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Natasha doesn't ask where he's headed, just curls up in the passenger seat and lets herself drift off to the lurching rhythm of Clint's truck and the twinkling of the stars over a long stretch of highway.
"Safehouse?" Clint asks, voice a soft, low rasp with disuse. They haven't really talked since they met up over the smoking remains of their former lives, just packed up, packed in, and hit the road.
Natasha shrugs. "Don't care."
He glances over.
"Anywhere but SHIELD," she says. She stares ahead at the long road, at the bright stars only visible beyond the cities they typically work in.
Clint's warm hand finds hers in the darkness. He keeps driving.