They drag themselves home. It's not really home of course, home is where each other is, but it is somewhere other than the endless SHIELD bases or crappy motel rooms so she guesses it could be considered a home. She drives, Clint fiddling with the radio and singing along in a raspy country accent that she laughs at and loves just the same.
Their apartment is small and on the wrong-side-run-down area of town. It's on the top floor 'cause Clint likes the height and hates the feeling of being contained and it's private and desolate which she likes because being isolated isn't so bad if he's there to be isolated with.
They have a fight over the shower. He demands that she goes first but she just shoves him in and tells him to hurry up and that he better not waste all of the hot water otherwise he would be boiling a kettle twenty-three times so she could wash in heat. This happens every single time. He sings cheerily in that country voice of his butt naked in the shower that doesn't have a curtain cause 'what's the point Tasha? This way you can see my perfect ass' and she sits on the counter, methodically cleaning her knives and the barrels of her guns. Soon enough she's under the burning spray with dirt and debris and blood all flowing off of her body and down the drain in a bloody-black swirl and the fruity shampoo smells so good as she massages her tender and slightly burnt scalp. Clint sits on the toilet lid, 'you're just too fat to fit on the counter Barton', and is humming while shaving off the days' worth of stubble from his throat and cutting his nails with one of her newly-cleaned knives.
Then, they stitch each other up. Amateur sutures, superglue and brandy serving as a substitute for proper medical equipment but both have a fierce vendetta against hospitals so unless they have their guts hanging out, they'll deal with it themselves.
After, they crawl into the double bed that takes up the whole of their bedroom. It smells clean and the sheets are cool, they only stay there for a couple of days every month. Natasha makes sure her favourite tourney knife is under her pillow and Clint takes out his hearing aids, checks their alarm clock and pagers, even on their off days the can get called in at any moment.
They don't snuggle in bed, it wouldn't be wise, if one of them was to have a nightmare they were trained to kill first and ask questions later so they sleep side by side, shoulders, hips and legs all perfectly aligned and hands delicately clasped. Clint kisses her forehead and she kisses his stubbly cheek, 'you know you love it really Nat', and they fall asleep like that. Touching and entwined and safe.
In the morning, he makes her breakfast because she's just as lethal in the kitchen as she is with a paperclip, which is pretty deadly (she may be his partner-more-than-just-partners but she was still the Black Widow with an infamous reputation), she had tried to make pancakes but they had ended up burnt black to a crisp and oozing green gunge. They wake at different times depending which time zone they spent the last week in but their bodies are so used to it by now and so wrecked and longing for sleep that they pass out for a damn long time. It could be four o'clock in the morning he wakes up or nine at night but he always makes pancakes and she always wakes up right after.