Summary: As a senior in college, you kept your nose clean and never partied. You were at the top of your class, set to graduate with honors summa cum laude; unlike Clint Barton. In an effort to get a passing grade and graduate, he asked for your help. What could possibly go wrong? Word Count: 1,959 Warnings: Language, fluff, possible smut, heavy angst I’m sorry Author’s Note: I shouldn’t be this excited about how much angst there is. Something is wrong with me.
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Six o’clock came a lot faster than normal. Probably because you were dreading going to the campus library. Between high school and college, you had tutored many students, even going so far as to help several adults that had gone without their GED. You also volunteered at the local animal shelter and rescues; spending time with the depressed, scared, and heartbroken animals.
But Clint Barton wasn’t any of those people. He partied every night of the week, hung out with the wrong crowd, allowed them to influence his decisions. Yes, he was a grown ass man that could do as he wished, therefore, you had no right to sit there and think of him as if he were someone you cared about. You didn’t have time to care about someone like him.
Wow. How had you become that person? You had been compassionate and empathetic your entire life, putting others before yourself, no matter the situation.
Angry at yourself, you shoved out of bed, took a quick shower, got dressed, grabbed your bag, and headed out of the apartment. It wasn’t a long walk, which you were thankful for, but the air was crisper than you thought it would be. So, upon seeing that your favorite coffee stand was open, you grabbed a cup, put on your best game face, and strolled into the library.
To your surprise, Clint was already there. Granted, he had his feet kicked up onto the table and was leaning back in the chair, balancing on the back two legs. His head was hanging back and his eyes were closed.
“Of course he’s sleeping,” you grumbled yourself.
“I heard that,” Clint chuckled.
“Damn it,” you ground out before approaching the table.
“I heard that, too.” Clint managed not to tip the chair over as he brought his feet off the table.
You set your bag on the table and noticed the lack of books. “Uh, where are your things?”
“What things?”
Your shoulders sagged slightly and you had to work really hard at not rolling your eyes. “The textbook? A notebook and pen? Or a laptop. I’d be happy with a laptop.”
Clint shrugged his shoulders. “I’ve got none of that.”
“You’re serious, aren’t you?” you groaned.
“Sorry, Y/N.”
You were shaking your head at his half-assed apology. “You can find yourself another tutor,” you said matter-of-factly before turning on your heel and marching out the way you had come.
Clint quickly caught up to you and grabbed your elbow. “I don’t want another tutor. I want you to tutor me.”
“You’re not even taking this seriously, Clint,” you chastised him as you turned around. “Why should I waste my time with you?”
“Ouch,” he murmured, scratching at the back of his neck. “Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t know what to bring, so I brought nothing.”
“Clint,” you sighed. “You might not graduate. You need to drop whatever act you’re doing, and take this seriously.”
He scraped a hand over his face. “I know, Y/N.”
“I really don’t think you do,” you insisted.
“I know,” Clint said sternly.
Ignoring his tone, you went on. “You can’t do this if you continue to show up unprepared and hungover.”
Clint’s green eyes flashed as he ground out, “I know.”
“Speaking of, if you think that you are going to catch up in Fury’s class while going out and getting drunk every night -”
“I know,” he shouted. “Jesus Christ, I know.”
You took a step back and shook your head. “I can’t do this, Clint. You need to find yourself another tutor.”
“Y/N, please,” he begged. “I need your help, and if I know anything about you, it’s that you can’t just walk away from someone in need of your help.”
“Please don’t pretend like you know me, okay?”
Clint’s shoulders shook as he chuckled. “But I do, I do. We’ve had all the same classes since freshman year. Why you’re Y/N Coulson. You sit at lunch table 7, which isn’t exactly the reject table, but is definitely in self exile territory. You have exactly one sweater. You like to look at your feet when you walk. Oh, oh, and yeah, for fun, you like to tutor on weekends and hang out with the cool kids from ‘Stars and Planets.’ Now, how does that sound?
“Thoroughly predictable, nothing I haven’t heard before,” you say without missing a beat.
He narrows his eyes as if he’s seeing you for the first time. “You don’t care what people think about you?”
“No, I don’t.”
When you say nothing more, Clint shoved his hands into his pockets and shifted on his feet.
“I really am sorry,” he lamented, his head dipping to catch your eye.
“Careful, Clint. You sound like you actually mean it,” you teased.
“I do mean it,” he insisted softly. “I really, really need your help, and I’m sorry for showing up like this.”
You pulled in a series of steady breaths as you figured out what you were going to do. At the thought of walking away and not helping him, guilt rushed through you, settling heavily in your chest. It was thick and uncomfortable, making your heart race and a sheen of sweat appear on your forehead.
“Okay, here’s what’s going to happen,” you started. “I’ll help you as long as you show up fully prepared and sober.”
“Can you clarify sober?” Clint asked as he rocked back and forth on his heels.
After clearing the arguing tone from your throat, you said, “Not hungover, not impaired in any kind of way, sober.”
“I mean -”
“Non-negotiable,” you added, cutting off his disagreement.
Clint blew out a heavy breath through his nose. “Fine,” he ground out.
“Shall we get started?” you asked with a wide smile.
