Chapter Text
Part 4: Jump Start My Kaleidoscope Heart
Apparently joining SHIELD meant a lifetime subscription to Clint Barton. Matt didn’t really mind, per se. The archer was fun, and kind of his only friend that wasn’t his mom or his priest, but he was also kind of still the enemy. Albeit, the enemy that had convinced the other enemies that Natasha was actually a potential ally… This was getting too complicated. Suffice to say Matt now had a mental flow-chart delineating who was loyal to who.
But Clint was fun, and he seemed to genuinely enjoy spending time with Matt and Natasha (for what reason Matt couldn’t really fathom, he wasn’t particularly used to adults voluntarily opting into spending time with them. Father Lanthom was a strange outlier.).
“So, kid, what can you do?”
“Um. Algebra and some basic Spanish?” Matt offered, uncertain where this was going. A month into Natasha’s tenure at SHIELD and she was off on a mission and somehow Clint had become Matt’s designated driver to and from school. This mean that their trips back to the apartment from the middle school tended to devolve into a string of side trips to ice cream shops (Matt refused to eat anything that came from a cart, he could taste the rust and dirt), funky hole-in-the-wall antique stores full of lavender-scented old ladies and teenagers reeking of weed, and tourist traps full of the gaudiest, most ridiculous NYC crap ever to inhabit the planet. Clint had the impulse control of a 5 year old and a healthy desire for adventure in his own backyard. (“New York City is like an alien planet, kid. Layers upon layers of weird, and you’d never know it just walking down the street. Unless you’re in Times Square. Then they just sort of hit you in the face with the weird until you give up or pass out. Wow, this metaphor got away from me.”)
Right now they were wandering around a flea market Clint found, eating the ice cream cones they picked up a block away. Periodically Clint would pick something up, hand it to Matt and say “Hey, what can you tell me about this thing?” and Matt would give him whatever bizarre trivia his senses could catch. Then it was Clint’s turn to describe what the thing looked like in vivid, hilarious detail. (“This here purse is a delightful shade of mauve, really brings out the puce undertones. But it’s the neon green accents that really tie the whole thing together, y’know? Sort of like barf. Like someone ate their weight in Fruit By The Foot then threw it all up an hour later. Gross. Ew. Please tell me it doesn’t actually smell as bad as it looks.”)
Vendors did not tend to like them much.
“Aw, boo. Boring. I don’t care what you can do in school, I’d dropped out and joined the circus by the time I was your age. I mean what can you do? Talents, skills, whatever.”
Matt scrunched up his face, trying to puzzle out what Clint was asking. “You already know about my – ” he made a vague hand gesture encompassing his general face-area and the senses that came with it.
“Yeah,” Matt could just make out the rasp of fabric on skin as Clint shrugged, “But that’s not what I mean, either.” He paused, seeming to consider, “Okay, how’s this. What’s something you can do that you’re really proud of? That you didn’t have to learn to do because it was necessary or required or due on Monday. Just something cool. Go.”
Matt chewed his lip, thinking. Most of his ‘talents’ were coping mechanisms to deal with the onslaught of the world around him. Or, failing that, were school-related. “Um. I can mostly speak Russian?” he offered, a little unsure.
He heard Clint nod, “Cool. I can mostly speak Russian too.”
“Are you making fun of me?” Matt asked in Natasha’s mother tongue.
Clint laughed. Clint laughed a lot, and when he did it was with his whole body, unrestrained and perfectly happy. It was a strange contrast to Natasha. It reminded Matt of his dad. “Only a little bit,” Clint offered in Russian.
“Good,” Matt said, because he couldn’t think of anything else and the petulant middle-schooler within wouldn’t be satisfied without a comeback.
Clint chuckled again, but it was gentler this time. “So. Anything else cool you can do?” He asked, switching back to English.
“I can climb up the sides of buildings.”
“That’s funny, so can I!” Clint said, voice rich with mock-surprise.
“Yeah, but you do it because it’s necessary. I do it because it’s fun,” Matt shot back smugly.
“Liar,” Clint said, just as smug, “I bet you had no idea you could do that before you started creeping on my lookout spot.”
Matt bit the inside of his cheek, “I figured out the theory.”
“Eh,” Clint made an annoying buzzer sound, “Argument not valid.”
