➵ for widowing ● from flesh to blood to heart to bone

<sub>( The hiss of the doors sliding open in the hellicarrier are about the only sound Clint's aware of as he scuffles into the locker room, weighed down by untold amounts of gear. The duffle bag gets tossed unceremoniously onto the floor, and the bow and quiver are given only slightly more reverence, set down on a steel bench. He's covered in a week's worth of grime, dust, and blood; it cakes in his hair and makes his arms stiff as he reaches up to pull off his shirt.

It's only when it's half off, and scrunched around his arms, does he turn to Natasha and sigh. )</sub>

You know we don't even have forms for sick-leave or vacation?