The ride into SHIELD Secondary School takes less than ten minutes. They could probably walk but with all Tony's robotics junk packed into the back seat it would take multiple trips. Plus Steve's got his gear today and for the next week while he conducts tryouts (it's why he ended up in the van and not in the convertible with Phil); Clint's bow case is somewhere back there, too. He just hopes Thor doesn't sit on his good arrows again.
They park in the same spot they always do, right next to the exit. It makes for a quick escape when the hordes let out at the end of the day. At least that's the way Clint looks at it. Tony just grumbles about having to walk with a roll of conduction wire wrapped around his arm.
They cut through the courtyard, with their bags and junk and in Steve's case, a box of protein bars to stuff in his locker. The area's still mostly empty. Everyone's probably down the street at Starbuck's hopping up on coffee and double chocolate brownies. They have a shawarma joint next door that Tony swears by, but Clint thinks that's just secretly where he picks up girls.
"Well that's new," Tony says suddenly, his voice dragging.
He drops his glasses down his face, eyes comically wide as Clint looks around at what he's seen.
And boy does he see it. Across the courtyard, cutting between the science wing and the language department.
It happens to be a girl. Well not just a girl. A wow, I have to do a double take because . . . wow .
"Junior," Tony says immediately.
Thor shakes his head. "Definitely a senior."
Steve shrugs. "New substitute maybe?"
Clint looks at him. "On the first day?"
"Nah," Thor cuts in. "She's wearing jeans."
"So?" Steve says.
"Jeans don't make a good impression on your first day of teaching. Plus she's not old enough."
"Looks old enough to me," Tony mutters, bottom lip pulled between his teeth as his eyes do far too much wandering.
Clint gives him a sharp elbow to the gut. "And we all know you're only looking one of two places."
Tony winces, but on the next breath chokes out, "Is there anywhere else to look?"
"Sorry to leave you with him," Steve says, looking up from his phone and frowning like Tony's a child they share responsibility for (he really is), "but I have to bail. Coach wants to run through the practice plays before class."
"Go get 'em tiger," Tony says. "I'll deal with Clint and Thor."
Both Steve and Clint roll their eyes before Steve takes off for the track at a run. His run is like Clint's full on sprint. The guy could be a track star if he wasn't captain of the football team. Heck he could just be every team. Solo. Numero uno. And he'd still place on the podium.
"So," Tony says as Steve retreats. "Think we'll be seeing much of this new girl?"
Clint shrugs. "I'm sure you will be if you have your way."
Tony smirks and as he does the girl turns her head, eyes narrowed in their direction. It's so sharp and fast that Clint's certain she's heard them, but from all the way over there? Nah, it's not possible. The way his hair prickles on the back of his neck says something else.
Tony makes a face and staggers to a stop, fitting his shades back over his nose. "Er, maybe not. Evil eye is a bad sign."
Clint watches the girl look away, eyes downcast again.
"Guess you won't be able to charm your way around this one," Thor says, unwrapping a sandwich from his bag and taking a bite that decimates half of it. If anyone can rival Steve in the food department it's Thor. The guy's built like a brick house.
"It's okay," Tony says. "Saving it up for Pepper anyway."
Clint clicks his tongue in disbelief. "You know she's in her second year of university, right? Almost three years older than you."
"I'm smarter than all those dorks she's studying with. Age is nothing but a number, buddy." Spying Bruce (the other half of the science brothers wonder team) just inside the main doors, Tony taps Clint on the chest and makes his way through the crowd.
Thor waves as well, heading off towards the drama department.
Clint makes his way to biology alone and takes a seat in the back like he usually does. She's in his first class. The new girl.
Her name's Natasha. And that's all he finds out since she declines the offer to talk about herself in front of the class. Clint's intrigued. He also now has a thing for red hair. Really red, like cherries on fire red.
It makes his mouth dry when he thinks about it. He doesn't know why.
To distract himself he reads the textbook, reviewing cellular organelles. Natasha slips out as soon as the bell wrings, before Clint's even brought himself to stand.
She's in his next class too. Spanish. She's good. Real good. At first he thinks she's not paying attention, staring out the window and twirling her hair in that way girls do when they want you to stare, only he doesn't think she does; and the next thing she's conversing fluently with the teacher and Clint thinks maybe he took a wrong turn this morning and ended up in Mexico or something.