“Fine,” Matt huffed, “I can read Braille, and even though it’s a necessity, it’s pretty freaking cool.” He crossed his arms and did not sulk because he was way too old for that.
“Hey,” Clint said affably, “I can read ASL, but people never seem nearly as impressed with that as they should be.”
“Sign language?” Matt asked, curiosity drawing him out of his not-sulk, “Is that for your job?”
“Nope. It’s for when I’m not wearing my hearing aids.”
Matt was so surprised he stopped walking. Just froze in the middle of the sidewalk as his brain slowly rebooted. “Seriously?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh. Cool.”
A few more undeniably strange moments until Matt blinked and just started walking again, Clint falling into step beside him.
“I guess I didn’t see that coming,” Matt said, completely deadpan after a few moments of quiet walking.
“I hear what you’re saying, but I just can’t agree with what you’re suggesting,” Clint said flatly right back.
They both snickered in snyc.
Recovered from his laughter, Matt shoved his non-cane-holding hand into his jeans pocket. “But we’re not boding over our disabilities or anything. Because that would be cliché and dumb.”
“Nope,” Clint agreed easily and cheerfully, “We’re bonding over the utter terrible-ness of the technicolor barf-purse back there.”
Matt laughed with his whole body. Like his dad. Happy.
…
Matt met Agent Coulson under less-than-ideal circumstances. Namely, Matt was in an enormous amount of trouble, and Coulson’s office happened to be the one with an unlocked door and no windows.
Matt hadn’t really expected the office to be occupied, honestly. He’d been too busy escaping the wrath of Nicholas Fury to put too much effort into listening for resident heartbeats before yanking the office door open and flinging himself inside. Nonetheless, he had been 80% sure the office was empty.
So when the agent occupying the office, very reasonably, asked what exactly was a preteen kid doing cowering behind his door, Matt did the only reasonable thing he could think of. He flung the nearest small object at the sudden source of noise. The nearest object being his cane, this was perhaps not Matt’s best decision.
The agent caught the cane, of course, because SHIELD seemed to be populated largely by people who tended to opt out of getting hit in the face by flying objects. “Now, I knew we were putting more effort into recruitment,” he said mildly, a clatter signaling to Matt that the cane had been safely placed on a desk or table off to the side, away from the door, “But I still think a legal drivers’ license is the bare minimum for age requirement.”
“Do you not have a heartbeat?” Matt blurted out, because apparently while the agent was opting out of getting hit in the face, Matt was opting out of having any social graces.
To his credit, the agent was unruffled by this statement, “I was meditating when you decided to make your grand entrance. Slows the heart rate. Makes it harder to detect.”
“Is that a concern for you? People detecting your heartbeat?”
“Not particularly, but you never know when you need to fudge some vital signs,” the man responded pleasantly.
Matt narrowed his eyes at him, trying to track his movements around the room. “You’re not going to tase me for breaking into your office?”
“It’s not breaking in if the door’s unlocked,” the agent offered generously. “Now, I am curious; why the questions about my heartbeat?”
Well, shit. “If I said superpowers would you believe me and never ask me another question about it ever again?”
The agent seemed to deliberate for a long moment. “Well, should the need arise, I’m sure I could find alternative sources of information on your alleged extra-human abilities. So, yes. I agree to your terms.”
Oh, this guy was cool. And smart. Matt figured if he couldn’t grow up to be Natasha, he could probably shoot for growing up to be like this guy. “Awesome. I can smell the peppermints in your desk. Can I have one?”
“No, they’re poisoned,” the agent said bluntly, “But I think I have some chocolates in my personal stash.”
Ha, one mystery solved. “I thought the mints smelled off. I wasn’t sure if they’d gone bad or SHIELD had messed with them.” That was fine; Matt didn’t actually like peppermints much anyway. They tended to be a bit too overwhelming for his senses. A few seconds after putting one in his mouth he always had the peculiar feeling that his tongue was going numb and his sinuses had frozen over.
“A bit of both,” the agent admitted, holding out a plastic bag and crinkling it a few times so Matt could track the sound of it, “Hersheys? They’re leftover from Halloween.”
