A/N: search/10+things+i+hate+about+you+AU+stucky is the tumblr post that spurned this AU, but I have to admit I may *cough* totally *cough* have mixed it up a little bit to make it a tad more entertaining for me to write. I also may have had a little bit too much fun writing this so….read at your own risk? Ah well, you'll find out soon enough. And if you like it enough, send me a button full of love in the form of a review! I heart reviews more than I heart breathing I'm sure. … Yep, definitely sure.

P.S. I have no idea how Wade Wilson made it into this but he did. He broke the fifth wall I swear.

P.P.S. I own absolutely nothing, I swear. That counts for the whole story shebang.

Enjoy this Stucky and Phlint AU of 10 Things I Hate About You!

10 Things I Hate About You

Day number 1 of Marvel High: The Meeting. Or at least that's what Phil liked to think of it as in his mental, larger than life Filing Cabinet of Philip Coulson's Experiences. That day was going in the Amazing Adolescent Actions file, but it would later go into a sub folder labeled The Day I Met Him. Who was Him? It wasn't God, Buddha, Allah, or Elvis but someone far greater than anyone he could have ever imagined.

It was right after Spring Break when Phil Coulson's family moved from Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri to Marvel City, residing place of Marvel High who just so happened to have claim to the mascot the Avengers. As the name "sounds so cute" as told by Phil's mother just after his father had finally retired from active military service, that was where the Coulson family settled after sixteen years of moving. Phil didn't even have time to unpack his belongings before he was sent off to school with five dollars for breakfast and ten for lunch, as his mother would set up his room for him (he just let her do as she pleased. He would fix whatever she didn't go exactly right later anyways). As Phil had gone to more schools than most people had fingers (if you had more or less than 10, well, Phil didn't judge) it didn't take long to locate the generic office with its generic secretary and its generic –

"What the hell have I told you about using the autobody shop for building illegal motorized AI death robotic units of mass destruction of school property?"

"Was that before or after you threw the stapler at my head the last time?"

"Don't shit with me, Stark."

"Alright fine it turned out to be a thinking death ray, but that was completely not my fault. It turned on me at the last second and became its own thinking person, which by the way, is way smarter than half the school even if its only has blood thirsty as, say, 29% of the total population of – "

"Stark."

"Yes Principal Fury?"

"Just leave the autobody shop alone Stark. And if I find that you've been within a hundred feet of it for the next two weeks so help me I'll throw your ass out of this school with my own two hands."

"And one eyeball?"

"Get out Stark."

Phil heard a rustling on the other side of the principal's door and got out of the way just fast enough to see a lanky tan boy with an unruly and slightly greasy dark head of hair scurry out faster than a speeding laser. The generic secretary with too many cat figurines finally addressed Phil and nasseled out, "The Principal will see you now."

Taking one last deep breath before the dive, Phil strode boldly into the office with the tall dark man with an eyepatch and the glare to make the Devil's balls shrivel in despair (but not Phil's of course, oh no. The Devil and he were on good terms afterall and Phil liked to think that he had more than the Devil). Well that explains the one eye joke, he thought but said bluntly, "Phil Coulson reporting for first day orientation."

Principal Nick Fury (as stated by a brass nameplate on a solid oak desk) took one look at this strange new teenager with the straight back and the military bearing, the steady eyes and the eeriely familiar perfect poker face and said, "K's boy?"

"Yes sir."

"I knew your father back when we served," the principal's stance relaxed into something less I-Will-Rip-Out-Your-Spine-And-Beat-You-To-Death-With-It to more of a I'll-Wait-And-See-If-I-Need-To-Bury-A-Body. It calmed Phil's fight-or-flight response but only just an iota. "He's a good man, knew how to handle little shits like Stark and Loki. I might just have to visit him for tips now that I know he's in town."

Inside all of Phil's survival alarm bells were shrieking to decline. "I'm sure that he'd like that very much sir. I just came in to see if I need anything for orientation, but I see that there's no need. May I go to my first class now?"

