The one where they fight about tips. Phil picks out linens. And Clint sees through all the bullshit.

If there's one thing Natasha Romanoff is, it's a fighter.

She's spent most of her life battling demons.

First it was the fire that stole away her father, leaving her mother with no income and a toddler to raise. Those licks of red flame had haunted her nightmares for years. Then, when she was old enough to realize new horrors, the demons morphed into needles and alcohol bottles and little white bags of powder that left her mother red-eyed and delirious. She became a hollow shell that Natasha pleaded with, that she washed and fed and cried over when her mother didn't know enough to care for herself. But no matter how much she tried, the shell withered. Dry and brittle beneath her fingers until every touch was dust.

After the world stole her mother away, these things—these terrors—became a man: a man with stale breath and rough skin. With wandering hands and lingering touches that still make her shiver to remember. Before, when she was living with Ivan, she would dream herself away to a place where she was free to love Clint without fear of her Uncle or the circle of darkness he had concocted around himself.

Now that he's gone, she no longer dreams of Clint, because she has him. No, now she dreams of losing him. Losing him to a man she's afraid she'll never really be rid of. A man she sees every time she closes her eyes.

With that, Natasha jolts awake to darkness: an inky isolation that leaves her panicked and wary, until she recognizes the familiar lump next to her, a muffled movement of breath and dreams. The sleep fog fades a little more, the tightness in her chest begins to loosen, and the memories become only that again.

She takes a long draw in, biting her lips against the shudder in her chest.

It's been almost thirteen weeks since the attack. Twelve since she woke up from surgery, became a ward of the state and was shipped off to a group home far away from Clint. But those numbers she tries to forget. Instead she counts the wisps of hair that cover Clint's forehead as he sleeps on next to her, oblivious to the horrors that have dragged her from her sleep once again.

She runs her fingers over his skin, the warmth chasing a chill from her she's only now recognizing. The movements are gentle, so as not to wake him, and she murmurs truths against his chest. Four. She's been with Clint, at the diner, for four days now. No more group homes. No more ward of the state. Phil's promised her this much.

She's free of all that.

But when she closes her eyes again she can still see Ivan and the tears drip silently down her cheeks, soaking into the front of Clint's shirt. Eventually the stream must stop and sleep must take her because when she wakes again it's much later. The sun is up, warping the shadows in the living room. Her eyes ache from being clenched against the sting of tears, a sharp dryness pricking against their surface.

A swallow and a sniff and she knows she'll be clogged and stuffy this morning.

She needs a glass of water and a moment to wash her face. Maybe she can slip away while the house is still quiet. Maybe before—

"Tasha," Clint whispers in the space between them, groggy with sleep, but very much awake. He's been watching her with that same anxious ridden concern that's twisted his features for the last few days. He knows something's wrong. And it would be an insult for her to shrug him off, to tell him he doesn't understand, because he does, more than anyone, and not just because he was there, but because he's been through some of this himself. Their horrors may not be exactly the same, but they run the same veins and their blood beats with the same unsteady thump, thump of fear.

"I'm sorry," she replies, smoothing out the wrinkles in his shirt. It's stained now, thanks to her, destined for the hamper, but it doesn't stop her ministrations. The touch is soothing. So are the lips he presses to her forehead and the fingers he massages through her hair.

He shifts a little and, to accommodate, she ends up half sprawled over his chest. The couches aren't exactly made for two and Clint's insisted on sharing. He was hesitant to let her go that first day, afraid if they separated he'd wake up to find it was all a dream. At least, that's what he told her. She didn't fight him on it, liking the security of his hand around hers.

But now, four days in, she figures he's probably ready to stretch out in his own bed again, but he just shakes his head and with a gentle smile tells her he'll move back to his room when they finish getting hers ready.

They're still waiting on a bed delivery for the attic, since Clint's is going back to the room he originally shared with Tony, as well as a few other things. Things Phil and Tony whispered all conspiratorially about together. Clint had just rolled his eyes and assured her that he wouldn't let them do anything too crazy, but knowing Tony she'll probably have jet repulsers installed under her mattress.

Clint runs his hand over her spine, fingers tracing vertebrae until she feels more like herself, the night somewhat forgotten. She doesn't move though, finding comfort in the rise and fall of his chest beneath her ear, until a pair of shadows descend the stairs.

