A/N: I have two things to blame for this. 1) ozhawk's Crackship Armada. Because of that fic I ship things that nobody else ships and that give me emotions I don't know how to handle other than fic, and 2) My own obsession with a few canon ships. It was just going to be a short thing, but then plot entered my head, so I've gotta work that out. Anyway.

I know Skye and Clint are much farther apart in age in canon, but that's not the case in this fic, because reasons.

This has given me a whole new OT3 (you'll have to guess the members) and I'm excited for this.

Future chapters will have implied sexual child abuse. You've been warned. Nothing too graphic though.

I don't own anything.

Just another note: If you're reading my Skye/Steve fic, Until the Last Falling Star, there will be an update in the next couple days.

Unbeta-ed, so all mistakes are mine.

"There are no coincidences in life. That person that wandered in and out of your life was there for some purpose, even if they caused you harm. Sometimes, it doesn't make sense the short periods of time we get with people, or the outcomes from their choices... Nothing is small enough to be a mistake." ― Shannon L. Alder

The very first time Clint Barton meets Skye, he's twelve years old, and walking into his fourth foster home.

She's six, and she's sitting on the couch, curled up into their foster mother's side when her husband and the social worker walk him through the door. She looks at him curiously, moving away when the woman makes to stand.

"You must be Clinton!" She greets him with a smile so bright he thinks he may go blind. She's pretty, with dark brown hair and kind green eyes.

"Clint," he informs her quietly, scuffing the toe of his shoe absently on the tile of the entryway.

"Oh, alright Clint." She corrects herself, nodding. "My name's Elizabeth, but you can call me whatever makes you comfortable."

"Yes ma'am." He replies, nodding. This is one of the kinder greetings he's gotten, and it already beats both group homes he's been in.

"Just don't call her Bethy," the husband, Tom is his name, mock-whispers to him, loud enough for all to hear. "She hates that." Tom's Asian, with dark hair and a lean frame and a smile that meets his eyes.

"Don't you get him started on bad habits!" Elizabeth scolds, but she's smiling, so he figures he's okay. "Mary," she continues, drawing the girl toward her and placing a hand between her shoulders, "This is Clint. He's going to be staying with us." She explains to the child, who has a small crease between her eyes as she examines him in a way that makes him feel like she sees right through him. For a moment, he wonders if she's their actual kid, but then she asks a question that strikes that thought from his mind.

"Like me?" Her eyes move from him to their foster mother again, who nods slightly.

"Kind of sweetie. Why don't you go say hi? You can show him to you all's room."

"Yes ma'am!" She replies brightly, before walking over to him. "Hi Clint!" Though she raises her hand to wave at him a little, she seems wary, like she doesn't quite trust him. Good, he can't help but think in spite of himself, maybe she won't pester him too much. He doesn't mean it to be cruel, but in the last group home he'd been in, the littler kids had never given him a moment's peace. She points to one of his only two bags and cocks her head at him. "I can carry that." She offers.

"Maybe you shouldn't kiddo," Tom tells her kindly, "It looks a bit heavy for you."

He sees her face crumple just the slightest bit, barely noticeable, as she quickly nods. He's seen the look on kids in his other foster homes. Most of the time, they want to feel useful, and most hate where they can't be. and this Mary seems to be no different. He's not sure what makes him shrug and look at Tom.

"It's just clothes, if she really wants to. If she drops it nothing can break."

Mary gives him a huge smile and looks to their foster father expectantly.

"Alright then." He concedes with a shrug. Clint hands her the bag, which she takes with both hands. It is heavy, and she uses both hands to hold it, but she doesn't complain in the least.

She starts up the stairs at a snail's pace, burdened by the bag, though he doubts she'd actually admit to it being an issue. About halfway up the stares, he feels a bit of impatience at how slow they're moving, but doesn't dare say so. When they finally reach the top of the stairs, she shoulders open the first door they come to roughly.

The room's almost bare, instead of decorated like the rest of the house, something that confuses him. Two twin beds are pushed into opposite corners, made up with forest green bedding on one and light blue on the other. She drops his bag unceremoniously by the green made bed, the soft thump overlapping her sigh of relief. He sets the other one more gently next to it, glancing over to what must be her side of the room.

Despite the dresser and open closet, she doesn't seem to have put any of her clothes away. There's no stuffed animals on the bed or toys on the floor.

"Did you just get here too?" He asks as she goes and sits on her bed. She shakes her head no, and his eyebrows furrow together as he unzips one of his bags. "Want the closet or the dresser?" He asks, very much used to sharing rooms. He sees her lips move as she mumbles something, but it's far too soft for him to here, and even as good as he is a lip reading, he's drawing a blank.

"What was that?" He asks, tugging a pair of hastily folded jeans from where he'd packed them.

