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A week after New York, Clint’s back in the Middle East on assignment, thankful for the work and the distance. He doesn’t know where Natasha is this time, though normally when he asks SHIELD for her location they spout off some city that’s thousands of miles from where she actually is. He figures they do the same when she asks for his.
Dirt is lodged deep under his nails and he’s stopped scrubbing at them in the shower, instead he tries to rinse all the dust from his eyes, wincing at the burn. Below him the water runs brown in its travel towards the drain. He forgets about the cut above his left eyebrow and curses aloud when the wound reopens and blood mixes in with the dirty water. He just leans forward into the nozzle’s spray, clenching his teeth against the sting as he washes out the gash.
Sooner than he’d like, the water begins to run cold and Clint turns off the shower with a sigh. Now he remembers why he hates this side of the world. It’s hot, it’s dusty, and the showers suck. Next time he’s gonna tell Hill to send him to Europe… Italy… Spain… somewhere with some nice beaches. He steps out of the “shower” (basically just a cornered off part of the room, if he can see over the small wall he doesn’t really consider it much of a shower) and dries off, careful of his new bumps and bruises this time.
He steps into the cleaner pair of fatigues he’s got stashed in his bag, tugging a clean-ish shirt over his head and absently wiping some dust off the front. It’ll have to do. He shakes out his boots and grimaces as what seems like five pounds of sand pours out, keeping an eye out for any spiders who might have snuck their way in. After that trip to Syria, he checks his boots religiously. Damn these sandy countries and their stupid, giant arachnids. Natasha had just grinned and rolled her eyes at him. Whatever. All spiders have it out for him, apparently.
He slips his sunglasses on before leaving the building, making his way towards the next one over. It’s rough looking on the outside, any paint long since stripped away by the wind, but then again he supposes they all pretty much look like that here. Why do arms dealers always have to base themselves in these godforsaken places?
He follows the stairs down to the basement and walks in to their little pseudo-headquarters. Agent 27 – or is it 29? He can never keep the numbers straight – nods her greeting and Clint doesn’t have to ask if she’s on the line yet before he’s being handed a headset. Sometimes he wonders if they have a number for him, but he’s more of an asset than an agent. No, he’s just Barton. No number for him, just Hawkeye.
“Barton here,” he says, grimacing at the rasp the dust gives his voice.
“How’d it go?” Hill says, all clipped and professional like always. He doesn’t bother trying to joke with her anymore, not after the fiasco in New York and his unwilling part in it. Sorry I shot at you. Multiple times. Oh and sorry about the grenades, too. No, that doesn’t work. Now he just gives his reports, short and sweet.
“Bad guys are all rounded up, weapons cache has been apprehended and getting boxed up to send stateside as we speak. Nothing for the Fridge this time.”
“Good,” she says, hesitating. Clint waits. “You’re positive they got nothing from New York? We need to absolutely sure about this, Barton.”
Sighing, Clint takes a step away from the other agent and turns away slightly before settling into his stance again, arms crossed against his chest. His right hand starts to fidget, thumb picking at the annoying dirt under his nails again. “Positive. One of the guys you sent is pretty good at getting information out of an unwilling host,” he lets out a small chuckle at the end. That Rumlow guy sure knows how to get the job done.
“All right, finish up there and head home. Hill out.” There’s a distant click and she’s gone. He slips off the headset and hands it off. “Let’s get out of this hellhole,” he calls back to 27 over his shoulder. Jogging up the stairs, he can hear the wind howling outside. Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a black bandana and wraps it around his mouth, quickly knotting the back together. The door opens with a shove and he steps out into the storm, dust and wind whipping at his clothes and blocking out the sun.
Time to ditch this miserable place.
-
The helicarrier is still grounded and they need the cloaked quinjet out back to transfer the cache, so the next morning he lifts his duffel over his shoulder and heads out towards the main road. From there, he hitches a ride to the nearest city, lounging in the back of some dusty pick-up as it cruises across endless desert highways. Somehow his iPod still has battery life, so he pops the headphones in and tries to block out the road noise and the whistling wind. He straightens out the left cord absently, though he knows that’s not why the sound is more muffled on that side. He drapes an arm on the side of the truck bed and tilts his head back, closing his eyes and letting the sun warm his face.
