Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works.

Author's Note: While I embrace constructive criticism, remember this old saying if you choose to leave a review "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all"

Thanks to those who reviewed Chapter One: Kylen, shanynde, Guest, bookworm1517, kimbee, TLDT, lunarweather, Viviannafox, Guest, Maire Caitroina, Anon, Eringo94, CyanB, Melissa, Sparkles The Squirrel-Man, LovelyMysteryFan, awkward hawk, Frost on Maples, Jewls58, AlienTourist, penguincrazy, LEMarauder, JRBarton, R1dDL3M37h15, weemcg33, DBhawkguy30,thababes, tpt player 5701, Reading4Ever, Guest, Guest, coastalcajun, ladybug114, Susan M. M., Reteka Hyuuga, isi7140, jaguarspot, Brandi Golightly, Kait-WIN3, Demmerick, BatmanOtaku, Lollypops101, chibi-ringo, TheNaggingCube, silvershadowrebel, ch33tahp4w, Shazrolane, JennyBunny65, fanficchica123, ChokkaBlockk, The Pris, raisingwerewolves, DanicaRem, Aurora Abbot, and discordchick

So the site totally freaked out yesterday. Kind of puts a damper on the whole "yay, new story!" buzz...but...y'all still came out in full force so THANK YOU to all who read and all who reviewed :) And just to be clear, this story is NOT my universe's version of the movie. I realize the title may be confusing, but my take on the events of the movie will be called "The Untold Stories" and it's coming at a later date :)

Thank you to Kylen for her awesome beta-ing and for having incredible patience with my perpetually screwed up use of commas.

This story is dedicated to Kylen

On to Chapter Two...

I've reached the point where I hardly care whether I live or die. The world will keep on turning without me, I can't do anything to change events anyway.
Anne Frank

The passenger door of the old blue minivan slammed closed and Cliff Barton tilted his head a little to watch his wife make her way across the crowded parking lot towards the baseball fields beyond it.

The sudden appearance of a bright blonde mess of hair next to him drew Cliff's attention to his six-year-old son, Clint, who had somehow managed to get free of his booster seat – which Clint insisted he was too old for, even if his small stature told a different story – and was in the process of climbing over the center console and into the front seat.

Cliff grunted and huffed a laugh when a bright purple cast bopped against his head as the little boy made his way into the front seat.

"Wanna watch it with the club arm, you little monkey?"

Cliff reached over to make sure Clint settled safely into the passenger seat only to abort the motion and fiddle with the radio when he got an increasingly familiar glare of independence. Clint settled sideways and cross legged in the seat and stared hard at him – his blue gray gaze bearing an intensity not at home in a six year old.

"You mad at me, Daddy?"

Cliff sighed. Getting a call at work that your six-year old-son had gotten into a fight during recess hadn't exactly been the highlight of his day. He reached over to gently grab Clint's casted arm and turned it, looking pointedly at the faint red stain on the purple tape.

"You never did tell me why you picked purple."

Cliff wasn't sure he was ready to dig into why his six-year-old monkey had gotten into a fight with a kid three years older than him. Deflection for the moment seemed like a safer route.

"Purple's not girly."

Cliff arched an eyebrow. That was a tad more defensive than he'd expected. He probably had Barney to thank for that.

"I didn't say it was."

Apparently that didn't matter much to Clint, who launched into a defense of his favorite color anyway.

"One of the Ninja Turtles is purple! Don…Dond…Dondatelello."

"Donatello."

"Yeah, HIM." Clint huffed in a comically affronted manner that had Cliff hiding a smirk by looking away briefly.

"You make a very strong point."

Clint nodded very seriously with a glimmer of victory in his eyes.

"You've convinced me." Cliff added when it seemed that Clint wasn't going to be satisfied into that particular item was resolved.

Clint smiled and breathed what seemed to be a sigh of relief.

"Now you wanna tell me about the new color you added to it today?"

Clint's impossibly-expressive eyes suddenly darkened with a mixture of guilt and anger – and then abruptly cut away to look out the windshield.

"I think we should eat pizza for your birthday dinner, Daddy."

"Clint."

Those guilty blue eyes slowly shifted back to him.

"You got in a fight?"

Clint pulled his lower lip in between his teeth and nodded slightly.

"Wanna tell me why?"

Clint looked up at him through his blonde lashes and quietly replied.

"David Miller said mean things."

"About you?"

Clint shook his head.

"About one of your friends?"

Cliff wouldn't be surprised if Clint had gone to bat for a friend. The kid was loyal like that. But Clint shook his head again.