"It doesn't matter." She says, and though he still can't quite hear her, he can read her lips this time, because she looks at him as she says it.

"Well why not?" The snort that goes along with the question isn't supposed to be derisive, but it's clear she takes it that way anyway, because he can see her clam up, and he knows he won't get any more answers out of her right now. So instead of pushing it, he starts putting his clothes on the hangers he finds already in the closet.

She sits crosslegged on her bed, eyes focused on something out the window, but every now and again, he feels her eyes flick to him. She's curious about him, but not enough to ask her own questions. The silence isn't too uncomfortable, but he finds himself almost wishing she'd be like those kids from the group homes and talk his ear off.

"You'll like Mister Tom and Miss 'Lizabeth." She tells him suddenly as he empties his first bag.

"They seem nice." He agrees, curious as to what brought that on. "You like them?" He asks, wanting to keep the conversation going a bit.

"I do." She agrees, but there's no enthusiasm in her voice. "They're my favorite family so far." She continues, but rather than happy, she sounds absolutely miserable. "Even if they call me Mary." She says the name with about as much scorn as a six year old can muster, and he has to stifle a laugh with the back of his hand. Luckily, she hadn't seen.

"Well what's wrong with Mary?"

"That's not my name." She says it as simply as she would say the sky is blue.

"Then what is your name?" He sits on his own bed and tilts his head.

"I dunno. Not Mary Sue Poots." Her voice is full of absolute certainty and overwhelming disgust, and he can't help but make a face at the name. She points at him. "See! It's a stupid name!" She exclaims, and it's the loudest he's heard her speak so far. "The stupid St. Agnes nuns pick stupid names." The smile that'd snuck onto his face at her small rant fell as he realized the implication of the statement. Nuns had named her, not her parents.

"It's not a stupid name." He tells her in an attempt to be reassuring.

"Yes it is." She insists, crossing her arms over her chest and sending him a look that he thinks is supposed to be stern.

"Okay, maybe it is." He agrees reluctantly. "Why don't you come up with a new one?" She looks at him like he's just said that grass is orange.

"You can do that?!"

"Sure, why not. I'll call ya whatever you want." She looks over him, like she's trying to determine if he's telling the truth, and beams when she seems to decide that he is. "So what's your name?" Suddenly, she looks perplexed.

"I don't know. I'll have to think of one."

"Well take your time. You shouldn't rush the perfect name." She seems to go deep into thought, and he continues putting everything away.

Of the four foster homes Clint had ever been in, this one is the easiest yet for him to settle into. A routine is quickly established, and for once, he almost feels normal.

They enrolled him in the local public school, so weekdays mean early wakeups, Elizabeth making breakfast, and riding the bus to and from school. Once homework and chores are done, they'e allowed to do just about whatever they want until it was time for dinner.

Almost two weeks from the first day, he's starting to feel like this could be home.

He trails up the stairs after Mary (she still hasn't picked a name yet) once they've taken out the trash, smothering a yawn in the sleeve of his shirt. Technically, he's allowed to be up thirty minutes after she is, but he's too tired tonight for any reason to be good enough to stay awake. He collapses on the mattress as soon as he's in the door.

"Clint?" She asks from her side of the room, just loud enough for him to hear, which is good, because with the lamp off he has no hope of reading her lips. Stopping himself from making an annoyed sound, he rolls to face her.

"Yeah?"

"Do you think 'Lizabeth and Tom like me? I've tried to be real good." The question catches him off guard and his adjusting eyes find her small form through the darkness.

"What do you mean? Of course they like you. Why would you ask that?" A silence hangs between them, and he thinks he hears a sniffle before she answers.

"I don't want to leave."

That grabs his attention. He sits up, reaching for the lamp that sits on the bedside table Tom had moved into the room just the other day, turning it on.

"Did they say something to you?" He asks, because he doesn't want her to go. He likes her. She's stubborn and quiet, but when he can loosen her up and she acts like a normal kid her age, she's fun to be around.

"No," She admits, sniffling again, "But they never do. They never keep me." Tears stain her face now, and she balls up her small fists to push them away, making her cheeks pink.

"You seem to be a good fit here." He tells her, using the phrase the social workers always use. We'll see if it's a good fit. I don't know if it'll be a good fit. She hugs the stuffed bunny she'd won on a crane machine to her chest as if it's a life jacket. He sees that stubbornness enter her eyes, and he can tell, just like he did on his first day, that he won't get anything more out of her by pushing.

True to what he expects, she doesn't say anything else after that, and he's not sure how long it takes for him to fall asleep, even after he's turned off the light.

The next day's a Saturday, and after breakfast is eaten, he goes out into the backyard, looking for something to do. It doesn't take long for him to fashion a few pointed sticks and a target of leaves he and Tom had raked just the other day.

Mary comes out and watches him, sitting on the steps by the sliding glass door.

