Clint | Natasha

SUN 7 JUNE

Pietro barely touches his food.

He pokes at the dumplings, but only stuffs two or three into his mouth. Clint's not much better, though his lack of appetite is probably for a different reason. He can't seem to drag his eyes away from Pietro's face. The bruises, the nasty looking scrapes, all of it. It's not exactly pretty.

It's rude to stare, he knows. And ridiculous, too, since he was the one that helped clean Pietro up. He saw all of it first-hand, yet, looking at it now underneath the dim light of the kitchen, it feels like he's looking at it for the first time. It feels like he's crossing the threshold into the apartment and watching it play out all over again: Pietro, with a bag of frozen peas pressed to his eye, and a fat, bloodied lip.

One of Clint's hands curls around his knee tightly, and he tells himself it's not to stop himself from shaking, but it is, it is.

He shifts his gaze from Pietro to Wanda, who is picking at her plate disinterestedly as well. They share a look (well, at least Clint thinks it's a look, the kind where she's trying to silently convey that she's still worried sick about her brother, as is Clint) and then Pietro glances up, a frown already set in place as he catches them exchanging looks.

"What is it?" he asks, setting his chopsticks down on the table. "Is there something on my face?"

"Yeah, you got a little something here." Clint says, teasing, and gestures to the spot on his own mouth. "Oh, almost. Just a little more to the left and then-oh, shit. Did I say left? I meant right. sorry. I'm always getting those mixed up. Here," he offers, reaching across the table.

It's easy enough to do, since the table is a tiny little thing positioned in the middle of the room. Clint wipes at the corner of Pietro's mouth with his napkin, and there's actually something there, this time. He doesn't realize until he's dabbing at the spot that it's a fleck of dried blood.

"There was nothing on your face, brother." Wanda says, smiling thinly. "Well, there is now. Though I don't know what it is."

"It has a name." Pietro replies.

"Mhmm. It does have a name." Clint nods, leaning back in his chair. He folds his napkin up and sets it off to the side. "Wait, what was my name again? My old age makes me get all forgetful. That's why I keep you around, to remind me."

Pietro shakes his head and makes a tsk sound against his teeth. "Old man."

"Ah." Clint says, in between sips of water. "That's right. You gonna eat all of those?" he asks, gesturing towards Pietro's plate. There's a small mountain of dumplings, untouched. He wants Pietro to finish them himself, yet he's barely had all that much since they sat down.

"I might." he shrugs.

"You will." Wanda corrects. "You're wasting away, brother. You need to eat. It will help you feel better."

Pietro grimaces and slumps lower in his chair. He plays with the chopsticks, pushes the food around his plate, but doesn't make an actual attempt to eat any of it. "Nisam jako gladan." he says, somewhat sharply, eyes downcast. He won't look at either of them. "Clint može ga imati."

And sure, Clint doesn't speak their language, but he knows his name well enough by now to realize that whatever Pietro's talking about involves him. Clint swallows a large gulp of water, emptying the glass. He feels parched, throat too dry, lips cracked. Setting the glass back down on the table, Clint pretends to be super interested in a spot on the tablecloth.

Then, he feigns interest in his now empty glass of water, running his finger along the rim of the glass. A bead of condensation dribbles down the side of the glass and drops onto the table.

Clint catches a couple more mentions of his name, but he doesn't really know what they're saying, or how to keep up with it. Words are exchanged for what feels like a really long time, and when Clint tunes back in, it kind of feels like Pietro and Wanda are arguing, if Wanda's hushed tone and Pietro's sharp, heated words are anything to go off.

"Morate jesti više."

"Not hungry." Pietro says, and makes a point of actually shoving his plate across the table, away from himself and towards Clint. "Not eating it."

Wanda rises from the table abruptly, to fetch a pitcher of cold water out of the fridge. And this is the moment that Pietro has been waiting for, apparently, because less than three seconds after Wanda's gone, he leans across the table towards Clint and casts a furtive glance in Wanda's direction. The light casts dark shadows across his face. Makes everything look worse than it is.

