Pietro and Wanda Rogers worked like little machines.
Eating, crying, pouting, screaming, loud, seven year old little twin machines that like to wake up nearly every weekday morning at precisely three minutes to five and wake their daddies up.
"Dad? Papa?" Pietro tiny voice rings out in his parent's quiet bedroom, staring at their sleeping bodies with great confusion as to why they're not up yet.
"Can I have some breakfast?" He asks sweetly, yet neglects to use a "please."
"Honey, don't move," Steve grumbles below his breath to his very awake husband lying on the other side of the bed, trying to salvage whatever few second he has of being in bed left.
Before he can get an answer, Wanda, the younger of the twins, pounces out of nowhere right on top of Bucky and Steve, knees first.
"Daddy! Papa! Wake up! We're hungry!" She shrieks, much too energetic for four fifty-seven in the morning. "I love you!"
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