180 Days and Counting

by JustSaraNoH

AU: Bucky Barnes needed out of his current school. Luckily, his old college buddy, Natasha Romanoff, knew of an open position at her elementary school. This is the story of Bucky adjusting to his new workplace, the fantastic and crazy teachers who also work there, and how difficult it is not to crush on the art teacher across the hall.

6. Chapter 6

NOTES: Since this is an AU and all, the_wordbutler and I wanted to take the opportunity to delve into the characters' backstories. This is our first chance to do that, and we're going to focus (for nearly 18,000 words) on Clint and Phil.

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Around October 12 – Seven Years Ago

"Coulson?"

Phil froze, his glass halfway to his lips, and for a moment, he considered taking up prayer. A last name usually wasn't a harbinger of doom, but then, most people weren't elementary school librarians. More specifically, most people weren't elementary school librarians who, not three days ago, finished up his first round of parent-teacher conferences.

He set down his glass on the table and turned around very slowly.

"Hey, I thought so!" Barton greeted, flashing a bright, toothy smile. Clint, Phil reminded himself, a fifth-grader teacher at his new school. He still felt some days that he'd never learn everyone's names, but Clint'd stuck out in part because of his reputation—it seemed every student knew something of Mr. Barton—and half because of his aversion to sleeves. He displayed the aversion now, in a threadbare Iowa Hawkeyes t-shirt and a pair of battered jeans.

It was the first time Phil'd seen him out of slacks and a button-down, and he couldn't help but think he looked—

Well. They didn't really know one another that well. He looked absolutely fine outside his usual clothes, no other details required.

A cheer went up at the bar, and both Phil and Clint twisted around to see a group of five young men cheering and crashing their beer glasses together. Phil momentarily wished he'd found a different sports bar.

"Ever wish you were a frat boy again?" Clint asked, and Phil shifted back to look at him.

"No," he answered.

Clint laughed. "You know, I gotta admit, this is the last place I figured I'd run into you on the weekend."

"Really?"

"Yeah. I mean, figured you went to the philharmonic or read great literature or something, not all this."

Phil watched him gesture vaguely to the half-packed bar and tried not to feel a spike of rising embarrassment. Adjusting to new schools was always hard, but he'd hoped to make a slightly better impression. "I wanted to catch the game, but my cable's out."

"On game day? Ouch."

"Well, it gave me an excuse to escape." Clint raised his eyebrows. "From my literary overlords."

The bark of laughter that followed turned a few heads at the next table, and Phil didn't attempt to stand on the edges of his own smile. Clint waved at the strangers, too—after he recovered. "You're a good man, Coulson," he decided.

"That's a relief. I'd been concerned." Clint grinned, but then Phil watched him shift his weight from one foot to the other. He tucked his thumbs in his back pockets and his eyes drifted to the nearest TV, but he never actually budged. "Do you want to join me?"

"Oh." Clint blinked. "I, uh, don't wanna intrude or anything. I just thought I'd say hi, grab a burger, get out of your—"

"And cry into your beer when the Badgers win?" Phil suggested.

The hesitation immediately dropped off Clint's face. "You're joking."

"There are two things I don't joke about: children's literature, and football." Phil smiled. "Pull up a chair."

He swore for a moment that Clint didn't sit down so much as he did flop into the seat, but then the waitress arrived to ask if he wanted anything to drink, and seconds later, the game kicked off. They ordered mediocre nachos and decided to split a pitcher of beer, but mostly the goal was watching the game. Watching, and bickering during time-outs, because Clint apparently had Iowa-shaped blinders.

"You can be loyal and still admit they're losing," Phil pointed out after the second Wisconsin field goal.

"I'm going to start giving my kids gum before I send them to the library," Clint retorted, and Phil laughed as he rolled his eyes.

They exchanged snippets of conversations during the commercials. He learned random details about Clint he never would've guessed, otherwise: he'd been born in Iowa, he was regular devotee of all college sports, he loved to cook but hated cooking for one, "Which is why I decided bar burger during the game," he finished with a shrug. In return, Phil admitted that he'd only really started following sports because he couldn't play him, and that his parents—well, at least his dad—were more the philharmonic-and-literature types.

"You know," Clint said during halftime, sucking ketchup off his thumb in a way Phil almost found distracting, "I always wanted to start a school-wide pool for this kind of stuff. Just a bunch of us, together on the weekends—beer, snacks, and football. Nobody really seemed into it, and my place's pretty much a shoebox."

"It seems like everyone gets along well enough," Phil pointed out. "Maybe next year?"

"Maybe." Abruptly, Clint grinned. "Wanna be my copilot if I get it off the ground? Convince people you're not the guy who listens to Mozart all the time?"

"Mozart's boring."

"And that's totally not an answer."

"It's not." Phil watched Clint maintain his grin even as he took an enormous bite out of his burger. "I should warn you, I have what my sister calls a fondness for Excel."