Or maybe it's always been that bad, Clint can't decide.

"You said that I could do what I wanted. I think I-oh." he murmurs, eyes dropping to the column of Clint's throat, before flicking down to his exposed forearms. There's a slight furrow to his brow, as he looks Clint over. "Those are my clothes. I didn't realize you were wearing them."

"Yeah." Clint says, and shifts a little in his seat.

He might be reading into it too much, but it doesn't feel like Pietro's admiring his clothes. Clint's not a particularly vain man, not really (if you asked one of his friends, they might have a different opinion) but Clint knows that look. The once-over, lingering just a fraction too long on the parts of skin that aren't covered. It's a little distracting.

Ill-timed, too. Clint looks away. He lifts a hand to the back of his neck and scratches at the spot there idly, while waiting for Pietro to say something, anything, Clint doesn't care what. When their eyes meet, there's something mischievous in Pietro's, a look that Clint recognizes.

Pietro settles for a casual, "They suit you."

"Yeah? Well, it was either this, or something out of Wanda's wardrobe. I'm not sure I have the legs for a dress." Clint murmurs that last part quietly enough that maybe Pietro will miss it, but he doesn't. It draws a laugh out of the younger man and his eyes crinkle at the corners with amusement.

It nearly takes Clint's breath away.

He's always been a sucker for Pietro's smile. Always loved that sharp twist of lips, the smugness, all teeth and bright eyes and beautiful. This one is a little softer though, and less of a smirk. It's something unexpected. Clint reaches across the table and covers Pietro's hand with his own.

Smiling, he runs the pad of his thumb over Pietro's soft skin, brushing over it lightly - mindful of the bruises and scrapes.

"I've seen your legs." is all Pietro says.

"Have you? Well, then you know I definitely don't have the legs for a dress." Clint says and holds his other hand up when Pietro opens his mouth to argue. "This seriously isn't a conversation we're going to have right now. Or ever, actually. These tracks are just fine."

"Yes, they are." he agrees. "I think that I've had enough of this. That's what I was trying to say earlier, before I got distracted. I've had enough. You can pick at my leftovers, if you want. But I want to go to bed."

Clint's phone is somewhere on the table, he's sure of it. Once he finds it, he hits the home button and watches the screen light up. There are three missed calls, all from Natasha. Clint decides to deal with that much later. He's not exactly in the mood for party talk.

The clock reads: 9:21PM

"It's a little earlier than I usually go to bed." Clint murmurs, then looks up at Pietro. "But if you want to, we can."

"We?" Pietro asks, eyebrows raised.

"Yeah, well. Someone has to tuck you into bed. Read you a bedtime story. Check the closet for monsters." Clint says, gives Pietro's hand a final squeeze, then pulls away. He curls both hands over his knees, hidden underneath the tablecloth. "I'll crash on the couch. It doesn't look comfy, but all the best ones never do. At least it doesn't have plastic on it."

Pietro's expression is carefully neutral, again. "And you're sure that's where you would rather be?"

No, Clint thinks, but doesn't say that. He can't. He also can't look away, even if he wants to. It's such a shitty thought to have, but when he looks at Pietro, when he lingers on the dark bruises and bright red cuts, his chest tightens with guilt and he almost can't stand it.

Clint nods, jerky and unsure of himself. He's up and on his feet before he realizes what he's doing. Air. He needs air.

"I'll be fine. I've slept on worse."

"That's not what I asked." Pietro says, frowning.

He's half out of his seat, ready to follow Clint. To where, Clint doesn't know. To the ends of the Earth, maybe. Clint doesn't even know where he's going, so when Pietro asks, he comes up short and stammers something incoherent, before he thinks of an actual answer that involves real words.

Words. He's not exactly great with them.

Clint swipes his phone up off the table. "I just have to make a quick call." he says belatedly, and nearly bumps into Wanda on his way out of the kitchen. He can't quite meet Pietro's eyes as he leaves, his stomach all twisted up into knots.

