A/N: So someone left a comment saying I should do a team fic a while ago. I'd been writing one that followed the same canon I set in my last two stories, but gradually lost interest. This was rekindled when I read clintasha4evr's The Best Times (everyone go check it out, I'm forced to admit its miles better than mine). This chapter and the one to follow are purely test trials- if you'd like me to continue, please comment saying so! I'm going to be a junior next year, so its highly unlikely I'll post as often as I used to if I continue this, but feel free to send angry messages if I don't post monthly at the very least.
For those who've read Trial by Fire- I may leave it as is, or add an epilogue. It feels fairly complete, but I'd love to hear your thoughts on this.
Read and review!
Clint Barton relaxed against the sun warmed stone of the wall, balancing precariously on a balustrade. Two floors below, the rest of the students at Scranton high milled about, greeting each other after a long summer. Girls were screeching, guys making jokes and slapping each other on the back. It was a loud and raucous scene, and he'd felt lost in it as soon as he stepped through the gates. No matter- he'd always seen better from a distance anyway.
His eyes landed on the big burly shoulders of a jock, who currently had his arm around a long legged cheerleader. That had been Barney's girl a year ago- the betrayal had sent him into that drunken stupor from which he never completely recovered. Clint owed nothing to his brother- he knew that- but the rage made him grab his slingshot and grope the ground for a projectile.
His hand closed around a rusted nut- perfect. In a move too quick to follow, he drew back and released, the metal circle hitting the guy square in the neck. As anticipated, the guy spasmed, inadvertently throwing his girlfriend to the ground. The girl looked shocked and hurt, before pink colored her cheeks and she shouldered her way through the crowd. He called after her, then glared around at the other students suspiciously. Clint didn't even bother hiding his slingshot- the idiots never looked up.
Clint grinned feeling victorious, before his eyes connected with those of an unknown girl on the ground. A jolt ran through him- unlike the jock, she had placed the angle at which the projectile hit, and tracked it back to him. Those clear green eyes and the small smirk confirmed his suspicion. He raised his hand in a mock solute, and she blushed, training her eyes back on the ground and walking up the steps of the central building, bundled up in an oversized sweatshirt. His eyes followed her, intrigued as to who she was.
Those extra seconds cost him dearly. "Clint Barton!" a stern voice called. The slingshot was back in his bag in a second, but there was no doubt that someone else had caught onto his act. Grimacing, he waved down at the vice principle Ms. Hill.
"Get down from there right now," she screeched. By this point, most of the students had looked up and spotted him. Refusing to be fazed, he swung down and landed in a crouch. Hill only sighed, before gesturing to him. "Go to the office," she ordered. Clint walked inside, ignoring the chuckles of his 'peers'. Hill followed.
"I can walk," he snapped.
"I can see that," she replied dryly. "But try to get out of this one and I'll have you suspended for a week. And I'll have to tell your mother."
"Leave her out of this," he growled, turning the corner and leaving the nosy woman in the dust.
Still seething, he burst through the doors of the main office, and ignoring the receptionist's complaints, walked straight into the principal's office. Throwing himself down in the seat, he looked up and froze. Instead of the pasty, bloated excuse for a man they had had last year, the guy sitting at the other end of the table was tall, athletic, and downright sinister with an eye patch over his left eye. His good one was currently staring at Clint murderously, and he couldn't help drawing back in his seat. After a few seconds, the man finally spoke.
"And who the hell are you?"
"I could ask you the same thing," Clint replied coolly, throwing self-preservation out the window.
"I am Principal Watson's replacement. His management was somewhat… lax." He peered at Clint expectantly.
"Clint Barton."
"And why, Clint, are you here?"
Before he could speak, a cool female voice cut in. "Unauthorized access to the 3rd floor balcony, at the risk of his own wellbeing. Bringing weapons to school, and an attack on a fellow classmate." Hill had somehow reappeared.
"I'm not sure a slingshot classifies as a weapon, and I never laid a hand on him," Clint replied defensively, but neither adult seemed to be paying attention.
"Are you saying you hit this boy from three floors up with a slingshot?" the new principal asked suspiciously. "Are you in the program?"
