When the fine strands of Lucky’s fur start to run over with ice, Bucky pushes him out from under the blankets. “No,” he says, and then louder, sterner. “No.”
There’s nothing he can do. It’ll take him soon enough. He doesn’t want any of the cold in Lucky. Doesn’t want him to freeze over, too.
He crawls out from under the blankets and herds Lucky out of the room, using his knees to push him until he can slam the door shut between them. When he makes it back to the bed, he doesn’t bother with the blankets. There’s nothing to be done.
He breathes in, and it’s in his lungs, freezing and cold and still, and he slips away, but he isn’t warm enough to dream.
- -
He wakes up in bed, covered by blankets. Clint’s asleep next to him, sleeping on top of the sheets but tipped toward Bucky, his hand resting over Bucky’s chest, palm right above his beating heart. Bucky can feel warmth radiating through him from Clint’s fingertips. It feels like his heart is pumping pure sunshine through his veins.
#clint looks way too much like jensen ackles it's actively pissing me off#this is what i get for being new at this and tracing bitches#anyways this fic makes me believe in love#it's an absolute fucking banger go read it if you haven't#i'll stop singing thepartyresponsible's praises when i'm dead#clint barton#bucky barnes#lucky barton#pizza dog#starving for the light#thepartyresponsible#art#winterhawk
