angles on an angel
rating: PG
characters: Clint Barton, Natasha Romanoff
warnings: mentions of past violence
prompt: Natasha is undercover at a private boarding school as a dance instructor. Her primary objective is keeping the daughters of a diplomat(?)safe. Clint is doing the hard work, watching Natasha's back from any and all high spots he can find. In any other time and place, he doubts anyone would have noticed him. Unfortunately, he's been spotted by a few of the young girls (who knew that children could be so observant when adults so rarely are) and he and Natasha have to think quick before everything falls apart. - lar_laughs
summary: Elton John's tiny dancer was iconic. Clint's are tinier, nosier, and safe for the moment - because it's his job to keep it that way. Maybe his lie holds more truth than he knows.
author's note: So I missed lar_laugh's birthday, then stumbled across this prompt when the ATTF post got me going through old promptathons. The following is what happened afterwards. (I bumped the ages down so the kids are now just attending dance lessons; hope that's okay.) Happy belated birthday! :)
note II: Many thanks to cybermathwitch for her beta'ing! All mistakes are mine.
angles on an angel
"What are you doing up there?" One of the tiny tots calls, her head craned back to look at him. Clint freezes in his position in the rafters, as if holding his breath will persuade the dancer she was simply imagining him. Instead she tips her head to the side, blinking innocent brown eyes, and doesn't look away.
He counts to five, scrambling to find some way of explaining it that would make sense to a six-year-old without giving the game away. Thirty feet below Gabriella joins her sister, toddling over on pink slippers to tug on the older girl's tutu. She follows Daniella's gaze and stares at Clint as well, her green eyes equally guileless.
Shit. He claps his hands on the rail and hops up, grabbing the discrete rungs he's been using to get up and down every morning. His combat boots hit the polished wooden floor with a dull thud, outrageously out of place compared to the girls' scuffed slip-ons. (Secretly Clint thinks it's cute to see Natasha tuck them on before lessons, but he won't confess to that even under torture. This place is a far cry from her memories of the Red Room, from the dances they made her dance on broken glass and bloody feet, and her contentedness feels… good.)
Speaking of torture, the inquisitive stares he's getting are probably going to be worse than any thumbs-screws or poker irons he's had the pleasure of encountering. He surveys the rest of the room with one glance, watching for shadows on the frosted glass door and small upper windows, and a quick check of the girls' faces confirms his fears.
Yep. Definitely going to be worse than Quito.
They regard him curiously, unafraid of a complete stranger, and Clint is making a mental note to chew their security detail out when he pauses a few steps away.
"How long have you known I was up there?" He asks cautiously. Gabriella blinks at him, silent as always, but holds up two chubby fingers as Daniella answers.
"Three days."
Clint reaches out and taps Gabriella's ring finger, which she obediently raises as well.
"Three," he tells her, and crouches in front of them. "Three whole days, huh? How'd you find me?"
"We saw you in the mirrors," Daniella explains lightly. "But since you were smiling at Natalie, we decided you couldn't be a bad guy."
His mind breezes past the comment about him smiling and zeroes in on the answer. Mirrors? Clint blinks, then wishes he could knock his head against a wall. They had never considered that the difference in angles would hide him from adults but leave him exposed to someone the size of, say, a four-year-old. Kids had the funny knack of seeing what was in front of them, rather than what their brains thought should be there. Combine together and voila, cover blown.
Scratch that, ream their team a new one anyway,he decides, letting none of his pissed attitude cross his face. "Good guy" or no, these kids need to learn to report potential threats the moment they spot them. It's not a happy life they are being trained to lead; he can recognize and acknowledge the unfairness of it, the stains their childhood will leave on the rest of their lives. Hell, he and Natasha had first-hand experience with that. But if the instincts they develop keep them safe, if they get to grow up because of how they were trained, he isn't going to go easy for sentiment's sake.
Above everything else, his job right now is to protect them. That means in any way he can, for however long he has to. There had been other girls he couldn't save; Gabriella and Daniella aren't going to be among those.
Step one: Allay suspicions. Step two: Ensure silence. Step three: Make a clean exit so Natasha finishes out her assignment and they can stay for the duration of the potential threat. Easy.
