Chapter Text
The clerk doesn't seem to believe them when Clint and Bucky swear, under oath, that they are not intoxicated. This is fair, given that Clint and Bucky are intoxicated a lot.
First it was pot. They always start with pot. The gateway drug. Clint laughs, which makes Bucky laugh, which makes Clint's heart sing, because Bucky's laugh is beautiful.
Second was the "chill stuff." To Clint, "chill stuff" consisted of minor hallucinogens (ecstasy, certain kinds of mushroom, MDMA) and basic prescriptions, like Xanax. If a suburban mom or her burnt-out gifted kid would do it with a little peer pressure, it was "chill stuff."
The chill stuff was only dangerous when it made Clint decide it was a good idea to do the "not chill stuff," like coke.
"Let's get married," Bucky had said in the bathroom of Vegas's slimiest gay bar. He'd been sorting cocaine into lines with his AmEx Black at the time.
"Aw, man," Clint had said, touching Bucky's fingers. "I've only got gold."
Bucky had smirked, bitten his lip with that Broadway-boy charm of his, and snorted a line. Then he'd passed the cut-up straw that they'd gotten from McDonald's to Clint.
"Let's get married," Bucky had said again.
"Alright, bet," Clint had said, bending down.
After the "not chill stuff," they circled back to beer and pot. It was only civilized.
It was, after all, their goddamn wedding day.