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Surveillance
Clint is amazed-and, to be honest, a little bit jealous-that so many of his teammates seem capable of just dropping off to sleep wherever they land. He can't do that. Years of training won't let him do that, and as he compulsively checks the perimeter one last time, I swear, Tasha, I will go to bed before the sun comes up, I promise, he's not really surprised to find Bruce zonked out on the couch. For all that he's a terribly small man during the day, letting the world force him into the mold it fears the least, when he sleeps, Bruce is expansive, a starfish on his back with arms and legs spread wide, taking up all of the space he won't use during the day. There's a bluntness to his jaw, a growl to the soft, puffing breath, and Clint sees all the myriad ways Bruce and the Other Guy share a single space so peacefully when neither is fighting the other.
One last trip through the building, then, before he goes to sleep. His footfalls are nearly silent on the plush carpet as he pads down the hall; Stark's personal elevator hums with quiet efficiency, and JARVIS releases the lock on the penthouse door without a word. Tony's sound asleep at his work table, a melted scotch and water that looks like it's mostly water leaving rings on the expensive furniture. He's face down, one arm cushioning his cheek from the hard surface. There's a smudge of blue chalk on his face; graphite, too. His other hand is looped behind his own neck, shielding the arc reactor's glow in the crook of an elbow. He looks like he's comforting himself, hugging one-handed, but Clint knows the barest skeleton of the story, and as he leaves, he tugs on the door to make sure JARVIS has locked it tight.
Working his way down from the top of the building, Clint's next stop is Thor. Clint almost decides not to check on him-the others may have decided to trust Thor's piss ant little brother, may have let him move in where they can keep an eye on him, but Clint remembers too well the feeling of ice crystals forming in his heart and shooting through his veins like blood-but his loathing is all the more reason to check and make sure Loki's not killed him in his sleep. There's a rune on the door now, drawn glowing blue, but the knob doesn't resist under his hand. Inside, Thor and Loki are curled on the bed, but to say they're together is to stretch the word. Loki is curled on his side, turned away from the door and Thor, who clutches at the pillow between them. Thor's fingers brush the ends of Loki's hair, and even in his sleep, Loki pulls away, pressing his face into the wall. His forehead and cheeks look blue in the dark, but the skin under Thor's hand is flushed with warmth.
Clint backs out, satisfied that the Norse gods are sleeping, or at least that neither has killed the other, and ducks down the hall. Steve's rooms are on the next floor, and it's always disorienting when Clint goes in, like stepping through a time warp. Cap's awake when he enters, and he has the good grace to look chagrined, even if Cap doesn't seem to mind. He's lying on his side in the bed, board-straight and awake, listening to the Andrews Sisters sing quietly on the old-fashioned radio in front of him. The bed is narrow, narrower than a man with Cap's shoulders should have, and even when Clint sits down next to him, Steve stares hard at the wall. He's not asleep; he's tired of sleep; he can't sleep; won't. Clint touches his shoulder and Steve starts, but he doesn't say anything as Clint hums and reaches over to turn off the music. Steve slowly sags into the bed as Clint sits there, patting his hair. When Steve's breath evens out, Clint stands and makes his way to the door. Cap's not asleep, but his mind is turned off, and that's almost as good.
Then Tasha, and Clint knows better than to try to come in the front door. He gives a soft grunt as he lifts himself into the ventilation ducts; he may not actually like traveling through the ceilings, but it's dangerous to try to approach Tasha when she's sleeping, and he's only doing surveillance, anyway. He's over her bed, peering down at her where she lays, curled in on herself with her knees tucked beneath her chin, her hair fanned against the spartan pillow like a red banner when she cracks open an eye and rolls over. Their eyes meet through the grating on the vent and she nods, but she doesn't go back to sleep until after he moves on. If she does at all. Some nights she won't, he knows, and she'll spend the night staring at the vent, waiting for him to come back. Or the door, waiting for someone else to come in. He's only seen her sleep deep and true once, in Budapest, and he's wondered if that wasn't head trauma-she'd curled as tight as she could like a pill bug, tucking in on herself until she was folded small and neat, and covered her head. When he'd asked her the next morning, she'd stared, impenetrable, before explaining shortly that she was 'holding herself in'. Now he understands a little more.
Clint's feet drag as he finally makes his way back to his own room. Like Tasha's, it's sparse, barren and empty and very, very white. The unruffled bed sits in the corner; he's never slept in it, but sinks to the floor on the other side of the door, pressing with his back as he folds his legs around himself, propping up his bow and dropping his quiver beside. From this vantage point, he can see the whole room, and he's far enough from the vent that no one can see him without sticking their head through. The window across the way shows the city bright and gleaming in the grey pre-dawn light, and his head falls forward onto his knee in uneasy sleep.
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