She sits up with Clint, catching a familiar tint of silver as the shadows step into the light.

Bucky smiles at them, saluting with his metal arm, grinning like a cat because he can do that now. He can do a lot of other things as well: throw a ball, roll out pizza dough, even key words into a computer (it only took two laptops to get it down), but Natasha suspects his favourite thing is being able to wrap that hand around Steve's knowing he won't crush his fingers.

Steve for his part just ducks his head as he sneaks Bucky out the back door.

"Looks like he spent the night," Clint says with a smirk.

Natasha nods against his chest. "Maybe if the furniture comes today we can vacate the couches so Steve and Bucky can stay down here and then they won't have to sneak around."

Clint's smirk twists a little more. "You know Phil would have let him stay over. I don't think Steve and Bucky want to stay down here. There's a reason he snuck him in here in the first place."

Natasha watches the door to the side entrance swing shut after Steve and her cheeks heat a little.

Clint chuckles and pecks her on the nose. "Guess it's good Tony doled out all those condoms, huh?"

She groans and buries her head against his chest, only to be brought back to her senses by a rather offended scoff as the couch cushion dips twice, once for Steve and again for Tony.

"I hate being the sole bachelor in this place," Tony grumps as he collapses beside them, cradling a bowl of cheerios. "You're all a bunch of lovesick puppies." Steve opens his mouth to point out that technically Natasha is the only new addition to the house, but Tony cuts him off with a wave of his spoon. "Oh, please. I could hear you and Iron Fist whispering your sweet nothings to each other on the landing. You know you'll see him later today, right? He'll be the first one in line as soon as Sam puts the new pie batch out."

Steve manages not to blush, but excuses himself with a roll of his eyes. A moment later Natasha can hear the bowls in the kitchen being moved and she knows he's probably looking for his own breakfast.

"So, what's on the agenda for today?" Clint asks, tugging Natasha closer. "Besides breakfast?"

Steve plucks back down on the couch and gulps down half a glass of juice. "Paint touch-ups in the attic. Furniture delivery. Suckering the delivery guys into actually building the furniture, which won't happen, but I'm still gunna give it a shot."

"What am I?" Tony demands. "Chopped liver?"

"You want to fiddle around with a thousand tiny screws?"

Tony rolls his eyes. "Bet I could have built you a bed that floats, Red."

Natasha grimaces. "I was worried about that."

"Yeah, sure. But when you and lover boy there are squeaking the hell out of that thing and Phil comes up to investigate, you'll be singing a different tune."

"My god!" Clint complains, ripping the pillow out from behind his back and hurling it at Tony's face as Steve splutters on his cereal. "You've only been awake for twelve minutes."

"Exactly," Tony says, ducking the throw. "Filter's not properly functioning yet, so you get to endure my raucous train of thought."

For her part, Natasha simply squeezes Clint around the chest and smiles a shy kind of seduction. "That's okay," she whispers to Clint. "He's probably right."

Steve splutters again, but Tony's lips twist at the corners, hovering around his spoon. "Well played, Red."

"Anyway," Clint says for Steve's sake, giving Natasha's hand a squeeze. "You're also training with Tony today. Phil wants you on the payroll ASAP."

"Oh, hell no," Tony says. "I'm not working with her!"

"Why?" Natasha and Clint demand simultaneously.

"Because she'll get all the tips, that's why."

"Says who?" Clint asks.

"Uh, buddy, have you seen your girlfriend? There are two very nice reasons she'll get the tips."

Clint huffs. "You're lucky I'm trapped under Natasha right now, Stark."

"What would Pepper think?" Steve asks.

"Hey, I'm a devoted guy," Tony protests. "But no one said you couldn't window shop. Now if you'll excuse me. I have to go put my face on if I have to compete with that!" He gestures to Natasha before dramatically sauntering out of the room, waving his spoon for effect.

"I'd like to see him do that in a pair of heels," Natasha says.

Steve shakes his head, one hand resting against his temple. "Bucky keeps asking me if I'm sure he's not gay."

