Dawn breaks just as miserably gray as the day before, and Clint's hasn't managed anything more than an hour or two of smoke-thin slumber. He's going on day three without proper sleep and his brain feels like it is vibrating. That along with the halo around the ceiling light in the bathroom tells him he'll probably start seeing movement out of the corners of his eyes within the next few hours.
He leans against the bathroom counter and stares dully at the water going down the drain as he waits for it to run cold. God, he would give just about anything for a chance to take a break from life right now. Just for a little while. A pause button, that's what he wants, some way to get a little well-deserved R&R away from the disaster area that is his head right now.
But Clint doesn't have a magic button, so he sticks his head under the faucet and gets on with the day as best as he can. He needs to eat something and procrbstination will do him zero good, so he heads out a few minutes later.
Between the still slightly damp clothes, the wind, and the fatigue he's miserably cold by the time he reaches the small 24-hour store a few blocks down. Clint gathers a couple of bottles of water, a bag of Doritos, two bagels, an apple, a bag of peanuts, and a frozen pizza. There are only two other customers in the fairly spacious store, but he keeps feeling like there's someone right behind him and his hand itches for the gun that is holstered under his jacket. When he turns, there is never anyone there. Despite the chill in his bones, he's sweating by the time he's at the counter.
The cashier's one-second smile is as fake as her black hair, and thank god for bored employees he thinks, because she doesn't even look at him properly, just rings up his things and rattles out what he assumes is the total. He hands her a twenty. Her black-painted nails click against the register keys, and he watches her carefully for any sign that she's waiting for more money, but it seems like that covers it, and Clint is more than grateful to get out of the store.
He stops outside of a liquor store on his way back and seriously contemplates getting something cheap and liver-damaging and drink himself stupid. Stupider, because out of the many, many poorly thought out things he's done in his life, this surely ranks up there among the top five. Sure, he's always been impulsive, but there's a difference between impulsive and stupid. He rubs at his dry eyes and sighs, nixing the idea of a booze induced trip to oblivion, because trying to resist more stupidity seems like a good idea.
When he gets back to the room he looks at the bagel for a long time, then puts it back in the bag. He opens the bag of Doritos, puts one in his mouth, then stows that away, too, because the smell is making his stomach do decidedly unpleasant things. The water, at least, is tolerable, and he downs half a bottle.
He rubs his fingers on his t-shirt to get rid of the Dorito dust and looks glumly around the room. Despite his chosen profession, he's not a solitary creature by nature. He likes being around people, but he's self-aware enough to know that even on a good day he's a distrustful bastard, and that makes this situation more hellish than if he'd been blissfully ignorant of what people are capable of. Cheerfully paranoid, Phil had once called him, and for good reason. Clint has trusted very few people in his life, really trusted, and one of them turned on him, one of them is dead because of him, and the third, well, she's gonna kill him once she catches up with him. She will catch up, sooner or later, and most likely she has already gotten tarps, rolls of duct tape, a hacksaw or two, and spent part of the time he's been in the wind by scouting out a dump site where his dismembered body will never be found. She's fond of West Virginia.
He toes off his sneakers and curls up on the bed. He closes his eyes, but has to open them again, because it feels like the room is spinning lazily. No need for that bottle after all, sleep deprivation is a cheap buzz. From his position on the bed he can see a small slice of gray sky outside the small window, and the clouds look heavy and wet, soothing in their colorlessness. He tries but fails to stop the parade of dire predictions his brain keeps throwing at him. They all still boil down to this: He's exposed, helpless. Useless. Tony's suggestion about the shooting range is a pipe dream. Unless the people phobia subsides – which knowing his luck it won't – how the hell is he going to function with a bunch of people who are not only crammed into a confined area with him, but who are also holding loaded guns? And besides, who would take him on? Shield has his history and his merits, but they're not a charity, and that's what he'd be. A charity case.
It's like prodding at a broken tooth with your tongue, but he can't stop himself from closing his eyes and trying to visualize the alphabet for the hundredth time. What comes to mind is another confusing jumble of shapes. He then tries to visualize Phil. Nothing. Fury. Nothing. Stark. Steve. Bruce. Hill. The lunch lady. Carlos Hernandez down in the motor pool. He leaves Natasha till last. He can remember a hundred instances of sitting next to her in Phil's office, sitting next to her on stake-outs, across from her in fast-food restaurants all over the world. He remembers the sound of her voice in the comm unit in his ear, complementing Phil's during their jobs together. She's there, so intensely there, but when he tries to focus on what she looks like, on her face, it's like everything loses cohesion and slides out of focus. She's been a constant in his life for so long, a fierce, slightly stand off-ish constant that showed him what true loyalty means. She has shaped Clint, just as much as Phil did, and now she might as well be dead, too.
Clint thinks that would probably hurt less.
'* '* '*
Two days later he has to admit what he has kind of known all along: he needs to head back. What other choice does he have, realistically? Well, he can think of two, one involves going to ground permanently and the other involves his gun, and both of them are bad. In the early hours of the last night there, Loki shows up in glorious full-HD in a nightmare, taunting Clint with details of all the damage he had so willingly wreaked during those few days. He wakes kneeling on the floor with the gun in his hand and with Loki's 'kill her' fading in his ears. Once he's past the hyperventilation and the adrenaline shakes, he curses the unfairness of it all, because of course the only face he can recognize is his.