"Who did he-"

"Barney." Clint blurted with a huff, eyes shifting to look out over the parking lot, as if the new object of the conversation would suddenly appear. Cliff sighed – how the hell was he supposed to discipline the kid now?

"What did he say?"

Clint sat up straighter and his eyes lit up as his voice rose.

"He said Barney was stupid cuz he gets his letters mixed up! So I punched him in the face!" Clint looked down at his stained cast.

"With your cast?"

"I didn' wanna drop my chocolate milk."

Cliff blinked blankly for a moment at that – the kid and his sweet tooth. Cliff followed Clint's gaze down to the faint stain – made faint by intense scrubbing by Katie, no doubt.

"Clint, look at me."

Clint's eyes rose obediently.

"You can't just hit people when they make you mad."

"What if they deserve it?"

When the hell had his six year old gotten so sharp?

"Does anybody deserve to get beat up?"

Clint's eyebrow arched.

"David Miller did."

"Clint." Cliff scolded with a sigh. He blamed Katie for the kid's stubborn streak.

Clint bit his lip again and guilt shined in his eyes.

"Are you mad at me?"

Mad at him for defending his brother? Where was a parenting manual when you need one?

"I'm not mad at you – but hitting David Miller was wrong."

"What was I supposed to do?"

Damned if Clint didn't look close to tears now – though it seemed to be more out of frustration than anything else. Clint always tried to do the right thing – which made it harder to punish when he chose wrong.

"Not hit him."

"He called Barney stupid." Clint defended in confused frustration.

"And he was wrong to do that, but maybe what SHOULD you have done?"

"Called him stupid back?" Clint muttered with a sour look as he leaned back against the door.

Cliff barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes – goddamned stubborn streak.

"No." He fixed Clint with a heavy look.

"Tell a grown up?" Clint sighed miserably.

"Bingo."

Clint nodded pitifully. Cliff sighed and glanced up to see Katie and Barney heading across the parking lot – his oldest still decked out in his baseball practice gear. Cliff glanced back at Clint, who still looked crushed.

"Look at me, Monkey."

Clint looked up.

"I'm proud of you for sticking up for your brother. Just find the right way next time."

Clint nodded.

"Come here."

Clint immediately crawled over the consol and allowed Cliff to wrap him in a strong warm hug.

"I love you, Daddy."

Cliff never got tired of hearing that.

"I love you too, Clint."

He kissed the baby soft golden hair under his chin and then pulled back.

"Now back into your seat, Monkey." Cliff levered Clint onto the consol and watched him climb back into his booster seat just as Katie and Barney reached the van and piled in.

"How was practice?" Cliff asked his oldest as he navigated out of the parking lot.

"I got Jason Lewis out at first and he's the BEST player on the team. It was EPIC."

"That's awesome, kid."

"That's awesome, Barney!" Clint parroted – earning a warm smile from his older brother.

"So, where to for your birthday dinner, Mr. Barton?" Katie Barton asked from the passenger seat as they pulled out of the parking lot.

"Hmmm…" Cliff looked into the rearview mirror, catching Clint's eye. "I'm thinking pizza."

Clint smiled.

"He's asleep."

Clint jerked his head up.

"Nu-uh."

His daddy chuckled softly and came to a stop at a red light.

"He gets that from you." Daddy looked at Mommy, who rolled her eyes.

"So I'M the stubborn one?"

"Hell yes, you are."

"Cliff, language."

"They're both practically asleep anyway. It's not like they'll remember even if they heard."

Clint rested his head back against the seat and blinked heavily. He and Barney had gotten up really early. They'd surprised Daddy with homemade eggs and bacon for his birthday. Daddy had looked REALLY surprised – and he'd made a funny face when he tried the eggs.

"Clint."

Clint rolled his head over to look at Barney.

"You can use my shoulder."

Without another thought, Clint slid sideways and rested his head on Barney's shoulder, eyes drifting closed.

He felt the car move again even as his thoughts faded away.

"CLIFF!"

And then he was jerked sharply away from Barney's shoulder, casted arm slamming into the door. Glass shattered around him even as his head hit something hard.

Katie woke to pain. Her mouth opened in a silent scream as fire spread through her body. For a moment she was sure she would lose herself to the pain – but then a sharp, overwhelming thought resounded through her consciousness.

The boys.

Her babies.

"Barney? Clint?" She forced her boys' names past her bleeding lips, trying to turn in her seat only to cry out in pain. She forced a deep breath and just turned her head. Her breath left her so suddenly, she was sure she was going to fade away right there.

