Work Text:
Cold, clear air. A calm neighborhood.
He ran a hand through his hair, scanned his surroundings briefly. Ever the sniper, even without his rifle, always a sense of being at work, even when he was only going for his morning jog. On those occasions it was nothing more than a reflex, though.
And he didn't go running.
He was doing his laps.
He owned these streets.
He wasn't running around aimlessly like all those years ago, fresh out the army, when he would wake up at night panicky and sweaty, when he went running because he was afraid he would fall behind otherwise, that people out there might be after him, trying to get him, that he had to be able to outrun them. And because he couldn't go back to sleep anyway, would just lie awake until the early morning, feeling breathless although his frantic panting had ceased hours ago - he went running. In the middle of the night, along quiet streets, just the odd car passing him. No one was after him, then, he didn't have enemies. After working for Jim for quite some time he'd given people a reason to become his enemy more times than he could count. Still, he actually felt much safer nowadays than back then. Funny.
After a while the nightmares came less often, but he didn't feel better. During the day everything was somehow dulled, muffled, nothing made any sense. At the same time he felt wide awake, like he was constantly on that tiny, crazy high from too much espresso, but still couldn't quite cut through the fog surrounding him. He went running in the morning, thought he might as well keep up some sort of training even though there was nothing specific he needed to stay in shape for. It became part of his daily routine. He tried to relax while he was running, tried to let his mind unwind a little. It never worked. Even though he was running along with long, easy-looking strides, inside he felt twitchy and nervous. Always on the lookout.
Now he wasn't doing his laps anymore every single morning because he wanted to achieve something. It had simply become part of him. He didn't have to think about it, his feet carried him down the familiar, quiet streets lined with expensive apartment buildings, his shoes softly slapping against the asphalt, his breathing steady and easy. He wasn't working towards a goal, he wasn't even trying to maintain a certain status, he just was. Went running because it felt natural to him.
For the first time in his life he felt at ease. His body well-trained and well-used. He was great at what he was doing for a living and he enjoyed it. Working for Jim had turned into working with Jim. Life was good.
He turned a corner. Another mile and he was back home. When did he start calling it home, he wondered. He lived there but that was because he worked for the man who lived there and that man needed to consult him a lot so it made sense to be available.
Since when did he not mind to be considered always available by someone, though.
Involuntarily he slowed down a little. There was something nagging at the back of his mind and though he didn't know exactly why he felt very strongly that he needed to figure it out before the end of his run.
For some reason, coming home now and the thought of seeing his boss there felt confusing. That feeling of being in the right place at the right time, doing the right thing, the very thing that had felt so good before suddenly had a strange taste to it.
He wasn't at peace.
He was in love.