AN SCREAMING I BEGAN THIS ABOUT A MONTH AGO, AND HERE WE ARE IN ALL OF ITS TERRIBLE GLORY. This is the companion to eyes blue like your ice cold heart, and for the sake of spoilers, pleeeeease do not read until you have read up to chapter fifteen of eyes blue. Just trust me on this one.

The title of the story and the lyrics are taken from the song 'Poor Little Rich Boy' by Regina Spektor.

Warnings: Language, mentions and descriptions of prostitution, mentions of and allusions to child abuse

(poor little rich boy)

He didn't know why he did it. Clint knew all the reasons why he shouldn't, but he did it anyway. He walked down hooker boulevard, scanned his options, and then just picked one. She, unlike all of the others, seemed supremely bored with the people cat calling and jeering, just because they could. For some reason, he liked that. He also liked her legs, which were on fine display with her incredibly short skirt. Clint wondered how she managed to keep from shivering in the cold.

"Excuse me," he said, the words slipping out of his mouth before he even thought about it. He was catching a prostitute's attention by saying 'excuse me', amidst the virtual din of the street.

You're an idiot, Barton, he told himself, but she turned around. Her expression was of wary uncertainty, as if she didn't know if she had heard right, or was wondering what the hell he wanted from her, but she was looking at him. She looked tired.

"Uh, yeah?" she asked after half a beat, and he thought he heard an accent. Russian, maybe. The girl asked what he needed, and he hitched up that big, confident feeling everyone said could buy him the world.

"Are you on the job?" She blinked at him, clearly surprised at his question. Sure enough, her answer was already half out before she realized what he had said.

"N-yeah."

"You sure?" he asked, trying not to smile at her slip. She suppressed a scowl, barely, and bit out, "Yes."

"Well, alright, then," he said, giving her a pleasant smile.

He led her to the hotel room. Once inside, he shrugged out of his coat and jacket. She watched him, then asked, "Do this often?"

"A few times," he said, because he could be honest with her. About this, at least.

"Me too." He laughed, surprised that she was taking the same tack. He was starting to like her. This woman had some personality, at least.

"What's your name?"

She paused in pulling out her enormous hoop earrings, and gave him a blank, sultry smile.

"Whatever you want, honey."

He gave a self-reprimanding smile, because he should have guessed. She wasn't exactly there for casual chitchat.

"Alright. What's the name your parents gave you? Or the one you go by, which ever."

She gave him an appraising look, then said, "Natasha. What's yours?"

Clint raised an eyebrow at her as he pulled off his shoes. He was a little surprised, he had to admit. She was playing a cheeky game, that as for sure. She knew the strange etiquette of what they were doing, where he demanded whatever he wanted, and she gave everything in a seductive, simpering, compliant fashion. She wasn't supposed to ask things of him.

Her expression was mild, but he noticed how she stopped moving, like she was holding her breath.

"This a new policy I haven't heard about?" he asked, trying to relax her with a joke. She shrugged, brushing off his question with something about being more proper. Clint pointedly suppressed his snort and eye roll.

She—Natasha—had a lot more spunk than the other girls he usually had. She had been standing in the section for girls with pimps, and he worked to remember whose area she had been standing in. He was fairly certain her attitude was an abnormality.

"You're one of Calvin Hughes', yeah?" he asked. She shifted, looking around the room.

"Yeah, I'm one of the Landlord's."

I'm one of the Landlord's. He hated the nickname all of his girls had for the man. It made it sound like the man was just a collector, and they were just things on his shelf. Still, Hughes had a good group of girls, certainly one of the biggest in the area.

Natasha seemed uncomfortable talking about him, so Clint moved on to something a little easier. He leaned against the wall to show that he meant no harm, shrugging as he spoke.

"I heard that he has a good set of girls that handled their own details, but I don't think I really believed it before."

She relaxed ever so slightly, and gave him a teasing smile. There they were, she wasn't so uncomfortable, now. Clint smiled, more at his success than at whatever she said. He liked to win.

He moved a little closer to her, a casual, laid back sort of thing.