Cliff.

"Cliff?" It was barely a whisper, but she already knew her husband wouldn't be answering.

Cliff's eyes were open, but she could tell that he wasn't there anymore. He was gone. A sob tore from her throat as she reached for him – then a soft groan from the backseat drew her attention.

"Clint? Baby, can you hear me?"

Katie shifted trying to get a look at her youngest, who was positioned behind her.

"M'mmy?"

"I'm right here, baby."

Katie finally caught sight of him in the twisted reflection of what used to be the review mirror. His face was bloody, but those amazing blue gray eyes she loved so much were open and looking around. Katie momentarily did the same – swallowing deeply as she took in the mutilated twisted metal of what used to be their minivan, caught now between an equally destroyed truck of some sort and a splintered telephone pole.

Pain tore through her again as she vaguely realized the pain stopped once it reached her waist. She didn't dare look down to investigate and returned her attention to Clint instead.

"Look at me, baby, don't look around, just look at me."

His foggy eyes met hers in the cracked mirror.

"Are you okay, sweet pea? Does anything hurt?"

His scratched left hand rose to touch his head.

"My head hurts," he whimpered.

"I know, baby, anything else?"

Please let him be okay.

"My arm and my chest."

"Okay, you're gonna be okay, sweetie, just keep looking at me."

Pain crashed through her and she couldn't help but cry out.

"Mommy?!"

Oh god…not now…not with her baby boy watching.

Clint felt a sharp awareness sweep over him when his Mommy shouted.

"Mommy?!"

She didn't answer, just panted in the front seat with her eyes closed.

"Mommy?" his voice faded to a whisper as fear rose in him. He shifted his eyes away from the mirror and over to where his Daddy had been. Daddy wasn't moving, was sitting funny in his seat.

"Daddy?"

"Clint, baby, look at me, don't look around."

Clint obediently moved his eyes back to his Mommy at her pained, whispered command.

"I want you to close your eyes, baby. I want you to close your eyes and don't open until you hear the firemen okay?"

Clint wanted to ask why the firemen were coming. He wanted to ask why he had to close his eyes. He wanted to ask why Daddy was sitting funny, why Barney hadn't moved in the seat next to him. Instead, he just nodded.

Mommy nodded back.

"I love you so much, sweat pea. Now close your eyes."

Clint did.

And he kept the squeezed shut, silent tears leaking down his cheeks. He heard a sharp gasp and his eyes flew open.

"Mommy?!"

He looked at the mirror, but Mommy wasn't looking at him anymore. Her eyes were closed and she wasn't moving anymore.

"Mommy!"

Clint struggled against his seatbelt, but couldn't get free.

"Mommy!"

Clint choked on his own breath as reality returned with all the subtlety of a freight train. He blinked to clear his watery vision, his chest aching from the echo of the ribs that had been broken all those years ago.

It wasn't until he blinked again – bringing his frayed nerves back under control – that he realized he was sitting up. That he was reaching out with his left hand towards the open air of the room.

For a moment he saw her – just as he had when he was six years old – lying motionless in the front seat of the van.

"Mommy!"

The sudden memory of his own cry sent a sharp, crippling pain through his chest. He abruptly blew out a sharp breath and jerked his hand back as if the air was made of fire.

"Son of a bitch." He pressed his palms against his eyes and threw every ounce of focus he had into calming the painfully-rapid, shallow quality of his breathing.

But the air felt thick and his room felt more suffocating by the moment. And no matter how he tried, he couldn't seem to catch his breath.

He needed to get out of here – needed to purge the memory from his mind.

Clint snapped his blankets off his legs and reached for a pair of athletic shorts even as he stood. He shrugged into an old gray Army t-shirt and reached for his favorite Puma running shoes.

But then he stopped, toes hovering over the opening in the sneakers. He shifted his gaze to his bow and quiver, resting atop his dresser near the door.

Any other night – any other dream – he'd be pulling on those shoes and heading for the range.

But this wasn't any other night – or any other dream.

It wasn't a dream at all. It was a memory. It was the night that he'd lost everything – his parents, his childhood, even his brother – even if he hadn't known that last part until years later, when he lay dying in the rain with a knife in his chest.

He hadn't had a bow back then. He'd had to learn to cope in other ways – ways that he'd mastered when they went to Carson's. And even now – years later – he yearned for the burn in his muscles as he threw himself into blood pumping, energy burning acrobatics on the tumbling mat. He longed for the pull in his arms and shoulders as he climbed – climbed anything and everything he could find a handhold on.

