AN: So, here it is: my first proper Avengers AU! And how could I resist the temptation of 'baby' Clint? He is a picture of total adorableness in my head, though I bet he'd run circles around anyone in real life...!

So I don't actually know where the inspiration came from, but take this as a sort of alternate way as to how Clint loses his hearing (I kept close to some original details, but tweaked a few others). It's mainly focused on Natasha, but both Barney and Clint have lots to say (Clint more so than Barney, because he's such a chatterbox). Some other familiar faces pop in to say hello, but it's all about Natasha and the Bartons, really. I tried to keep true to personalities and stuff, so if I stray a bit, I heartily apologise - otherwise, I hope y'all enjoy it!

Fly, Little Birds

1. Meet the Kids

Despite the casual set of her shoulders and the easy smile she gave to passing parents, Natasha Romanoff was always nervous about going to the school. It wasn't a place she associated with happiness, and she couldn't help but make assumptions as to what the other parents thought of her: teenage mother, adopted sister, a stranger to be wary of. Some of them tried to talk to her, and she would reply politely enough but only because etiquette required her to, and because it was obvious they were making an effort to be polite too. If she could have it her way, she'd be in and out of the playground in no more than fifteen minutes – but, considering who she was here for, that wasn't always possible.

"Tasha!"

"Hey, squirt." Smiling at the nickname, Natasha crouched down as the five-year-old bundle of energy known as Clint Barton hurtled towards her. She caught him easily as he threw his arms around her neck, unable to suppress a grin of her own as she squeezed him warmly back (and still, after nearly a year of doing this, it amazed her that this little boy could provoke such a response from her). "You got everything?"

Clint stepped back and nodded enthusiastically. "Have you got my bow?"

"No, Clint," she said firmly, shaking her head. "You know the bow's only for the garden." He whined, dropping his chin to his chest. "Hey – you've got some time before we go. Why not be Hawkeye without a bow for a bit, hmm?"

"Okay!" he chirped, slinging his bag off his back and darting towards the playground's jungle gym. Natasha watched him fondly as he swung himself around the climbing frame, wondering what new adventure he was talking himself through as the Amazing Hawkeye. He was always talking, Clint – never seemed to run out of batteries.

Scanning the next wave of children to come out ten minutes later, Natasha smiled at the brown-haired boy who approached them. "Hey Barney. You okay?"

Nine-year-old Barney Barton stopped in front of her and gave her a half-smile. "Hi Nat. I'm fine."

She cocked an eyebrow. "You sure?"

He shrugged, scuffing his shoe on the ground. "'s just Bobbi, that's all." Bobbi was a girl Barney 'like-liked' in his class. As far as Natasha could tell, she was unfortunately oblivious to the fact, and Barney was too shy to do anything about it. One day, Natasha thought, she'd make him outright tell her – but for now, she suppressed an eye roll and ruffled his hair.

"What have I told you about that? Stop moaning and do something about it." He just shrugged again, and she gave up. "Okay. I'll say no more. Go fetch your brother and let's get home."

Clint talked non-stop for the entire thirty minute walk. Normally, if anybody else she knew prattled on the way he did for that length of time, Natasha would make them stop, one way or another; with Clint, though, she sort of liked it – maybe because it was young, she thought, but mainly because it was who he was. If Clint was quiet, it meant something was up and he was upset. She didn't like seeing him upset. Barney was harder to read in that sense, but only because he was quieter than his chatterbox brother. He worried more than Clint, which was understandable given his circumstances, but Natasha was yet to get him to really open up to her. In Barney, she was loathe to admit, she could see herself as a young girl: full of worry where there should be happiness.

The closer they got to home the more tense Barney became. It was a subtle change, but one she'd seen a few times before – he would happily keep up with Clint's ramblings, but his contributions would gradually decrease until he was more or less oblivious of what they were talking about. His pace would slow, too, and a fearful edge would appear in his eyes. The first time she'd noticed it, Natasha had asked and been told that Barney didn't get on well with his father when he was at home. As their childminder, there wasn't a lot she could do about that, and while she felt bad about delivering them both to someone at least one of them didn't want to be around, she didn't want to lose her job; she couldn't face Phil's disappointment again.

When she opened their front door Clint shot through like a falcon, racing upstairs to a soundtrack of childish action hero noises. Barney was slower, taking his shoes off carefully whilst keeping his eyes on the lounge door. He all but froze when their father walked through, a scowl on his dark face and a glass of water in one hand. "Mr Chisholm?" He stopped, turning his head slightly to glare at Natasha from bloodshot eyes. "What time would you like me back again, sir?" she asked, keeping her tone neutral.

