Fury handed him the medical suspension with surprising delicacy.
If by surprising you meant that Clint had seen it coming ever since he'd awkwardly forced down some shawarma with a motley bunch of security threats and finally had a few moments to himself to process what the fuck had just happened to him.
And if by delicacy you meant absolutely none at all.
But he took it in his stride. Life had been throwing these shitty lemons at him his entire life. It was about time this career soured in his hands. He'd dealt with this before, and he'd probably come out the other end alright. He had skills, some of which were transferrable, some were not. But he'd walk that road when he came to it. For now he'd be a good boy and play the waiting game.
He didn't cause a scene in Fury's office, or in the hallway once he was out. He didn't throw a tantrum once he got back to his quarters to collect his things. The less fuss he made, the better off he'd be in the long run. No need to burn bridges. He was a patient man, he was used to waiting.
Maybe it was telling that most of his belongings fit into a duffel bag, or at least the ones that were essential. He had a stack of DVDs on a shelf that he left (he could buy another copy of the Hitchcock collection) and the dirty clothes in the hamper in the corner weren't worth packing. He left all his toiletries, and the assorted knick-knacks that rested along the raised metal bar that was fitted into the wall beside his bunk. They were cheap little porcelain souvenirs he'd collected at airports over the years. There was a little Eiffel tower, a little model of a golden Japanese temple, a fake Fabergé egg, a small set of babushka dolls, all of which had toppled over in the chaos of his attack on the helicarrier. He righted the dolls before he left, and shut the door behind him.
His resolve wavered a little as he passed the elevator for the armory, as he thought of his bow. They wouldn't release a weapon to an agent on a medical suspension. He wouldn't make a fuss.
He waved goodbye to one of the junior agents who passed him in the hallway, and made his way back to the quinjet transport that would get him back on solid land.
He kept an apartment, but it'd been at least three months since he'd last spent any time there. The New Mexico mission kept him on base almost 24/7, and it wasn't worth the commute back to NY every time he was given two days rec leave. Before that he'd been bounced from mission to mission and it was easier to catch a break on the helicarrier than it was to come home.
The large oak trees out the front of his apartment had turned a burnished gold, and there was a healthy layer of dusty red leaves littering the walk up to the stairs. Clint fumbled with the keys a little before he finally picked out the silver one that would let him into the darkened foyer. It took him a few seconds to remember where the timed light switch was, on the wall just to the left of the doorway, which he pressed and the fluro light flickered to life with an audible buzz.
The ugly paint job was the same, a mildly offensive orange with a cream trim. Locked post boxes for each of the apartments lined one side and the body corp's bulletin board hung on the opposite wall. He retrieved his mail as quickly as he could, knowing the timed light would run out prematurely, and tackled the stairs with a fist full of junk mail in one hand and the overnight bag full of his worthwhile possessions in the other.
Clint's apartment was on the top floor, in the far corner of the complex. The estate agent who'd rented it to him originally had bragged that it was the cheapest apartment in the building, but that wasn't why he'd signed the contract. It was the only one that didn't have a wall that faced the street front, and instead had a rather sombre view of the apartment building behind. Not much of a selling point. But he'd sacrifice a nice view of the park across the street for security any day to satiate his paranoia.
His paranoia had kept him alive this long, even if it didn't much help him sleep at night.
The apartment itself was dark and musty, sparsely furnished for practicality, rather than livability. But he had the essentials: fridge, shower, bed. There was a TV set up in the living room, and a couch. The kitchen cupboard had a decent array of canned food, long-life milk and other non-perishable foodstuffs, most of which had been bought in bulk and which he had slowly been picking away at during his very rare stops home. It was likely he'd be here for a while, so he figured he might splurge and get some fresh vegetables to supplement his meals.
He tossed the fistful of mail onto the kitchen bench to sort through later, and made a beeline to the master bedroom, dumping his bag in the corner. The bed was still tussled and unmade from the last time he'd stayed the night, and he knew that he should strip the sheets and put fresh ones down. But now he was here, and he was finally alone, and somewhat at home, he simply didn't give a shit. It was a problem for tomorrow.
He kicked off his boots and pants and flopped ungracefully into the centre of the bed, feeling like a marionette that had had its strings severed. In a monumental expense of effort he grasped the nearest pillow and shoved it beneath his ear, taking a deep, slow breath in through the nose, and out through the mouth.
And he slept.
