sparrow // mcu

chapter 8 - mistrust

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They didn't speak another word to each other until they were back on the road again, Clint with his second cup of coffee in hand. "Nice shirt," he commented as he turned onto the highway.

Imogen was instantly annoyed again. "I hate you," she told him in no uncertain terms, glancing down at the offending item of clothing.

"A lot of people say that," he informed her cheerfully.

"I'm not surprised. No one likes a guy who buys his own shirt."

He glanced at the 'I Heart Hawkeye' on her shirt again, looking amused. "I thought it might inspire you."

"To do what?"

"Not threaten to kill me."

"Are you ever going to get over that?"

"Are you handcuffed to the door?"

She glanced down at her arm (now free), and sullenly accepted his point. "Are you going to let me drive so you can sleep?" she asked instead.

He shook his head. "I got plenty of sleep."

"You got like, four hours. If that."

"Four hours is plenty."

"You know you're not superhuman, right?" She fixed him with a look of contempt as she said it, making him shift uncomfortably.

"Says who?" he shot back, pretending to be unfazed. "I am a superhero you know."

"A regular one. You're the most regular superhero there is."

"And you're really mean."

"No." She dropped her gaze, looking down at her hands instead, folded neatly in her lap. "I'm just honest. It's not my fault if what's true hurts."

Clint reached up to rub the back of his neck, and then grabbed at his coffee again. "Dunno kid. Still think you might just be mean."

"Think what you want," Imogen replied with a shrug. "Everyone else does. And I'm not a kid." Without giving him a chance to reply, she reached out and turned the radio on, flicking it to the first station that she could find. He got the point, and left it alone, letting unfamiliar music filter through the dusty speakers and fill up the car as they drove on.

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Sleep didn't come to either that day, just hours of staring down road after road. Clint didn't need any prompting to turn into a motel as dusk drew on, much to Imogen's satisfaction. This one wasn't much better than the last place they'd visited – small and cheap, but clean at least, just a bed and a bathroom and not much else (there was a TV here at least, almost making up for the armchair she'd have to curl up in).

It was a warm night, despite the intermittent breeze that picked up every now and then to provide a few seconds of sweet relief before the heat pressed in again. There was no air conditioner, so they threw the window wide open to catch what wind there was, snipers across the way be damned. Clint claimed the bed, leaving her with the armchair, as she'd expected. For a couple hours, she curled up there and tried to sleep, but dangerous things came swirling through her head, keeping her awake, thoughts she hadn't entertained in days. She'd been deliberately keeping herself busy with other things, focusing in on the concussion that had disappeared in the last day or so and driving far, far away from all her troubles.

HYDRA. Item 548. Her parents. Will.

Lies and liars. All of them. She hated liars.

She couldn't fall asleep while she was thinking about it. Throwing off any impressions of sleep, she stood and padded quietly across the room, footsteps muffled by the carpet, easing the door open just enough for her to slip through, closing it just as carefully.