"Nah," Clint says. "That's just a melo-dramatic Stark for you. Though he does spend an insane amount of time grooming that goatee of his . . . Wait a sec . . . does that mean . . . no. Bucky thinks you and . . . huh, he's jealous of Tony?"

"I think maybe a little. I keep assuring him Tony is the straightest thing about this place but," he shrugs, "I'm pretty sure he kissed Bruce full on the mouth the other day when they got that patent for that thing they were making with those nano-whatevers. So he's not exactly helping my case."

Clint strokes a hand over Natasha's arm, looking thoughtful. "Don't worry, it'll pass. I was insanely jealous of Bucky when I first met him. I thought maybe he had a thing with Natasha." He laughs. "I wanted to throttle the guy for the better part of the afternoon."

Natasha perks up. "At the football game? Why am I only hearing about this now?"

Clint shrugs. "It passed real fast. As soon as I saw the way he looked at Steve when you introduced the two of them I knew he was a goner."

"And what about you?"

"Tash, I was a goner the first moment I saw you."

Steve's mouth curls up at the edge. "Tony's right; you two really are a lot to take."

. . .

Phil Coulson never seems to be happier than when doing something for one of his kids.

Clint always thought, especially as of late, that the world missed out giving Phil biological kids. If there was one person on earth that could have raised a brood of crying infants into adulthood, it would have been Phil. As it was he'd definitely put up with his share of bullshit from the lot of them and there hadn't even been a diaper phase.

Clint still hasn't been able to verbalize it, but Phil, now his adoptive father, is probably the best man he's ever known.

And if Clint thought Phil Coulson got excited attending one of his fost—his son's football games—he'd never seen him spend forty minutes at Target choosing between a purple comforter or one covered in soft blue rectangles.

Clint manoeuvres the red cart, bursting with all manner of girly things (because apparently Natasha gets the fancy smelling shampoo), across the aisle, dodging a robust sales woman and one of those motorized scooters being driven by a wiry haired man with three bags of cat litter in his cart.

"I can't decide."

"Phil, really, she'll like whatever. Natasha's not a picky person."

"I know. I just want her to feel at home."

Clint can't hide his smile at that because he's pretty sure Natasha already does since she practically lived at the dinner for a good chunk of the school year. It's definitely more of a home then her tiny little room in Ivan's apartment had ever been. She didn't even have a bed back then, just an air mattress on the floor. That should all be remedied today though. Yesterday night was her last night bunking in on the couch. Phil made sure of that. And though it's not official since they can't be together if Phil were to adopt Natasha as well, he's probably the closest thing to a guardian that she's had since her mom died. Not that that situation was real stellar either.

Clint sighs, but before Phil can look worried, he shakes off the heavy thoughts and offers an easy grin, "Seriously, Phil. She'll like it all."

Phil nods, hands on his hips as he deliberates. "This is her fresh start; I just want it to be done right."

Clint shrugs in acquiesce, letting that one go, though he can tell there's more to Phil's statement then just wanting a dermatologist approved soap in the house now that Natasha's moved in. Though seriously, there's like a seven dollar price difference between the one in the cart and the one they usually get, plus this stuff kind of smells like goat cheese.

Eventually Phil decides on the purple. Everything in the room is going to be a shade of purple at this rate. They continue to the next aisle which is full of towels and Phil's eyes get a little wider.

Clint snorts, but it's followed by a logistical kind of frown. "We're going to need another cart."

"That's why I brought the van."

"You should have brought the six-foot-four foot-ball captain with the biceps."

"I figured the delivery men would appreciate having him there since there are two flights of stairs between the garage and the attic. Though I'm not sure Steve's even put together as much as a book shelf before."

"Then maybe we shouldn't have put him in charge of the furniture." Scratch that, maybe they shouldn't have left Natasha alone with Tony. But Peggy's there, and so is Sam; they had both taken on some kind of protective edge when it came to Natasha; surely they would be enough to handle Tony. (Was anyone enough to handle Tony?)

"He'll be fine. Bucky's there, too. At least I can trust those two to build it without any additions."

"That is true. Tony probably would have broken out the solder-gun."

"And the whole place would be up in flames."

