Excused Absences

“I don’t see the point,” Clint whined from his place on the couch, ignoring the glare from Natasha in favor of glaring at his reflection in the blank screen of the TV.

“It doesn’t matter if you see the point,” Fury muttered. “Just that you get it done.”

“The man thinkshe is a bug, Nick,” Clint stressed out the worlds. “You realize that, right? There is no point in reading the stupid book. Obviously, this Kafka guy was high.”

“Look,” Natasha snapped. “You’ve got twenty more pages and I’m not allowed to turn on the TV until you finish them. I am missing a Law and Order marathon because of your stupid ‘I’m-not-reading-anything-that’s-not-a-comic-book’ philosophy so hurry up or I’m going to kick your ass.”

“Nick, Nat said ass,” Clint shouted despite Nick sitting on the opposite end of the couch as him.

“Read your book, Barton.”

“I’m starting to think you don’t like me,” Barton pouted after a few minutes of sulking and silent reading.

“I don’t,” Nick said, not looking up from Hand’s evaluation of needed school supplies (seriously, who was breaking that many test tubes) that he was not reading. He couldn’t bring himself to read it because Romanoff and Barton were arguing again, or talking, or whatever it was that usually happened when they opened their mouths. ‘Oh, she’s explaining The Metamorphosis.’

It was not that, it was… they shouldn’t be here.

Barton was usually in the backyard shooting targets at this time and Natasha should be practicing for her next ballet recital, or bugging Clint, or running up Nick’s phone bill talking to god-know-who is Russia.

“That wounds the soul, Nick,” Clint said after a while. “It’s because I got dirt on the table that one time, isn’t it?”

“It’s all the other times you got dirt on the table,” Nick said offhandedly.

“Or is it that time I accidentally dyed all your whites pink.”

“How’d you do that?”

“His awful collection of neon spandex in his closet,” Nick answered.

“You still have those?” Natasha asked Clint.

“Yes, he does.”

“I – they may come in handy,” Clint stated simply before returning to his book. “You don’t know.”

But that wasn’t it either, really, not the reason that he couldn’t focus on the papers in front of him. It was not the ramblings of the teens in his care. It was the rumors.

When he got down to it, it was the rumors that were circling around the school about… god know, really. He couldn’t really get pissed at Barton or Romanoff because he didn’t tell them not to tell their friends. He didn’t think he had a reason to really but when you’re friends with Tony Start, everybody from here to Stark Tower was going to know within a matter of hours. He was pretty sure there was a mass text.

It wasn’t just that the student body knew that there was going to be a new student, but that they knew she was going to be one of Nick’s. That meant to the moron’s that roamed his high school that they had free range to whisper behind Barton and Romanoff’s back about how broken and damaged this new girl had to be. And that she was apparently a… what was it?

She was a spy or a genetic experiment gone wrong. She had green skin and personally knew James T. Kirk. She was an assassin, or a clown, or from Wisconsin according to the rumors.

God knows.

But she was the talk of Marvel High and it bugged him.

He didn’t know anything about this girl, except that she had dead parents and likely a train full of traumas.

Sam had said later, via the first phone call since Nick tried to call him six years ago, that he met her once when she was a kid – five or six, or something. He said that she had been quiet, shy, but smiled when smiled at and wore her hair in pigtails. Nick found that information to be completely useless.  

It bugged him because he knew more than the bored kids with nothing better to do than make up lies, and that still amounted to nothing.

There was a knock at the door when Clint had three more pages before he was done, but not before he was done bitching about the stupid book. Natasha emerged from the kitchen an oven mitt over her hand. They asked at the same time, “Is that her?”

“Just sit down,” Fury replied as he laid his papers down onto the table, thinking back to the black marked folder that told him nothing except for notes of treated injuries. He wondered if he was supposed to play this one like the others or if he was really and truly in over his head.

Nick opened the door to find Sam standing there again, bruising long gone and his too small t-shirt replaced with a suit that looked uncomfortable. Nick looked down at his own Marvel High t-shirt and felt underdressed.

“Fury,” Sam greeted stiffly and didn’t that just make Nick feel awkward.

“Sawyer.”

Sam stepped aside as much as a big man could on a tiny porch could, to reveal to Nick a girl leaning up against the flimsy railing.

She held herself close with her black hair lying limply around her face and dark exhausted eyes that bored into Nick but revealed nothing. She seemed both alert and uncaring all at once, at a calm that none of them could reach.

Everything about her was nondescript – from her hair to her oversized gray long-sleeve shirt that made her look more like that picture than Nick had been prepared for. The sleeves were too long but that didn’t stop Nick from noticing the bulk of the black splint on her left wrist.

“This is Melinda.”

“Hello, Melinda,” Fury said, sounding all too much like an entire support group (Faceless Government Agency Traumatees Anonymous), not speaking softly. After months of being spoken to in soft voices, careful voices, by kind hearted nurses and treated like he was made of glass after he lost his eye, he had been made acutely aware of how really fucking annoying it was. “I’m Nick. If there is something else you go by, let me know.”

