"Hey, my chocolate crown was hypothetical. You're the one that offered to make it a delicious, pastry-flavored reality." Clint snorted as Bucky touched the kitten's nose, only to have her bite ferociously at his finger. One eyebrow flicked up. "Dude." He shook his head. Clint hadn't lived in his home district for twenty years, but there were some things that you never forgot, and watching thin-legged little calves trying to suckle was one such memory. "You know human babies drink milk too, right? From their moms? Same principle with calves. It's milk, man. Not--"
It was a saving grace that Clint was high, or the word that had almost come out of his mouth might've ruined him for the rest of the day. No. Cows didn't drink each other's blood. They weren't cannibals. But he was, and the whole world knew it. Celebrated it, even, in the form of that awful, blood-thick punch from last night. He took a deep, shuddering breath, flipped open his flask again to pour another drop of druggy goodness into the remainder of his tea, and drank it down. Then he turned his eyes, a little glazed now, back to Bucky. "Here lieth Bucky Barnes," he said dramatically. "He died as he lived, getting chewed on by a tiny, ferocious cow."
He settled back into the couch, then, trying to let the lines of his shoulders relax, trying to ease the tension out. "What the hell kind of a name is that?" Clint asked indignantly. "Though you can console yourself that it's better than Barney. That's what I've done for years. And that's his first name." For any other person, he might've followed this up with, poor guy. But not for his brother. Clint was a charitable person by nature, but even his charity only extended so far. "He might be bald now, for all I know," Clint said thoughtfully. "That seems fitting."