"You can do whatever you want, just don't come to me when you get lost. There'll be a student aid out in the hall that'll help you. Now get out of my office."

"Thank you sir." Not so much striding as scurrying by that point, Phil made it out into the hallway to see a boy about his age, dark skinned, bald, bespectacled and slightly chubby in a basic button up and slacks.

"You're the new kid right?" A quick nod from Phil. "Good. The name's Sitwell, don't ask my real name, you're not getting it. Let me give you the basics." Sitwell then proceeded to tell all that he knew of various teachers and cliques as they made their way to their shared first class. "Over there are the serum sluppers, they use steriods and gym equipment like an old lady uses yarn. Those are the HYDRA Heads, don't mess with them unless you want to look like a walking painted skeleton like their leader over their Red Skull; rumor has it that he took so much HYDRA that his skin turned red for a month."

"What is HYDRA?"

"A drug that makes you smarter and angier than our resident rage monster and yet not nearly as handsome. Don't mess with them unless you want to end up shoved in a locker at the bottom of a cement pool. And over there are the coffee snobs, go around them when you can as they bite when provoked; however their Queen Bee Pepper is sweet on new guys so she could probably get you a cup if you asked. Don't look in that direction; that's the anti-heros squad with their leader, Loki. Don't mess with them unless you want something somewhere and somewhen you don't want it. Then over there you have your state of the art Ivy League kids working ever harder towards the brighter future. Hey guys, how's it going?" The kids at the Ivy League table, who were dresses remarkably similarly to Sitwell, merely took one look at him in disdain and turned back to their various projects. Homework, science fair graphs, quantum mechanics and the equations of the universe, you know, the smart kid stuff.

"They don't seem very receptive," Phil commented as he and Sitwell kept walking towards their class and further from the underhanded glares of people with IQ's over 140.

"I blame Reed Richards."

"Why's that?"

"He told them I shop for my science equipment as IKEA. It's not a coup, more of a hostile take over, but I'll get him and them back." A glint appeared in his that spoke of plans, evil and ingenious plans, "It will take time but I'm nothing if not patient."

Phil opened up his mouth comment on helping with any scheming (he was in like a broken pair of glasses at a nerd convention) when out of nowhere a projectile whizzed by Phil's ear and landed with a solid thud! right behind him where there came shrill squeaking and and slightly less annoying yelping. A quick glance behind him revealed a NERF arrow stuck firmly on the wood of the table the nerds were currently evacuating. Phil looked up to see where the arrow had come from and it was there. From him. Him.

Standing proudly as a pirate ship's captain on top of a table with a longbow and a quiver of NERF arrows by his side, he couldn't have been much taller than Phil but by all that was good and wonderful he was certainly better looking. Strawberry blond hair, a tight wiry build, sun blessed skin and sharp eyes full of mischief and humor, the teen was God's gift to Phil. "Sorry about that!" Oh God his voice! "I couldn't see my target through all your bullshit smarts and nasty remarks." The teen nocked another arrow and released it in the blink of an eye to hit the physics textbook of a fleeing individual. "That was for science class," another arrow, this time into the lunch sack of a human pizza face, "that was for making fun of me in Home Ec.!" A third onto the brim of the hat of the leader, the one identified as Reed Richards, "And that was for pissing me off and telling the Colonel about Johnny, you asshole!"

Just as it seemed that the barage was over there came a shower of NERF darts that plugged themselves onto the various peoples in the vicinity, but mostly the fleeing nerds who just couldn't flee fast enough. Not even half a second ago there was nobody standing beside the arrow guy, but in the half second later there stood an absoultely show stoppingly beautiful red head with one medium sized NERF gun in each hand and a smirk like the cat that ate the canary. "I think we showed them what two foam assassins can do, don't you think, Clint?" the red head turned to her compatiot while stashing the NERF guns into her perfectly deadly looking black purse.