"Alrighty, fine. Clint Barton," he said, then teased her by asking if she wanted his social security and PIN. He set his hands on her hips, easy, slow, nothing to make her balk. She refused with a delicious looking smile, and he leaned in a little closer. Clint set his lips just before hers as he spoke, testing himself, seeing how long he could hold out, now that he actually had her in his hands.

"Do I get a last name, to make us even?"

"Romanoff. Natasha Romanoff," she said, and there was that accent again. He opened his mouth, wanting to take the words in and taste them, see how they felt on his tongue.

"Natasha Romanoff?" he said. They were dark and sweet, just like he had expected. He ran his hands up her sides, wondering who would break first; him, from sheer lust, or her, from a cold appraisal of what he wanted. "That's a pretty name."

He could taste her smile as he gave in and kissed her. He knew it felt desperate, hopeless, base, but who was she really to judge? Clint kissed her harder, tasting her own desperation, perched neatly on her tongue, gift wrapped and waiting, just for him.

His hands were in her hair, wrapped tight as he tilted her head back, and kissed her throat. She exhaled, and it sounded like giving in.

He knew she wasn't.

(all the couples have gone)

Clint woke up early, with the room still dark.

You fucking idiot.

He ran a hand over his face. He would have asked what he thought he was doing, but he knew exactly what he had done, and that was the problem. The whole thing had been a very conscious set of decisions on his part, and he just hadn't given a damn about the consequences. That was going to come back and bite him in the ass in a little bit, he was sure.

He needed to get up and go home, and then patch together something to hide his guilt and general self-disgust before Miranda called or dropped by.

Clint glanced at Natasha. She had her back to him, shoulder blades standing out sharply. He reached over to touch her, curious, but held himself back. Touching her now seemed wrong, like his right had expired, now that the sun was more or less up. Plus, he didn't really want to wake her. She had earned the rest.

She shifted, and he pulled his hand back instinctively to keep from brushing her. His hand stayed up for a moment longer, then he told himself to get moving. Clint heaved a sigh, relishing the warmth for a few seconds more before he sat up. The air was cold against his skin, and he grit his teeth. He moved his legs off the bed and leaned over to grab his underwear.

Natasha shivered behind him, and he paused to look at her. He reached back, and tugged the blankets up to her chin.

Clint continued to find and put on his pants. He walked in front of Natasha, examining her in sleep. He had been right earlier. She really did look like she needed the rest.

He turned away from her, muttering to himself about getting a move on, and walked over to his shirt. He pulled it on, and finished getting dressed.

Clint dug around in his pockets for his wallet, and brought out the money for Natasha. He folded the bills up neatly, and set them on the corner of the desk. On a whim, he pulled out the small pad of sticky notes he typically kept in his pocket, and removed the top one. He didn't plan on writing anything on it, he just...wanted to leave it. After he had stuck it to the edge of the mirror, he felt like it belonged there. It was an electric blue, an unexpected splash of color amidst all the beige and dull, faded golds of the room. It showed that he had been there. For half a second, he even allowed himself to think of it as a distinction, to show that he wasn't just another scum bag, rolling through with a hooker, ducking and dodging all responsibility. For half a second, he pretended that he was owning up to his decisions, then that half second was over, and he was headed out the door.

Of course he wasn't owning up to anything. If he was decent enough to do that, he reflected blackly, he never would have bought Natasha's time in the first place.

(you wish that they hadn't, you don't wanna be alone)

"Hey, there," Miranda called, making him turn around in his chair. She walked towards him and gave him a kiss, then paused. She looked at the table, then back at him.

"What's this?

"It's a flower, Miranda."

"I know that," she said, looking pleased as she sat down opposite him. Her eyes were on the single rose, sitting in a small glass vase between them. "I meant, what's it for?"

"I just felt like it," he said, shrugging and smiling at her. A rose for a sticky note. Like it would really make up for anything.

She reached out to touch a petal, a soft smile on her face.

"Thank you, Clint," she said, then straightened in her chair. "How's your day been?"

"Good enough," he said, giving a shrug. She raised an eyebrow, not looking up from her menu.

