#quantumfalacy

Preparation packing master.

Natasha had once said that it should've been his middle name since he wasn't Saint Francis material, and Clint always made sure they had the gear they needed packed up efficiently to her strict standards whenever they were out on the field together. It was also why Clint only dragged himself into bed just shy of 3am, tiredly pressing himself up against Reed's curled back and cuddling the cat-man up since it was the only way he'd fit on the bed (and it was admittedly nice to have the warmth and security.) 

The next day came and Clint spent a good portion of the morning preparing to get rid of the cabin, feeling that a nice bonfire would be a good way to say goodbye to the thing, even if Reed made a sad face as the bed was hacked up because it meant no more sleeping on it period.

The archer consoled him with lots of scritches and cuddles -- reassurances that while it might be rough for a little while drifting in the wild it would only, hopefully, be for a short while. 

Come midday with the sky already dim and dreary, Clint put the saddle onto Reed taking great care to not nip or pinch any sensitive zones, then loaded up extra reserve supplies of food and gear on the side of it, ensuring Reed was okay with the extra weight and that the balance was right. Then Clint himself was loaded up, the archer first donning his tactical gear since it was more weather proof than most anything else he had complete with his thermal jacket. His quiver came next, securely mounted to the hook line on the back of it, and his bow folded neatly and set as a side-arm on his right leg -- though he highly doubted that he'd need it, it was just easier to have it close at hand.

Reed might be powerful but sometimes even the hard hitters needed help.

Especially against potential SHIELD hunters. 

Brandishing a map, Clint took a moment to crouch by his inquisitive kitty mutant, playfully pushing Reed’s head back when he tried to stuff his snout under his coat while gratuitously rubbing his jowls against Clint. "I was thinking that our game plan is to head east," he mused aloud to Reed, pointing to their current location on the map. "If we head for the Wrangell-St. Elias national park, we can cross over the Canada border into the Yukon. There are a lot of passes and mountain ranges along the border, so it'd be easy to skip across the border." 

It'd also take them a long time to do it, but it was a set direction and game-plan. Keep the pair of them off of the grid and out of dodge. 

"I'll have t'get good at shaving with a blade again, I don't think you'd like my face fuzzier than it is now," Clint added when his suggestion to head toward the yukon was met with Reed bumping his muzzle up along his jaw, rubbing and nuzzling against the stubble with a content rumble. "We'll be out in the wilds for a lot of the time, you know. We can keep an eye out for some properties an' stuff, maybe stow away on some properties we come across to get out of the elements."

A lot of food after a while would be hunted. That was okay too. Clint had lived out in the wilds before for at the very least nearly two months, and frankly he'd rather try and live with wolves and bears and all that crap than deal with SHIELD. Especially with Reed. The two of them could scale trees without a problem and more or less keep up high during the nights, and building shelter with Reed's help, the brute aspect of it at least, was very do-able.

After the display yesterday too, it was clear that Reed was a strong apex predator. That kind of vibe would dissuade most other predators from trying to eat them.

Clint butted his forehead down against Reed's gently when his cheek was nuzzled against, breaking out of his thoughts, and he stretched out from his crouch while stuffing the map back into the side bag he had on Reed, rummaging for something else in the process. 

"Well, time to say goodbye to the ol' cabin," Clint drawled to Reed, brandishing a box of matches from the bag with a sly grin. "If anyone is on our trail it'll confuse and diffuse them for a while I hope. Certainly covers evidence of us existing." 

The cat-man rumbled a noise of possible agreement, possible just general acknowledgement, and Clint huffed a soft laugh at that before plucking about five matches out of the box. Sniffling, he eyed off the start of his fuel source which was the furnace itself, flicked the matches across the striking surface of the box with a spectacular hiss as the phosphorous sparked, and ignited across all five heads struck at once. Clint then set the kindling on fire and stuffed the matches into a gap on a wood block. With almost child-like glee and excitement he then poured the rest of the matches out into the open flames. 

Tugging on Reed's harness and saddle Clint got his comrade to follow him out of the cabin with haste, not needing to stick around to know that his heavy use of gasoline from the snow sled would make short work of spreading the fire, and the rest would be history. The archer slid up onto Reed's back and hooked his boots through the leather loops, anchored himself with the straps, and hunkered down -- just that shift in positioning was enough for Reed to get the hint and take off.

Their destination? Eastward. Yukon. Anywhere away from SHIELD. 

Clint was warm.

Warmer than he'd possibly been in a long time, his hazy sleep-drunk mind brining forth images of that time in Moscow with Nat -- his first mission after the two years it took him to recoup from the disaster of Budapest. She'd been on watch and had more or less found everything she could class as a blanket to bundle ontop of him while he'd slept, then had sat there softly stroking his hair while making sure their safehouse was indeed safe. That'd been amazing, and possibly the best sleep on mission Clint had ever had. 

But he wasn't on a mission. Missions didn't happen for him anymore because he was a traitor in the eyes of his own former employers; had been on the run ever since he'd gotten out of the WSC's little torture chamber. 

