A/N: Whew! This chapter really took a lot out of me, but thankfully I have a week of winter break left with which to recover:) I'm definitely excited for this one...it includes some things that I've been waiting for a while to slip in. Hope you all had a lovely Christmas and are looking forward to the coming New Year!

Chapter 6: Who I Am With You

"Practice," offered Barton with a shrug. Natasha didn't bother replying; she just stepped back and let him in.

"Go back to your dolls, sweetheart," she murmured to Tina, who slipped back over to the floor without a word. Behind Natasha, the kettle started to whistle, giving her a well-timed excuse to escape.

"Go ahead and sit down," she said, gesturing to the table where her notebook was laid out. Barton perched uncomfortably on one of the chairs. His eyes followed her, entranced by the curious gleam of her red hair.

"Do you want anything?" Natasha asked suddenly. It seemed that even the tension of the situation couldn't override her faultless manners, but Barton looked surprised that she was even bothering.

"Uh…water, please," he said. She nodded and busied herself with their drinks so as to hide her face. Finally, when she could no longer reasonably stir her tea without raising suspicion, she turned and carried the two cups over to the table.

"Thanks," murmured Clint softly as she set his water in front of him. Not replying, Natasha took a seat across from him and pulled her notebook over, fully intending to dedicate some time to this project.

"So, I was thinking, if we take Gettysburg and split it up into each individual skirmish, like Devil's Run and Little Round Top, then you could take the South and analyze their movements and tactics and I could do the same with the North." She kept her face down, not wanting to meet Barton's eyes, waiting for a reply. There was silence for a moment, then a sigh escaped Clint, one that sounded strangely like a surrender.

"Natasha," he said quietly and her heart stuttered because his voice had done it again. It had morphed or changed or whatever and he sounded like a totally different person. Ever so slowly, Natasha raised her head to find Clint gazing at her intensely, looking very much like he had something important to say.

"Yes?" she whispered, unwilling to raise her voice for fear of scaring off this new Clint that had come before her.

"I think I owe you an apology." Clint's voice was uncertain, shaky, like this was ground he hadn't covered very often in his life. His words surprised Natasha; sure, he wasn't the best person, but what did he need to apologize to her for?

"Oh?" Clint nodded.

"I'm a jerk," he confessed, "and I know it. And we're supposed to be working together on a project, but you can't even look at me when we're talking, I'd guess because you're so disgusted with me. It's making it harder for you and I'm sorry."

Natasha was shocked, to say the least. Stunned disbelief might be a better term to describe how she was feeling. It certainly sounded, looked, and felt sincere enough, but this was Clint Barton. How could this be?

"Thank you," she answered, clearing her throat, trying to decide how to phrase her next question. Clint saw the deliberation in her eyes and-curse that idiot-he smiled.

"Go ahead," he said, "I know what you're going to ask, so don't bother trying to make it polite."

"What the hell happened to you?" blurted Natasha. "Why in the world are you being so nice?"

"You might not like this very much…" Clint watched her face nervously, "but I really like your eyes. There's something in there that makes me feel, well, makes me feel like it would be okay to be whoever it was I was before I became this." He gestured to himself. "And then you started talking but you wouldn't look at me and it just…I don't even know."

"Tell me." Natasha was entranced. She pulled her knees up to her chest and clutched her tea mug. This was it, this was the chance she had been waiting for. The chance to figure out why she kept seeing something that everything-everyone-told her wasn't there. The chance to solve the mystery of Clint Barton.

Clint looked down at his water. Where did he begin? "Ninth grade," he finally said. "I've lived here my whole life. But up until ninth grade, I was just some quiet, invisible kid in the back of the classroom. I wasn't all that smart, but I was decent enough to pass my classes. I didn't really have any friends, never played any team sports. All of that changed in ninth grade because, you see, that was the year that my brother graduated." He looked up then, wasn't surprised to see the surprise on Natasha's face. There weren't many people left that remembered Clint's brother-he wasn't the kind that you want to tell the neighbors about.

