This was written for the Be Compromised Promptathon 2014, based on this prompt:

"Natalia Alianovna is the world-famous Russian ballerina, even if no one knows the brutal training that got her there. Natasha Romanoff is the exchange student next door that Clint falls for, never realizing she's the poster he has hanging on his wall."

As per usual, I don't own any of characters, places or companies mentioned.

For once, Clint gets to class early. Admittedly, it's the first day of class, but still. Sliding to the floor in the empty hallway, he pulls his phone out of his pocket – there's still a good 30 minutes before his "History of Ballet" lecture, enough time for a couple games of 2048. After three games, Clint finds himself with 20 minutes still before lecture, and a few people who've joined him on the floor.

The one closest to him is a redhead, leaning her head against the wall and watching the others in the small space. She looks familiar, and she doesn't have earbuds in, or an open book on her lap, so Clint figures it's probably alright to talk to her. As he stands up and moves toward her, her eyes snap over to him.

"Hi," he says with a sheepish smile. "I'm Clint. Sorry, I don't want to bother you, but we live on the same floor, right? I'm sure I've seen you before."

He holds out his hand for a handshake, and she takes it slowly. Her responding smile is small and hesitant, but her voice is confident. And not too fast, thank God. "Natasha Romanoff. And yes, I think so. I'm in the same room as Maria Hill?"

"Oh, yeah, I remember seeing you in the hallway." The sheepish grin is back. "You're right next to my suitemates, I think. How do you like your roommate?"

He loses her next words as a mass of students swarm out of the lecture hall, the sound of footsteps and conversations overwhelming her quiet voice. But once it's calm, she doesn't repeat herself; other students have started to go into the lecture hall, and she picks up her bag and follows them in, giving him a small smile as she goes.

He sees her next at the first floor meeting, that same day. Floor meetings aren't mandatory, but everyone goes to them for the first few weeks so they can try and make some friends. Or at least, that's what Clint's roommate Phil had said. And Sam, the almost ridiculously friendly RA, had knocked on everyone's doors a few minutes beforehand, promising cookies and brownie points if they went.

Clint comes in a bit late (he hadn't been looking forward to putting his hearing aids back in), and spots her sitting with her roommate, Maria Hill, and a couple other girls. Sam and Pepper, the RAs, aren't in yet, so everyone's just sitting around, trying to make conversation. He's just about to head over to her and say hello, when his suitemate Steve waves him over, patting the seat between him and Phil.

"Hey, I saved you a seat." If Steve was a dog, Clint just knows he would be a golden retriever. God, he misses his dog. So fucking much. Clint's entire wall is pretty much covered with pictures of Lucky, excluding a few scattered posters (his prized possession is a poster of prima ballerina Natalia Romanova in The Firebird), and even though Bucky teased him about all the dog photos and the hot girl in his room, it's comforting.

Plopping into the empty space on the couch, he exchanges greetings with Steve and his roommate "James but call me Bucky." Phil introduces him to Bruce who's sitting on his other side and speaks so softly that Clint has to really strain to hear him. Taking a look around the room, he sees a few guys across from him. He knows Thor (it's hard to miss someone that enthusiastic about education), but not the skinny kid in green beside him, or the others a couple feet away. But before he can turn to ask Phil, who knows practically everything about everyone, the door bangs open again. Sam comes in holding a case of water bottles and balancing a giant box of cookies on top, while Pepper holds the door for him.

"Someone please give me a hand," he says, pretending to stagger. "No, but really, somebody help me with this."

On the other side of Steve, Bucky calls out, "I would, but it's a bit of a hassle to take it off." Then he waves his prosthetic arm around a bit, as Steve groans and gets up to help Sam. Clint can't help but think of a golden retriever again - Steve has thick neat blond hair, and he's friendly and energetic. Fuck, he misses his dog again.

With Steve's help, Sam places the cookies on the table in the middle of the room and dumps the case of water bottles on the floor. He clears his throat, then starts to talk. "Alright, I think we have everyone who's gonna show up, so we'll start with introductions. Don't groan, I know it's boring, but we're all gonna be living together for the next year, so we might as well get to know each other, right?"

Muffled sounds of agreement follow his little speech, and he takes that as a cue to continue. "Okay then, so say your name, your major, and something interesting about you. I'll start. I'm Sam Wilson, I'm a third year psychology student, and I love to cook."

They go around the room quickly and quietly, although there's gasps of disbelief when Steve reveals that he was skinny and sickly as a kid, and a swarm of Putin jokes from Tony the engineering major when Natasha says she grew up in Russia. Tony interrupts again to call Clint "Legolas" when he says that he likes archery, but Pepper shushes him and he quiets down instantly. The greasy green kid, as Clint's started calling him in his head, is named Loki, and he makes a disgusted face at everyone's major, before he admits that he's a philosophy major. Clint's pretty sure he doesn't have a leg to stand on, for that.

