They make it through to the end of the semester without incidence (if you call Tony installing automated display boards and then subsequently knocking the power out to the diner for two days without incidence).
They still laugh about it, even weeks later: what is now fondly referred to as the great diner brawl.
At the time it hadn't been funny. Not really. There was a bunch of swearing, mainly from Tony as he zapped himself with enough electricity to leave red marks on his palms, promptly diving head first off the counter and into a nearby booth, thankfully empty.
Then there was Phil's face illuminated by a flashlight. Murderous as ever as he barked instructions about health and safety.
There was Sam scrapping charred slices of cheese coated bread off the grill by the light of his phone, glowering like a wounded puppy.
And then there was the seedy jerk who decided to cop a feel as Peggy was escorting customers to the door, to which Steve responded by throwing a well-placed punch that knocked two of the guy's teeth loose.
All in all the fight lasted about forty-five seconds, leaving three of the customers permanently banned and Clint with a black eye.
"I'm so sorry, man!" Steve said. "It was dark. I couldn't see who I was punching right there at the end."
"It's okay," Clint winced, adjusting the pack of peas held over his face. "Natasha will probably think I look badass."
Steve chuckled nervously. "Natasha's probably going to beat the crap out of me."
Clint grunted in response. "Where's Phil?"
"He and Sam are trying to fix the front door lock. Apparently running into the door with your face is enough to get the hinges unaligned." Peggy moved Clint's hand and the bag of frozen peas away from his face for inspection. "Swelling should go down in a day or so," she continued, patting the side of his face gently before giving Steve's arm a fond squeeze.
"So I get that this probably looks bad right now," Tony had said from his spot on the counter, finishing off the last of the pie that would inevitably go bad without the power. "But you have to admit, the boards look damn cool.
. . .
Clint's right about Natasha thinking he looks badass with his new purple shiner, courtesy of Steve's fist (the indent of the guy's knuckles are literally imprinted on his cheekbone).
The one thing he doesn't anticipate is just how nurturing it makes her. The warm touches and soft strokes against his skin are one thing, as is the adorable way her brow furrows a she inspects the ever changing colour of the bruise day after day, but Clint quickly realizes just how easy it is to convince her to do things while he's supposedly hurt. In all reality he's had worse (much worse), but he plays it off easily and Natasha indulges him.
It starts with stealing kisses. More kisses than usual. In places she wouldn't normally give them, like in the middle of the cafeteria (he pouts and she plants one on him right there at the table, prompting Tony to gag into his lunch) or sitting in the kitchen with everyone while Phil attempts to make grilled cheese. If she notices his sly smiles she doesn't comment.
But it's not just the ease of her affection he exploits, but how quick she is to jump to his whims. "Stay over for the Christmas break," he asks her one night while they're sitting in the van eating ice cream. It's warm inside, the heat cranked to the point the ice cream is melting faster than he can eat it, but he'd had a craving and with a pout and a bat of his eyes, Natasha had caved and joined him on his ten o'clock at night sweet tooth hunt.
"Clint—"
"My eye hurts, Natasha. It really does. I'll beg if you want me to, but it'll probably make it hurt worse."
"You're terrible, you know that." She looks down at her ice cream, biting at a smile.
"Please, Tash, it's the only thing I want this year. Well that and my own Tony-free room, but—"
"You make my life difficult Clint Barton. Did you know that?"
"O-kay," he mutters. He's become an expert pouter this last week.
Natasha sighs, putting her ice cream on the dash and unbuckling her seatbelt. She climbs across the front of the van and into his lap, prompting Clint to roll the seat back to avoid dumping the rest of his ice cream on her. She drums her fingers over his lips. "Don't look at me like that."
"Like what?"
"A wounded puppy. It's killing me." She strokes the hair that tufts out over his forehead, fingernails itching at the edge of his bruise. She tips his chin towards the light, eyes sad.
"Aw, Tash, you know I'm just teasing. You don't—"
She kisses him them, lips firm against his, head tipping to reach that much closer, noses brushing. She tastes sweet, like vanilla and chocolate and when she nips at his lower lip it makes him moan, ditching his ice cream in the cup holder so he can thread one hand up into her hair, the other clutching at the small of her back.
She gasps, pulling away, lips red and swollen.
Clint can feel his heart beat in his chest, right against his ribs. If she leans any closer she'll be able to feel it, too. Her hair is mussed around her face and he untangles his fingers to smooth it back.