She doesn't turn up in his history class and it actually disappoints him. Clint's never been stellar at school. He's smart enough, sure, and Phil expects that he attends. If not Phil gets Fury on his ass and he doesn't want to piss off the eye patch this early in the term. No doubt he'll be scrubbing graffiti off the bleachers or something even more unpleasant. High school was just one giant cesspool of gross when Clint really thought about it.
Still, despite the fact he wants to request a hall pass just to wander the halls in search of her class, which is not a good thing (or a sane thing), Clint had come to find her presence distracting in the best possible way and was eager to learn everything he could about her. SHIELD was a small school, pulling in kids from several resident towns just outside New York, and it wasn't often they had new kids join their grade. Bruce had been the last one and only because of some "anger issues" that were left unresolved at the private school he attended. Apparently Bruce doesn't play well with others (except for Tony), though as far as Clint can tell the guy just doesn't have a tolerance for stupid questions.
He's been nice enough any of the times Clint's seen him outside the science labs (which really just boils down to lunch and band practice-Bruce runs their extra audio since apparently Tony can't croon unless he hears his voice reverberated back at him a thousand times.)
"Mr. Barton, have I lost you already?"
"No, Ms. Hill," he replies, blue eyes caught on the board above her head. Hill is a no-nonsense, ass kicking ninja of a history teacher (seriously he's seen her teach judo in town) and Clint knows she goes in for the kill when you make eye contact.
"Then what did I just say?"
"What did I just say."
She glares and (dammit, he looks) it's a look of ice that fuses his muscles to his bones. He might be more worried if Maria Hill weren't a close friend of Phil's. She's developed a soft spot for his foster kids (except for Tony. No one can have a soft spot for that much sass) over the years and Clint plays on this as he offers her a tentative smile.
She resumes her pacing across the room, her lips pursed in reply. "Eyes up front, Barton."
"Yes, mam."
He learns about the industrial revolution. Again. It's always the same thing in history. Which makes sense, really. He tries to pay attention but the history hall is on the back side of the stage and he can hear the murmurs of auditions going on in the drama department. He hopes things go well for Thor. The guy's literally been obsessing over the part all summer, and let's be real, who doesn't want tall, blonde and handsome as their lead. His face alone will sell out the tickets, never mind his acting chops, which Clint has to admit, aren't half bad.
By the time class lets out Clint has a paper due in three weeks, four chapters on the industrial revolution to review, and a grumbling stomach. He heads towards the cafeteria. Bruce is the first one he runs into. The guy's pale. The same kind of cooped-up-all-summer-indoors pale as Tony, and muttering to himself.
"You okay, man?" Clint asks. When Bruce looks up he looks tired. Though he always sort of looks that way. Must be the mad genius in him. Between him and Tony they'll either find the cure for cancer or invent a robot hell bent on killing them all.
He doesn't say much, just mumbles and tips his head towards the office where Tony is engaged in a heated, hand flapping conversation with the principle.
"Damn," Clint sighs.
"Yeah."
They wait in silence as the world moves around them. It's really just a bunch of freshmen who stand outside the cafeteria looking for the cafeteria. Clint's seriously starting to wonder about the literacy rate in this country because there are literally signs everywhere and these kids can't be that stupid. Finally one girl with straight black hair and a grape purple shirt forces her way to the front of the pack and in the right door. After that it's like a herding effect and the mass moves.
When Tony finally leaves the office he looks more troubled than anything.
"What did he say?" Bruce asks as soon as he steps out the door and into the hall.
"The hell'd you do now?" Clint asks.
"I'm not in trouble, Barton." Tony drums his fingers against his lips.
"What did he say?" Bruce stresses again.
"He says we need to come up with an idea that fits this years theme or the project is a no go. And the application is due in just under two months. Needs a thesis this year and everything."
Clint looks between the two. They converse so quickly he misses half of it.
"What's the theme?"
"A technological design."
"Of?"
"An application that will improve the functional mobility of something in society."
"That's kinda broad."
"It's vague."
"And?"
"Thompson says he's not gunna bother with it unless we come up with something worthwhile. Creative. Forward thinking. You know the drill."
Bruce cracks a smile and it's so rare Clint thinks about flipping out his phone and snapping a picture. He doesn't though because knowing Bruce, he'll turn into some crazy rage monster when the flash goes off. (Clint's still not sure about these unresolved "anger issues".)
