It was quiet in the truck.
Aside from the radio crooning softly between Clint and Hill. It barely reached the point of hearing, as if it wasn't sure it should make any noise.
And aside from the rattling and sputtering of the truck itself that couldn't say any clearer 'fix me, I'm on my last legs', which Clint ignored.
The shopping they'd collected a silent intruder to their thoughts.
It hadn't been quiet in there. In the store.
Tannoy announcements. Scanned barcodes. Buzzing clamour of many people all at once. And through it all cut the judging, robotic voice of the self-service tills that announced to everyone gathered nearby that someone in their midst had done something wrong.
A worm of anxiety had burrowed its way into Clint's gut as he stood on the threshold, soaking in the extreme amount of humanity. He had ventured into the world since the population boom, but never during peak shopping hours.
His knuckles had turned white with the tightening of his grip on the trolley.
For five years the big crowds he'd been a part of had all involved violence. Not getting caught in the aisle between a man who smelled like he'd refused to wash during those five years, and a middle-aged woman with a curious compulsion to narrate her life story while grabbing a carton of milk.
Hill noticed, because that's the sort of thing she did, and disappeared only to come back with armfuls of items to tick off their list. She had ushered him up and down the aisles, kept up a chatter that was nothing but distraction.
And yet it hadn't distracted him as much as the disagreement he'd heard between a customer and a sales assistant.
"I'm sorry sir," the latter had said, "but if your name isn't on the list I can't serve you alcohol."
"What crap," the customer said, voice lowered to make himself sound older.
"I'm just following the rules sir, and the list says you were taken in the Blip. Until the new IDs are sent you can't buy alcohol."
Clint's grip strangled the trolley handle.
The Blip.
That was like calling the World Wars the Minor Disagreements.
Still, there was some logic. An atrocious name for an atrocious event.
His annoyance - no, no, best not to beat around the bush - his anger at the name kept him going until they reached the tills at the front of the store. Where bunting was strung up along the windows.
And he came crashing back to the life he lived.
Thank you Iron Man.
Another mini memorial to one of his lost friends.
Lost? It's not like he misplaced them. He was a grown man. He should be able to think the word. Dead.
The mind was a strange place, he'd decided. At home he'd accepted, or was accepting, it. But when confronted by the world around him he found it harder. Despite the overwhelming evidence.
Of the lack of one of his friends.
He tried not to take it personally.
If the farm was like her home then the town was the closest she had to a hometown. And her passing had passed it by.
Hill coughed. With it came the cranky sounding truck and the realisation he was approaching a red light. He braked. The shopping shuffled together. A thunk as something fell over.
Clint sighed and Hill smiled, but it wasn't long before it faded.
"I'm worried about Rogers," she said.
"Did the old man crossing the road remind you of that?"
"You know you really should respect your elders, Barton. Your kids will learn from your example and, to be honest, I can't wait to see what kind of crap they're gonna pull with you."
"At least I'll know I've taught them well."
The old man struggled onto the high kerb and carried on out of sight. The light stayed red and Clint felt compelled to carry on their conversation.
"What's got you worried?"
"His lack of an emotional support assassin."
"His lack of a what?" Clint asked. The light turned green and the truck started to move again with a cacophony of operatic squeals.
"Ooh, can you turn in here," she tapped her window, "bookstore."
"Sure," he said and indicated.
"Emotional support assassin. You know, rooftop meetings in the depths of night. Profound conversations. Comfortable silences where they just go about doing their own thing but in each other's company. Like it or not, she was his you."
"She was what now?"
"When Natasha came to her new life in America it was a world she didn't know. Yes, there were similarities, but it was a different way of living. There were things she didn't understand. But you were there all the way, encouraging her, helping her, guiding her. She settled because you helped. And she paid it forward with Rogers."
Clint pulled into a parking space and didn't say anything to the woman sitting across from him. His mind was back on the plateau where they'd shared their last moments together. And he understood a little bit more why she fought so hard. He had felt lost after Coulson's death. Even worse whenever he remembered he had a part to play in it, however inadvertent. But he had his family to recover with and Nat to grieve with.
"Are you saying someone needs to speak to him?"
"If he would even talk," Hill sighed, "he might give his emotions away without much prompting but he's almost as private as she was. He was in so much pain yesterday, didn't you see? He was right back there in the room during her description of Bruce's transformation. He relived every word, same for their drive in the blizzard. And their little gift exchange, hearing her write about those drawings - at one point I thought he was gonna bolt out the room. I mean, Jesus, I had a lump in my throat and I wasn't even there."
They clambered out of the car and slammed the doors shut behind them. Clint took a deep breath, all too familiar with the shop they were about to enter.
"I'm worried about him," Hill repeated, "he might be one of the best strategic minds around, but he makes rash decisions and if left to his own devices I feel like he's going to make a bad one."
"I'm not sure what I can do," Clint said, checking the road before crossing, "I don't know him like she did."
"But you knew her. You know what she would say. The only time he looked different yesterday was when she said he was a man born before his time. I think he seemed a little proud, or happy. Whatever it was, it was different from this depression he's given in to. For his sake, he needs someone to talk to."