"Are you going to go to the archery range today?" she asked.

"Mm, not sure yet. Depends on how the afternoon goes. If one of my guys decides to be a genuine idiot, then yeah, but otherwise, probably not."

"They're not conspiring to make your life miserable by being idiots," Miranda told him, unable to hide her smirk. He smiled back. He ran his finger around the rim of his glass, a droplet of water sticking to the pad.

"What're you thinking about getting?" Miranda asked, setting her menu down. Clint shrugged, and glanced back over his own menu.

"Mm…maybe just a burger?"

"That sounds good…but ugh, no way, look at the calorie count on that thing," she said, wrinkling her nose. Miranda, though her weight bordered on waifish, religiously counted her calories. Clint didn't honestly care about her weight or how she chose to maintain it, but it made the pre-ordering amble a trial.

"Hm, I think I'll just go with the salad," she sighed, looking more than a little put out at the café's lack of health conscious foods. "Ooh, if you get off early enough, there is a serious possibility that I will be making chicken alfredo tonight."

"Screw archery, then," Clint said, sitting up a little straighter. Miranda had a way with chicken and pasta that was absolutely occult, even if it was low calorie.

Miranda laughed, trying to muffle her too-loud laugh behind a hand. It didn't really work, but Clint didn't mind.

Clint felt guilty, he really did. He didn't even know why he'd gone and hired a prostitute, certainly not for the thrill of deceiving his fiancée. Every time he looked into Miranda's small smiles, it felt like she was drop kicking him in the stomach. She had no idea that he had rather go find some whore to screw around with, rather than see her.

(poor little rich boy all the couples have gone, have gone, have gone)

He couldn't say why he'd done it, and he felt guilty, but like always, he kept doing it.

When he called Hughes to make the arrangement, why do you even still have that you've been engaged to Miranda for months, it didn't even surprise Clint how casual he sounded. He would have liked to think it was Hughes' easy, friendly Texan accent, but Clint knew better. He just happened to be comfortable, being despicable.

He felt a little awkward, waiting for Natasha. He hadn't ever asked for the same girl twice, and he wasn't quite sure how things were supposed to go. Was he expected to start ripping her clothes off, the moment the door closed? He didn't want to do that. It may have been her job, but Clint didn't want to treat her like a piece of meat.

There was a gentle knock on the door, and Clint pushed himself up from his chair. He braced himself, opening the door, and then broke into a smile.

"Natasha," he said, holding the door open for her. "Come on in."

She gave him a honeyed smile, and stepped inside. He took her coat to give himself something to do, and complimented her dress. It was dark green, the color making her hair look bright and enticing. Clint tossed her coat on the chair, and leaned against the table.

"So, how've you been?" he asked. Natasha gave him a surprised look. She looked uncomfortable again, so he took the pressure off of her by laughing at himself.

"Right," he said, leaning into her and putting his hands on her hips. "Right, it's considered tacky to talk about other men when you're with a customer."

"Not to mention bad for business. So many jealous types out there, you know?"

Clint laughed, because he loved hearing her play the game. Then she neatly broke the moment by asking for her pay upfront. He smiled and pulled himself back, fishing out his wallet. He handed her the money, and asked if that was enough. Natasha's smile was all the answer he really needed, and then he was pulling her closer.

"Don't worry, Natasha," he whispered into her ear. He felt a thrill when she shivered. "I'm not the jealous type."

He kissed her, taking it slow this time and drinking it all in. He kissed down her neck, feeling her pulse every time his lips made contact. She was holding him like she was afraid to let go. Natasha pulled his shirt out of his pants, and ran her hands up his bare back. He shuddered at that, a soft gasp escaping against her neck.

Clint picked her up and turned around to set her on the table, hand blindly wandering down her leg. Natasha raised her foot so he caught the zipper of her boot, and he quickly undid it. He tossed it away, and moved onto the other one. She grabbed his hair then, turning his face away from her collarbone and towards her mouth. She helped him out of his shirt, he pulled off her bra.

