The one where Natasha finally spends the night in her own room. Clint also inadvertently spends the night in her room. And Phil and Fury have been talking.

It's a late night by the time they're all ushered up to bed by Phil. He literally corrals them like a bunch of lost sheep, herding with his arms pulled wide and stuffing various blankets and pillows in the hands of their owners—Natasha's still smell like flowery detergent from the wash today and Steve's are striped red, white, and blue. It's a testament to Phil that everyone marches towards the stairs with the correct belongings; then again, Clint doesn't expect anything less of Phil. If there's anything he knows, it's his motley bunch of kids.

Thor waves and lets himself out the garage door, car keys clutched in his right hand, probably on his way to pick his brother up from some party. Apparently Loki's home for the summer and his parents have enforced the usual sibling bonding time on them. Clint feels for him. If there were ever two completely polar opposites, it's those two. Hard to believe they grew up in the same posh, upstate house together. Apparently having big-wig political parents and a lot of disposable cash didn't make for a happy family. Contrary to what Clint grew up thinking—because let's face it, the only thing a stray carnie kid thinks about is having enough money to get out—money really doesn't buy happiness.

Tony's parents were filthy rich: willed him an inheritance big enough to displace the ocean. But they still died and left him and all that money under his name never seemed to make a difference to him. Bruce's parents are well off, too. Enough that the monthly trips to the southern islands don't break the bank or those week-long conferences they're always attending without their son.

Guess even when all the stars align, some things just aren't meant to be.

Phil's not exactly rich, not by the standards of the Stark's or the Banner's or the Odinson's, but the diner does well enough. The regulars keep it full and the tourists in the summer add to the revenue, and there's always enough shifts to go around so Clint's never hurting for spending money. Heck, he hasn't been hurting for anything since he got here. Phil always made sure he was fed (okay, maybe that was Sam) and clothed and had rides places before he got his license and that he could still practice archery.

But none of that was really about money. It was the people. Phil: just being the kind of parent system kids dream about when they cry themselves to sleep at night. Then Tony, with his insane experiments and ass-backwards way of apologizing for things that made you love him even though you wanted to throttle him. And Steve, with his shy smiles and resolute strength and the way he refused to let Clint sulk, even when he was going through the hardest parts of transition.

Then Bruce and Thor and all the staff that worked at the diner happened and Clint's life made a little more sense, even though he still felt out of place a lot. Still felt like an outsider to normalcy. To rules. And let's face it: to the right side of the law.

His juvenile track record wasn't exactly a clean slate and he had one too many skills he picked up as a boy in his carnie days that probably weren't exactly resume worthy.

But he still sort of fit in this dysfunctional little family that Phil put together.

Then Natasha happened and it all changed again when he realized he couldn't live without knowing her. Without loving her. Clint looks at her now—leaning against the railing at the bottom of the staircase, blinking sleepily at him, pillow tucked under her arm, half-a smile twisting her lips—and his chest tightens. That feeling—that contentment— is something money definitely can't buy, and Clint wants to bottle it so he never runs out.

"You okay?" Phil asks him after he's seen Thor off, making sure he doesn't hit the post on the edge of the laneway again. "You look . . . far away?"

Clint sighs and nods, then wraps a sleepy arm around Phil: an impromptu hug that probably shocks Phil more than anything. "Night," Clint says, cause it's really too late to be having these kinds of thoughts. All he knows is that he's real happy with where his life is right now, and he's not sure who to thank for that, or which god to pray to so nothing changes, but he knows a big part of it is because of the man he gets to call dad now (though it's mostly still Phil cause habits are hard to break). He's the reason Clint knows that Natasha will be safe tonight, tucked away in her very own bed, and there's a great weight that settles against his ribs. There's no way he can ever repay Phil for the things he's done for him, but he's damn well gunna try. Even if he's old and grey by the time he's done.

"Good night," Phil says, looking unabashedly shocked.

Steve takes the opportunity to pat Phil on the shoulder before skirting up the stairs ahead of Natasha as Tony and Bruce hash out the logistics of needing a ride.

Eventually Bruce just opts to take one of the couches. His parents are home for the next few days until they leave for a conference and he'd rather not be there with them. Tony looks delighted as he launches into a conversation about math and equations and ratios and Clint has to block it out to keep from succumbing instantly to sleep.

Phil chuckles and nudges Clint towards Natasha, who takes his hand, squeezes it twice, and then pulls him up the stairs.

He makes it to the top of the landing before the staggering starts. Natasha makes fun of him, but brushes her hand along the back of his neck and kisses him anyway. He must look dopey as he falls into bed, but Tony's not there to see it and for that he's glad. He's given him enough ammunition over the past few days with Natasha being here. Love sick. Yeah, he always feels a little dizzy when she's around, but it's the good kind of dizzy, the kind that makes you laugh uncontrollably.

