The wind is crisp and the sky is overcast, the kind that makes warm drinks taste better and joints ache a little more. Clint, despite the bruises and the cast. You’re too tired to argue. Bucky didn’t even try. The three of you step into a quiet café.

Clint makes a beeline for a booth by the window, scooting in with a wince but ultimately looking smug about it. You slide in across from him. The table is small. Your knees bump. Neither of you comment on it.

You look up. Bucky’s not sitting. He’s leaning against the wall near the counter, coffee in hand, expression blank. Watching. The kind of blank that screams this is fine in the most not fine way possible.

You nudge Clint with your foot. He glances over, squints, and his eyebrows go up. “Oh, come on. He’s brooding? Now? I’m the one with the broken arm!”

You shoot him a look. “Clint.”

“I’m just saying. If anyone gets to dramatically stand around like a sad movie extra, it’s me.”

Still, he doesn’t stay seated. With an exaggerated groan and a muttered, “Fine, fine,” he grabs his drink and slides out of the booth.

You follow, both of you walking casually across the room toward where Bucky’s pretending to study the daily specials chalked on the wall.

Clint stops beside him. Takes a sip of his espresso. “Wow, Bucky. Look at this wall. What a great place to stand completely alone like a weirdo.”

Bucky doesn’t even look over. “Didn’t realize I needed an invite.”

Clint takes a loud, smug sip of his drink. “This is better anyway. Sitting’s for quitters.”

You nod seriously. “And romantics.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow at you both. “You two do realize how ridiculous this is, right?”

“Obviously,” Clint says, “but we’re committed to it now.”

Someone walks past and glances at the three of you like you’re a suspiciously stylish biker gang. Bucky huffs through his nose, almost a laugh.

The three of you stay like that, standing near the chalkboard wall, drinks in hand.