That's a picture he doesn't want to imagine. Sam would be so angry; it's almost new pie day. Plus the insurance claims for the house and the diner, plus the fact that Tony's got robotics contraptions under his bed with patents that probably number in the hundreds of thousands of dollars. Or maybe millions if he ever agrees to hand them over to Pym and stop playing hard to get.

Phil shakes his head, perhaps envisioning a similar scenario. "Just as long as the room gets done today. I want Natasha to feel like she has her own space."

Clint watches for the nervous twitch that accompanies that. Phil bites on his lip as he packs a bunch of hand towels into the cart. Again they had circled around to this sort of thing and Clint doesn't know what it means, but he knows it's something. "Phil?"

"Hmm?"

"Let's be real, you didn't drag me all the way out here to help you pick bed linen."

"There are towels, too."

"Your jokes don't get any better when you deflect."

Phil nods and wraps his hands around the opposite end of the cart. If this wasn't his adoptive dad, Clint might feel as if they're squaring off like some old time western movie, but this is Phil and he's looking at Clint with that sort of resigned softness that he only reserves for when he's about to ask Clint to do something he might not like but that's secretly good for him.

"I actually wanted to talk to you about Natasha."

"So I figured."

"Look, I know it's been kind of a whirlwind since she got here. And I didn't prepare you because I didn't know how long things could take."

"But?"

"I need to make sure we do this right. That we address what happened to her through the proper channels. Once she's settled in, I think she should start seeing Jemma."

"You want her to see a shrink?"

"I know you two dealt with a lot. A lot of it on your own, without telling anyone. And I know she trusts you. More than anyone. So you'll have to be the voice of reason here."

Clint wants to chuckle at himself being called the voice of reason. If anything he's been bull-heading his way through everything, just trying to keep hold of the one thing that mattered most to him. It hasn't been an easy road.

Meeting Natasha, befriending her, loving her hasn't been without hardship. It hasn't been without fight, for either of them, but it's been worth it.

Still, Clint knows you don't walk through the kind of stuff they've both seen without some demons. And it all happened so fast.

Ivan attacked her. She survived twelve weeks between the hospital and foster care before Phil took her in.

And though she was safe now, there were still landmines. He knew that. The tears in the middle of the night told him at least that much. But was she ready to let yet another stranger into her life who wanted to pry into the why's and how's. Dealing with CPS and the system was enough.

"I don't want to push her into something she's not ready for," he says finally.

Phil tilts his head to catch Clint's eye, "Do you remember the first time you saw Jemma?"

Clint shrugs. "I guess. I was angry."

Phil's mouth turns up. "At the world if I remember correctly."

"Yeah, well—"

"And that was your right, Clint. I'm not negating that. But do you remember what happened after you talked to her for the first time?"

Clint looks at his shoes before he makes eye contact with Phil. "I came down to dinner."

"It was the first time you'd agreed to eat with us. The first time you'd said more than five words to me."

Clint sighs. "I was an ass back then."

"You were going through a lot of transitions. That's not what I'm getting at though; where your emotion translated on the outside. Into action. Slamming doors and punching things." Clint winces at that. "I think Natasha's internalizing a lot."

Clint worries his lip for a moment, then says, "She's having nightmares. Bad ones. Almost every night. And she'll cry herself back to sleep. I don't . . . I want to help her. I just don't know—"

Phil catches his shoulder and gives it a squeeze. "It's not your job to know how. That's what I'm here for. You just continue to be there for her. I know you understand what it's like to lose things. Natasha's in the same boat here. Ivan may not have been a good part of her life, but that environment was still a large part of it and it's going to take time to come to terms with having to start over."

Another sigh. "You ever get tired of dealing with messed up kids?"

"You're not messed up, Clint. You're mine. And from what I've seen of you lately, I can't tell you how proud I am of the person you're becoming. All of you. You've done some amazing things this last year. All you needed was the chance."

Clint swallows the lump in his throat and laughs away the dewy look in Phil's eyes. "You know, we should stand in the greeting card aisle if you want to get all mushy in Target."

"Yeah, well, I can't help it. I've got some pretty awesome kids." Phil throws a set of grey towels into the cart. "On another note, we are going to have to have a discussion about your report card. There are a couple of things Nick's worried about."

Clint stumbles into the cart, catching himself in the gut with the handle. Aw hell, he'd almost forgotten about report cards.