Author's Note: *peeks in* Ummm… hi? Anyone remember me? I'm still here!

I'm soooooooo very sorry it's been so long! I won't bore you with the details but suffice to say COVID times have been an absolute bitch in my world. But please know that I still have every intention of continuing this story! I'm hopeful that things have finally calmed down enough that I might get back to a more reasonable updating schedule (but I believe I said the same thing last year during Whumptober right before shit hit the fan yet again *facepalm*). Anyway, I very much appreciate everyone's patience… and here we go!

Style Note: Words that are bold and italic are written down and read by Clint. Words that are "italic with quotations" are translated sign language.

Chapter Eight

Early the next morning, Clint stood on the roof, slowly breathing in and out the cool morning air. It was his favorite time of day. The air felt moist with dew against his skin and the smell of wet grass wafted on the gentle breeze that ruffled his hair. The sun was just beginning to peek up over the horizon, painting the sky with warm reds, oranges and pinks. This was usually the only time of day where he could just be still and calm.

Going as far back as he could remember, Clint's life had been in constant motion.

The house he lived in with his parents was a constant whirlwind. Even when his alcoholic father wasn't on a rampage, there was always a tension that permeated the air inside that house. No one was ever quite sure what could set off his father, and Clint had learned early on that moving quickly was really his only defense against the large man.

And then, when he was six years old, the car accident happened. He remembered being thrown around like a rag doll. He remembered being in the ambulance with people bustling around him as the vehicle bumped and swerved to the hospital. He remembered bits and pieces of being in the hospital where there were always nurses and doctors hurrying around, all with grim expressions.

He remembered an eleven-year-old Barney wearing a hospital gown and a bandage wound around his head sitting on the edge of his hospital bed, a hollow look in his eyes as he carefully fingerspelled "D-E-A-D" when Clint asked for mom.

After he and Barney had healed enough to be released from the hospital, they had been declared wards of the state and placed into the foster care system. Clint honestly barely remembered being in that first home. He had still been in shock over his parents' sudden deaths and the new life that was suddenly forced on him. Everything safe and familiar had been ripped away and he was left feeling exposed and out of place. He vaguely remembered that first group home being terribly overcrowded to the point where he always felt like he was in the way.

From there, Clint's life only became more chaotic. From being bounced around to several different group homes, to when he and Barney finally ran away and found refuge with Carson's Carnival of Traveling Wonders, moments to be still and calm were few and incredibly far between. He never imagined that his life could ever be anything other than a whirlwind.

And then he was sent here. He originally figured he happened to get here on one of the rare calm days in the house. But then a day passed. Another day passed. A week passed. Almost two weeks passed. And other than Bruce's meltdown about one week in, everything had remained fairly calm. No fist fights. Phil didn't appear to yell at anyone. There was always enough food to go around. There were enough beds for everyone to have their own. All the kids appeared to have a genuine attachment and appreciation for Phil.

Was it really possible that these foster kids lived like this all the time? Was it really possible that Phil actually cared about them?

Was it really possible that Clint could stay here?

Clint shook off the thought as soon as it occurred to him as he turned to look at the purple bullseye that was painted on the side of the HVAC unit. He had taken to painting over it every couple days to make sure it was as bright as possible. Before Clint had been arrested, he and Barney had gotten into a huge argument. So, up until this point, he reasoned away Barney's delay with the idea that his brother was probably trying to teach him a lesson. But surely by now he was looking into Clint's whereabouts. By now he had to know that Clint had been released from juvie and Barney had to be searching for their signal. He would show up any day now, and then Clint would go back to his normal life.

But why did that thought give him a sinking feeling in his gut?

Clint took another deep breath in an attempt to steady himself. Then he turned away from the HVAC unit and headed back toward the edge of the roof. He carefully leaned over the edge to confirm that the street below was still deserted save for a passing car now and again. Then, he smiled. This was his favorite part.

