Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It's an hour before the bell rings but there are already students milling around in the school grounds and the printers aren't working. Darcy - IT technician extraordinaire, if she does say so herself - has already had the Principal, the Vice Principal, the school administrator (Maria Hill, who is scarier than Principal Fury and Vice Principal Coulson put together) yelling at her to get things fixed, because there are lesson plans to print, resources to prepare, and paperwork to get ready for the new members of staff that could appear (even though she's fairly certain that there are no new members of staff starting this year - it's that kind of school - once you get in you don't leave without good reason. Unless, well...the less said about Sitwell, the better).

She's wearing her new 'back to school' blouse, cherry red and just low cut enough that she'd appreciated the wolf whistle from Bucky, the Phys Ed teacher, and the blush from Steve Rogers of the History department as they'd climbed out of their shared vehicle, a busted up old pickup affectionately called DumDum. She'd blown them both a kiss, and added a little extra sashay to her walk as she'd entered the building, feeling like it was a good start to the year.

Now, after almost twenty minutes of crawling around on the floor beneath the printer bank, she's not sure about this year. She's pretty sure she's already laddered her hose, and she's definitely lost one shoe so far. She wishes Vice Principal Coulson's kid Skye was around - she'd always had a gift with IT and had been Darcy's de-facto assistant since she was a Freshman, but now the kid was a Senior and had her own car. She wasn’t getting a ride in with her dad any more, but with her gorgeous boyfriend Trip instead.

Darcy curses.

The staff room smells of fresh coffee and singed material. The former from the overworked coffee pot in the corner, and the latter from the Head of the Science department, wandering through in worn out jeans and an ACDC t-shirt.

"Blowing things up already Tony?"

A blond man in hearing aids sits in the corner and pours himself an over-full mug, cursing when some of the hot liquid splashes over the brim and onto his fingers. Clint’s other hand is full of lesson plans, hand scrawled notes covering the paper, and his mouth twists up in a smirk.

Tony - after flipping Clint the bird - reaches out for a mug but his hand is batted away by a redhead as she breezes into the room. "Decaf Tony, or I'm telling Pepper." Natasha's emerald green dress hugs her curves, demure but devastating, and long curls hanging down her back. "Does anyone know where the Level 2 French books have gone? I know I put them in the language cupboard at the end of the year and now they're gone."

She looks flawless, but irritated, and the expression on her face is enough to have Tony putting the coffee pot down and shrugging his shoulders. "Science," he replies, as though that answers her question, jabbing his thumb towards his own chest. "Try the King of English yet?"

Flipping her hair behind her shoulder, she rolls her eyes. "Laurence is not in yet or I would've tried him first." Then, leaning down over the printer, she recognises the flashing red light as an error message and curses out loud. "Darcy! I need the printers working!"

"I'm on it!" the Technician calls as she runs past the door, her fingertips stained with ink and her glasses slipping down her nose.

"Loki running late huh?" Tony grins, relaxing into the padded seat, arms stretched across the back.

Shooting him a glare over her shoulder, Natasha purses her perfectly red lips. "You know he doesn't like being called that."

Crossing his legs, Tony rests one sneakered foot on his knee. "You know that's why I do it." Then, turning to the two people walking into the room, he holds up his hands. "Mi amigos! My science brethren!" he greets with flair. Bruce, in a sensible purple button up and corduroy slacks, glasses pushed up on his head, manages a small smile, but his counterpart - pint-sized, jeans clad, plaid wearing Jane Foster - doesn't even pause in what she is saying, her words flying a mile-a-minute as she waves a clipboard under Bruce's nose, jabbing at one of the equations there.

Bruce lets her continue speaking, attempting to cut in every now and then, but it is only when a tall blond in running shorts and a sweat soaked white t-shirt walks into the room booming greetings, that she stops. She stares up at the tall man with a sweet, awkward smile. "Hi Thor," she breathes, watching as he reaches into his locker for clean work clothes. Everyone on staff knows the student teacher runs into school - a fitness fanatic - and showers at work.

"Dr Foster!" he greets warmly. "I trust you have had a relaxing vacation?"

Jane manages to just about trip over an agreement, but is stopped from making further comment when Clint stands up from his position lounged on the sofa, and reaches out for a high five. "Thor my man!" he greets. "I didn't see you come in."

"Barton," Thor greets back with a grin. "I assume we shall be gathering for merriment after classes have finished?"

"You assume right," Clint agrees, and then, with a leer, asks. "So you and Sif set a date yet?"

Thor's laughter is loud and bright, and he slings a sweaty arm around Clint's shoulders. "My friend, we wouldn't want to get too far ahead of you. Another vacation passes, and have you proposed to your beloved yet?"

Clint's hands move meaningfully, but silently, and Thor laughs again, even though he does not know their exact meaning. Natasha, on the other hand, follows their path with knowing eyes, and as she passes by, leans across to plant a warm kiss on Clint's lips. "Don't listen to any of them," she assures him with a smile. "Our relationship is not a competition."

"Charming," another voice - accented, droll, and clearly sarcastic - interrupts. "I hate to interrupt your darling moment, Natasha, but Steven is bothering me about the Stalin biographies and I believe you had them in Russian AP last semester?"