There's no balcony so Clint heads for the closest exit: the apartment door. Leaving it slightly ajar behind him, Clint walks towards the stairway. The floor is cold beneath his bare feet, but not unwelcome. It's almost soothing. Clint nearly drops his phone down a flight of stairs when he stuffs it in his pocket, only to discover that these are Pietro's track pants and there aren't any pockets.

His iPhone hits the dusty floor with a definitive thud and lands dangerously close to the edge of the stairs. Clint bends at the knee to scoop it up, before rising to stand.

He checks for new messages, mostly out of habit. And, for a second, Clint half expects to find a new text from Pietro, or a silly Snapchat. It makes his heart sink a little when he looks over their message history from before. He skims over the last couple of hours. Then, Clint remembers Natasha's missed call notifications.

It's so unlike her that it startles Clint. Then again, it's Natasha, who sometimes has a flair for the dramatic. Not that Clint would ever say that to her face. Or at all, actually, because she has little spies everywhere, he's sure of it.

According to Natasha, he's supposed to call her back immediately, because that's how their friendship works. Except it doesn't, and Clint's never been that great at returning calls, or replying to texts. When he drops off the grid, he's gone. He goes radio silent.

[9:25PM]:

What's wrong?

[9:26PM]:

Just know that if it's about my birthday or anything Stark related, I'm not in the mood. Really not.

[9:28PM]:

I spoke with Steve.

[9:30PM]:

So?

[9:32PM]:

so don't do anything stupid. actually, I should probably be a little more specific. you tend to do stupid things even if you know they're stupid. just don't do this thing, Clint. don't look for these people. let Steve and the police do their job.

[9:35PM]:

Yeah? Well, I was an officer, once upon a time. I think I know what I'm doing.

[9:36PM]:

you were also a carnie, Clint.

[9:38PM]:

don't let your feelings cloud your judgment.

[9:41PM]:

They're not. I know what I have to do.

[9:43PM]:

oh?

[9:45PM]:

You haven't seen him. I have to do something.

[9:47PM]:

this won't undo anything, Clint. you of all people should know that by now.

[9:50PM]:

I have to go. We'll talk later.

Clint switches his phone off, then slips it in between the waistband of his pants and his hip. He grips the wooden staircase railing until his knuckles turn bone-white from the force of it, protruding angrily against the skin. Sucking in a sharp breath, Clint turns away and makes a beeline for the apartment door. His chest feels heavier with each step he takes.

At least he isn't running away.

There's no sign of Pietro, only a mostly untouched meal and a half empty glass of something blue. Wanda's still there, picking at leftovers and sipping on a glass of wine. She barely glances up at Clint as he steps further into the kitchen.

He peers down the hallway and into the darkness. A thin crack of light is visible from underneath Pietro's door. Clint considers following it. Instead, he sits down at the table opposite Wanda, taking the exact same seat he'd been in earlier. It's a lot quieter now, Clint notices.

Like all of the air and life has been sucked out of the room, now that Pietro's gone. And that seems fairly accurate, actually. Pietro's got so much life in him that it sometimes seems like he's bursting at the seams.

Sighing, Clint fishes out his phone and drops it onto the table. He scrubs both hands over his face tiredly. "He went to bed?"

Wanda answers that with a nod, then a thin purse of lips. She swirls the wine around in her glass. Probably for lack of something better to do. Clint peeks at her through the cracks of his fingers and watches the dark liquid go around and around, strangely transfixed.

He's quietly craving something alcoholic.

"You wanna call it a night, sweetheart?" he asks, dropping both hands into his lap. "It's been a big day, for both of you. Might be better to put that glass down and get some shut-eye. I don't mind staying up. I'm used to late nights, so I'll keep watch."

"I don't think I could sleep." she answers.

"Might as well give it a shot."

Wanda's fingers curl around the stem of the wine glass tightly. "He won't eat. Won't sleep either, I think. How am I supposed to, knowing that he can't?"

And that, Clint gets. He really does. Unsure of whether he should try to comfort her or not, Clint ends up setting a hand on her shoulder, a brief touch. It lightens the corners of her dark eyes, at least. Makes her mouth curve into something that might've once grown into a proper smile, but just not tonight.

