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Summary
Bucky starts to believe in a vengeful god on May the twelfth, year of our Lord two thousand and fucking eighteen, because that’s the day he makes fun of Clint Barton for carrying around a dainty little packetful of tissues in his pocket and honking into them like a congested donkey every fifteen minutes. “Fucking polleb,” Clint swears, wiping at his watering eyes. “Fucking claritin. Fucking zyrtec. Fucking bastards, all of dem.”
“What’s happened to your pokeymen now?” Bucky asks distractedly, not looking away from where Natasha is very slowly setting the last Joker on her vast, exquisitely balanced house of cards.
“Dat’s not - dey’re not pokémon,” Clint says, aggrieved. “Dey’re drugs. And dey don’t work for me.”