As morning dawns and the brick school building rises before him, Clint looks like he's been up for a week with nothing but coffee charging his system. His eyes feel raw and bruised, like he's taken a couple of knocks to the face, and all he wants to do is get his hands on his bow.
Well, that and see Natasha.
He's not exactly sure how to deal with this. Phil's great and he tried so hard last night, but for the moment Clint's keeping the promise. The one he didn't really make. The one that now means he has a series of sessions set up with Jemma that he's going to have to tip-toe through carefully because the woman has a way of making you talk. Maybe he'll take the Tony approach. Flirt. Deflect. Flirt some more. And wait for the hour mark to be up.
Clint shakes his head. That won't work. Flirting's not his style.
He's more of the brood silently type, but that makes Phil anxious and then Jemma starts taking a lot of notes that get stuffed in his too large file.
Clint groans. Last night had been a long night. After getting his hands bandaged and being crushed in one of the most intense hugs Phil had given him in a long time, he figured he had some apologies to make.
Tony had understood. He didn't prod or poke and when Clint had finally gone up to their shared room, sinking onto the edge of his bed, Tony wrapped a deft hand around his shoulder, squeezed, and then promptly went back to tinkering with the finger like projections that kept turning up in the toothbrush holder downstairs.
Tony could be surprisingly considerate when the occasion called for it. It was few and far between, of course. So much so that Clint thought he should mark it on a calendar, but it did happen occasionally, and for that he was grateful.
Steve on the other hand had looked like a wounded puppy when Clint passed his room on his way to the bathroom. It was those blue eyes. They got all glassy looking and then all Clint could think about was a little blue-eyed boy from Brooklyn who nobody wanted. Until now. They're supposed to be brothers, and even if Clint wasn't ready to share, he at least owed Steve something.
"Hey," he had said, taking a tentative step into the room. When Steve didn't move to toss him out, Clint crossed the room and collapsed into one of the over-sized beanbag chairs in the corner.
There was an open sketchbook on Steve's desk with charcoal drawings of a stringy haired boy with a dark, consuming stare. Clint smiled a bit. Steve had it real bad for Bucky.
"You okay?" Steve asked. He tapped his pencil against his thigh, twisting in his chair to face Clint.
He was so different like this, Clint had thought. So different from the all-American hero people thought he was. Clint wouldn't trade this guy for the football jock. This is the Steve he knew best. But with that in mind he also knew he couldn't lie to Steve, not completely.
"It's Natasha," Clint had mumbled, head falling back against the bean bag. The beans crinkled against each other and the sound tickled his ears.
"You two having problems?" Steve inquired.
"Not like that," Clint sighed. "I wish that were it."
"So she's in real trouble." Steve straightened in his seat. "Have you told Phil?"
"She asked me not to say anything."
"Clint—"
"I know. I know." He sighed again. "I don't know how to help her."
"Is she in danger?"
"I don't know yet. Not for sure." He stared at the ceiling, then back to Steve, the sketchbook floating in and out of sight. He sat up suddenly. "Can you do me a favor?"
Steve nodded. " Of course."
"Can you talk to Bucky about it? Ask him—" Clint trailed off. He wasn't exactly sure what he was looking for. Just proof? More proof.
"I'll ask him about it," Steve assured. "But either way we need to tell someone. If you think your right."
Clint blew out a breath. He knew he was right. He trusted his gut. "Doesn't do me any good if she denies it though," he said. "Just makes the web more complicated."
Steve nodded. An accusation was only as good as the victims testimonial, especially when the child was older. At seventeen Natasha was old enough to tell the truth and have people believe it. If she denied it out of fear Clint could get her in a whole boat load of trouble with her Uncle.
He could make everything worse for her and that was the last thing he wanted.
"I'll talk to Bucky," Steve told him again. "We'll go from there."
And just like that, without really telling him everything, Steve had willingly chosen to bear this burden with Clint. To share some of the weight.
Clint pushed himself to his feet and ran a hand through his hair, cradling the back of his neck. "Your a good guy, Steve."
The tips of Steve's ears glowed bright. "So people keeping telling me," he said.
