Clint and Natasha have officially been a something for almost two weeks when it finally dawns on him that he actually has a girlfriend. He's not really the type to keep track of those kinds of things anyway (monthiversary?), but with Natasha it's different. Each day that goes by reminds him that she's one step closer to maybe believing that this tentative thing they have going is more than just them playing pretend. That she is allowed to be happy, regardless of what her uncle thinks. It's one more day in the right direction. Although two weeks seems like peanuts in the grand scheme of things, the relationship feels like something they've been tiptoeing around for a while now, and now that they've finally worked up the nerve to give it a try, Clint can't help but feel like it's a little bit perfect. It's perfect in the way her hand threads against his as they walk to class, and in the way she grins at him over homework at the kitchen table while Tony and Steve bicker over who's doing the dishes.

He's afraid to admit how easily she fits—how easily they fit—especially so soon; but the sense of peace in his chest is hard to ignore. The fact that they were friends first—that he would give up everything if she only wanted friendship—means that there's no awkwardness in these slow first steps. The moments are still threaded with gentle smiles and whispered giggles, but there's no uncertainty in the way his fingers skim her cheeks as they kiss outside the diner, or in the way her fingers play with his hair as they watch movies in the dark.

It's a seamless transition, this one that they're in, and Clint's never been so happy in his life. So in the back of his head it forms: this nagging black bug that picks away at his thoughts, reminding him that he's just some punk runaway from Iowa, and every good thing in his life is still perched on a balance beam that he hasn't figured out how to control yet.

As good as he feels, he also feels like he's dangerously close to tipping off.

So when Clint wakes one morning to find the house dangerously quiet as he makes his way down to the kitchen, there's a moment when he has a sneaking suspicion that something isn't quite right. Steve and Tony are usually arguing by this point. Or Tony and Phil. Pretty much any combination that allows Tony to hear his own voice. The utter silence is the first thing to peak his attention.

The next is the fact that it smells far too good to be a normal, average Thursday, and his mouth is watering by the time he reaches the bottom of the stairs.

He steps lightly through the doorway of the kitchen, tiptoeing almost. It gets him across the room, through the odd tension that's sifting through the smells. It feels like something's up. Tony hovers in the corner, watching the scene unfold, Clint's emotions written starkly across his face.

Tony was never good at hiding things. He's too abrupt for that.

Steve on the other hand sits before a literal feast at the kitchen table, looking like it's Christmas as he piles his plate with waffles. Home-made, with raspberry jam and syrup as toppers. Clint inhales deeply, dropping into his chair, as Phil says good morning.

"What's going on?" Tony finally asks, eyes narrowed and shifty.

Phil stops loading plates onto the table and plays with his tie, almost like he's nervous. But Phil Coulson doesn't get nervous. He's the epitome of calm. Always. It makes Clint shift in his chair.

"Um, well. I was trying to come up with a better way to say this . . . uh, something a little more exciting. But your adoption paperwork came through last night; everything's a go, if it's something you all still want."

"Are you serious?" Tony asks, skirting around the table.

Steve starts choking on his orange juice. Clint thumps him on the back once, turning to face Phil who pulls Tony into a hug.

Steve stands next offering one long arm to wrap around Phil's shoulder. "Where do I sign?"

Phil laughs. "We'll have to make an appointment with the lawyer, when you've all made your decision." He looks at Clint briefly. "When you're ready."

"Make the appointment," Tony says, rubbing his hands together.

"Yeah?" Phil asks.

He nods. "Heck yeah."

Tony drops into his chair, picking up a waffle on his fork and taking a bite. His chew is slow and contemplative, but Clint doesn't miss the smile the pulls his cheeks.

Phil tucks in between Steve and Tony, clearing his throat. "Okay, well, thank Sam for breakfast on your way out this morning because we all know this wasn't me. But on another note, I need numbers for this weekend so I know how big of a turkey to get. I've extended the Thanksgiving invitation to Peggy already. She's coming with a friend. Sam's insisted on cooking—"

"Thank God!" Tony mutters. Steve makes some kind of halleluiah sign to the ceiling, mouth chocked full.

"—so he'll be here. I've also asked Fury and Maria to come by if they have nowhere else to be."

Tony groans. "Phil, you know the point of a holiday is that we don't have to see our teachers, right?"

Phil waves him off. "They're friends."

"Shall we invite Jemma too, then?" he asks.

Phil considers it but shakes his head. "I think that is a breach of the doctor patient contract. She could lose her license."

"Sure, sure," Tony says. "Bruce will be here, though. Parents are away for their anniversary."

Clint's not surprised when Phil doesn't bat an eye at that one. Bruce spent most of the holidays here. (His parents were always away somewhere.)

"Thor?" Phil wonders.

Steve shakes his head. "His brother's coming home for the holidays."

