Note: I'm not sure what to classify this fic. It's definitely not crack, and it's definitely not wholly adventure. And of course, I don't write romance.
I think it's more of a character study. So if Hawkeye had his own movie, this is what I'd imagine it to be. (Let's pretend that doesn't sound as pretentious as it does)
The sun was merciless.
He could feel the burn on the back of his neck, and when he reached to shield his face from the monstrosity sitting in the high sky, he ended up nicking himself in the eye. A pool of fresh tears flew down the side of his face in conjunction with a small stream of blood, and he could feel the burn of sweat in wound while he strolled slowly through this empty wasteland of a field.
He might've been dehydrated, he might've been dying—at this point, he couldn't tell the difference.
From the distance, he found a house. It was halfway decimated and there was rubble all over the ground but he pushed the last reserves of his energy into a light jog where he arrived and collapsed into the comforts of the shade.
On this side of the wall, he was safe.
After a few minutes of rest, he pushed himself up, adjusted the quiver sitting over his shoulder and entered what seemed to be left of a house. Though it was freshly abandoned, even Hawkeye felt like he was violating this sanction—or that he was doing something wrong.
But having a high moral compass was never quite his forte (especially when he worked as a master assassin) so he cast aside this little bit of concern and made his way towards the back, where he walked upon a small basin sitting under a sink.
Reaching a hand forward, he turned the faucet only to see a single drop of water drip out and subsequently dry up into vapor when it touched the hot burn of the basin. What a tease, he mused discontentedly to himself before turning back around.
He made his way across the living room, feeling his footsteps echo gently.
He paused and took a few steps back into the kitchen.
The floor was hard, and he managed to keep his steps light and airy but as he crossed the center of the living space, between the couch and the old television set sitting in the corner of the room, there was—a faint echo.
So Hawkeye halted in mid-step and crossed his arms over his chest.
He could try and search for an entryway. That would be the sensible thing to do given the circumstances. Then again, he didn't call for the time he'd have to spend actually looking for something that didn't want to be found.
So instead, he lifted one knee high into the air—and stomped through the hardwood floors with the sole of his boot.
His idea, at the time, was simple.
Stomp through the floor.
But that never accounted for the number of stomps he'd have to perform in order to get through even the first layer. Unfortunately, and much to his chagrin, that also didn't account for the number of blisters on the side of his leg he'd gotten before actually being able to squeeze through the small hole he made in the ground. All in all, he decided not to question his logical sense, even if it did seem menial.
(He'd forgotten how dangerous the thought of instant gratification could be)
It took him a moment to adjust to the darkness as he fell into a cool chamber underground.
Sparing a glance around, he caught sight of several things: a small kitchenette in one corner of the room, a makeshift table, a couple of fold-up chairs, another television set, crappier than the one he'd seen before, and of course, a sink.
He dashed forwardly almost too quickly, feeling the burn of those blisters as his skin stretched taut. Reaching out a hand, he fumbled carelessly with the faucet before actually pulling it forward, where a fresh stream of water shot down.
He moved his head and felt the stream touch his parched tongue. He drank and he didn't actually think he'd stop but he remembered a tidbit of information to keep his thirst in margins when finding a source of water. So slowly, he pulled back and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, feeling the ache in his spine when he straightened his back.
"What you doing—"
Startled, he whisked around to find a small Chinese girl no more then eleven standing at the other end of the room with a frying pan in her hand. How he managed to miss her in the first place he would never understand.
"You—out!" she cried, broken English getting her point across.
Hawkeye raised his hands in a gesture of submission and feigned a small smile as he found his way to the staircase by the wall. Slowly, he made his way up while that same small girl followed him with her frying pan until he reached the top step.
When he touched sunlight again, Hawkeye could only grimace in irritation.
He was surrounded.
"Put your hands in the air," a single Chinese man spoke in eloquent English, making his way through the crowds of their makeshift police force.
And when that same man stood only inches away from Hawkeye's face, a glimmer of a smirk formed on his lips, "We've been looking for you, Clint."