"Barney was never a good kid," continued Clint. "He picked fights, failed classes, but he played on the football team and was brawny enough that some security service hired him, straight out of high school. He hasn't come back in four years."

"I'm sorry," said Natasha. Clint snorted.

"I'm not. Barney was a terrible brother. He liked to use me as a punching bag. Practice, he called it, for when he got into real fights. The day he left was the best day of my life. It was the day that I finally had a chance to make something of myself. I didn't have to be ashamed to tell people my last name anymore. I figured that I could just meld into the people my age. I had observed them for years. It wasn't hard to imitate their habits and pretty soon, I had some friends."

"What happened?" Clint flinched at her voice-for a moment, he had forgotten that he was talking to someone.

"My dad happened," he replied bitterly. "He had gotten so drunk on the glory of having a son on the football team that he couldn't let it go. He came into my room one day and told me that I was going to try out in the fall. But it wasn't good enough for me to just make the team. No, I had to be the quarterback, the star quarterback. He drilled me all summer, making up what I didn't have in muscle in tactical knowledge. He told me if I didn't do as he said, I'd regret it." Clint shook his head. "I believed him. It wouldn't have been the first time he made me regret something."

Natasha's eyes widened in understanding. Abuse was something she knew all too well. Maybe not by her biological parents, but some foster parents, well, they weren't all as friendly as George and Carol.

"I was never outside the house except to practice and pretty soon my friends stopped trying to get together with me. We weren't all that close yet and it didn't take much for them to ditch me. But my dad got his wish. I tried out for the team in the fall and made it and here we are." Clint stared dejectedly into his water glass. "I met Bobbi and I've got a whole bunch of friends because everyone wants to be buddies with the small-town football star." He shook his head. "It's stupid to complain, really. I mean, I'm going to go to college and I'm happy-"

"No you're not." Natasha was so quiet that at first Clint thought she hadn't spoken.

"What?"

She cleared her throat. "I said, you're not happy. Don't lie to yourself. It's a bad habit to get into."

"Of course I'm happy. Don't be ridiculous."

"You're not," she insisted. "I can see it. In your eyes, when you think no one is looking. There's this inexplicable sadness. Happy people don't look sad when nobody is watching."

Clint's mouth fell open. Natasha just stared at him, unwilling less than she was unable to break the gaze.

"Don't act so surprised," she muttered, finally looking away, blushing. "You wouldn't have come here if you didn't think I saw it."

"Of course I would've we have a project we're supposed to be working on-"

"You haven't worked on a project in the last four years," Natasha pointed out. "You didn't come here to work on our project. You came because there's an ear willing to listen and you already knew I would understand."

"How do you figure that?" asked Clint, trying and failing to contain his curiosity.

It was Natasha's turn to bite her lip nervously and glance at the floor. She could feel Clint's gaze burning into the top of her head and she was suddenly wishing the floor would open up and swallow her whole.

"Natasha?" It was interesting to hear the twinge of uncertain concern in Clint's voice-as if he thought she might be hiding tears or something and he wasn't quite sure what to do. Hopefully it wouldn't matter, but the burning behind her eyes and the lump in her throat contradicted that foolish notion. She took a deep breath and looked up, steeling her nerves.

"You said you liked my eyes," she choked out, "which means you've been looking at them. And if you've been looking at them, then you already know that they hold the same sadness that's in yours because I'm not very good at hiding it." Tears slipped past her careful guard again and she couldn't believe she was losing control like this, not when there were other people around, especially him.

She flinched like an electric shock when she felt the last thing she had expected to-his arm slip comfortingly around her shoulder.

There was nothing about the position that felt odd; in fact, it felt comfortable, right. He didn't say any words to muddle up the fragile truce that had arisen between them, just waited and let her cry out the tears that she had previously only leaked in the late night hours, face buried in a pillow.

