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“I’m gonna get it this time,” says Bucky, steel in his voice and steadiness in his hand.
“Mm-hmm,” agrees Clint on the other side of the counter.
“Knock that off, I will.”
Clint swallows. “I’m not doubting you, babe.”
“Fuck off,” grumbles Bucky. “You’re waiting for me to fuck it up again.”
“Babe. I’m hurt. I’m genuinely hurt here. You want this, I want this for you, this is a win-win situation here. No one’s rooting against you.”
Bucky just grunts, and carefully, carefully, pours the frothed milk into the cup.
It’s beautiful.
It’s perfect.
It’s absolutely going to be the best heart-shaped milk pour on a latte that anyone has ever done in the history of—
COUGH.
Bucky jumps.
The smooth line of milk from pitcher to cup jerks, straight through the heart like an arrow, forming a puddle on the counter top.
“Sorry,” says Clint, unrepentant.
“I hate you. I hate you so much.”
“I know,” says Clint, as Bucky slides the cup with the ruined design across the counter towards him. “You’ll get it, though.”
“Uh-huh,” says Bucky, suspicious, and goes to start brewing a sixth cup.
Clint settles back to watch, sipping his perfect-not-perfect latte happily.