"Yep." A glance was exchanged between the two, and Hill handed over his file. The next few minutes were spent in silence broken only by the rustling of paper.
"Well, Mr. Barton, this isn't the first transgression. You've had your warnings as a freshman, so we'll need to give you detention. Every afternoon this week, you will be cleaning up the premises-"
"Mr. Fury," Hill interjected. "Everything is pretty spotless. It is day one."
"Right," he muttered. "You will be banned from sports facilities-"
"He doesn't play until second season, and the range is accessed mostly from the program."
"Then what the hell do you suggest I do with him?" Principal Fury growled, pinching the bridge of his nose. Clint sat back and watched this exchange with no minor degree of amusement. Seems like he had struck at the perfect time.
Then Fury's eyes lit up, and he grinned at his charge viciously. "We got any new students Ms. Hill?"
"There's one out there waiting right now," she replied, catching on.
"You can't be serious!" Clint exclaimed.
"You can call her in, Ms. Hill," Fury replied, still wearing that maniacal smile. "One more thing, Mr. Barton. Unless you'd rather we call your mother, you'll need to get your advisor to sign off on this. If he doesn't, I'm afraid you'll be excluded from program participation this semester."
"What?" he exclaimed, but was interrupted by the appearance of the new student. Turning around, he met those clear green eyes for the second time in 15 minutes.
"It's you," they both said in unison.
"Do you two know each other?" Fury asked, perplexed.
"No," they both said again.
"Ok… well, Miss…"
"Romanoff," the girl said.
"Miss Romanoff, meet Clint Barton. He's going to be your guide for the next few weeks."
"Weeks? But-"
"No buts. You two are to be joined at the hip outside classes. If I see her alone, your ass is on the line. Do you understand?"
"Yes sir," he sighed. Didn't principals have an ethical obligation not to threaten their students with bodily harm?
"Well then." He handed a pile of papers to the girl, then a slip to Clint. "If I don't get that back by tomorrow afternoon, your access will be pulled. Now both of you get out."
"Isn't he just peachy," Clint muttered as soon as they stepped back outside. He was rewarded with a small snort. He was finally able to get a good look at her, and was shocked by how strikingly beautiful she was. Red, red curls hanging to her shoulders, a pale, even featured face without a single freckle (was that even possible on redheads?), and those deep green eyes. She was also smaller than he'd thought- he had at least six inches on her, and Clint had never been considered tall. Slight and pretty- she definitely wouldn't have a problem finding a boyfriend at this school. And judging from the way she was observing his expression, she knew it.
Deciding to convince at least one person in this place he wasn't a complete and total ass, he tore his eyes away, feigning disinterest. "So… do I just call you Romanoff for the next two weeks?"
"Natasha's fine."
"So, Natasha, what brings you here?"
"My uncle decided it would be a nice change," she said slowly. He decided not to ask.
"Well," Clint said to clear the tension. "Welcome to Podunk, Pennsylvania," he said, spreading his arms wide.
"Believe me, this is a metropolis compared to the last place," she snorted.
"Oh? I didn't take you for a small town girl."
"I'm not. But how do you figure that?"
"Aren't they supposed to be sweet and innocent?"
She scoffed. "And how do you know I'm not?"
"No one who lived a sheltered life bothers to look around as closely as you do," he said, remembering the morning's antics. She nodded, acknowledging the truth of it.
"Aren't you supposed to be taking me to class?"
"I will. But you deserve a bit of a tour first." In truth, he hadn't been paying attention to where they were going at all, too caught up in conversation. Natasha was surprisingly interesting.
"Welcome to Scranton High: an Institute for the Education of the Liberal and Discerning," he mocked. "Where liberal means liberal with cash and not politics. You only come here if your parents are loaded or if you have some special talent or ability. We should establish which you are now."
"I'm not wealthy."
"Then you're talented. Care to share?"
She frowned. "At the interview, they asked a lot about my gymnastics and dance, but also the languages. I don't really know." A dancer. That would explain the lithe grace and perfect posture. "How about you?"
"I shoot."
"With the slingshot?" she laughed, and he would do anything to hear that sound as often as possible.
