Sophie walks upstairs softly, so Nate knows there is at least one person sleeping on his furniture. With that in mind, Nate greets his grifter quietly. She smiles and comes around the table so she can peer over his shoulder.
He already has details for the next job spread out, papers organized in meaningful rainbows and grids of information. There's half a dozen ideas running through his head, but he pauses them to feel the soft puff of breath thread through his hair and smell the perfume Sophie just bought. It's different than anything else she's tried before, which means she's going through another phase of discovering herself.
"Nate," Sophie murmurs, "are you planning on starting this today?"
If Sophie says today, that must mean he's worked past midnight yet again. And today now is Sunday, which means Parker and Eliot can do some recon without the usual crowds and Hardison can research and hack into security – if they push, they can finish the job before next weekend.
"Yep," he says.
In Nate's periphery, Sophie's hand twitches. "It's been a hard couple weeks," she says. There's a warning in her voice, and he turns to face her. She stays leaning against the desk, and now Nate can see the hand propped against her hip – the posture she adopts when Sophie argues with him about something important.
"Sophie?" he asks.
She looks him over, and he keeps still wondering what she could possibly find wrong with him planning their next job. But she's not speaking, so Nate hazards a guess. "If you're worried about our mysterious blackmailer, I haven't forgotten. Damien Munroe – "
Sophie's sigh cuts him off, because it's not a theatrical attention-grabbing one. It's a you don't get it one, soft enough to almost overlook. She touches his arm, urging him to stand up. "Come on. I want you to see something."
The plans can wait; it's time to deal with what it is bothering his grifter.
She leads him halfway down the staircase, where the entire first floor of the apartment is visible.
"Look," she whispers, barely loud enough to hear.
Hardison is sprawled in front of his computers, legs cocked at opposite angles. One arm is bent beneath his cheek, and Nate can imagine the slow regression that led to it: head balanced on fist, forearm, then elbow before Hardison succumbed to sleep. His free hand still cradles the mouse Hardison favors when he's too tired to type and prefers the slow hypnotic click-click, click-click sound.
Across from Hardison's bench is Parker, curled up in an armchair. She's folded herself up, arms and legs neatly tucked away, but her hair is loose and flutters in her face with every slow breath. She sleeps with loose hair, Nate knows, because the smell of her shampoo is soothing and something foster parents can't take away.
Between the two is Eliot, stretched out on the couch with two melted ice packs wedged next to him. One, Nate thinks, must have slipped off his chest. His breaths are deep and even, with a small hitch every exhale that means he's truly asleep and not just dozing or meditating.
Nate can see the deep circles around all of their eyes, the unnatural heaviness of their sleep that means they're exhausted. Sophie rests a hand on his elbow. "I think the job can wait one day."
Softly, Nate agrees.