Work Text:
Clint let out a long groan as he sank his head into his hands, elbows plonked directly on the piles of paperwork he still needed to finish. A moment, he just needed one moment before he started the next page.
He took a long, steadying breath and pushed himself upright in his chair. He held up a sheet of paper in one hand and squinted at the tiny print as it danced in front of his eyes. He dug his knuckles into his temple, ineffectually trying to push the pain away. He read the text in the question box, ‘list conditions affecting outcome,’ three times before he felt he had the shape of what they were asking and tried to coax his scattered thoughts into a coherent answer.
Clint managed to scratch out something about the weather before he thunked his head down onto the table, eyes closed against the stabbing bright light of the kitchen. He whimpered piteously when felt the vibrations of something being set on the table close to where his forehead rested. A moment later strong, warm hands rubbed at his shoulders, working to relieve the tension.
“Why does there have to be so much paperwork?” he groused after a minute, failing to keep the whine out of his voice. The hands tugged switched from their massage to tug insistently and Clint regretted asking the question out loud. Clint begrudgingly sat up and turned around so Bucky could answer what he had meant to be a rhetorical question. Bucky's lips quirked minutely and he had to fight off a smile at the ink smudged above Clint's eyebrow.
“Tonight, why?” Bucky signed.
“It’s due in a few hours.” Bucky made a face, then signed 'hurt' near his own temple; Clint heaved out a sigh before answering. “A civilian got in the crossfire, so the AARs have a short timeline, migraine or not. If my head splits open can you clean the papers off before you turn them in for me?”
Bucky tapped his ear, to request Clint put his aids in; he was still learning and his current signing ability could only get him so far. Clint masked the wince as he complied.
“How about, you lie down and shut your eyes; I’ll read you the questions and you can tell me what to write?”
“Futz, would you?” The overwhelming crash of gratitude had his throat tightening wetness gathering in the corners of his eyes.
“Oh, sweetheart,” Bucky crooned, and stroked his large palm along Clint’s jaw, thumb swiping away the single tear that spilled over. Clint nuzzled into the touch. “Come on, I brought your meds over.” Bucky coaxed Clint into chasing the pills with the bottle of water he had also brought, then led him to the bedroom.
“Jesus, this is already so much better,” Clint muttered as he stretched out on top of the covers in the dark. Bucky sat so that his dim book light didn’t shine in Clint’s direction and began read the questions, keeping his voice pitched soft.
A few times he helped Clint find the right words to explain an answer when Clint could only give broad strokes to describe what he meant. Clint was doing his best, but when the swells of pain peaked it was hard to maintain coherency and focus his thoughts. Bucky might not have been on this specific mission, but he had been on enough similar ones with their requisite forms to know what kind of verbiage the admin team needed to see. Several of the forms and questions were repetitive, which made it easier for Bucky to churn out the answers; it wasn’t long before the stack was finished.
Bucky knelt beside the bed and reached out to rest his left hand across Clint’s forehead. Clint arched into the cool touch, craving how it helped soothe the remaining pain.
“All done, doll. I’ll get this couriered over. You try to get some sleep.” Clint angled his head from one side to the other to let Bucky slip the BTEs off.
“You’re too good to me,” Clint sighed out and nestled himself back into the pillows. He was asleep before Bucky left the room.