He stepped off the roof sideways, skidding down the sharp incline on the edge of his sneakers and dragging one hand on the roof behind him in order to control his speed somewhat. There was a sharp slope into the overhang, and as he slid off the edge he always loved the feeling of being thrown up slightly before falling back down and snagging the edge of the overhang with his right hand, his feet dangling over open air. He glanced down to make sure he was close enough to the bedroom window before he let go, his feet hitting the ledge above the window - which was just wide enough for him to stand with his feet parallel to the building - his knees bending to absorb the impact and then swinging out from under him as his hands came down on the ledge in one fluid motion. His feet hit the window sill, and with his right hand still holding onto the ledge above, he reached out and carefully popped the screen out so that he could duck back inside.

Before turning to replace the screen, Clint took stock of the room. A glance at the beds told him that Steve had already gotten up and headed downstairs. There was also no movement out in the hallway. Only after he confirmed that did he turn and pop the screen back into place, quickly turning back around so that no one could sneak up on him, freezing and holding his breath out of habit. But the world around him remained still and calm.

Clint let out the breath heavily. He stood absolutely still for another long minute, breathing slowly and allowing his heartbeat to slow. He vaguely wondered if he could ever get used to not having to constantly be bracing himself for an attack whenever he turned his back. And then he paused… realizing that he had never really had that thought before. It had never even entered his mind as a possibility.

Again, he shook off the thought. This was just a temporary place for him, nothing more.

Another deep breath and he finally found the will to move. As he entered the hallway, he glanced up the stairs that led to Thor's room. No movement. He carefully moved down the hallway, glancing into Tony and Bruce's room as he passed by. There was a lump of covers at the far corner of the bottom bunk and there was an arm hanging haphazardly over the edge of the top bunk. Both Bruce and Tony were still asleep. As Clint turned the corner to the stairs that led down to the second floor, he glanced uneasily back at the stairs that led up to Thor's room. He didn't like that he couldn't account for Thor before having to turn his back to that staircase. To his relief, there was still no movement.

He headed down the stairs, staying close to the wall with his eyes on the railing below. Halfway down, the wall gave way to spindles that Clint could peek through, giving him a nice overview of the second floor.

Clint spotted Thor over by the stove, it looked like he was cooking breakfast. Good, so he wouldn't sneak up behind Clint. Steve was perched on the edge of a stool next to the counter, leaning over a book and some papers, his brow furrowed. Phil was standing opposite of Steve, his elbows braced on the counter and his mouth moving as he kept glancing down at the book in between them.

Clint hovered on the stairs for longer than he normally would when he knew there were still people upstairs as he carefully studied the interaction between Steve and Phil. Steve looked distressed, was it because of what Phil was saying? Clint felt his heartbeat pick up. Was the charade of this happy home finally about to end? Phil reached toward Steve and Clint tensed… but Phil was just pointing to something in the book. And maybe Steve was looking more confused than distressed…

Clint was so focused on what was going on in the kitchen that he briefly forgot that there were still two people upstairs, two people who could still come up behind him. So when a hand brushed against Clint's back, he reacted purely on instinct.

Clint frantically swung around with his elbow arching until it hit something solid. He took a step back in an attempt to be able to assess the situation, but in his panic he had forgotten that he was on the stairs. His back foot landed on the edge and it threw him momentarily off balance. That moment cost him. The person had recovered from Clint's swing and lunged at him, apparently not caring that they were on the stairs. Clint was tackled hard in the stomach and the two of them went careening down the stairs, slamming into each and every step painfully until they landed hard in a heap on the floor at the foot of the stairs.

Clint had the misfortune of landing at the bottom of the heap, the breath knocked out of his lungs. In the moment it took for him to desperately gasp in a breath, a fist hit him solidly in the face, barely missing his eye. Clint barely felt the pain as his survival instincts kicked in. He shifted his head as another blow came, causing the person to punch the floor next to his head. He took full advantage of the miss as he reached up and seized the shoulder of the punching arm, yanking the person down and controlling their balance. On the same side, he pinned his ankle against the outside of the other person's ankle and then threw his hips up and over, forcing them both to roll and putting Clint on top.

Clint wound up… but something caught at his arm. He pushed himself up and around to face this new attacker. Barney had always told him that the best defense was a good offense and that he should never let himself be a victim. So without pausing to think, Clint lunged at the new attacker, tackling him to the ground. Immediately there were new hands on his shoulders and Clint's heart jumped up into his throat. There were too many of them, he was going to lose…

But he'd always go down swinging.

