"Clint, wake up."
"Mmgrph."
"Clint, you gotta get up."
"I don't wanna."
"Clinton Barton, if you do not wake up in three seconds I will call Natasha in here and make her get you up."
"But-"
"One."
Clint had never gotten up faster in his life.
Pietro smiled and walked over to him, wrapping his arms around his waist from behind, feeling the muscles on his back ripple as he yawned and stretched. He let his hands wander, tracing every outline, every crevice and canyon that made Clint, well, Clint.
He smelled heavenly.
Clint muttered out something incomprehensible. "What?" Pietro asked, half paying attention and half letting himself become enraptured with the archer's being. He still had sleep in his eyes, and he was bent over a little, his face scratchy with stubble from a week ago. Purple moons danced on his cheeks, showing many a restless night given to nightmares and tragedy. The night before had been no exception.
Pietro had slowly awoken to a faint siren. It wailed, buzzing in his ears as he sat up and cleared his head. Then, he realized it wasn't a siren. It was Clint, sitting stock still, yelling at the top of his lungs. He was covered in sweat, and his breathing was short, as though he couldn't get enough air in. He was writhing, his legs moving wildly to gain purchase on whatever ground he was trying to find. Pietro's name would be uttered between the howls every so often.
Pietro had jumped up, ran to the bathroom, grabbed a glass of water, and poured a little into Clint's mouth. He shut it long enough for him to swallow, and when he opened his mouth again, he seemed more relaxed. He was still tense, however, like he would start screaming again any moment. Pietro dribbled a little more into his mouth and Clint finally slipped back into his own world.
This happened nearly every night.
"I want cosmee," he whined, his mouth working to function properly.
"Try again."
"Crawfish."
"One more time."
Clint blinked slowly and just began moving forward towards the kitchen. He fumbled down the hall with Pietro still attached to his hips before shaking him off to begin his morning ritual. It was almost religious, the way he did things during the early hours.
Cup, filter, coffee grounds, water, coffee machine, all done in less than 2 minutes, with a splash of cream and sugar. Without this, he wouldn't make it till noon, let alone through the day.
As Clint was pouring his drink, he realized he wasn't pouring the coffee into anything anymore. He was just... spilling it all over the counter. He looked up and saw Pietro sipping from his mug, a sly look on his face.
Clint didn't have time for this.
The archer casually strolled over, taking the pot with him and curling up beside his bf while taking a long swig. It was bitter, and it had a sting to it, but it would suffice. Whenever he tried to take a sip from Pietro's cup, he would be found laying on the couch, the runner across the room with his hands clasped tightly around it.
"So will you finally tell me why you have awoken me at such an ungodly hour?" Clint asked, voice legible, some of his strength starting to come back. He scratched his stomach, doodling little pictures with his nail across his abs.
Pietro tried his best not to spill his coffee down the front of his shirt.
A sudden crash came from the doorframe and in burst Tony, shouting something about presents and holding a shot glass in his hand and sliding it down to Pietro. Before he could reach it, Clint bolted to pick it up and downed the Scotch in one gulp. His eyes widened, and he was suddenly awake.
