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He doesn't sleep the first night. Natasha gets it and knows they've both been trained in dealing with sleep deprivation, so she isn't really worried, but then Clint sits up, leaning against the window, the second night and tells her to catch some shut-eye.
She settles onto the bed and waits for silence to settle behind her. Finally, "Clint."
He looks at her, his expression harder to read than it's been in a long time. "I'll be fine," he says.
He's fine because he's not sleeping, not dreaming, not letting himself lose his grip on reality and slide toward memories of the Tesseract and all it made him do.
Natasha slides out of bed and leans beside him, pressing one hand to his shoulder, her head to his back. He leans back and sighs.
She doesn't push and she can feel Clint's gratitude as the tension in his body eases.
"We'll sleep later," she says softly.
For now they stare out the window, each lost in their own thoughts.