MCU Kissing Fest, 2015 edition!

[such_heights]

So in 2012 I ran a kissing comment fest and everyone seemed to have a good time. (And yes, lol, I did at that time believe I'd stop caring about superheroes by the end of the summer.) Let's try again!

Everything in the Marvel Cinematic Universe applies, so that's all 11 films as well as Agents of SHIELD, Agent Carter and Daredevil. Assume that comments may contain spoilers for everything.

THE RULES:

01. Leave a comment with two or more characters from the MCU who you'd like to see kiss. You can include a prompt if you like as an optional extra for the prompt-filler.
02. Reply to the comment with a fanwork in which those characters kiss. The kissing can be platonic or romantic, on the mouth or the cheek or the forehead or the shoulder or anywhere else that you like.
03. All fanworks welcome, including art/podfic/vids/icons/recs/meta/fic etc. Multiple fills for the same prompt are fine. Replying to your own prompt is fine. Anon commenting is fine. Coming back and posting a fill two months later is fine. Posting your fanwork elsewhere is fine.

I will link to fills in this post as they come in.

Fills:

Angie/Peggy
Angie/Peggy, home by strix_alba
Angie/Peggy, a good cup of tea by frith_in_thorns

Bruce/Natasha
Bruce/Natasha, hold by jamaillith

Bruce/Natasha/Steve
Natasha/Bruce/Steve, family by thebonesofferalletters
Bruce/Natasha, running by celeste9

Bucky/Peggy
Bucky/Peggy, test by gwyn

Bucky/Steve
Steve/Bucky, baseball by alafaye
Steve/Bucky, baseball #2 by gwyn
Steve/Bucky, soft by thebonesofferalletters
Steve/Bucky, candles by applegnat
Steve/Bucky, candles #2 by recessional
Steve/Bucky, heart by recessional
Steve/Bucky, rooftops by thebonesofferalletters
Steve/Bucky, soft #2 by recessional
Steve/Bucky, shower by recessional

Claire/Matt
Matt/Claire, daylight by pearwaldorf

Clint/Darcy
Clint/Darcy, milkshakes by topaz119

Clint/Laura
Clint Barton/Laura Barton, unexpected by kayim

Clint/Natasha
Clint/Natasha, perfunctory by recessional

Daniel/Jack/Peggy
Peggy/Daniel/Jack, drowning by sholio

Foggy/Marci
Foggy/Marci - alcohol and bad choices by sholio (TW: aftermath of an off-camera attempted assault)

Foggy/Matt
Foggy/Matt, hospital by sholio
Matt Murdock/Foggy Nelson, spin the bottle by devilc

Helen/Sif
Helen Cho/Sif, teamwork by longwhitecoats

Maria/Sam
Sam/Maria Hill, coffee by recessional

Maria/Wanda
Maria/Wand, broken by x_dark_siren_x

Natasha/Pepper
Pepper/Natasha, suits by isagel

Natasha/Rhodey/Sam/Steve/Vision/Wanda
Natasha/Rhodey/Sam/Steve/Vision/Wanda, team building by sholio

Natasha/Steve
Natasha/Steve, home by thebonesofferalletters

Pepper/Tony
Tony/Pepper, party by igrockspock

Pepper/Vision
Vision/Pepper, genderfluidity by jamaillith

Peter/Rocket
Peter Quill/Rocket, drunk by longwhitecoats

Sam/Steve
Sam/Steve, return by longwhitecoats
Sam/Steve, commanding by astolat
Sam/Steve, pool table by gwyn
Sam/Steve, bedtime story by gwyn
Sam/Steve, breakfast by monanotlisa
Sam/Steve, sharing a bed by raanve

status: Updated through page 16 on ?view=flat.