He put his shoe down. He'd move better without them.

Todd Bryan yawned as he stared down at the pile of PFAs – Physical Fitness Assessments – he'd administered this morning. He should have had these all signed and put in the system hours ago, but the Angels had been playing the Yankees. And Todd had jumped at the opportunity to have something to taunt Barton about.

Of course had he known the Angles would lose, he might have chosen the paperwork instead.

He yawned again, pressed enter on his laptop – successfully entering the final PFA – and leaned back taking a moment to rest his tired eyes. He should be in the comfort of his own office, in the comfort of his nice, comfy office chair. But one of his trainers was holding a night training session in the main gym. And no matter how he'd tried, it had been impossible to force his tired mind to focus with three dozen recruits running around right outside his office door.

So here he was – in the supply closet connected to Barton and Romanoff's private gym. The private training area was a fair share smaller than the main gym, but it was perfect for the deadly duo and their purposes. It also kept his other agents out of medical more consistently.

A supply closet hadn't been his first choice for paperwork – it was more like his last. But his office was out, his room had the all-too-strong temptation of his bed, and just about everywhere else on base had people around. The idea of eyes watching him as he filled out paperwork just wasn't all that appealing.

The supply closet had an exercise ball he could sit on, and it was away from prying eyes. It also didn't have any distractions – or at least he hadn't until about an hour ago.

Barton coming into the training gym at odd hours wasn't unusual. The kid carried a lot of shit on his shoulders and Todd had become accustomed to Barton being in the gym at all hours of the night during his time under Todd's training.

And one agent running around was a lot easier to tune out than three dozen.

Todd glanced towards the closed door. He didn't think Barton knew he was here, the supply closet door didn't have a window and with the gym's motion-sensitive lights having turned on when he got there, Barton was unlikely to notice the light coming under the supply closet door.

Now that he was finally – mercifully – done with his paperwork, he'd have to reveal himself.

He really didn't want to hear any more smartass comments about the game – and he was sure Barton had a reserve of them on the tip of his tongue. But he'd be willing to take a few if it meant he got to go to bed.

With a sigh, he closed his laptop and slid it and the pile of papers into his backpack. He stood from the medicine ball he was sitting on and looked at the door, bracing himself for a full dose of Barton sarcasm at its finest.

He pushed the door open and stepped out, flipping the supply closet light off as he did.

No wittily-contrived one liner came his way, no sarcastically condescending look – earned solely because he chose to be an Angles fan – was shot in his direction. He didn't even get one of Barton's classic death stares for interrupting his training session.

Barton didn't even look his way.

He instead kept his focus on what he was doing. Which, in Todd's opinion, was probably a medal-worthy bar routine.

At the moment Barton was doing an impressive handstand, hands wrapped around the bar and legs pointed straight up in the air. Todd tilted his head, waiting. He knew when Barton moved, it would be fast.

And it was. One moment, he was like a pillar, standing straight – albeit upside down – and then he was a blur of motion, body arching as he swung around the bar. Todd smirked when Barton suddenly released the bar, did some insanely acrobatic sort of flip like spin in the air and then caught the bar again, resuming his swing around the bar with barely a pause.

Barton arched his body a little more, speeding his swing and then released again, flipping towards the ground. With a grunt, the archer slammed hard into the mat on his hands and knees.

Todd winced and opened his mouth to ask if he was okay, but the words caught in his throat.

Because no sooner had Barton hit the mat than he was slamming his balled fist into it over and over, finally slamming both hands down flat with a shout of some mixture of frustration, pain and anger. Then he was up and running across the tumbling mat.

Todd frowned, concern blossoming in his chest as he moved quietly across the gym. Barton was famous – both in SHIELD and amongst his enemies – for keeping his cool, for hiding his emotions. That he had let himself lose that control – even if he thought he was alone – was unheard of.

Something was definitely brewing in that minefield Barton called a consciousness.

He winced again when Barton's attempt at a back handspring failed when the shoulder Todd had dislocated gave out under the strain. The archer went tumbling to the mat with a grunt. Without even taking a moment to catch his breath, Barton was up again.

"You know if you wanted to beat yourself up, I'd have gladly volunteered to help."

Barton froze, shoulders heaving as he no doubt tried to bring air into his overworked lungs. For a long moment, he just kept his back to Todd as he approached.

"What are you doing in here?"

Todd's eyebrow arched at the edge in the archer's tone.

"Retract the claws, tiger, I come in peace."

Barton turned at that.

"What are you doing in here?" This time, the edge in his tone had turned razor sharp.