“You, sober?” Bucky snorted. “That’ll be a first.”
“Shut up, Barnes,” Clint snapped before throwing back the shot that had been placed in front of him.
Bucky clapped his friend on the shoulder. “I get it, man; you want to graduate. And if my GPA was as bad as yours, I’d be askin’ for help. But, Y/N, really?”
“What’s wrong with Y/N?” Steve piped in, confusion heavy on his brows.
“Oh, nothin’,” Bucky laughed, his smile widening when Y/N walked into the bar at that moment. “If you like that kind of style.”
Nat poked her head around Clint. “Yeah, I wore that dress in the fourth grade.”
Y/N was carrying several large boxes that were overflowing with clothes, her hair was haphazardly tucked into a low knot, and she narrowly missed several patron’s heads as she wove through the crowd.
Bucky draped his arm around Clint’s shoulders after he turned in his seat. “Hey, it’s the quiet ones you gotta watch out for. I mean, little maintenance, she might not look too bad, you know.”
As Y/N drew closer, Clint couldn’t help but notice the bags under her eyes. He was about to ask if she needed help when Nat called out, “Nice sweater.”
Without missing a beat, Y/N gives Natasha a sweet-sounding and heartfelt, “Thank you.” And then, she looked at Clint.
For some odd reason his mouth went dry and his heart kick-started in his chest. The moment was over almost as fast as it started, and Y/N was turning away, heading towards the back of the bar.
Bucky stood in front of Clint and twirled around. “Thank you,” he giggled in a mocking fashion.
Clint rolled his eyes so hard it hurt. “Whatever, man.”
Natasha made a groan of disappointment and wrapped her arm around her ex-boyfriend’s. “What’s happened to you, Clint? You used to be fun.”
“Back off, Nat,” Clint ground out, signaling the bartender for another shot of tequila. “We broke up, and me not being fun, wasn’t the reason.”
“Fuck you,” she sneered.
Clint yanked his arm free as he turned to face the fuming redhead. “Been there, done that.”
“Better get back to your shitty apartment and get sober before teacher gets upset.” Natasha stormed off, curly hair bouncing with each stomp of her feet.
When the door slammed closed, Bucky cringed. “Why you gotta piss her off all the time, man?”
“Back off, Barnes,” Clint warned his friend through his teeth.
“Jesus,” Bucky laughed. “I was just playin’ around.”
Steve finished drinking his water. “Come on, Buck,” he urged his boyfriend. “You’re drunk.”
Bucky tried arguing, but Steve tangled their fingers together and pulled Bucky into him to press their lips together. Without another word, the couple wound their way through the crowd, disappearing for the night.
Clint, in his newfound loneliness, turned around and signaled for the bartender. “One more.”
The clothes that no longer fit, you threw into a couple of boxes and brought them down to the bar. Your friend, and owner of said bar, had a daughter that was about your size. You tried explaining that all your clothes were either hand-me-downs or bought from a thrift store, but that didn’t matter. Money was tight, and the need to save money was greater than having the latest fashion.
What you hadn’t expected to see when you got there was Clint, surrounded by his friends, drinking the night away. You had hoped he would take the second chance to heart, but the sight of him made your stomach clench painfully with disappointment. You tried to ignore it, but it only twisted tighter the closer you got.
The stunning redhead pretended to pay you a compliment. “Nice sweater.”
Without missing a beat, you smiled sweetly at her and said, “Thank you.” And then you looked at Clint, which was a bad idea.
Clint’s dark hair was slicked back, sides and back shaved close to the scalp, and the leather jacket he was wearing looked as dark as oil in the dim lighting. When he licked his lips, you knew you had to get out of there before you made a fool of yourself.
Shaking your head, you turned away and headed toward the back of the bar.
Once the boxes were on your friend’s desk, you dropped onto the beat-up sofa and worked to catch your breath. Your back ached, and your legs and arms were shaking as if you had just ran a marathon. You made a note to use a dolly next time, if there was one.
Your heart was still hammering in your chest when you stood up, turned off the light, and locked the door behind you. On your way around the bar, you found Clint still sitting there, only he was completely alone. You watched as he signaled for another drink, tossing it back as soon as he could.
Just as he was finished, you sidled up to him and said, “Never had you pegged for self-sabotage.”
He gave a shake of his head before facing you. “Looks like you don’t know me as well as you think you do. I suppose you’re going to give up on me.”
The anger and disappointment that were bubbling in your gut and chest dissipated as soon as your eyes met his. There was something you hadn’t seen before in his green orbs; sorrow and honesty. Whatever happened both before and after you got to the bar had really upset him.
“No,” you said, surprising even yourself.
“You’re not?” he inquired with a lopsided smile. “How do you know I won’t continue to drink, that I won’t show up tomorrow hungover?”
“Call it a hunch,” you answered with a shrug. “I’ll see you in the morning, Clint.”
He was pulling cash out of his back pocket to settle his tab. “I’ll be prepared.”
“I don’t doubt it,” you mused, shoving away from the bar.
I think our flaws and our little idiosyncrasies are what make us human, and I always want to make sure I feel very real, very human, very honest with myself.
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