Comments

[ranalore]

Bucky/Peggy/Steve, cards

[kore]

Maria/Nat, uniform

[kore]

Steve/Bucky, knights

[kore]

Sam/Steve, flight

[kore]

Nat/Yelena, betrayal

[kore]

Bucky/Nat, Morozko (background if wanted: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Father_Frost_(fairy_tale) and http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jack_Frost_(1964_film))

[ranalore]

Steve/Bucky, modernity

[gwyn]

Of all the things in his recovery that Bucky has embraced about modern life--the food, the cars, the gadgets, the conveniences, the fashions--it's the way he'd rebelled against gender expectations that Steve found the most charming. He'd slipped into this time with an ease and grace Steve could never imagine for himself. It was impossible to deny that modern life could be weird for both of them ("Is it wrong to say I miss hats?" he'd said once, wistful, and Steve had responded with, "If I wore suspenders now I'd look like a hipster douche"), but overall, now that Bucky was here, Steve liked living in the 21st century, and he especially liked watching Bucky living in the 21st century, messing with everyone's expectations to find out who he was here and now.

The first time Steve noticed it, Bucky had been wearing a pair of Captain America underpants that were incredibly snug. Not that Steve minded, because holy crap did they hug his perfect little ass, but he'd asked, after he'd stopped laughing, why they were so tight and Bucky'd shrugged, plopping down on the couch and biting into an apple. "They don't make 'em in men's sizes," he said around a mouthful of fruit.

"Okay," Steve had said, confused. "Of course." They did look different from the kinds of boxer briefs they both usually wore, and Steve had just assumed Bucky bought them to fuck with him. Steve had heard Bucky complaining to Natasha that the company Ms. Potts had licensed to make Avengers merchandise made both men's and women's (and boys' and girls') sizes for all the clothing of the boys on the team, but they made only women's sizes for her stuff, and he really wanted a Black Widow jacket that he'd seen online. But Steve hadn't really thought about it at the time; as soon as Bucky said that about the briefs, he drew the connection.

"They call them boyshorts," Bucky said as if that answered Steve's unspoken question. "Wanna come here and take 'em off me?"

"Tempting. But we gotta be at that, uh, briefing soon. So maybe later."

Bucky laughed at his confused face. "I found them online, and thought you might get a kick out of them. This pattern doesn't come in men's. But I bought some guys' stuff too--stars and stripes," he said, winking. "I don't know why it always has to be only-in-men's this or only-for-women's that. Why can't they make everything for both shapes?" Steve didn't have a good answer for that; he'd never really figured out why, after a couple decades where so many people had rejected the traditional conformist models, Americans had gone back to following those hard lines. "Plus they make the ladies' versions cost more," he said, brows drawing down in a scowl at the injustice.

Bucky'd been rejecting everyone's expectations about him since he'd come back to Steve, anyway, so it didn't seem that much more of a stretch for him to say fuck your gendered marketing with his choices. There wasn't much he liked more than to pad around the apartment in his fuzzy Bucky Bear slippers (bought for him as a joke, which he'd completely ignored), pajama pants (he favored the pink and grey plaid), and a soft, drapey hoodie that looked like Elsa's gown in Frozen, curled into a sunbeam and reading, cup of tea by his side. The first time Steve had told the team that, they'd scoffed, because he was the former Winter Soldier and that didn't fit with their image.

But they'd learned over time, with each new fashion experiment or social situation. When some guy with a satellite-sized freeze ray had iced over most of Bed-Stuy, Bucky had shown up with Steve, tying his hair back, which he'd let grow long again, with a hot-pink elastic Nat had given him. Clint had peered at him out of one eye and said, "You know pink's a girl's color."

"Not in my day, bub," Bucky said, sliding the tube of the grenade launcher up, chambering the shell, and racking it back down as he stared coolly at Clint. "You know who started that pink is feminine shit? Hitler."

The itch to laugh finally won out and Steve busted out in a guffaw. Clint backed away from Bucky very slowly.

