"Look, I'm just going to warn you. If you wear a pastry hat, I'm taking pictures," Bucky told him. Several pictures. And showing them to Scott, and maybe Natasha. "Can't be helped."
Bucky didn't really know what it was, but some impulse kept making him be an idiot around Clint, just to try to be funny. That was how he'd ended up acting like he thought cats were cows and penguins were evil and a half dozen other weird conversations they'd had when their texts veered between serious shit neither of them wanted to talk about and rats that had hooves. And now it had ended him with a one-eyed kitten-cow with needle teeth.
So he'd just been bullshitting about cannibalism too. But he saw the break, and pulled it through the right conclusion, wincing a little. The drugs made things seem lighter, further away. It made it easier to be happy - but it didn't make him stupid. He shoulda known better. Shit. Not what he'd wanted to do.
But Bucky didn't want to bring Clint down, either. So he just bulled through and ignored it, save to lift a foot and poke the toes of his shoe into Clint's calf once - a silent nudge of apology. "Might as well make it fancy," he said. "James Buchanan Barnes."
He shrugged. "Hell if I know. Not even a family thing. Think they just wanted it to stand out or sound old fashioned or something. But you get a name like that, you pick your own nickname and stick with it or who knows what you'll end up with." Not that Bucky was all that dignified, but it was his. "Probably. He's got a bald name, so it'd just have to follow that he'd go bald. That's how it works." Didn't talk to his brother then, Bucky guessed. He wasn't going to push on that, either. Fuck knew he and his sister were a minefield. Bucky had brought the croissants home out of habit - food was about the only thing he knew she'd like that he could do anymore. "Francis is a poodle name," he decided. "'sa guy who has poodles. You need to get a poodle, Barton."