Natasha catnaps with the best of them, though he's rarely seen her doing it. Thor, he's a god, and Rogers is a supersoldier. They probably don't even need rest. Stark lives in a permanent state of sleep-deprived psychosis, and he's raised it to an art form.
Banner, on the other hand? He gets to sleep. Nobody's going to take the chances on waking him up too suddenly, and people actually go out of their way to make sure he can crash out whenever he's flagging. Because if he gets tired? Cranky's right around the corner, and from there it's a short jump to astounding amounts of property damage.
It's not often that Clint gets jealous. It's bound to happen, sometimes, because yeah, he can see the appeal of being able to control lightning, recover quickly, MacGuyver everything out of almost anything, or punch out an airplane, but he doesn't have any super powers.
Right now he'd settle for the ability to sleep with his eyes open.
He's been crouched low against the roof for seven hours, now, on the off chance that his target is good enough to find a way around base security and stupid enough to actually try sabotaging Stark's SubOrbital rocket in the middle of its unveiling.
Down below, the spectacle is already under way. Even with Stark's usual tasteful array of fireworks, loud music, and glaring, flashing lights, he thinks he could probably fall asleep, right here.
He never gets the chance. Of course he doesn't.
He's been awake for thirty-eight hours, and it'll be at least two more before they make it out to the helicarrier. Even with the hearing protectors they're all wearing- Clint's are on tightly enough that it's pressing his headache back into his brain, amplifying it about a thousand times- the cabin of a V-22 Osprey is loud. Sleep is a physical impossibility, right now.
Unless you're Natasha, apparently. Even Rogers looks jealous when he looks at her, but at least his scrapes and bruises are already gone. The bandage on Clint's arm is gritty around the edges; there hadn't been enough time for anything more than the most basic field dressings, but at least the itching underneath is a distraction.
Up front, Phil's on the radio with the helicarrier, and gets on comms to announce that Stark and Thor have already arrived, though Banner, who refuses (logically enough, Clint supposes) to travel by air unless it's absolutely necessary, won't be arriving until later tonight.
"Hey Coulson, how long until we're there?" This time it's Rogers' turn. Five minutes ago, Clint had been the one asking.
"Two hours and eight minutes."
Okay, so two minutes ago, Clint had been the one asking.
Rogers glances miserably back at Clint. "Not to knock my situation, or anything," he starts, because he never complains without apologizing for it first, "but I'd trade it all in to be able to fly under my own steam, you know?"
Clint nods, tries and fails to stifle a yawn, and widens his eyes in hopes that he can trick them into thinking they're awake. "If I got to choose my superpowers, I'd..." It's too much effort to talk; he merely nods in Natasha's direction.
Over the comms, Phil chuckles. "Captain Narcolepsy has a nice ring to it."
He holds out for seven minutes, this time, before asking how much longer until they land.
By the time he's released from the infirmary, it's been over forty hours since he's slept, and Clint's feeling every one of them. Even underneath the painkillers medical had given him, his knees and shoulders are still shot from running so much after crouching for so long, his skin's tight and sore around the nine stitches they'd insisted upon, and his brain feels like it's about three sizes too large for his skull.
He avoids the main conference room like the plague, because he can hear Fury and Stark's yelling from two corridors away. He does, however, force himself shakily up the stairs to swing past the bridge on the off chance that amid the throng of people, he'll be able to catch Phil's eye as he passes.
It's more or less on his way, anyhow, but if he goes through the door- if he actually sets foot on the bridge- there will be at least fifty people on hand in the not unlikely event that his staggering turns to swaying. If he goes down in front of so many witnesses, he'll never hear the end of it. He's not sure how he's supposed to signal "Maintenance is working on grid repairs up in Section 2 and they're assigning me a temporary bunk way out in the boonies of Section 6 instead, so if you're looking for me, check the logs for reports of comatose bodies lying in the middle of 4's hallway" without resorting to actual words. It's a moot point, anyhow. Phil's not even there. There are approximately eight thousand other places, here on the carrier, that he could be, and Clint's not fooling himself. The floor's rocking underneath his feet, and the ocean they're all floating on isn't the only cause.
The hallway is finally, blissfully empty as he crosses into Section 5. There's nobody to see him reaching out to the wall for balance as he drags himself onward.
Of the approximately eight thousand places where Phil could- and probably should- be right now, finding him standing in the middle of Clint's bunk in the boonies isn't actually all that surprising, anymore.
