(no subject)

[inhisnest]

While Clint would prefer there not to be another invasion on the station, he can't deny the thrill he felt at actually being able to do something again. Even more important is the fact that he has his gear back. He's been a marksman as long as he can remember. A sniper without a gun or a bow is like being crippled and he swears he had some vague approximation of phantom limb syndrome until he had his bow back in hand again.

And now he doesn't let it out of his sight. It's stupid, probably, and he's sure the rest of the station thinks he's a little odd but Clint has never particularly cared what other people think of him. The ones who matter - they never seem to judge. His group of people that matter seem to be dwindling and he wonders what will happen when he's the only one left.

He has never minded his own company but that's on his terms.

Today, he's in the kitchen trying to get the replicator to give him coffee just the way he liked it back home - black, hot and strong. He's gotten several mugs of...not so good coffee, one that would have been okay if not for all the cream in it and he has hopes for this one.

"One cup of coffee. Just one."

And to think, he used to drink it by the carafe.