Out of all the things they did that night, out of all the places she had kissed him, or touched him, or whispered out his name, the thing that really stuck with him had come after. They were staring at each other in bed, mostly covered up by the dark and the blankets. Her eyes had a little bit of ice bleeding through her carefully constructed mask. But there was also a little bit of curiosity, as she picked up his hand from her side, and closely examined it. When he told her that the calluses on his fingers were from archery, she had kissed them, like there were something strange, and precious, and should be kept safe.

Clint didn't even let himself dwell on how just how much he enjoyed the idea that he was worth the effort.

(and you don't love your girlfriend, you don't love your girlfriend)

Clint managed to stay away almost an entire month. He sorted out some problems with a client about wanting to build a monorail that went through a skyscraper, he worked out his archery, he let Miranda tease him when he stayed over at her place and woke up late. Then he came back from a slightly hellacious conference in Germany, and felt like something nice.

He was vaguely exhausted when Natasha knocked on his door, but her smile tasted like honeyed secrets, her dress made her boobs look great, and her time was his, so there wasn't much of a downside.

She seemed to be taunting him when he kissed her, daring him to go a little farther, burn a little brighter. He tried to hoist her onto the table again, but this time Natasha pushed against him, shoving her body against his and making him stagger backwards. Clint couldn't help but laugh as they fell onto the bed, but Natasha was busy straddling his hips and undoing his shirt.

She leaned down to kiss his sternum, then glanced up at him, luring him even farther down her wicked path. Clint wrapped his fingers up in her hair, while his other hand was running along her thigh, hiking up her skirt. He hooked his thumb around top of her panties, intending to pull them off, but she pulled his hand away, smirking as she as went.

"Where's the fun in rushing it?" she asked, moving his hand before her face. She kissed it, dark red lipstick making bruises on his wrist. It wasn't like last time. Now, it was all about the money.

He gave her a lazy smile, and said, "I didn't think you'd be one for foreplay."

Natasha laughed, and kissed his mouth as she undid his pants. She didn't so much as shiver when he unzipped her dress.

For all their talk, Clint knew that Natasha knew that he was only a pace away from being a dead man walking. At some point, she gracefully shifted from their encounter being an involved, two person job, and into her flat out pleasuring him. Not that Clint could actually complain.

By the time they were just lying in bed, he was about ready to pass out. It felt so nice there beside her, to the point where he could almost pretend that he didn't have to get up and slink back to his own home, or have to prep for a presentation with the most finicky buyers on the planet, or have to play twenty questions with Miranda about his time in Germany. Natasha was curled up against his side, demanding nothing more than a mild fee for the night. Her hand was stroking his hair, the movement slow and rhythmic and wonderful, and he smiled at her as he mumbled that he liked it there, and she blinked at him and maybe smiled back…

And then his phone was buzzing on the nightstand, jerking him awake. He hissed in a breath and rolled over, praying that it wouldn't wake Natasha up.

He fumbled with it, trying to read the screen, but it felt like someone had just poured sand in his eyes, and nothing was really making sense. Just getting the phone in his hand was a little miracle.

He stared at it, trying to figure out what the caller ID was telling him. Apparently, it was one of his people from work.

"Hey, Marik, can I get you to hang on a sec?" he whispered, easing out of bed and scrambling for his clothes.

"Yeah, sorry for waking you, Clint, it's just—I think you should know what's up."

"What?" he asked, forgetting himself and straightening, shirt in hand. Clint glanced at Natasha, who was still asleep, and lowered his voice again. "What's happened?"

"It's…well, it's nothing big yet, but Bob's gonna be making a surprise inspection of the Henderson project today, and—"

"What?" he snapped again, trying to work into his shoes and ease out the door before he woke Natasha. Bob's inspections were more akin to a mental frisking. Any and all details would be taken, and if a project didn't feel promising enough at the time, Bob had been known to pass it on to someone 'more capable'.

"I know, I know. I told Barbara—she warned me about it—I told Barbara that it didn't make sense for an inspection when you weren't coming in until tomorrow, 'cuz of your late flight, and she totally agreed with me, but Bob's hellbent on it, and you know how he gets."

