Clint wouldn't have guessed in a million years that Bucky had never been here. Steve had walked into his house so casually before, when they'd been high and joking around. That had been a good day, even if the leadup to it had royally sucked. Moo reminded him of that. Good ol' Moo. She was a little bigger now than when he'd first seen her, but not by much, and he was pleased to find that she could pretty easily cow Trouble into doing whatever she wanted (in this case, leaving her the hell alone so she could explore), although Trouble did enjoy a few good sniffs and ear-scratches before trotting off to the other side of the room.
The blanket fort was dissembled now; too much of an effort to maintain, but there was still plenty of leftover bedding material by the couch, and Clint was within easy reach of his favorite, fleecy blanket, which he pulled over both of them before settling in, letting his head rest against Bucky's chest. The strangest thing, Clint found, was that Bucky was bigger than he was, his shoulders broader, his frame wider and sturdier. He wasn't used to it, but he didn't mind it. It was nice, actually, as Clint let himself breathe a little easier, let himself relax, his eyes half-closing.
"Will you relax, Buchanan? You're not radioactive." His tone was light, joking, even though Clint didn't really feel like joking. He understood the hesitation, the awkwardness he'd thrown onto both of them by asking for this in the first place. But the fact was that as far as Clint could tell, they both needed this, some version of it. Bucky had spent the last couple of months -- past decade, really -- being gawked at and whispered about on the basis of his extraordinary brutality. He needed to prove to himself he was still capable of gentleness. Maybe all of them did.
"And I trust you, okay," Clint added, more softly this time. "I wouldn't have asked, if I didn't. And before you go telling me I'm crazy, remember that I'm not the only one. Natasha does. Steve too. With his life, I bet."