Birds of a Feather

Disclaimer: I don't own Hawkeye, the Avengers, Marvel, or Harry Potter. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

Summary: They meet at an ASL centre, where they have both committed to learning Sign Language. Neither of them expect to fall in love, but then, no one ever really does. Clint Barton/Laurel Potter (fem!Harry). OOC. AU. Post Hogwarts. Pre-MCU.

Rating: M for language, violence, character death, and adult themes.

Author: tlyxor-1..

Chapter One

1st September, 2002

Clint picks up the basics of American Sign Language (ASL) rather easily. He's always been a quick study, and he's always been rather interested in languages besides. ASL is spoken with hands and facial expressions, but it's a language all the same, and Clint is intrigued despite himself.

Maureen, his social worker, rejoices in his interest, and runs with it. She organises ASL lessons a few subway stops away from his apartment, accompanies him to his first class in order to make sure he actually attends it, and then promises to meet him outside directly after he finishes for the evening.

Clint, long-suffering and far too tired to argue besides, relents with a beleaguered sigh and retreats into the ASL centre with a wave for the woman who lingers behind him.

Maureen's a pint-sized, well-intentioned force of nature, and although Clint's mostly existed in a depressed, apathetic haze since his return from the Philippines, she's somehow wormed her way under his skin, carved out a place for herself inside his heart, and vowed never to leave it. She's a life saver - in more ways than one - and quite frankly, Clint has no idea where he'd be without her.

That said, he's 22 years old, and perfectly capable of finding his own way home. He's got problems up to his armpits - anxiety and depression and PTSD up the wazoo - but he's been taking care of himself since he was 18 and fresh out of boot camp, and his newfound hearing impairment isn't going to change that.

Not if Clint can help it.

"Clint Barton?"

"That's me," Clint confirms. He suppresses the reflex to fuss with the hearing aids he's still not used to, and shakes the man's offered hand instead. "You are?"

"My name's Tate Greenwood. I'll be your instructor for this course."

"It's a pleasure to meet you."

"Likewise," Tate replies, "I just wanted to welcome you to the centre. Take a seat anywhere, and just let me know if you have any questions. There aren't many of us in this class, so it shouldn't get too overwhelming, but if it does, just step outside for as long as you need. No stress, all right?"

Clint nods his understanding, uncertain if he ought to be relieved or disgruntled by the courtesy. "Thanks."

"No problem," Tate answers, and then wanders off to greet someone else.

Meanwhile, Clint drops into a seat beside the only other twenty-something present. She's striking, with a heart-shaped face and a mane of thick sable curls. Her peaches and cream complexion is clear, off-set by her phenomenally green eyes, and Clint can't remember the last time he's ever been instantly attracted to someone.

More than her physical appeal though, Clint can feel his magic drawn to her own, and the sensation is intoxicating. He's heard of complimentary magic, of course, but with his luck, Clint has never dared to dream he would ever experience it himself.

Clint is suddenly aware, painfully, of the fact he hasn't shaved in three days, that he hasn't combed his hair, that he's dressed in a pair of old, worn, faded jeans and a 'Nirvana' T-shirt that's seen better days. He's clean, at least, but regardless, the archer can't imagine he leaves a decent first impression.

Clint's not accustomed to being self-conscious. His time at Carson's had killed any sense of shame or modesty in him, and after performing for a crowd in nothing but sparkly purple spandex, there haven't been a lot of outfits that have actually managed to leave him feeling insecure about himself. Until now, that is. .

"Hello," she greets him. She signs as well, and the gesture is awkward, uncertain, and Clint's glad he's not the only new kid on the block, so to speak. He returns the greeting, a little awkward himself, but it makes her smile, and her expression is contagious. "My name is Laurel."

She finger spells her name, L-A-U-R-E-L, and Clint's attention is caught up, briefly, in the motion of her hands. Her fingers are long and slender, her palms small, the skin scarred and calloused. Her nails are short but manicured, the chipped lacquer a bold, bright orange. Her ink-stained hands tell a lifetime of stories, and Clint is more curious than he should be.

"I'm Clint," he answers, and finger spells his own name, "I'm pleased to meet you."

"Likewise," she answers. Her smile is a flash of white teeth between chapped lips, and Clint's charmed by the brief glimpse of dimples in her cheeks.

"Is this your first ASL lesson?" He asks.

"Yes," she confirms with a nod of her head, "Is it yours?"

