There's a peaceful lull as the weather warms to spring. Clint digs up a pocketful of ball bearings from somewhere, and spends most of his free time crouched on the roof while Natasha slips from point to point on the ground, setting up targets that get progressively smaller and more hidden. Except for the ones she puts behind the trees just to tick him off, he hole-punches each one dead center.

Danny is suddenly acting as though girls are totally off his radar, though the younger boys are still fair game to his kicks and punches. As the ground thaws, he develops a new fondness for tripping them into the muck, and Clint spends a long week skulking around and firing mud balls at the seat of Danny's pants, until the other boy finally wises up.

Natasha thinks he's beginning to suspect Clint is behind the stealth retaliation.


The school year draws to a close.

The younger Mountainview kids are signed up for various summer day programs; there are a few charity slots for the older kids at a sleepaway camp down in the Pines, but only a few. Ms. Martinez, the senior caseworker, scrambles to find steady activities or jobs to occupy the others.

"I see in your file that you spoke Russian at home with your… guardian," Ms. Martinez says one afternoon after calling Natasha to her office.

"My uncle, Alexei," Natasha corrects.

"Your uncle, then. But you must be quite fluent."

She shrugs. "I haven't spoken it in a year."

"I'm sure that won't matter. The middle school is running a summer enrichment program, and languages are one of the choices offered. It would be lovely if you volunteered as a student assistant."

Natasha doesn't think it sounds lovely at all. Ms. Martinez sighs. "I can arrange for you to receive class credit, the same as if you had attended summer school session."

They're not going to let her sit in the trees all summer while Clint shoots things. Natasha grudgingly accepts.

Clint won't be spending the summer sitting in a tree, either. It turns out the only way Thor passed Basic Science was because Clint coached him through it, and now Thor wants to return the favor by reserving a spot for him in the local summer lacrosse league.

"I didn't know you played lacrosse," Natasha says that evening as they squeeze into the crawlspace corner next to the kitchen vent. It's too hot now to be in the ceiling, but Clint has rolled his coat into a tight bundle, tied it into a plastic bag, and is stowing it safely until the weather cools again. He shrugs.

"I don't. But Thor is really, really persuasive when he's enthused about something."

"So next year you're signing up for the school musical with him?" Natasha hides a smirk at his look of horror.

"Shit, no!" He sticks his feet out and wiggles them. "But Ms. Martinez is so happy to have one less kid to schedule that she's buying me a new pair of sneakers. Besides," he adds airily, "it's just another type of hitting a target."


A huge gold Ford Bronco slows at the end of the driveway; Thor's got his head out the passenger window, hair streaming in the wind, and he looses some sort of battle cry as the tires crunch to a stop. "Clint Barton!" he roars happily. "Are you girded for battle, my friend?"

"Clint, darling!" Thor's mother Frigga bellows from the driver's seat. "Help yourself to bacon and egg sandwiches from the cooler, we brought extra!"

"Oh, I wish I could watch this," Natasha murmurs as Clint climbs into the backseat; he has time to send her a look of mute appeal before the car revs and skids back onto the road.

After her own bus ride to the middle school, Natasha expects to find rows of desks and bored 10- and 11-year-olds parroting words, but the teacher has cleared the floor except for a pair of Twister mats. The classroom is soon rowdy with shrieks of laughter as Natasha calls out colors in Russian and the children scramble to interpret her words.

There's cookies and gingerale halfway through the morning, and recess on the playground before they go back to learning.

Natasha finds herself sailing into the sky on the swings with some younger kids, feeling not at all foolish for enjoying herself.


Clint returns with the stunned look of someone who has been run over with a bulldozer—repeatedly.

After dinner they drift separately out to their favorite perch, an old red maple on the side lawn. Natasha glances around—there's some kind of water-balloon-tag going on in the backyard—and then reaches on tiptoe for the lowest limb, springing to pull herself up into the branches. Clint groans.

"Forget it. There's no way." He collapses in the thin grass in the shade of the tree. "Must've run a hundred miles today," he moans.

Natasha hesitates, listening to the screams and laughter drifting on the summer air. "They'll see us."

"I don't care."

She slides back down and settles beside him. His eyes are closed as he slumps against the trunk; there's a bloody scrape on the side of one knee and he smells of sweat and sunshine and crushed grass. "Was it fun?"