Matt grabbed a fun-sized candy at random, sniffed it, rejected it for its caramel filling (caramel stuck in his teeth and he always felt like it was still there just lurking days later), grabbed another, sniffed it, deemed the mini Crunch bar acceptable, and backed off. The agent withdrew the bag, chose a candy of his own (a Milky Way) and put away the bag.
“My name is Agent Phil Coulson,” the agent offered.
“Hi. I’m Student Matt Murdock.”
“Student?”
“Well, if we’re going to announce our job designations before our names I might as well say something. And ‘Human Matt Murdock’ just made it sound like I was about to executed by xenophobic alien invaders.”
Coulson laughed. “You’re Agent Romanoff’s son, aren’t you?” It sounded like a question, but it wasn’t, not really.
“Yep.”
Of course Clint took this opportunity to drop out of a ceiling vent right into the middle of their conversation. “Matt, kid, you’re lucky Fury’s got mad respect for your mom, otherwise you’d be dead meat by now.” The archer paused, took stock of the situation and turned to Coulson, “Phil, I want chocolate too.”
“I don’t reward bad behavior,” Coulson said blandly, casting a glance…somewhere. Matt would have put money on that ‘somewhere’ being Clint’s ever-so-convenient vent.
“The kid started a fistfight on floor 7!”
“Did you?” Coulson asked mildly.
Matt stared very, very hard at the shoes he couldn’t see but knew were there.
“Mr. Murdock.” Coulson sounded very serious.
“I may have gotten two people mixed up because she smelled like her perfume and his aftershave and he smelled like his aftershave and her perfume and apparently they were having an affair and she’s married to someone who works on Floor 9, but that guy happened to just walk in when I said it and then there was a fight. And some property damage. Fury wasn’t happy.”
Clint didn’t bother to respond with words, he was too busy laughing.
“Fury isn’t going to hurt my mom because of this?” Matt, seized with a horrible realization, asked Coulson, eyes wide.
“No,” Coulson sighed, “I’m sure the director is secretly very amused by all of this. Deep down. Deep, deep down.”
Clint just kept laughing.
…
Clint liked Natasha. Matt could tell. The archer’s heartbeat got all…funny when she was nearby. Flutter-y. Not like the boys at school; there was nothing fierce or particularly predatory about the way Clint responded to Natasha. Just a flutter to his pulse; like there were butterflies in his veins.
…
“I helped a little old lady and she gave me the ugliest fish I have ever seem in my life as totally unnecessary repayment and now I need to eat it or I’ll feel guilty forever, but how the hell do you cook this thing and not lose a finger?” Clint blurted all that out without pausing for breath the minute Matt opened the apartment door to find a wayward SHIELD agent dripping rainwater on their hall carpet.
Matt sensed Natasha’s approach behind him and eased out of her way so she could eyeball Clint’s culinary offerings. “Monkfish,” she identified immediately, “Their tails are considered a delicacy.”
“Natasha, I have eaten rats. Rats. This is officially less appealing than rats.”
“Bring it in,” she said, already turning towards the kitchen, “Put it on the counter. You’re cooking monkfish.”
“I’m cooking killer-death-face fish?”
“Monkfish,” Matt offered helpfully, smothering a grin at Clint’s long sigh of exasperation.
“Kid, I’m not letting you touch this thing because, well, it’s basically a giant mouth full of razor-sharp teeth with a tail. But rest assured, if monks looked this dangerous I would be less worried about all the church I don’t go to.”
“You’re cooking monkfish, Clint. Come on.” Natasha interjected.
“Again. I’m cooking death-face-fish?”
“With my expert guidance, yes,” Natasha declared, “Take a knife, we have to remove the fish’s head.”
“Can I help?” Matt asked.
“Rice and vegetables, I think,” Natasha decided, “I am trusting you with a knife. Cut the vegetables. Not your fingers.”
“That was the plan.”
“Keep it that way.”
…
The monkfish incident was just the beginning of a slow campaign on Clint’s part to slowly worm his way into their lives. Or maybe it wasn’t a campaign at all. Maybe Clint just didn’t have anywhere else to be so he just latched on like a limpet and refused to let go.
“Clint’s at the door,” Matt, hearing familiar footsteps in the hall, informed Natasha before the archer knocked.
“Duly noted,” Natasha said dryly, not pausing as she, with sure, gentle strokes, carved a small shape out of a lump of wood at the table.