Todd sighed. Barton was wearing his 'won't take any shit' face.

This oughta be a fun conversation.

He kept his own tone firm. He'd learned on day damn one not to give an inch when Barton was in a mood – the kid would tear him to pieces if he did.

"Cool it, kid. I was just doing some paperwork."

Barton's eyes shifted over Todd's shoulder to the dark supply closet. His eyebrow arched.

"In a closet?"

"So sue me. You own the closet?"

Barton rolled his eyes and shifted his weight, fingers curling briefly into his hands before he seemed to force them to relax by pure will power.

"You done?"

Todd narrowed his eyes slightly.

"Yeah."

"Good." Barton's gaze hardened. "Then get out." With that the archer turned away.

Todd arched an eyebrow.

Oh hell no.

"Now why would I want to do that?" Todd slid his backpack off his shoulders and dropped it to the ground. "When you've been so inviting?"

Barton didn't face him.

"I'm not in the mood, Bryan."

"Tough shit, kid. You keep going like this and you're gonna hurt yourself. You hurt yourself and Phil finds out I didn't try to stop you, he'll kill me."

Todd didn't have to see the eye roll to know it was there. But there was an undercurrent of tension in the kid's shoulders and that alone told him this was about more than a bad mood.

Todd tilted his head and bit his lip.

"You want me to get Phil?"

Barton's shoulders dropped a little and he blew out a breath. He finally turned, pulling at the athletic tape he had around his wrists.

"No."

Todd nodded, looking Barton up and down. The kid was drenched in sweat – and Todd could see his hands subtly trembling, even though Barton was trying to hide it under the guise of pulling off the tape.

"You wanna talk about it?"

Barton huffed a sad, dejected kind of laugh and shook his head, looking away – but not before Todd caught a glimpse of his eyes. Todd had never seen anything like that in Barton's eyes before. He'd seen the kid spitting fire angry. He'd seen him hurt, dying even. He'd seen the kid – on nights similar to this – nearly crumbling under the weight of the burdens he carried.

But he'd never seen this kind of pain – this measure of loss and longing. He'd never seen this kind of sorrow in the archer's eyes before.

But it was still familiar – more familiar than any other look Barton had ever worn.

"I get it."

Barton's eyes cut back to him sharply.

"What?" Barton breathed in surprise.

"I get it. You think if you work yourself hard enough, push yourself far enough, you'll be able to forget."

Barton blinked, shock filtering through his eyes briefly before they hardened again.

"You don't know what you're talking about."

Todd rolled his eyes and crossed his arms across his chest.

"Right – cuz after almost seven years I don't know a damn thing about you."

Barton scowled and shifted his gaze away again. Todd sighed and uncrossed his arms, softening his tone.

"Look, kid, I know how that train wreck you call a mind works." Barton scoffed and Todd hurried on before the kid could get properly offended. "And I can see that whatever shit is going on in there tonight," he pointed a finger at Barton's head, "isn't the usual recipe of crap."

Barton's gaze darkened and Todd cut his hand through the air to stop any sort of argument.

"Your whole issue of taking the shit of the world on your shoulders isn't a wall I particularly want to beat my head against right now – I'll leave that discussion to Phil. But this, tonight, this is something I know a little bit about."

Barton scoffed again, more sadly this time, and shook his head.

"You don't know anything about it, Bryan."

Todd swallowed thickly as Barton turned away again, moving back towards the gymnast bar. He hadn't wanted to get this far into this – hadn't wanted to do anything but get Barton to stop hurting himself. He should have known that nothing with Barton would ever go the easy way.

"You think you're the only one that knows about pain, Barton?"

The archer stopped nearly midstride, but didn't turn.

"I know about pain. And not the kind of pain that comes with a gunshot wound – real, bone deep pain. I know about that. I know about wishing with everything you had that you could just go back – that you could go back to how things were before. And believe it or not, you aren't the only one who knows about loss, either."

Barton turned slowly at that, fists clenched at his side and posture so stiff Todd was worried he might pull something.

"We both know what answer I'd get if I asked you to tell me about it – hell, if you don't wanna talk to Phil, you sure as hell won't talk to me. So how about I talk."

Barton just stared at him silently – waiting, a spark of curiosity in his eyes. Todd blew out a deep breath and made his way across the mat towards the hanging punching bag.

"I grew up in south LA – and this," he tapped the bag with his fist, "this was my escape. A guy on my block owned a crappy little gym, a few weathered punching bags and a ring with only half the ropes intact, but it was safe. It was one of the only two places in my neighborhood that was. The other was home."

