Natasha slept late and woke to find that Clint had already taken himself outside to chop firewood. From the small window in the kitchen, surrounded by the sunny yellow curtains that she couldn't imagine him buying, she watched him at work, his muscular torso shimmering in the golden, late morning light. The sound of the axe whistling through the air and the rhythmic thwacking sound as the blade collided with the logs was oddly reassuring to her. She was growing to love the cabin, the promise of isolation and the stillness of the air at night when they sat on the porch together. She could fully understand why Clint found such serenity there.
They ate a light breakfast together and then moved outside to the meadow, performing a series of tai chi forms that would help to rebuild her strength and give them both something to focus on other than what had happened to her. At her side, Clint mirrored her movements, his own body moving with grace and precision as he stretched and twisted, easing away the exertion of chopping firewood. He had taught her this particular set of forms when she first joined SHIELD six years ago and shown her a non-destructive outlet for her frustrations when he did so. The movements were comforting, familiar, and Natasha found her body responding to the activity, her mind clearing as she focussed on the way her muscles stretched and the tension ebbed from the centre of her chest. By the time they had completed the routine three times, she found that all of the feelings of lingering unease had faded away.
In the afternoon Clint drove them into town to collect some supplies that would see them through the next few days. The nearest town to the cabin wasn't much to look at but it had everything a small town needed. They had made a list before leaving and knew exactly what they were there to collect. As they left the truck and moved through the parking lot, she found herself feeling lighter than she had in days, as if the weight that had taken form in her chest had lifted and the quietly festering soul wound that had tormented her since leaving that basement had been lanced.
"You need anything from the drug store?" he asked quietly, keeping pace with her as they approached the entrance to the store. Natasha knew why he was asking, her pain meds were running low and he had asked her more than once how she was faring on a lower than recommended dosage. He was also no doubt aware that women often required different products to men, none of which he would have at a cabin to which he had never taken anyone else.
"I could do with one or two things," she replied easily, "but we could go after we get the other stuff if you prefer?"
The shopping took less time than she expected and Natasha was amused at how efficiently Clint moved from section to section, picking out what they needed. It didn't surprise her that he knew exactly how to tell whether the fruit was ripe or that he could find his way around the produce section sourcing the best ingredients for the different meals he had considered making, he was a hell of a cook, which was fortunate as her own impressive skill set did not involve cooking. Fortunately, Clint had always liked spaghetti. Interested, she absorbed his comments on how to tell whether a melon was ripe or how to choose the best onions for a stew, barely noticing the other people in the store or the strange looks they cast their way. It wasn't until they were in the queue at the register that she began to feel slightly uncomfortable beneath the open speculation of the other patrons.
"Do they know you?" she asked, keeping her voice quiet enough that she wouldn't be overheard. She felt a twinge of unease as she realised just how many pairs of eyes seemed to focused almost exclusively on herself and her partner. It wasn't the quiet speculation of people in the city either, the locals were blatant as they took in the newcomers. For the first time in years Natasha felt self-conscious about the bruises on her arms and legs and wished that she had worn jeans and not the shorts and tank that she had favoured since their arrival.
As if he sensed her unease, Clint shifted a little closer to her. It was a subtle movement and she was willing to bet that most of the people around them would have missed it, but he leaned in and rested his arm against the back of her shoulder, reminding her that he was there at her side. The familiarity of his touch made her want to lean into him, accepting the comfort that he offered without openly acknowledging it. "Some of them knew my grandfather," he admitted drily, "I guess they recognise my face."
She fought down the suspicion she felt toward everyone in the store that wasn't Clint, but it took effort. Why would they stare at him just because they had once known his grandfather? Perhaps it was the fact that she hadn't grown up within a family or experienced the dynamics of a small town in the American Midwest that set her on edge and made her feel the scrutiny of these strangers so keenly. "Guess he must have been a pretty popular guy," she commented.
