Clint floats up from dreaming to the gentle tugging of fingers through his hair and he smiles before he’s even conscious of it, wakes up with it already on his face. He’s draped over Bucky, one of his legs hanging off the couch and the other nestled warmly between Bucky’s thighs, his face resting against the warmth of Bucky’s chest and stubble burn on his forehead.
“Hey, I love you,” he slurs, inelegant because he refuses to moves his head enough to articulate, makes a pathetic protesting noise when Bucky’s fingers still in his hair.
“You still dreaming, sweetheart?” he asks, all soft and low, and Clint turns his head just enough to press a kiss against the soft skin of Bucky’s throat.
“No,” he says, decisive, sure, and he levers himself up just enough to watch the slow dawn of a smile on Bucky’s tired face.