Cursing against her boyfriend's lips, Natasha turns to face her colleague from the English department. "Laurence. If I can get them for you, maybe you can tell me where the French 2 texts are hiding. I thought we had come to an agreement about the second floor cupboard."

They walk out together, cultured bickering, just as Maria walks in. "Stark," she says with a sharp tone that has Tony moving his hand away from the coffee pot as though it has burned him. "I will call your wife if I see you touching that pot. You are caffeine free for another month and a half at least, cardiologist's orders."

Rolling his eyes, Stark reaches for a water bottle on the coffee table instead. "Is there anyone my wife hasn't bribed into keeping tabs on me?"

Bucky ambles into the staff room then, popping his gum, a faint trace of tobacco lingering on his leather jacket. He slinks down onto one of the couches, and pours himself a full, steaming mug of coffee, and sips at it with a self-satisfied smirk. "I for one don't care what you drink, Stark. But your wife's pretty hot, so I wouldn't want to get her steamed."

Stark's about to swear profusely at the other man - grin in place - when Natasha, Loki and Steve return to the staff room. Bruce hands Natasha a cup of their mutual favourite peppermint tea, and Loki sips from his thermos of Earl Grey as he harps on about them all being philistines. Thor follows behind, tugging his tie straight, still-damp hair pulled into a tidy ponytail, looking very different from the dishevelled man who had entered earlier on. He and Steve take the sofa on either side of Bucky, Natasha sitting on the coffee table to Clint's side, allowing him to slide a hand briefly onto her knee and squeeze.

As they all congregate, Vice Principal Coulson comes in, Administrator Hill at his side, tablets held firmly in both their hands. After a subtle clearing of Coulson's throat, it only takes a moment for all the teachers to settle, and they look up at their leader with polite curiosity.

"Welcome back to a new year at Margaret Carter Memorial High School," he begins, and they all murmur a response, some more gracious than others. He only lets it go on for a moment before holding his palm up, bringing them to silence. "First things first, congratulations to Sergeant Barnes on last year's track team County win. We're hoping for State this year."

Bucky, in the corner, raises his hand in a fist, pumping it in victory as the others whoop and cheer. Clint even reaches out and ruffles his hair.

"Next. Rogers, Romanoff, are you all set up for AP this year? We've got a high intake."

The muscular blond and the redhead share a look, a quick quirk of eyebrows, and then Natasha turns back to Coulson. "Semester One, the French Resistance, including advanced French language, and Semester Two, translation of World War I poetry."

Coulson nods, apparently accepting of the answer given, and moves instead to face the Science Department. "Foster. Talk to me about your trip to the Observatory."

Nodding her head, Jane drums her fingers on her clipboard. "Seniors requested an observatory trip this year."

Raising an eyebrow, Clint leans back on the couch cushions. "Lemme guess, Fitz and Simmons?"

Knowing laughter runs through the small room, but Jane nods her head. "Naturally. But they're right. It'll be a great opportunity. We've got a very bright AP Physics group this year. I'd love to take them."

"Problem?" Hill asks, tapping on her schedule, barely looking up from the tablet long enough to speak.

"Funding," Jane rebuts. "Same as always."

Coulson laughs at that, a small huff of amusement. "Why are you looking at me? Talk to Stark, he's the billionaire."

Everyone catcalls at that, and Tony - being Tony - drinks it in. Then, looking between Coulson and Jane, he shrugs his shoulders. "Hey, talk to Pepper. You know I don't decide where the money goes." He points a finger towards Hill, who nods her head.

"I'll talk to her at lunch."

Coulson nods his head. Then, looking at the next thing written on his list, he looks around the congregated group with a serious expression. "A reminder to all, please, when you are in your classrooms, to wear your digital radio mics. All of you know Peter Parker, you know he’s deaf. He’s a senior this year so he'll be with all of you. Clint's still here as his CSW, but we can all do our part. Clint, anything to add?"

Clint, who has been having a silent signed conversation with Natasha as Coulson has been speaking, only realises he has been addressed when he feels Bruce's elbow in his side. Craning his head - purple hearing aids bright against his skin and dirty blond hair - he raises his eyebrows. "Sorry Boss, missed that." In truth, his expression is not one of sorrow, and he does not move his hand from where it has stilled on Natasha's knee.

Frowning, Coulson repeats himself. "Parker. Other than radio aids, is there anything else you need to add?"

It's actually pretty impressive how quickly Clint turns professional. Pulling himself forward, he ticks things off of his fingers. "If I could have a copy of your seating plans by the end of play tomorrow that would be great, that way I can make sure we don't need to make any adjustments. Also if I could have medium term lesson plan copies - particularly if you have a list of new vocabulary - I would appreciate that. Means I can get a little practice in finger spelling before we come into the class. Sciences - I'm looking at you guys."

Bruce and Tony share a 'who, me?' look, but Jane nods her head in agreement.

Clint continues. "Buck, if you can get me track schedule so I can make sure we don't have any study hall nearby?"

"No problem man, as soon as I make it you'll have it."