"So your thermo-tech sports equipment is off the table then," Bruce says.
Tony waves his hand airily. "They wouldn't say that if they'd smelled Steve after a football game."
"Guess your fire starting remote doesn't count either," Clint adds, standing on his tip toes for a better view inside the cafeteria.
Tony takes a swat at him, missing of course. "Quiet, Barton. I'm trying to think."
"Well you do that, let's grab a seat, I'm starving."
They join the queue forcing their way inside the cafeteria. Steve flags them down easily (it helps that he's the most popular guy in school and has his pick of the tables. Also that he towers above ninety-five percent of the population) looking helpless surrounded by preening senior girls. They clear off as soon as they spy Tony.
"You guys want pizza?" Steve asks, plopping back into his seat and gesturing towards the stacked trays.
"What'd you do, bribe the lunch lady?" Clint asks, grabbing a slice and scooping the cheese into his mouth. It's still warm and melts down his throat.
"Coach doesn't think I'm getting enough carbs. Wants me to bulk up some more."
"So he bought out the pizza trays?"
"Apparently."
"My kind of guy," Clint says, scooping another piece as Thor sits down.
"So?" Tony asks, fiddling with his phone. He looks over the lens at Thor. "How'd it go?"
"Made call-backs," he says, already digging into his second piece.
"For when?"
"Next Monday."
"Figured that," Tony says. "Nice work."
"What about you? Got that robotics competition in the bag yet?"
Tony has his head pressed close to Bruce's, both of them arranging schematics on the screen of Tony's phone. "Working on it," he mumbles.
"What about you, Clint? Gunna run archery again this year? You know they do that kind of stuff at the Olympics, right?" Steve is very serious for a moment. "Coach was talking, says you should go out. You'd make the team for sure. Never seen anyone who can shoot like you."
Clint shrugs, having spotted the familiar (unfamiliar) shock of red hair across the room. "Not really my thing," he mutters and as he does the red disappears from sight. He doesn't blame her. He wouldn't want to spend his first day at a new school alone in the cafeteria at lunch either.
He can't deny that the patter of his heart doesn't slow when she's gone though. And he's not exactly sure what that means. All he knows is Natasha is a mystery that needs to be solved if he's going to keep his thoughts from straying. At the very least he needs to talk to her.
He's given his chance when lunch lets out (after Thor and Steve have competed for pizza eating champion without puking). Clint finds her standing outside the chemistry class, textbook tucked under her arm, red hair falling down her back in loose rings.
The hall is still relatively empty. The plus of sticking chemistry beside the administration department.
All the secretaries are on break.
Clint leans up against the locker nearest to where she's standing. In his experience there's no good way to go about initiating conversation with a stranger. Especially one that makes his mouth go a little dry. So he just goes for it.
"Hi," he says, watching the way her green eyes track him. They're astute and maybe just a tiny bit curious, her head tipped slightly to suggest it. Clint thinks green is his second new favorite color. Second only to red of course. "So," he continues, fully aware of how awkward this is , "not much of a talker or not much to say, Natasha Romanoff?"
"Romanov," she says and for a second he's startled, first by the slight accent he detects and then by the fact she's answered. He honestly wasn't expecting a response because in all seriousness he's a bit lax in the conversation department and Natasha doesn't seem like the kind of girl one can just go up and talk to. He knows she's way out of his league. Even Tony's. Maybe more like Steve's.
"Huh?" he responds when she wrinkles her brow at him.
Oh yeah, he had asked her a question.
He opens his mouth but she turns away, eyes skimming the clock on the wall. "It's Russian," she informs him without looking at him. "Don't kill it with your American accent."
"You don't have much of an accent," he says.
She shrugs. "It falls in and out. I learned English in grade school."
They don't speak again as class lets in and Clint spends the first twenty minutes of the lesson stealing glances at Natasha and wondering what brought her over from Russia.
When the teacher instructs them to find a lab partner he glances her way, pleasantly surprised to find her gaze lingering on an empty lab bench. He wanders over to it, shrugging his shoulders in question. She nods silently and joins him on the other side if the table.
A list of ingredients and instructions are laid out on cards.
Clint reads them over. "So, you want to make soap, or blow some shit up instead?"