‘Does she like Mel, Linda, some other variation?’ Nick was left to wonder. Nicknames, after all, did say a lot about a person.

She gave a sharp little nod of acknowledge but didn’t say a word.

It would have been easier if it was a support group.

Hi, my name is Melinda and I have dead parents.

“You got stuff?” Nick asked. He couldn’t see any bags with her. In his mind already, he was calculating just how many trips to the dreaded mall it was going to take for him to make sure she was taken care of. Then again, Sam was the size of a house so he could very well have been blocking the bags.

“Why don’t you get your stuff out of the car?” Sam suggested, unlocking the door from where they were standing.

Why he didn’t assure that she wouldn’t take his car and get the hell out of dodge was beyond Nick. Surely, the daughter of spies could hotwire a car faster than it would take them to get down the stairs.

Nick notes that she was cautious the way someone who took a lot of precaution not too look cautious was. Her steps were careful and her eyes keen, she took in everything and assessed it for threats.

Nick had a feeling that he constituted as a threat.

“Nick…”

“I know the drill,” He muttered and he did because they told him the same thing for Natasha, as he was told for Barton.

It was always the same; keep tabs on them at all time. If anybody unusual was lurking nearby call for back up, do not engage. Pay attention to your surroundings and not anything out of the norm, write down everything no matter how insignificant, yada, yada, yada.

“Are you sure?”

“Has she said anything?” Nick asked, deciding to ignore Sam’s question about his competence. He lost his sight, not his ability to do his goddamn job.

“A few things, here and there,” Sam admitted. “Some of it was conflicting, some of it wasn’t. She said she was lactose intolerant, don’t know if it’s true. Good English, so I think we can assume she, at least, knows the language. She’s polite, got manners, more than most I do business with.”

“Anything else?”

“No.”

“No?”

“She hadn’t said a single word other than that.”

“What’s she got with her?”

“Some clothes, some family trinkets that she managed to hold onto,” Sam stumble dover his words like he wasn’t sure. He probably wasn’t. “We, uh, got her some hygiene stuff, a toothbrush and the likes. And we are willing to help pay for anything else she needs, within reason, of course.”

Nick watched her as Sam spoke about information, help if needed, and who the hell really cared. Melinda pulled out a black backpack and a duffle bag, neither of which looked heavy or full. She slammed the door shut with more force than necessary almost like a normal moody teenager before making her way back onto the porch.

Nick reverted his eyes back to Sam.

“Come in,” He said, stepping aside for her to enter before him. “I’ll show you your room. I can take your bags if you’d like.”

She didn’t hand them to him, as expected, and  she walked over the threshold. He guided her through the living room, leaving Sam to awkwardly stand on his front porch. He wouldn’t enter unless told he could, especially not when Clint and Natasha were awake.

Nick noticed Clint’s abandoned book.

“Barton, finish the damn book,” He called into the kitchen where he knew the two of them were listening in. “And Natasha, do not burn the house down.”

He cringed inwardly as he said the words, realizing belatedly that he had no idea what her triggers were going to be. Had her parents died in a fire? Would it make her retreat into herself?

It was classified, all he knew were words with no meaning behind them. Torture, without reason. Significant trauma, with no cause. It was all classified for a reason that was beyond him and he was not given the privilege to figure it out why.

She didn’t look triggered or at least, she didn’t show it.

“I’m cooking, Nick,” came Clint’s reply from the kitchen.

It had been followed quickly by Natasha’s, “No, he’s not!”

Melinda raised an eyebrow at the voices from the kitchen but said nothing so Nick explained, “That is Clint and Natasha, my foster children. They’re about your age, you’ll go to their school.”

She didn’t say anything.

“This is your room,” Nick continued, opening the door to his former room, the last room before the laundry room. It was bare of all of his clothes and his gun, with freshly washed navy blue sheets and a gray comforter. It was as bare and as plain as it was when Nick occupied it but he was hoping that she’d make it her own. It was always more telling when they did.

He didn’t mind the futon, he guessed. It was better than the couch and the laundry room was where his hidden safe was located so there was that.

She sat the bags down on the bed and slowly unzipped the duffle bag.

“You need help?”

“No, but thank you,” She said, quiet enough that Nick almost didn’t hear it. He was surprised, honestly, having not expected her to talk at all, least of all to him.

“I’ll be down the hall,” He told her. “Bathroom’s opposite side, two doors up. The kitchen is off the living room. If you need anything, I’ll be in the kitchen after I kick Sam out.”

She smiled a little at that, just a slight up-curl of her lips. It was so quick and so small that he barely noticed it at all. He’d take it to the cold indifferent mask.

“Well… we will discuss what you need, school, and everything else after dinner because I’m starving and I know the food in whatever safe house you’ve been shacked up in was probably shitty Thai take-out. You can join the rest of us whenever you’re done or I can get you when dinner is ready.”

Nick took his leave after that, leaving the door cracked. He was halfway down the hall before he heard the tell-tale click of it locking shut. He just continued walking until he was at the front door where Sam was still standing.

“Nick, seriously, if you need anything, don’ hesitate,” Sam said as he forced a shiny black credit card into his hand. “Use that, please, and if you get any information at all about, you know, call me immediately.”

