continued ( x ) // @unforgivened
He stares at Bruce’s profile and Clint doesn’t answer right away.
The tension that rides in his shoulders looks like he’s bracing for impact, even as he faces the horizon instead of the marksman. Clint doesn’t shy away. It’s like Bruce thinks the bleeding light from the sun into stars is safer than his gaze. Like distance might soften what he deems to be the truth.
Clint steps closer anyway.
He slides into his space until he’s slotted behind Bruce, arms curling around his waist, bleeding warmth instead of the chill that seeps from him like moonlight. He finds Bruce’s forearm first, fingers curling around thick muscle from behind. The archer presses the broad of his chest against Bruce’s back.
“Hey,” his voice a rasp. It’s stripped of bite and bravado. “I didn’t say I had infinite time. Jus’ that I’d make time, y’know? For you. I’ll make time.” Clint noses at Bruce’s jaw from behind.
“You keep warnin’ me like disappointment is gonna scare me off. Like I didn’t grow up disappointin’ people for sport,” he breathes soft. Heartbeat a steady rhythm against Bruce’s back. “Don’t need endless time.” Clint squeezes his waist, his forearm. “Jus’ don’t… don’t do that. Don’t decide for me what’s worth spendin’ n' where." Clint’s solid behind him like an anchor, muttering low. He presses a kiss to Bruce's jaw. Â
“Don’t— don’t shut me out.” Clint says it so raw, so soft. It’s a voice he uses when talking to someone bleeding in a way he can’t stitch. He holds on snug, hiding his vulnerability behind Gotham's protector. "Shut up n' let me be here."
