Clint comes in whistling, kicks his shoes off by the door, drops his jacket on the back of the couch and comes into the kitchen, wrapping his arms around Bucky so that the posy of flowers he holds presses damp into his stomach. He holds Bucky tight and squeezes him close, and Bucky can feel him smile against the side of his neck.
“Hey, love,” Clint says, and the gentle wash of warm breath against Bucky’s neck makes him shiver. “Happy anniversary.”
“You remembered?” he asks, and Clint slides around him, forcing him to lift his arm so Clint can squeeze between him and the sink.
“I put sticky notes on my tablet,” Clint tells him, “and on the bathroom mirror for before you got up. I got Sam and Steve and Tasha and Kate to send me texts every couple hours. I wrote it on the back of my hand,” he says, and shows Bucky the huge plaster with ‘ry’ just about visible beside it.
“And you still forgot,” Bucky says, and Clint’s shoulders kinda slump.
“Yeah, still forgot. I came in and saw the table and ran straight back out again, I didn’t think you saw.”
“You confused the fuck outta the dog,” Bucky says, and Clint sighs and hands him the flowers, signing sorry just as soon as his hands are free.
Bucky gently touches one of the beautiful petals, stroking his finger over its softness and feeling his heart grow a little.
“You didn’t get these at a gas station, sweetheart,” he says, and Clint shrugs.
“They didn’t have your favourite.”
Bucky grabs Clint’s hand, pulls it up so he can brush his lips against Clint’s palm.
theproblemwithstardust 