He threw an elbow back at the new attacker, hit something hard, and then swung his fist down toward the face of the person underneath him. But then, all at once in a split second, that face snapped into focus. Blonde hair, wide blue eyes looking up from behind hands that were up defensively.

Clint froze, his fist still cocked as his brain finally caught up with what he was seeing. It was Steve.

Clint's entire body went ice cold as his stomach dropped to somewhere around his feet. Arms wrapped around his chest, and this time Clint didn't fight it as his arms were pinned to his side. He was pulled backward and he stumbled along as he continued to stare at Steve in shock. And then very slowly he turned his head. Phil and Tony were crouched over a form that was gesturing wildly. It was Bruce… with blood pouring from his nose. Clint swallowed thickly as he heaved in painfully shallow breaths.

What had he done?

"I'm sorry," Clint tried to say, but somehow he knew that it hadn't come out coherently. Had he even made any noise? He swallowed again, licked his lips and tried to concentrate, but his whole face suddenly felt numb. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry." Could anyone hear him? No one was looking at him. "I didn't know, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't mean… I didn't… I'm sorry…" He suddenly became aware that his whole body was shaking as his chest heaved, the air in his lungs suddenly feeling thin. But all he could think was that he needed someone to hear him. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry…"

Suddenly, Steve was in front of him. Clint had no idea when that had happened. Steve's lips were moving but Clint couldn't focus enough to even guess at what he was saying. Steve's gaze shifted to just over Clint's shoulder and that gesture reminded Clint there was still a set of arms wrapped around him and holding him in place. He could feel low vibrations in the chest that his back was pressed up against as the person spoke. Thor, Clint realized belatedly. Thor's grip didn't lessen, but the feeling of those vibrations served to start to ground Clint and bring him back into reality.

Clint looked at Steve who had focused back on him. His lips were moving in the same pattern over and over, but it still took several long seconds for Clint to be able to piece together what he was saying.

"It's okay, Clint. Just breathe. It's okay. It's okay."

It wasn't okay, though. Clint ruined everything. Just like he always did.

Clint squeezed his eyes shut, unable to take the sensory input any longer. His knees buckled and the only reason that he was still on his feet was because Thor's grip remained uncomfortably tight. Each breath he heaved in felt like he was trying to suck it through a straw as the weight of the situation that he had created crashed over him.

He had hurt Bruce. Quiet, kind Bruce who had never done anything to him. Clint knew all too well what happened to foster kids who got violent. He knew he was as good as out of this house. The only question was, were they going to send him to a high risk group home? Or would it be back to juvie for him? And really… it was a toss up which would be worse.

Suddenly, Thor's grip disappeared. Clint found himself stumbling in an attempt not to crumble to the floor as he frantically blinked and tried to get his bearings. As he looked back toward the stairs, he saw that Phil, Bruce and Tony were all gone. He swung his gaze around to Thor, who had backed away and was now looking at him with a mix of anger and… apprehension? His hands were fisted at his sides. Would the older boy take a swing at him? Clint couldn't say that he would blame him if he did. He couldn't even say if he would defend against it if he did.

Steve moved into Clint's field of vision again. Clint instinctually took a step back in panic. Were they going to gang up on him? Would Steve hold him while Thor beat the shit out of him? Or would it be the other way around?

But Steve didn't reach for him. Instead he looked down at the whiteboard in his hand as he wrote with a dry erase marker. When he held up the board, Clint had to take several deep breaths before he felt steady enough to read what was written.

Let's go upstairs.

Clint nodded vaguely. Yeah, he should go upstairs. He needed to make sure he had everything together that he wanted to take with him when he left. He also needed to find a way to sneak up to the roof in order to get his backpack.

He forced one foot forward. And then the other. Mechanically, he made his way over to the stairs. His feet felt like they were made of lead as he hefted each one from one stair to the next. He gripped the railing hard as he made his way upstairs. He glanced behind him and was unsurprised to see that Steve was following him.

He trudged down the hall and back to the room he had been staying in. Steve's room. But as he glanced around he realized he likely wouldn't be allowed to take anything with him that he hadn't entered the house with when he first got here. So that left only his backpack on the roof. And he knew that he wouldn't be left alone long enough to retrieve that.

