“His phone went straight to voicemail,” Bucky grumbled, knocking on Clint’s apartment door again. “You’d think a guy who gets kidnapped biweekly would at least keep it on.”

You stood behind him, hands in your jacket pockets, mostly awake. Mostly. The briefing had been at seven. You and Bucky showed up. Clint? Nowhere. Not answering the comms. Radio silence. So naturally, here you were, assigned pickup duty like it was high school and Clint had missed the bus.

Bucky sighed, already fed up. “I’m kicking the door in.”

“You don’t need to—”

Too late. Metal arm, minimal hesitation. The door creaked open with a dramatic crack. Bucky pushed inside like he had a warrant and a personal grudge.

The apartment was… not great. Lived in. Pizza box on the coffee table, an open window. A fan was running, and it wasn’t helping. At all.

Clint was on the couch like a half dressed roadkill victim. Shirtless, tangled in a throw blanket, one sock halfway on, forehead sweaty. His quiver was leaning against the TV stand, and a half empty bottle of something sat beside a tipped over glass.

Bucky stopped in the middle of the room, arms crossed. “Unbelievable.”

You shrugged. “Kind of valid.”

Bucky turned. “He looks like he just crawled out of a dumpster.”

You walked further in, stepping over an arrowhead. “He’s still breathing.”

“Oh, I noticed,” Bucky muttered. “He snores.”

Clint let out a groggy groan and shifted on the couch. One eye cracked open, then immediately winced at the light. “What the hell—? Why are you people in my house?”

“You missed the briefing,” Bucky snapped. “We’re supposed to be halfway to Jersey by now.”

“Jersey can wait,” Clint muttered, rolling over dramatically. “I’m emotionally compromised.”

“You’re hungover.”

“Same thing.”

He pulled the blanket over his head, mumbling something about “too early for saving the world” and “where are my pants.”

Bucky looked ready to drag him by the ankle. You, meanwhile, sat on the edge of the coffee table and handed Clint the glass of water he definitely forgot he poured last night.

He peeked out from under the blanket, surprised. “Thanks.”

“Take five. Then pants. Then mission,” you said.

Bucky was rubbing his temples.

Clint, still a pile of sarcasm and regret, slowly sat up, blanket falling around his shoulders like a cape.

“Remind me again why I joined a team of morning people?”

“Because no one else would take you,” Bucky said flatly.

You hid your smirk. Clint, squinting through the pain of consciousness, pointed vaguely in your direction. “At least someone gets it.”

Bucky groaned and headed to the door. “Ten minutes. Or I’m leaving you here with your hangover and your bad choices.”

As he stomped out, Clint leaned back against the couch cushion and whispered to you like it was a secret, “Why is he always mad at me?”