I never see him anymore. He's sequestered himself in a locked room and thrown away the key. On his best days I got blank stares and the occasional single syllable word. On his worst, he screamed and thrashed against the monsters in his mind. Eventually, I just stopped visiting him. I hate myself for that, I really do. But what am I supposed to do? I'm a dance teacher from Albany, he's a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent in the middle of a mental break. There's nothing I can do to help him, that was made heart-shatteringly clear on my last visit. We were sitting in his room on one of his better days, I was talking and he was semi-answering, when his partner, Natasha, walked in. I don't think she knew I was going to be there because when Clint let out a wordless cry of joy and flung himself into her arms, the look she gave me was one of unfiltered pity.

"I'm sorry," she murmured. "I'm sorry you had to see this."

I didn't answer her, I just left. Once I was out of the building I declined the waiting taxi and just started running. I ran all the way back to my loft apartment, slammed the door behind me and cried. Cried and cried until I felt wrung out and left to dry. That was four and a half months ago and I haven't seen or heard anything since.

Stripping off my clothes, a blue patterned shirt and faded jeans, I toss them onto the couch as I cross the room towards my dresser. I peel off my bra and cram it into a drawer before pulling an oversized t-shirt over my tousled brown hair. My breath hitches slightly when I realize its one of Clint's shirts. I don't take it off though. Instead, I flop down onto my plush queen-sized bed and turn on the TV. What Not To Wear reruns, I can live with that. My phone chirrups insistantly from its perch on the small table near my front door, pulling my focus from the show. Groaning, I slide out of bed and cross my apartment. Without looking at the brightly lit screen to see who was demanding my response at 11:30 at night, I turn my phone completely off.

"Time, people," I mutter, stalking over to my pantry and pulling out a bag of tortilla chips. "There is this concept of time and appropriate times at which to utelize this concept to text me. Learn them."

Normally I'm not so...irritable, but I've had a long day. A very long, very brutal day. Getting a bunch of eleven year old girls overcome sudden onset stage fright in twenty minutes is a near super human feat that I always end up being assigned.

I climb back into bed and return my focus to the TV. At some point I fall asleep because the next thing I'm aware of is someone pounding on my door, the sound filling the apartment and replacing the babble of my TV, which must have auto shut off not to long ago. That is, if the warmth that meets my hand as I trail my fingers across it on my way to the door is any evidence.

Irritated, I begin my tirade before I fully open the door. "God, have people lost any and all concepts of time? It is two in the morning, what the he-"

Mid-rant, I just stop and stare at the battered figure in front of me. He's leaner than before, paler, his sandy brown hair is buzzed close to his head, and he's bracing himself against the doorframe just to stay upright. But his eyes. Green, then blue, then grey, then back to green, those are still the same as he stares at me. He tries to say something, but all that passes his cracked lips is a raspy croak. Almost desperately, his tongue darts out to moisten his lips as he tries again.

"No, Clint, don't," I protest, reaching out to drape his arm over my shoulder.

I help him into my apartment and over to my bed. Pulling down the blankets, I help him up onto the mattress then reach down to pull off his shoes. When I go to relocate the boots from my bedside to the bucket near the door, his hand shoots out to grab my wrist.

'No, Spencer, don't leave, please.'

When he signs his plea instead of talking, I frown slightly, set his boots down on the floor and lean over to inspect his ears.

'Clint, where are your hearing aids?' I sign back, giving him my best teacher stare before his request fully hits me. He knows my name! He knows who I am! 'Wait, you remember me?'

'I'm sorry, Spencer,' he replies, 'I'm so sorry.'

'No sir! You do not apologize to me for something you couldn't control. If anything, I should be apologizing to you. For...for leaving. I'm sorry, Clint. I am sorry.' I fire back, my signing becoming less frenzied as I reach my apology.

He grins weakly and seizes my wrist again, albeit with less urgency, pulling me onto the bed with him. I settle on the edge of the mattress before freeing my hand. Pushing himself into a sitting position, he locks his tri-coloured eyes onto my muddy brown hues before sliding a hand up to cup the back of my head and pulling me forward to press a stubbly kiss to my forehead, my cheeks, anywhere he could reach.

He pulls away, a satisfied smirk flashing across his face at the flush creeping up my face. His hands being moving again, but it takes me a while to tear my gaze from his and focus on his words.

'Dance for me?'

He wants me to...dance for him?

'Really?' I sign back, uncertainty plastered across my face.

'Please?'

The look he gives me is one of absolute pleading. I can't say no to that, to him. Leaning forward, I brush my lips across his before slipping off of the bed. I grab my pointe shoes and put them on, then turn on my stereo. As the opening strains of Tchaikovsky's Sleeping Beauty Waltz fills the room, I smile. And then I dance.

I dance for him.