“And last but not least, no, I have no proposed to Natasha yet but yes, we are still together, so no, Sam, you still can’t have her.”

The words are timed well. Sam – the man in question – is just strolling through the door, and holds his hands up in supplication, melodic laughter tripping from his lips. “Hey Barton, she’s not going to wait forever, that’s all I’m saying.” He doesn’t even wait for Clint’s response, instead, turns to Coulson. “Sorry I’m late. Garrett called. There’s already been a problem on the buses.”

Reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose, Coulson exhales. “Ward?” he guesses.

“Ward,” Sam agrees, apology in his tone. “I’m going to take him straight to my office when the bus gets in, try and defuse whatever happened.”

Coulson nods his head, but the frown does not leave his face. “Anyone else?”

It’s at that moment, Darcy comes skidding back into the room, both shoes now on, and only one extra button unpopped. She grins at them all. “Printers are back online.”

A cheer erupts in the room, and Coulson looks up at the clock just as the bell begins to ring. “Right, everybody, you’re up.”

*

Peter Parker has his backpack slung over one shoulder, a skateboard under his arm and a new haircut. Clint waves – hand held high – to get his attention from across the yard as the kids spill off the buses. The kid’s grown over the summer – tall and wiry and growing into his hands and feet finally – and Clint throws his arm around him.

“Hey kid,” he signs, “good summer?”

Peter makes a so-so movement with his hand, nose wrinkled. “Had to visit my Uncle Ben’s brother in Kansas,” he explains, fingers and hands moving to form his words noiselessly. Then, with a wicked grin forming on his face, he asks, “Did you ask Ms Romanoff to marry you yet?”

With a laugh, Clint rolls his eyes. “Nosy bastard. No, I didn’t. Did you ask Gwen on a date yet?”

Shoving him off, Peter laughs. “Dick,” he signs.

“Coward,” Clint shoots back with a smile.

Peter grins, “Asshole.”

They enter the building, going habitually to Peter’s locker so the young man can stow his books, board and backpack. The inside is clean and empty, but Clint knows – from experience – it will soon be festooned with photos and fliers and whatever newspaper clippings grab the kid’s interest. “You checked your hearing aids?” Clint asks, leaning against the locker next to Peter’s, drawing an eye roll from the young man as he shuts the metal door with a muffled clang.

“Yes Mom,” he signs, and the sarcasm is evident through the unimpressed look on his face. “I’m not seven. They’re fine. Changed the batteries this morning.” He holds his hands up in a classic ‘come on, seriously?’ gesture, which makes Clint reach out and ruffle his hair, roughly. Clint had been Peter’s Communication Support Worker since he joined Carter Memorial as a freshman, and the three years – and every class, every day - spent together meant they’ve never have much in the way of barriers.

“Just doing my job you jerk,” Clint fires back, punching Peter in the shoulder.

“Yeah well, I hope you’re looking in the classifieds to see if anyone needs a little fussy babushka,” Peter teases, spelling out the Russian word for clarity. “Because come June and I am free of you. Finally.”

Clint laughs, grasping the collar of Peter’s jacket and tugging him down the hall. “Oh, and to think I was gonna be nice and get you out of Dr Laufeyson’s first day back homeroom lecture.”

Peter’s face pales. Dr Laufeyson is known for long, drawn out diatribes in which everything remotely entertaining is discouraged, frowned upon or outright banned. “Aw, come on Clint,” he begs, but the older man shakes his head. Peter grabs his arm with one hand, and tugs his left hearing aid out with the other. “I think it’s broken, come on, let’s go check it out?” he wheedles.

Clint – who can hear the whistling of the hearing aid loud and clear and unpleasant – shakes his head. “Nice try Parker. Homeroom. March.”

Peter, with a sigh, returns his hearing aid to his ear. “Asshole,” he signs perfunctorily.

Laughing, Clint holds the English room door open for him. “Aw, kid, you know you love me.”

*

The first day at Margaret Carter Memorial High School (or Carter Memorial, as commonly known) follows a simple routine. First, homeroom, including registration, rules and expectations; second, students are allocated their timetables, and given time to argue or complain about certain subjects or teachers; and then third and everyone’s favourite, welcome assembly.

After listening to Vice Principal Coulson welcome them all back for the new year, and welcome the freshmen for their first year, he introduces all the members of staff. Bucky gets cheers and hollers from his track team, Tony gets cheers simply for being Tony; he responds with a rock and roll gesture while Coulson looks on, his expression that of a person who’d been forced to drink sour milk.

The last part of the assembly is the staff’s favourite, simply because of the sheer discomfort it generally brings the collected student body. Or, particularly the male student body, as Natasha takes to the front of the stage and begins giving her lecture about safe sex.

“Bets on first one to pop a boner,” Bucky whispers laughingly to Clint as they stand at the back of the room.

Clint, snorting, looks around the gym, eyeing the masses. “Squirrely kid in the third row. Navy sweater, already holding his binder in his lap.”

Leaning against the wall, Bucky laughs softly, pushing his too-long hair back from his face. “Every year, man.” Then, nodding towards the stage, he asks, “Hey, aren’t you meant to be up there signing or whatever?”