She catches his hand in hers. "I didn't say yes to all those things because you were hurt, Clint. I said yes because you asked and I wanted to make you happy."
"I know," he says. "You're too smart to fall for the wounded puppy thing."
"Well, I admit, it did help somewhat."
"Tash, I don't want you to do things just because I ask, especially if you don't want to."
"But I do want to. That's how a relationship works I guess. You do things for the other person even if it's hard."
Clint swallows. "Are we talking about Ivan now?"
"Thanksgiving was nice," she admits. "But he doesn't know I spent the entire weekend with you. Christmas break is almost two weeks. I just don't know—"
"It's okay. We don't have to do it like Thanksgiving."
"No, I was going to say that I don't know what he's going to do in that place for two whole weeks by himself. But he can figure it out."
Clint can feel the grin spread up his face. It's so wide, splitting from ear to ear that it makes his eye throb, but he doesn't care. "So, was that a yes then? You're coming for the Coulson family Christmas?"
Natasha laughs. "If Phil will have me."
Clint twines a piece of her hair between his fingers. "He will. You make me so incredibly happy, you know that?" He kisses her again, this time soft and gentle, fingers skimming the skin on her neck. When she lifts her hand to hold his face he turns his head and kisses the inside of her wrist, something like a promise in the mark left over her pulse.
The next day Clint gets handed a brush and a bucket of soapy water by Phil and pointed firmly towards the van.
"That's what happens when you spill ice cream everywhere!" Tony yells after him. "Stop macking on Natasha in the front seat!"
Steve hides his face in a dishtowel, but Clint just smiles as he cleans away the sticky pile of vanilla that's congealed under the seat.
. . .
Natasha spends the entirety of the Christmas holidays at the diner, both day and night. It's so long in fact that she has to do laundry at their place—twice—and the domesticity of it gives Clint that same warm feeling he had that day they brushed their teeth together. Taking her lacy black underwear out of the dryer . . . that gives him a different kind of feeling altogether.
"You're cute when you blush," she says snatching them out of his hands and pecking his cheek.
"Yeah, well." He holds his hands up in defeat before stuffing them in his pockets. He could work with cute.
The first notable thing about the holidays (besides Natasha's underwear) is that Tony finishes Steve's bike, pulling a few all-nighters when he's not tweaking Bucky's arm.
And for that Tony definitely wins the best Christmas gift award, but Clint can't even fault him because Steve's grin is bigger than he's ever seen it and he actually hugs (HUGS! Jesus where's the camera?) Tony. Bucky's around by that point, too, spending most of his time at the diner, and he smiles fondly as Steve whips around corners, kicking up dirt, while Phil cringes with 911 on speed dial.
They all test it out on the trails behind the diner since the snow has decided to hold off this year. Freakily enough, the only one competent enough to handle the bike on anything resembling a road is Natasha. Clint squints beady eyes at her and adds it to his growing list of secret talents she possesses.
"Your girlfriend scares me," Tony whispers to him.
"That's because she could break your spindly little fingers," Bucky says dryly. His face is the definition of impassivity. "She'd probably smile while she did it, too."
Tony just shakes his head. "I am literally surrounded by people that want to kill me."
"Must be that Stark personality of yours."
"No puns, Barton. You know how Phil feels about puns."
"Why?" Clint protests as Natasha skids to a stop, swapping out turns with Bucky. "I'm so punny!"
. . .
Christmas isn't really about gifts, not in the diner, but Natasha manages to find a simple black tie with little red sports car motifs on it and Phil glows for days, wearing it proudly for the customers before he closes down the diner.
Most of the rest of the holidays are spent doing the attic renovation and testing out Bucky's new arm.
"You look like the terminator," Clint says as Bucky rotates his shoulder gingerly. "That's friggin' sick."
Bucky holds the arm with his good one, flexed at what would be the elbow.
"How does it feel?" Tony asks. "I can make adjustments as needed."
"It's strange," Bucky admits. "Having the weight again."
"Well, it'll take your muscles time to adjust. It'll feel like swinging around dead weight for a while."
The first time Bucky tries picking up a hammer he punches through a batch of old drywall without meaning too. The next time his metal fingers short circuit the wiring to the upstairs and it takes Tony and Bruce the better part of a day to get everything working again (Phil begs them to let him call an electrician. "I'm building body parts! I can handle some wires," Tony exclaims.)