"Okay," he said, slipping outside, "okay, okay, fine. I can come in today, not a big deal. But what…"

"Clint, David's gonna take it over if we're not up to scratch."

"Son of a bitch," he sighed, running a hand through his hair. Clint fiddled with his shirt sleeves, trying to maintain some semblance of professionalism. David was, in all respects, an asshat that was pissed some redneck from Iowa had managed to do so well for himself. David's people, Clint had been told, were good ole boys from Virginia, and had always had their fingers in important social pies (Clint was fairly sure this was another way of saying 'a bunch of rich, whiny little shits', but that wasn't the kind of thing you could just ask in their social circles). He had made it his personal mission to defame or impede Clint whenever possible. Clint, in turn, had made it his personal mission to irritate David by being successful, and sometimes becoming a little shit himself. But this had to be a new low, even for David.

"I am so sure he's the one who pushed Bob into it," Marik said, sounding relieved to finally have a sympathetic ear. "Bob woulda never done this, with the group leader coming back from freakin'Germany, and when we've barely got our feet on the ground."

"Yeah, I know."

Clint spent the next fifteen or so minutes trying to put out fires, then finally convinced Marik to get off the phone and get some work done. He glanced at the phone screen, groaning to himself when he saw it was eight thirty. He could have been asleep right now. He could have been laying in bed, not worrying about his whole team freaking out because of one asshole, not thinking about how long he would have to spend in the office, he could have been doing anything else.

Clint watched the street for a few moments, thinking. What was he to do now? He didn't need to go to work right this second, but he doubted he had time for much else. By the time he got home, he would have to turn right around and head back out. What he really wanted to do was to go back to sleep, but he doubted he'd be able to just conk out after coming home from work…

Clint sighed. This day just wasn't cut out for him. He turned back to his room, and walked inside. Maybe he could tire himself out if he went to the archery range, then he could—

Natasha stared at him from the small table, holding a mug of coffee.

"You're awake," he said stupidly, of course she was awake, but he couldn't get over her expression of flat fear. Not like people normally looked when they were startled, but like he had just broken into her home with a nail bat, and was ordering her to lock herself in the bathroom.

"I thought you would still be asleep now," he continued, closing the door behind him. He was starting to feel like he really was the intruder here, and the explanation—apology?—had slipped from his lips without permission.

"Uhm, no, I just woke up, actually," she said. She had the same tone as him, explanation and apology twining together to make some sort of awkward statement. He nodded, gave some sort of noncommittal grunt, and moved toward the table. Natasha's grip on the cup tensed, ever so slightly, and she looked away from him. Clint paused, and the breathless surprise of the moment hardened into something more unpleasant.

"Mind if I…?" he asked, tilting his head at the other chair. Natasha blinked, and some of the tension eased out of her. She waved her hand at the space beside her, seeming a little confused.

"If I'd known that you wanted some, I would have packed better coffee," he said. Natasha gave a brief smile, and he was suddenly struck with the impression of having seen something he shouldn't. He shouldn't have witnessed her sitting there and taking a moment for herself. She had been caught naked, more exposed than she ever could have felt without clothes on, shattering the illusion that she existed only for the pleasure of others. Clint swallowed, and tried to ignore the way his stomach turned a little heavier at the thought.

"It's alright," Natasha said, looking in her cup. Clint laughed, forgetting what he had been thinking about.

"Come on, I only take that stuff with me so I can get my caffeine fix to get me on my feet before I go find coffee that doesn't taste like river water."

"Not all rivers are dirty," she mused, making Clint chuckle again. Was she this polite normally, or just because she had been caught where she wasn't supposed to be?

They made small talk for a few more moments, then Natasha excused herself to the bathroom. He leaned his cheek against his hand, watching the bathroom door. She hadn't fidgeted while they had spoken, but there was some sense of her squirming around in her skin, trying to find something comfortable.

He stood up from his seat, figuring that he might as well let her leave by herself. He checked his pockets to make sure that he still had his wallet and keys, then paused. Clint considered for a moment, then picked up her coffee cup, and carried it to the sink. He rinsed it out, then set it down. He'd pack it up when he returned from breakfast.