A few soft blinks against his pillow and he's out. It's a good thing too because before he knows it someone's shaking him awake. Or is it a dream? Yeah, it stopped now . . . must just be a dream. He starts to drift off again before he can think too hard about all the . . . shake, shake, shake . . .

"Hey, Clint . . . shake . . . C'mon, man."

He shrugs away from the pressure against his shoulder, squinting as the depths of sleep fade. Has it been minutes? Shake. Hours? Shake.

"Clint!"

Clint bolts upright in bed, unsure of why at first, until Steve's outline forms against the dark shadows, his eyes bright in what light filters in from the hall. "Time's it?" he asks, blinking at the clock without really registering, falling back on his elbows with a deflated huff.

Steve grabs him by the shirt, hauling him upright again to shake some life into him.

Clint's mouth falls open and he manages to mutter: "S'matter with you?"

"Sounds like Natasha's having a nightmare," Steve says, rubbing his hands along his pajama bottoms, like maybe he's unsure. "I didn't want to . . ." he pauses, features twisting in the shadows. "It should be you who goes up there. I don't want to . . . it's her room and it's dark. I don't want to scare her."

"Right," Clint says, swinging his legs off the side of his bed, and getting a grip on reality. It's amazing how the words NATASHA and NIGHTMARE could register something so strong in him that he could pull himself together even at—he checks the clock again—two-eighteen in the morning. But then again, he'd spent the better part of a year fighting through a living nightmare with Natasha. Maybe his nerves are just a bit too raw when it comes to reliving memories and the bits of past that make you curl in on yourself.

Steve shuffles in the dark. "I wouldn't have woken you. I thought it'd pass . . . that she'd go back to sleep. Only she's not, judging by the sounds coming down the vent, and it's been going on for a while now—"

"S'okay, Steve. I'll wake her up."

Steve nods at that, seemingly satisfied, though he pauses when he turns to leave. "Just be careful how, you know. New place and everything. She might not realize where she is at first."

Clint's not an expert, but he's suffered his fair share of night-sweats, and he knows, at the very least, that she doesn't want to be alone. Even if she doesn't know it herself. But Steve's advice is sound, because he's probably been there himself a time or two. So Clint untangles his feet where the sheets have wrapped around them on the floor, kicking them to the side and stands. "Course," he says, squeezing Steve's shoulder as he passes. "I got it. Thanks."

He stumbles towards the attic door, and creeps up the stairs, the light disappearing as Steve returns to his own room. He uses both hands on the wall, feeling his way along, because his legs feel a little drunk right now, despite the fact that he's actually rather awake.

The door doesn't squeak when he opens it at the top of the staircase because the hinges are new, but he recognizes a whimper and the thrash of covers as he crosses the room in bare feet, stepping on his toes to avoid the slap, slap of his heels.

"Tash," he whispers from the edge of the bed. She doesn't respond right away, just flips her head, a wave of red curls spilling across her neck, and instead of shaking her awake (he can barely reach her in the middle of the bed where she's settled) and startling her, he simply climbs into bed behind her, tucking himself around her and threading his arms around her waist.

He buries his nose against her shoulder, in that dip along her neck and breaths slow and even. His breath warms her skin and his fingers press soothing circles into her hips.

Eventually the sounds calm and she stops fidgeting, subconsciously realizing that he's there, or at least that something's changed enough to draw her out of sleep. When her hand curls around his he knows she's awake.

She muffles what he thinks is a sob judging by the way she shakes and he tightens his hold just a little more.

"Don't go," she says, turning and whispering the words against his chest. "Don't leave me, Clint."

"I won't," he says.

"I can't lose you, too."

And not for the first time, he wonders what haunts Natasha Romanoff's nightmares, not because he doesn't know what her fears are, but because there's been so many.

. . .

He wakes up before her and for a while just watches. He's content, even though he was up for a good hour in the middle of the night. Natasha's bed is (unsurprisingly thanks to Phil) comfortable and the comforter is heavy and thick (perfect for the chilly, air-conditioned attic). It's the kind of snuggly bed that he thinks would be perfect on lazy days, or rainy days, or school days, or . . . how the hell is she ever going to do anything but want to sleep? He's only been here for a few hours and he's considering never leaving. It also might be because Natasha's got one hand wrapped around the bottom of his shirt and he's pretty sure he'd have to cut himself out of it if he wanted to leave.

After a moment Clint decides it's irrelevant because he doesn't really want to go anywhere else and plus Natasha's real cute when she's all tucked up under the covers, lashes casting long shadows against her cheeks and her hair ruffling with the puff of her breath. Also, it's not quite a snore because Natasha Romanoff does not snore (they've sparred over this point of fact), but she definitely makes these little sleep sounds that make him want to giggle, or kiss her, or both? Laugh, then kiss her, he decides. Then duck when she tries to punch him for insinuating that maybe she snores (just a little bit).