"Not yet." He cracks one eyelid. "Yours?"

"It was, actually." The teacher, Mrs. Pulaski, is fluent in Russian and several other languages; Natasha was wrenched with homesickness more than once during the morning, hearing familiar words spoken.

But it had been oddly comforting, as well.

"Cool," Clint murmurs, and falls silent.

They sit without speaking until the lightning bugs appear and the night aide comes out to round them all up.

Natasha has to wake Clint from his open-mouthed snoring against the smooth silver bark.


The days slide by slow and hot.

They sit together now at meals. No one dares comment on this; even Danny refrains from his usual sex-laden jibes. Natasha suggests Clint not be a complete idiot and to stretch before practice; he in turn badgers her to teach him Russian profanity.

The summer students learn a whole repertoire of words and have begun to master short sentences, though their accents are grating. Natasha teaches them some mild curses as a reward for their progress.

Clint returns a little less wrecked each day. The team plays its first scrimmage; when Frigga drops Clint off that afternoon, Natasha knows they won even before he makes his way up the driveway—she can hear the Odinsons' victory anthem from the front door.

Cherie is released back into Mountainview's custody. Her mandatory counseling keeps her occupied enough that Natasha sees her only at lights-out. The girls pretend not to hear her muffled sobbing in the dark until one day Danny deigns to pinch her backside. The next day, his arm is draped around the back of her neck.

Together the pair of them turn tormenting the younger kids into an art form.

Bruce gets the worst of it.

The 12-year-old is spending his days at the community college, attending a science camp run by a local private-school kid sentenced to community service for some stunt involving a homemade aerial device and violation of airspace, a 100-pound payload of the finest illegal fireworks money can buy, and his girlfriend's birthday.

Tony Stark is possibly under surveillance by various Federal agencies, and he's stuck at home for the summer with a revoked license, a stunning amount of genius, and his absent father's fortune at his disposal.

The result is a science nerd's dream come true.

Tony had latched onto Bruce's intelligence the very first day, and they immediately bond as partners in scientific mayhem. He even has his driver pick up and drop off Bruce, so they have even more time to plot and tinker. Bruce returns with crispy hair and missing eyebrows one day, pinholes through his t-shirt and shorts another.

"So what do you and that freak do all day?" Danny asks one morning, stopping at the table where Bruce is bolting down his cereal.

The boy freezes, gulping at the lump of cereal suddenly caught in his throat. "Eh-experiments," he mumbles.

"Is that what they call it now?" Danny leers, and at his side, Cherie giggles, egging him on. "You know Stark's a perv, right?"

"He is not!"

"Sure he is—why else is he playing with little kids? Little boys?"

Bruce flushes and scoots off the side of his chair. When he reaches for his bowl, Danny shoves the chair into him. "I'm not done with you, you little queer."

On the far side of the dining room, Clint draws his slingshot. Natasha grabs his elbow. "Wait! He'll see you!" she hisses, but he draws back the band and fires off a plastic bottle cap in one smooth motion.

Danny squawks and whirls. This time, his eyes settle on Clint half-hidden by the end of the steam table. "I know that was you, Barton! You're dead meat now, man! Dead meat!"

"Knock it off!" yells one of the aides.

In the uproar, Bruce makes his escape. With too many eyes on him, Danny retreats to his table, his eyes hot and murderous.

"I think you have a death wish, Barton," Natasha says conversationally.

"Pretty much, Romanov. Get Thor to sing at my funeral, okay?"


Mrs. Pulaski organizes a scavenger hunt with the clues all in Russian. It's frantic and hotly contested; Natasha's team is just barely edged out by the teacher's. She and the other kids vow revenge.

The lacrosse team wins its first real game—and then its second, and third. Clint returns with a box of Pop-Tarts, and he and Natasha retreat up into their tree to eat them.

"This is a strange trophy," Natasha says with a gentle spray of brown-sugar-and-cinnamon crumbs.

"Thor likes them. His mom buys them by the pallet at BJ's and passes them out when we win."

Natasha peels open another cellophane packet. "Keep winning."

"Nnggg," Clint agrees.

Below them, Bruce scurries around the corner of the building with a hunted expression. Hot on his trail is Danny and two of his pack, Trey and Jared. "Hey, Banner! How's your butt-buddy?"

