the Board of Directors.

Tony Stark, son of the company founder and terror of the engineering department, dropped into the chair next to Clint. They’d met five months back when Clint had nearly arrested Stark for trespassing when he’d set off the motion sensors during an all-night engineering binge. Once the accusations and apologies had been dealt with, Clint had escorted Tony back to his workshop and kept refilling his coffee pot until he passed out over his drafting table. It wasn’t the most conventional way to start a friendship, but it was about par for Clint; at least neither of them had actually wound up in prison this time.

“So, that was easier than I expected,” Tony said.

“They kicked you out already?”

“I thought I’d have to hit on a few of the board members’ wives, but violating the dress code was enough.” Tony absent-mindedly rubbed a smear of engine grease on his wrist, then wiped it on his Metallica t-shirt. “Howard sent me packing as soon as I walked in. Is Steve coming?”

“He said so. And he’s bringing Jamie-baby.”

Tony lit up. “We finally get to meet Steve’s mystery partner?”

Steve had been placing calls from the security desk to the mysterious “Jamie-baby” as long as he and Clint had worked there. Clint could never make out the other side of the conversation, but Steve always gave the caller endearments like “honey-pie” and “angel face” while Clint (and Tony, if it was a day when he was hiding from his dad in the security office) mimed vomiting all over the security monitors. Steve usually ended the calls with “See you at home, Jamie-baby,” which was as much information as Steve would disclose. “I don’t want to skew your first impression,” he always said, with that face that meant he was up to something, and good luck figuring it out. Clint had a healthy respect for that face.

“He said they’d both be here.” Clint scanned the crowd, looking for a boy scout’s face on a lumberjack’s body. “I don’t think he’s shown up yet.”

They only had to wait ten minutes, during which Tony cut paper snowflakes into increasingly complex geometrical shapes and Clint scaled the windows to stick Tony’s snowflakes above the ones already in place. Clint was dangling ten feet above ground from a complicated network of window blind cords when Steve walked in. He waved energetically to attract Steve’s attention, then directed Steve towards their table and climbed (climbed, fell, same difference) back down to ground level.

Steve was followed by a beefy dude in a blue button-down with the left sleeve neatly pinned up below the shoulder. He had the kind of broad, angular face that managed to produce dramatic cheekbone shadows even under the conference room’s soft fluorescent lighting. Their intern Peter, who was taking pictures of the party for the office newsletter, was going to love this guy.

“Hey!” Steve leaned in for a hug, and Clint enjoyed the sensation of being briefly engulfed by a friendly blond grizzly bear. “Buck, this is Clint and Tony.”

“Nice to meet you,” the one-armed cover model said. “I’m Bucky.”

Clint hid his flash of disappointment. He’d been hoping to meet Steve’s mystery partner Jamie-baby, but obviously something had come up. Bucky looked like Clint’s kind of guy, at least. He was already leaning around Steve to scope out the buffet.

“Glad you could make it.” Tony held up two flutes of slightly different amber liquid. “Who’s the designated driver?”

“Me,” Steve said, and accepted the sparkling cider Tony passed him.

Bucky took the other flute. “There more where this came from, or is this a one-and-done kind of deal?”

“It’s an open bar,” Clint said.

“Fuck, yeah,” Bucky said, and drained half his glass in one gulp. “Steve, I take it back, your holiday parties are the best.”

“Told you. I’m hitting the appetizer table before the brie wheel runs out, you want anything, sweetpea?”

“Yeah, get me five of everything wrapped in bacon.”

“On it, lambykins.”

“Thanks, fucknugget.”

Tony choked on his champagne. Bucky raised his eyebrows at Tony and set his glass on the table. “That your special holiday party outfit, or does this office have a really loose interpretation of business casual?”

“Huh? Oh,” Tony said, looking down at his grease-smeared band t-shirt and ragged jeans. “Nah, I’m trying to get fired. It’s a long story full of power struggles and non-compete clauses. Lesson learned, never work for your overbearing family patriarch, no matter how much your mom guilt-trips you.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Bucky said. “There a bathroom around here?”