The good thing about starting with demolition is that it doesn't matter how many holes Bucky puts in the wall. In fact, once the lights are functioning again, Tony and Bruce let Bucky go at it, getting used to the weight and the movements of the arm, filming the entire thing (in that name of science) as he knocks down walls.
Clint watches the video footage over Tony's shoulder one night, watching him cut out segments where the six of them would goof around. There's a clip of him kissing Natasha up against his new window sill and a segment of arm wrestling tests. There's a high five from Bucky's new arm that leaves Bruce wringing his hand out and footage of Steve attempting the moon walk.
All the extra footage goes into a file Tony labels Christmas _with_ the_Terminator.
For two days after that Tony and Bruce lock themselves away from everyone, apparently writing up the report portion of their project. They emerge every couple hours to tweak the arm or ask Bucky questions, filling out charts with data and complicated looking equations. Tony pops a microchip out of the back of the arm, plugging it into his computer and scales of green charted information pop up.
Otherwise they leave Bucky to adjust, and after some frustrating attempts, he figures out the right pressure to hold a paint brush with so he doesn't smash it back through the newly laid drywall.
When Phil and Sam emerge from their lunch run downstairs, carrying plates of sandwiches, they find the remnants of Bucky's new accomplishment: six frantically giggling, paint covered teenagers. Natasha even managed to get it in Clint's hair and she's got a nice handprint of his across her ass.
"Clint, if you didn't like the colour, you should have just said something," Phil teases. He places the plates of sandwiches down on the floor. "But no one goes anywhere until that dries. I will not have paint tracked through the house and the diner. So you might as well get comfortable."
The six of them collapse against the unfinished walls, laughing. Sam and Phil make their escape before Tony can launch a paint ball at them.
They eat in silence for a minute, then Tony looks at Bucky. "Dude, you know what this means?"
Bucky smiles, twisting his metal hand back and forth, brow wrinkling as he works the fingers into a fist. "I can punch holes in walls?"
"No, you can be in the band. Once you've figured out how not to crush the bass, of course. That's what started all of this in the first place."
Bucky barks a laugh, looking up under his tangle of hair. Upon realizing Tony's serious his dark eyes narrow, unsettled by the invitation. "Only if Natasha's in it," he says. "This was her idea. She wanted an excuse to see more of Cl—"
A paper plate goes flying past Bucky's face, skimming the tip of his nose.
"Well it's true," he mutters while Natasha pretends to be oblivious.
Clint feels a kind of warmth bubble up in his chest at the inadvertent omission. If only she knew then that she didn't need an excuse to see more of him.
"Fine then, you two can be the new Russian additions to the band. It'll give us that edge."
"What edge?" Steve asks.
"Bucky's got a metal arm, duh. And Natasha's hot. It sells itself."
Natasha shakes her head. "Oh, no, that's not something I need to be part of."
"Why not? Tony and the Crooners is a great band."
"That is not what we're called," Clint says, rolling his lips back over his teeth in disgust.
"Yeah, well you're girlfriend seems to think she's too cool for the band."
"I never said that. I just figured I'd leave the testosterone fueled sweat fest to the boys."
"Fat chance. What's wrong? Stage fright? Oh, are you one of those musically challenged people? You know, not everyone is musically inclined," Tony says. "That's why Thor does the heavy lifting and Bruce runs tech."
"Oh, she can sing," Bucky says as Natasha shoots him a death glare. "Plays piano, too."
"And why am I just finding out about this now," Clint demands. "We've been looking for Tony's replacement for forever."
"Hey! If anyone's getting replaced it's Steve."
"Why?"
"You have no rhythm and you play the drums. It's literally like the only requirement."
"Is this where the band disbands?" Natasha asks, a quirk to her mouth.
"I still can't believe you play piano. The grand is literally sitting in the dining room collecting dust," Clint says, gesturing to the stairs.
Natasha shrugs. "It's just some scales. My father used to play," she says, eyes pulling tight as if she's recalling it right then. "He would sit me on his lap and we would practice."
"You've never spoken of your father before," Clint says, taken aback at the thought. Of course Natasha had a father. Someone who wasn't Ivan. He'd just never thought about it. He knew her mom died before she came to the States. That's why she came. But somewhere along the line she must have had a dad.
Her smile is small and sad. "He died in a house fire when I was six. I don't remember much of him, but I remember that. He loved the piano."
Even Tony has the decency not to follow that up with some sarcastic remark.