Once, when they were getting coffee, Bucky'd noticed a male barista's hands and asked, "What's that?" The guy had given him a weary look, beginning the windup for what had to be a pitch he'd thrown dozens of times, explaining that men could wear nail polish too, but Bucky had just interrupted him quietly and said, "No, I mean, what polish is it?" The two of them had spent the next few minutes talking about nail colors, and Bucky made Steve stop at the Duane Reade near their place on the way home so he could buy some. It wasn't long before at least twenty different bottles cluttered up one of the bathroom shelves.

"It's the Fabulous Soldier!" Tony said the first time he saw Bucky with painted nails, and Bucky gave him one of his ball-shriveling smiles. But when Tony developed a flesh-colored sleeve for Bucky to use when he needed to hide his metal arm, he'd made the shape of nail beds so it would be easier for Bucky to apply polish. Steve had gotten used to creating the shape of nails for him on his left hand, he loved cuddling on the couch with Bucky and doing them for him, necking while the polish dried. And Steve adored the evenings after a rough day where they'd lie in bed as Steve rubbed Bucky's feet, painted his toes, and then they fucked each other senseless. Sometimes Steve even let Bucky put polish on his nails or take him for mani-pedis at the place Ms. Potts had introduced them to. Spa days were Bucky's favorite days, and they quickly became Steve's.

Bucky liked things to be soft and comfortable and easy when he wasn't in tac gear, and Steve liked what Bucky liked. If that meant sitting in a fragrant bubble bath at the end of a long day, that was just fine by Steve.

Of all the team, it was Tony who seemed to have the most challenging time coming to terms with Bucky's disinterest in playing into stereotypes. At team movie night, Bucky wore a pair of leggings with a shield print on them and an oversized purple Hawkeye t-shirt, and Tony'd asked, as dry as the Sahara, "Are we rebelling against gender norms or just regular pants in general?" Bucky shrugged, the way he always did when someone questioned his choices.

"They were a present from me," Steve said proudly.

"None of this stuff makes you wonder about him?" Tony had asked, more with a kind of awe than maliciousness, because Bucky's lack of fucks given was rather breathtaking, even to Tony. Steve was absolutely living for the day when some stranger made a crack to Bucky about his appearance, just the same way Bucky's eyes had lit up at the prospect of Steve going off on any fella who did something socially unacceptable back in the day.

Steve held his hands up. "Hitler," he just said, and Tony laughed. "Seriously," he continued, watching Bucky with the rest of the team, thrilled at his happiness, his comfort, "I like it. He gets to make his own choices now. No one is ever gonna tell him what he can or cannot do again, and who's gonna be stupid enough to mess with him about not conforming?" If someone's definitions of masculinity excluded wearing skinny jeans or women's panties or nail polish or eyeliner, they could blow it out their ass.

"Point taken," Tony said. "Right in the eye." He had no doubt that Tony would stop worrying about it eventually. Everyone else had, especially Thor, who had lots of great tales of gender- and body-swapping hijinks on Asgard that he told in brotherly support.

And sometimes, Bucky'd ask Steve to pretty up the red star on Bucky's arm, turning it into something else that made Bucky forget where he got it and how it used to make him feel. Back when the Howling Commandos had all gone to get matching tattoos, Bucky had lurched out of the chair at the first touch of the needle on his still-fragile skin, sweating, the terror of Zola's table all too vivid in his mind. Now he had seventy years of that torture, and worse, piled on top. Steve drew colored-pen tattoos of his own, cartoons or elaborate Far and Middle Eastern-inspired designs or sometimes just sparkly hearts or flowers. He was drawing on Bucky's arm that night as they lay in bed, a galaxy with planets and comets and lots of stars.

"Brought you a present," Steve said, putting down the pens. He handed Bucky a pair of pale pink socks with a cute print on them--a slice of peanut-butter toast and a slice of jelly toast holding hands. "I'm assured they will fit a guy of your size." He grinned.

"Thank you," Bucky said and kissed him, long and lingering.

Steve still couldn't believe that he was here with Bucky in the modern age, with this soft, gentle warrior who'd survived a living hell and yet somehow found things in this world worth living for.

"You know what else I miss?" Bucky asked.

"You mean besides hats?" Steve said, and Bucky snorted.