The strawberry blond male grinned like a helion and seemed to just simply revel in the chaos that the two of them had created, the jocks running one way, the HYDRA users the other, and above all the nerds in the opposite direction after feeling the wrath of an apparently very annoyed deity. "That we did, Nat! That should keep them from making snide comments whenever I burn a cake now."

"That wasn't even a cake anymore, that was hazardous waste that the teacher had to dump in the biology room with a warning label."

"You don't have to agree with the kids that made fun of me for it!"

"I agree with the truth, but I don't agree with the little notes that they gave you later."

The boy grinned, "Aw, you're the best, Nat!" The red head smirked with her head cocked to one side that spoke volumes of how much she agreed with him.

The two continued to bicker as they hopped off the table to wherever they were headed but Phil Coulson couldn't find it in him to be damned to care where. Sitwell, pulling off a stray dart from his forehead, looked to his new charge to see if he needed to be consoled as those sort of days tended to end in tears for some. What he saw was nothing short of awe inspiring as Phil stood cool and unimpressed among the carnage of Nat and Clint, watching them go with a vague interest and calculating eyes.

"Who are those two?" Phil asked flatly, observing the two still until they turned around a corner and away from view.

Sitwell stared at him for a moment, trying to figure out a motive. The moment everything clicking together made an almost audible noise. Sitwell was sharp, but Phil already knew that. "Oh no. No, no, no, no, no."

"Excuse me?"

"You have your eye on one of them and that is the worst idea I've heard since Loki tried to tame the Tesseract Dogs. They're the terrors of the school! They will eat you up and spit you back out with nothing but bones and little chewy bits to prove you existed."

"I've had worse odds." And that was the end of that. Despite Sitwell's best efforts Phil Coulson's mind could not be changed from going after that fine ray of energy that knocked him out without ever lifting a finger.

"Fine." Sitwell and Phil were sitting beside each other in the back of Business Education and firmly ignoring everything the teacher had to say (come on, Sitwell and Coulson needed to learn business? Bitch please) and doodling or doing whathaveyou when Sitwell finally conceded to Phil's straight faced interrogation techniques. "Natasha Romanov and Clinton Barton are the two resident "foam assassins" at Marvel High. They are always together when they have the chance and will defend each other to the death for the other's honor. They've known each other longer than some marriages have lasted and came out together at the same time, so they're not dating even though they would dump whoever it was they were dating if the other half of the duo needed something. They're that close, so don't do anything that you'll regret later."

"Tell me more about Clint."

Sitwell's eyebrows rose. "So that's what you're into, huh? Alright then – you can't date Clinton Francis Barton."

Phil whipped his head from his dating plan noted to stare at his informant. "Excuse me?" Sitwell shivered from the sheer ferosity of the blank faced glare.

"Clint isn't allowed to date anybody," explained, pulling his soul back up from the icy hell that was Phil's eyes. "Colonel Philips has a rule that prohibits both of his foster children from dating because he's afraid that if the two of them go out then more chaos will erupt than he can handle. In truth, he's probably right."

Phil raised his head slightly, a tilt of reflection to his thoughts. "Clint has a brother?"

"Yes, a foster brother named Steve Rogers. But he's, well…."

"…which is why Claude Monet was an absolutly pretentious individual and didn't care for his comrades at all when they were the ones that truly created the Impressionist Movement."

It took a few seconds for the class to wake up from their respective naps that they had taken while Steven Rogers, the one giving the report, waited patiently, if with some exasperation, to do so. Maria Hill, art teacher and the one who gave the only half-a-fuck in the entire room concerning Steve's report, blinked blearily at the sound of silence.

"Is that all you have to say on Monet? Are we done now?" Hill asked, wondering what the hell ever happened to her career in espionage that made her want to be a high school teacher.

"Oh no, there's still plenty more to say," a collective groan from the class that was still awake, "but there's not enough time and still so much to say about Impressionists in general, not to say that the people that contributed their time didn't have talent. In fact – "

"Rogers."