Todd smiled wistfully as he circled the bag, tracking Barton out of the corner of his eye as shifted to listen but didn't approach.

"My dad was a cop, never felt safer than when that man was around. I was probably one of the only kids in the neighborhood that had that kind of security. Hell, I had it all, a mom and a dad, a big sister who actually liked having me around." Todd shook his head, swallowing back the sudden wave of emotion that threatened to overwhelm him.

"How'd they die?"

Todd stopped his journey around the bag and ran his palm down the smooth leather. Barton had always been a perceptive son of a bitch.

"A drive by."

He saw Barton wince in something akin to sympathy.

"My dad was walking my sister home from basketball practice and they walked right into a retaliation hit meant for some gang banger who walked away with nothing but a winged shoulder."

Todd shook his head.

"A goddamned waste."

Clint watched Bryan stare at the punching bag. He had a feeling he was seeing a different bag though, in a different gym, in a different time. Clint swallowed and drifted a few steps closer.

"How old were you?"

"Ten." Bryan looked up at him. "And just like that, everything changed. I got angry – at everything, but mostly at the crew that pulled the trigger. So I did the only thing that made sense to a stupid, angry kid."

"You joined the rival crew."

Bryan nodded.

"Like I said, I was a stupid, angry kid."

Clint didn't know what to say - what he could ever say – that would actually be helpful. He wondered if this is how Phil always felt around him.

"So I get it." Bryan rounded the punching bag and moved back towards his abandoned backpack. He shouldered it and met Clint's eyes again. "Sometimes I want nothing more than to go back – to be the skinny little black kid who had it all and didn't even know it. But I can't and neither can you."

Clint swallowed thickly, wishing he didn't feel like his chest was in a vice because of Bryan's words.

"And when we realize we can't go back, we just wanna forget. But we can't do that either, can we?"

Clint stared at him, every memory he'd been battling for the past hour flashing before his eyes. He blinked and Bryan was standing in front of him. Clint sucked in a surprised breath, but held his ground. He forgot sometimes that the man was the training director for a reason.

"I know what it is to be from a place you wanna forget. But it's those places, those pieces of our past that make us who we are. Who we are comes from both the good and the bad shit we've been through. And personally," Bryan dipped his head and forced Clint to meet his eyes, "who you are is someone I'm damn proud to know."

Clint huffed and looked away. He hated it when people made him into something he wasn't – saw him as something more than he was. He glanced back in time to see an odd mixture of sadness and frustration in Bryan's eyes before the trainer suddenly clapped him on the shoulder and smiled.

"Besides, Barton – can't have nothing but sunshine cuz we need rain to grow."

Clint blinked and tilted his head to the side – just staring at Bryan for a long moment.

"You get that off a fortune cookie?"

Bryan laughed and Clint couldn't help but smirk in return.

"Saw it on a poster once – I think there was a flower on it."

Clint couldn't help but laugh at that as he rolled his eyes.

"You quoted me something that had a flower on it?"

"Doesn't mean it wasn't relevant."

Clint shook his head and huffed another laugh – this one a touch more sarcastic. Bryan glanced towards the door.

"You good?"

Clint drew in a deep breath and mulled that over for a moment. He actually felt a little better – a little less like he couldn't breathe.

"Yeah," he nodded, "I'm good."

Bryan nodded and started towards the door. Clint glanced around the gym, then down at his hands, sticky from the athletic tape he'd distracted himself with earlier.

"Hey, Bryan."

The agent stopped at the door and looked back, eyebrow arched. Clint absently itched at his palm and forced himself to meet his friend's eyes.

"Thanks."

Bryan smiled a surprisingly genuine smile.

"Anytime, kid. Get some sleep, huh?"

Clint nodded and then Bryan was gone. With one more glance around the gym, Clint headed towards the door.

Clint's eyes flashed open, his hand sliding under his pillow and wrapping around the grip of his Desert Eagle.

"It's me."

His grip relaxed immediately and he shifted, peeking over his shoulder as Natasha quietly closed the door and dropped her bag against the wall. He shifted his gaze to the clock on his bedside table as she started to toe off her boots.

2:03

He'd been back asleep for maybe twenty minutes.

"Gun or knife?"

She unzipped her jacket and slid it off her shoulders as she moved towards the bed.

Clint tightened his grip on his the Desert Eagle again and pulled it out from under the pillow, holding it up for her to see even as he rolled onto his back. She smirked and took the gun, reaching over him to set in on the bedside table.