He gave her some privacy in the drug store to pick out whatever personal items she might need, but he always stayed within her field of sight, even while he spoke to the cashier who had caught him the second he stepped inside asking him if he was Frank Barton's boy and wondering how he was doing. She felt calmer under the weight of his gaze, braver. Just knowing that he could, and would, be there in an instant if he picked up one flicker of unease on her part made her feel safe. Preoccupied by the choice of shower scrubs available and contemplating the purchase of sunscreen and further lotion to treat her existing sunburn, which had now begun to lose some of its heat and develop into something that could almost be considered a tan, she didn't notice the man until he brushed up against her.
Taking a step back, she stumbled over an automatic apology before she even looked up into his face. His lip curled into a sneer, as if he was about to yell at her and then, when he took in her features, he stopped and he leered at her openly. Her flesh crawled and nausea churned in the pit of her stomach. She had to get away from him. Instinct demanded that she move but her feet seemed stuck to the floor. He was tall, much taller than her and his eyes were cold when he looked at her. His body moved with hers, crowding her as his eyes travelled over her, taking in everything from knee to face and back again.
"Well ain't you a pretty thing?" he drawled, tracking her every movement with those eyes. Natasha rarely felt true fear, it had been conditioned out of her years ago, but the way he looked at her made her feel vulnerable. Something inside, though healing, was still fragile and vulnerable to men like this one. She had a sense that he was the kind of man who enjoyed terrorising women and she refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing her cower. No matter how fast her heart raced, she would not show him her fear. "How come I ain't seen you round here before?"
Ignoring him, she moved to step around him but he wouldn't let her. His hand shot out and grabbed her arm, digging into her skin painfully. Fear sizzled along her nerves, pain turning to panic which in turn became anger. The urge to drop the basket and slam the heel of her hand up into his nose was difficult to ignore. With every second that he maintained his grip on her arm, she could feel her control slipping away from her.
"Let me go," she exclaimed coldly, fixing him with a glare that could usually freeze most men in place. It didn't seem to work on him. Shrugging out of his grip, she took a step back and glanced over her shoulder, assessing the surroundings in case she had to use force. What she saw was Clint moving toward them, his mouth set in a thin angry line. She tracked his movements as he crossed the room like an animal, all sleek stride and latent power and then he was beside her once again, steering her away from her harasser and angling his own body between them.
"Did you find everything you wanted?" he asked, effectively cutting out the man behind him, giving him his back as though he was of no consequence. She knew what he was really asking her, was she okay? She nodded, regaining her equilibrium as she threw the first products that came to hand into the basket and turned toward the counter. They were the centre of attention again, she was the centre of attention. Adrenaline flooded through her system, leaving her with the desperate urge to run. Her fear was not something she shied away from, she had long ago learned to embrace it. Fear had been an essential building block in her evolution from young girl in the Red Room to who and what she was now, it had helped her to survive.
"Hey we were talkin'," the guy growled, taking a menacing step after them as they moved away. Clint didn't miss a step, placing the fingertips of one hand very lightly against the small of her back in a show of ownership, he guided her away and towards the cashier. "I said we were talkin'! Hey sweetheart, when you get tired of slumming it with the pretty boy and you want a real man..."
Clint reacted but she reacted faster, tracking his movements through the tension she could feel singing through his fingers where they rested against her lower back. As he turned, ready to take the guys head off, she turned with him, grabbing a fistful of his shirt. Feeling the way in which he tensed, the way his lungs expanded with every breath and his heart pounded, she knew that he was not quite as calm as he had let on. Though she didn't understand the depths of his anger, she knew that it came only from his desire to keep her from harm. She wouldn't, however, let him get himself into trouble for her, not when she was essentially okay, a little shaken but certainly not hurt in any way that mattered. "Don't Clint," she exclaimed quietly, hoping that he would see the message she was trying to give in her eyes when he looked at her, "you'd only be giving him what he wants."
It took a second before she felt the anger ease out of his muscles. He eased back, once again guiding her to safety on the other side of his body from the jerk in the wife-beater. She didn't need his protection and he knew it, but she appreciated the gesture. Most men couldn't accept the reality of a strong woman, if she had put the guy on his back in front of witnesses there would have been hell to pay. Small town rules. "Back off, she's with me," Clint growled, glaring over his shoulder with all the menace of a protective lover. Sometimes she forgot just how good an actor Clint could be, had she not known better she too could have believed his act herself.