Clint stirs when his weight shifts the mattress. He’s not got his ears in, ‘cos Bucky is home and –
Shit.
Home.
– and sometimes Clint deserves a damned night off.
“She up?” Clint mumbles, without quite opening his eyes, and Bucky can still smell baby powder and faintly sour milk, can still feel her helpless, trusting weight against his chest and he never, he never thought he’d have this, Jesus.
“No,” he says, like he’s not dying of it, like he’s not living for the first fucking time. How the hell do people – how can they feel this much and not –
“Mmkay,” Clint says, already drifting off, and Bucky rocks forward to kiss him on the cheek, trying to keep his breath steady against Clint’s cheek.
Like i’ve been saying for the past weeks I’m considering making some merch of some of my drawings! >w< ❤ If i get enough response I’m planing on having 3 charms, some post cards and stickers! ❤ can’t wait!!
theproblemwithstardust 