Natasha gives a faint smile then. "That was a long time ago, though." Her smile turns wistful. "Another lifetime."
"Well, the offers open," Tony says in passing. "If you ever feel inclined."
Natasha smiles at that, nodding her head.
Supposedly satisfied that he hasn't mucked up a socially awkward situation, Tony jumps to his feet, dusting his hands against his pants. "Let's have some fun," he says. "We still have that one wall we need to rip down to frame out the bathroom."
"No, no," Bucky says. "I'm not punching anything else today. I'm exhausted."
Tony smirks, casting a look at Clint, before he paints a giant purple target on the grey drywall. "I was thinking more along the lines of target practice. We need to see the arm do some more fine motor."
Clint jumps to his feet. "Now you're talking."
. . .
It takes ten minutes for Clint to track down his new bow, his old compound, and a couple dozen arrows: some of them whittled wood he fletched last summer and others sleek fiberglass with red feathered tips.
Clint hauls out his bow, the metal cool under his hand and lines up half a dozen shots on the makeshift target.
Bucky whistles, impressed by the display, having never seen it before, and even Natasha leans eagerly around his back. Clint doesn't miss the way her eyes travel up the length of his arms and he makes a point of flexing each time he hits the target (which is every time) just to mess with her.
"Bet you can't split it," Toy challenges suddenly, leaving one wooden arrow in the center of the bullseye.
Clint waits for him to move and then raises his bow again. "Fine, but you're buying me knew arrows when I do."
"Deal."
The next arrow is a straight through and through, notching a path straight down the whittled arrow, leaving two chunks of wood on the floor.
Tony shakes his head. "That's impossible. Like it's actually not normal. Normal people can't do things like this."
"Normal people don't build robotic arms," Steve says.
"Yeah they do," Tony defends. "All the time. But that is inhuman. Like how do you even see? It's not even that bright in here."
"Eyes like a hawk," Natasha teases.
"Hawkeye," Clint groans. "Is that what you're going with?"
Natasha shrugs. "Hawkguy?"
"I want to see you make that shot without your perfect vision. One eye only," Tony demands.
"Isn't that dangerous," Steve questions.
"Come on, it's Clint. He'd probably hit it blind."
He does that, too, eventually, nailing all the trick shots like he's always been able to. Tony's up in arms.
"You don't have sufficient distraction," Natasha says eventually.
"Oh, really?" Clint says.
Natasha shrugs nonchalantly.
"No, I like where this is going," Tony says. "Continue."
"Fine, I like a challenge," Clint concedes. Then his face falls. "Clothes stay on," he murmurs when she's standing next to him.
She chuckles. "As if."
Satisfied, Clint lines up another shot. He takes the steadying breath, holds it for a count of four, and on the exhale primes for release. His finger is about to slip from the string when a warm breath brushes his ear. The sensation tickles his neck, and that's not what undoes him, but the fact that it's Natasha's breath, seemingly so innocent, slipping down his neck.
He has that same feeling he gets when they spar and when his fingers slip this time, so does the arrow. It imbeds itself right next to the bullseye, an inch away from the first.
"Aw, come on," Tony complains. "Some distraction. He's still in the red."
But Natasha just grins and when Clint meets her eyes, he knows she knows. It might not seem like a lot, but it's enough. Her lips quirk a little more, "Interesting," she says.
Then the lights spark and the power fails. Phil's voice carries up the stairs. "TONY!"
"Aw damn, you must have hit a wire on that last one," Tony mumbles.
"Again?" is all Phil says when he reaches them.
The rest of the renovation goes exceeding well; so does the rest of Bucky's test run. There's a few days in between where Tony and Bruce commandeer Bucky and the arm to make some minor adjustments.
The day Bucky picks up a pen and scribbles his name with his new hand Tony is glowing like a proud parent. He high fives Bruce. "We're going to smash this competition next month!"
Natasha watches Bucky like she might cry.
. . .
It's six days after Christmas, nine since they've gotten the water going in the new stand-up shower of Clint's almost finished bedroom (just needs a few coats of paint to cover the mess they made), when Phil piles them all into the van and drives them into the city to the lawyers office.
Clint's hand shakes as he signs his name on the bottom of the adoption paperwork, something he never thought he'd get to do in a million years. Tony and Steve have a similar kind of startled shock on their faces as the paperwork is whisked away. Just like that. Done.
Natasha takes of photo of the three of them and Phil outside the building with her phone.