"He needs the right person to talk to, Hill. I'm not sure that's me."
"Have to try, right?"
They stood outside the store. There were peeling letters stuck to the aged window. Hill had never struck Clint as much of a reader, but then neither had Nat and she proved him wrong too.
"Why'd you wanna go here?" Clint asked.
"Got a long trip coming up, need some material. And I never really get on with eReaders."
Inside, the air was dusty, as it always was in a second-hand bookstore. The aging books scented the space and covers of all shapes and sizes stared back at them. His companion was the first to step from the much worn welcome mat and deeper into the store.
The light that filtered in from outside was hazy. A film of dust spread across the windows. In any other shop it wouldn't look right. But in that one it felt fitting.
He rarely visited it without Natasha. In fact, the last time he was in there was before the whole Accords thing blew up in their faces. They spent over an hour browsing the shelves and talking to the owner. Afterwards she said it was payback for the time he spent an hour drooling over a crossbow she knew he wasn't going to buy because he much preferred long bows.
"Mister Barton?" A strong but weary voice called from behind the till, the owner was an elderly man that refused to let age chip away at his posture, "and - oh, you're not Laura. Or Nadia."
Hill smiled and introduced herself. She didn't question the stranger's name for Nat, knowing full well it was one of her many aliases. She did, however, struggle to hide her grin at the sight of the man's very loud bow tie.
"Ugly, isn't it?" The shopkeeper said, straightening it while it was under scrutiny, "but that's why I like it so much."
The man adjusted some books on a table and Clint searched his brain for a name to put to the face but came up empty. In the end he was saved the embarrassment when the older man spoke again.
"Haven't seen you in a while. Though I suspect it's been longer for you." It unnerved the archer how those who came back did so with a seemingly preternatural ability to tell who was snapped away and who wasn't. "Is Nadia with you? I have some books for her out back. Held on to them for a while, no one else round here would want them. In Russian, you see."
"Oh," Hill said, a saddened frown darkening her face for a moment, "they might be for me."
"Possibly, but I did agree the sale with Nadia-"
"Natasha," Clint said, knowing full well it was rude and unprofessional but he was no longer able to take the falsity falling from the stranger's lips.
"Ah, but she said-"
"I know what she said, but her name was Natasha."
A silence fell over the three of them and Clint wondered if he'd been too rude, too forceful. But a flicker of realisation and a small utterance from the shopkeeper told him the truth.
"Was?"
At that point Clint suffered the dual feeling of regret for entering the store in the first place and dread. Dread because, without warning, he found himself having to break the news for the third time, and it was just as painful with this almost stranger as with the faces he knew so well.
"Nat, uh, Natasha. She, she died."
He felt like he should say more. Like she deserved more than just those few words. But what else was there to say? The fact of the matter was that it was as final as it sounded.
He read the emotions as they flickered across the shopkeeper's face. The predominant one was shock. Then, without a word, Clint and Hill were left alone on the shop floor as he bustled away. The two of them shared a look and Clint couldn't tell what was going on behind her eyes.
"Here, take them," the owner said when he came back grasping two paperbacks, "free of charge."
"I can't do that," Clint said, "I'll pay. She would make me suffer if I left you out of pocket."
It was true. Not many people knew many things about Natasha Romanoff. Clint was one of the few who did. And he knew she had a soft spot for this shop and its owner. If she hadn't then she wouldn't have kept on returning.
After forcing the money into the man's hands, Clint and Hill returned to the truck and went on their merry way. And they once again suffered the uncertain radio and sputtering engine, joined by books in Cyrillic that slipped and slid along the dash every time Clint hit the brakes. Eventually Hill gathered them up and kept them on her knee.
"Do you reckon he figured out this Natasha," she tapped the front of the top book then gestured vaguely out the window, "is that Natasha."
"I reckon he'll use Google to help put two and two together." He felt the sidelong glance more than saw it. "I know I shouldn't have told him her real name. But going along with it just felt like I was denying her. It's stupid, I know. But what harm is it gonna do, Hill? She's not here anymore."
He didn't get an answer and he found he didn't want one. Nor did he need one. He didn't regret it. She had so many aliases there were tons of people out there who knew her by the wrong name. It felt good to set one right.
"I did always wonder where she got the books from," Hill said, filling the silence with what sounded like an inane statement, but then he remembered what she'd said earlier.
"What makes you think they're for you?"
"Well, they're yours now."
"Hill."
She grinned at him then fixed her gaze on the road in front. "We had a kinda book club going on. Just us two. Didn't think you'd want to take part. And Coulson was too busy. I never let her read them in English or Russian, and she only let me read them in Russian. Dumb, right? But a good way to keep our language skills fresh."
"No," Clint said, "that's not dumb. I bet you she appreciated it a lot."
"Never said," Hill shrugged and wiped at her cheek. It was a move so unlike her the next remark was out of Clint's mouth before he had time to process it.
"Wow, a tear from Maria Hill?"
"Of course, Barton. It's not just you guys suffering. I miss her too."
She stroked the front cover of one of the books, absent in her actions. Clint reached out and grabbed one of her hands. He squeezed, trying to share some sort of comfort. And she squeezed back.