Shaking his head, Clint takes a piece of gum out of his pocket and pops it between his lips. “Nah, Peter thinks it’s weird to watch me translating my girlfriend talking about mutual masturbation and how no one ever got pregnant giving a blow job.”

Bucky snorts at that and has to physically turn and press his face against the wall to stop himself laughing and interrupting the whole talk. He takes a few deep breaths before he can turn back around, and while he’s composing himself, Clint takes the opportunity to watch Natasha. She’s flawless up there, and so unbelievably unaware of the impact she has on most of the male – and probably a proportion of the female – students at the school.

He gets it. Obviously, he totally does: the wide doe eyes, the full lips, the killer curves – they’re enough to make anyone fall for her. He had within ten minutes of meeting her, and that was with her yelling at him about stealing her parking space, him trying to explain that he didn’t have his hearing aids in and couldn’t follow what she was saying unless she please slowed down or gave him a minute to find them, and her cursing him out in Russian for being an inconsiderate asshole, before storming off across the parking lot. She’d never apologised for that. He finds it painfully endearing.

“Most of you, at some point during high school, are going to want to have sex,” she says simply, but out of her pouty, lip-glossed mouth it’s enough that the unsuspecting Freshman squirm in their seats. “What I am here to tell you is there’s nothing wrong with that. Sex is a natural biological process. Also, done right, it feels amazing.”

There is a bark of laughter – not from Bucky this time – but from the top row of the bleachers. Skye Coulson – sitting pressed against her boyfriend’s side – turns bright red and presses her lips together hard as her father glares at her from the side of the stage.

Natasha – as though unaware of the interruption – just carries on, unperturbed. “The most important two things are this: firstly, that if you decide you are going to have sex, you make sure both of you want to. It’s okay to feel you aren’t ready, and to say no. However, if you do decide you both want to have sex, the second most important thing is to be safe.”

Sam steps up then, and really, Clint has always wondered how he gets away with doing so little in this assembly, given that he’s the school counsellor. Secretly, he thinks Natasha just likes talking about how knowing what to do with your hands and your mouth will actually stand you in very good stead when you are ready to – as they say – ‘go all the way’. When she’d talked about orgasms, the kid in the third row had turned from ashen grey to bright red, pressing his binder down firmly into his lap, and Bucky had handed Clint a ten.

“You can always pick ‘em.”

Sam goes on to talk about his open door policy, and to remind the kids that all their parents had been aware of the school’s policy regarding free condoms and sex advice when they’d signed them up for their places, so to not be worried about coming to ask questions. He asks if anyone wants to know anything further, and there’s a muted shout from one side of the bleachers, and some tittering, and then Coulson frowning hard and pointing towards to exit.

“Grant Ward, my office. Now.”

Clint, having not heard the comment, watches as Coulson marches the young dark-haired man out of the hall, and then looks confusedly at Bucky, who just waves a hand. “Ward being Ward,” he explains vaguely. “Nothing Natasha can’t handle.”

True to form, Natasha and Sam carry on without breaking stride. The assembly winds down not long after that – with all the kids being handed out a pamphlet about safe sex and a strip of condoms. Some of the kids blush as they take them, some take them with over exaggerated bravado. Clint can spot the kids who are in sexual relationships a mile off – there’s something about the way they pick the items out of the basket, tucking them into pockets and backpacks that speaks to a familiarity and confidence. Skye Coulson and her boyfriend Trip smile small secret smiles at each other before Skye waggles her eyebrows and Trip breaks into a grin, and Clint thinks she’s lucky her father has already left the room or she’d probably give him a second heart attack.

*

The first day Clint follows Peter from class to class, from Steve’s Weimar Republic to the fall of the Berlin Wall, to Spanish with Natasha, to Hamlet with Dr Laufeyson, gym with Bucky, and finally, AP Science. Luckily, the first day, Peter’s class is taught by Bruce, so there’s no danger of unexpected explosions. Instead, they go through the outline for the semester and are given a quiz about the periodic table. Peter sits with Leo Fitz, who finishes first in the class, pushing his test away and instead making drawings on his notebook of machines that look somewhere between ground-breaking and world-ending. Clint makes a mental note to get Tony to talk to the kid – and then, realising what he is thinking – makes a new mental note to have Jane talk to him instead. Tony would probably just egg the kid on.

By the time 3.30 rolls around and Clint waves Peter onto the bus, his hands and fingers ache from having signed so much all day, the summer having put him out of practice.

At the doorway of her classroom, Natasha smiles and winds her fingers with his, lifting their bound hands so she can kiss his knuckles. “Beer would help?” she asks with a smile, though it’s not really a question.

Leaning forward, he captures he lips with his in a brief, chaste kiss. (They’re not supposed to make out at school, they promised, though whatever happens in the second floor History cupboard stays in the second floor History cupboard.) “You’re too good to me,” he replies.

Grinning, she tugs him out of the classroom by the hand, shutting the door behind her. “Was there every any doubt?”

*

The bar is low-key busy for a Monday evening.