As if sensing his gaze, her eyelids start to flutter and her nose wrinkles up, offended by the sun pouring in her window.

Clint would shut the curtains, but she's still got that vice grip on his shirt, so instead he says: "Hey."

She blinks at him half-a-dozen times. "Hi."

He brushes her hair behind her shoulder and she turns her face to kiss his palm. Then her hand flattens against his shirt and he can feel the heat of her skin through the cotton. It's a soft touch, but lingering, almost as if reminding herself that he's real.

"I'm here," he whispers.

"I know," she says, leaning forward enough to drag her lips against his. It's the barest press of lips, almost a fluttering kiss, but the jolt is instant and his heart skips faster. "Thank you for staying," she says and Clint can feel the rumble of her words against his cheek.

"Do you remember it?" he asks.

Natasha stills, but only long enough to look away from him and gather her thoughts, before meeting his eyes. "It's you," she says, and there's more anger in her tone than fear, and for a moment he's confused. "It's always you. Now that Ivan's gone, now that I don't have to be afraid of him. I'm afraid that something's going to happen to you. That he'll get to you, or one of the people he worked with, and I'll lose you . . . and Clint I-I can't lose any more people I care about."

"Tash, you won't." He strokes her cheek, leaning down to catch her wandering gaze. "You got that? I'm here for good, whether you want me or not."

She furrows her brow, sucking on her bottom lip before shaking her head and letting out a strangled breath. "He's not even here anymore and he's still wrecking my life."

Clint squeezes her hand. "We won't let him."

"I'm still scared, Clint. I know it's stupid. I know—" Her hand flutters down to her hip, unconsciously covering the place where Ivan stabbed her and Clint presses his palm over her hand.

"It's not stupid, Tash." He says, with so much raw emotion that she looks up at him, eyes wide and glassy, watching him like it's the first time she's seeing him. Clint closes his fist, holding it against the scar, the reminder that he almost lost her. It's enough to make his throat thick. He knows about reminders. How things creep up on you because sometimes the scars aren't on your body. Only inside your head. And those can be the worst triggers. Like how sometimes one of the guys will laugh and he'll be whisked back to red-top-tents and horse stables and overpriced carnival rides while Barney's barking laughter fills the stale air. Or how rainstorms in the summer, when it's almost too hot to breathe, will yank him back to dark places and little shadows between the spray that maybe mean more than he's willing to admit because he knew his father never woulda let his truck run off the road like that. He was a drunken bastard but he took care of his truck. But Barney was smart and knew where their father kept the tools. Clint can remember that look in his eyes that morning as he watched the truck peel off the property from the porch, a smug sort of smile on his lips. And he still wonders why Barney didn't say anything when their mom got in the truck that morning with him. She wasn't supposed to go to the market that morning. She wasn't . . . but maybe Clint's remembering it wrong. He was small. He was . . . an accident, Barney had told him. An accident that left him chilled, even to this day, every time he yanked himself out of a memory of that house. And those are scars he'll carry forever. "Not stupid," he says again, letting the words strangle from his throat.

Natasha blinks once, then her hand pushes him back against the mattress, rolling them both, and she's kissing him. Hard.

Her lips fuse to him with a kind of fiery heat he only feels when he's with her. It's the kind of heat that boils his blood until he wants to rip out of his clothes and feel his skin on hers. As suddenly as the kiss begins, it escalates and Natasha's got her hand under his shirt, deft fingers running over his ribs and dipping down along the waist band of his pajama pants.

She's sprawled over top of him, one leg pressed in between his and if her weight wasn't a nice pressure alone, the way she arches into him like a cat is. It puts her weight in all the right places and before Clint knows it, all the blood in his body is travelling south.

It's the first time they've been alone, really alone, since before the attack happened. After that she was in the hospital and someone was always coming and going, plus it was the hospital and every time he kissed her hello or goodbye things would beep and the nurses would send him dagger eyes. Then she was toted between group homes and he didn't get to see her at all.

And when Phil brought her back, he wasn't exactly concerned with having her all to himself, so long as she was safe, and sharing the couch in the living room didn't make for the most private of venues. But now, they're completely alone . . . just the two of them.

She gasps into his mouth as his hands slide down her back and drop to her ass, giving a squeeze that is both playful and sends her jerking against him.

Clint groans at the contact and Natasha makes a little noise off approval into his mouth, grinding down again so her hips rub up against his and the movement makes her eyes roll back in her head.

He trails a path of kisses down her throat while her head falls back, eyes fluttering at the building sensations, only to return at the whisper of his name.