“I’m not getting the door,” Matt said recalcitrantly, “I have homework.”
“Matt, that isn’t your biology lecture in your tape player, it’s the soundtrack to Phantom of the Opera. Take out your headphones and answer the door,” Natasha said evenly.
Matt ducked his head, chagrined despite himself, took out his headphones and answered the door.
Clint was at the doorstep, not dripping rainwater this time. “You and me, kid. We’re finding a Lego world record and we’re breaking it. Natasha, you can help too.”
Not sure how to respond to that, Matt just let the crazy man into their apartment.
…
Three weeks, multiple broken Lego records, and an epic Lego metropolis that encompassed nearly the whole of the living room (which Matt, Clint and Natasha later destroyed with varying levels of glee – Clint was almost sad to see their plastic empire go, Matt heard Natasha chuckling under her breath as she toppled buildings) – later, Clint showed up at their door with food again.
“So apparently I am no longer allowed to grill on the roof of my building because I am a ‘walking fire hazard’ and I’m banned from the SHIELD kitchen because Fury’s not a fan of my clam chowder (one-eyed bastard says you make it with a tomato base, the heathen. Tomato base, my ass.). So, we’re having a roof-picnic here. Who’s in?”
“Barton, it’s nine o’clock at night,” Natasha pointed out. Some might have described her tone as ‘sharp’ but Matt heard the slight smile twisting her words.
“Getting kicked out of multiple grilling locations takes time.”
“Do we have a grill on our roof?” Matt asked as innocently as he could.
“You tell me, you’re the one who snuck out to scale the side of the building a week ago,” Natasha said in a voice that was as mild as it was deadly.
“Seriously, kid?” Clint said.
Matt scowled at him.
“Hey, I’m just disappointed you let yourself get caught,” the archer protested.
“I wanted to see if I could do it,” Matt muttered mutinously.
“And shockingly, I can do it too, making it alarmingly easy to catch you,” Natasha said, voice edged with what Matt recognized as her truly vicious smile.
“Sooo,” Clint interjected before things could get tense, “Burgers on the roof? Is that a yes?”
…
Matt started speaking as soon as he opened the door, cutting off whatever explanation Clint might provide, “We don’t have room for a dog. I don’t need a guide dog. Natasha doesn’t need a furry sidekick. No puppies.”
“But puppies.” Matt heard a creak as the cardboard box protested being squeezed against Clint’s chest. The puppies inside, Matt counted four, whined pitifully.
“I’m allergic.”
“Lies, I had Coulson check your medical records.”
Matt sighed, “They’d better be gone by the time Mom gets home.”
“She’ll never know,” Clint promised.
Natasha knew. She spent an hour on the floor play-wrestling with the runt of the litter. She later denied all knowledge that such an event occurred but Matt knew better.
…
“He’s like a cat,” Natasha mused as soon as Matt told her he could hear Clint approaching their building on the sidewalk below. Matt was getting better and better at picking out Clint’s heartbeat, breathing patterns and gait from farther and farther away.
“Yes?”
“Yes,” Natasha confirmed definitively, “Only instead of dead mice he brings us monkfish and Legos.” She sounded amused.
“You like him,” Matt accused.
“Love is for children.”
“You like him.”
“Hush, child.”
…
All of Clint’s cardboard box puppies went to good homes after their night at Matt and Natasha’s. Coulson picked one, took obsessively good care of her, and would, if provoked, brag about her just as much as his prized Captain America trading cards or his precious car, Lola.
Matt liked hanging out in Coulson’s office. It was quiet there in a way that no other place in any given SHIELD facility was. And, if he had time, Coulson would tell Matt about his adventures as a young field agent, always throwing an ironic spin on the story of the hour, focusing on the funny and ridiculous parts of being in the field, rather than the terrifying or horrible ones. If he didn’t have time, they’d both just enjoy that there was another person to share the quiet.
Matt wondered if this was what having an uncle was like. An adult to hang out with, to listen to him when being around his mom was just too much or his mom had to work or he just wanted someone to talk to that wasn’t an inescapable part of daily life.
That would make the barrage of young SHIELD agents barging into Coulson’s office with questions and minor crises the cousins.