It had taken barely fifteen minutes, but they’d rounded everyone up and divided them into the waiting assembly of cars, and descended on the place. After less than a half hour, the overlarge table they had jerry-rigged by pushing three smaller tables together is already crowded with plates of fries and bowls of pretzels and half-empty glasses.

Bruce and Darcy are prowling around the pool table – physics knowledge vs god-given talent and a college spent hustling, Darcy crows, and Tony calls over that he’s playing winners. They bet peanuts – literal peanuts, because Bruce doesn’t drink and Darcy’s hungry – and Tony watches, sipping at the overly expensive scotch he prefers (he knows he’s only having one – he’d barely managed to order that at the bar without having to listen to a lecture from at least three of his colleagues). Throughout the game he alternates between his conversation with Sam, and calling out insults to both Darcy and Bruce in turn.

Thor is telling a story that’s making Steve laugh so hard he’s turning an interesting shade of pink, beer on the table in front of him. Bucky’s arm is slung over the back of Steve’s chair, body slouched and casual and leonine, but the smile on his face is genuine. Steve’s so serious, sometimes, for someone so young, they all enjoy when he lets loose a little. Bucky nudges him with his knee under the table, adding something in a murmur that makes Steve cackle, and Thor’s laugh boom around the table.

Jane is torn between talking with Betty – Bruce’s wife, a paediatrician, who’d come down to join them for drinks – and Maria, and staring at the sliver of Thor’s chest now on show from where he had tugged off his tie on entry to the bar and undone the top buttons of his shirt. Jane’s crush on Thor isn’t a secret to anyone – not even Thor and certainly not to his fiancé Sif – but they all politely ignore it. No one wants to embarrass her.

Natasha sits, legs crossed demurely, red wine in her hand and nods along as Laurence pontificates about something. Clint can’t follow the conversation too well – Loki (and yes he’s calling him that dammit, the man had earned that title - getting blazingly drunk at Clint’s first staff Christmas party and ‘accidentally’ punched Coulson in the face) has a tendency to drawl out his words and there’s a lot of ambient noise; glasses clinking, chairs scraping, threads of different conversations going around.

He doesn’t mind though. If he wanted to be in on the conversation and action, he would be. He’s quite happy to sit back, one hand around his sweating bottle of beer, the other looped around Natasha’s hip, and watch his friends. He knows she’ll fill him in on any pertinent conversational details he might’ve missed later on.

In truth, he likes the way Natasha tells it better. After the bar, they head back to their little second floor apartment, with its mishmash of his comfortable but generally second-hand bachelor furniture and her classy well-designed pieces, and he lounges in bed, watching as she carefully hangs up her jersey wrap dress, and takes off her make up.

“So did I miss anything?” he asks, scooting over in bed to allow his badly trained hearing dog (more of a hindrance than a help) Lucky to jump up and root into his side. Scritching his fingers through the mutt’s fur, Clint watches Natasha shrug into one of his threadbare overlarge t-shirts that she favours for sleeping.

She picks up her toothbrush and his, putting toothpaste on both before handing the purple one to him. Hers is ruby red. “Maria told me that Jane told her that Darcy and Steve made out in the hallway next to the rest rooms,” she tells him with a smile, before popping her brush between her lips.

At her words, he scoffs. “Oh please, that happens every time Darcy hits the tequila. It’s hardly news. Did she go home with him?”

“No,” Natasha answers with a shake of her head, spitting into the sink. “He went home with Bucky, as normal.” There’s a look there, she licks her lips before pressing them tightly together, flicking her hair over her shoulder.

“What?” Clint frowns, sliding out from under the covers and wandering into the bathroom so he can wash his mouth out under the tap. “Did I miss something?”

She arches up, pressing her lips against Clint’s softly. He tastes like spearmint and hops. “No. No I’m sure it’s nothing.”

He wraps his arms around her, ignoring the way her cat, Liho, jumps up onto the countertop and starts mewing for attention. Clint presses his lips against the side of her neck. “Anything else?”

She sighs, and it’s partly his kisses against her pulse point, and partly something much sadder. “Betty and Bruce have decided to stop trying for kids. Between the problems with his epilepsy and the miscarriages…” she stops with a shrug, reaching up and carding her fingers through his hair.

He looks up, and matches her sigh. “I’m not exactly surprised. After that last one…” Wrapping his arms around her waist, he buries his face in her neck for a long beat, just breathing in the scent of her skin. “Is Betty okay?” he asks after a moment.

Stepping away, she takes his hand, walking back into the bedroom and scooting Lucky over far enough that she can slide into bed and pull Clint in next to her. “They’re thinking about adopting,” she says with a small quirk of her lips and a quick shrug of her shoulders. “So that’s something.”

“They’d be really good parents,” he says with a smile. “Better than mine.”

“Mine too,” she agrees, patting the pillow so Liho jumps up and curls into a little ball of black fluff, beginning to purr softly. Lucky lies his head on Clint’s calf with a soft snort.

They settle down against the pillows – after Clint removes his hearing aids – and lie face-to-face. Clint peppers kisses across her cheekbones and down her nose, and toys with her hair, brushing the curls away from her face. In turn, she draws messages against his chest, nonsense words of love and comfort, and silly secrets from her youth. “Go to sleep,” she tells him in a whisper, and he doesn’t hear the words, but he can see them.