Clint nearly snorted in his attempt to laugh and chew. "If your sister calls it a fondness, it's gotta be some sort of OCD disease."

"Fondness," Phil repeated with a smile, and he was fairly sure Clint purposely kicked him under the table.

The bar started to fill up during the last half of the game, filled with enough noise, sound, and edge-of-the-seat football play that caused Phil and Clint's conversation mostly ended. By the last few seconds, the other man was standing at the end of every play like he was in his own living room.

Phil tried not to laugh. He failed.

Afterwards, when the Hawkeyes were licking their wounds and Phil was at least mature enough not to gloat, they settled their tab and walked out into the crisp October cold together. Phil watched as Clint, perpetually sleeveless, shoved his hands in his pockets. "You'll get frostbite," he noted.

Clint grinned. "But you got free tickets to the gun show," he retorted, and Phil rolled his eyes. At least, until Clint elbowed him in the arm. "You wanna do the game thing again, find me in the staff directory. It's good to get out every once in a while. Avoid your overlords."

"Literary overlords," Phil corrected.

"Right, right." He thought he noticed the other man's grin falter for a half-second, but then Clint nudged him again. "Seriously."

Phil held his hands up in surrender. "I'll keep it in mind," he promised.

He watched Clint trot across the parking lot to his car, where he waved before disappearing into the driver's seat. For a moment, he wasn't entirely sure what to make of the accidental afternoon. It wasn't that Phil was necessarily bad at making friends, it was just that he sometimes thought people assumed him to be bland. Boring, maybe, was the better word.

But Clint hadn't.

Or, he reminded himself, Clint'd just wanted a game day buddy, boring or not.

Phil decided to give that pessimistic voice at least the rest of the day off, and headed home.

October 12 – Six Years Ago

This was not how Clint Barton wanted to get his evening started. Traditionally during the week of fall break, school operated on half-day schedule for Monday and Tuesday before giving everyone a five-day weekend starting on Wednesday. Kids came in for the mornings, and parents came in the afternoon for parent-teacher conferences.

Translation: two days of non-stop meetings and chaos.

He really should have picked a different time for this, but he'd been waiting a year for this to happen, and he didn't want to wait another day.

Backtrack to last week when he'd cornered Phil in the library after everyone cleared out of the place once the staff meeting wrapped up. The librarian was kneeling to replace a few Babysitter's Club books to their rightful home, and Clint—not for the first time—tried not to stare too openly at the way Phil's dress shirt and slacks clung to the lines of his body. Clint gave his head a quick shake and focused on his mission. He assumed what his students knew as his "serious" pose: arms crossed over his chest, feet spread shoulder-width apart, and a focused expression on his face. Five years of teaching fifth graders had turned him into an intimidation machine, and apparently he'd gone too far down that road because when Phil stood and turned around, he took an involuntary step backward and raised his hands in a defensive gesture. "Can I help you with something, Clint?"

"How many times do I have to grope your thigh when I 'accidently' drop my napkin while we're out for payday happy hour before you catch the hint that I think you're hot and I want to do something about it?"

Clint noted how the other man's eyes quickly flicked down to his biceps before coming back up to look him in the eye. "I just thought you were being clumsy."

"On the contrary, I have excellent hand-eye coordination."

"Is that so?"

Clint smirked. "Oh, I'm very talented. I'm considered an expert at juggling balls." He waggled his eyebrows at the last couple of words.

Phil tilted his head slightly to the right and crossed his arms over his chest. "Practice that a lot do you? With a number of…balls?"

Clint cringed. "Okay, that came out sluttier than I wanted it to. Look—I'm attracted to you. Pretty sure you're attracted to me. We're going out. Next week is fall break, let's go do something. You pick the time and place."

It was Phil's turn to grimace. "I have a conference I'm attending next week. I'm flying out first thing Wednesday morning. What about this weekend?"

Clint simultaneously felt joy that Phil had tentatively agreed and immediate pissyness for scheduling conflicts. "Can't this weekend—promised a college buddy I'd go visit him."

"We could wait till after fall break."

"No. That is absolutely unacceptable." He took a moment to scratch the nape of his neck. "What about Tuesday night? Celebrate conferences being over and kick off fall break with a nice, unfortunately-late dinner somewhere. I mean, if that's okay with you."

And that became the plan—finish up meeting with parents and head out for a late dinner. Clint made reservations for eight that evening at some Thai place Phil suggested. Everyone was supposed to clear out of the school by seven-thirty, and Clint found himself breaking eye contact with parents all afternoon and evening to check the clock above his classroom door.

Conferences went as well as they ever did. There was always a mixture: the super concerned parents of students who were doing just fine, the unconcerned parents of students who needed help, and those fantastic parents who didn't care enough to show up at all. Meeting moms and dads always explained so much about how and why his fifth graders behaved the way they did.

