Gently

5. Winter Cleaning

"Pass the solvent?"

From his position in the armchair, Clint tossed the small bottle over the coffee table to Bucky on the sofa, watching the way the light glinted off the metal hand that snatched it out of mid-air. "You nearly done?" he whined.

Bucky rolled his eyes. "No."

"But I'm bored!"

"So go sort out your arrows or something."

Looking pointedly at the coffee table, over which Bucky had spread out the many parts of his custom sniper rifle, Clint argued back: "There's no room for them."

"What?"

"You and your fancy toy have taken up all the space, in case you hadn't noticed."

Poking a cleaning patch down the barrel, Bucky snorted. "Okay. I get it."

Clint frowned. "Get what?"

"You're jealous."

He raised his eyebrows. "Of the gun? You wish." But oh, he was – not only was it a beautiful piece of machinery that even Clint, as an archer, would have loved to have held, it was currently taking up ninety per-cent of Bucky's attention, and would be for a while yet if the assassin decided to be meticulous (which he often was when it came to this particular weapon). If Clint had known this was what would await him when he invited himself round, he'd have gone to the range first or called up Natasha for some sparring.

Bucky laughed. "Why don't you put some of those sniper skills to use and be patient?" he suggested. "I promise – you'll have my complete attention once my baby's nice and clean again."

"You gonna show me as much devotion as you do that thing?" The look thrown his way had him raising his hands. "Alright, not in the mood, fine."

"Be patient, Clint. I'll be done before you know it."

He huffed. "Yeah. Sure." But as he hunkered down into the armchair, Clint realised that, actually, he didn't mind waiting too much for Bucky to finish cleaning, not when he got to watch the man do something he enjoyed in the comfort of his own apartment. It wasn't like he'd never seen Bucky clean a weapon before, but this time was different.

Doing what he'd been told, Clint put his sniper skills to good use and observed. He watched as Bucky carefully fed cleaning patches down the dark barrel, checking each one before setting aside the rod and looking down the nozzle, placing it back onto the table once he was satisfied. Next he tended to the smaller parts – the bolt, magazine, scope, etc. – wiping them down carefully with solvent until there wasn't a millimetre untouched, spending the same amount of time on each component and with the same degree of care. When it came to lubricating the joints, Clint found his eyes glued to the end of the cotton bud as Bucky worked it into every nook and cranny possible (and if he ended up thinking of other places Bucky could stick a lubricated something-or-other into, who could blame him, really?); he was taking his time at particularly sensitive areas, head bent low over the pieces, brow drawn in concentration. It was a sight Clint committed to memory: Bucky in his element, going through motions that hadn't really changed since the forties, precise and efficient but far from deadly.

Clint wondered if he looked the same way when tending to his arrows or his bow. He knew that they each treated their respective weapons like extensions of themselves: Clint's S.H.I.E.L.D-designed recurve bow was his pride and joy – reliable in every scenario, sleek and elegant, deceptively durable, the perfect balance of archaic and modern. Bucky's sniper rifle, a Savage 110 BA that Tony had "vastly improved" to his liking, was his favourite weapon of choice when going for the long-range option, and Clint could see why. Whatever had been done to it had made the gun much lighter than its standard counterpart, but the power hadn't been altered to compensate one jot; if anything, Bucky insisted it was more powerful. The scope was one of Tony's own designs, computerised (of course) and complicated, but it allowed Bucky to make shots almost as well as Clint. Sometimes, the archer wanted one for his bow, until he realised what an awful thing to do to his beloved, unsophisticated recurve that would be (not that Tony hadn't tried to convince him otherwise).

"There. Was that so hard?"

Blinking out of his reverie, Clint saw that Bucky had finally finished cleaning, and was slotting the pieces of the gun back together, the sounds of sliding and clicking metal sharp against his ears. Having reassembled it, he pointed it in Clint's direction, sighting him down the scope and grinning.

Clint rolled his eyes. "I'm a sniper, Buck. I've have to wait out worse than you showing an irrational amount of devotion to a piece of trussed-up weaponry."

"I knew it!" he crowed. "You have gun envy!"

"Do not." The denial was weak, and Bucky was laughing as he stood to pack the rifle away. He leant down and pressed a kiss to the top of Clint's head as he passed.

"Don't worry yourself, kid. You're still number one in my books."

"'M not a kid," he mumbled; but he couldn't help smiling at the affection nonetheless. Two minutes later, with the rifle and cleaning equipment gone, Clint was once again the focal point for Bucky's attention. Making out on the couch had never felt so good – until he was struck with a recurring thought. "Hey," he managed to get out between kisses; "You know how I might get a teeny bit envious of your gun when you clean it like that?"

"Mmh," Bucky hummed, trailing his lips up the edge of Clint's jaw.

"Do you feel like that when I'm looking after my arrows?"

The question seemed to be deeper than he'd intended, judging by the way Bucky stopped what he was doing to pull back slowly. He thought about it for a minute, eventually shaking his head with a quiet "No." Clint was about to feel disappointed when he continued: "I used to, but then I reasoned it out."

Clint raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

Giving a small smile, he shrugged lightly. "You love your bow and your arrows, Clint, there's no denying that. I love my rifle, too. But no matter how we look at them, no matter how much care and devotion we give them, there's one stand-out difference: I love the rifle, but I'm in love with you."

Suddenly hyper-aware of the feel of Bucky's thumb stroking his cheek, Clint let a grin stretch slowly across his face. "Okay… I think I get it."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," he said softly. "I'm in love with you too, Buck."

"Good." After sharing another kiss, it was Bucky who quirked an eyebrow at him. "Jealous spat over now?"

He sighed petulantly. "Yes – I'm no longer envious of the inanimate object."

"Glad to hear it," Bucky chuckled, leaning in to murmur seductively into Clint's ear; "because you're next on my cleaning list."

AN: Prompt: "something with cooking/baking? Or cleaning weapons."