Clint snorts. "That should be fun." Loki definitely knew how to make things interesting.

"But put me down for a plus one," Steve adds. "I'll see if Bucky wants to come around."

"Same for me," Clint says.

"You're asking Bucky, too?" Tony jokes.

Clint fires off a breakfast sausage at him. "Natasha, you dolt."

They arrive at school just before the bell rings because Tony forgets half his stuff between his room and the door. This is what happens when genius brains get distracted with things like adoptions, Clint decides.

He navigates the sea of students and finds Natasha by her locker, head buried inside searching for her books.

"Morning," he whispers, trailing a quick finger down her back.

She doesn't startle the way he expects, instead eyeing him over her shoulder. "What's that look for?" she says.

"What look?" He slumps against the locker next to hers. "I don't have a look."

"You do. It means there's something you are dying to tell me."

He offers her a boyish grin, the fact that she already knows him so well making his skin warm. She looks skeptical in return, brows furrowing prettily and he takes pity on her.

"It's nothing bad, stop freaking out." He squeezes her shoulders gently. "I just wanted to know what your plans were for the long weekend. I mean, do you—"

"Do Ivan and I do the whole family and turkey thing?" She gives a derisive snort before snapping her locker closed. A warning bell dings and they start down the hall together. "Trust me, that's not on the radar."

Maybe he should feel guiltier about being happy that Natasha's uncle is an assholey deadbeat, but on this one occasion he appreciates Ivan's lack of concern, more importantly meaning that Natasha has no plans he has to work around. "Then come to the diner. Stay the weekend." He grabs her hand so she stops. The hall clears out around them as students file into class. "The whole weekend. Bruce and Bucky are coming. Phil's throwing the shindig of all shindigs. It'll be fun. Sam's cooking, so I can guarantee the food will be good if nothing else."

She bites her lip. He knows she's trying not to smile at how very eager he sounds, but he doesn't care. He'll get on his knees and beg if it means he gets to spend all weekend with her.

"Come on," he prods, taking her hand. "There's a farm we always get the turkey from. It has a haunted corn maze. It'll be fun."

She cocks a perfectly arched eyebrow at him. "Isn't it a bit passed Halloween?"

"It's a fall kind of thing," he insists.

"Strange old men dressed up as creepy things wielding scythes are not a fall kind of thing."

"It is until it snows," Clint protests.

Natasha chews on her lips for a moment. "I'll feel out Ivan. He won't like it, but I'll see. That's the best I can promise for now."

"Okay," Clint says, but he's smiling so hard that he has to peck her on the cheek to keep from bursting. She turns a pretty shade of pink at the contact. "That's fair. Also, Phil wants to adopt us."

She smacks him on the arm at that and he actually cringes.

"Why didn't you start with that?"

He shrugs. "Still processing I guess."

"What does that mean?"

"I didn't exactly tell him yes at breakfast."

It's her turn to yank on his hand, staggering him to a stop. "What stopped you?" she asks.

He huffs, blowing a breath against the carefully spiked tips of his hair. "I don't know. Shock, maybe? I've spent these last few years with Phil, just waiting for the other shoe to drop. The first few months were the worst. Every time something happened with me or Tony or Steve I'd wait for the phone call. For the social worker to show up. But it didn't happen and then I got comfortable and things started to feel normal and Phil did things that a real dad might do. And Steve and Tony treated me like brothers are supposed to. And then Phil gave us work. He bought us stuff. Guess I just didn't think I deserved things like that, so I kept waiting for it to be taken away. It was easier to forget, the longer it went on, but the fear was still there. The fear that everything could just—"

"Disappear," Natasha offers, looking down at their clasped hands.

Clint swallows and it seems obscenely loud in the hall.

"I like knowing you're a permanent fixture in town," Natasha says. "If that's what you want. Do you even want to be adopted?"

It takes him a minute to answer. "There are few things I'm sure of in my life," he says slowly, each word measured. "And that's one of them."

His voice is thick but she doesn't let him escape. They're good for each other like that. Sometimes they know exactly when to push. "Hey," she takes his hand, pulling him to a stop. "You should tell him."

"I know."

"Tonight. If it's what you really want."

He nods at her insistence. In the utter truth he reads in her eyes. "I will."

The rest of Thursday is a blur of crammed lessons and last minute quizzes before the break.

The highlight of Clint's day is actually when he gets home and finds a text from Natasha telling him that Ivan has plans out of town for the next five days, so she's free if the invitation's still open. Clint sends back thirty smiley faces prompting Natasha to ask if he's broken his phone yet.

He's still elated when he plops down on the opposite end of the couch from Phil.

"Is Natasha coming?"

"Just confirmed," Clint says and he can't help the smile that crawls across his face.

"I'm glad," Phil says.

"Me too."

"Everything good with that right now?"

Clint nods, knowing what he's asking. "It is."