Clint shook his head gently. "I'm serious. Bucky's a real lucky guy." And with that Clint left him. He knew Steve would glow like a tomato for the next hour and he didn't see a point in embarrassing him further.
Besides, Clint still had to shower (somehow without destroying the bandage job Phil just did) and finish up a mountain of history.
It's the history work that he blames for his current condition this morning. Hill is a monster around midterms and the chapters seem to pile up endlessly.
Clint wipes away a yawn, scrubbing his hand over his face and flexing his tender fingers, as he stalks through the atrium of the school. There was maybe two hours of solid sleep in between a series of late night readings and some sort of nightmarish dreams about dark hallways and shattered mirrors. He knows it links back to Natasha. And though Steve's looking into it on his end, Clint feels the need to do more.
He wanders towards her locker, where he usually finds her about this time in the morning, but she doesn't show up and when the bell rings and the class files into homeroom, Clint gives up and takes a seat beside her empty one.
There's a sinking feeling in his gut for most of the morning and the guy's try to fill it with food at lunch. But between Natasha's absence and the fact he has a history paper to print off, he decides his time is better spent in the library where he can escape the sound of Thor reciting lines under his breath.
Steve gives him a look as he gets up to leave, but Clint waves it off and mouths homework .
He's not exactly sure how much homework he intends to get done. Curling up in the study cubicles at the back of the library and taking a power nap sounds pleasantly tempting as he pushes through the door and past the barcode scanners.
He passes the non-fiction section and weaves his way around the encyclopedias, making a trail for the very back corner. Its's like no-mans land back here and he loves it. Empty tables. Empty chairs. And if he's really sneaky he can probably manage to finish his sandwich.
When he rounds the corner of the wide white support column his heart beats so hard he thinks it might have cracked some ribs.
There, at one of the tables, sits Natasha. She's alone if the solitary bag is anything to go by.
Clint swallows a pang of emotion before walking over.
There's something different about her today he notes as he approaches. Something . . . off. But with the elation he feels in his chest it's hard to pin down. Hard to focus.
His eyes are crinkled as he approaches. As he sits. She barely moves to register his presence.
"Hi," he says gently, afraid she'll startle and scurry like a mouse.
She doesn't respond, just flicks her eyes up briefly to meet his before returning to her notepad. It's filled with tiny black print. It looks like she's been at it a while. Maybe this is where she was all morning. He shifts his bag off his shoulder so she knows he means to stay a while, and folds his arms against the table top.
"You look different today," he says, hoping she'll help him out.
She flinches like he's hurt her, her head jerking to the right.
It's her hair, he thinks suddenly. It's down and shorter. The long red curly pony tail is missing. Instead her hair dangles just short of her shoulders in looser waves, still very, very red, framing her face, her green eyes more vivid than ever.
Clint swallows.
He likes it.
Natasha doesn't.
"Why'd you cut your hair?" he asks, scooting his chair a little closer to the table. He leans towards her.
She shrugs.
His voice drops. "Why'd you cut your hair, Natasha?"
She flinches again and with her eyes closed, swallows what seems to be a memory. "Because he grabbed it," she whispers.
The words are cracked and almost rob Clint of his breath. His jaw tightens until his ears ache and he thinks he might bite right through his tongue."You r Uncle?" he says slowly, deliberately, because he knows the answer, he just needs to hear her say it. " Natasha, I— "
"I don't want to talk about it, okay?" She stands suddenly and grabs her bag from the table. "Tell the teacher I went home sick, will you?"
She leaves before he can respond, snatching up her bag, and stalking through the aisles, her notebook abandoned on the table. When Clint picks it up he sees the tiny black print is her Cyrillic Russian. He has no idea what it says, or who she was writing to, but he knows someone who will.
He pockets the notebook in his bag just as the bell rings. He joins the rush of students on his way to Chemistry, feeling like he's carrying around a secret almost as heavy as the one she's asked him to keep.
After school Clint drives Tony home. Bruce is in tow since they're working on their robotics project tonight. Thor has rehearsal but he might drop by the diner later and Steve's got a scrimmage for the next hour. Clint doesn't envy him running around in too tight pants today. It's uncannily cold outside, even for November.
Tony leans over and beeps the horn at Steve before hanging out the window. "Have fun freezing your balls off, Rogers!"