"Dancing. I don't get why guys act as if liking to dance means you're gay."

"Let's go dancing, then," Steve said, and flipped Bucky onto his back, kissing down his chest, pushing his legs apart. "I know there are tons of places where we could dance our style. We'll be hipsters."

"Hey, careful, my polish isn't dry yet," Bucky said sharply, laughing.

So this was life in the modern age, Steve thought, and kissed Bucky with everything he had. There were some trade-offs, sure, and things they both missed. But they were together, a couple, in a bed covered in silky sheets high above the New York skyline, and Bucky Barnes was worried about his nail polish. Steve liked it here after all.

[kore]

THIS WAS SWEETLY HILARIOUS AND AWESOME (Fabulous Soldier!)

And sometimes, Bucky'd ask Steve to pretty up the red star on Bucky's arm, turning it into something else that made Bucky forget where he got it and how it used to make him feel. Back when the Howling Commandos had all gone to get matching tattoos, Bucky had lurched out of the chair at the first touch of the needle on his still-fragile skin, sweating, the terror of Zola's table all too vivid in his mind. Now he had seventy years of that torture, and worse, piled on top. Steve drew colored-pen tattoos of his own, cartoons or elaborate Far and Middle Eastern-inspired designs or sometimes just sparkly hearts or flowers. He was drawing on Bucky's arm that night as they lay in bed, a galaxy with planets and comets and lots of stars.

and then you broke my heart. CRUNCH. That was so great.

Also I fucking <3 you for Hitler demonizing pink. And Tony giving Bucky nailbeds on his arm cover! Bucky missing HATS. Thor telling tales of body/gender swapping! YES.

[talitha78]

Aww. Love this.

[kass]

asdf;lkajsdf;laksdjf;asdlkfsad I love this SO MUCH, I cannot even.

[ranalore]

Oh my GOD I am winning this prompt business so HARD. This story is so unspeakably awesome I cannot even. I love everything about it. I love Bucky's zero fucks given attitude, I love the indictment of gendered marketing (and Steve's observation about fighting that damn hardline gendering battle and now here we are back to fucking doing it what was the point ahem sorry it might be a bit of a sore spot), I love that you have the team actually process it, because I love them, but I think that makes more sense than smooth acceptance. I love the bit about the Howlies all getting tattoos and it triggering Bucky. I love Steve drawing and drawing and drawing on the arm, and Bucky painting those nails too, because that arm is his, is him, and just. All of it. Every single blessed little thing about it. It made me so happy. I'm giving it the Sebastian in a tub icon because I think Bucky would like the outfit and the tub and the attitude, and I love him making these choices and claiming himself so thoroughly as to make these choices.

[ranalore]

Also, THOR REFERENCING ACTUAL NORSE MYTHOLOGY YOU ARE MY FAVORITE NOW. Ahem okay carry on.

Man, I need a Thor icon for moments like this.

[dariaw]

Lovely!!!

Love this line too:
"If I wore suspenders now I'd look like a hipster douche" LOL

[alafaye]

*hugs this fic*

[ranalore]

Steve/Peggy, dance

[kore]

Um this came out super fucking sad, I'm sorry //face in hands


Later, the only real excuse Steve let himself have, and not often, was that it was just too early, before he knew anything or anyone, before Nat, before Sam, before DC. After everything had happened, but before anything else had a chance.

He had been desperate: Peggy hadn't known him for his first brief visits, and then another one had been disastrous when she had recognized him and simultaneously known he was dead, and had assumed she had "gone completely gaga," as she'd put it while looking right at him (he could hear the exaggerated Brooklyn patois Bucky put on in answer to her Britishisms, You and me both, doll).