"You don't need that – I'll protect you."

"Oh, yeah?" Clint smirked, relaxing lazily back into the mattress as she shifted one of her legs over his waist and granted him one of her more seductive looks. She slowly leaned closer, running her hands up the scared contours of his abdomen and chest. She leaned closer, her lips hovering over his, before she drew back – hands shifting back down his chest.

"Stop teasing." It came out as more of a strained growl than the firm scold that he'd intended. When exactly had she gained all the power in their relationship? He wasn't sure – he just knew that when she wanted him to be, he was putty in her hands.

He rolled his eyes as she just smirked evilly at him.

"If you don't –"

Her mouth locked onto his, cutting off whatever threat he'd been about to issue. And at the moment, he couldn't remember for the life of him what exactly that had been.

A few moments later she pulled back sharply.

"Are you checking my leg?"

"No." Anybody else, his cool, calm innocence would have been convincing. With Natasha…innocence just wasn't something he could pull off – for various reasons.

She glared down at him and he drew his hands – previously resting on her thighs – back and showed them to her innocently.

"Just making sure you're still in once piece."

She continued to glare for a long moment and then her gaze softened and her lips quirked into a warm smile.

Clint arched a wary eyebrow.

"Relax," she purred, leaning closer again, "I think it's sweet."

His eyes narrowed.

"Oh, really?"

"Well, I will as long as you tell me why the hell your shoulder is swollen."

Well that explained the "it's sweet" comment. Always working an angle – even with him.

"It's nothing."

"It doesn't feel like nothing."

"A sparring accident."

Her eyebrow arched delicately.

"You? A sparring accident?"

He didn't know whether or not he was supposed to be flattered by her tone of disbelief.

"I'm fine."

Her look alone told him she wasn't letting it rest until she was sure of that for herself.

"Fine."

She immediately reached for the light on the bedside table even as he sat up. She sat back on her haunches, legs still straddling his and immediately set about inspecting his shoulder.

"What happened?"

"Dislocated."

Fire lit her eyes.

"Who did it?"

"Doesn't matter – it was an accident."

She searched his gaze intensely for a moment and then nodded.

"When did it happen?"

"This afternoon."

She frowned, eyes shifting back to his shoulder, her cool hands resting on the injured muscles. He knew she was wondering why it still had so much heat coming off of it, why the swelling was still up. Sometimes it was better to answer the question before she could ask it.

"I hit the gym for a while." He spoke quietly, knowing she'd know the why behind it just by his tone.

Her gaze softened and her shoulders relaxed – her right hand shifting from his shoulder to brush through the hair of his temple instead.

"You okay?"

"I'm good."

She searched his gaze again.

"It wasn't the names." She stated it as a fact, not a question.

He wasn't surprised by her perceptiveness. She'd been exposed to his nightmares long before they'd ever shared a bed just like he'd been exposed to hers. They'd learned the nuances of how the more common ones affected each other fairly early on – and now that they were openly honest about what those dreams entailed…it was getting easier to connect the dots.

Her eyes narrowed and a small, confused frown tugged at her lips.

"What was it?"

He blew out a low breath and shifted to lean back his on his hands.

"My parents."

Understanding filtered through her expression – followed quickly by a rare look of helplessness. He didn't dream of his parents often – and it was one thing he knew she didn't know how to relate to.

She didn't remember having parents to miss – he wondered sometimes which of them had it worse.

"I'm good." He promised again when the helplessness in her eyes grew.

She searched his gaze for a long moment, then her lips curved into a silky smirk.

"That's too bad," she purred, gently pushing him back onto the mattress. "If you weren't good, then I would make it my personal mission to make it all better."

Clint lips curved into a smirk of his own.

"You know, come to think of it…"

"You two are up early."

Clint looked up from where he was pouring sugar into his oatmeal. Natasha looked up from her plate of half-eaten spinach omelet and immediately slapped at his hand, spilling the sugar on the table.

"Hey!"

"Why do you even get that if you're just going to add sugar?"

"Because I can't add sugar to that rabbit food you're eating or any of the other crap they wanna force feed us except the cereal – you can't fix that kind of nasty. I didn't want cereal and at least this is one other thing I can make tolerable."

Phil rolled his eyes and sighed, sitting down across from the duo and resigning himself to the fact that he wasn't going to get a proper greeting as he'd hoped. Why Clint felt the need to make adding sugar to his food a covert affair, he didn't know. But he felt the urge to defend the action he wished he had thought to do.

"At least he's not adding alcohol to his coffee."

Natasha scoffed, rolling her eyes.