“Down the hallway, second door on the right,” Clint said, and barely waited until Bucky was out of earshot before turning to face Tony so fast the swivel chair kept rotating and he was forced to swing around again. “Did Steve just call him lambykins? This is the smoking gun!”

Tony nodded rapidly. “Bucky is Jamie-baby. We’re blowing this conspiracy wide open.”

“What did Bucky call him back? Duck crumpet?”

“Fucknugget.”

“For real? That’s what I heard, but I thought my hearing aids were acting up.”

“So are they roommates, or,” Tony made an obscene hand gesture, “roommates? I say roommates.”

“I say roommates,” Clint said, doing an insinuating eyebrow waggle. “No way sweetpea and lambykins are platonic friend terms.”

“I call Rhodey ‘honeybear’ all the time.”

“Yeah, well, you’re you.”

“Fair point. Shh, they’re coming back.”

Bucky sat back down a minute before Steve returned carrying half the buffet table, most of which he transferred onto Bucky’s empty plate. He spent a few moments arranging the dates wrapped in prosciutto into the shape of a heart.

“Wow,” Bucky drawled. “Such romance.”

“Anything for you, Jamie-baby.”

“Thanks, sugartits.”

Clint and Tony exchanged a frozen look. What was the appropriate way to respond to someone calling their roommate…boyfriend…person sugartits in the middle of a work party?

“So, uh, do you go by Jamie or Bucky?” Clint hazarded.

Bucky snorted. “The only one who calls me Jamie is this asshole.”

“Becca does it.”

“Becca does it when she’s trying to wind me up. You do it because you were put on earth to test me.”

“Aww, buttercup, don’t be like that,” Steve said, making cow eyes at him. “You know you’re my precious honeybunny Jamie-darling.”

“Yeah, sure, and you’re my teenie-weenie termagant.”

Steve looked down at himself pointedly. “I’m six-two, Buck.”

“You’ll always be a shortass to me, sunshine.”

“Hah.” Steve slapped the table, a huge grin spreading across his face. “‘Sunshine.’ I win.”

Bucky groaned and let his head fall forward. “God dammit.”

“Pay up,” Steve said, holding out a hand. Bucky dug around around in his jeans pocket, then dropped a wadded-up dollar bill into Steve’s palm.

“I just got that back,” Bucky said mournfully.

“You’re too sweet for your own good, Buck.” Steve layed a smacking kiss to the side of his head. Bucky huffed, then turned and pulled Steve in for a real kiss.

“Aha!” Clint pointed at them triumphantly. “Roommate roommates! Boyfriend roommates! Do I get a dollar? Bucky got a dollar, I feel like I should get a dollar.”

“Technically, he’s not my boyfriend,” Steve said.

Tony paused, a dollar bill half out of his wallet, and held it above his head when Clint tried to snatch it. “He’s not?”

“Nah.” Bucky leaned back in his chair and pressed his left side against Steve. “I’m married to this butterball, if you can believe it.”

“Close enough,” Clint said, and climbed up the back of Tony’s chair to yank the dollar out of his hand. “Wait, does ‘butterball’ count as an insult or not?”

“I don’t even know anymore,” Tony said.

Steve wrapped an arm around Bucky and sipped his sparkling cider, the crumpled dollar a lump in his breast pocket. “He’s calling me a turkey. It counts.”

“I’ll get that fucking dollar, Rogers,” Bucky said. “Just you wait.”

“You’re a sappy drunk, Barnes. I like my odds.”

Bucky narrowed his eyes. “Is that why you volunteered to drive tonight?”

Steve pulled Bucky in to settle more comfortably against his chest. “You can’t prove nothin’.”

“I should’ve known. Doesn’t matter how big you get, you’re still a little shit.”

“Love you too, pumpkin.”