"It is," Clint answers, "I figure I won't always be able to depend on the hearing aids, so…"

It's a difficult pill to swallow, all things considered. Clint's not at all prepared to embrace Deaf culture, not ready to accept the fact that his hearing is more or less shot to shit, but he's also practical. He'll need the ASL one day, and it's better to learn it when he actually has the time and opportunity to do so, rather than pass it over and regret his decision later.

"Make's sense," Laurel acknowledges. She doesn't pry, doesn't submit to the curiosity he can see in her viridian eyes, and Clint is grateful. It's been over half a year, but he's still not ready to talk about it. Clint's not sure he'll ever be ready for that. "I've always been interested in languages, and I've actually decided to go back to school to become an interpreter. I thought ASL qualifications would be a great addition to my resume."

"Do you know any other languages?"

"A few," she hedges, curiously shy.

"Other than English, I'm fluent in seven," Clint admits. He tries not to, but he's pretty sure he sounds boastful, but it's an accomplishment Clint's rather proud of. He doesn't know many people (re: anyone else) who can speak, understand, read, and write in eight different languages.

"You've got me beat, then," Laurel smiles, laughing sheepishly, "Other than English, I'm fluent in six."

Tate calls their small group to order before Clint can ask about what languages she speaks, and starts off their class with a round of introductions. Besides Clint and Laurel, there are only six other students, and all things considered, Clint doesn't hate the lesson that follows. It's a little dull, because it covers the alphabet Clint's already learned, but between practising his letters backwards and forwards, fast and slow and fast again, he and Laurel talk, and laugh, and talk some more.

It's the most fun he's had in ages, and Clint almost regrets when the lesson eventually draws to a close. It's sundown at that point, but New York City is predictably bustling, and Maureen awaits him out the front of the building. She's smoking a cigarette, hunched against the evening chill, but she has a smile to spare for Clint, and an even brighter one for Laurel.

Introductions are made, awkward and stilted, and Clint briefly regrets not protesting Maureen's babysitting routine earlier.

"Maureen's my social worker," Clint explains.

"Occasional life coach," Maureen interjects blandly. Even as Laurel grins, humoured, Clint pretends not to hear her.

"She works with the Department of Veterans' Affairs."

That leads into a brief discussion about their respective jobs, wherein Clint learns that Laurel's a nurse at Brookdale, Laurel learns that Clint's been working as a part-time mechanic since his return to Brooklyn, and they both learn that Clint is, miraculously and bafflingly, one of Maureen's easier clients.

It's a pleasant discussion, in all, but they eventually head their separate ways, and Clint can't decide if he's ridiculous for already anticipating the moment where he can see Laurel again. He's not about to ask Maureen, of course, who looks pleased as punch at Clint's apparent strides towards socialising, but Clint's pretty sure the woman can see right through him, anyway.

"You should ask for her number, next time," Maureen advises.

Clint shrugs. "Maybe."

As they approach the subway, Maureen doesn't press the issue. "I'm glad you enjoyed yourself."

"I did," Clint acknowledges, swallows his pride, and adds, "Thanks for organising it."

Maureen smiles, brief, but genuine. "It was my pleasure, Clint."

They part ways when they reach the platforms, and Clint boards his train with a weary sigh. He'd enjoyed his time at the ASL centre, but he can't deny that all the excitement (relatively speaking) has left him drained.

There's a certain irony there - he'd once relished being surrounded by people, after all - but he's a far cry from the enthusiastic, impressionable boy of his childhood, and the last three years of active combat would be enough to change anyone. Clint, who sometimes feels as though he's been shattered into so much dust, and then remade into something wholly different, damaged and tarnished, is no exception.

That said, Clint is finally ready to move forward with his life, to move beyond all the hurt and pain in his past. Laurel Potter may or may not be a step in the right direction in that regard, but as Clint disembarks the train at Bed-Stuy, he willingly acknowledges to himself that, yes, he's very much interested in finding out.

And - just maybe - he'll wind up all the happier for it.

Author's Note: Yes, yet another project. What am I doing, right? I ask myself that every time I start a new story…

So, I got a bit tired of the teen stories I've been working on. I wanted to write something about adults with adult issues, and yeah, this happened. I'd probably work on Code of Conduct (my other Clint/fem!HP fic), but, at present, the muse is still nonexistent with that one. Sigh.

Anyway, what do you guys and gals think? Leave a review, let me know? Otherwise, thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoyed. Until next time, -t.