Bucky nodded toward the flask Clint had tipped the drug out of. "Don't need the drunk with that," he said. He fell into getting drunk now and then too - but the drug was better. No stupid, no hangover, no threat of saying or doing things you shouldn't the same way. It was just good. Light.
But it probably wouldn't make you wear fucking croissants on your head either, so there was still a place in the world for getting smashed and stupid, Bucky guessed.
He laughed. "Why not? People can be fucking impressed. He made it that long with that name? Plus it can explain why I had everyone calling me Bucky. Otherwise, just be a mystery whenever it comes up." Bucky adjusted Moo from where she'd wandered to his left shoulder, plunking her on his stomach instead, then wincing as she started to knead. "There's skin under there," he muttered. He grinned at Clint. "You are so judging, Clinton FRANCIS. 'salright. I would too."
Bucky's head dropped back, laughing. "Yeah, sure. That's the ones. Big beaks." He remembered, suddenly, where he'd actually last seen the flappy winged bird types. Or where he'd last thought of them. But with the drug in his system, it didn't really bring a rolling stomach or anger or anything. It just ... seemed so stupid it was funny. "That guy," he said, snickering, "red hair? Tiberius. That fucker - he has a swan - a poodle - shaped top on his bed. Like painted up and everything. Fucking thing probably costs a million or something, and it's just on his bed. What an asshole," Bucky said. It wasn't funny, probably, considering why he'd been IN the bed. But it was, too, right now. Swan bed. Fuck, that guy was a pretentious dickbag.