With all the introductions out of the way, the RAs start getting down to business. They talk about signing up for housing "government" positions (Steve signs up in a heartbeat, and Maria Hill is only a little bit behind him), the upcoming activities fair, and mundane rules for the rest of the school year, complete with exaggerated groaning when they mention the alcohol ban). Sam finishes by threatening them to "finish all the fucking cookies, because I don't want to eat them all myself."

Clint grabs a couple cookies, and then hightails it out of the lounge. He can't wait to be out alone, and he's apparently not the only one. In the hallway, he sees Natasha opening her door, and he waves to her while opening his own. Except he's not as coordinated as he'd like, and drops his cookies just as he gets his door unlocked.

"Awww, cookies, no," comes out under his breath, and he leans down to pick them up while glancing over towards her - or, where she was. Her door closes behind her. Clint groans, enters his room, and flops on his bed.

A few weeks later, she knocks on his door. Okay, it's almost two weeks exactly. Not that Clint is counting or anything. They've made small talk a few times, especially while they're waiting for their lecture to start, or they've exchanged greetings in the hallway, but they're not good friends. Natasha isn't really open, she doesn't share a lot about herself, and if she didn't start conversations with him before class he would think she didn't want to talk to him. But sometimes she talks to him first, so his company can't be that bad after all. Although it's a little embarrassing when Tony the engineering major teases him about how much "game" he has with the ladies (if you ask Clint, it's not Natasha's fault that she doesn't like Tony, not when he acts like a grade A douchebag).

He hasn't talked to her at all today, though, since they don't have class together every day. Actually, they have class tomorrow, so he's a little surprised to see her at his door.

"Hey Nat, what's up?" She gives him a look every time he uses the nickname, and he loves it. It's a little surprise and a lot satisfaction, even though she tries to mask it with an eyeroll. "Wait, your paper right? I have it, hang on."

She had asked him if he could read over her paper for their ballet history class, although he's not sure why. Her work is brilliant, and her analysis of the misogyny within classical ballet blew him away (he definitely didn't think about how ballet was and still is full of male choreographers, while women fill the role of inspirational puppets). If anything, he should be asking her for help. Once he finds her paper, that is. He rummages through his backpack, sure that he put it inside, but it isn't there. He looks through his desk next, and as he shuffles the papers on top, he notices her awkwardly standing in the doorway. Now or never, he thinks. "Hey, do you want to come in? This might take a while."

She walks in and perches on the edge of his bed, twisting to look at the decorations on the wall behind her. "I'm guessing you really like dogs?"

He laughs a little, and pulls her paper out from where he's stuck it into the textbook. "Yeah, that's my dog Lucky. It's a little cheesy, but he's my best friend. He's back home with-"

He breaks off as she turns pale, staring at his poster of Natalia Romanova. She looks... angry and shocked. But it disappears in a moment, replaced by a bland expression. It freaks Clint out, just a little; Natasha's pretty closed off emotionally, he knows that, but seeing her face change at the blink of an eye is definitely disconcerting. He's not sure if he wants to ask her if she's okay, but considering her reaction, Clint decides it's not his business. Instead, he turns fully towards her and says, "Here it is. Sorry, I couldn't remember where I put it. But it was really good. Honestly, there were just a few things I would change - I wrote them on the last page - but it's not a big deal."

She smiles her thanks, and turns to leave. And then she's gone, leaving Clint to puzzle over why she reacted so strangely to the poster on his wall.

Clint doesn't talk to Natasha for the next couple of days. Not in the hallway, not before lecture, not at the floor meeting. He sees her, but her face shuts down when she notices him, and she reroutes herself away from him. He's not too surprised that she's avoiding him, but he wishes she would explain what he did wrong. And for it to hurt less - he's not sure why, but it hurts a lot. He misses her sharp comments about their professor, her quiet, biting humor during floor meetings, her company during pre-lecture lunches in the cafeteria. Clint's never had a huge problem with eating alone (he's done that for most of his life), but he misses her. It feels weird, but there it is.

It's worse when he sees her eating alone, not that she eats a lot. Spending lunch alone means he has a lot of time for people watching, and he sees her eating just a fruit and a slice of toast, not that he's trying to watch her. He can't really help it. He worries about her. When she misses the floor meeting, he has to stop himself from knocking on her door and asking if she's okay. He keeps on reminding himself, she can take care of herself. But it doesn't stop him from freaking out.