He hadn't even been forced into it; he'd volunteered, the way he had for everything his whole damn life, and once again, in volunteering his own fool self he'd dragged the people he loved along with him. He'd been so used to playing a part, being the dancing puppet, that one more performance didn't seem that wrong. But he had known from the start he had done it only because he wanted to, that even if the SHIELD doctors had told him if he didn't do it, he couldn't see her any more, he wouldn't have done it for them. Peggy might have forgiven him, had forgiven him as it was happening, even, but it didn't matter. She and Bucky had tried to gently (and not so gently) joke away his everlasting guilt, but he grimly thought he'd been right to hang onto it his whole life, because now it was all he had left. And he was damned if he'd let himself soothe it away. Later, everyone marveled at his selfless devotion, moving to DC in no small part so he could see her every week; but he knew, bringing her roses that might as well have been rosary beads, that it was his penance, and far lighter than he deserved.

(Let go of His cross, Steve, we need the wood for this fucking fire, Bucky would say, somewhere back in the Ardennes.)

But back then, the SHIELD doctors had been desperate to restore Peggy's memory. Steve had, too, and his personal needs had dovetailed too neatly with theirs to resist, which should have been his first warning. They told him probably the AD had begun unnoticed years ago, a steady covert operation deep in her brilliant, blazing brain, and even now it was still early yet, she remembered most of her life: her husband, her children, her career. (And him. In a way. Sometimes.) But apparently only a few months ago, just before he'd been found in the ice, she'd started to have less than a crystalline memory of a page she'd just read; she searched for words, found the wrong ones and drew back in dismay. She knew, more than anyone else, what she was capable of, and part of that was knowing when she had started to become less than that, and never turning away.

He was quietly proud that she'd marched herself off straight to the doctor, demanded the latest tests, kept up with the progress of her own decline as long as she'd been able to. He'd read her file, at least the heavily censored parts they'd let him see, and it reminded him of one of Bucky's favourite books. He'd never liked Hemingway that much, but he remembered Bucky reading him the words (before the war, before they knew that afterwards, they wouldn't ever want to read about it) If people bring so much courage to this world the world has to kill them to break them, so of course it kills them. Nothing could break her; nothing they could do could save her, either.

That first nursing home looked like a weird combination of a lab, a hospice and a debriefing center, and it lived up to his wary first impression (the hospital smell was still there, though. Or maybe it was just something he would always smell now, forever, at least it felt that way sometimes). It was part research facility, part bunker in which to stash SHIELD's founder and most famous agent, part setting for repeated quiet, gentle, relentless attempts to pick the lock of her mind: she'd known what noone else had known, what wasn't in any files, official or unofficial. "Not just where the bodies were buried but who held the shovels," as one doctor with a uniform showing under his white coat had put it in a phrase Steve couldn't forget. They wanted her secrets. Steve only wanted her to know his last secret: I've come back. I kept my promise. I'm here. That was early enough that he still wondered sometimes if they'd lock him in a permanent museum exhibit like that fake room of Fury's, Goering's suitcase on one side and a Thin Man casing on the other.

They had to get the dress uniform from the Smithsonian, because it wasn't actually his anymore. Somehow that was only fitting, because it seemed like nothing was. He'd tried filling out some requisition papers, and Fury had promised he'd put them through quickly, but they'd gotten stuck in some regulation limbo, just like him. The tailor actually apologized because the tie was different -- Steve then learned more about silverfish and starch than he had ever wanted to know -- but he actually hadn't been able to tell. He pinned on the insignia and medals carefully, the tailor (who was really someone else, a costume historian, like the soldier-doctors and bodyguard-nurses) watching with suddenly greedy eyes.

"Here, look....the SSR pin goes right there, it was a little higher than usual in that museum picture. Guess I was in a hurry that day." The historian looked ready to cry with gratitude. Bucky would've pinned it on upside-down and convinced them to rewrite the history books his way. Steve insisted on doing his own hair and gig line, though.

When he stepped inside Peggy's room, carrying a bouquet of roses in one hand and a tiny mp3 player in the other, for a heartbreaking second he knew it hadn't worked -- how could any trick fool Margaret Carter? Her eyes narrowed in the particular way they did when she knew he and Bucky were trying to put something over on her. Bucky endlessly tried to get her to believe in bizarre American customs, but she said it was barbarous enough that nobody drank tea. Then her face relaxed and she said, "You're late."