As if he's ever that lucky.
He lets out his breath, catching and making sure to hold the direct gazes of the two girls.
"Have you ever heard of guardian angels?" He asks, expression earnest. They nod, pigtails swinging, and Daniella tilts her head to the side with a surprisingly thoughtful look.
"So you're Natalie's angel?"
Clint, about to try and lead them to that conclusion, shuts his mouth with a shrug.
"Yeah. She's a very special lady, so I have to work really hard to keep up with her. That's why you can see me."
"Oh." The sisters consider this, looking at each other. Gabriella is the first to smile, her tiny fist tucked into her mouth, and Daniella is grinning when she turns back to Clint. "That's neat."
"Uh – yeah," Clint replies, surprised at how easily they accept his explanation, and suddenly more tongue-tied than he's been in a while (even including that one time with a very drunk Stark and Reed, courtesy of some Asgardian mead; literally, the stuff of legend. Thinking about it, the two situations weren't even all that different, even if there is less frilly material this time around). "But she doesn't know about me, okay? So it has to be our secret, just between the three of us. Sound good?"
The two girls nod again. He's just sighing with relief when Gabriella pulls her fingers out of her mouth, holding them out towards him. Daniella slaps her own hand down on it without hesitation, and then it's left for Clint to place his on top.
It's almost comical how both their hands easily fit inside his palm, dwarfed underneath his own hand. In a way it only reinforces how important it is to protect them until they are capable of defending themselves; how much he wants these little hands to stay clean and innocent.
That won't last forever; in this world it never does. But for the next few days, he and Natasha can do their part to make sure it lasts a little bit longer.
Then the sisters nod at each other, pulling away their hands and holding their fingers above their heads. Clint follows suit, meeting their eyes again.
"All right," he says, as though he's just finished briefing a SHIELD team. "Natalie can't know about me, but I'll be up there for as long as she's your teacher. I'll watch over you guys too, since I'm around. Got it?"
They giggle and nod, which he takes for agreement, and then there's the sound of footsteps in the hallway. He puts a finger to his lips, rising swiftly and scaling the wall to resume his chosen perch in the rafters. To their credit the girls don't watch him go; instead they tiptoe over to a corner and pretend to adjust their skirts when Natasha opens the door. She doesn't look up, just trusts that he's there, that he'll always be there, always have her six.
Clint settles back, ready to watch another hour of dance lessons, and smiles.
Three days later everyone has survived the annual dance recital, all traces of the bomb under the stage are gone, and the sisters' normal instructor has suddenly recovered from a terrible flu. Under the excuse of having to sweep the rafters, Clint ducks into the now-familiar dance room while Natasha stalls Ms. Taranto in the front office. Inside Gabriella wraps her arms around as much of his waist as she can reach and Daniella presents him with one of her worn ballet slippers, loftily commanding all the ceremony of a coronation.
"So you remember us," she tells him. Clint grins and bows his head, knowing Natasha will be outside with their getaway vehicle in three.
"Always," he replies, and tucks the slipper into a cargo pocket. "Take care of each other, okay?"
"Uh huh," Daniella answers. "Take care of Natalie."
"I'll do my best."
And with the exchange of almost vows, heavy with the weight of solemnity, they part ways.
Natasha glances at him when he climbs in the passenger seat, looking back at the studio.
"Everything go smoothly?" She asks, amused.
"Yeah," he says, meeting her gaze. Natasha had been a child he couldn't go back and save, who'd been broken and had bloodied her hands far too early - but she'd picked herself up and fixed her wounds, had stitched herself back together. In a way, they both had.
"All right," his partner replies, her gray eyes considering him, and lets the unspoken undercurrents go. "Did you enjoy it, at least?"
"You know, I did. Word of advice though, don't ever let Stark find out how good you look in a tutu," he informs her, and they leave the studio behind them as she laughs. He watches the building vanish in the side mirror, grinning.
Now there were two little girls who could stay clean a little while longer, who hopefully would never stain their hands if the people around them did their jobs. And that, Clint thinks as he touches the slipper through his pocket, isn't such a bad outcome for a guardian angel.
fin