It came it fits and spurts, occasionally interrupted by disturbing flashes of dreams that were nothing more than feelings of unease and discomfort. They were mild in the scheme of things and fall far short of the recurring nightmares and spasms of terror that had characterised his sleep before, but it was disruptive enough that he tossed and turned most of the night, getting only a modicum of rest, and when he woke up his legs were tangled and twisted in the musty sheets. For a few moments he lay there with his eyes closed and thought to himself that if he just stayed there long enough, maybe sleep would return and he wouldn't have to function for just a little while longer. But there was a pressure in his bladder that needed to be seen to and his belly rumbled for something more substantial than greasy shawarma.
He finally worked up the energy to kick the sheets off and rolled out of bed, pulling off his stinky rancid shirt as he stood. He flung it over his shoulder, knowing it'd land in the laundry basket, and it was only then, when he was standing in nothing else but boxers he'd been wearing for three days, that he realised someone else was iin his apartment.
There wasn't any distinctive noise, no tell-tale shuffling or movement on the other side of his bedroom door. He couldn''t quite put his finger on exactly why he knew he wasn't alone here anymore- maybe he could detect a subtle change in the ambient temperature- who the fuck knew. Clint was paid to be paranoid, and he just iknew/i.
To worry about why he has only just noticed the invasion of his space would've been a waste of time. Though he did acknowledge to himself that he must've been more exhausted and wiped out than even he'd imagined. Fuck, he didn't even know what time it was, let alone how long he'd been asleep for. All he could afford to allow was a plan to form- choices needed to be made: would he fight? Would he disable? Would he kill? Or would he run?
No switch needed to be clicked in his mind for him to be back in the zone, no change in attitude needed to be made. He was glad he still had his socks on, as they made moving silently through his bedroom that much easier. He fetched his gun from his dresser drawer, knowing by the weight alone that it had a full clip, and he thumbed the safety off, pointing it through the closed door. He paused with his right hand on the doorknob for a fraction of a second, hyper alert for any noise or vibration through the walls that would indicate to him what part of the apartment the intruder is in, but whoever it was, their stealth skills were far too good. No matter. His quick observation and reflexes should be enough.
He twisted the knob and darted into the living room, immediately taking shelter behind his old black sofa, scanning the room in a fraction of a second as he moved. "The FUCK, Natasha?" He yelled from the floor, immediately clicking the safety back on, and finally allowed his heartbeat to bubble up in panic in his chest.
"Is that any way to thank me for bringing you breakfast?" The assassin called lightly from the kitchen, and now there was no longer a door between him he could put his finger on what it was that clued him into her presence here. The faint smell of warm, buttery croissants and freshly brewed coffee. The woman herself was wielding a sharp knife, deftly slicing fresh strawberries to add to what seemed to be the beginnings of a fruit salad.
"I could've killed you." He said, pulling himself using the back of his sofa.
"I knew you'd figure it out in time." She said, depositing the diced red fruit into the bowl next to her. "Breakfast will be ready in about ten minutes. Go have a shower."
"You couldn't call ahead?" He sputtered, glaring. It was as though fighting aliens had just made her throw out their entire book.
Natasha wiped a slightly juicy hand on a dish towel and whipped her cell phone out of a pocket somewhere on her person. She deftly keyed in a few numbers and switched it to speaker-phone, so he could hear the outgoing call himself.
The call rang four or five times, and then connected to his own message bank recording, but there was no corresponding tinny trill of his own phone coming anywhere from within the apartment. It was then that Natasha raised a pointed eyebrow at him, and said: "I suspect you may have misplaced your cell phone, and since you never bothered to get a landline connected here…" She trailed off, and it finally occurred to him the last time he'd had his phone was back in his locker in New Mexico, a base that no longer had a post code… among other things.
"Oh." He said, feeling utterly deflated. All the resentment and anger that had been pooling in his belly just a moment ago had been sucked away and replaced by the unease and discomfort that had plagued his sleep.
"Go shower." Natasha repeated, more quietly this time, then returned to slicing her fruit.
He emerged about fifteen minutes later with a towel wrapped around his hips, and he felt a little better. If nothing else, he felt a little more alert and awake, and when he sat down at his stool, Natasha placed a steaming mug of fresh coffee under his nose, along with a serving of the fruit salad.
After a few mouthfuls coffee (made precisely the way he preferred it) and about half the bowl of fruit, he mustered up the courage to say: "Sorry about before," but Natasha was already shrugging it off before he had a chance to finish.
"Don't worry about it." She said, and in such a tone that he dropped the topic straight away, and instead shovelled a cube of melon into his mouth, swallowing the rest of his apology down with it.