Clint turned to the doorway once more, and again found himself pausing by the table. He didn't even consider the bright pink sticky note he left as he closed the door behind him.

(and you think that you should)

Miranda's flowers were sitting on the table. A dozen roses, nice and neat and velvety red. One dozen beautiful, simple, ribbon wrapped lies. They felt like a condemnation from across the room.

"Clint, honey, I love you but if you keep squirming, I'm kicking you off the couch," Miranda said, not looking up from her book. He sighed, and shifted one more time, just for good measure.

"Sorry, I just…I dunno, can't get comfortable."

"Then try not sitting on the couch."

Clint shot her a look, then turned back to the football game. He was fine for a little bit, but then the commercial break started, and his attention started to wander.

Miranda snorted at something in her book, but she kept reading. One of his favorite commercials from last year's Super Bowl played, showing a kid running around his house, pretending to be Darth Vader. The neighbor's dog started that obnoxious whine that Miranda swore she couldn't hear, even though he had pointed it out on several different occasions. Those damn fucking flowers were throwing spite at him from the kitchen table and if he didn't get up and go throw them out of the window, he was going to go fucking native—

"Okay," Miranda said, "okay. What is it?"

"Huh?"

"What's wrong? What's got you all worked up? You've been on edge since we sat down."

"I just…it's nothing."

I've been cheating on you with the same prostitute since April and I have seen her twice in the last three weeks and I absolutely hate myself for it but I can't stop.

"Clint," Miranda said, giving him the thine-lies-are-seen-by-mine-eyes look. "What is it?"

"Freakin' David," he found himself sighing, rubbing a hand across his forehead. The words had come out of his mouth before he even realized it, and for a moment, his stomach was seized in panic. Then he registered what he'd said, and relaxed a little.

"Oh, what'd he do now?"

"Nothing, he just—he is actively trying to get me fired, and it's starting to piss me off."

"Well, yeah. You have every right to be mad. Can you report him?"

"No, because it just looks like he's being a kiss ass. I can't really do anything, except pray he gets hit by a truck."

"Clint Barton," Miranda reprimanded, but she was smothering her laughter. She had always told him that was what made her decide to go steady with him—his straightforward and often irreverent manner of describing things. Clint was just pleased she saw it as amusing and not obnoxious, because Miranda was the very picture of proper behavior. How she hadn't been absolutely appalled at him from the first meeting, he had no idea.

"Look, it's true. I'm sharing my feelings, isn't that what your talk radio lady's always saying? 'Share your feelings', and I'm sharing my feelings, and my feelings are that David should be hit by a truck so he can't come back to ride my dick every day."

Miranda lost the battle against her mirth, and burst into laughter. Clint smiled at her, but he couldn't help but find her laughter a little too loud for his liking.

(but you don't love her anyway)

"Hello?"

"Hello?"

"Barney?" Clint had read the caller ID, but he hadn't quite believed that it was his brother, calling in the middle of the week, and not on a holiday.

"Uhm, hey-hey, uhm, Clint."

Clearly, Barney was just as uncomfortable as he was, because Barney never stammered, except for the times when he had tried to come up with an excuse when faced with something serious, like arrest, or their father's wrath. Even then, his voice hadn't sounded as uncertain as it did now.

"…Hey. How're you?"

"M'alright, I guess. You?"

"Good enough. What's the occasion?"

"No occasion," Barney said, not even commenting on the suspicion in Clint's voice. At least he realized how weird this was. "I just...I wanted t'say hi, see what's up. We haven't—we haven't talked since Easter, and I didn't wanna—"

He broke off, and Clint was glad he did. He had guessed what Barney was going to say next. Didn't want to be left alone with a shit relationship with the only family I got left.

"…Okay," Clint said, not quite disliking the idea but not really loving it, either. They had settled on only talking to each other a few times out of the year for a reason. They both realized that that much shit flying around in their childhood would result in either them being very close, or not being close at all.

They weren't very close.