"Yes ma'am?"

"Get you're annoying ass out of my classroom."

Steve bristled. "Well I apologize for putting you into a knowledge induced coma," he began packing his things, "I was under the impression that No Child Left Behind supported education to its fullest degree. Just because Claude Monet was given credit for the Impressionist movement doesn't mean that he actually invented it."

"Rogers."

"Yes ma'am?"

"Leave."

Steve Rogers, undeterred by the hateful glares of the inexcusably bored, marched with his head held high all the way to the Principal's office. One look from Generic Secretary and he was sent into Fury's office without a word. He settled himself comfortably into the familiar seat and waited patiently for Fury to look up from his book (the cover jacket said The Art of War but anyone who knew Fury knew that it was another Harlequin Romace Novel, the kind with the busty women and long-haired Fabio. If one knew Fury enough they would also notice that he never seemed to "finish" The Art of War, or for at least the last four years).

"So I heard that you literally bored your Art History class to tears today, Rogers," Fury stated without ever looking up from his book. Ah, he was probably referencing Sam; he never did do well when sitting and disengaged for long periods of time. "And that your five minute long presentation on Monet ended up being nearly thirty. My sources tell me that one kid fell asleep in under a minute; that's some fancy talent you got there." Fury finally set his book down on his desk to stare directly into Steve's eyes, "Do you know how annoying and godly you can be without ever bringing up a deity? Most religions would say that was talent, if it wasn't for that fact that you repel people away with your shiny goodness like Tequila and jello shots at a MADD meeting."

Steve frowned slightly at the mention of something as immoral as drinking at an MADD meeting, but did nothing to combat the accusations otherwise. This was old news to him. No really, it was old news; think back to the fifth grade and when he started to believe in everything good and pure and reject the everyday impoliteness and social injustice of modern day society. He went to every Town Hall meeting and walked in every parade he had the chance to be in to show his support for the worthy causes of the world. What was wrong with that?

Steve said as much to Principal Fury, who stared at him like he was both too good to be true and too much of a relic to properly exist. "Do you know what the most common phrase used is to describe you in this school?"

"A good person with strong values and morals?"

"Crotchety old windbag."

Steve leaned back in his chair indignantly and frowned at his principal. "Well, it's not my fault that kids these days just aren't that interested in being respectable, moral, and kind to their fellow man."

"Kids these days don't talk like they're from the 40s." Fury sighed and leaned back in his own chair, observing Steve like one might observe an anaconda devouring a mouse. Steve, on his part, was trying to remain as nonchalant about the whole (very common) thing as possible but the Fury Stare TM was starting to get under his skin. "Just make sure that it doesn't happen too soon again. I don't wanna see you in here for at least another week."

"Yes sir," Steve agreed hastily, quickly escaping with his belongings out of the office before his soul burst into flames. Fury rolled his eyes. Picking up The Art of War he flipped to his bookmarked page and began to read.

Donna totally had to break up with Brad afterall.

"But why would you want to subject yourself to something like that?"

Day 1 of Marvel High. Location: Cafeteria. Current Action: Trying to find edible things while ignoring the pesky advice of a sane individual. Or at least that was what Phil liked to think anyways.

"He's full of fire," Phil said in way of explanation, examining a small plastic container of rubbery looking jello (but it was labeled pudding…. Phil put the "pudding" back).

"Yeah, enough fire to burn down the whole city and surrounding suburbs," Sitwell muttered, picking up the "pudding" that Phil had just put down and onto his own tray.

Phil resisted the urge to roll his eyes and picked up a "cesar salad" instead ( don't ask about the details. You don't want to know.) to deposit it onto an otherwise bare tray. "I just need to find a way around no dating rule."

"And what's your plan for that?"

Phil didn't answer until they had both paid and were sitting down in the outside lunch area where just earlier that day the foam assassins had attacked and Phil knew what it was to think that that love at first sight might, barely, exist. "I'm going to gather intel by way of communication with the charge and then further my planning into something I can act on."

