Over a pale yellow clearing in the midst of a ring of trees, the quinjet hovered and Clint jumped down from the ledge of the hatch with his bag and bow. He jogged to be in view of the cockpit as the hatch closed itself and he waved an all-clear. Natasha nodded at him and flew away, leaving Clint stranded alone in the waving grasses. He watched the jet disappear over the trees before sliding on a pair of sunglasses from his coat and running off into the forest.
He knew this place. He had come here often as he could through the years, mostly when he needed time away from people, from work, technology. Time away for life. Because this felt like life in the raw pulse of the wilderness. Urban dwelling seemed to him like a slow drain of blood- seeping out of your heart as a coagulated ooze. He was glad he had a job with excitement, rather than trundling along with the crowds that stuffed the New York streets to their office desks, or their restaurant sections, or mausoleum guard posts... Ticket booths. Natasha probably understood. She was the only one who knew about his getaway spot, just like he was the only one who knew hers.
When he found his usual stomping ground he set about making camp. Pitching the tiny one-man tent against a giant boulder, sweeping the pile of fallen leaves from his years-ago made ring of campfire stones. He threw his rolled up sleeping bag into the tent with his bow and quiver and left his pack on the ground, beginning the search for firewood. Weaving in and out of the trees, the blonde piled twigs and branches in one arm and then dropped them into a pile beside the rocks. He made a few trips back and forth like this, listening to the wind and looking up into the trees to spot the birds that chirped. Every so often a bee would buzz by on its way to a wildflower.
Clint was already feeling better. The manual labor and surviving with nature grounded him and forced him to focus on the task at hand. At least until the setup of camp was done. Then it would be time for reflection, where he didn't have to talk or explain or deal with people. He'd had enough of that.
Satisfied with his collection of wood, Clint retrieved a large pouch from his pack and set off for the river. It was far enough behind the trees that he couldn't see it from his camp, but he preferred it that way- he wouldn't be the only creature drinking from the river. When stepped out of the trees he froze when he spotted a doe across the river, lapping up her drink. She'd stopped too; her ears pricking up and her body tense, ready for the fight-or-flight, watching him. Cautiously, Clint stepped up to the streaming water and bent down on one knee. The doe watched him warily just as he watched her with awe. She did not move away.
With slow movements Clint unzipped the bag and dunked its opening into the water. He wasn't sure why he was taking such care not to disturb the deer but he kept up with his pace anyway. When the bag was full with the river, he lifted the lip and zipped it shut, slowly rising and slinging the bag over his shoulder. The movement startled the doe anyway and she jumped towards the tree line, stopping just at the edge to watch him again. Clint snorted and dismissed her, turning away for camp.
The sack of water was hung on a nearby tree and it's nozzle that pointed down the the grassy ground was fitted with a filter and rubber head that dispensed when squeezed. He took a crack at it and bent to let the filtered liquid pour into his mouth. He came up with a happy sigh and wiped the droplets of water from his mouth with the back of his hand. Fresh and cold.
He lit a fire in his ring of rocks, unrolled his sleeping bag in the tent and then sat on a rock by the fire. He stripped the bark off a few green branches and sharpened one end with a Swiss army knife and set them aside. And then he suddenly had enough sitting, feeling his stomach grumble for food, and he grabbed a canteen from his pack, filled it with the hanging water and strapped it to his hip. He fetched his bow and quiver from the tent and set off, wandering away in search.
Clint strolled easily through the forest, bow in one hand and the full quiver of arrows over his back. He looked away into the boughs of the trees, catching rays of sunshine through the foliage. A few more bees buzzed as he passed a patch of wild daisies. The sight of a blackberry bush brimming with the ripe berries brought a smile to his face and he went for them immediately. He plucked the fruit off its bramble and blew a stray ant off before popping it in his mouth. Perfectly juicy and soft. He'd forgotten he was in the right season for berries. He ate a couple more blackberries and committed the location to memory and kept on walking.
The blonde rounded a thick tree, running his fingers along the scratchy, grey bark. He came around the other side and stopped short at the sight of a rabbit just a few yards away nibbling on another blackberry bush. It's long ears perked up while it chewed at the low hanging fruit, twitching its tiny nose and looking back at Clint.
Clint smirked and slowly got down onto one knee and reached back to pluck an arrow from the quiver. He notched the arrow in its string and pulled it back and the rabbit froze, as if it knew what was happening. It made a slow wobble of a step and Clint released the arrow. He never missed his mark. Pleased with himself, Clint almost skipped to his kill and pulled his arrow out of its body. He held the rabbit by its ears and munched on a few more berries before heading back to camp, lightly swinging the bunny back and forth in his stride.
