AN: For the prompt: "you're a lifeguard at my kid's swimming competition and i fell in the pool with all my clothes on and you awkwardly tried to save me even though i didn't need it", which I received over on Tumblr and began typing out in Burger King before realising that a) my phone was dying, and b) this was going to be far too long for a drabble.

(I may not have stuck exactly to the prompt, but seriously, teeny tiny details...)

Making a Splash

Not that he wasn't paying attention or anything, but Bucky never actually saw the very handsome, fully-clothed blonde guy fall into the pool. However, he did see the blood and he did hear the kids shrieking, which is why he immediately sprang into action and somewhat haphazardly rescued the guy.

Because apparently it's possible for grown men to drown in the shallow end.

"I wasn't drowning," the guy insists. "I just couldn't find my footing."

"Well, that's what I'm there for," Bucky says, leaning forward to stick a band-aid over the cut on the blonde's cheek. "Better safe than sorry, right?" He winks at the little girl who came in with them, and she smirks back at him.

"I guess," Blondie says reluctantly, then turns to the kid. "No telling Jess about this, 'kay?"

"Okay. But she'll find out anyway," the girl responds.

"What does that mean?"

"It means you're a dummy."

"Gee, thanks Kate."

Stowing the first aid kit away, Bucky gestures to the man's soaked clothes. "You wanna get those dry before you leave? My co-worker keeps a hairdryer in the office, it wouldn't take long."

He nods. "Sure, thanks," and Bucky heads back into the front office, hearing Kate's indignant squealing as her father (guardian?) undresses. Bucky doesn't think there's a problem until Natasha gives him the biggest shit-eating grin at his request.

"You saved his life not twenty minutes ago and you're already getting him to strip for you? Have to say, James, I'm impressed."

Bucky just stares at her. "Whatever you're thinking, you're jumping to gross conclusions," he tells her. And then he turns back around. And stares.

Natasha smirks as she stands next to him, hairdryer in hand, also appreciating the 'view'. "Absolutely no objections from me," she comments. "What's his name?"

"Uh… Dunno…"

She snorts. "Getting him shirtless before you even know his name." With a shake of her head she moves past him, planting the hairdryer in his hands. "I'll get the kid out of the picture, you get the hot guy out of his pants."

"What?"

"You can thank me later."

Before Bucky even fully processes what's happening, it's just him and Blondie. As he's drying the purple t-shirt, they exchange names – Clint, he's called, and it rolls of Bucky's tongue in a very pleasant way. They make some small talk, he doesn't stare too much, everything's going well – and then somehow "Would you mind taking your pants off?" gets muddled with "Can I get your number?" to become "Can I get your pants off?"

Silence reigns. Clint looks quite surprised. Bucky's mortified.

"Shit." He licks his lips. "I didn't mean –"

"Sure."

"What?"

"Shit."

After a beat they share a nervous laugh, and Bucky hands the t-shirt back, undeniably relieved when Clint drapes it over his lap (and he'd be lying if he tried to deny that a very small part of him was disappointed, too).

Halfway through drying Clint's jeans, Bucky hears a subtle cough and looks across to see Clint rubbing the back of his neck, looking a tad flushed. "So," he begins slowly, "seeing as we've already hit the nearly-naked stage, you wanna backtrack a bit and do something easier, maybe? Or – not easier, but… y'know?"

"Like swapping numbers?"

"Yeah! That's easy," he says, almost pulling the t-shirt off his lap. As he hurriedly gathers it back, Bucky's half-tempted to remind him that he spends half his week observing men and women in various states of modesty, and that seeing a hot guy in his underwear isn't that different to seeing a hot guy in speedos or trunks.

Instead, he says, "There's some post-it notes on the desk, hang on."

He leaves the jeans for a moment, and is scrambling around the office desk for a pen when behind him comes the sound of a girl's voice as she cries: "My lesson's ov- eek!"

"Kate!"

"You're naked!"

"No, no I'm not! I've got a t-shirt!"

"You're naked you're naked you're naked!"

"We're at a swimming pool, Katie –"

"Why are you naked?!"

"Plenty of people are almost naked."

"But they're not actually naked!"

"Neither am I!"

"Then why aren't you wearing any pants?!"

"I was just drying them," Bucky says, swiftly intervening. Kate gives him a suspicious look before giving Clint a narrow glare and declaring she'll be waiting by the car. As she flounces out, Clint claps a hand to his face, groaning into his palm.

"Sometimes I think she's nineteen, not nine," he mutters.

Bucky chuckles. "She seems like a fun kid."

"Yeah, she's cool. Not sure I could handle her twenty-four seven though."

"So, you're her…?"

"Oh we're not related. I just watch her. Not watch her, I mean, I just – I'm her – I look after her? 'Cause her parents aren't around much?"

Bucky catches on. "You're her babysitter, but you can't tell people that because she's nine and not a baby."

Clint laughs – a nice sound, Bucky thinks, and hands over the folded post-it note. "Thanks, James," Clint says, and checks the paper. "'Bucky'?"

He nods. "It's what most people call me."

"Huh. How come?"

"He'll tell you over dinner," Natasha says as she enters the back of the office, winking at Bucky when she passes him.

"I will?"

"Of course." She tugs Clint's pants down from where they're hanging (now faintly damp, having had time to dry naturally) and hands them back to him; "He gets off work at four, and there's a great pizza joint three blocks down from his place. Kate has the address."

Clint takes his pants back with a vaguely dumbstruck "Thanks," and Bucky lets him change while he asks Natasha what the hell she's up to by the desk.

"Helping you out."

"I was doing just fine!"

"It took you half an hour to give him your number."

"So?"

Smiling, Natasha simply patted his chest. "You'll thank me one day."

The retort is on the tip of his tongue, but a knock on the doorframe drags his attention away. Clint, now fully clothed, stands there with an old phone in his hand and a sheepish look on his face. "It was in my pocket when I fell in," he explains. "I don't know my number off by heart, either, but I'm normally done with Kate by about eight, so seeing as I have an address… is, uh, eight-thirty okay? For dinner, I mean. If you want."

Bucky only realises he's staring rather than replying when Natasha kicks him in the ankle. "That sounds great," he grunts, smiling over a grimace (Natasha doesn't understand the word 'gentle').

"As the one who set you up on this romantic venture I demand to know at least fifty per-cent of everything he says," she tells him once Clint has left.

Ankle still throbbing, Bucky rolls his eyes. "Remind me why we're friends again?"

"Because I help initiate relationships with cute archers for you."

"How do you know he's an archer?"

"Kate and I are best friends now." Natasha grins, eyes alight with something that sets warning bells off in Bucky's head. "I know your boyfriend better than you do already."

"He's not my boyfriend, Nat," he reminds her; although, as he makes a mental note to warn Clint about the potentially deadly Kate-Natasha alliance, the idea of calling him his 'boyfriend' doesn't sound bad at all.