"Moist and pretty," Clint said dreamily. "That's all I ever wanted in life." He didn't smile, exactly, as Bucky stroked his cat-cow, but a few of the worry lines around his mouth seemed to lighten a little as he watched her purring beneath the metal hand. She was doing just what she was supposed to for him. Clint's eyes wandered over to the dog curled up snugly in his pile of blankets, watching. Maybe Steve had thought Trouble would do the same for him.
"I might take you up on that, except I'm pretty sure Steve will never let me near his laundry room ever again. Plus, the idea of standing up seems pretty overrated right now." All of that, the physical stuff, that would pass soon, Clint hoped. It had been worse the first few days, headache and nausea, a spat of dizziness, but this, he knew, was a different. More psychosomatic than genuinely physical, though at least he knew how to fight this better. An air of exhaustion hung around him, his limbs too heavy to carry, his brain full of cotton.
He shut his eyes, one hand reaching up to stroke Moo' s ears. "She knows. She just doesn't believe me." He'd never said that out loud before, and the weight of it hit him like the force of a fall. But he didn't let himself dwell on it. Not right now.
"I'd give you advice," Clint said, "But I don't have anything good to tell you. 'Cept that he's not flawless. He clearly doesn't know the difference between a cat and a cow."