Closing his eyes, he thinks about what on earth the rest of the year might bring for them.

Chapter Text

Clint’s office is the size of a broom cupboard. In fact, he’s fairly certain that before his arrival – and need of an office in order to have a quiet space for one-to-one work with Peter – it had been a broom cupboard. It’s a windowless box off the main corridor and always has a lingering scent of pine spray and Lysol.

He lifts his mug of coffee to his lips, finding it frustratingly empty. Wrinkling his nose, he settles the cup back down – turning it so that the little figure of Disney’s Merida looks to be shooting her arrow across his desk at his laptop. It had been his secret Santa gift his first Christmas at the school, and though he knew it was supposed to be somewhat mocking (for Stark had eyed him with unhealthy glee as he’d pulled the wrapping off) he makes sure to use it every day. This year’s gift had been a follow up – he swears Tony must go around trading just to be sure to get his name - and the Legolas calendar now hangs smack in the middle of his wall.

Peter’s study period should technically take place in Dr Laufeyson’s classroom, but ever since beginning at Carter Memorial – and following a discussion between Clint and Coulson – Peter had taken the time in Clint’s tiny office instead. Though small, it is a quiet space for him to work without distraction, and allows the two of them to talk through elements of Peter’s assignments. Clint knows, however, that Peter will need him less and less – getting ready for college, learning how to be independent, learning how to live without him.

As though he is following Clint’s train of thought and being purposefully contrary, Peter curses, scribbling away in his notebook, and stops to read a sentence aloud to Clint. “Is that right?” he signs and speaks. “Or should it be it was?”

Clint’s about to launch into a discussion of singular verses plural when it comes to an organisation, when there is a loud bang. Even for the two of them, it is enough to grab their attention, and Clint’s about to get up from his chair and see what is happening when the fire alarm in his office begins flashing its orange light, and he can hear echoes of the screeching bell from out in the hallway.

Peter sighs and rolls his eyes, collecting up his notebook and shoving it into his bag. "Dr Stark?" he signs, knowingly, swinging his backpack over his shoulder.

Clint laughs, raises his hands in a 'who the hell knows' gesture, and guides the young man out of his office and towards their fire exit. The corridor seems free from damage, but they're far from the science department, the likely home of the explosion.

When they get to the track, there are already classes of students waiting out there. Dr Laufeyson’s English class are sat in a circle, reading aloud from the texts in their hands as their teacher walks the perimeter, seemingly checking for straying eyes or a momentary lack of concentration. Mr Odinson’s math class have somehow mingled with Sergeant Barnes’ gym class, and – study obviously abandoned - there is ridiculously loud cheering going on as the two teachers race each other around the track.

Peter and Clint arrive to the assembly point at the same time as Ms Romanoff’s language study group, and Clint gives Peter a sharp elbow in the side as Gwen Stacey waves at him with a wiggle of her fingers, her Mandarin binder still hugged to her chest. Peter manages to hold off a blush, but signs at Clint vulgarly enough to make the older man grin, before heading off to the bleachers to sit next to his friend.

Clint catches sight of Natasha counting her students out of the building. Steve has now somehow joined in the racing with Thor and Bucky, and Clint is fairly certain money is now swapping hands between the students – Skye Coulson seems to be right in the middle of things – as to who might win this particular bout. The history Freshmen stand around looking torn between joining in the cheering and sitting down as far away as possible from the melee.

The science classes are the last to troupe out. Bruce’s chem class and Jane’s physics study group look none the worse for wear – though Jemma Simmons has clearly had to be bodily dragged away from one of her experiments, and is complaining to Bruce that she’ll have to start all over in order for her results to be accurate. Lastly, the mechanical engineers – including Leo Fitz still with a screwdriver in his hand – wander out looking a little shell-shocked and with some obvious scorch marks on their lab coats. Tony – because of course the explosion was caused by Tony – looks somewhere between ecstatic and sheepish.

By the time the fire engines turn up there is an air of a party on the open field, and – after being sure all the students have exited the building – Tony wanders up to where the other members of staff have congregated. "So who had within the first week?” he asks, because this isn’t the first time this has happened and so of course there is a book running on it. He knows his colleagues too well for any doubt on that matter.

Sliding her hand into her jeans pocket, Darcy hands him the notebook where the bets are logged and Tony reads it, his eyes widening. “Bruce? Bruce, my friend, you wound me!" He pretends to clutch at his heart, staggering into his fellow scientist, who simply props him back on his feet and raises an eyebrow.

"I would apologise, but you just fried your classroom for the fifth time in three years so I'm not feeling so sorry."

Tony laughs at that – knowingly – and looks down at the notebook again. When he gets to the total Bruce has won, he whistles between his teeth. "Nice dinner for Betty?"

Bruce, who is currently counting the bills as the others hand them over (all except Laurence who refuses to end his class, despite the change in location), nods his head. "With enough wine that she won't mind I smell like charcoal."