Sitwell chewed his pudding in silent contemplation as he dissected all the military talk into nerd speak. "You're going to ask if he needs a tutor so you have an excuse to talk to him."

"…Yes." Phil never said it was a fool proof plan. And Sitwell could speak Coulson? Where was he in middle school when Phil needed him?

"Then you're in luck," Sitwell announced, politely and pointedly pushing the "pudding" off the tray and onto the far end of the table away from the two of them, "Clint's taking a cooking class, and from what I hear his food is legendary for being toxic waste. Even Natasha gave up on him after a few times."

Phil perked up for the first time in hours. "Clint can't cook?" That's adorable. "I can cook. Teaching him shouldn't be hard."

Sitwell didn't say a word as he turned slowly to look at the "pudding" that was turning an indescribable purple color in the chill heat of post-Spring Break weather. "Tell that to me when the people who made that and say it's good while at the same time say Clint's cooking can kill."

Phil firmly did not look at the source of a new and curiously bad odor that was coming from the direction of a certain dairy product. "Good things always require hard work to make them worth it."

Sitwell raised a single eyebrow. "Then goodnight Romeo, and tell me how the poison tastes when you both think you're dead."

The first day of school went by with far less hassle and far more headache than Phil had ever experienced before. Clint, his dating prohibition and how to talk to him were all thoughts that bounced and banged against the insides of his skull until he was so intimately familiar with his own insecurities that he thought he might as well bury himself before he left the school grounds. But it wasn't until he was in the parking lot getting to his beat up Chevy truck (hand-me-down from Grandpa Coulson) that he solidified his decision to go after Clint.

He was walking with Sitwell to their resective vehicles in the parking lot when Phil spotted Clint and Natasha walking away from the building and into the both of them. "Whoops, sorry about that," Clint chirpped with a half-apologetic-half-quirky grin when he spotted just whom he had bumped into. "Oh, hey Sitwell! How's the nerd takeover going?"

"Quite well thank you," Sitwell deadpanned, "Although it might have gone better if I wasn't interrupted by arrows and darts in the future."

"They were all asking for it," Clint waved away the thinly veiled chastisement. "But I see you're point. I'll give you a heads up next time I'm going after revenge."

Natasha gave a delicate snort. "Like you ever plan more than a few minutes in advance." Clint glared at her sideways.

Phil saw the opprotunity and took it before it ran away. "I was actually impressed by the accuracy you both possessed, considering your projectiles were made of orange foam and you had a pulling north-northeasterly wind."

Then there came the moment that Phil felt he had accomplished one of his life goals (brand new – added to the list that morning) when he saw both Clint and Natasha's eyes widen in surprise and respect.

"And who are you?" Natasha questioned.

"Phil Coulson," Phil shook hands with Natasha first as she was the one that asked. "I arrived this morning. I was just in time to see the spot on shooting of the both of you." Phil was shaking Clint's hand when he look him directly in the eye as he said next, "I thought you were spectacular."

Another newly added life goal was accomplished when Clint's face turned a fetching shade of pink at the compliment. "Thanks," Clint mumbled and glanced away to look at Nat's calculating gaze and blushed even harder. Damnit, why did she have to know his type was standing right there? He'd rather be hung out by his toes before giving her a good reason to tease him about his stale love life. "I thought we would always provide entertainment to those that ask," he winked with far more confidence than he felt. Phil, for his part, didn't even flinch. The corners of his mouth turned up just the slightest bit, like it was his shy and restrained equivalent of a smile. Never mind the fact that he was tall, broad, had good hair and an even better handshake. He had to work out.

Oh Clint was ffffuuuuucccckkkkeeeedddd…..

"So what classes are you taking, Phil?" Natasha asked during a half second of awkward tension.

"Biology, AP English, Business, that sort of thing. But I have to say that my real passion lies in cooking. I was a little bit disappointed in learning that all the Home Economics classes specializing in food preparation were all taken up."