"Yeah, I'm sorry....had to stop off and get these." He waved the roses awkwardly. "Forgive me?"

"Always. Whether or not you deserve it." She narrowed her eyes again, but this time in her old take-charge way. "Bring those here, there's a vase big enough for them just under....yes." He put them on the little table at the foot of her bed, hoping even if she forgot him after he left, she'd still take pleasure in seeing the roses, anyway. "Oh yes, they deserve pride of place. Red roses....still the romantic."

"Always." He put the mp3 player next to the roses and hesitantly pressed the play arrow -- it didn't seem possible a loud enough sound could be produced by such a tiny thing, but then Harry James's trumpet sounded out like Gabriel's horn. Howard would have snatched it away, fascinated -- hell, Howard had probably helped design the thing, or its grandfather anyway. You made me want you And all the time you knew it.... He didn't sit down, but stood watching her face, drinking in the amused affection.

"Darling, this isn't quite the Stork Club....wait." She focused, with a visible effort. "Is that still standing?"

Steve froze, unwilling to lie, and she read the truth more in his stance than anywhere in her memory. "It isn't, is it."

He shook his head. "One of the first things I checked....I was going to go there the first Saturday they let me out of the hospital. Eight o'clock....on the dot."

"I was there, with Howard. We got tight in memory of you. Billingsley came by and when he heard why I wouldn't dance with him he gave me a bottle of Sortilège. Never opened it. Kept it until it was vinegar, then a year or so ago I washed out the bottle and gave it to...." The music ended and she focused on him again, coming out of the past. "Steve....you're here. It's really you. How is this possible?" She held out her hand.

He swallowed hard and reached out for it, letting her pull him closer with all her frail strength. He bent over and whispered in her ear, "I couldn't leave my best girl. Not when she owes me a dance." He kissed her cheek, and when she turned her head, her lips, and felt her pass out of time with him, pulled away by the music.

"Dance with me."

"Do you know how now?"

He'd resisted all the historian's efforts to teach him even rudimentary steps. "Not really. Does it matter?"

"Of course not. Help me up." She imperiously levered herself up on his arm, her weight shockingly light, incongruous no-slip hospital socks showing below the raised hem of her silk robe. Now Bunny Berigan was playing. They didn't so much move as gently sway together by her bedside, like an exhausted married couple at the end of the day remembering all the dances they'd shared together when the past came through a song on the radio. He was suddenly terrified of shifting her off-balance, making her fall and break a hip. She chuckled. "I'm old, not Waterford crystal. Just don't dip me."

"Bucky's the one with the rollercoaster Lindy moves, not me."

"You have moves dangerous enough all on your own, Rogers."

She was terribly tired after two more songs (Jimmie Lunceford, Bix Beiderbecke), and he guided her carefully the few feet back to her bed, then lowered her down, lifted her legs up, pulled the light blankets carefully straight. Her eyes were closed, her breathing slight but steady, and he turned down the volume on the little music player slowly, then switched it off and pocketed it. He turned to go.

But, as Bucky always used to yell at him, he never watched his fucking back, so as his hand was on the doorknob, he heard her voice behind him, clear as ever: "Do you know what I dreamed, Steve?"

He didn't dare turn around and stood with his head bowed, looking at his own fingers on the gleaming metal as if they didn't belong to him. "No....what?"

"I dreamed I was old and you were dead." Steve couldn't breathe for a moment. "Wasn't that silly, darling?"

Steve couldn't say anything. Peggy sighed gently.

"This dream was much better....perfect, in fact. Goodbye, you beautiful ghost." He heard her sigh again, and then the regular, tiny breaths which meant she had fallen back asleep. He shut the door as quietly as he could, and leaned against it so hard the wood creaked, as if the past was still in there with her and he could keep it safe.