“Bye, Captain,” Nick responded as he shut the door in the other man’s face before making his way to the kitchen where he was met with a wall of garlic. “Spaghetti?”

“My specialty, Nicky,” Natasha stated, not looking up from the pan of boiling noodles. It really wasn’t her specialty, in fact her spaghetti was only slightly better than eating week old take-out but neither he nor Barton were going to tell her that.

He turned to Clint, perched on top of the refrigerator with his book between his legs, “Done?”

“Yep,” they both answered.

“How’s whatshername?” Clint asked. “Melinda, her.”

“She was quiet,” Natasha commented. “I didn’t hear her say anything, and I definitely don’t like that guy, BTW.”

“Me neither.”

“I don’t either,” Clint chirped up. “In case you were wondering, seems like a huge douche.”

“She doesn’t… she’s shy, it appears,” Nick faltered, there were too many gaps in who Melinda May was for him to make an accurate assumption of her character. “So, don’t bombard her with questions, Clint. She’s been-“

“Thought a lot, I know,” Clint finished, rolling his eyes. “Don’t ask question I wouldn’t want people to ask me. Got it. I’m not an insensitive jerk.”

“You sure?” Natasha smirked.

“Shut up.”

“That sounds like something an insensitive jerk would say.”

“Go to hell, Romanoff.”

“You’re proving my case, Arrow-boy,” She laughed, and then asked Nick, “Is she a vegetarian? I need to know if I need to make two kinds of sauces or if a meat sauce is fine.”

“Clint, go ask.”

“Gahhg,” Clint groaned before jumping off the fridge. Fury realized as soon as he left the room that he just made a shortsighted and dumb mistake. Clint was a good kid but he lacked tact.

Nick ignored Romanoff’s snort as he got up from the table.

“Hey,” Clint called through the door while shaking the locked doorknob. “It’s actually a pretty solid rule around here that your bedroom door isn’t allowed to be locked. Nat wants to know if you’re a vegetarian or something? I’m Clint, by the way. What are you even doing in there? Did you-“

“Clint,” Nick warned as he approached the door. “What did I say not two seconds ago?”

“It’s a rule,” Clint stated, stressing the words. “You cannot lock the door to your room.”

“Go help Natasha.”

“But-“

“Clint.”

“Fine,” and with that, he left.

“Melinda,” Nick called, knocking his knuckles softly against the wood. “Could you open up?”

No response.

“We’re about to eat,” He stated. “And Clint was right about the locks but we’ll talk about that at a later time.”

Against, nothing.”

“Open the door.”

Nope. Not a single word.

“Look,” He stated. “I’ve got a key to the door so open it or I will.”

Zilch.

Not a response.

Nick sighed, pulling his keys from his pocket before stating, “I’m opening the door, Melinda.”

He waited a second for any movement on the other side of the door before sliding the key into the lock and turning it, “I’m opening the door.”

And he did, only to find an unopened tooth brush sitting on the bedside table, an empty duffle bag, and an oversized nondescript gray long-sleeve t-shirt folded neatly on top of the bed.

And no Melinda May.

And thought Fury would never admit to anybody, he almost had a heart attack right there and then, because she was not there. He could not see her.

“May?” He asked the empty room. “Melinda.”

The bare walls only greeted him with silence.

Nick checked the closet; it was empty except for a white sweater made from itchy looking yarn and two black button ups. One of the dresser’s drawers wasn’t closed correctly, Nick pulled it open in some desperate ‘maybe-she’s-in-here’ illogical thinking that the military should have drilled out of him a long time ago.

The drawer held nothing but a lumpy wallet and a few more shirts. If he was willing to bet, or think clearly enough to look, it probably held more keys to unlocking who this girl really was but clearly, he was not thinking clearly.

In fact, Nick was two full seconds away from a full blown ‘what-do-you-mean-I-lost-this-child’ panic when he noticed a black splint sticking out from under the bed. A splint that just so happened to be connected to the thin arm of Melinda May.

With a deep breath, he noted that she looked rather peaceful when she slept. Now that he had the time to actually look at her, there was faint bruising on her cheek and jaw, and the dark smudges under her eyes made her look like she hadn’t slept in days. It saddened a part of him, the sleeping under the bed. He was reminded of agents who had done this very thing after tough missions.

He decided not to wake her. She needed the sleep.

He did not lock the door because rules were rules, were rules.

“So, meat or no?” greeted him as he entered the kitchen.

“Doesn’t matter,” Fury decided. “She won’t be at dinner.”

“Why?” Clint asked from where he was sulking at the kitchen table. “Because she broke a rule?”

“You don’t not get to eat for breaking rules, Clint,” Nick said, not for the first time to the boy. And not for the first time did he really hate that circus he was a part of. “She is asleep, I decided to let her sleep.”

“She broke a rule,” Clint pointed out.

“One that she didn’t know,” Nick replied before adding because it seemed like it was stressing Clint out. “Her door is unlocked now, but neither of you are to go into it without her permission, okay?”

“Duh,” Clint sounded. “That’s a rule, too.”