Natasha gives him a sort of crooked, knowing smile that makes his heart pound and Clint finds himself mesmerized for the next twelve minutes as she measures powder into a series of beakers. He spends far too much time studying her hands it's almost unhealthy (Is he turning into some kind of weird stalker?).
After that he starts a series of open ended, nonsensical conversations because the staring is bordering on creepy and he doesn't want her to think he's creepy. She's silent for the most part, nodding as he fills her in on the school and the general happenings. Who's who and all that.
"You're friends with that Stark boy," she says, though he detects a question.
"Tony? Yeah, he's sort of my foster brother. Bit of a handful. Likes to set my stuff on fire."
"He hit on me twice before the bell rang this morning," Natasha observes, watching the beaker of powder fizz in reaction to the flame beneath it. Her eyes never leave the experiment.
A strange alarm bell goes off in Clint's head and he suddenly has a fire-burning urge to smash Tony's face into a locker. He shakes it off, the heat pooling at the back of his neck and rolling down his spine. "That's pretty normal for him. How he functions in society. It's harmless. But I can talk to him, you know, if it bothers you."
She shrugs. Indifferent. "It doesn't."
"Okay. Well, anyway, Steve's alright."
"The quarterback?"
Clint would laugh at how quickly people pick up on who Steve and Tony are except he's still trying not to think that hard about Tony hitting on this girl. Tony hits on a lot of girls. Some of them even seem receptive to him, but for some reason it isn't okay this time. But they're not taking about Tony right now. They're talking about Steve. The all American who wouldn't know how to hit on a girl if she sat in his lap and offered him a drink. "Yeah," Clint says. "He's level headed at least. Has manners, too. Maybe a bit too many."
The solution in the beaker turns a bright green colour and foams into a solid. "You know, you talk an awful lot," Natasha comments, as Clint scoops the remnants of their soap from the beaker.
"Guess I figured one of us should if we were going to finish the lab. Nothing worse than a partner that doesn't communicate."
Natasha nods, not necessarily in agreement, just in acceptance. "So," she says as they tidy up. "What do you do at this fancy diner?"
"Hmm?"
"Before, you said you lived with a guy who owns a diner."
"Oh, right," Clint says. "Phil." Had he really told her all that already? Way to spill your guts Barton. "Well it's a lot of waiting tables. Dish washing. Whatever needs doing that night."
"So the guy takes you in, makes you work for him—"
"It's not like that," Clint says quickly, halting as she continues to wipe down the lab bench.
"So you don't work for him?" Natasha stops, too. They stare at each other from opposite sides of the bench.
"No, I do. It's just not the way you think it is. Phil pays me. Us. Tony. Steve. Sometimes Thor picks up shifts, I'm sure you'll meet him. His face'll probably be plastered everywhere as soon as he gets the lead in the school play." Phil's a good guy is what he means to say, but he's rambling. He knows how people think about foster kids. About foster families. That they're all in it for the money. And in a lot of cases it's true. But not with Phil. And Clint thinks he at least owes him that much. Telling people he's the kind of good guy that should have had a ranch full of kids because they would have been lucky.
"Do you always give the run down to the new kids?" Natasha asks as Clint follows her out of the class ten minutes later.
It's five minutes before he realizes he's followed her to her locker instead of to the parking lot.
"Uh, not really," he says, unsure of why she's any different. "Though in all honesty we don't get many new kids."
Natasha stuffs her books in her locker, the inside of her cheek caught between her teeth. "You know, if you want to make a good impression as the welcoming committee you could start by telling me your name."
"Clint," he says, rubbing the back of his head awkwardly before sticking out his hand. His name probably would have been a stellar thing to start with. He's told her all these things about himself but not that. They shake. "Clint Barton."
"Well, Clint Barton," Natasha says, "now that we're officially acquainted I think it's safe to tell you your fly's down."
Clint drops her hand and his heart stops. He doesn't even breathe. By the time he's righted himself Natasha is gone. He slumps against the lockers feeling like the worlds biggest idiot even while his hand tingles from the feel of her skin against his. Soft. Warm.
Jesus fuck, is he dead yet? His phone buzzes in his back pocket, rattling against the locker. He fishes it out, finding a text from Tony.
Where r u? U have the keys!
It's followed quickly by another.
Hurry up. Schwarma emergency.
Yeah, Clint thinks, watching the splash of red disappear into the sea of bodies. Definitely dead.