It becomes Phil's new screensaver and Clint swears he wasn't crying and that it was just the reflection. He knows Natasha knows better, but she just nods her head and pats his arm.
January rolls in and he stays awake long enough on New Year's to kiss Natasha because she's fallen asleep on him. She startles from her spot on the couch, and Clint just snickers against her cheek. She responds by locking her arms around him like a vice and he wakes like that the next morning, scooting back to his couch before Phil can emerge and give him that stern I know it's not cold in here because I adjusted the thermostatlook.
Before Clint knows it, the end of the holidays are almost here and he keeps getting emails reminding him to buy his winter formal tickets. He'd almost forgotten about the dance altogether and that he'd been meaning to ask Natasha this entire time. If it wasn't for Steve asking him what he thought about him bringing Bucky (and outing himself to the entire school in the process) he might have let it slip his mind again in the midst of adoptions and renovations.
"Do it," Clint says immediately and if he's being honest maybe he expected something like this a long time ago from Steve.
"But what if—"
"Steve," he says. "This changes nothing about you. Not how you throw a football. Not how you captain the team. If people have a problem with it, they're not worth your time."
He stiffens at that and for the first time Clint realizes how hard it must be for Steve to step outside the safety of the diner and his family, admitting to the rest of the town that their all-American football hero isn't exactly who they think he is (he doesn't even like football all that much).
"Do you want to spend the rest of your life pretending to be someone you're not?" Clint asks. "So what if you like to draw? So what if you like Bucky? Bring him to the dance. People can deal. Or they won't. None of that is your problem. All that matters is that you do what makes you happy."
Steve's lips twist into a smile. "That's very Phil of you to say."
"Yeah, well, people looked at me weird when they found out about me and Natasha. Crazy Russian transfer chick, you know. But they don't know me; not really. And they don't know her. And I don't need them too. I'm happy. She's happy. That's all I care about."
Steve nods. "So, did you ask Natasha yet?"
"I'm going to today."
"You're sure?"
"Yeah, I'm kind of out of time."
"What if she says no?"
Clint smirks. "Then I don't have to put on that monkey suit in the back of my closet."
Steve chuckles. "You really, really like her, huh?"
"It's more than that, man. I'd dress like Phil every day if that's what she wanted."
"He does know how to accessorize a plain black suit like nobody's business."
Clint nods. "Even his socks are suave."
As it turns out, Clint does ask Natasha. And she sort of answers him. It starts as a visible question on her face as she struggles to unpin herself from the sparring mat. Clint just lets his weight go, holding her there, halting the sparring session and she huffs. "Are you serious?"
"Do I not look serious? Cause I meant it?"
"Well . . ." she splutters. "You can't just spring that sort of thing on a girl when she's gross and sweaty and—"
"I happen to think you look really hot right now."
"Mmm hmm," she murmurs. "I stand by what I said."
"Fine, but you can't avoid me forever, Romanoff."
She just laughs and whispers, "Watch me," before wrapping her thighs around his waist, flipping them, and escaping to the stairs for a shower.
He tries again two days later, the very last day of holidays. He's already bought the tickets so he's hoping she says yes this time.
"Is this a good time to ask you a question?"
Natasha sips her water and smirks. They're sitting in an empty booth at the tail end of the lunch rush. "I suppose."
"Will you go to the dance with me? And you can't even use the I don't dance excuse on me because I know you probably dance better than everyone there."
"I don't think I have anything to wear," Natasha answers honestly.
Clint's confused and simply purses his lips and stares at her. "So was that a yes? Or—"
"Supposing I can find a dress."
"Well darling, that should be the easy part." Natasha looks over her shoulder to find Peggy leaning against the back of the booth, paper in hand, waiting to seat the new customers that just walked in. Peggy with her perfectly primped hair and painted red lips. This walking forties icon. She clicks her red nails along the top of the booth before gesturing to Clint. "Getting this one cleaned up, well, that might prove to be a problem."
"Hey," Clint protests, but Peggy shoots him a teasing smile before turning back to Natasha.
"Seriously, though. I do have quite the wardrobe. You're welcome to anything you like."
"Aw, Peggy, I couldn't do that."
"I insist. My good friend's just moved in and apparently I have to clear out room in the closet for her things as well. Aw well, tis the life of a student. You want my advice? Strike it rich before college. If not you'll be broke for the next ten years."
And with that Clint secures his date to the dance, Natasha secures a dress, and they both end up with concerns about student debt.