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"Nope." He's not worried it's a dream - this is way nicer than either of their dreams, he's sure - and he's not worried he's going to forget it. The way Clint's heart feels beating against his palm is... quite possibly the best, most reassuring, thing he can even imagine right now.

"You should let me take the couch tonight, though, otherwise you're going to have a hard time walking tomorrow, much less moving at speed."

Stiff. All he means is Clint's going to stiffen up overnight and more so if he's sleeping in cramped conditions.

"Unless you wanna share the bed again. But you might get bored with all that sleep you don't need." He finds himself, in this zone of comfort, idly rubbing his thumb over Steve's hand. Like this is normal. Like this isn't going to vanish in a puff of smoke soon, because he can't have this be normal.

"'s okay. If you need to be up and about and doing something. I'm probably gonna sleep like the dead after what today's been."

"If I hadn't figured out how to lay still with my eyes shut, somebody would have taken my head off seventy years ago." There's a slight smile with that one. "As long as I've got something to pay attention to, I'm good. You breathing counts, though I know that might get weird if you think about it too much."

Steve isn't even aware when he picks up the rhythm of Clint's thumb on his hand and echos it with his thumb on Clint's thigh.

He is 100% willing to let this be normal. It feels more normal for him than anything has in years. Knows that's not the case for Clint and that's... heartbreaking, but a thing he can accept.

Edited 2024-11-18 23:27 (UTC)

"You know I'm gonna think about it too much, but I don't think that's as weird as you're worried about. You've said and done much weirder."

No he will not elaborate at this time, weirdo.

It isn't like Clint's not at the top of weird mountain in his own right. They can be weird, and they can be it together, and for a few short odd days, they can exist and not fucking judge each other. It's a trip trying to come around to the fact that Steve gives a shit about him, not the things he does or why he does them.

So then why does it feel like such an act of bravery? When he tips his head further back, cranes to try and catch a glimpse of his teammate's face. "Steve?" It doesn't stutter, but it's quiet, soft. He wants to bolt, run and fight something until everything gives out, but he's determined to allow himself to be vulnerable in this softness and warmth. Even if he might not be much to look at at this angle, bruising on his face from the busted but not broken nose, the bags under his eyes from the stress if not the uneven sleep he must get.

It feels like an act of bravery because it is one. Because reaching out at all, being vulnerable, letting any kind of intimacy happen at all is already brave.

And Clint looks vulnerable when Steve opens his eyes and tilts his head enough to the side and down to see him, but he also looks like himself, and present, in a way that makes Steve's chest hurt, but with the sort of ache he can embrace.

He has no idea what Clint is asking for though, or at least not really. So aside from brushing one particularly dark bruise with his thumb he just tilts his head and makes a questioning noise.

Whatever Clint wants enough to ask for with this, though? Steve's going to let him be brave, but anything in his power to give Clint? He will give Clint.

It's hard to know the words to ask for what he wants. Because he feels small and kind of stupid and vulnerable in a way that he needed to strike down and smother in order to do what he does. Steve touches him in ways that always catches him off guard. He swallows. "Could you..." Get it out. "Just for a little bit, if you could...just..."

He huffs at himself more than anything and decides to take action. Action's always better, always easier. He tucks his face closer to Steve's chest again and takes one of those hands on him and brings it up. Fingers to his hairline, or nails to his scalp. He does want that gentle petting sensation. But it's so hard to actually try and describe it, to go 'hey can you pet my hair', because that sounds so dumb to his ears even if, just a few years ago, he might've done that easily enough.

It's a small thing. It's incredibly small and feels silly to feel so vulnerable. But it's there. He supposes if anyone were going to get it, it might be Steve.

He waits it out, with no judgement but an admittedly slightly confused expression. That Clint is having a hard time spelling it out is clear, but what Clint wants isn't.

Until Clint shows him.

"With pleasure." No amusement, no mocking, no judgement. Some (and more than a little) relief. That he understands and that Clint asked. He adjusts his position to be able to get into a position where he can reach support Clint's position and still reach his hair, and does that.

With pleasure.

Slow, steady, and letting his nails drag just a little against Clint's scalp. Focuses on the rhythm and the way it feels to him, too.

He can't help the little shudder of pure relief. How good that feels, how right, how much it simply feels good and warm and familiar and safe. He can listen to the soap opera and listen to Steve's heart and breathing and simply be.

The guilt is something that threatens to come crushing in. The loneliness is likely to quickly follow suit. He can feel them at the edges, clawing at the doors.

Just breathe. Sink deep into feeling just the sensations and only that. Cling to this like a liferaft. Part of him does want to switch their positions at some point, distantly, so he can have the excuse to hold someone in turn in a way that's also familiar, but right now this is something that a part of him clearly needed desperately.

Steve very gradually and slowly changes position just enough to make sure they're both in a position they can stay in, and that makes sure there's enough contact between them that Clint can continue to feel him breathe.