"Are you any good at it?" Clint shot Nat a pointed look.

"Of course," Phil responded, not missing a step. "But from what I hear, you can't, Clint?"

"He burns water," Natasha informed him, a corner of her mouth curling up unbidden. "But, he has potential buried very, very, very deeply. He just needs some forward guidance, and not the kind that the school's teachers like to tell at him."

Clint rolled his eyes as things sloted into place. "Nat, I don't need a –"

"Do you need a tutor?" Phil asked neutrally, looking to Clint to provide the answer.

"No – " Clint flinched at Nat's sharp glare, "….yes. I really do. But you don't need to."

"No." Clint whipped his head over in surprise at Phil, before the brunett realized what it sounded like. "I mean that, I would be happy to help. I'm new here so I'm available pretty much anytime and we can use the school's Home Ec. rooms to work in, since I like to experiment with food, too."

Clint blinked. "Ok then. Um, I'll give you my number and we can iron out the details?" Phil readily agreed and the two exchanged their cell numbers.

"Well," Natasha said when there was once again an awkward silence, "It was nice to meet you Phil." Phil said likewise and Clint and Natasha made their way towards the bus, their heads together in serious conversation.

Sitwell turned to Phil, "I think that went well."

Phil nodded, "It did."

"Now you just have to meet Steve."

Phil looked at Sitwell. "Clint's brother?"

A harsh honk interrupted whatever was said next. They turned towards the noise and witnessed a scrawny boy on a moped trying desperately not to fall while a large truck that was more rust than metal was behind them. A blond head stuck itself out the window to shout at the figure, "Please acquaint yourself with the vehicle before deciding that it's a good idea to ride it. Just because you think you could drive it doesn't mean that you actually can. Get out of the way before I show you how the controls work, you're blocking traffic."

At the "threat" of showing the boy how to drive his moped by the blond young man, the scrawny one in the end hopped off his motorbike to roll it to the grass. The blond seemed to roll his eyes and scowl before saying to the boy with the moped, "Please receive your license before attempting to endanger the lives of other motorists when you need to get from Point A to Point B. Thank you and have a nice day." With that the truck driver stuck his head back in his car and drove off in an engine cough of black smog.

Phil waited a few seconds before asking. "Who was that crotchety old windbag?"

Sitwell, for the first time all day and for the first time since Phil had known him, smirked. "That was Steve Rogers. Oh yes, you might know him better as Clint's brother. You know, the one you want to date?"

Phil could feel his eye start twitching. "Seriously?" He was tempted to roll his eyes, but they spotted something far more interesting. "Is that Clint? Who is that with him?"

Sitwell didn't even think that the possessive tone was out of place when he saw Clint and Natasha riding on the back seat of a black convertible, Clint talking animatedly to a skinny moon-skinned boy with slicked back black hair (grinning with far too much predatory intent for Phil's liking) and Natasha gracefully ignoring what looked like bad flirting from a wild looking blond haired boy with terrible scars running up and down whatever skin could be seen. "Oh boy."

"What?"

Sitwell sighed as he saw the black haired boy tear out of the parking lot with Clint and the blond boy shrieking with joy and Natasha looking graceful as ever. "The blond would be Wade Wilson. He's more insane than the words "crazy nutball" can explain and likes to talk to his little boxes – don't ask. Just don't. The black haired stick is Loki, remember? The leader of the anti-hero squad? He's wanted Clint for as long as they've known each other but Clint's rule against dating prevents that from getting anywhere."

Phil almost allowed the scowl to take over his face, but as it stood he might not have a choice. He could feel the gears in his head working. "So Loki wants Clint, huh?"

Sitwell took one look at the thoughtful glint in his new friend's eye. "Oh no. No, don't do it, you will not win one over him. He is the King of Pranks and he will defeat you." But even as he spoke, Sitwell could feel the diamond hard determination that was coming off of Phil in waves.

"Not if I defeat him first."

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