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The house in the valley was quiet and dark when Clint started his walk down the drive. No lights on in the kids room or blue light from the television in the living room. The front porch light wasn’t even on. It’d been a long few weeks what with Steve and Tony fighting and going to jail and all. Laura, wasn’t going to be pleased about all of this, but hopefully he could make her understand. He was thinking about just what he’d say to her as he went up the front steps and slid his key into the lock. (Thankfully it still fit. There’d been the worrisome thought that she’d gone and changed the locks on him in the back of his mind.)
Clint pushed the front door open carefully. He’d oiled the hinges before he left, but wasn’t sure if it’d worked or not. It opened without a sound, and Clint let out the breath he’d been holding. He dropped his weapons lightly by the door, making a mental note to lock them away in the morning, and toed off his shoes. He locked the doors and double checked the locks before turning towards the house.
A single lamp clicked on in the living room. Clint froze in the dim glow.
Laura sat in the hand-me-down armchair her father had given them. Her legs were crossed in the worn flannel pajama pants she’d owned for as long as Clint could remember. She was wearing one of Clint’s t-shirts. It was loose on her, the sleeves halfway to her elbows. Her arms were stretched along the armrest, her fingers drumming along the fabric once as he looked at her. When his eyes met hers, she didn’t smile, she didn’t speak. Her lips didn’t turn up into the smile he was so accustomed to seeing.
One eyebrow arched as she held his gaze.
Clint gulped and had to the courage to break the silence with, “Do I get to sleep on the couch, or did you build an actual dog house?”