Matt smiled to himself at the idea. Stretching his senses out to the hall outside, he smirked and turned to Coulson, “Agent Smith is on his way to see you. He smells like smoke so I think there may have been some pyrotechnics.” Hanging out with Coulson had the added benefit of growing Matt’s vocabulary by leaps and bounds.
He heard Coulson give a resigned sigh and lean back from his keyboard. “Thank you for the warning, Matt. Let’s see what young Agent Smith has to say for himself, yes?”
…
Natasha liked Clint. Matt knew she did. Her heart didn’t flutter; there were no butterflies in her veins. But he could sense it in the way that she moved into Clint’s space, standing almost close enough to touch at the counter picking over a recipe, murmuring a debate over the virtues of the microwave. Matt could feel it in the way Natasha turned toward Clint when they were together, the way she watched the archer and the way she allowed herself to turn away and trust him not to make her regret her inattention.
Natasha liked Clint, even without butterflies in her viens.
Matt wasn’t sure how he felt about that.
…
Natasha and Clint started taking missions together. Matt heard the phone conversations, the whispered words between his mom and SHIELD late at night, scheduling, plotting planning, everything on a burner phone, everything locked down, secret, secure.
The first night Natasha and Clint were both gone SHIELD tried to send Matt to stay with another agent. Agent Samuels was pleasant enough; an older woman with grown kids; she’d aged out of fieldwork and had firmly settled into data analysis. But he home was…oppressive. Matt walked in the door, clutching his battered duffle bag (canvas and leather, stained, old but well-made, the same bag he’d packed all his worldly possessions into when he left the orphanage, the same bag his dad had carted to and from the gym every day) and nearly passed out from the rolling cloud of potpourri that assaulted his senses.
Everything about Mrs. Samuels’ apartment was scented; potpourri on mantle, air fresheners in every room, even the tissues were the awful lotion-y variety that reeked of something fake and floral and felt slimy even without the inclusion of snot. Matt really hoped he wouldn’t pass out. That would be really embarrassing. Instead he focused on his breathing, his heartbeat, the things he could control.
It probably wasn’t that bad for normal people, this place. Just. Matt.
Dinner was awful. Some sort of casserole made with Campbell’s Cream of Mushroom soup. Matt could taste every gram of sodium.
And when it was time for him to unfold the rickety old sofa bed and close his eyes and finally escape the sensory overload…he just couldn’t do it. It was all the little things. This building creaked, but it wasn’t his building’s creaks. Traffic rolled along on the street below but it wasn’t his street’s traffic. Matt curled up into an even tighter ball under the scratchy sheets (god, like sandpaper, why didn’t he pack his stupid sheets? Stupid, Murdock, stupid.) and tried to block it all out. Focus on the breathing.
His dad had always said breathing was the most important part of fighting. If you weren’t breathing, you’d lost the fight already. Always exhale with each punch. Don’t waste breath shouting; trying to be intimidating for it’s own sake was useless. Always keep breathing after you’ve been hit, keep your breathing steady even when you’ve hit the mat. That way you can get up again.
Matt breathed.
He got through the first night but by the second he threw on his sneaking clothes, packed his bag and climbed out the window. He managed to find his way home by listening in on some taxi drivers and their passengers. He jumped from roof to roof, letting the minute shifts in air pressure show him the shape of the world. He climbing into his apartment by four am and was awake by six to walk to school.
Of course, Coulson showing up with what Matt had to assume was a very imposing SHIELD vehicle the minute school got out was not really in the original plan, per se.
“Am I in trouble?” Matt asked, tone mild but entirely unrepentant.
“Be glad it’s not Director Fury here to collect you,” was all Coulson would say on the subject.
After Matt escaped SHIELD custody three more times, they simply gave up and let him stay home with Coulson sleeping on the couch and providing transportation to and from school just like Clint had before Hawkeye and Widow teamed up.
“This was not what I planned to do with my Friday,” Coulson informed him blandly from where he sat on the couch, paging through a history of the Howling Commandos.
“You can leave any time,” Matt offered generously, “I solemnly swear not to burn the place down in your absence.”
“Considering the stunts you pulled, leaving you unsupervised would be a liability.”
“Sorry.”
“No you’re not.”
“I am, a little. But you’re only a little irritated at being here, so we’re even.”
“Fair.”