They all sit around on the far end of the bleachers – Sam and Coulson and Maria are patrolling the crowd, keeping everyone in check – and most of the kids are settled to study or socialising. Tony, rubbing soot off of his face with one hand, flicks through the pages of the little notebook. "So let's see these bets then. Steve...an explosion free year? Always the optimist. Clint, close, first month. Natasha! You wound me. First two hours?"

Natasha raises an eyebrow from where she sits, cross-legged, on the still-green grass. "In my first year here you blew up the classroom before the kids were even in."

Tony raises a hand in acknowledgement, but counters, "Well, I was younger then. Foolhardy. Hadn't spent months recovering from a horrific accident where I nearly died.”

The others groan, as though they have heard this story far too many times before, and Bruce actually throws a screwed up piece of paper at him, which bounces off his forehead, but Tony is not deterred. “Besides,” he continues, raising his voice over the complaints, “I have two kids now. Pep would raise me from the dead and kill me again if I left her with a second-grader and a terrible-two. She'd be so mad she'd make Rhodey do the eulogy. I'd be compared to a soaring eagle or a inextinguishable flame, or he'd recite one of those terrible poems about how 'I am not dead, I do not sleep'..."

Bucky laughs, head tipped back and hair falling from out of his headband, but Natasha’s face is pinched. Clint isn’t sure that Tony even knows that Natasha was the one who drove Pepper to the hospital after his car wreck and sat with her for the entire of those first 12 hours when they didn’t know first if he was going to live, and secondly if he was ever going to be their Tony again.

"Tony don't joke."

He seems to realise he has hit a nerve, but smirks at her all the same. "Aw, the inscrutable Russian does care."

A smile unfurls from Natasha’s lips. From his place sat next to her, Clint knows that smile is a dangerous one, but knows Tony has walked himself right into it. "The inscrutable Russian is also going to yoga with your wife tonight,” she tells Tony, who swears under his breath. “So I suggest you call her and explain exactly how much the remodel is going to cost this time, and how it really was an accident, and you didn't make things explode just because you're a pyromaniac adrenalin junkie who likes to make a scene."

Closing the notebook, Tony hands it back to Darcy, looking appropriately sheepish. "I will do that."

The Fire Chief arrives on the field then, effectively ending the party by allowing them entrance back into the building. Natasha leaves Clint with a light press of her lips to his cheek, and he squeezes her fingers in return. She and Steve begin to round up their classes and herd them back into the building, and Clint rolls his eyes at the bleachers, where Peter sits next to Gwen, ‘helping’ her learn to sign the alphabet, which basically seemed to consist of holding her hands and grinning like a fool.

Young love, Clint help but think. Gross.

*
Natasha stands huddled in her coat, wishing she had bought a hat or taken the time to fully towel off as the fall wind ruffles her still-damp hair. She’s just about to head back inside the yoga studio when Pepper finally exits, tying her own hair back and issuing apologises. “Sorry, sorry. Tony called, again. Apparently Talie couldn’t find Pigchops and there was almost a bedtime disaster. You think he could cope one night a week.”
Laughing, Natasha hustles them into the coffee shop three doors down and throws her gym bag on one of the low seats as Pepper reclines with a sigh. “I know Tony. I wouldn’t assume anything. But crisis averted?”

“He was already in her bed where I asked her to leave him when I left so this wouldn’t happen. Tony swore, Talie copied him, Harley laughed, Tony swore again and Talie cried. I told him I’d be back by 8.”

Ordering their usual drinks – Pepper’s double shot Americano and Natasha’s soy chai latte, plus a plain black for Sif, who would be joining them – they settle into the large, cracked leather sofa. Natasha folds her legs up beneath her, blowing across the top of her mug. “And there are people who think you married him for his money.”

It’s an old joke; Pepper laughs and pours a packet of Sweet-n-Low into her drink. “The billionaire eccentric who decides to turn his back on the family business and become a Science teacher. ‘I have this great idea Pep, let’s open a school Pep, let’s name the science wing after my dad Pep, that’ll really have him rolling in his grave’.”

“All the better for the rest of us,” Natasha smiles.

Pushing the sleeves of her sweater up her forearms, Pepper looks into the murky depths of her mug. “Truth is, I think his father would be proud, if for no other reason than he named the school after the one woman they both thought the world of. But you didn’t hear me say that, of course.”

Natasha, whose knowledge of Tony’s relationship with his father and godmother has come from fragments of a thousand throwaway remarks, simply nods her head. “Of course.”
She is about to ask more about Talie – the Stark’s youngest and only daughter, whom Natasha rather adores – when the bell above the door chimes and the familiar face of Sif beams at both of them. She’s clearly cycled to the coffee shop – despite the wind and encroaching rain – as she wears bicycle shorts and boots, and her cheeks have high punches of colour.

Sif drags one of the comfortable chairs in close, dropping her long-legged body into its cradling seat. “Sorry,” she begins, her voice tinged with a lasting Scandinavian lilt, and she reaches cold fingers out to wrap around her mug. Then, looking between the two of them, asks curiously, “No Maria today?”

It’s Natasha that answers. Shaking her head, so a red curl slips loose from her hasty ponytail, she explains. “She’s out on one of her open swims.”

