There were plenty of balconies and picture windows in Stark Tower - plenty of places where anyone could sit and look over the city at night, lit up in the steady, glowing burn of humanity.
Still, Clint preferred the roof.
As high up as he could get, so that most of the city was a sprawl beneath him; people too small to see, cars identified merely by their headlamps, slicing through through the darkness in bright shafts of light.
It was cold, tonight, and he sat with his knees drawn up, arms wrapped around them as he simply watched. The sound of someone else joining him on the roof brought a small smile to his face (definitely Natasha; he’d long since learned to identify the team by the sound of their footsteps) and he opened his mouth to greet her.
Only to freeze, eyes fixed on the horizon. In the distance, lights flicker, die. He surges to his feet.
"Tasha… tell me I’m imagining things." More lights, more darkness, swelling towards them like a black ocean. "Are the lights of New York going out?"