Disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters, nor do I have anything to do with Marvel.
These will be short chapters of around 1000 words. This makes is easier for me to update.
I will write this to the best of my ability and apologise if it is not always of the same standard. I write this for fun!
The title for this story was given to me by my friend Krista, who also encouraged me to write and share this. Thank you, Widow-Sister!
Natasha couldn't sleep. She had been dwelling on what Clint had told her about him being an orphan. She hadn't talked to anyone about not knowing her parents before. She didn't know who they were, or what had happened to them, and Clint might be the only person she trusted who would understand that. Getting up and pulling a sweater on, she made her way outside and knocked on Clint's door.
"How did your parents die?" she asked immediately when he opened the door. The words flew out of her mouth before she could even think about whether or not it was okay to ask.
Clint had been sleeping. His hair stuck up at odd angles and he looked groggily at Natasha, a little surprised that she actually asked that question. He cleared his throat and stood aside to let her into his apartment as he answered her question, "Car crash."
She sank onto his couch, her eyes cast down as she murmured, "I shouldn't have asked, right? I'm sorry about your parents."
"I'm not." His words hung in the air; a bitter quality to them.
It was Natasha's turn to look surprised. She watched him drop down onto the couch next to her and put his feet on the coffee table. "You aren't sorry your parents died?"
Clint shook his head and settled back in his seat, fiddling with the pocketknife he had picked up from the coffee table. "No. Well, my mom, maybe, but my dad? Nah. I was seven-years-old and hated him. He was… An asshole. Plain and simple. And she never stood up to him."
Natasha tucked her feet under her and watched him, hoping he would keep going. It helped her to learn about him; it made her feel like she could trust him with some of her own secrets. Clint balanced the point of the knife on his index finger before throwing it and hitting a marked part of the wall. When she looked at it, Natasha could see that he had thrown the knife before, marking his initials in the wall.
She frowned at the knife as she asked, "Where did you learn that?"
Clint got up and retrieved the knife, folding the blade back and tossing the knife onto the table. "I ran away with my brother and joined a circus."
She laughed but stopped abruptly at the look on his face. "Wait…you're serious?"
Clint nodded sharply and responded, "After our parents died, we bounced around foster homes and ended up in one with a guy just like my daddy. Same rough attitude, same anger problem. Even hit us like him too. Dad was good at that. Did you know that's how my hearing was damaged the first time?"
"Your-" her eyes scanned his face looking for a shadow of a lie. There was none. "You lost your hearing?" How could she have missed that?
"I mouthed off to him for hitting my mom and he picked me up and threw me. Whacked my head against a wall until my ears bled. I was deaf – only temporarily. I learned to sign and everything. I recovered but it got a little worse whenever our foster father beat me. Hearing still isn't perfect, and I seem to lose it again if I get hit too hard in a fight. So, you know, I try not to..."
Natasha's mouth twitched and she fought to keep her temper under control. "And where did the circus come in?"
Clint's eyes were closed. "There was a fight between Barney and our foster father. We ran away and I saw the circus tent so we tried to hide there. One of the guys there stood up for us when our foster dad came after us. They took us in, gave us jobs. The swordsman taught me how to shoot; gave me the name 'Hawkeye'. He…didn't turn out to be the best guy… They were thieves. I was a thief too; we all were. That's carnies for you. One day I decided I- I didn't like it so much. I made my choice; Barney chose differently."
Natasha sat in silence as she absorbed everything Clint had said. She could not have guessed this about him. "Clint, I'm- I'm really sorry." The words felt weak as they came out of her mouth. She hated that. Reaching over, she put her hand on his. He turned his hand over and squeezed hers once before letting go. "What happened to your foster father?"
"Dunno. Probably dead," Clint shrugged and opened his eyes again, surprised to see that Natasha was no longer sitting next to him but was at the door. She always moved in silence. "Where are-"
"There's something I need to do. Go to sleep. I'll be back tomorrow." With that, she slipped out the door and left him to his thoughts.
At exactly 4 o'clock the following afternoon, Natasha Romanoff appeared on the training ground. She sat, observing Clint in silence. She saw the furrow in his brow and the coolness in his eyes. His mind was somewhere else. She watched as he fired arrow after arrow toward the junior agent he had grabbed to assist him. Each arrow hit perfectly around the agent, never piercing him. A circus trick, she could see that now.
Clint retrieved the arrows and freed the agent before climbing up next to Natasha. "Where were you?"
"I was thinking about what you said last night," she said truthfully, "That stuff about your foster father."
"Oh," Clint shifted, half-wishing he hadn't said anything, "Right."
She reached into her pocket and pulled out a photograph, handing it to him. "This was him, right? Your foster dad?"
Looking at the photograph, Clint scowled in revulsion at the man staring up from the image and nodded. "Yeah, that- wait… Did you say 'was'?" He stared at her and noticed the swelling on face, the split in her lip, and the dark look in her eyes.
"Nat- Natasha," he grabbed her by the shoulders, "What did you do?!"
The ghost of a smirk flickered across her face, "I got him."