Looking out of the window, Pepper grimaces. “Tonight?” The rain, which has been threatening all day begins to beat against the window panes in driving sheets.

“She likes it,” Natasha responds with a casual shrug. “I guess it’s as Clint would say: once a Squid, always a Squid.”

Sif seems to look a little confused by this but doesn’t ask for clarification. Over their years as friends they have become used to these translation stumbling blocks, but unless it is important, they usually just let them slide.

The women talk for the better part of an hour. Their weekly ritual covers a range of topics. First the Stark children: Talie, all of two, who has inherited her mother’s red hair and her father’s dramatic tendencies, pitching fits whenever things do not go her way and calling up crocodile tears on command, and Harley, eight, who had taken that week to hiding around the house and shooting his parents with a self-made potato gun whenever they walked into the room. Pepper’s bruises were pretty epic, though somehow instead of reprimanding his son, Tony had just helped him build a gun with better range. “I tried to be annoyed,” Pepper explains with a sigh as she sips at her drink, “but they both looked so happy building together that I just couldn’t bring myself to it.”

After, they talk about Natasha’s signing classes and how they are progressing.
(A student of ASL for the last few years, she’d begun learning about six months after meeting Clint – a fact she had, at the time, argued had nothing to do with the man, but was really just a way of becoming a better language teacher. Her argument hadn’t lasted long. After a year of Clint accompanying Peter to Freshman French and sharing secret smiles across the desks, he and Natasha had ended up sat together at the Coulsons’ summer barbeque, and after a couple cocktails they’d somehow been left just the two of them, entrenched in deep conversation, chairs getting closer and closer until their knees were touching, as Clint convinced her that it made it easier to read her lips.

They’d fallen asleep in the same spare room at the Coulson house, and had been inseparable ever since. She’d picked up the language quickly, with such good motivation.)

Lastly, Natasha, Pepper and Sif stumble onto the subject of Thor and Sif’s wedding, which is usually enough to give Natasha a headache. So ridiculously laid back about the whole thing, Natasha worries that left to their own devices, Thor and Sif will probably end up getting married in jeans, with their family and friends crowded into a parking lot, and Sif with a gathering of weeds in her hands.

Other weeks when the topic has come up, Sif has simply waved them off as they tried to make suggestions, and told them not to worry, but today she smiles widely. “I was wondering if I could ask the two of you to help me, actually. I know Thor and I haven’t set an official date yet, but I took on a cancellation appointment at the wedding boutique you talked about.”

“Lorelei’s?” Pepper asks, eyes wide, pleased it seems that something she has suggested has actually made a positive impact on the planning. “She’s brilliant. Terrifying, but brilliant.”

Nodding her head, Sif bites her bottom lip lightly, which makes her look pretty and painfully young. “Yes. And though I’m not generally intimidated, I wondered…would you be able to accompany me to my appointment?”

Natasha agrees immediately – the shop is renowned, its dresses appearing in magazines, and she’s curious about the owner herself – and Pepper pulls out her phone, looking at her calendar. “What date?”

“The 16th,” Sif recites, “at 11am.”

Pepper smiles widely. “Phil and I are going to see the Edward Hopper exhibit the next day, luckily. He would have hated to miss it. But the 16th sounds lovely. I’ll arrange for some champagne to be delivered to the shop, shall I? Charge it to Tony?” She’s already tapping away on her phone and Sif and Natasha share a smile – there’s no use arguing when Pepper has an idea in mind.

Sif smiles happily, “Thank you. I wouldn’t even know where to begin. I’ll phone Thor’s mother, see what her suggestions are, and then we’ll have to send her photographs. So she can help decide.”

Natasha hears her phone beep, and then looking at the screen, gulps down the rest of her drink with a wince. “Clint’s outside,” she explains. “He said so I wouldn’t have to walk in the rain. Do either of you need a ride?”

“I have my car,” Pepper demurs with a shake of her head. “And I can drop Sif home.”

“That’s okay?” the woman in question asks, “With my bike?”

“Of course,” Pepper agrees, standing up and pulling her coat on as the other women do the same. “We got it in there after the Summer party, remember?”

Natasha laughs, remembering how much Sif had to drink that night, and how despite weaving around whilst walking, she had insisted she could cycle home from the Coulsons’ house. Sif smiles – sheepish – and accepts Pepper’s offer, bending down to hug Natasha before slipping outside to unlock her bike.

Pepper leans across the table, her lips against Natasha’s cheek. “Say hello to Clint,” she requests, and Natasha nods her head.

As she pulls the door open, she is met by a sheet of falling rain and the flashing of headlights just down from the coffee shop. With a wave at Sif, she pulls her jacket up over her head and runs, splashing in puddles and sending cold water over her running shoes and up her calves.

Pulling the door open, she flings herself into the front seat of Clint’s beat up pick up.

“Fancy meeting you here,” he jokes with a grin, leaning across to kiss her, but then pulling back at the feel of her damp hair under his hand. “Gross, you’re all wet.”

Leaning back in her seat, she closes her eyes with a laugh. “Genius,” she mutters under her breath. “Drive me home.”