He is tired. Dead on his feet, to the bone tired. It has been twelve days, five hours, and three minutes since he found out that his cover was blown. Twelve days, two hours, and nine minutes since he discovered S.H.I.E.L.D. had fallen. Twelve days, two hours, and eight minutes since he realized he was completely on his own. Since then, he's fought his way out of two ambushes, hiked through twenty-seven miles of desert and mountain range, spent four nights on the streets, and worked his way across the Atlantic on a freighter.
But the world has kept on turning.
Two weeks ago he had friends, coworkers, a steady job with good pay if not long life-expectancy, several solid bank accounts, and a dozen covers and safehouses. Today he has his bow, four arrows, a handgun with single magazine, three dollars and seventeen cents, and a key to a safehouse that may not even be safe anymore. It wasn't listed on his S.H.I.E.L.D. file and he used cash to buy the dilapidated house off a dirt road, but it's not impossible that it could've been traced. He doesn't trust anything anymore.
But he needs a shower and some clean clothes, and right now a dusty can of beans sounds like the best meal in the world. Most of all he needs an empty space to sort through what has happened and where he's going next.
He spends a half-hour watching the dark house to ensure there's no movement inside. By half past one he's tired of waiting, so he takes a final slow sweep of the perimeter for anything suspicious: nothing. It's no guarantee but he'll take what he can get before entering the house. He retrieves a flashlight from its hiding place under the front porch, a precaution against just such a night.
Everything is quiet when he slips through the back door and peers around with his flashlight. It's the lack of dust on the floor that gets him. As the stove light is turned on, he raises his gun at the figure waiting across the kitchen. He's unsurprised at who it is and that she's pointing a gun at him too.
He is surprised that he doesn't lower his right away. He'll try to think of any good reason later but for now he can't release his hold.
The silence hangs between the fingers on the triggers for far too long. But he doesn't know what to say.
"You're alive." There's a slight trace of relief in the statement.
"I survived." He tries to keep his voice level, the accusation out of his tone, because it isn't really her fault.
Two more seconds pass before she deliberately lowers her weapon. He does the same, but stays where he is.
"You're filthy. Take a shower and I'll heat something up."
He nods his assent, but waits until she turns her back to rummage in the cupboard before leaving the room. He could see the sting of his distrust on her face, but he knows she understands, even if he'll regret it later.
But the world keeps on turning.
The beans do taste delicious. They're much better warmed up with whatever spices Natasha added than eaten cold from the can. She eats her small bowlful slowly, letting him devour the pan in silence. When he's done he pushes his chair away and makes it to the doorway before her voice stops him.
"Clint, I'm sorry."
"No need to be."
"I didn't know your mission was ongoing."
He turns around to face her before asking, "If you did, would you have made a different call?"
She looks him in the eye. "No."
"You did the right thing, Tasha. It hurt a lot of people. But you saved more. It's just hard." And with a nod at her he stumbles into the bedroom and collapses onto the bed. He's asleep before he even appreciates the fresh sheets.
The sun is going down by the time he wakes up, its light rosy around the blinds. He thinks about rolling over and falling asleep again but knows he'd better get up and make sure he still has a housemate keeping an eye on things. Plus, he's hungry, so he wanders into the kitchen.
"I'm afraid we're all out of milk," she says, entering as he's staring at the five cans of beans in the top cupboard.
"Is the fridge even plugged in?" Clint asks, wondering if he should dare opening it; he's not sure if he cleaned it out the last time he was here.
"Nothing in it. At least nothing now," she says pointedly. Apparently he didn't. "There's some rice that doesn't look too damp to go with those beans. Or there're some oats if you don't want to risk it."
Oatmeal has never been on his list of favorite foods, but it's quick and passes Natasha's standards of food safety (low, but not as low as his). She digs out a jar of peach jelly that Clint doesn't remember buying, and deems the crystallization safe enough to add it to their oatmeal. She takes her bowl and moves toward the folding table where they ate late last night, but he nods at the back door.
"I remember a great view out back, and it's still daylight." It's not quite an apology.
"Barely. You did your best to sleep it through." But she opens the door and sits down on the step, and he settles next to her. He drinks in the scene in front of them as they eat: from the step he can see down the hill to the surrounding woods and farmland and the tops of several surrounding hills.
"How's the view?" she asks after a few minutes.
"Different. There used to be more trees there and there, and that field used to be pasture. I guess that barn over that a-way finally fell down. " He falls silent for a moment, considering the landscape more carefully. "But those fields are the same, and the huge oak is still there. That hill hasn't changed nor those houses over there, and that pond's just as always."
"Sounds like it hasn't changed that much."
"Yeah, maybe not. It's still beautiful and the," he pauses, glancing at her, "the soul's still the same. Maybe I've just changed."
"Everyone does. It's not necessarily a bad thing," she says. "Not if you remember who you were and who you're going to be."
"I know."
They sit quietly as the stars come out, the weight of the past two weeks settling in.
"What're we going to do, Clint?"
"I don't know, Nat. I don't know."
But the world will keep on turning.
A/N: Thanks for reading! I'd love to hear what you'd thought, so please do comment; flames will be sent to help bring down HYDRA.
Many thanks to my sisters and to Lastavica for proofreading and suggestions.