"There's nothing you can do for him right now." Clint says. "Yeah, you want to find those assholes and kick their teeth in, I get it. So do I. Hell, if we teamed up, we'd have a better shot at getting it done. But for tonight, we stay here. Sleep, heal, rest. Regroup in the morning. See where everybody's at."

Wanda narrows her eyes a little, like she's not sure whether she should trust in his words, in him. "You will watch over my brother? Make sure he doesn't hurt himself, somehow. He's good at that."

"Yeah, I will. Of course I will." Clint assures. "There's not much I wouldn't do for him."

"And I think there is very little he wouldn't do for you." Wanda says. She sips on her wine, before offering the glass to Clint. He accepts it warily; beer has always been more to his liking than wine. That, and whisky.

Unable to help himself, he asks: "Got any whisky?"

"No, only wine and vodka." she shakes her head, still watching him in that way of hers, so knowing and wise, even for how young she is. "I think I would prefer you to be sober if you're watching over Pietro. Still, I thought this might help you. Only a sip."

Clint lifts the rim of the glass up higher to his nose and sniffs at the wine. It doesn't smell too bad, he has to admit.

"Might take the edge off, I guess." he says, then tips the glass back and swallows a mouthful. It's sweet, but not sickening. Clint finds that he doesn't mind it all that much. "Not bad. I could still really use some whisky right about now, or a beer. What a day."

"Yes." Wanda agrees, nodding. "It was quite a day."

She accepts the glass back from Clint and downs the rest of it in two sips. Rising from the chair, she moves to leave, her hand brushing over Clint's shoulder as she passes him. Then, her lips on his forehead, a goodnight kiss. Clint doesn't have a sister (Natasha is the closest thing he's ever had to one) but if he did, then he'd want her to be just like Wanda, who is as fierce as she is kind.

"Go to bed, sweetheart. Everything will feel a lot better in the morning." he says, another promise he can't keep.

Wanda doesn't seem to mind. "Look after him. He's the only family I have left." she pauses, visibly torn. "Perhaps I could have more, one day. More family to come home to. Perhaps that family could be you."

"Yeah? You always wanted another big brother?"

"He's twelve minutes older." Wanda says, sighing. There's a smile dancing on her lips that makes Clint feel a little bit better about, well, all of it. "Not twelve years. He's not that much older."

"Oh, don't worry, I'll just take care of the dishes." he calls out after her, but Wanda just gestures for him to shhh, one finger pressed over her lips as she disappears down the hallway. "It's not like I don't even live here or anything." he adds, muttering the words underneath his breath, but he's already scraping dishes and disposing of the half-empty takeaway containers.

He stacks the dishwasher and gives the table a final wipe down, clearing off any leftover rubbish. There's a dirty dishrag slung over his shoulder that he keeps wiping his hands on, even though they're clean. Clint can't stop picturing Pietro's blood all over his skin.

In a fit of anger, he throws the rag into the sink, then grips the edge of the counter.

This isn't the first time he's felt like he might fall apart tonight, and he doubts it'll be the last. Clint focuses on his breathing: inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. He gathers himself up and slowly makes his way down the hallway, the floorboards creaking loudly beneath his feet.

He knocks, once. Twice. Pietro answers on the third.

Somehow, Pietro's room is just how Clint remembered it to be. Yet, different. It's all different now, he guesses. Clint's first thought is: it doesn't look any better, the bruises look worse. Pietro's dressed down, wearing a pair of navy blue satin boxers and-and, that's it. Clint's next thought, whatever it was, vanishes into thin air when the door swings open further.

He's not wearing anything else, just boxers. Clint pointedly averts his gaze, because seriously.

Then, Pietro sweeps a long arm out in front of him and gestures for Clint to step further inside the room. It's quite a dramatic sweep, and it makes Clint's mouth twitch at the corners, mildly amused. He steps closer, but doesn't cross the distance between them. As much as he might want to, it isn't his call to make.