Then slowly leans his head back again, closes his eyes and finds a rhythm of sliding his fingers through Clint's hair that matches his breathing. Lets his nails drag lightly across skin while he does and just holds onto Clint and flat out pets him.

Steve almost wants to cry when Clint shudders, though he doesn't. There's a lot of relief for him in this, too. Because he can absolutely be rough, and provide physical and precise pain - but this is better. Not a thought in his head on the 'favor' being 'returned' - that falls into the realm of so long gone he's completely given up on having it - but this? Hurts, feels normal and right, and also feels really fucking good.

And he will do it until hell freezes or there's some sign to stop or change gears and direction.

Steve's good at this. Just existing in the moment and letting the time go by slow and easy. Clint can see a universe where he falls into this rhythm and lets himself be pet and cradled into another sleep.

He won't let that happen this time. It's a comfort, and also he's distinctly aware of every single touch and every shift in Steve's position. He has to be aware, because if he lets himself drift, he might be able to imagine different fingers running through his hair, could let himself let Mexico fall away and be somewhere else far from here. And if he drifts in that direction, he'll hurt so bad that he won't know what to do with himself.

Here he only needs to exist and be present. Present here, in this moment, with Steve.

This moment stretches on for a while. At least long enough for the show to change at some point. And then Clint pushes himself to sit up, breaking the flow of things. Has to blink a few times, to stretch himself out and shake off a feeling almost like settled dust. There is a yawning pit inside him longing for something he can never have, and a few drops poured down into it can't fix it. But maybe a few stolen moments like this can temporarily ease it.

It feels complicated, somehow, in its simplicity, and he doesn't particularly feel like examining that right now. Would prefer to keep guilt at bay as long as he can. He half-turns to Steve. Who is not asleep, he knows. "Thanks." Because it feels right to say. "You good?"

Steve is good at sitting still and using what amount to simple meditative techniques (not that he knows that) and external focal points to keep his brain from running away with him -- and/or just repress and keep a lid on himself, depending. This, at least, was the former.

He lets go of Clint the second he moves, and waits for him to sit up before he actually moves himself. Even then it's just to reach back and push (in a controlled way) against the headboard and stretch his back out. He gives an inelegant but satisfied grunt when his spine cracks between his shoulder blades and then rolls onto his side.

If he has any problem letting the moment end or is shaken by the moment having happened it doesn't show, though he doesn't bother to sit up or get up.

"Just fine. Thinking it's gonna be a quiet evening and day tomorrow, but I might actually get that sketch finished in the meanwhile. Or start something new. Might wander out and buy crayons to entertain myself with." What? Not like he's got weapon maintenance to do. Also not complaining about it.

"I'm gonna do some last minute recon." Like, right now, immediately, once he pulls his shoes on and his hoodie and all that good stuff. So give him a minute here. It might look more like running away, and maybe it's a little bit that. A smidge of that.

But he does look at Steve first. "If you...still wanna share space, we could try and share the bed. Could big spoon you. If you want held in return." Or if Clint wants to do some holding. He might want that. But asking for things is hard enough; apparently asking for the petting really took it out of him. "Or if you just wanna stay up and draw or...whatever. Let me know."

Clint's running away and Steve is... not as bothered by it as he could be. Afraid Clint's going to get into some manner of trouble? Sure. Worried Clint's not going to come back? No, albeit primarily currently for reasons amounting to all of Clint's stuff being here.

Besides, he at least sort of gets it. He's introducing all sorts of complications and conflict here. He isn't sorry for it, but he does recognize it. Clint can't do what he's been doing and be just a weapon or just furious and violent with Steve here, and especially not with what they've been doing.

"I'll be here when you get back," he says, sitting up slowly on the edge of the bed. There is a flicker of pure, uncomplicated confusion at the suggestion that he might want to be held - overt in the same way somebody speaking a foreign language he doesn't understand would be - but it doesn't hang around too long. "And I'm good with sharing the bed and you being the big spoon for a while." Whether he'll sleep or not, how long, if he'll stay down for the night, he doesn't know. He's not turning down Clint breathing at his back though.

The comfort clears his head, and now he has to clear his head from clearing his head. That doesn't make sense, does it? But it's how Clint feels in a way that he would be hard pressed at best to put into words.

The confusion makes him hesitate. Like he's done something wrong. Screwed something up again. But there's nothing behind it, just...a little confused. God, join the club.

"Okay. We'll see how I'm feeling. Later. Before bed." Sound more uncertain, why don't you. "Won't be too long. I'll try not to be anyway."

Nope, nothing behind the confusion that's more complicated than confusion and maybe a little surprised that anyone offering it to him.

That one's a desire that he's long since put away. The idea of maybe getting it for a little bit? That's a little overwhelming, but he sure as hell isn't going to turn it down.

"That works." He gets up when Clint moves to the door, but all he actually does is grab his sketchbook and settle down at the table with it. Actually ends up doing some stylized 'brand logo' stuff. Army. SHIELD. Hydra. Avengers. Lots of stars and stripes and irony.

It kills time.

Clint flashes a little bit of something that's like a smile, there and gone, apologetic, and then is out the door.

