Steve rubbed his eyes with the palm of his hand and yawned, tugging gently at the bandage that circled his head. While he healed much faster than his teammates, the doctors had insisted it had been a bit more than "just a nasty bump" to the head, and forced him to keep the healing cuts and scrapes covered. He made his way downstairs quietly, not wanting to wake anyone. Natasha was out of hospital and healing faster than anticipated, but she was still bedridden and needed a lot of rest. Tony, for once, had been forced to go to bed early by Bruce, who had been nearly falling asleep by dinner. It had been a long couple of days and they were all beginning to feel the effects of fatigue. Nobody had really been sleeping well.
He groaned as he dropped the plastic cup he'd carried downstairs with the intention of refilling it and going straight back upstairs to bed. He kneeled to pick it up, glad he'd had the sense to put on a pair of shoes to protect his feet against the icy floor.
He was unsurprised to find Clint watching the television with bleary, sleep-filled eyes. Wordlessly he walked over and sat down beside him. Clint pulled himself over to the other side of the couch so there was more room, hardly taking his eyes off whatever he was watching, which was...Steve wasn't really sure. It was one of those late-night talk shows, with some strange man in a suit up the front talking loudly and waving his arms around in an exaggerated way.
"What are we watching?"
"Late late show. Craig Ferguson." Clint's voice was monotone and again he didn't bother making eye contact, just staring at the screen with a look of vague indifference. Well, as indifferent as his face could currently get; through the bruised jaw, busted nose and dark-circled eyes, 'indifferent' came off more as 'in great pain'.
"Are you okay?" Steve couldn't help but feel concerned about his friend. As far as he knew, Clint hadn't gotten more than an hour's sleep since Baltimore, and it was starting to show. The shaking hands and general look of instability wasn't doing him much good, and his eyes kept drifting shut before snapping open. He couldn't tell if Clint couldn't sleep or wouldn't sleep - because if he was forcing himself to stay awake, he was doing a pretty poor job of it.
"Yeah. Of course. You?" He didn't even bother to try feigning interest, just listlessly sinking lower into the couch cushions. Steve reached over and switched off the television, ignoring the halfhearted protest from behind him. He turned to face Clint with the most adult expression he could give. Clint's eyes narrowed into a glare, but the corner of his mouth twitched, almost into a smile. "Why are you looking at me like you're my dad?"
"Sorry." Steve sighed and relaxed, returning the smile. "You look tired, Clint."
"I'm not tired."
"Yes, you are."
Clint shook his head, folding his arms defensively and wincing as the movement sent his head spinning. He closed his eyes briefly, waiting for everything to right itself. When he opened them Steve was giving him the look again, mirroring Clint's pose. He sighed and leaned back, closing his eyes and muttering what could be considered an explicit sentence, if it was heard. Steve turned the TV back on, covering up the phrase with the canned laughter of a sitcom rerun. It was a show from the late eighties, probably one of the ones Tony and Bruce had been trying to get him to watch. He still didn't find it funny, but he did smile at one or two stupid little jokes. He shifted his weight, trying to relieve some of the discomfort of the sore muscles he seemed to have gained in combat. Steve definitely healed faster than the others, but not to full-on healing factor levels. He mused quietly over those two words – he'd been told before the fight in Baltimore there were people, nonhumans that could heal horrendous injuries within twenty seconds. The world had definitely changed since the forties.
"Tasha getting hurt was my fault."
He turned his head to the half-asleep assassin, frowning, not sure if he'd heard him properly. "Of course it wasn't. If anything it was mine, you told me to cover her and I didn't pay attention."
"You were on the roof. I was on the other roof, I should've seen. I'm the hawk. I see everything."
Steve put the dreamy and slurred voice down to the lack of sleep and sighed, shaking his head. He didn't bother to reply, letting Clint go back into his catatonic stare through the television. The worst thing was it definitely had been Steve's fault – he was certain of it. He was supposedly the perfect soldier, but he wasn't even capable of keeping a fellow comrade safe on a single mission. They'd collectively blamed Tony because he was an easy scapegoat, and he definitely should not have been on a mission without being entirely sober. Truthfully they were all a bit at fault – Clint had been uncharacteristically inattentive. Steve hadn't followed orders exactly. Natasha had allowed herself to be distracted. Tony hadn't caught her when she fell.
Really, the only one who'd been doing their job properly was Bruce. And all Bruce had done was thrown fighting mutants at buildings with a savage roar to top it off.
The Hulk was very good at his job.
After an hour without speaking, Steve glanced back over to Clint. He snored softly, his head buried into the side of the couch. Overall he looked to be in a very uncomfortable position, but at least it was sleep. Steve got up and collected a blanket from one of the many cupboards in the room, throwing it over his teammate and turning off the TV with a flick of the remote. He turned on the tap and filled a glass with water, setting it on the table in front of Clint with a pack of Tylenol. He'd probably need it in the morning in order to relieve the stiff muscles that would definitely be gained from sleeping on the couch.
As Steve wandered back up to his room, his mind returned to Clint and Natasha once more. He didn't think he could convince the man that her injury was definitely not his fault. Or anyone's, really. It was an unfortunate mistake, an accident, a series of events leading up to her falling and getting hurt. He shook his head, trying to clear it; it was too late to properly focus on any problems right now. He exhaled slowly, kicking off his shoes by his bed and collapsing onto it with a halfhearted effort to pull on a sheet. His exhaustion finally caught up with him and, like Clint, he found himself in an uneasy slumber.