Clint closes the door behind him and leans against it.

Sure, the bruising looks bad, but Clint's seen worse. He's even had worse. At least, that's what he tells himself. It's what he wants to tell Pietro, too, but it just doesn't seem appropriate. The last thing Pietro probably wants to hear right now is that he's lucky.

"Are you here to tuck me in?" Pietro asks, tilting his head to the side curiously. "I didn't think you meant it."

"I'm just checking in. Making sure everything's ok."

Clint glances over the bedroom, takes it all in: the candles, the color of the walls, everything he tried to commit to memory from the other side of a Skype call. He wants to remember as much as he can. That way, it'll feel a little more real, and a lot less like something he just made up in his head.

The room is messier than Clint remembers it being in the Skype calls. Clothes, sneakers and cat toys are scattered across the floor, but it isn't dirty. Just like the rest of the apartment, it's immaculately clean and Clint guesses that might be Wanda's doing. There's a gym bag on the floor in the middle of the room, unzipped to reveal a yoga mat, of all things.

That, he didn't see coming.

When he next looks up at Pietro, there's a sort of expectant look on his face. Clint's not sure what he's waiting for. Doesn't know what he wants out of Clint, or this situation. Still, he's willing to be whatever Pietro needs right now, even if that means gone.

"I noticed you didn't finish the rest of your dinner." Clint says quietly. "Not hungry?"

Pietro rolls his eyes. Of course he does. "You sound like Wanda. Is that why you're here, to lecture me?" he asks, and Clint sags against the door, deflated. "If so, then you can see yourself out. I ate what I felt like eating. That's all there is to say."

"Hey, slow down." Clint soothes, and holds his hands out in front of him in a way that he hopes is placating. "I'm not here for that."

"Then why are you here?"

"You really gotta ask? I thought we went over this, kid." he says, exhaling a sigh, a small puff of air. Clint pushes himself off the door and moves towards Pietro slowly, inching closer and closer, until he's just out of arms reach. "I'm here for you. Whatever that means. I'm here for any and all of it. The good and the bad."

"Well," Pietro begins, and wraps his arms tight around his middle in that same self-hug kind of stance that Wanda had fallen into earlier. "I think this is just bad. There's not so much good." he adds, scrunching up his nose. "It's not so good at all."

Clint's jaw clenches, when he skims over the dark bruises purpling across Pietro's chest and the small, jagged cuts. He doesn't know what he's supposed to say back to that, because sure, it's not good, but it could've been so much worse. Could've ended with Pietro dead, or in a hospital bed, and even though this isn't exactly a blessing, it's better than losing Pietro entirely.

He doesn't say that.

Love, he thinks.

Maybe that's what that feeling in his chest is (tight, all-consuming, desperate). Clint's filled with relief, knowing that Pietro's alive and he's breathing, not dead and cold and gone. Love, maybe. It's something, that much Clint knows. Something that makes Clint feel sick at the thought of not knowing Pietro, of not having him.

Clint shakes that thought away.

When he glances up, Pietro's gone, his back now facing Clint as he rifles through a set of drawers on the opposite side of the room. Clint edges closer hesitantly. The scar winding across Pietro's back is on display and Clint's not sure if he should look away.

It begins halfway down his back, along the curve of his spin. Faded, yet ugly and red, raw. Clint wonders if it hurts (he hopes it doesn't). It runs along the length of his ribs horizontally, then curves around his hip, dipping low and disappearing.

"Does it hurt?" Clint asks quietly, and he's closer now.

He can see the way that Pietro's muscles tense, can hear that sharp intake of breath as it catches in his throat. Clint's own scar hurts, sometimes. Granted it's nothing like that. It isn't narrow and jagged, and seemingly never-ending. It doesn't look like it's always been a part of him either.

"Sometimes." Pietro says, shoulders drawn into a taut line. "Do you want to know how it happened?"

There's something rigid and sharp about his stance, like Clint's dangerously close to crossing a line that just isn't meant to be crossed. Pietro throws a brief look back over his shoulder, barely meeting Clint's gaze, before he turns away.

