Clint came back from the bathroom rubbing his eyes against the dawn, hoping for another couple hours of sleep before the awkwardness of the morning after, and then froze, his hand dropping from his face.
Bucky lay in his bed, sheets shoved down to his waist from when Clint had got up, metal arm raised to shield his face from the light coming in the window. His expression didn’t look restful, exactly, but compared to the tense alertness there almost all the time when he was properly awake, Clint would take it. And his right hand was stretched across the bed toward Clint as if in invitation.
Clint remembered Bucky’s faint questioning stir as he’d left the bed, and approached as quietly as he could, wanting—well, wanting a lot of things, honestly, but feeling like he should let Bucky sleep, let him stay here, warm and comfortable and relaxed, for as long as possible.
He got into bed, carefully pulling the sheet away so he could press up against Bucky’s skin, and as soon as he lay down Bucky curled into him, away from the light, hiding his face against Clint’s shoulder.
Fuck, Clint thought, automatically wrapping his arm around Bucky to encourage him to cuddle in, because these were not awkward morning after feelings in his chest right now.