Steve looks around and if he were a lesser man (or Tony), he might have flipped them off. Instead he salutes and it makes Tony snicker.
Before they leave the parking lot Clint spies a dark haired boy in the stands, waiting for Steve.
"Bucky's coming to the diner tonight, right?" he asks Tony, who nods in response.
"Why?" Tony asks.
"I need him to look at something. Not a big deal."
Tony seems uncertain but let's it go. "I'm dropping by in about an hour to pick they two love birds up. It'll be so much easier when I get Steve's bike repaired. Then Steve can drive himself home. Plus I bet he'd appreciate the fact that Bucky's gotta sidle up real close on the bike before they can ride off into the sunset."
Bruce looks up in surprise, like it's the first he's heard of this. "Steve and Bucky? As in—"
Tony snorts. "You need to get out of the labs more, Banner. You're behind on the times."
Bruce drums his fingers against his lips as he contemplates this.
Clint grins into the rear-view, before casting a sidelong glance at Tony. "You know that only works till the snow flies. Phil will never let him out of the house on a motorcycle in the winter."
"He will when I'm done with it."
"Unless you plan to make it a transformer, I doubt it."
"Oh, that would be so cool. Ideas. Ideas." Tony roots around in his bag. "I need paper! Who's got a pen?"
He reaches into the side pocket of the door, pulling out one of Steve's drumsticks. After giving it an appraising nod he tosses it into the back seat. Bruce ducks like it's something he has to do a lot.
"Forget it, Tony," Clint says. "You spent all summer putting that bike together. Any longer and Steve'll be a senior before he gets to ride it."
"No, see, you're missing the big picture. Steve's birthday is in December. If I drag this out and give it to him then, I win the best present award."
"So you're giving him a bike he bought and paid for. That he bought all the parts for?"
"And who put all the parts together, hmm?"
Clint looks unimpressed.
"Well what are you giving him then, Legolas?"
Clint rolls his eyes at the nickname. "I don't know, but it'll be better than the bike."
"Nothing beats the bike. The bike is awesomeness to infinity."
"We'll see," Clint says. "Now shut up and answer your phone. That's probably Phil."
By the time Bucky arrives at the diner with Steve, Clint's been pouring over Google translate with no luck and he's decided that he never wants to learn another language, especially one as complicated as Russian. What the hell are these squiggles even supposed to mean?
He doesn't know how Natasha does it? How she keep more than one language straight in her brain.
Bucky drops down in the chair across from him when Clint gestures him over.
He's not surprised by this, so Clint gathers that Steve might have mentioned some things to him already.
"I need a favor," Clint says.
"I don't deal with Ivan, if that's what you're wondering," Bucky says, glancing across the kitchen to where Tony and Bruce are currently engaged in some sort of pirate duel with the carrots Phil's apparently supposed to be turning into dinner tonight.
Clint figures they'll just end up ordering pizza.
He shakes his head. "That's not what I was wondering. I need you to translate this." He pushes the notebook across the table. Steve sits down slowly beside Bucky, watching Clint for something that might be permission.
"This is Natasha's," Bucky says.
"She left it in the library."
"She'll be angry."
"Bucky," Clint pleads.
"Alright, but she can't know that I told you." His eyes scan the page and whatever he reads makes his eyes tighten. "It's a letter," he says finally.
"To who?" Clint wonders.
"People back home."
"Does she have family?"
"No, old neighbors maybe. People her mother knew."
"Why would she be writing to them?"
Bucky pushes the notebook back across the table. "Why do you think, Clint? She's looking for a way out."
"Why doesn't she just ask for help?"
"When you get to know Natasha you'll find out she doesn't ask for help very often. Even when she needs it most." He pulls his arm across his chest, the one amputated just below the elbow, looking uncomfortable.
Steve puts a hand on his shoulder. "Thanks, Buck."
Bucky's lips twitch, but the smile falters against the frown. "If you're asking me if Ivan's a good man than you already have your answer," he tells Clint. "He was involved with bad things back home and I doubt that changed when he came here."
"You think she'd be better off back in Russia?"