So why in the hell was he so damn warm? And was he in bed? Because the floor had never felt this comfy before. 

Clint carefully cracked open one eye, the dim light of the cabin a blessing for his unaided eyes as they adjusted and sharpened everything uncannily, and then groaned as the pain of the past few hours -- possibly days, he didn't know how long he'd been out -- hit him full force. Bruised ribs and aching cuts throbbed in time to his pulse, and his back definitely needed to be popped back in with some stretches from being bashed in with his quiver, but the ache of that was at least a lot less terrible than he thought it'd be. He had his rumbling, snoozing radiator of a bed companion to --

Wait. 

What? 

He wearily shifted himself, stretching his limbs out as best he could only to find them mostly entangled, and as he glanced down at himself he noticed paws wrapped up about him keeping him close. Reed Richards. Estranged gone cuckoo genius ala SHIELD, rubber band mutant, able to stretch into pretty much anything. 

Including a giant feline incarnation complete with razor sharp claws and the teeth to go with them. 

Thankfully said claws and teeth were very much sheathed, Clint's mind alight with memories of their fight before and of how easily Reed had eaten through a wolf's leg (like, holy shit, the bone was nothing to the guy), as his frankly huge paws were pressed up against his chest and torso in a rather protective motion. The archer tentatively squiggled an arm free-ish and gently squeezed his hand against Reed's carpals, an almost child-like grin pulling at his mouth when he pushed Reed's fingers down that little bit and the claws started to pop out on a reflexive action, then slide back in when pressure was taken off. Neat. Also kinda piss terrifying but he'd call that more of a healthy respect. 

"Mn'ello?" Clint drawled lowly, throat dry and mouth tacky for it. "Y'very cosy but I have to pee." 

Eloquence wasn't in Clint's traits, nor would he need it, thanks. 

When that got no response he lightly shoved at Reed's paws until he could at the very least wriggle himself around onto his less numb hip to sit up, his legs lost in a tangle of kitty-rubbery-goop that would've been freaky if it wasn't so damn warm, and he groaned as he flopped against Reed's side -- mindful of the bandage and damage of course but still dramatic nonetheless. 

The hairs on the back of his neck felt like they'd been standing on end for days, and it was a hard sensation to shake once it'd settled in. 

Clint's recent travels had seen him returning to Alaska for the first time in almost 10 years, armed with a forged passport and a new identity, and all the knowledge in the world to avoid the scrutiny of SHIELD as they tried to find him since he'd gotten out of dodge. The one-way ticket, addressed with the name Arin Travers, was left behind in Anchorage along with the identity as a whole, and he assumed the persona of Charles Kilcher as he trekked out to Palmer.

Then with the funds he had on him stocked up with a pick up truck and some tools to go north toward central Alaska, and took up a small plot of land away from whatever other homesteaders he could find as he'd scoped out the area as a whole -- the last thing he wanted to do was potentially endanger their lives if SHIELD did manage to find him in the middle of nowhere, and having a few acres between neighbours lent well to being left alone when waking up screaming through the night from the terrors in his dreams -- and began living the subsistence life off the grid.

Turned out that even though he was the odd new guy who'd just appeared out of the woods, literally, a lot of people were willing to trade goods for services, especially if they'd had an overly high bounty in their summer hunting. He helped build a new coop for the property a good number of acres away that had hawk-proofing on it, and scored a few hens for his troubles. Vegetables for fish. Smoked fish for salted and preserved beef. He surprised his neighbours over the mountain that took half a day at best to get over to with some bear meat and fur too, after he'd sniped one that was after his fish rack with an arrow through the eye. 

Those same neighbours had come and visited him just a few days prior, offering venison and quiet murmurings that they'd seen someone in Palmer when they'd trekked out to the town to retrieve their post asking if anyone'd seen him, and to take care. 

Hadn't been able to shake the damn feeling ever since then. 

Clint had spent the rest of that day fortifying his property after that. A part of him thought it was time to up and leave, count his blessings that he'd had a few months of solace out in the world, outside of SHIELD and the serums they'd been pumping into him to make him brokenly babble about Loki and the small cage he'd been kept in, but there was a deeper set anger inside of him that'd been festering. Boiling. Rippling and bubbling away beneath his skin. Clint wasn't going to just sit back and blend into the shadows this time if SHIELD had started to search for him out here. No, he was going to damn well fight.

He was going to send a message: that Hawkeye refused to give in. 

The morning was cold, a telltale sign that autumn was going to be on the way soon, but it didn't take much to warm up some bowstring wax between his fingertips as he sat inside his cabin, sharp eyes peering out of the slither of an opening he'd left in his window boards. The string of his recurve was worked between worn skin, the earthy scent of pine pitch and beeswax permeating the air and the faint sound of the string being doted on broke through the quiet. Maybe today would be the day.

His rooster crowed and cackled, the hens clucking loudly as they scattered. Even they knew the air was charged and that he was ready for a fight.