A Saviour At Last (Hawksilver/Marvel AU)

14

A couple of weeks had passed since Pietro and Clint had visited the Roger-Stark household and things seemed good. Really good. 

Pietro had treated himself to an A4 sketch pad and a pack or two of pencils, both coloured and not coloured. Though he didn't think of himself as a particularly talented drawer, he realised that it had been a good outlet and decided to start using it as a form of therapy. It calmed him down and relaxed him, especially on those nights where he couldn't seem to sleep for more than five minutes before he woke up again with a feeling of dread and fear like a blackhole twisting his insides. 

He drew whatever he thought up at the time, or even just doodled around the pages to practise a little and relax his mind. It worked wonders and most of the time he managed to sleep a few hours later.

He never showed his drawings to Clint, not because he wanted to hide them but because he felt as if there was nothing worth showing. Clint asked, and sometimes tried to peer at whatever Pietro was drawing but the Sokovian often playfully scolded him and then hid the book away. 

Pietro had grown much more comfortable with the physical side of their relationship at this point. He felt happier in his body, his bones stuck out less and he felt more at ease letting Clint cuddle up against him without the fear of the feeling of his spine scaring the blond away. He initiated touches more often; Clint had teased him, comparing him to a cat who constantly tried to get attention without outright asking for it. Pietro could only agree with his boyfriend as he sprawled across his lap, holding the other's hand to his chest as he silently begged for another kiss.

It was one of those nights where Pietro felt restless in his sleep, images and thoughts flying through his head too fast for his brain to try and settle. 

With a sigh of resignation, the brunette sat up in the dark of their bedroom. He reached over blindly to the bedside table, locating the lamp switch by muscle memory as he flicked it. The lamp was covered with a dark lampshade, so it was dull enough to not wake up Clint but bright enough on Pietro's side so that he could see what he was doing. He opened up the drawer next to him, feeling Lucky lift her head up at the noise of the wood gently scraping together before settling back down again after realising it was nothing interesting. Pietro smiled at the dog and pulled out his drawing pad and a single pencil. He quickly checked the nib, making sure it was to his satisfaction before he began to draw away. He could see the bright red numbers of the clock taunt him from the corner of his burning eyes, barely recognising the time. He saw a 2 and that was enough for him to not want to look any longer. 

He had been attempting to draw Lucky. It wasn't anything spectacular, it was cartoonish really. A simple drawing of her sat innocently, a little halo and a pair of wings attached to her. Pietro almost laughed to himself as he thought of that particular little detail and shook his head to himself. It always amused him how differently he viewed the old dog compared to when he first came here. He almost felt bad for how much he disliked the dog in the beginning. 

He wasn't aware of how much time had passed while he had been drawing. Even as his eyes began to droop, begging him to sleep and let his tired brain rest, he refused in order to finish his silly drawing. He wanted to make sure he was utterly tired, too tired for his thoughts to keep him awake. This was a routine he had gotten himself in to and he knew that if he tried to fall asleep and he couldn't he would end up doing another drawing and the cycle would repeat.

He was approaching finishing with his drawing and he felt almost drained enough to sleep through what little he had left of the night. He was almost ready to close his book up for the night when he felt Clint shuffle beside him in the bed. 

Turning his head Pietro expected to just see the man shuffling in his sleep like he did some nights. Pietro would never admit to the number of times he had stopped drawing during nights like these and just watched Clint sleep, but he enjoyed doing it so he didn't care.