[celeste9]

Natasha/Gamora, something new

[celeste9]

Darcy/Coulson, screw this

[celeste9]

Natasha/Pepper, bad day

[celeste9]

Bruce/Natasha, trust

[celeste9]

Tony/Pepper/Bruce, is this a terrible idea?

[celeste9]

Gamora/Peter, losers

[ranalore]

Bucky/Clint, hand signs

I need a Clint icon

[kore]

Even though Bucky knew probably about a dozen languages, and those were just the ones he was fluent in, Clint wasn't surprised he didn't know ASL, because almost none of the hearing people he met knew ASL. Sometimes that pissed him off. Sometimes when he met hearing people who wanted to try out their three-credit college course slower-than-turtles-fucking-in-January f-i-n-g-e-r-s-p-e-l-l-i-n-g on him, that pissed him off more.

("Do what I do," Natasha had said.

("Look, when you tell assholes 'Fuck off and die' in Russian, they don't know what you're saying and think you're so cute. But even if they don't know ASL, if I say 'Bullshit'...."*

(She'd just smirked at him.)

But it had surprised him that Bucky knew military hand signals -- American military hand signals -- and it really shouldn't have.

One evening when he'd been trying to "teach" Natasha ("That's not the hand signal for 'shotgun,' Barton, and even if it were -- ") he realized Bucky was watching them, not in that Here We See How The Predator Can Track Its Prey From A Great Distance way, and not in the And I Awoke and Found Me Here on the Cold Hill's Side Fuck Me Sidewise way either, but with real interest.

"I know those," he said. He cleared his throat after he stopped speaking, because his larynx had sounded coated with rust.

Clint frowned, because he was pretty sure Bucky wouldn't co-troll Natasha with him. "Yeah?"

Bucky made a fist, raised it to about his eye level. Freeze.

Clint chuckled and gave him a big exaggerated thumbs-up -- what one teacher he'd known had called LOUD signing. Bucky grinned.

Natasha looked at them both, eyes narrowed a little bit. "I thought that meant approval, or agreement," she said.

"It can," Clint told her. "Or 'message received,' 'good to go,' 'raise' something, or" -- he pointed his thumb down -- '"lower' something, it really depends." He thought a minute. "'Ready for takeoff'...." Bucky nodded. "I meant 'I get it,' right then, basically. Context." Natasha's forehead untensed a little. "What was that other dub-dub-two one," Clint asked him, "'good luck'?" Bucky nodded again.

Then he started to make a gesture, hesitated -- the same teacher would have told Clint that reminded her of a hearing "stutter" -- and then held his left arm straight up from the elbow, thumb stuck out and index finger pointing at the ceiling, then aimed it straight at Natasha, his right finger on an invisible trigger guard far down his forearm.

She said immediately, "Rifle." Bucky smiled.

Then he turned to Clint, took his "rifle" and propped its butt -- his left elbow -- on his left thigh (even when playing fucking Sniper Charades, he was careful to lean the muzzle away from all of them), and with his right hand, reached across, undid an invisible pouch thing by his left hip, drew an invisible handled thing out -- a knife? -- matched up the top and bottom knuckles of his right and left index fingers, pushed them together firmly and raised the rifle straight again, keeping his right index finger on top of the "muzzle." Natasha frowned.

Bucky looked at Clint and raised his eyebrows and lowered the corners of his mouth in the universal symbol of: Well?

"I have no goddamned idea," Clint said.

Bucky laughed -- brief but genuine -- and let both arms relax, drop down. "'Fix bayonets.' Basic training, 1942. Thought you might not know that one."

"Jesus fucking Christ," said Clint. Bucky blew him a kiss, a big wet smacker, and Clint pretended to catch it on his cheek with a slap that made Natasha giggle her secret little-girl giggle that Clint loved getting out of her. He looked at Bucky's face, not smiling but warm somehow, and wondered if it matched his expression when he heard her laugh like that, too.


*From what I have seen, the ASL sign for 'bullshit,' even if the recipient doesn't know that ASL exists, is really unmistakeable.