Clint kept eating and took the time to surreptitiously check up on his partner while she tidied up his kitchen. She hadn't spent as much time in medical after the battle as he had- getting that much glass removed from your skin took a bit longer than a cortisone injection to the ankle- but she still had a rather impressive bruise peeking out from her blouse. And of course she iwas/i favouring that ankle, ever so slightly. He would wager his back-up bow and a full quiver of modified tipped arrows that the doctor had given her strict instructions to keep off that foot and keep it elevated and yet here she was, placing a freshly baked croissant under his nose.
"Sit down, Nat." He said, toeing the stool beside him out from beneath the lip of the bench.
She pushed her own bowl and coffee mug across the counter and took the offered seat without protest.
"Paranoia: scale of one to ten." She said to him.
"Seven," he replied immediately, to which she raised an eyebrow. "Hey, I slept last night iand/i didn't shoot you through the door when I knew someone was in here."
She shrugged her head to the side, conceding the validity of his point, then took a sip of her coffee, clasping the mug securely in both hands. "Pain?"
"Two. Itchiness'll be a factor in a few days though." He gestured to the healing scabs that were visible across his arms and back. Natasha uncoiled a hand from around the mug to gently press at some of the undamaged skin around the wounds, clinically inspecting the repair work the doctors had performed. Clint let her conduct her examination, only flinching when her fingers accidentally pressed a little too hard on one of his deeper bruises.
"Sorry," she murmured, trailing her fingers lightly away from the problem area. "I'll bring you some salve."
"I think I still have some leftover from Venice."
"If you don't, I definitely do. Let me know, I'll bring it round tomorrow." Natasha said, and tucked into her fruit salad.
They sat in companionable silence long enough for Clint to polish off two of the croissants and half of his cup of coffee. With anyone else Clint would've felt obliged to fill the silence with conversation, no matter how awkward it might be, or how unenthusiastic he might feel. But Nat seemed happy to finish off her own breakfast and left him in peace for now.
It wasn't until she'd finished the last of her own strawberries that she asked her next question, but it was the one he'd been anticipating since the day before, and half the reason he fled the helicarrier so quickly. "How long are you benched for?" She asked, collecting the bowls and plates, but left him to nurse his coffee a little longer.
"Pending psych evals." Clint shrugs.
"Would you pass if you took one today?"
"Not without faking it."
Natasha nodded slowly and placed the used crockery in the sink. He watched as she calmly plugged the sink and turned on the faucet, using her fingers to test the water as it heated, finally adjusting it to an acceptable temperature. It was soothing to watch her perform such a menial task, and he knew that he should offer to help. But he also knew that if he offered, she would not let him. She took some sort of weird morbid pleasure in these quiet domestic tasks. They were simple and mindless and easily accomplished. He had never been suspended for any reason since she'd begun working for SHIELD. He supposed he was not the only one who would have to adjust.
"I'm gonna find some clothes," Clint said, and finished off his coffee in one large gulp.
When he returned, wearing clean jeans and a simple grey shirt, the dishes were done and Natasha was wiping down the bench, holding a bundle of envelopes in the hand not methodically dragging a sponge across the countertop. It was the mail he'd collected from his post box the night before, saved from a spongy and moist future, by a woman determined to wipe away more than just croissant crumbs.
"Here," She said, holding the letters out. He took them, and began immediately flicking through them while he waited for Natasha to collect herself. She was the one who'd been in this position before, and though they hadn't ever spoken about it explicitly, they both knew he was going to take his lead from her. And if she needed time to process? Well, he was a patient man.
He could tell what most of the letters were by the watermarks or the return addresses. Bank statements, mostly. An electricity bill that he'd paid online a month ago, but there was one envelope that was curiously blank and void of anything that immediately identified it. He slipped a nail underneath the edge and ripped the seal apart.
"I think," Natasha said finally, returning the sponge to the sink. "I think that we need to get you back into a routine."
"Level out?" He asked.
"Level out." She said with a nod. "It's not a bad thing, taking time off to adjust. You need to find your normal again."
He chuckled, unable to really help himself. "Not sure I've ever had that," He said, wryly.
"We'll get you a hobby." Natasha said, lips twisted into a smirk.
He returned his gaze to the letter held in his hands, reading the first few lines, before he skimmed the rest.
"Looks like I'll have something else to occupy my time," He said finally, and handed Natasha the letter.
To Clinton Barton,
JURY SUMMONS
You have been randomly selected to serve as a juror in the US District Court: Southern District of New York.