A/N: Written in work on my dinner, so disappointly short and cliff hangerish. I'll post again tomorrow to make up for it! PROMISE.
According to his watch, Clint had been asleep for 3 more hours, wrapped up with Natasha, but unfortunately he couldn't allow himself any more sleep. He knew she was awake when he moved, she couldn't sleep through it, but she left him to his motions.
Within a few minutes he was dressed, heading out of the door and into the corridor. In his left hand was his bow, his right carrying a old, almost ruined leather quiver. The arrows in it were clearly not like his mission ones. In fact, the bow in his left hand was older looking too. Wooden and painted black, the paint itself cracking from the ever present bending of the wood that firing off arrows would cause to it.
He only ever used his hand-made bow's when he was requiring some time to think. The actions of creating the bow and the string. Fletching his own arrows. The whole system had been one that had been taught to him during his circus days, but he had toned it, tapered the art into a way of relieving his stress. He had wound up stood in the range. The high-tech Stark-designed shooting range was high roofed, open and more like an assault course. No one in the building needed to learn to shoot down a straight laced alley. Rare as it was that they would be stood still while firing.
Clint activated his own personal circuit, a few holograms and various pieces of moving steel whirred to life in front of him. In one swift motion the quiver was over his shoulder, bow drawn and a single arrow hitting its holographic target, well, flying through into the wall behind it anyway. The hologram died and Clint was on the move.
The room simulated weather, urban environments and of course, returned fire. The weapons of choice for the room were electrical bolts, fired from the various holographic projector's around the room. The charge was enough to make you flinch, but not wound you, as Clint had discovered. The steps before him provided the perfect ledge for a vault, notching an arrow as he cartwheeled through the air. He was caught unaware from his left, a charge hitting his side and sending him spiralling out of control into the same steps he had launched himself from.
"Get a damned grip Barton." Here we go. Clint dragged himself up, gone was Natasha's earlier softness as she stormed over to him. She had obviously been playing spy, letting him go about his business unless he got troublesome. "Tash-" He didn't get to finish his sentence, a leg coming up, smacking the bow from his hand and glancing the opposite shoulder.
He recoiled, his 15 hour rest had improved his physical state, but not so much he could go toe to toe with Tasha, he caught the leg as it descended with his left knee under her calf, bouncing it back up and his left hand gripping it. A move he'd learnt in Europe fighting a small, agile and very angry oriental mobster. His grip was loose as the hand slipped up to the ankle quickly, then tightening and pulling, the foot was her left, her body spinning into his as he pulled. He wrapped his other arm around her waist to prevent her falling, feeling her grunt and half-heartedly struggle against his embrace. "Don't, push me, Tasha."
His voice was low, all he wanted was to be left alone. He'd function within the team, he'd complete missions accurately and cleanly, but he would keep his distance. He'd never let anyone down again. If he became compromised again it wouldn't be an issue then, he'd be too distanced to be a useful spy or leverage against the team. It was all he could think to do, he wouldn't let her- them, be hurt again.