"Nope, archery. But moving on. This," he gestured at the grassy clearing, "Is the quad. On the left is the STEM building, and to the right is the humanities complex." She looked dumbstruck, staring first at the sleek, modern glass and steel structure, then the Grecian marble colossus on the other side.
"When you said generous donors…"
"Oh yeah. I meant millions, and just to have their kids associated with this place. We turn out Harvard grads by the dozen." She looked lost and intimidated- he knew the feeling. "Don't worry too much- you belong here. They only get to come because their dad's own law firms and or invented toaster ovens.
"And over there," he gestured, "Are the sports facilities. Trust me, they're spectacular. And now that you're aware of where you are and where you stand, what's your first class?"
"10th Grade English, at A310," she read off. "And you are being melodramatic."
"Honors, with Mr. Bridgers? Me too!" he said, grinning. "And I'm serious- they will eat you alive here if you don't know your place in the food chain."
"And where's that?"
"Stick around and I'll show you," Clint declared boldly, and then swallowed hard. He was being stupidly optimistic. A girl like that would never stick around with a guy like him.
She just blinked at him, before gesturing to the Humanities block. "Lead the way, then."
They arrived at English 20 minutes late, but Bridgers grudgingly backed down after Clint procured his pass. The entire class stared at them during this exchange- well, at Natasha. The guys might as well have been drooling, and the girls didn't even bother to hide their jealousy.
The class was even more tedious then usual, with the teacher droning on and on about course expectations. Clint separated the pages of his syllabus and made intricate paper airplanes, only looking up once to groan when Mr. Bridgers announced they would be reading The Great Gatsby. One glance at the delighted look on Natasha's face and he turned the groan into a sound of appreciation. After the books had been passed out, he passed Natasha a note. You like to read?
She looked at him quizzically. Doesn't everyone? Clint didn't have the heart to tell her that 9/10 of the dunces in the class would just watch the movie, forgoing even a plot synopsis.
Apparently the same thought had run through Mr. Bridger's mind, because he promptly assigned a month long project. "Work with the person sitting next to you. Make whatever on whatever, as long as you can give a ten-minute presentation with visuals, connecting to the book."
Clint grinned. "Looks like we're going to be seeing more of each other than we thought." He couldn't be sure, but it looked like she smiled for a fleeting second.
After whisking Natasha from her algebra 2 class, Clint led them both to the cafeteria.
"I packed lunch," she said, holding up a brown bag. "At the last school, the food was awful." He laughed.
"It's not so bad, but the choices are limited," they stood by the door awkwardly. "Um, do you want to meet here after lunch?" She just cocked her head.
"Well," Clint started, unsure of how to explain this. He liked her too much to let her commit social suicide, but also perversely wished she would stick around. "I'm not exactly popular. You'd be better off here if you found some normal friends." She looked taken aback, but nodded and went to find a seat inside.
For some reason, Clint's heart sank. He shook it off quickly. What had he expected? That she would declare her undying love and gratitude? Quickly grabbing a sandwich, he exited the building and climbed the usual tree at the edge of the quad. Maybe it was for the better, he thought as he ate. Nothing good happened when he got too attached to people.
Just then, a backpack came flying up into the tree, the sound almost toppling him off the branch. "What the hell…" he said, looking down, watching in disbelief as Natasha scaled the tree with catlike grace before settling into a branch opposite his.
"You eat up here?" she asked, unwrapping her own food as if nothing had happened.
"Well, its crowded and greasy in there…" he said, and then it hit him. "Natasha, what are you doing here?"
She froze. "Oh, I didn't realize. I'm sorry, I can go," she said stiffly, shoving her apple back into her bag.
"No," he cried, a bit too urgently. "I mean… I'm just surprised."
"I won't make friends," she said softly. "Most girls do not like me. Boys like me too much, but not for the right reasons." Clint's heart ached for her, and he felt like a total prick for falling for her looks as well. Jealousy and lust had kept her from having a normal experience, and he began to comprehend that she might trade her looks in a heartbeat for companionship. Which he was now fully willing to provide.
"Well I think you're great. They're being complete idiots." She gave him a small smile, and bit into her apple.
"It's nice up here," she said, with the barest trace of an accent lacing her words.
"You from abroad?"
