Disclaimer: Not mine. Everything recognizable belongs to Marvel. But hey, I can dream.
This fic has been partially finished for a while - The Winter Soldier is not out yet where I am, so it is entirely speculation.
He watches the destruction of the SHIELD helicarrier from the safety of his apartment in Chicago. It is plastered all over the news. The moment it crashes, his chest constricts. The pendant that lies against his skin burns. It kills him to know that so many of the people he knows are just gone. He can see the marks on the helicarrier that distinguish it from the others, for all he has never set foot on any save for the one that he and Natasha were stationed on before the Battle of New York.
It takes him fifteen minutes to tear his eyes away from the screen. It takes him longer to grab his jacket and sunglasses and leave the small apartment he calls home now.
The world has changed in two years. There are monsters and aliens now – creatures Clint never could have dreamed of when he started working for SHIELD. His world before SHIELD was so much smaller. It was also far less dangerous, but that was something he already knew. The day Coulson had walked into the room changed everything. Now – well, now things are different. He is particularly aware of how different everything is now, two years out from the last time he did any sort of work for SHIELD.
He is lucky. He knows that. He should have been court marshaled, regardless of how he knows he was not in control of himself. The Council let him off easy – he wonders exactly why that happened, but there is nothing he can do to find out. Being put on extended leave is enough trouble for him.
The one thing that this time away has done is that it has allowed him to level out. That is something he knows he sorely needed after Loki screwed with his head. He remembers seeing Selvig on television at one point – the doctor seemed to be insane if he remembers correctly. He is thankful he has not broken apart like that – but he also knows that he was never really whole to begin with. He has too much blood on his hands these days. He has not been whole since he was a child.
He shakes his head, trying to clear the revere away. He does not need to be thinking of that. Drawing back into the world of memory is not beneficial, especially when he has a purpose. Even if that purpose is only to get coffee and go back to his apartment. It is better than being cooped up inside all day.
To some extent, he relishes the freedom he has. He can do whatever he wants (within reason) and he never needs to worry about being called in.
There is still a part of him that feels more trapped by this newfound freedom than anything. He misses the routine, the feel of his bow at his fingertips, the excitement – he misses Natasha.
He has not seen her in six months, he realizes. He is remarkably lonely as he walks into his favorite coffee shop and orders. No one recognizes him. That puts him more at ease. He never liked being one of the ones that the media recognizes. It blows his cover and he hates that – he is an assassin, not a celebrity.
He looks up at the television while he is waiting for his coffee. Everyone else is glued to the screen, watching the rubble settle in the capital. He cannot look at it for more than a few minutes before he has to tear his eyes from the horrors again. They are saying that Captain America is fighting the combatants on the ground. They say nothing about the red-headed woman Clint wants to hear about.
No one at SHIELD will call him to tell him if anything happens to her. He is "still leveling out" as they put it. That was just last week. As if he cannot keep his head on straight after two years. He might be broken, but he is capable of holding himself together. If anything, being away from his work and from his partner for so long has made it harder to manage more than anything else.
It is strange for him to think of Natasha as his partner when they have not worked together in two years. It is strange to think that she has been working with Captain America for some time. It makes him sad to think that Strike Team Delta is gone. They were a good team – they were the best.
They still talk about him at SHIELD. They still talk about Barton and Romanoff – about how they never failed and how they never had an extraction plan. They never needed one. No matter how bad the situation got, they had each others' backs.
The thoughts that are flying through his head are scattered. They are flying. It was simpler before. He grabs his coffee and walks out of the shop. His thoughts are going in circles and he sees the common theme. He wants to be needed. He wants to help, like he did when it was just him, Natasha, and Coulson. Like he did when they Avengers came together. He wants to see her – he wants her to be alive. If he loses Natasha, he does not know what he will do. It does not matter that he has not seen her in six months. She is his partner and his closest friend. He loves her. She knows that he does. He knows that he is the same to her.
His hand jumps to the little bit of metal that hangs around his neck. His fingers run over the hourglass and the arrow that hangs next to it before he tucks it back beneath his shirt. It reminded him of the day he had given her the arrow necklace she had taken with her when she had gone off on the latest assignment.
He goes back to his apartment, wandering into the bedroom and retrieving his bow. He climbs up to the roof of the building and allows himself to get lost in shooting. It is easier not to think about it. He needs to know if she is safe and he will drive himself crazy if he does not keep himself occupied. He knows she is more than capable of taking care of herself, but seeing the helicarrier crash has him out of sorts.
It is dark when his phone starts to buzz in his back pocket. He releases the arrow in his hand, reaching for the phone before it even hits the target. The number is unavailable but that does not matter to him.
"Hey," she says when he answers. She sounds breathless and tired, but the sound of her voice releases some of the stress from his muscles.
"Hey," he responds.
"I'm on my way to Chicago," she tells him.
"What about debriefing? Hill will have your head if you get out of there without a debriefing."
"Forget Hill."
He smiles. "She'll have my head for it if you don't debrief," he says. The hint of a laugh enters his voice. He can practically hear her rolling her eyes.
"I'm coming home, Clint."
He can hear the Hill isn't going to stop me in her voice. "Good."
They hang up and he goes to put his bow away. They will go off somewhere, to one of their safe houses or rent something somewhere. Everything will be the same and entirely different at the same time. They are assassins – they work for SHIELD. They technically don't exist. Nothing ever stays the same in their line of work – except for each other. That is all they need.