He tosses and turns; sleep teases his entire form, yet it does not come.

It's the bed. It's too... something. Too spacious? Every time he switches position he ends up in a cold spot and must wait for it to warm up: he can't seem to land in the same spot twice. Too soft? The only beds he has known for the past few years have been either damp alleyways, rough concrete or wood floors, or else a lumpy old mattress that had a tendency to poke him in certain areas. He vaguely recalls hearing Steve muttering something earlier about marshmallows.

Whatever it is, it doesn't seem right, and it is coupled with a feeling of being smothered: a weight that presses not so much physically as it does mentally, on his soul, as if he doesn't deserve the luxury of a bed, much less one like this. It is a feeling that relents and returns at regular intervals, and the fight to suppress it for good has been pretty much hopeless. Whatever it is, it makes all this not seem right. Not for him. Not now.

He sits up and blearily squints at the shapes around the darkened room: a bedside table, a lamp, some sort of tropical plant native to this country, a sliver of light coming from behind the curtain drawn over the wide window on one side of the room.

He hauls a couple of blankets and a pillow from his bed and heads for the window. He pulls back the curtain a bit and drops his load, arranging a makeshift nest out of the blankets. Settling back against the pillow, he gazes out over the jungle and up into the brilliant night sky.

The hardness of the floor, albeit thickly carpeted, soothes him with familiarity. Warmth collects and envelopes him in the cocoon, and he dozes off, blissfully unaware of the near-heart attack he is to cause when Steve drops by in the morning per usual and initially fails to find him in the bed before spying an unruly heap of blankets by the picture window.