He does do exactly what he set out to do: he takes another good walk around the area, makes sure nothing has changed. Gets a couple brief vantage points on rooftops. Wanders by a few of the local bars where some of the members in question hang out, in case there are loose lips about plan changes, but as far as he can tell, nothing is amiss and tomorrow should go off without a hitch.

He does stay out a little longer when his recon is done. Do a little running and jumping, some parkour. Exhausted and energetic at the same time, fresh air to knock some kind of sense into him.

It's better, calmer, the ruckus inside his chest and rattling under the floorboards of his skull, when he comes back.

"You ever draw people?"

Hi to you, too.

"Welcome back," he says, with some amusement and 0 offense or mockery.

Then just answers the question, mostly by flipping the book back all the way to the first page. Because that's the safe one. There's no one Clint will recognize from outside a history book or museum, probably. Not even as a close family resemblance.

There are those pictures in that book and he... isn't subjecting Clint to them.

It's Peggy. Done in regular old pencil but done well and not a recreation of a photo. Mostly because even in pencil and shading he's gotten some warmth into her eyes and a smile on her face.

"Yeah. Sometimes."

"Man," a little breathlessly. "I mean, I've been to your part of the museum before. But they don't exactly talk about your art there."

Of course he's been there. Who hasn't been there? Until relatively recently, Captain America was practically a myth in his own right.

"Everything's still looking good to go. I'm trusting you to stay out of sight. I'll do my thing. And then we go from there." Just as an update. He shoves the hood off his head, ruffling up his hair when he does so. "Sorry to leave you bored, but at least you've got that. The art."

"That display isn't me. That's a Captain America exhibit. Too bad I woke up and spoiled the fantasy."

Which is... actually a thing he feels bad about. Inferiority complex when compared to himself? Yeah, actually, at least the ideal that's not really him. Something about Tony and bottles that was just verification but is never going to leave his head.

"Not sure if I wanna reassure you by telling you I'm good at being bored, or that I wasn't bored. Both are true." He shrugs and closes the cover, sticks the pencil into the spiral binding and pushes it away from him.

"Nothing's changed on my end or with my intentions. I'll be out of sight and out of the way unless something's going way south. At that points, all bets are off. I don't see that happening."

"The real thing's better." And he means it. The ideal of Captain America doesn't hold a candle to Steve actual Rogers, flesh and blood human being.

He reaches out a hand, laying it flat on the cover, but he doesn't pull it toward him, doesn't open it up. People obviously get sensitive about the personal stuff. His fingers drum a moment. "You wanna show me anything else? Promise I won't laugh."

The real guy 'let' half of life on earth get turned into dust and Clint might not blame him - but Tony does, and so does Steve. He gives Clint a faint, appreciative, smile anyway.

"You can look through it if you want. There are some more portraits in there, including the team and Sam, but I don't think there's anything in there so personal it'd bother me or... so close to you that it'd be a problem. Or you can work backward if you want to skip those and stick with landscapes, logos and cartoons."

Basically the further out this is, the less cohesive the art gets.

There are portraits in there. Howard. Bucky from before even the War. Nat and Clint. Tony and Banner. Sam and Bucky. Thor. Most of them from how he remembers and sees them most strongly. Meaning from the period they were living in Avenger's Tower and things were okay. Movie nights and parties, not... fighting and conflict.

"Maybe this is what you should do instead of," shrugs, "any of this. Be an artist. Fill commissions. Get put up in galleries." He flips through pages studiously, genuinely interested. He's never been an artist himself, doesn't really know shit about it, but he can tell it's good.

"I can't believe there was a time when all this shit was simpler," he says, thumbing a page with Thor's grinning face like he might shine right through the paper.

Steve is barely aware that he's doing it, but lately the more he feels like he is in danger of breaking down or just feeling a particular heavy ache in his chest that comes pretty close to being the physical representation of heartbreak...

He quirks one corner of his mouth up in a smile. One meant to reassure whoever he's talking to that he's okay. Because he's ok.

He does that now. "Maybe. Might be able to ride on Captain America and advertise to collectors or sell those off. The further you get, the more it... devolves. It's still technically decent but it stops being art somewhere around the Accords and keeps going downhill until it's basically stock images and clip art. No one wants to look at what's in my head, including me."

That's a look that Steve gets, and Clint just stares at him for a few long moments. Something about it seems flat. But if Steve's going to insist the rest of it is crap, Clint will flip to that specific section, the newer stuff, less people, less cityscapes. Devolving into flat shapes.

"Graphic designer," he says. "Businesses still need ads and logos and shit. But you've still got it in you; I saw you were sketching the view out the window, before, or trying to."

"I will eventually finish that one. Might be once I'm back in the States, but it'll be interesting to see if I can get it on paper in a way I like. Try animals." He shrugs. He doesn't know. But: "Graphic design's not a bad idea. I almost went that direction before I enlisted."

He... might even actually do it, although mostly to give himself something to fill time and reassure people that he's okay.

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