"Only if you want to tell." comes Clint's belated reply.

He reaches out to gently touch the puckered edge of the scar with the tip of his finger, lightly grazing over the skin. Clint wouldn't blame Pietro if he didn't want to share, if he wanted something that was his and only his. Sometimes, there are stories better left untold, and he wonders if this will be one of them.

Still, Clint continues his tentative exploration. He traces his pointer finger along the scar, across Pietro's ribs, and wishes he could use his mouth and his lips instead of his hands, he wishes he could do something to make it better.

"I was ten."

"We don't have to do this, babe. I-"

Pietro sucks in a sharp breath, as Clint follows the scar, traces the curve as it dips down over Pietro's hipbone. He withdraws his hand abruptly, a dozen different apologies bubbling up in his throat, because it's not his scar or his story. Clint knows better than to poke and prod where it's not wanted.

"I was so worried about you." Pietro says, voice breaking over that last word. He jerks his shoulder forward, then pulls out a black t-shirt and drags it down over his head. "You fell and you hurt yourself, my silly old man. I thought that something bad might happen. Worse than falling and breaking bones, and there would be nothing I could do to stop it. Again."

"Again? Look, what happened to your parents-and what happened to me-it wasn't your fault. You have to believe that, kid, otherwise you'll-" Clint trails off, and moves to help Pietro into a pair of pants, but he smacks Clint's hand away.

It's a weak, half-hearted gesture. There's no real heat behind it, so Clint steps closer again and helps Pietro step into the Adidas track pants. He paints a grim picture, all dressed in black, one open-palmed hand pressed to his ribs, face all scrunched up in pain. Clint guides him over towards the bed.

Less than thirty seconds later, a giant cotton ball appears and launches itself at Pietro, landing on his lap.

Clint crouches in front of them, so that he's eye-level with the infamous Snowball. The blue-eyed kitten rubs against Clint's open hand, once, purring loudly. She trots across Pietro's thigh sweetly, inching closer towards Clint. He's a little too distracted to pay her all that much attention, too swept up in the hurt look written all over Pietro's face.

And maybe that's why she bites him.

Well, it's more of a nip.

Clint still pulls his hand away, mildly offended, but Pietro waves it off as a "love bite". Sure, it's full of love. Clint's probably imagining it, but Snowball looks almost smug as she curls up on the bed next to Pietro's thigh, her fuzzy question-mark shaped tail coiled up around her paws.

"I wish I knew what you were thinking." Clint says. "Thing is, sometimes I feel like I know. Like maybe I'm starting to finally get it. I'm usually pretty good at reading people, y'know." he adds, nodding along to himself. "But you? I can't get a read on you at the best of times. So this, well, it's throwing me off."

Pietro's expression gets all twisted up again, a grimace of pain, and it reminds Clint of how young he is. It's right there, written all across his face. He looks vulnerable, yet hardened, somehow. A sharp set to his jaw, a distant look in his glossy eyes. Clint lowers his head and presses a quick kiss to the outside of Pietro's left wrist, where it's draped over his knee.

"Tell me what you need. I'll go, if you want me to. I'll stay." Clint offers. "Whatever you need. Tell me to go. Tell me to shut the hell up. I didn't drive all the way over here just to make things worse, so don't let me."

"I need," Pietro pauses, lips drawn together thinly enough that all of the color drains from them. "I need you here. Earlier, when you took that call, I thought that you weren't coming back. That it was perhaps too much for you. Not just tonight, but all of it. Me."

"You're not getting rid of me that easy."

"Don't joke." a frown. A hand shoving at Clint's shoulder lightly. "Not about this."

Clint shakes his head, even though he gets it, he does. This, this doubt, this fear of being too much, too soon, is something that Clint's all too familiar with. "You really thought I'd leave? What, a couple bruises are supposed to scare me off?"

"Not just that." Pietro scowls. "All of it."

"A messy past isn't going to scare me off, if that's what you're worried about. God knows I've got one." Clint soothes. He shifts from his spot on the floor and moves so that he's sitting on the edge of the bed, next to Pietro.