"How'd you learn to do that?" She asks, noting his incredibly good, though not perfect, aim.

"My dad taught me." He answers, not taking his eyes off the leaf pile as he aims another stick, frowning as it lands about a foot to the left of it. She watches for what has to be another half hour before getting up and walking over to him.

"Teach me?" She asks.

He doesn't think either Tom or Elizabeth would wan the six year old playing with sharp sticks, so instead, he gathers some pebbles from the driveway, and teaches her with those.

She's a natural, even if she doesn't see it. Each time she's off target, a little crease forms between her eyebrows. By the time they their stomachs start growling for lunch, she can hit a target from the other side of the yard about half the times she throws. He won't deny he's impressed.

After lunch, they try climbing the big oak tree in the backyard, despite the sparsity of branches that actually support any weight. Then the races start. She scrambles up the trunk just ahead of him, hauling herself up with the limbs that won't hold his weight, yelling that she can get to the top first. She does, but he doesn't mind too much, because when he settles next to her on a particularly thick branch, she hugs him as tightly as she'll dare.

"I've never had so much fun Clint!" She giggles into his side, and he can't help but feel more lighthearted than he has in the three years he's been in the system. She points toward the clouds above them. "We can almost touch the sky!"

After dinner, they get bowls of ice cream and Tom pops popcorn while they pick a movie. They lay blankets on the floor and watch it together, Clint with his head resting on Elizabeth's leg and Mary curled into Tom's side.

When it's over, the six year old's asleep, and Elizabeth scoops her up and carries her up the stairs to bed. He follows just behind, slipping under his blankets just to hear from the other side of the room:

"G'night Mommy."

He's asleep almost instantly, but before he's completely out, he feels Elizabeth brush his hair back with her hand as she turns out the light.

It only takes about another week, before she's actively calling Tom and Elizabeth 'mom' and 'dad' and he thinks that he can be happy if things stay like they are. He thinks this place could be home, these people could be his family.

A full month to the day since he first arrived, she tells them all over dinner that her name is Skye.

"We can almost touch the sky!"

He beams for three days straight.

Tom takes him out shopping for new clothes just a few days later, he's mid growth spurt and within a few weeks, there's a good chance absolutely nothing will fit anymore. When they get home, and he loves that fact that he thinks of it as home, he knows something's wrong.

Elizabeth's at the kitchen table, and her face is buried in her hands. She looks like she's trying not to cry. Immediately he starts looking for Skye, running up the stairs to their room despite Tom's calls that he stay downstairs.

She's curled up on her bed, arms wrapped around her knees, her entire body shaking with sobs. He immediately notices her bags, which had vanished about his second week here, sitting out on the dresser, clearly filled with clothes.

"Skye?" He asks, going to her.

"They're getting rid of me!" She wails, launching from the bed and wrapping her arms around him, sobbing into his side. He can feel his shirt wet with tears but he doesn't care, because the shock has knocked the wind straight out of him.

"What?!" He demands, wrapping his arms around her and rubbing small circles in her back like he'd seen on tv.

"They're sending me back! They don't want me!" She grips him tighter. "I.. I.. I thought they loved me! I was good!"

He doesn't say anything, doesn't tell her it's okay, because it is most definitely not okay. He doesn't shush her, because she has a right to be angry. He just holds onto her, because he doesn't know how much longer he has.

The social worker is there by the next morning.

Tom puts Skye's bags in the trunk of the shiny silver Volvo, but neither he or Elizabeth will meet either his or Skye's eyes.

"Here." He tugs his necklace off his neck. It's simple, a metal arrow on a leather strip, given to him God only knew how long ago by a family member. It's not much, but he wants to give her something to remember him by. She'd left all the clothes and toys she'd gotten from here, so he figures she needs something.

"Clint..." She says quietly, before hugging him again. She starts crying again, and it takes everything he has not to break out into tears too. He's only known her about a month and a half, but she feels important.

The social worker peels her off of him and leads her out to the car that he watches drive away from the porch.

He doesn't say a word to either of his foster parents as he storms through the house and up the stairs, slamming the bedroom door shut behind him. Heat prickles his eyes as the traitorous tears threaten to overflow now that he's alone, but he doesn't let them. Instead, he starts shoving everything he owns into his own bag, leaving everything that Tom and Elizabeth had gotten him out.

He can't stay here, with them. They'd let a little girl call them Mommy and Daddy and then had given her up. He doesn't care about the tears he'd seen swimming in both their eyes earlier, because he can only see Skye's in his head now. He can't stay here. He'll run if he has to.

It's two years before he sees Skye again.

So yeah. Chapter one. Reviews are always appreciated, and I love to hear what you guys think! I also do not like the title I have here, it was just something off the top of my head. If you guys have any better ideas, feel free to let me know! See you next chapter,
~TheFallenArchangel