"You're hopeless – both of you."

"She sounds so surprised." Phil grinned across the table at Clint, whose gaze turned mischievous.

"I'll have you know, Natasha, that my body is a temple." Clint's expression turned a touch superior as he sat back in his chair. Phil choked on his own oatmeal. That was rich.

"A temple." Her dry tone did nothing to help Phil clear the glob of oatmeal trying to snake into his lungs.

"And while I may not always monitor what I put into it," the smirk that spread across Clint's face almost had Phil putting his face to his palm before the archer even finished what he was going to say, "I always monitor what I put it into."

Natasha hadn't looked that annoyed in a while. Phil tried again to clear his airway with meager success.

"You're disgusting." She practically hissed.

"Again the tone of surprise."

"идиот." She rolled her eyes and pushed against the side of his face with her hand, prompting Clint to chuckle and lean forward towards his oatmeal again. Natasha shook her head and stood. "I've got my debrief in ten. Wanna spar after that?"

"I'm gonna pay for that comment, aren't I?"

Phil thought Clint actually looked mildly repentant.

Natasha smirked and leaned down to speak right next to Clint's ear – too low for Phil to hear. When Clint suddenly cleared his throat and shifted in his seat, Phil was really glad had hadn't heard. Natasha straightened with a triumphant smirk.

"See ya, boys."

Phil watched Clint watch Natasha walk away.

"You two should be a little more discreet."

Clint rolled his eyes.

"Phil, there's like two other people in here right now – the breakfast crowd is still half an hour out."

Phil raised an eyebrow.

"I meant for my sake."

Clint chuckled, lifting a spoonful of sugary oatmeal into his mouth. Phil cleared his throat and watching Clint closely for a moment – gauging his mood.

"So I ran into Todd on my way here this morning."

Clint paused with his spoon halfway to his mouth, shifted slightly, and then finished taking the bite.

"What'd he have to say?"

"Said he had a long night – and that maybe you did too."

Clint's eyes shifted away briefly.

"Figured he wouldn't keep it to himself."

"He was just worried about you."

Clint nodded, sitting back in his chair again and abandoning his spoon into his half empty bowl. Phil eyed the abandoned food, wondering briefly at his odds of getting Clint to finish his meal.

"You okay?"

Clint shrugged.

"As okay as I ever am, I guess."

"You realize that's not exactly comforting, right?"

"Relax, Phil," Clint granted him a genuine smile. "I'm good."

Phil assessed Clint's gaze closely for a long moment before nodding.

"Todd didn't tell me what it was about."

"Probably because I didn't tell him."

"You gonna tell me?"

Clint chewed the inside of his lip and absently turned his spoon over in the cooling oatmeal. Phil tilted his head to the side, eyes narrowing.

"It was your parents."

Clint dropped the spoon with a clatter and huffed out an annoyed breath.

"How do you do that?"

"I know you, kid – pretty damn well at that."

Phil also knew – down to the smallest facial tick – Clint's expressions after each kind of nightmare. And the look in his eyes right now, the set of his jaw, this was an expression he had only seen a handful of times over the past seven years. But it was also one of the least concerning. Clint had dealt with losing his parents long ago. It wasn't so much their death that haunted him. It was the memories. The knowing what he'd had – and what he'd lost.

It was that he knew Clint sometimes wished with everything he had that he could just go back.

"Phil?"

Phil blinked.

"I thought I was the broody one."

"Oh," Phil smirked, "you most definitely are. I was just thinking about how many miles I was going to make you run today – since you practically ate two whole pizzas by yourself last night."

Clint groaned.

End of Chapter Two

All is well in the world of the firm of Barton-Romanoff-Coulson...but will it remain that way? Most assuredly NOT! Embrace it while it lasts, because tomorrow the s*** will hit the fan :)

Anybody feel a few tears well at the memory of how good Clint had it before the accident? An AWESOME dad, a loving mom, and a brother that actually treated him well...

Anyways, thanks for reading!

But reading comes with a price! Anyone who wishes to read through my stories must pay a tax!...okay so you don't have to pay anything - you're enjoyment is payment enough for me...but if you wanted to drop a line in that review box, I'd be eternally grateful...

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"Clint?"

He flinched, twisting in the bed and leveling the gun at Natasha's forehead. She didn't move a muscle, just met his eyes.

"You with me?" she asked warily.

He blinked, sliding his finger off the trigger. Then he swallowed thickly around his ragged breathing and glanced around the room once more before nodding.

"Then why don't you put the safety back on…and give me the gun."