A few hours later, there’s a tap on his shoulder and he nods, swiping the cash from his front pocket and handing it to the man as he hops out of the truck bed. Thanks, he mutters, which is just about the extent of his familiarity with the language here. Weaving his way through the crowds of the marketplace, he walks the last six blocks to the airport entrance. His headphones are still in his ears, but the music has long since been turned off so he can listen to everything going on around him. From behind his sunglasses, he scans the crowds, his gaze automatically flickering to the higher vantage points he’d prefer. He heads into the international terminal and buys a ticket to a random country in Europe, France this time around, where he’ll pick up a flight to New York. He’s got all the time in the world. SHIELD will call when they need him next, but the only place he’s thinking about right now is home.
-
Thirty-some odd hours later and he’s exiting the airport into the cool fall air of New York City, taxi horns blaring even at the late hour. He tucks his hands into his pockets and blinks against the sleep in his eyes, cursing the time difference. It must be two in the morning here, but the city never quite sleeps. As he travels the outside walkway towards the subway, he catches sight of a row of television screens through the glass windows.
Some news reporter is standing a few blocks up from Stark Tower, the scorched building looming in the background and piles of rubble still blocking the sidewalks. His gaze drop down to her lips – clean-up efforts have been on-going but slow, and in the three weeks since the attacks, government agencies involved have remained secretive and intervention on their part has city officials… – before he turns away and walks on. At least the hour is late enough that he probably won’t be recognized traveling through the city. Clint sighs and runs his fingers through his hair, no doubt making it stand on end in every direction. He still smells like dust.
Luckily the subway is nearly empty, so he collapses into the nearest seat and tries to keep his eyes open. Reaching into his duffle, he pulls out his phone and brings it back to life. What’s the point in keeping it on in a country with no signal? There’s a few messages from his neighbor, one from Stark (how’d he get this number?) about new arrow ideas, which admittedly does catch his attention. None from SHIELD, so far. None from Natasha, either. Good, since he’s a month overdue on sleep at this point.
Thinking back, he doesn’t quite remember reaching his stop or getting up the stairs to his level, but he somehow does manage to stop next door first. He knocks without a second thought, cursing almost immediately when he remembers the hour. He considers backing away and hoping nobody heard the sound, but then he hears footsteps and the soft click-click-click of paws on wood flooring. He gives a soft and apologetic smile to Simone and then drops to a knee and hugs the mutt in front of him, burying his face in golden fur. Lucky’s tail wags tiredly and Clint grins, whispering his own greeting against the dog’s neck.
“You look terrible,” she says, but the smile on her face betrays her chastising words. Clint lifts his face and brings a finger up to his lips, hushing her with his own answering grin.
“Thanks,” he laughs, “I hope he wasn’t any trouble. I didn’t know have much notice this time.” He’s been on longer missions, sure, but usually he manages to find someone at SHIELD to watch over Lucky. He barely had the time to get his bag together this time, let alone find someone willing to watch over a half-blind dog for an indeterminate amount of time.
“Don’t worry about it, we’re happy to have him around,” she says, bending down to say goodbye to the dog before disappearing back inside her apartment for the night.
“Let’s go, buddy,” he says quietly, walking to his door. Lucky leads the way inside, lazily walking towards the empty water bowl near the kitchen. The dog sits, yawns, and then just looks at him with his one good eye.
“Yeah, I got you,” Clint says, bag abandoned by the door, dropping a hand onto the top of Lucky’s head as he passes by. Once the bowl is filled and his thirst is quenched, Lucky lets out a sigh and moves to sprawl out on the living room rug, asleep almost instantly.
Clint doesn’t bother opening the fridge, since anything that may been edible is long since spoiled by now. He toes out of his unlaced boots and leaves his pants in a heap on the floor. His shirt joins the pile as he follows his dog to the main room, grabbing the blanket thrown over the back of the couch. Wrapping the blanket around his shoulders, he decides the bedroom is too far away, so he collapses onto the couch, one armed draped over the edge. His hand finds the soft fur of Lucky’s side and he can feel each breath his dog takes, and for the first time all month Clint doesn’t remember what his last thought is before falling sleep.
-
Clint spends the next few days either sleeping or lying around the apartment trying to stay awake. It’s like his muscles have realized they got some time off, a month’s worth of soreness catching up with him. Every time he gets off the couch, his back protests and his knees pop, making him feel like he’s aged about twenty years.
He walks out of the building with Lucky at his heels, the dog sniffing idly at the patch of grass down the block, quickly taking care of his business before trotting back to Clint’s side. The wind is constant and the grey skies above threaten to pour on them any minute now, but soon enough they’ve reached the little mom and pop’s pizza joint on the corner. The little bell above the door gives a ring when he pushes it open and Ed pops up behind the counter, greeting them with a grin.