The kiss is softer this time, yet somehow just as intense and there's a coil twisting in his gut that wants to go off in a million different directions like fireworks: fizzing and snapping and popping and aww shit.

"N'tasha, mmmhh," he pulls his mouth away, sucking in a breath that is far more ragged than he cares to admit. "We can't. We—"

Natasha runs her hand along the bulge in his pants, one eyebrow arched in question. "I think we can."

Clint twitches, mouth falling open, but instead of the groan that's waiting to rip from his throat, he manages: "I mean we shouldn't. Steve can hear everything. Venting runs through his room."

Natasha pauses, rolling off him slightly and he has to think about Tony's latest schematic rant because her lips are kiss swollen and her cheeks are flushed and he so very much wants to pick up where they left off.

"Really?" she says, drumming her fingers against her lips.

Clint flops back on the pillows and nods. "It's how I knew about the nightmare. He heard you. Woke me up. So if he heard that, he'll definitely hear . . ." he swallows and gestures. "You know."

Natasha smirks. "Yes. Wouldn't want him to hear all your sex noises."

Clint stuffs his arms behind his head. "My sex noises? Really, Miss—"

She pounces on him then, lips parting enough to let his tongue explore her mouth and his thoughts trickle away with the feel of her tongue on his. She doesn't let the kiss linger though, and he's sure she looks disappointed as she pulls away just a bit.

"I missed you," he whispers against her lips. "Really, really missed you."

Natasha chuckles low in her throat as she sits up. "I could tell."

Clint rolls his eyes, squeezing her waist enough to make her giggle and squirm away from him. She doesn't get far because he wraps his arms around her like an octopus and hauls her back across the bed, tucking her up against his chest. "I wasn't talking about that, Hot Sauce."

She huffs a breath that tickles his neck. "I know. I missed you, too." And then, after a moment, she says, "But just for the record, I also missed that."

Clint puffs up a little, maybe with a weird sort of male pride. "Good to know."

"Hmm," Natasha hums as she draws patterns against his chest. "So, when's the next time Steve works?"

. . .

Phil pulls them into his office later that afternoon for a conversation that starts with, "We need to talk."

Clint looks at her and cocks his head to the side. "I think Phil's breaking up with us."

It's much later in the afternoon because Natasha spent the morning dozing on and off with Clint. She suspects Steve might have mentioned her nightmare judging by the sympathetic look Phil had given her when they finally emerged around lunch time, the growl of Clint's stomach too much to sleep through by then.

She knew the conversation had stopped there though because Tony simply wiggled his eyebrows at them and Phil had flicked him on the ear and told him to go bus tables.

As they settle into the twin chairs parked in front of Phil's desk, Natasha looks around. It's the first time she's been in here, she thinks. It's small, organized, and essentially plain, except for the mementos on the wall. There's cut outs of stats pertaining to Steve's football games. Articles of Tony and Bruce with Bucky and his new arm. She sees the newspaper of the attack declaring Clint and Steve local heroes. There hadn't been a picture taken, but the paper had used their most recent school photos on the front page. Natasha had known the story had been printed. She hadn't gotten up enough courage to read it though. Truthfully she didn't see a point. Not when she'd lived through it.

The thing that catches her eye next are the report cards that sit on the desk in front of them, one for her and one for Clint, and while they didn't fail, those are definitely not college entry grades.

With everything that happened with Ivan and being bumped around through the foster system, her last semester didn't exactly pan out well.

Clint didn't fare much better, what with being worried about her and all.

"So," Phil says, folding his arms across the desk.

"Ha, yeah, last semester was kind of a freak show," Clint offers, looking as if he's resisting the urge to grimace when he flips the page to see the teacher's comments filled with words like DISTRACTED and MOODY. His eyes scrunch up. "I was definitely not moody! It's just my resting face."

Natasha pats his arm sympathetically.

Phil gathers up the two reports and sticks them on top of a black filing cabinet. "I've been talking to Nick. The school's obviously aware that there were extenuating circumstances involved, but now that things have . . . settled down a bit, he thinks the best thing for you two to do is enroll in some online classes over the summer. Your senior year is coming up and you want your marks as good as you can get them now that you're looking at college. It's an easy way to make up the credits without having to drag your butts into a classroom."

"Summer school?" Clint huffs.

"Hey, I'm not actually making you go to school."

"Sure, sure," Clint says. "We'll thank you when we're older, right?"

"You will when the college applications roll around."

Clint side-eyes Natasha and she works very diligently to school her face so as not to laugh at his antics. "Maybe it won't be that bad," she offers. "Tony and Bruce will be around a lot. They can help."

"Ha!" Clint says. "Maybe if you want your papers written in binary."