After a good while, the tears finally stopped and Clint hesitantly withdrew his arm. Natasha felt a sudden chill across her shoulders. She rubbed at her eyes and looked up, embarrassed.

"Sorry about that," she muttered.

"It's fine," he replied, surprising himself and glancing away. "I, um, I understand, I guess."

"Yeah," Natasha whispered, "I guess you would."

There was what felt like an eternity of silence. Finally, it was broken by a small voice at Natasha's elbow.

"Nattie? I'm tired." Natasha looked down to see Tina's big eyes and mussed up hair. Reality came rushing back in an instant and the weight dropped back onto her shoulders.

"Alright, sweetie. I'll take you up to bed." Natasha reached down and scooped the little girl up into her arms. Tina dropped her head onto Natasha's shoulder.

"I'll be right back, if you're going to wait." Part of Natasha expected that Clint would take this opportunity to escape, but he just nodded, so she turned and walked up the stairs to tuck Tina in.

Once she was gone, Clint let his shoulders sag.

What the heck was that?

He honestly had no clue. All he knew was that now he felt a lot better than he had when he walked in. Sure, he still had all of the same problems to deal with when he left, but it seemed that now he had someone to share them with.

Wait…share? Not with…with Natasha?

"You're doing it again." She had come back in so quietly, he hadn't heard her. He turned slowly so he could face her. She was sitting on the bottom step, watching him intently.

"Doing what?"

"That sad face." Natasha stood up, walked over to the table and began stacking up all of her notes and papers. "I really don't think we're going to make any progress on this tonight."

"Probably not," he agreed, picking up his own bag. He took a few steps in the direction of the door, wanting at the same time to leave and to stay. Natasha nodded in his direction.

"Go on," she said, "You don't have to stay any longer if you don't want to."

"Can I ask you a question?" he blurted suddenly. Natasha paused and looked up.

"Feel free to," she told him, "but no guarantees that I'll answer it."

"What would you do, if you were me?" he asked. "How would you handle this, everything I've told you about?"

Natasha brushed some crumbs off the table into her palm. "Well, I can't say for sure, but I imagine I'd put my head down and push through it the best I could. Maybe I'd try to be the person at school that I'm not allowed to be at home. I might even try to make things better at school, rather than drag other people down into my hurricane of despair." She tilted her head to one side, hand resting on the stair railing as she looked at him with those big emerald eyes, the ones that were the whole reason they were there. "And you know what?"

"What?" he asked, thirsty for her advice, for guidance from someone who understood.

"It wouldn't kill you to be nice to everyone now and then."

Her words jolted him, but he managed a small smile. "No, I suppose it wouldn't." He twisted the doorknob and a blast of icy air hit his back. "Good night, Natasha."

"Good night, Clint," she whispered to the closing door.

"Something's up." Carrie nudged Bruce softly. "Look at Natasha."

He glanced over at the redhead, who was sitting cross-legged in her desk, sketching absentmindedly while Miss Hall explained edging to the rest of the class.

"I don't see anything wrong," he muttered to Carrie. Terrence leaned forward and tapped Carrie's shoulder.

"What's up?" he whispered.

"Natasha," she whispered back, "Something's different."

Terrence casually peeked over at their new friend from behind his sketchbook. She was smiling and tapping her foot along to some silent beat. Her Adams apple was bobbing up and down, as though she was humming and her whole face seemed to glow with an inexplicable light.

"She looks happy." Terrence looked back at Carrie. "Is that a problem?"

"I want to know why," Carrie said quietly. "I mean, just yesterday she was sorta mopey. I want to know what can make her do such an incredible 180."

"Maybe she got some sleep," murmured Terrence, but his voice was lost in the ringing of the bell and the flurry of movement that followed it. Carrie skipped over to where Natasha was swinging her backpack up onto her shoulder.

"Are you alright, Natasha?" A flash of something dark and upset whipped across Natasha's face, but overall the redhead looked surprised that her friend was even asking.