“There he is!” Ed says, though Clint’s not entirely sure if the comment is meant for him or his dog. Lucky walks right up to the register and sits down, tongue hanging out of his mouth in a happy little panting grin. The reward is immediate as Ed leans over and scratches him behind an ear, holding out some crust for him to take.
As Lucky settles down on the floor to quickly tear at the crust, Clint takes out his wallet and hands over some cash, waving away the change. They make small talk until the dog is done with his scrap, shrugging at the questions and comments about aliens and superheroes and can you believe it, man? Soon enough they’re back on the sidewalk, his jacket zipped up all the way against the light sprinkle that’s started coming down. The edges of the pizza box start to wrinkle and bend but they make it home before the skies really let loose.
Thunder begins to rattle the windows as they settle back down in the living room, television turned to some movie on cable that he’s seen a hundred times. He picks a piece of pepperoni off the first slice and tosses it to Lucky, who doesn’t so much chew and swallow as he does inhale it. Clint laughs and takes out a whole slice for his companion, setting it down on the floor and grimacing a little at the immediate pool of grease.
They’ve made it through half of the pie when there’s a soft rap on the door, bottle of beer pausing halfway to his mouth. He turns his head towards the door, not sure if the sound was in his head or just another heavy raindrop against the window glass. No, there it is again. Lucky seems disinterested in the sound but watches him stand and move to the door, beer bottle still hanging from his fingers.
Reaching for the lock he pauses, looking through the peephole first since he highly doubts it’s just Simone asking for help changing fire detector batteries again. His grip on the bottle tightens when he sees her, leaning against the doorjamb with red hair fallen over her face.
“Hey,” is all he can say after tugging the door open, but when Natasha answers him with a small smile, he can feel his muscles starting to release tension he didn’t know was there. Ignoring his hesitation, she pushes the door open further and moves past him into the apartment.
“Am I interrupting?” She says, tone playful but careful, cautious, things he’s not used to hearing when it’s just the two of them.
“Nope, just boys’ night in. Pizza, beer, the whole nine yards. We sure know how to party, huh buddy?” Lucky just looks at him from the floor. Gee, thanks.
She doesn’t answer him, simply walks to the couch and sinks down against one of the arms, head propped up with one hand while she leans down to scratch the dog’s head. He watches them for a moment before walking to the fridge and grabbing two more bottles from the fridge, quickly draining the one still in his hand before setting it next to the sink. She takes the offered drink silently, taking a sip as he sits on the opposite side of the couch. He waits for her to talk first, this is always how the deal with things, with the aftermaths of missions that neither of them ever enjoy talking about once they’re done. He starts to pick at the label on his bottle, peeling it back before smoothing it back into place, over and over again.
He doesn’t realize he’s drifted until she nudges the side of his leg with her foot. His drink has warmed in his grip, bits of plastic from the label littered on his lap. He sighs and runs his free hand over his face, all of a sudden tired again even though all he’s done lately is sleep. He sets the warm beer on the table and leans back into the cushions, flicking the pieces off him onto the floor, one by one. He turns and looks at Natasha across from him, watching and simply waiting, her foot still warm against his thigh.
She takes the last sip of her drink (and that tells him how long he was lost in his mind, wonders if she called his name and he just didn’t hear) and sets the bottle next to his on the table. Pushing away from the armrest, she slides toward him, her hand reaching for his left arm and lifting it up so she can crawl under it. She settles against his chest, cheek pressed to his shoulder, and he can feel her exhale, the breath warm across his skin.
He lets his hand fall to rest on her hip and turns his face until his cheek rests against the top of her head. Her fingers trace his collarbone, touch gentling when she finds the healing bruise peeking out of his shirt, traveling halfway up the side of his neck. He can feel her breathe out again, can almost hear the frustration in the sigh, and she drops her hand, fingers curling around his side
He doesn’t ask if she still dreams of fighting an endless battle on the streets of the city, for the same reason she doesn’t ask about firing the shots that almost brought down their own ship. They don’t have to ask because they both already know.
He knows she remembers feeling the portal’s power through the staff. She knows he avoids the mirror, still haunted in his dreams by blue, poisoned eyes.
New York wasn’t just another mission, but they’ll move past it like they always do, even if it takes more than one night of silent solace in each other’s company.