Still, they made small talk for a quarter hour or so, in which time Clint's suspicions of Barney only wanting to ask for something were completely disproved. In fact, by the time they hung up…he felt alright. Despite all their faults, the Barton boys knew how to carry on a conversation, even if most of it was tiptoeing around unwieldy topics.

The only time they had drifted into tense waters was when Barney had mentioned their parents. Or, more specifically, their mother.

"Y'know…Ma's birthday's comin' up."

"Yeah, I know," Clint said, disregarding the way his voice had turned frosty.

"I was thinkin'…of maybe goin' out there? Just checking up, or somethin'."

"Well, that sounds good," Clint allowed, pointedly biting back words like 'it's just a fucking grave, Barney'.

There was a slight pause in which Clint knew Barney was hoping that he would allude to wanting to visit their parents' graves as well, but it wasn't going to happen. Barney may have forgotten the nightmare that had been their childhood, but Clint certainly hadn't. He wasn't about to go put flowers on the graves of a man that had beat him senseless and the woman that had stood by and let it happen.

Barney sensed the tension in the air and casually backed off, tying it into some of his plans for the near future. Clint let the transition happen, partially because he didn't want to think about their parents any longer than he had tooband partially because he was actually liking being able to talk to his brother.

A strange, almost light feeling stayed with Clint for the rest of the day. It was noticeable enough that Miranda even commented on it when she dropped by that evening.

"You look chipper," she said, leaning against the counter.

"Uh, yeah, I guess?" he said, looking up from some papers for the Henderson project. "Oh, didn't I tell you? Barney called me on my lunch break."

"Barney? As in your brother? As in the guy that doesn't call you except for on Christian holidays and your birthday? And sometimes not even on your birthday?"

"Yeah, I know, right? Totally unexpected. We just talked for a few minutes and then he said he had to go."

"That was it? He just wanted to shoot the breeze?"

"I guess so. He asked about you, how work was going, I asked about Sharon, how things were shaping up for him…"

Clint trailed off, a new little wave of surprise washing over him as he remembered their conversation. Then he noticed Miranda's expression. She was pursing her lips, making a dimple appear in her cheek.

"What?"

"Nothing, I just…don't you think it's a little odd?"

"How's that?" he asked, sensing where she was going and yet hoping that she wouldn't.

"I mean, not to smear your family, or anything, but…Barney's not exactly the best off. And when compared to you, the family dark horse, the unexpected success story, the engineer living in New York, being hired for top dollar hotels and sky scrapers…don't you think—"

"That he's calling for money?" Clint asked. He hadn't meant for his voice to sound so cold, but it did and he couldn't exactly take it back. "Yeah, I thought about that. But Barney would have come right out and said it."

"Look, Clint, I'm not trying to burst your bubble, really, I'm not, I just don't want to see this…turn out bad."

"It's not like Barney's trying to wind me up, string me along on some amazing, brotherly relationship one only dreams about and then drop me on my ass. If Barney wanted something from me, Miranda, he would have said."

"I know, you said that," she said, voice rising now. "But it is kind of weird. Why would he just call you up, for no reason? Literally, Clint, no reason. I'm just trying to point out how odd it is."

"Miranda, I get that, I really do, and I appreciate the effort, but you don't have to talk to me like I'm some damn idiot!"

Miranda didn't say anything at that, just gave him a look, expression flat and unimpressed. Clint closed his eyes, and took a long breath.

"I'm sorry. I didn't—I don't think you were doing that. I shouldn't have said that. I really shouldn't have."

"I know," she said, voice all too stiff. "And…thank you. I didn't mean to push you like that, I just want you to consider things. I'm sure Barney's a good enough guy, and that he's not meaning to hurt you."

Clint gave her a thin smile, and nodded.

I'm sure that he's not meaning to hurt you.

Like she was anticipating for things to get ugly and heartbroken at the end of it all.

AN I love writing from Clint's POV. He's very direct about he sees things, but conversely, very determined not to see or address the uglier, 'shameful' parts of his life. It's almost to the point where he believes his front, which is an interesting thing to balance out within the story.