It's bad enough that Steve decides to stage an intervention, catching Clint in their shared bathroom to ask him what's going on.

"You should ask her out," he says, even though Clint denies anything happening. "Really. Ask her to a movie, or a ballet, or something. You're both in that ballet history class, right? I promise, it won't be that hard."

"I don't like her like that," Clint says, shaking his head. It rings a bit false in his ears.

Sam approaches him the very next day, and he doesn't try to be subtle, either. Or original. "You should ask Natasha out."

At least, that's what Clint thinks he's saying. It's early in the morning, and Clint's not entirely awake, so that's what it sounds like when Sam corners him outside the elevator.

Fuck, I just want some breakfast, Clint thinks. The cafeteria has a breakfast pizza on this morning's menu, and he's determined to try it.

"It's not like that," he says. Sam just looks at him, like he's a giant fucking idiot.

"Okay, look." Sam sounds vaguely serious now, and it makes Clint feel a little more attentive. "You like Natasha. Everyone's noticed, man. And you're miserable without her. Don't deny it, dude. Just listen to me. If you miss her that much, just talk to her. The worst thing that can happen is that she'll say no, and you'll be friends. But that's a hell of a lot better than this weird limbo you're in. Just think about it, alright?"

Clint opens his mouth to say something, but the elevator doors open (finally, he thinks), and he steps on to go to breakfast, while Sam walks off down the hall. Weird, Clint thinks.

Clint is not knocking on Natasha's door because Sam and Steve told him to. Actually, he's knocking on her door because he didn't write down the homework for History of Ballet, and he needs it before his discussion section tomorrow. Really.

She cracks the door open and gives him a look. Anger, definitely, but also hurt. "Can I help you?"

"Hey, Nat." He grins sheepishly, feeling a sense of deja vu. Her eyes change, from annoyed to more… affectionate irritation, he think. "During lecture, did you write down the homework? I thought I did, but I didn't and I need to do it before my discussion tomorrow. Sorry to bother, I just didn't know who else to ask."

"I have it, just wait here." She goes back into her room and the door starts to close behind her. He stands outside, unsure if he should go in or not. Before he can really decide, she's back, holding out her notebook as she pushes the door fully open. He spies a pair of pointe shoes by the dresser, and because he's an idiot who can't control his mouth, he starts talking, instead of taking her notes and leaving.

"Are those yours? I didn't know you did ballet. Have you done it for very long?"

Instead of answering, she freezes up again. Well, fuck. There he goes again, fucking shit up. Clint just wants to disappear into some hole in the ground. And never come up again, maybe.

"Shit, I'm sorry. You don't have to answer that. Really." He turns to leave, without her notes in hand. He'd feel awkward just taking them from her now, and he figures it's better to make a hasty escape. His TA likes him, so it probably wouldn't be too bad, especially since he hasn't missed any assignments yet. He only gets a couple steps out before she calls name.

"Clint, wait." She gives him another look, but this time he can't tell what it means. "I…. Can we talk?"

She surprises him - that wasn't what he expected. "Um, yeah, sure."

She holds the door open for him with a timid smile. "Do you want to come in?"

He follows her inside.

They talk for hours. Well, she talks. Mostly, he listens. She talks about a short childhood in Moscow, during the Soviet Union. Moving to St. Petersburg to live with her uncle when her parents died. Entering the prestigious and strict Vaganova Ballet Academy before her teens, to graduate and join the Mariinsky Ballet. Making her debut in principal roles when she was 18, and the inevitable backlash when she grew into her curves. "You need to lose weight," she remembers. "No one wants to see Natalia Romanova when she looks like that."

That comes as a shock. He thought that he would have recognized her, knowing how much time he spent admiring her on his poster. But she looks different, now. Without the stage makeup, without the jet black hair she had in the poster - she looks more human. Not an international icon of Russian ballet, but a pretty young college student.

"I thought that you knew," she whispers. Her voice is quiet, lacking the confidence it usually has. "When I saw your poster, I thought… I thought that you knew who I was. And that you only wanted to be my friend, because of who I used to be."

He wants so badly to hold her hand, or press her face against his chest. He wants to be a shoulder for her to cry on, but more. But he doesn't think it's his place. Still, he tries to reassure her.

"I didn't recognize you," he admits. "You were always just Natasha. You're still Natasha. Who you were, who you used to be, whoever you become, it won't change that we're friends, Nat."

She smiles at him, a bright, blinding grin - and it's a little crooked, it's not that sultry smile he's seen a million times on his wall - but it makes his heart skip a beat. God, she's gorgeous, and he wants to see her smile like that for maybe the rest of his life.

Well, fuck, Clint thinks.