Clint followed behind him, his movements sluggish. It was strange how, when you'd reached your goal, all the adrenaline that had kept you going washed away. He was quiet, quieter than Coulson had ever seen him. Clint was usually full of chatter, filling up the silence with stories, or jokes, or song. But not this time. He was far to exhausted to even try, and he'd used up all of his energy on the fighting when Coulson had answered the door.

Had he been more awake, he'd've probably passed a comment on Coulson forgoing his clean, crisp suits, for faded t-shirts and jeans. He wouldn't wear something of Coulson's, not yet. As much as he knew it'd comfort him - being surrounded by something he'd worn, knowing that they were his, and he was alive - it was too soon.

He shook his head, crossing over to the bed, and running his fingers over the sheets. "Wake me up when you want to sleep. I'll move to the couch."