"Leave me alone." Bruce dodges around the tree but Danny circles to cut him off.

"So do you two homos cook up your own lube in the lab, or just use spit?"

"Lab-lube!" Jared snorts.

"Does it glow in the dark so Stark can see where to stick his probe?"

Trey seizes Bruce's wrists, ignoring the younger boy's struggles. "Look at his hands, man! They're green! They're usin' some kinda freaky color-gel lube!"

Danny laughs. "I bet his tiny dick is stained." He grabs for Bruce's waistband. "I bet his ass… Ow! Fuck!"

Clint's got his legs clamped around the tree branch, freeing his hands to fire projectiles in rapid succession. The boys holler and duck; Bruce wrenches free and takes off in one direction while his tormenters flee in another with their arms shielding their heads.

Natasha is already swinging down from the tree. "C'mon, we've got to move. Hurry, before they come back."

Clint follows, hanging from the branch for a second, then dropping.

"I think you've lost your mind," Natasha comments as they take off running.

"I'm out of ammo," is all he responds.


Summer League playoffs kick off two weeks before school starts again. Clint's team wins the first round, and then the semi-finals. The entire Eastern seaboard shakes under the power of Thor's unbridled glee.

Summer Enrichment wraps up with a cookout on the school lawn, and afterwards Natasha sits in their tree with Clint and some foil-wrapped burgers she'd lifted.

"So does this mean you'll make the playoff game?" Clint asks around a mouthful of ketchup and charred beef.

"Sure, if Mrs. Odinson doesn't mind giving me a lift."

Clint snorts. "You'll make her day. The more people come watch us play, the happier she is. D'you have earplugs?"

Bruce and a couple of the younger kids come flying around the building, running as if their lives depend on it. Natasha watches Clint watch them, until it's clear they're only playing.

"Why do you defend them so hard?" she asks as he relaxes back against the trunk. "Especially Bruce. Danny knows it's you, now; he's going to kick your ass."

He's quiet so long Natasha thinks he's ignoring her. Finally she hears him release a hitched sigh. "He hasn't got a big brother to do it for him."

"Neither do you."

Another long pause. "I used to," Clint allows at last.

"Oh." The kids are chasing something gleaming gold and red; Natasha thinks it might be a model plane, though none of them are holding a controller. "Is he…?"

"Dead? Nah. He… well, our last foster home was pretty rough. He… took off."

"And left you behind?" Natasha is careful to keep the disapproval out of her voice, to not look at him.

The slingshot is in his hands, turning and turning and turning. "Yeah, pretty much. He did tip off DYFS before he disappeared, so that was okay, I guess. I think they got their license revoked."

"And you ended up here."

"It's not so bad."

He doesn't ask how she ended up at Mountainview; after another minute, Natasha leans forward to snag a Pop-Tart packet. When she settles back, she's careful to let her shoulder rest lightly against his.


Natasha thinks it's entirely possible for Mrs. Odinson to call down lightning bolts, or perhaps an F-5 tornado, with the power of her voice. When Thor rampages up the field, clearing a swath to the crease, and Clint fires off a breathtaking cherry-picker to an open teammate who drops in the winning goal, she thinks the bleachers will collapse. Mrs. Odinson is roaring and pounding so hard the entire section is rocking, and she's even drowning out the sudden blaring of airhorns from other spectators. Thor is windmilling backslaps onto everyone within range, leaving a heap of purple-and-cream-clad teammates in his wake.

It's all rather glorious, if a tad frightening.

Later, after the teams have shaken hands, after Thor is prevailed on to stop singing long enough for a team photo, after one last bout of bellowing and shoulder-thumping, Thor leads a procession to the back of the Bronco, where Mrs. Odinson passes out Pop-Tarts by the box.

"Was that not a magnificent contest?" Thor asks. He has a box of pastries in each arm and is alternating bites of Frosted Strawberry and Ice Cream Fudge Sundae. He raises one Pop-Tart in a salute. "A victory party! Mother, we must have a triumphal fete to celebrate this occasion!"

"Of course, darling! Labor Day, perhaps? We can roast a pig."

Thor raises his voice to an even more ear-splitting volume. "All are invited! Bring friends! My domicile on Monday!" He smiles at Natasha, staying out of the crush on the outskirts of the crowd. "And you, of course, fair maiden! The Hawk must bring his Lady to our revelries!"