"Yes," she answered, a smile full of secrets spreading across her face as she turned toward the door, easily disguising whatever darkness might have been lurking in her mind and heart, "Never been better, in fact."

"What's up with Barton today?" Steve kept his voice low so that no one but Sharon could hear him. She looked at their friend, thinking that if Steve noticed a difference, it couldn't be all that well camouflaged. Barton looked a little more put together, like he had actually taken the time to comb his hair and find a clean shirt. That was a little out of the ordinary, but not enough to draw comment from Steve. There must be something else.

"He looks like he put some time into his outfit, but that could easily be for Bobbi. What's bugging you?"

"It's halfway through first period and he has yet to throw his weight around, or bully some freshman or some other terrible stereotypical thing like that. Tony must've cracked a dozen crude and offensive jokes, but Barton's barely showed a hint of a smile at them." Steve shook his head, "It's like he got zapped by the nice fairy overnight."

Sharon scanned the room as inconspicuously as possible. Possibly there was something or someone here that was changing Barton's attitude. Her scrutiny landed on her newest friend and, unable to stop herself, she gave a small gasp. Natasha looked like she was practically glowing and, Sharon whipped her head over to check, yes, Barton's eyes kept stealing over to Natasha's back every few seconds. Steve looked at Sharon curiously, following her gaze.

"You don't think…" he started. A huge grin broke out on Sharon's face.

"Do you believe in miracles?"

The knock on his door was timid and soft. Coulson looked up, glasses perched on the end of his nose.

"Come in," he called. The door swung open to reveal a familiar looking redhead. Coulson smiled warmly and shifted the papers he had been poring over to the side.

"I don't know if you remember-" she started, but Coulson cut her off.

"Natasha," he said kindly, gesturing to the chair across from him. "Sit down, please."

She looked surprised. Apparently she hadn't expected him to remember her. But how could he forget? It was impossible; the young girl, the target of so much heartache and pain and knowledge that could and should tear her apart bit by bit—but who was somehow still living.

"What can I do for you today?" he asked, folding his glasses up and setting them to the side so that he could see her more clearly. She looked much better today than she had before. Then again, seeing someone right after they've had to talk about the tragic deaths of their parents wouldn't always leave the best memory. On the other hand, she was also chewing her bottom lip and something told Coulson that, despite her happy façade, she wasn't totally composed.

"I'm…not entirely sure." She hesitated. "I don't know if anyone can answer this question. I've been looking for a long time and…well, I think that if anyone has a shot at it, it would be you."

Coulson was taken aback. "Well, I'm flattered, I think. What's your question, Natasha?"

"I'm a foster child," she swallowed and made a face, as though the words had a bitter taste to them. "And for so long, I've blamed myself for everything that's happened to me. Maybe if my mother had known she was pregnant, she would have made my father come along with us to America. So why didn't I show up sooner? If I had been crying or screaming, would my mother have run back into that burning building?" Coulson made a noise, as if to speak, but Natasha shook her head. "Please, just, let me finish. It's hard enough to get the words out." Coulson nodded and she took a breath to continue. "Sixteen years and the only conclusion I've been able to come to is that anyone I care about, anyone close to me, there just going to die." Natasha looked away for a moment, struggling to contain the tears that threatened to spill over. "So, Coulson, my question is this: is it wrong for me to care for someone, to hope that they care for me back, even if I know what will eventually happen? Even if I think I can help them? Is it wrong?"

The words were a plea, one that Coulson recognized, one that he responded to with ferocious protection. It was a cry for help, salvation, answers when all that a person had been plagued with were questions. He reached his hand across the table and laid it on top of hers, soothingly rubbing his thumb in little circles.

"It's not your fault, Natasha," he said softly. For now, it might not make a difference, but if he said it enough times, maybe she would start to believe it too. "Everyone dies, eventually. As for your question…" He lifted his hand to her chin and tilted her tear-streaked face upward, "Pain comes with or without caring. There is always pain. But you are only living when you have both. So don't think so much about everything, Natasha. Just live."