Just one more way he had royally fucked himself over.

With a defeated sigh, he trudged across the room and climbed up to the top bunk. Then he immediately crawled back to the corner of the bed, turning and wedging himself up against the wall. He glanced up toward the pillow and the mussed bedding, suddenly feeling hollow. Hopefully the next kid who got this bed would be better than him.

Movement drew his gaze, and he was surprised to see that Thor was in the doorway, handing something to Steve. Thor leaned a shoulder up against the doorway and looked up at Clint. His eyes were wider than they had been, that apprehension that Clint thought he had seen before now shining a shade brighter than the anger. Steve walked over to the bed and held up the bottle of water that Thor had brought. As Clint reached out for it, he noticed that his hand was still shaking.

Clint unscrewed the cap and took a sip. The water was ice cold and helped to clear a little of the fog that was still clouding his brain.

Steve remained standing next to the bed, looking down for a minute before looking up and holding up the whiteboard.

Phil gave Bruce his emergency meds and now he's talking with him. He'll want to talk to you when he's done.

Clint nodded his understanding. Clint figured Phil was probably already making a call to his social worker too. He wouldn't be at all surprised if his social worker was going to be waiting for him downstairs to take him to wherever they were going to dump him next.

Steve had lowered the whiteboard and was looking down at it again. When he lifted it again, there was a new message written.

What happened?

Clint swallowed thickly and then just shook his head before dropping his head into his hands and squeezing his eyes shut as another wave of the situation crashed over him. He screwed up. He screwed up so badly, just like he always did. Wherever they moved him next, one thing would be certain: there would be more scrutiny over his every move, which would make it even harder for Barney to find him.

Clint glanced over at the window, suddenly wondering if he should just run. Thor was still guarding the doorway, but that wasn't a problem. Would Steve physically restrain him if he made a break for the window right now? He could grab his stuff from the roof and be gone in a matter of minutes.

But… where would he go?

He wasn't exactly sure how much time had passed. Steve kept trying to get Clint to talk to him, but Clint knew there was no point. Finally, he caught a glimpse of movement in the hallway over Thor's shoulder. Both Thor and Steve turned and when Clint leaned forward he just glimpsed two figures disappearing into Tony and Bruce's room. And then he saw Phil walking down the hallway toward them.

Clint felt his whole body go cold. This was it. He didn't bother to wait for any kind of command, instead he carefully climbed down from the bunk. With an effort, he lifted his gaze and met Steve's eyes.

"Thank you," Clint murmured in what he hoped was a clear voice. "For everything." Steve had always been so kind to him and his heart twisted as he realized that he was going to miss him.

Before Steve could respond, Clint turned and walked toward the door. Thor immediately moved out of the way – a little too quickly really – and Clint met Phil in the hallway. Phil was saying something, but Clint couldn't focus enough to try to read his lips. Phil made a gesture for Clint to follow him, and Clint silently obeyed.

As they passed by Tony and Bruce's room, Clint couldn't help but slow down a bit and glance in. There was a lump under some blankets on the bottom bunk and Tony sat at one of the desks, tinkering with something or other. Tony glanced up and glared as he spotted Clint passing by. Tony opened his mouth as if he were about to say something, but Clint quickly averted his gaze as he hurried to catch up with Phil.

The trip down to the first floor seemed to take an eternity. Clint found himself looking around and taking notice of all the details around the house, tucking them away in his memories. He would miss this place terribly when he was gone.

When they finally reached the first floor, Clint was vaguely surprised that he didn't immediately see the social worker. He even peeked around the corner back toward Phil's office area, but it really appeared that he and Phil were the only two down here. Maybe she was stuck in traffic? Or maybe she was busy dealing with some other misbehaving kid before she could get here to deal with him?

Phil waved him over to the sitting area and Clint carefully complied, his gaze still darting around as if he expected the social worker to pop out of a closet at any moment. As Phil settled himself into the recliner, Clint drifted to stand next to the far side of the couch.

He didn't even notice the whiteboard until Phil was carefully sliding it across the coffee table toward him. Clint leaned forward in order to read the message.

Are you okay?