Buck Chisholm grunted. "Soon as you can," he growled, and disappeared into the kitchen without sparing a glance for his son.

"Alright, then. I'll be back at six, Barney, okay?" The little boy was grinning at his shoes, and Natasha cleared her throat. "Something funny?"

The smile faltered a little, and Barney fiddled with his shoelace before answering. "When you call him Mr Chisholm, it makes him sound like he's not our dad," he explained softly, and as he turned to smile at her again she saw a brightness in his eyes that hadn't been there when she picked him up.

She rolled her eyes at him. "Barney Barton, you need to be careful. Now I'm coming back at six, so keep Clint out of trouble and make sure he's ready by then, okay?" Barton was their mother's name, and they only took it because she wasn't actually married to Buck. Natasha wondered why she was with him at all, but kept her mouth shut. She was just the childminder, after all.

Barney turned sad again when she left, and though it tugged at her heart a little she made her way quickly home. The clouds were coming in, and tipping her head back she imagined that it meant a storm was coming, too, or that they could sense the tension in her world at that moment. Clint would be devastated if it rained – he wouldn't be able to play with his little bow, and that made him more likely to be hyper when she went back for them later. She better start thinking of places to take them if the worst happened.

"I'm home," she called once she'd let herself in. It was obvious that Phil was home: his jacket was hung up by the door, but there was no sign of him in the living room. He was most likely in his study, or maybe the kitchen, so Natasha went straight through to pour herself a drink. Her guardian appeared a moment later.

"How was your day?" he asked.

"Routine," she responded, slipping the glass into the dishwasher. "I'm picking the boys up at six. Do you know if it's forecast to rain?"

"A shower maybe, nothing too big."

She sighed. "Wonderful."

"Bruce called while you were out," he informed her. "He wanted to know if you were available this evening. I told him to come round at six."

Pausing in the doorway, Natasha turned and stared at him. "Phil, what the hell?"

He shrugged. "I wasn't aware you had plans already, Natasha. If you don't want to see him, call him and tell him so."

Scowling, she went to pick up the phone and call Bruce – to tell him to come at a different time. Phil was always doing stuff like this. He was her longest-standing guardian to date, and (if she was honest with herself) probably her favourite. He was unassuming, calm, a straight-thinker and an even straighter talker. He understood her boundaries and expectations, and made sure she understood his. There was respect between them to the point where she almost trusted him completely, but her trust was something that was, by now, very hard to gain. It wasn't that people didn't deserve it – if anything, Phil Coulson may actually deserve her trust – more that she couldn't bring herself to give it away so easily. Anyone who'd been in a care system as shitty as hers would feel the same, she was sure.

"Hello?"

"Hey Bruce."

"Hi Natasha – what's up?"

"Phil told me you called earlier."

"Oh, yeah, I just wanted to know if you were up to anything later, that's all. He said I could come round at six." Her friend's tone turned hesitant. "Is that okay?"

"Can you come a bit earlier?" she asked. "I'm taking some kids out at six, but you're welcome to tag along." She smirked. "I may need the company."

"Are you sure? I mean, yes, that'd be fine, but I wouldn't want to be in the way or anything."

"Bruce, they're kids. They won't care."

"But what if I…"

She knew what he was trying to say, and closed her eyes to stop herself from yelling at him down the phone. "It's a pub, Bruce. It'll be me, you, and two under-tens. We can't drink, it's way before old men time, and it'll probably be fairly dull. You aren't going to flip."

He sighed. "Alright. Is quarter to too early?"

"Quarter to sounds fine. See you then."

Phil was there as she put the phone down, toast in one hand, laptop in the other. "Now, some would say I've just done you a favour."

"Really? Pray tell, what favour was that?" she drawled, hoping the snarky tone was as obvious as she intended it to be.

He sat at the opposite end of the sofa. "You'd be bored looking after Barney and Clint on your own. Now you'll have someone your own age to help you."

About to throw a comment back at him, she stopped herself and realised Phil was right. The Barton kids were great, but her life more or less revolved around them, and chances are they'd want to play in the child's area when they got there. The idea of sitting in a pub on her own for God knows how long wasn't appealing. Narrowing her eyes at him instead, she said, "I still think you're a spy, you know."

He snorted. "Yeah. My first name's actually Agent, not Phil."

"Whatever, old man."

"Hey, I'm not that old," he protested as she left for her room. It made her smile, but she hoped he hadn't seen it. Settling down to do some work of her own, she missed the first few raindrops that tapped against the window, echoes of something greater happening somewhere else.