"Hey," Clint manages, glancing around the room. It's smaller than his usual bunk, and there aren't any windows, no secondary exits at all. For once, he's too shot to care. Fury could set off all the alarms and klaxons he wanted, and Clint wouldn't even stir, much less climb out the window with his bow slung over his arm.
"Hey," Phil grins, stepping past him to close the door that he'd totally forgotten about. "How're you doing?"
"Do you mean actual flying, or is it the morphine?"
Doesn't matter, long as I can fly right to bed. Clint opens his eyes when he brushes past, and notices for the first time that Phil's not wearing his tie.
He's staying, then.
Good. Clint's shoulder's feel a little looser. Then again, so do his knees, but Phil's not, it turns out, steering him towards the bed, he's dragging him into the bathroom.
"Shower first, then sleep."
"Gonna drown." Seriously, this sink he's holding onto is the only reason he hasn't gone down already.
"I'd rather you didn't," Phil says, turning on the tap before turning back to him. "Falsifying electrical work orders and rooming reassignments takes seven different forms. Dead bodies in shower stalls take thirty."
What about if I don't even make it into the shower, Clint's yawning, and he thinks there was something about having to walk all the way across the damned carrier that he was supposed to complain about, but he's lost his train of thought. He might not be able to sleep with his eyes open, but he's starting to wonder about sleeping on his feet.
"Come on," Phil says, tugging at Clint's uniform, and it's enough to make Clint force his eyes open again. "You'll regret it if you don't."
Phil's already down to his undershirt and socks, and is kicking off his shoes as he undoes Clint's collar, eases the zipper down.
Clint can rally. He's only been up for forty two hours. No big deal. He manages to get his uniform off, and Phil's only helping with the buckles on his boots because it's the most efficient thing to do. It has nothing at all to do with a suspicion that Clint would take out the towel rack, mid-fall, if he tried them himself.
Phil's shoving him into the shower, now, and stepping in behind him, almost as warm as the water pounding over Clint's chest and shoulders. He turns his head away from the spray, winds up pressing his head back against Phil's, and fuck moving, he's comfortable. The damp heat is doing wonders for his sore muscles and if they all give at once, Phil won't be filling out thirty forms, he'll be going down with him.
Phil's hugging him, Clint realizes, but then he realizes his arms are being jostled and the bandage is suddenly being peeled off, which probably isn't the best idea, but Phil has to check, Phil always has to check, and he's as good at bandaging as anyone down in medical, anyway. A moment later, his arms being held out until he can reach the wall- it's not far, but it keeps the stitches out of the spray and the tile's cool underneath his hand, and Phil's hands are starting on his shoulders, slick with soap, and-
Clint feels like he's falling, and jerks awake, suddenly. Apparently that's all the signal Phil needs, because he's pressing up closer against his back, reaching around him to turn off the water.
There's no point in hiding it now, he needs the edge of the sink to keep him upright, but he's humoring Phil, at this point. He doesn't give a damn if he gets the bedsheets soaked, and the towel against his skin feels nice.
The cold air, when they step back into the bedroom, is just bracing enough that he can make it to the bed under his own steam, but Phil's a terrible person- Clint tells him so- who won't let him lie down, just yet, because he's got to triple check and re-bandage Clint's arm and gets a perverse pleasure at forcing him into boxers. Then he wants to pull back the sheets and make Clint crawl under them, because there's a snowball's chance in hell that a slight draft in the room would be enough to wake Clint up any time soon.
And finally- finally- Clint's off his feet entirely, he's sinking into the mattress already, and the warmth of the blanket over him is actually kind of nice, now that he thinks about it, but he can't sleep, not yet.
He knows he's scowling into the too-thin pillow. He can just make out the room's sudden plunge into darkness, can just barely sense Phil's movement as he steps carefully towards the bed.
He can totally hear the cursing and hissing when Phil stubs his toe on the corner, though, and the dip in the mattress as he climbs in next to him, even in this strange bed, is the same as it ever is.
He's vaguely aware of being manhandled, manages a little manhandling of his own, until Phil's on his back, his arm wound underneath Clint's neck. Phil's shoulder is the best pillow there is, and Clint's got one arm and one leg sprawled over him, and he's shifting slightly, just once, and it's perfect, but he's only aware of it for a second or two.
Clint probably doesn't notice Phil shifting, or the kiss pressed against his forehead. But even in sleep, his grip on Phil tightens. Just for a moment, before easing again, slowly.