Clint stared blankly at the message, reading it several times to make sure he was reading it correctly. Admittedly, his reading skills weren't the best, but he did feel fairly confident about these particular short, simple words. After he finally decided there was no other way to read the statement, Clint finally looked up and stared at Phil with confusion.

After a moment, Phil leaned forward and dragged the whiteboard back across the table toward him. He wrote another message just below the first and then returned the board to Clint's side of the coffee table.

Are you hurt?

Okay, that was a little more understandable. Phil was a decent person, if Clint needed medical attention he suspected that despite everything Phil would make sure he got it. Clint firmly shook his head. He was certainly going to be bruised to hell, including a good sized shiner on his cheek, but none of that warranted any medical attention.

But that thought prompted another.

"Is Bruce…" Clint started, but he was pretty sure he wasn't speaking loud enough. He licked his lips and tried again. "Is Bruce okay?"

Phil took the whiteboard back and erased the first two messages in order to write another.

He's okay. He has some bumps and bruises and had a bloody nose, but nothing serious. After an outburst like that followed by his emergency medicine, he will likely be very tired for a couple days. After that he will be back to normal.

Clint nodded his understanding, feeling marginally better. "Can I say sorry to him before I go?"

Phil gave him a confused look before he took back the whiteboard for his next message. Clint felt his stomach drop as he suspected the request was about to be denied. He understood why, he couldn't imagine Bruce would ever want to see him again, but it still stung. He had already resigned himself when Phil pushed the whiteboard back across the table.

Where are you going?

Clint could only stare blankly again. Was he supposed to know that? Did Phil think he had somehow already talked to the social worker? Clint looked back over his shoulder to confirm that the social worker was still nowhere to be seen.

Realization finally dawned on Phil's face as he took back the whiteboard and wrote a different message.

You are not going to be placed in a different home. These things happen and we work through them. We don't give up because of one misunderstanding.

Clint read over the message three times. Surely Phil was lying to him. But what would be the point of that? It's not like Clint was resisting being moved to a new placement.

And then Phil did something that Clint never expected. He drew a wide 'U' shape on one side of his chest with his pointer finger. Then he put out his first two fingers on each hand and tapped his wrists together in an 'X' formation. Then he tapped the pointer finger of his left hand into the open palm of his right. Then he moved his hand diagonally in front of him, closing his fingers in the process.

"We will figure this out."

Clint openly stared in disbelief. He was vaguely aware that his mouth was hanging open in shock. He was still processing what happened when Phil started moving his fingers again. He curled his hand into a C. Then he raised his pointer finger and thumb while tucking the rest of his fingers down. Then he raised his pinky finger and tucked the rest of his fingers down. Then he made a fist, tucking his thumb up between his middle and index fingers. And finally he shifted his thumb to tuck up between his pointer and middle fingers.

"C-L-I-N-T"

Abruptly, Clint allowed his shaking knees to give out as he sat on the end of the couch, still staring at Phil in shock. Phil smiled at him as he wrote down a new message on the whiteboard.

It's a work in progress but I'm learning.

"Holy shit," Clint couldn't help but blurt.

Phil was still smiling as his shoulders shook up and down, assumedly chuckling at Clint's reaction as he wrote a new message.

I know what happened was an accident. We all make mistakes. You and I can talk it through and then we'll bring Bruce back when he's feeling up to it and all three of us will talk. We will figure out what happened and then figure out how to prevent it from happening in the future. Does that sound okay?

Clint swallowed thickly and in his shock and without thinking he raised his hands and offhandedly curled his fingers into a circle and then flicked his thumb, pointer and index fingers out.

"Okay."

Phil gave a warm smile as he mimicked the sign, clearly knowing what it meant.

"Okay."

Only one other person in his entire life had ever put forward the effort to learn sign language in order to communicate with him. However, Barney always complained about how long it took him to learn sign language and often demanded that Clint be appreciative of the effort.

And now, here sat Phil Coulson, slowly and carefully signing to him when he could and asking for nothing in return. This was something that Clint had never experienced and also had never in his wildest dreams expected to experience. And on top of all that, Phil wasn't kicking him out at the first sign of trouble like every other adult in Clint's life had done.

Maybe he really could stay here for the long haul. Maybe this really could be his home.