…
Matt was starting to suspect Clint didn’t have his own home. The archer seemed to spend the vast majority of his time crashing on Natasha and Matt’s couch and the times he didn’t show up to cook dinner with Natasha and aid and abet Matt in some form of mischief, he was either on a mission or medical hadn’t released him yet. One memorable time he showed up on their doorstep in hospital scrubs, said “If they come looking for me, lie,” and flopped on the couch more aggressively than he probably should considering bones Matt could hear creaking inside him.
Of course the SHIELD flunkies showed up fifteen minutes later. Natasha opened the door just enough to peer out, and cut them off before they could say anything, “So sorry, we already belong to a church, we’re not interested in hearing about yours at this time. But we’ll let you know the next time our immortal souls start feeling a bit tarnished.”
Then she closed the door.
Clint, meanwhile, had nearly choked on his coffee laughing. “I’ll let you tarnish my immortal soul anytime, Nat.”
“Oh you’re plenty tarnished already,” she replied warmly.
Their heartbeats fluttered together. Butterflies.
…
Sometimes beginnings are messy and complicated and sometimes they’re really very simple.
“And I said ‘hey pretty lady won’t you give me a sign, I’d give anything to make you mine, oh, mine. I’d do your bidding and be at your beck and call’!” Clint had the radio on in the kitchen and was shuffling back and forth, half dancing, half cooking. Matt lay on the floor; nestled in the soft cradle of the heavenly carpet he and Natasha found the last time they went shopping. His fingers lazily toyed with the smooth square of paper in his hand, worrying at the edges, trying to figure out what shape it wanted to be.
Natasha’s heartbeat filled the hall outside and her key rattled in the lock just in time for Clint to flourish…something and belt out, “And goin’ once, goin’ twice, SOLD to the lady in the second row, she’s an eight, she’s a nine, she’s a ten I know – ” and dart forward to grab Natasha’s hands and whirl her into whatever strange little dance he was making up as he went along.
“She’s got ruby-red lips, red hair, green eyes, and I’m about to bid my heart goodbye!”
“You don’t have to edit the song just for me,” Natasha remarked dryly, a smile tugging at the edges of her mouth.
“But then you’d have to dye your hair to match the girl in the song and I don’t think you could manage that in the three minutes before the end.”
“You underestimate my power.”
“Star Wars, nice.”
Natasha may have replied, Matt heard her draw breath, ready to formulate some sort of stunning response, when the chorus started up again.
“And I said, ‘Hey pretty lady won’t you give me a sign?’” Clint belted out and swung Natasha into another round of dancing, not bother to skirt around Matt, instead just jumping over him and carrying on.
Matt laughed, chest full of something hot and bright and wonderful, listening to the lovely rhythm of the adults’ hearts pounding a counter-melody to the wild tempo of the song.
“Last chorus, Nat, let’s bring it home, gotta dance like you mean it!”
“One of the virtues of being me, Clint, I never have to mean anything.”
“Yeah, but the fun is in doing it anyway.”
“I don’t think that makes much sense, Barton – ”
“When I said, ‘Hey pretty lady, won't you give me a sign? I'd give anything to make you mine all mine. I'll do your biddin' and be at your beck and call.’ Yeah, I've never seen anyone lookin' so fine. Man I gotta have her, she's a one-of-a-kind. I'm goin' once, goin' twice. And I'm sold to the lady in the second row. She's an eight, she's a nine, she's a ten I know. She's got ruby red lips, red hair, green eyes. And I'm about to bid my heart goodbye!”
And with that Clint, having danced his way back into the kitchen and gave Natasha one last spin before pulling her close, half-embracing, half-in whatever slapdash dance hand positions they’d fallen into. In the ensuing stillness the radio clicked over to a commercial break. Over an advertisement for car insurance, Matt heard Clint said, voice soft, heart a jackrabbit in his chest, “Your move, Romanoff.”
And Natasha kissed him. Soft, sweet, innocent. All the things Natasha was not. She pulled away after a few seconds.
“How’s that for meaning something?” she asked a bit nonsensically and Matt wondered if he should be in the room for this.
“Eh,” Clint’s smile curled around the words, “I think a do-over might convince me better.”
“Hmm. Not in front of my kid,” Natasha said, gently but firmly. Her voice was warm. “So, what’s for dinner?”
