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The place is empty when he gets in, silent in a way he can feel. He lifts his bag onto the kitchen counter even as he scans the room for anything out of place - the windows are closed, because there's no breeze on his arms and it's warm and stuffy enough that it's just a little harder to breathe, but there's still something different; he can't place it, but he doesn't unstrap the knife from his ankle just yet.
The fire escape is firmly shut, too, and the padlock is intact. He left it locked from the inside, so he'd know if someone got in. Still, there's something in the back of his mind, snaking up as if it was hiding in his spine and just finally found a way out from the marrow to wrap around his nerves and penetrate the cortex. He imagines it as a cold, silver stream of light; he doesn't like it.
The apartment is open plan, mostly; as close to it as he could find, anyway, because he couldn't stand the idea of living in a place with walls after so long on the road; or because he wanted to be able to look up and have line of sight to the exit from wherever he was; or because the concept of a stable base was too much for him to even have in his head, too domestic, too restraining, for him to feel safe. Of course, it's the one space he can't see into without lights that makes him most uncomfortable; having few windows meant fewer ways in but less natural light, more shadows, and a place for a man to hide.
"Clint Barton," he says, from his spot in the shadows, into which he blended almost as if he were made of them. "I have a job offer for you."
Clint reaches for his knife, aware of the lack of the weight of the quiver he's so used to, but the man doesn't move, or go for a weapon of his own. He'd waited until Clint was close enough that his words would be clear, the sound of them able to be analysed and interpreted.
Clint does the only thing he can do, really; he turns on a light, he listens, and he offers the man a drink. He doesn't shake hands, still not quite comfortable with touching, but he says yes.