He sat on the ground as he skinned the rabbit, taking care with the pelt and setting it aside while he skewered the meat with his sharpened green sticks. The last few trips he'd made out here he began keeping the hides of his rabbit kills; had a whole collection of them in his apartment and he hoped to have enough by the end of this trip to have a blanket made of them. A huge fur blanket for his bed, that was fancy. He couldn't sew though, he'd have to pay someone to do the work. He didn't think his kind of sewing, on-the-fly wound stitches, would cut it for a blanket.
He cooked the rabbit over the fire, setting the spit in a trap of branches to hold it over the flames while he grabbed a small coffee can with a rubber lid out of his pack. From it he flipped through the resealable spice and herb packets, wondering what he'd put on the meat this meal. Rosemary. Salt and pepper. Easy.
The archer cooked and ate and drank water from his canteen and relaxed as the sun began its slow descent behind the trees. The stars slowly blinked on, one by one, against the darkening sky; not waiting for the colour to entirely evaporate into the night. Against the reddened and purply sky, small sparrows, black in the shadows, zoomed overhead to their nests. Clint had swiped off his sunglasses by then and stared just over the trees at the blooming stars, resting his chin in his hand. He brought with him only two pieces of modern technology- his phone (with headphones), and a small solar charger for it. He popped one bud into his ear and partially listened to the music from his phone and to the world around him.
It was still easy to forget that there were other creatures out there somewhere in the galaxy, like it was easy not to remember plights of developing countries and needy people. If it wasn't right there in your face, demanding your attention, you slipped peacefully back into your realm of life. Clint thought about the blind panic that clutched many people at the appearance of the Chitauri, and then compared it to the triumphant cheers that others exclaimed at the proof of aliens, and he wasn't sure if the Roswell coverup had been good for the country or not. The new species hadn't bothered Clint but for the fact there were now more enemies. Who cared that they weren't human, he could get used to their ugly faces in time, but if they were just another drug lord, another human trafficker... Another baddie that needed to be eliminated... Well. He'd be killing for the rest of his life. Clint had to admit it to himself though; he didn't mind killing. Not for the right reasons anyway. But when those right reasons seemed to lead him astray, what the hell was he doing it for?
His assignment to the PEGASUS Project really put him over the edge. When SHIELD first started acquiring and testing HYDRA weapons, playing around with power, he had been skeptical. The Tesseract gave him the willies. Not for the strangeness and fear of what could be on the other side of its door, but for the shear bold audacity of SHIELD trying to bust down the door and see what they could use. He hadn't been sure humanity was ready for a power beyond their own conception. What humans had already created still proved to be too much for them. Loki's appearance had proved him right. Not that he had much time to think about it then.
Clint shuddered and told himself it was from the cold that started seeping through the night. He stopped his train of thought and kicked a little dirt into the fire to quench some of the larger flames. He sat just on the inside of his tent to kick off his boots and then slid back onto the sleeping bag, letting himself settle for a moment before wriggling out of his clothes and crawling into the bag. He stared up into the darkness of the tent and heard the faint crackles of burning wood and wondered if he should be thinking about something. Anything. But he was suddenly out of thoughts to think. He squeezed his eyes shut and then relaxed them, huffing out an annoyed breath and turning onto his side, hoping he fell asleep quickly.
In the morning, when the symphony of bird calls swelled with the dawn, Clint slowly awoke like he had been drugged. He sat up groggily and was impressed at the amount of drool he had to wipe off his face, knowing it meant he'd slept hard and full. He missed those days when that was the only way he knew how to sleep. His pillow cases were washed every couple days back then.
He rubbed his face roughly and unzipped the tent, stretching out his limbs in the pale morning light. In his boxers only, he dropped to the ground and swung into a bout of pushups, panting with every thrust. He moved into sit-ups and then pushups again until he broke out into a sweat, bulging arms quivering with the effort and his abs aching. He got up and reached for his discarded canteen and gulped until he could hear the liquid sloshing in his stomach when he moved, and then he brought a small black bag out of his pack and went to his hanging water supply. He hung the bag on a low branch by a tiny loop of fabric and unzipped it to pull out a small bar of soap. He shimmied out of his boxers and threw them over the branch and grabbed the water nozzle, squirting the liquid onto his head. He shivered at the temperature and briskly scrubbed the soap against his hair and lathered it for his face, getting the water to rinse it down his body. He used the wake of water to lather the soap over the rest of him too, taking special care of washing his toes.
That was Mom's thing. Always wash the toes. She had told Clint stories of how she had counted his toes over and over when he was born, making sure they were all there. She claimed that baby Clint had the cutest tiny toes in the world. She meant it too, and wouldn't have it if he neglected those perfect things that she made in her womb and they rotted off. Or turned the nails yellow. Clint took no time to smile about her while he shivered through the cold and rinsed off as fast as he could. He rubbed his jaw and decided to leave the stubble for now, maybe he'd shave it off next shower. He had no one to impress out here. The grass proved to be soft under his feet as he walked back to the tent with boxers in hand and dressed in yesterdays clothes.