Phil nods again and Clint makes the jump before he loses the nerve. He doesn't know why he's nervous anyway. It's not as if it's a secret that he wants to be here. So he just plows on.

"Uh, about what you said this morning, with the adoptions. I just wanted you to know that I want it. I want to sign that paper."

Phil looks up from his laptop, eyes widening, betraying the subconscious fear Clint knows he put there this morning. "You do?"

"I always did," Clint explains. "I was just waiting for the fake-out, you know? I mean, I've been here before, where things are good and life's looking up and then suddenly it all disappears."

"Clint, you'll never have to worry about that again."

"I know."

"This is where you belong, whether you want the adoption or not. We are you're family. Always."

"I know, Phil. But I do want it."

"Okay, then. I'll make the appointments." He blinks and wipes under the rim of his glasses. Eventually he just gives up and takes them off to dab at his eyes properly. It's a heavy moment, but Clint thinks it feels right. Phil blinks again, pushing his glasses back up his nose and pulling his laptop back onto his lap. "Okay, now down to business. I was thinking it's time to get started on the attic renovations. Make things a little more permanent. Get you that room."

"Really?" Clint says, scooting forward in his seat.

Phil nods. "I think between us and Sam we could bust it out. I was looking at the schematics again and if you'll compromise on closet space we could probably fit a small bathroom up there."

Tony chooses that exact moment to hop over the back of the couch, snagging the remote from Phil's side, switching on a movie. Ever the eavesdropper, he says, "You know, Bruce and I could run it—the electrical, the plumbing. It's not exactly hard."

Phil shakes his head. "I need someone with a stamp behind their name to sign off in case the adoption board wants to do another inspection before it goes through."

"Well we could do it and then just have someone sign off. Then you can use the money you save to buy new signage for the diner."

Steve joins them with a bowl of popcorn as Phil complains: "What's wrong with the signs now?"

"Two words," Tony mouths around a handful of kernels. "Digital innovation."

"You know, it's not about the money," Phil says. "The attic renovation has been planned for a while."

"Bucky could help, too," Steve says suddenly. "His dad was a contractor. He knows things."

Clint watches Phil consider the complexities of Bucky doing demolition. He's polite enough not to mention being one handed and trying to hammer a nail, but Clint knows the thought is there.

Tony hums thoughtfully though. "It would be a good test-run for the arm."

"Already?" Phil says.

"I've been doing small tests for functionality, but the only way to see how it really responds is for Bucky to wear it for a length of time, not just for a fitting. Bruce has it mapped out. We should be at that phase by then."

"Will it work?" Steve asks. "I mean will he be able to feel things?"

Tony runs a hand over his chin, like the answer is complex enough that he has to consider it. "In a way," he finally says. Then Tony proceeds to explain the science behind Bucky's new arm. About the neuron endings in his stump and the sensory movements that can be translated into the mechanics of the arm. How the synapses coming from Bucky's brain will trigger micro sensations that will be picked up and digitized by the arm's processor until it maps out which strands of information mean what. "In theory," he finishes.

"So it's like a computer?" Phil says, uncertain.

"Sort of. It's definitely a piece of software that will learn. The longer he has it on, the more intuitive the motions will become. Once that connection between brain and machine is forged, it'll be an extension of his thoughts. But like anything you train yourself to do, it'll take practice. The hardest thing will be for him to figure out how hard to hold things. So no hand holding for a while."

Steve turns a furious shade of red that they all pretend to ignore for his sake.

"Dude, why do you even go to school?" Clint says.

Tony's bark of laughter is immediately followed by a sigh that has them all looking around awkwardly. It wasn't often that the Tony Stark got sentimental, but sometimes there were moments and they were the moments that Clint felt closest to him.

"Mom didn't want me to grow up to be like dad," Tony says eventually, thumbing the volume on the TV until the voices disappear. "It's even tied up into my inheritance—me finishing high school at the right old age of eighteen. She wanted me to have a normal social experience."

"She didn't want you to be a crazy, super genius with no friends?" Clint jokes.

Tony chuckles, wringing his hands together around the remote. "Dad was brilliant, but he was antisocial, always tied up in his workshop. Sometimes it was like he forgot who I was. I don't remember a lot of him, just that he was cold. Not in a mean way, just sort of like he was distant." He shrugs. "But mom was right. People aren't so bad."

"Well, we try," Clint says. "But it's hard to compete with all your genius. It drains us." Tony dives head long into Clint then, tackling him into the cushions. Thirty seconds later they're somehow both pinned beneath Steve, laughing and spluttering for air.

"Boys, don't break each other," Phil warns.

Clint knocks three times on the back of the sofa and they all sit up.

"I don't need genius to compete with," Tony says. "You guys are enough."

Phil adjusts his glasses up his nose, blinking heavily.