"I lived in Russia until I was eleven," she replied absently, reaching into her bag for the ratty copy of Gatsby they'd each been given. Noticing that he had only had a sandwich, she placed a bag of pretzels between them. They spent the next hour in comfortable silence, Clint alternating between dozing, throwing the remnants of their lunch in the trashcan thirty feet away, and watching her read.
When the bell rang, Clint was more relaxed than he had been in months. "So… where to?"
"AP Latin," she said, handing him her schedule.
"As a sophomore?" he asked incredulously.
"I'm good at languages. I learned Ukrainian and Estonian in Russia- Papa used to tease me about that all the time," she said wistfully. "It's how I can speak English well too."
"You know any others?" he asked.
"Fluent French and Dutch; moderately good Spanish and Italian; and pretty rudimentary German."
"Holy shit, that's like nine. That's gotta be your skill." She shrugged, obviously pleased.
"It should be the last door down this hallway. See you after class," Clint said with a wave before jogging to his next class. He knew from prior experience that the US history teacher did not tolerate lateness of any sort.
Natasha left her seat as soon as the bell rang, eager to meet Clint again. Being assigned to him was the happiest accident she'd encountered in a long time- it had been forever since she had anyone she could consider a friend, however tentatively. Not to mention she would have been completely lost without him.
However, when she walked out into the spotless corridor, he was nowhere to be seen. Frowning, she leaned against the wall and waited. With every passing minute, her heart sank a bit lower. Perhaps it had all been a practical joke- he was far too good looking and athletic to be an outcast. Mentally, she kicked herself for revealing how much of a loser she truly was.
Eventually she was forced to leave and try to navigate the complex they dared call a school herself. After countless wrong turns and unhelpful guides, she reached the art classroom, sliding into the first empty seat she came to. The teacher was blissfully sympathetic, continuing in her explanation without skipping a beat.
This was the class she had been a bit nervous about- Natasha didn't have an artistic bone in her body, but the school required an arts credit, and she sure as hell wasn't going to act or sing. It went surprisingly well; she fiddled around with a few color pencils, and the teacher had the good grace not to wince at her efforts when she passed by.
At the end of the hour, she left the classroom peering left and right. Once again, there was no sign of Clint. She swallowed her disappointment and trudged up the stairs. Her feet carried her to the quad, where she sat at the base of the tree they had eaten in just hours ago. She had no desire to go back to that foreign, empty house early. Opening her book, she settled down to read.
She was so caught up in a particularly descriptive party scene that she didn't notice someone was approaching until a pair of ratty sneakers was directly under her nose. She looked up to see a red faced, panting Clint Barton. "Hey," he gasped. She said nothing, still suspicious.
"Look, I'm sorry I didn't come get you. My history teacher was a complete ass about me being late. When I got there you'd left." She tried to keep her face impassive, but relief flooded her. He hadn't run off after all.
"It's ok."
"You found your next class alright? I didn't get a copy of your schedule," he said sheepishly, scrubbing a hand through his spiky hair. She nodded, smirking at the gesture. "Well, um, you going home? I'll walk you to the gate." She stared at him for a while, cataloguing the numerous drawbacks at showing up this early, but found herself nodding again.
Clint grinned. "Sweet," he said as she got her stuff together. They walked in silence through the crowd of adolescents, Natasha separating them into two groups in her mind. To her dismay, the wealthy students seemed to far outnumber the overtly genius. At the gate, Natasha and Clint paused.
"My house is that way," she pointed left. "I can walk."
"Well, mine happens to also be in that direction." The same happened at the next five turns, until Natasha began to consider the possibility of her new friend being a stalker.
"Well, this one's mine." Clint stopped in front of a small two-story house. The bricks were old and slightly crumbly, but the growth of ivy made it look charming. "See you tomorrow," he muttered after an awkward moment. She nodded and turned around.
"Wait!" he called. "Can I have your number? In case we get separated again," he added quickly when he saw her face. She grabbed a pen from her jacket pocket and scrawled seven digits on his forearm, trying not to pay too much attention to the way his muscles rippled at the sensation or the warmth of his tanned skin. Giving him a small wave, she strode away, suddenly blushing furiously.