Later still, they slip around the back of Mountainview and up into the tree. Clint is favoring his ribs, and he winces whenever he has to move his left arm; both of them have low-grade headaches and ringing ears.

Natasha lets her heels swing and thump lightly. "'Hawk'?" she asks with a lifted eyebrow.

Color rises under Clint's tan. "'Hawkeye', actually. 'Cuz I can spot and hit an open target clear downfield." He scrubs his hand through his hair. "Thor's got nicknames for everyone—Gait is Rocket, Tucker is Dex, for ambidextrous, Eliuk is The Wall. He calls them our 'battle callsigns'."

Twilight is sinking rapidly into night; around them the last of the season's fireflies are rising and dipping. Natasha stretches out one foot and nudges Clint's ankle. "'Hawkeye'," she says, and lets him hear the smile in her voice.


The last time Natasha was at a lavish party she had worn a velvet-and-lace dress, patent leather slippers, and her hair in ringleted ponytails. Uncle Alex had had his eye on a mark with a weakness for old-fashioned little girls.

She still can't smell licorice without a hellish shiver creeping up her spine.

Thor's victory fete is sure to be nothing like that stifling event; Clint says they have a pool, and Natasha can't wait to see what a whole roasting pig looks like. Mrs. Odinson has ordered a double vanilla sheetcake with purple frosting from the best bakery in town.

They're killing time in their tree the day before Labor Day when the trouble starts.

At first, the raised voices don't register; Danny and his pack had been shooting hoops, and that inevitably leads to cursing and trashtalk. After a moment it becomes obvious the voices are younger and higher. Clint is just straightening to alertness when an agonized scream cuts through the yard.

Clint is out of the tree before it fades, Natasha on his heels. They round the building at a dead run.

Danny is laughing, waving pieces of a red-and-gold something. Bruce is white-faced before him, and Natasha knows, she knows what the object is—it's the working model rocket Tony Stark and Bruce built during their extra science camp hours. Somehow it actually flies, without batteries, without a controller—Bruce guides it with a sort of digital wristwatch he wears perpetually, and it's his prized possession.

And now it's crushed in Danny's hands, and Danny's laughing, and he's taunting the boy over his loss.

"Aww, poor baby faggot, did your boyfriend's wedding present break? Does he know you fondle it when he's not around for you to jerk off?" He tosses the casing to the ground. "Did he fuck you with it, is that how come you're all boo-hoo-hoo about it?" He laughs again, and Trey and Jared join in.

Bruce is pushed beyond breaking—he lets out a scream and launches himself at Danny. The older boy staggers back; he drops the pieces of rocket and shoves Bruce away.

"Little fairy—you fight like a girl. You gonna slap me?"

Bruce charges a second time, bowling head-first into Danny. Danny grunts, and curses; there's a thud and Bruce is on the ground.

"Like a girl," Danny taunts. "That's what happens when you let ass-munchers fuck you like a girl—you turn into one."

Bruce springs up and spits full into Danny's face.

There's a split second of shocked silence. Natasha moves to get in front of Bruce and Trey cuts her off, holding her back. Danny swipes his hand down his face and stares at it in disbelief. "You little faggot—you trying to give me AIDs?"

His foot lashes out and catches Bruce low in the stomach.

He doesn't stop even though Bruce crumples. Natasha is yelling and Trey is fending her off and shouting hoarsely at Danny to back off and Danny is spewing a stream of filth at Bruce while he whales on him.

"Hey!" Clint's bellow cuts through the clamor and Natasha turns and he's bending, scooping something off the ground, his slingshot out and drawn…

Danny screams and now there's blood everywhere, blood pouring down his face. He lands on his knees, cradling his forehead, and suddenly there are aides and even the weekend supervisor, someone is blowing a whistle, someone is yelling, yelling terribly. There are more screams, and grunts, and jostling. Natasha is knocked aside; she tries to crawl to Clint but he's buried beneath Trey and Jared and the kitchen aide.

Bruce is pulling himself across the ground, out of the fray. Natasha goes to him—there's blood on his mouth and he looks at her with haunted eyes.

"I'm sorry," he moans. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

Natasha sits, and he leans his forehead on her shoulder and cries.


ff dot net's document manager keeps randomly stripping out punctuation; I think I caught it all.

Part 3 to come shortly.