It's still dark when he heads out, and he ends up walking around for a few hours. He doesn't care about staying out of sight this time. It's time to face the music, buckle down, make the best of the situation, get back up on the horse, and a million other stupid expressions that mean that he needs to get his shit together and stop being an idiot. If the experts can't fix this and this truly is his future, there's no better place to get his bearings and figure out his options than in the tower. It's safe. Provided it hasn't been compromised the annoying little voice whispers, but he shuts it down, because seriously, brain, this is Tony Stark and JARVIS we're talking about, and the thought of the two of them dropping the ball on security (today or any day in the future) is pretty preposterous.
Turning the last corner still feels like stepping up in front of a paper target at the end of a shooting range.
As the sun rises he sits on the cold stone steps in front of the building across from Stark tower, elbows on his knees and head in his hands, waiting for the inevitable. JARVIS perimeter cameras cover every square inch of the tower's surroundings, and he's absolutely sure facial recognition software has been running continuously since he took off.
It takes longer than he expects, but eventually someone climbs the steps and sits down next to him. He doesn't look up. He doesn't want to, because he knows it will be a stranger sitting there. His peripheral vision tells him it's a woman. Natasha, then. Probably. Maybe.
For a long time she does nothing, just sits next to him and watches the street fill up with people going about their day, then her hand slips into his field of vision. He looks at the key chain that dangles from her finger, a small, smurf-blue Kali figure in cheap plastic. He starts reaching for it, then stops. In the end he just flicks it a lightly with his finger and watches it twirl on its chain. When he doesn't do anything more, she eventually gives it an impatient little shake. Clint takes the hint and opens his palm to let her drop it there.
His throat feels tight as he turns the little figure over in his hand and runs his finger over the broken plastic.
"Didn't know you kept it," he mumbles.
Mumbai. Three years ago. He saw it at a market he passed through and through it was fitting. Natasha had been delighted, even though he had managed to break off one of the deity's four arms before he could even give it to her.
Her hand comes to rest lightly on his forearm, and he tenses up. He knows what she wants. She wants him to look at her, wants him to recognize her. He wants that, too, he wants that more than he has wanted anything in his whole life. He takes a breath, steeling himself, before letting his gaze move from her hand, up along her arm and finally to her face. He sees the same hopeful glimmer in her eyes that he feels inside, too, and he takes in her red hair, her eyes, her cheekbones, the swell of her lips, her nose, the line of her neck, her build, her smell, her energy.
And he recognizes nothing.
He breaks eye contact, but not before seeing her deflating a little, too. He swallows the painful disappointment and stares down at his scuffed sneakers. Thomas's sneakers. The relief of recognizing the little key chain is gone, and he feels so defeated. He presses his hand over his eyes. He knew this was going to happen, knew he hadn't miraculously been cured, but hope is a cruel thing, and Clint has always been a little too willing to let it in.
Natasha's hand wraps around his arm and pulls him up. He goes, too tired to resist, and she leads him by the hand across the street. She lets go of him before they reach the lobby and the security guards there. It's only when he gets inside that he realizes how cold he really is, and a belated shiver runs through him as he crosses his arms tightly over his chest. Natasha presses the elevator button and Clint looks around while they wait. He hasn't been in the public areas for so long, not since before this all started, and has it always been this big? Someone calls out from across the lobby, and fuck, Clint ducks his head at the painful screech in his ears. Natasha whisks him into the elevator that thankfully chooses this very moment to arrive.
When the doors slide close and the elevator starts to move, she waits a few seconds, then makes a slow, deliberate motion with her hand. She has to do it again for Clint to catch on. Her call sign. She's making her own call sign. A moment later one of the spotlights in the ceiling glows brighter and focuses on her. She's giving him another proof of identity. Clint nods and tries to give her a smile that will pass as somewhat genuine. She doesn't smile back, she just looks softly sad, and maybe this isn't Natasha after all, because Natasha's sadness isn't soft, it comes with hard edges and sharp teeth. He rubs at his temples. Stop it. It's her. Who else would have that ugly little thing, and also, remember the Stark/JARVIS team? They're too good to let just anyone into the inner sanctum. It's her.
The elevator makes a soft 'ding' and the doors slide open. Clint is relieved to see they're at his floor. He's really not feeling up to facing the others just yet. Natasha sweeps her hand over the panel at the first set of doors and the locks click quietly. Biometric recognition. Yet another type of identification. All of it for his benefit, no doubt, because JARVIS would normally have opened the doors for her without that.
Clint trails her silently down the corridor and everything is wrong. He wants to feel grateful and safe, and he should, knowing Natasha is here, but he doesn't. He doesn't feel anything. His step falters and he blinks in surprise as Natasha and the floor ahead starts tilting. Sluggishly at first, then with more speed, and suddenly the wall smacks him in the face.
Ouch. That hurts.