"You have lots of time to change the world, Tony. Just enjoy being young while you can. That goes for all of you. And no old man jokes."

"Aw, come here, old man," Tony says anyway, reaching for Phil. There's another kind of tussle and again they all manage to get caught up in some choke hold beneath Steve.

"Be careful," Phil crows. "I am old. My bones are brittle."

"Yeah, Steve, you're biceps are like the size of my head. Be careful with the senior citizen."

"You're knees are in my ribs, Tony."

"Sorry, thought that was Clint."

They untangle and take their seats again, movie forgotten.

"I love you guys. Never doubt that."

They all look at each other and then groan in unison, chucking the rest of the spilled popcorn at Phil.

"We're being adopted by such a sap," Tony says. "Good thing we love you, too."

. . .

It's all hands on deck Friday night as the last of the customers pile in for the dinner rush. Clint's never been so busy (there's literally pasta sauce in his socks thanks to the kid in booth three), but he finds time to pause in the middle of his shift when Natasha arrives, overnight bag in hand, to plant a kiss on her cheek and lead her to an empty bar stool. Sam wolf whistles from the kitchen window. Soon after that he sends Natasha out a chicken burger and fries. She drowns it in so much ketchup that it's almost unrecognizable.

Clint gets wisped back to work but is pleasantly surprised when he looks up later to find that Natasha's been recruited by Sam and Phil as an official pie flavour sampler. Lord knows he and Tony and Steve could never come to a consensus.

He pauses with a tray of dirty dishes on his hip, admiring the easy interaction between Natasha and Phil.

He always thought things in the house worked because they were all guys. It was easy to relate to sports and fast cars, but watching him now, perched on the seat beside Natasha, sampling pie flavours for the dinner on Sunday, he can see that Phil's just a good dad. The world missed out on giving him a family, but it didn't matter now since he'd made his own.

Still, Clint smirks as Phil regales a tale, going full hand motions on Natasha. From the way her face lights he thinks it's about that time Steve smashed his way through the bathroom door butt naked, prompting their impromptu bathroom renovation. By the end Natasha is laughing so hard her cheeks must hurt because she squeezes them with her hands. It's her real laugh, too, and Clint feels a warmth bubble in him at how easy it is for her to be around Phil. How easily she fits in here, with Tony flinging brotherly teases at her and Steve greeting her with a one-armed hug the way he might a sister.

He's glad she's found a place she fits. The fact that it happens to be with him is just icing on the cake. Or whip cream on the pie?

He chuckles as Natasha fills her mouth from the bottle of whipped cream, her cheeks puffed up like a chipmunk until she swallows.

"Yo, Barton, these plates aren't going to serve themselves," Sam barks, hanging out the kitchen door. He points the spatula at Clint before ducking back behind the door.

It was for his safety that Sam remained back there. It wasn't a secret that Sam was a very eligible bachelor in a very small town. The ex-airforce thing and the fact that he could cook filled the seats alone. Women would come for brunch just to catch a glimpse of him humming Sunday morning gospel over pancake batter.

Clint spins back around, dropping the dirty dishes off and sweeping a new tray off the counter that Peggy's just prepared. She rings up one more bill before clocking out for the night, pecking Steve on the cheek and dropping the keys to the till in his hands.

The diner is emptied by nine and by ten the last of the dishes are being spun through the wash.

"Place looks good," Tony declares.

Phil agrees with a nod, locking up and dimming the OPEN sign. He closes the blinds and spins to face them all. "Okay, we're leaving at two tomorrow. So if you're up all night and sleep through lunch I'm leaving you here. I'll be picking up the turkey tomorrow so we'll take two cars."

"I'm picking out the bird," Sam corrects, wiping his hands on a terry cloth and tossing it back through the galley window. "Cook's order."

"Sam, I can manage to pick a turkey and prep it. You take the day off tomorrow. We'll see you Sunday."

"No, I'll deal with the bird. You're not allowed in my kitchen. Not after that cookie disaster."

"That was one time," Phil insists with an exaggerated eye roll. Sam's brutal distrust for Phil near anything remotely cooking related was one of Clint's favourite things in the world. It was definitely a never-ending source of amusement that he thinks he could film and sell to a networked television company.

Sam's head shake is sharp and fast. "Nah, I was scrapping dough off the ceiling for an entire shift."

"Oh, that's the day we only served pie," Steve says, snapping his fingers at the memory, a stupid grin on his face.

"Because there were chocolate chips in my burners," Sam continues. "So Phil, no kitchen. I've put the leftovers in the house fridge. I swear to God if I find out you've been in there—"

"Alright, message received," Phil deadpans.

"Good. I'll see you all tomorrow." He paws them all on the shoulder, giving Natasha's hair a sweet tug as he leaves. They hear his motorcycle kick to life and then grumble down the drive.