Bucky shrugs. "Natasha's never had a good run of things. There. Here. She's a smart girl though. Whatever it is, she knows what she's doing." Bucky swallows. "You should probably return that to her."
Clint nods and decides to do just that. He doesn't take the van but decides to walk. The cold'll do good to clear his head.
When he gets to the building he waits for one of the tenants coming home from work and slips in the front door after them so he doesn't have to bother buzzing the apartment. He figures it's best if he doesn't announce his presence.
The stairwell smells like dog pee as he hikes. Floor by floor.
Natasha can feel the wall against her shoulder blades, contorting around how hard she pushes against it.
Her face is turned, her breath hitched in her throat. The cold stink of vodka washes over her as Ivan leans closer.
"Nataska," he says and it's the same way he talks to the women he brings home. The one's in the short skirts with the fake eyelashes. The ones he picks up off the streets. She fights the scared beat of her heart as h e runs his hands down her arms and she shivers until her spine aches.
"Uncle Ivan—" she whispers, her hands curling into hard fists. "You've been drinking."
He chuckles into her ear like it's funny. His hand moves up, fingers drifting through her hair. He always gets like this when he's drunk. Touchy. Clingy. She's usually fine if she stays in her room. If she stays out of his sight-line. "Just call me Ivan, Nataska ."
"There's someone at the door," she says suddenly, eyes wide as the knocking persists. She sucks in a stilted breath and as Ivan stalks towards the door she glances up the stairs. She can make it if she goes now.
"Is Natasha home?" she hears and her head whips around.
It's Clint.
"What d'you want?" Ivan asks, hanging onto the door for support.
"I came to drop off Natasha's homework. Is she around?" he repeats. Ivan looks like he's about to slam the door in Clint's face, if only because he's having trouble focusing. The bottle of alcohol was almost empty when Natasha got home, so she's not surprised. If she had waited an hour before coming home he probably would have been passed out in his room already.
She slips up beside Ivan, in sight of the doorway. "Hi Clint," she says with a lot of false pep in her voice.
"Hey," he says, looking relieved. He glances at Ivan before saying. "You feeling better?"
"Yeah."
She smiles the kind of smile that looks painfully forced as he passes her the notebook.
"Okay, well . . ." he looks from her to her Uncle and makes to take a step back but the way Natasha's eyes widen and lock on his makes him pause. He starts up again. "A group of us were going to meet at the library to study. You wanna come?"
"Sure, yeah, " she says, snatching her bag off the floor. She has her shoes on and a coat before Ivan manages to blink at the exchange.
When he pieces things together, Ivan reaches for her shoulder, squeezing. "Don't be out too late with your friends," he says.
She nods, adjusts her bag and brushes past him.
"I mean it , Natask a," he calls down the hall as her and Clint disappear into the stairwell. Natasha takes it at a run and Clint keeps pace just behind her. He doesn't miss the gasping breath of air she takes as they reach the exit.
They walk in silence in the direction of the library. It's not exactly the way to the diner, but Clint figures a detour isn't such a big deal.
"You okay?" he asks when they reach the end of the street.
"Yes," she says too quickly.
"Are you lying?"
She doesn't say anything, just looks over her shoulder where Ivan stands on the balcony, watching them.
She tucks her arms across her chest and for a while the only sound is their footsteps, out of sync with each other.
"Clint?" she asks then.
"Yeah?"
"Can I stay at your place tonight?"
He looks over at her. She doesn't look at him, just bites her lip.
"Yeah," he sighs, "okay. I'll talk to Phil."
When they reach the end of the next block they make a right and Natasha's pace slows. When the diner comes into view there's something like a smile on her face and Clint thinks, not for the first time either, that he'll never see anything that makes him as happy as it does when he sees her smile.
Once inside, Clint leaves Natasha in the living room with Steve and Bucky, figuring it's safer than trusting Tony with her, while he goes in search of Phil.
He finds him in his office and closes the door behind him when he enters.
Phil stops writing immediately and puts his pen down. He's good like that.
Clint takes a breath and drops into the chair across from him, rubbing his hands over his knees.
"Am I about to find out what the other night was all about?" Phil asks, breaking the ice for him. He's good like that, too.
"I think Natasha's in trouble," Clint says and the relief that floods him with the rush of those words is immediate.