“What am I, the maid?” Clint griped good-naturedly, “I’ll have you know I am a strong, independent man who don’t need no woman.”
“You preheated the oven too much,” Matt offered helpfully, smelling the dry heat coming from the kitchen, “You’ll burn the pizza.”
“Don’t need no smart-mouthed kid either!”
“Good to know,” Matt said, smirking.
“Shoulda just ordered takeout,” Clint grumbled as he fiddled with the oven settings, “Takeout doesn’t burn.”
“Need a hand, sweetie?” Natasha asked in the flat, dry tone she reserved for when she was being Very Funny.
“No thank you, honeybunches,” Clint shot back, starling a laugh out of Matt and a small chuckle out of Natasha.
…
They kissed good night but Clint still slept on the couch.
…
“Mom, I can climb up to the roof with my noise-cancelling headphones if you want to have sex.”
Clint made some sort of choking noise in the background.
“No, Polygraph, don’t worry about it. Clint and I will work something out. And stay off the roof.”
“Okay, Mom. Just remember, I’ll hear it way before I see a sock on the door, so.”
“HOW DOES HE KNOW ABOUT THE SOCK ON THE DOOR THING?” Clint, having recovered from his bout of choking, yelped in the background, “YOU DON’T WATCH TV, HOW DOES HE KNOW THIS STUFF?”
“I’m cultured,” Matt shrugged, “And I go to middle school.” He paused to consider something, “If I leave you guys alone so you can have sex tomorrow, can one of you write me a permission slip to get out of health class?”
Clint was back to choking and Natasha was back to being stern, “No. No to all of that.”
“But Mom. I can’t see the pictures in the Health textbook and the teacher’s talking about bringing in plastic models for me to touch next week. Fondling plastic models. Gross. Really, really, really gross. I warned you this was going to happen.”
“Your life is a series of trial and tribulations,” Natasha said flatly.
“My only comfort is that everyone says celibacy sucks so you’ll be suffering too,” Matt said maliciously.
“We’re not having this conversation,” Clint declared loudly.
“Clint and I will work something out,” Natasha said, tone just suggestive enough that Matt cringed.
“Ew, gah, I’m sorry I ever brought anything up.”
“As you should be,” Natasha said primly.
…
A year later and Clint and Matt were sitting on the roof, listening to the night when Clint abruptly asked, “Would you be cool with me being your step-dad?”
“Aren’t you already?” Matt asked in his deceptively innocent, I’m-so-sure-this-thing-I’m-talking-about-is-factual-but-maybe-you’re-not-up-to-speed, voice.
“Sure.” Clint agreed, “If that’s they way you see it.”
“Well, let me know if you hear any different.”
“Touché, kid.”
…
Another year later and Clint Barton has a photo on his desk at SHIELD. Yes, he has a desk. He doesn’t sit at it much and when he’s absent he tucks the photo and its’ frame (smooth, perfect wood, more expensive than it should have been but worth it) into a drawer for safe-keeping. But the handful of times he’s there, it’s out.
It’s not a great photo. It has the washed-out quality of a cellphone picture taken on the kind of sunny day that’s more glare than sunshine. But it’s the only photo Clint has on his desk and that makes it special. There’s two people in the frame, both wearing long dark coats. Wool with buttons, the type well-dressed people wear over their business suits in the winter. They’re on a sidewalk; both have paused, slightly turning to look back at the photographer. Plumes of smoky winter breath escape their lips and watered-down winter sunlight glares off of snow and buildings behind them. The one on the right is a young man, maybe thirteen or fourteen, not as tall as his companion, but gaining in that gangly, awkward way of teenagers. His dark hair is wind-ruffled and glints with sharps fragments of auburn light where the sun hits it. His unfocused eyes behind his dark glasses are warm. Beside him is a woman, the kind of beautiful that defies silly constructs like age. Her red mane glows like fire in the sun, her full lips curl at the corners like she’s laughing at some sort of private joke. A Mona Lisa smile. She’s slender and somehow graceful even held here, still and perfect in an artificial image.
They look so happy.
And when people invariably ask him, with varying degrees of politeness, why he has a photo of Romanoff and her kid on his desk, Clint grins his own hard grin and says “Fuck off, they’re my family. And I’m damn proud of them.”