Pietro's smile is small, at first. He ducks his head almost coyly, something that he rarely is. Always so cocksure and lippy. Clint always liked that about him (he still does). He likes that Pietro's bold, and cheeky. A little shit at times, sure, but Clint likes it even if he claims otherwise.

Slipping a finger under Pietro's chin, Clint tilts his head back carefully, wanting to see his eyes - and to make that smile grow, if he can. And if not, then he just wants to see Pietro, wants to feel like there's less distance between them.

"Like I said, you're not getting rid of me."

"Good." Pietro says, dropping his forehead down to Clint's shoulder. "I don't want to be rid of you."

"Then I guess I'm not going anywhere. Ever. You better make room for me, kid." Clint says, very matter-of-factly. "I like my coffee black, my bacon crispy, my eggs sunny side up, and my boyfriend-well, I like him just how he is."

Clint keeps an arm wound tight around Pietro's shoulder. He's not sure how long they stay like that, with Pietro tucked right up against his side, his head resting against the column of Clint's throat now. Pietro's breath comes in short, shallow bursts, until it slowly evens out. His eyes are shut and he almost looks peaceful.

Except that slight furrow in between his eyebrows that disrupts his otherwise smooth expression. His mouth twitches at the corners and he laughs, softly enough, at first, that Clint nearly misses it. He's glad that he doesn't, it's such a sweet sound.

"Something on my face?" Pietro asks.

"Nope." Clint says, and smacks his lips together. "I'm just looking. It's part of the whole relationship package, isn't it? I'm a little rusty, but I'm pretty sure that gazing at the other person while they're asleep is considered, y'know, nice. Romantic."

"This is less romantic while I'm still awake." Pietro teases. He cracks an eye open at Clint. "And I heard that it's rude to stare. Rude and creepy. I don't usually do this."

"Ouch." Clint says, mock offended. He puts one hand over his heart and winces. "And here I was, being such a good boyfriend."

"You don't have to stare," Pietro says, and nuzzles closer against Clint's side. Then, he pulls back with a sharp hiss, like he's only just remembering his injuries. It gives Clint pause, too. Pietro paws at his jaw, rubbing at the spot tenderly, and Clint reminds himself to be a little more gentle. "I already know how bad it looks." he grits out.

Clint keeps an arm wrapped loosely around the younger man's shoulders. "So now you suddenly give a shit about looks? Come on. I don't care how it looks and I know you don't either. Not really. Bruises heal. You're still you."

"I don't even know what that means."

"God, you're always fishing for compliments, aren't you? You're still you," Clint makes a vague gesture with the hand that isn't still slung around Pietro's shaking shoulders; it takes Clint a moment to process that he isn't crying, but laughing. "Yeah, yeah. You know you're not bad looking. You're still you, with the nice hair and the pretty blue eyes."

"And you're still you," Pietro says, smiling crookedly. "Always so patient, hmm? So patient." he ducks his head suddenly, leaning in closer, closer, then he presses his lips against Clint's in a chaste kiss, a brush of bruised lips against Clint's own.

"Yeah, well." Clint manages, once Pietro pulls away. "It's the least I can do. Patience. I can be that. The-I can be patient." he stammers. It only makes Pietro's smile grow. "Come on, you can't just kiss me and then expect me to, y'know. Think of actual words and stuff. I'm not so good at that. The whole word thing."

"The word thing?" Pietro repeats, unimpressed. "I don't know how people understand you." he adds, rising from the bed.

Snowball looks equally unimpressed at the sudden movement. The kitten stands up, too, as if to follow Pietro, but she ends up jumping off the side of the bed and disappearing somewhere underneath it. Clint wonders if she's the type of cat to scratch at ankles, or feet (he knew a cat just like that, once).

He decides to jump to his feet as well. Unsure of what to do with himself, Clint ends up scratching at the back of his neck again. It's a habit. One of his better ones, at least, since it doesn't involve booze.

"I can still take the couch." he offers.