"Is there something going on at home?" Phil asks.
Clint shakes his head. "I don't know and I'm not gunna say there is because I know what you have to do if someone suspects something like that of a student. It was just the way she looked at me when I went to drop of f her book."
"Which was?"
"She was scared, Phil. The same kind of strangled doe-eyes kids get when they 're afraid to be alone in a room with the adults that are supposed to protect them. I don't think she should be at home right now."
Phil nods slowly, his foot resting on his knee, his mouth twitching. "You're a good judge of character, Clint. Go with your gut on this one. You think she should stay here tonight, she does. But there's no funny business. She doesn't stay in your room. She sleeps on the couch. If you stay down here it's on the opposite couch, got it?"
Clint shifts in his seat. "Phil, it's not like that."
Phil's smile is kind, not condescending. "But you wouldn't be opposed to it."
"She's my friend," Clint insists. "She needs a friend."
"That may be. But she's a pretty friend."
"I know. I have eyes. That doesn't mean I want to jump in her pants."
Phil nods. "You're a good kid, Clint. I trust you to make the right choices. But I know teenagers. I know it's hard to believe, and don't bother with the receding hairline jokes, but I was a teenager once, too. I know what it's like. Let's not put yourself in a position to make those hard decisions yet, okay?"
"Touché," Clint says. He's actually tired of making decisions. At least the ones that make him want to throw-up his insides. He'd rather just let the adults deal for a while.
"She's a nice girl," Phil muses, lost in some errant thought.
Clint nods. "But she's in trouble."
"I'll look into it. Unofficially . You better go find her a change of clothes. I think Peggy's got some things in the staff room from when she had to spend the night those few holiday weekends. I'm sure she wouldn't mind."
Clint smiles. "Phil?"
"Yeah?"
"You know I love you, right?"
Phil looks taken aback. It's only a second though before his features school and the same calm, reassuring smile appears. "I know, kid, now go order pizza. We both know I'm not gunna make dinner."
Clint shrugs. "Bruce and Tony destroyed your carrots anyway, unless you were planning on soup. Apparently Bucky's new robo-prosthetic has the crushing power of a small hippo."
Phil smirks. "Guess what Tony's taking for lunch tomorrow?"
Clint laughs, standing and heading for the door.
"Clint," Phil calls, looking over the top of his laptop.
"Yeah?"
"Love you, too."
"Well I figured," Clint teases. "Seeing as you put up with me and all."
Phil tosses a crumpled piece of paper at him but Clint ducks and slips out the door before it makes contact. He steps lighter as he joins the others in the living room.
They spend the night with pizza and Netflix. Tony calls Thor, who was with Jane after rehearsal, who needs Darcy when there's this much testosterone involved, and for some reason Bucky's still at the kitchen table (where he's been for for weeks between Tony's project and Steve's infatuation). Clint's honestly not sure if he ever really leaves. In the end Phil gives up and lets them have run of the house provided there's no alcohol involved and leaves them be to help Sam close up the diner.
Clint feels the edge in Natasha as he settles between her and Steve, his side pressed so close she might as well be sitting on his lap, and though she doesn't actually sit on his lap, by the time the second Lord of the Rings film has ended she's got her head tucked against his shoulder, her eyelids fluttering with sleep.
He relishes the warmth of her breath against his arm and for a few quiet moments imagines it was like this all the time.
Bucky and Steve mutter low from the kitchen, an expanse of three feet between them, but their posture is very much relaxed. Thor has left with Jane and Darcy in tow. Bruce is camping in Clint's bed for the night since he's taking the other couch and Tony is attempting to steal the micro-board out of the remote control.
He leaves with the device under his arms and Clint has to nudge Natasha off his shoulder so he can scoot across the floor and manually turn the TV off.
Steve gives him a kind of half salute in the low glow from the kitchen and Bucky nods ever so slightly. It's a nod that says take care of her and when Clint looks back at the couch Natasha's sprawled out on her side, tangles of red hair clouding her face.
He stands and pulls the blanket from the back of the couch, draping it over her shoulders, then plops down on the other couch, his eyes closing before he thinks too much about the fact that Natasha Romanoff is sleeping in his house.