Pietro shoots him a look, eyebrows pinched together. "Or you can stop fidgeting and get in bed?" he counters, and something amused sweeps over his face as he pulls back the covers: there's a duvet, that crimson colored blanket that Clint remembers from the Skype call, and plain blue bedsheets.

There's also a small mountain of pillows. Clint works on disassembling it, picking off the pillows one by one. He toys with the fringe on one of the frillier pillows, before dropping it onto the floor with the rest of them. Then, without further hesitation, Clint climbs into bed. It's strange, at first. Sliding underneath the covers of a bed that definitely isn't his. The mattress feels comfy though, so there's that.

"You're sure about this?" Clint asks, dragging the duvet up. It's not too cold, so he probably doesn't need the velvety-looking red blanket, but he pulls that up anyway. He shifts in the bed, tries to get comfy.

Clint's never had a problem with falling asleep in random places. Once he's out, he's out. Usually, he can fall asleep within minutes, but it doesn't feel like that kind of night. Pietro flicks the light off and the room is encased in darkness, except for the yellow-orange light that seeps in through the windows on the far side of the room; the glare of streetlights casts strange shadows across the floor.

"Idi na spavanje." Pietro sighs.

"Aw, come on." Clint pouts, just as the mattress dips beside him. The bed creaks underneath Pietro's weight. "That's so not fair. You know I don't understand you." he adds, and swears that he can hear the smile in Pietro's voice when he answers.

Of course, there's no real way of knowing. Not in the darkness of the room where Clint can only faintly make out the blurred lines of Pietro's shape. Clint has his suspicions confirmed though, when he hears Pietro laugh. It's more of an amused exhale of air, nothing too big and grand, but it still counts.

"Dobro." Pietro murmurs. "Ne želim da shvatiš."

"I-dobro. Dobro. What's that mean? Dobro. See, I'm getting the hang of this." he smirks. "Teach me? I'm a fast learner."

"Not tonight."

Clint doesn't answer that. Briefly, he considers curling up against Pietro's side, but decides against it.

Lying next to Pietro, shoulder-to-shoulder, is enough. They're both sprawled out flat on their backs, arms slack by their sides, like there's some sort of invisible line between them. It's probably not the best idea to get any closer - not with the way that Pietro's ribs are all banged up and tender. Clint seeks out Pietro's hand underneath the covers and tangles their fingers together tightly.

"Go to sleep." Pietro says quietly, fondly. He gives Clint's fingers a light squeeze. "I can hear you thinking. It will keep me awake."

Clint nods, realizes that Pietro can't actually see him, and huffs out something in between a sigh and a laugh. Then, he somehow manages to answer without stumbling over his words, or screwing up too majorly. He's known for that.

"I'll try. That's the most I can promise. But you," Clint pauses. "You need to sleep, sweetheart. So sleep. I'll be here when you wake up and we can decide what to do from there. I'll be here. Cross my heart and all that other mushy stuff."

Pietro's quiet for so long that Clint wonders if he's already fallen asleep. "Noć, ljubavi." he says, thickly accented.

Again, Clint's not really sure what it means (tomorrow, he'll ask, but not tonight). That doesn't stop him from replaying the words on loop in his head. It's the last thing he thinks of as he falls asleep, drifting off shortly after Pietro does. He's almost out when he feels a slight dip in the mattress. Then, tiny little paws across the blanket. Then, nothing.

Ljubavi.

Clint falls asleep under the bright glow of yellow-orange streetlights, his fingers still wound tightly with Pietro's.

A/N: I had to fight this chapter every single step of the way.

Also, I saw CA:CW and everything hurts. I was hit with very unexpected Clint Barton feelings, so now I'm kind of in the middle of writing a CA:CW fic with lots of Hawksilver-y goodness.

Translations:

Nisam jako gladan: I'm not very hungry.
Clint može ga imati: Clint can have it.
Morate jesti više: You need to eat more.
Idi na spavanje: Go to sleep.
Dobro: Good.
Ne želim da shvatiš: I do not want you to understand.
Noć, ljubavi: Night, love.