His last meeting of the day involved a parent whose toddler had to tag along. Right before they left, said toddler managed to spill his juice cup on Clint's white dress shirt and gray slacks. The mother apologized profusely, but Clint waved her off and bit his tongue. Why on earth she'd given the kid fruit punch to drink was beyond him, and he now had five minutes to get the pink stain out of his clothes. As soon as the family was out of sight, he dashed into the nearest bathroom, but to no avail. The patch of pink remained, and it looked like he'd tried to shower with his clothes on.

Admitting defeat, he trudged down the hallway to the library and poked his head in the door. Phil was talking to a set of parents and did a double take at him when he caught sight of Clint in the doorway. The parents' attention followed Phil's, and the wife immediately started digging in her purse proclaiming she had a Tide stick in there somewhere. Clint told her not to worry about it before turning to Phil. "Let me go home and change, and I'll meet you at the place as soon as I can?"

Phil nodded. "That's fine."

"Is there some staff party after this?" the husband asked. "God knows I'd need a drink after dealing with a bunch of parents."

Clint and Phil both gave a polite chuckle before the librarian answered, "Something like that."

Clint waved the trio goodbye and then sped out of the school and to his apartment as quickly as possible. He stripped out of his clothes on the way to his closet and managed to only trip twice in the process. Detouring to the bathroom in a moment of clarity, he thankfully brushed his teeth in his underwear since his haste caused him to get toothpaste down his chest. After spitting and rinsing, he ran his hand along his jaw and considered a second shave for the day, but didn't want to run any later than he already was.

He opened his closet and wanted to kick himself for his laziness at putting away clean clothes. Most of his slacks were in a pile on the ground, and he didn't want to iron anything. He grabbed a pair of decent jeans and pulled them on. Remembering how he'd caught Phil taking notice of his arms, Clint grabbed a black button-up that he knew ran a little tight across his shoulders and in the sleeves. Checking his hair once more, he dashed out of his place and tried his best not to get a speeding ticket on the way to the restaurant.

The Thai place in question was in an unfamiliar part of town. Clint was glad for this because it meant there was a lessened chance they'd run into parents or students from school, and he desperately wanted to keep this part of his private life private. The downside was he got lost on the way there, making him five minutes later then he'd hoped. When he walked in, he quickly spotted Phil giving him a little wave from a table. Clint gave him a nod and maneuvered his way around fellow diners to the table. The place was surprisingly busy for this late on a Tuesday.

"Sorry again for the hiccups," Clint apologized as he took his seat. "That was not how I wanted the evening to start."

Phil gave him a little smile. "It's fine. Wouldn't be a true first date without a few mishaps."

Clint nodded and picked up his menu. "What's good here?"

Phil shrugged. "I had the Pad Thai the first time I came here and haven't tried anything else since." He paused to shrug. "I'm boring like that."

Clint shook his head. "I've never considered you boring."

"You don't know me that well, then."

The waiter came by to take their order, and once he left, Phil regaled Clint with stories of dealing with the new technology teacher. In exchange, Clint told his date about being put to shame after getting in a debate with one of his students—an intelligent and occasionally mouthy girl named Kate—about the themes found in last week's reading selection.

When their food arrived, they fell into the horrible habit known to all teachers—inhaling their food. Too many lunches spent with barely twenty minutes to consume a meal while returning phone calls and making copies had ingrained the need to eat as quickly as manners would allow. They both shared a small, slightly embarrassed chuckle when they recognized the habit.

After their plates were cleared and Phil turned down splitting dessert with the excuse of "I'm trying to watch my figure," the librarian went into another series of stories about his years of teaching in one of the district's high schools over coffee. He paused in the middle of one tale and gave Clint a confused look. "Do I have something in my teeth?"

"Hmm?"

"You keep staring at my mouth. Is there something green stuck in there I need to take care of?"

"Oh, no," Clint said with a shake of his head. He hesitated a moment before leaning forward and tilting his head just so to show the device tucked away in his ear.

Phil moved closer to see, and Clint caught the surprise on the other man's face out of the corner of his eye. "You have a hearing aid?" he asked.

Clint settled back in his chair with a nod. "Two actually. I was an idiot when I was fourteen—no big surprise there—and my friends and I were messing around with some fireworks. One of them had a short fuse and I was at least smart enough to dump it before it blew my fingers off, but didn't get my ears covered in time. Been wearing hearing aids ever since.

"They help me hear everything around me, but they aren't always the best at picking up direction. So if I'm in a place where there's a lot of different conversations going on, or just a lot of noise in general, I'll also read the person's lips just to make sure I'm paying attention to the right words."

"And here I was hoping you were staring at my mouth because you wanted to kiss me."

"Who says I don't?" Clint asked. The waiter came by to drop off their check, and Clint's fingers were faster than Phil's. "You can pay next time."

On the way out, Clint made sure Phil was all ready to leave for his book conference with his former co-librarian from the high school the next morning. "I can drive you to the airport in the morning if you need it."

Phil smiled and shook his head. "Nadine's husband is picking me up and dropping us off, but thanks for the offer." The two men walked silently to Phil's car, which was closer. "But maybe I'll call when I get in Sunday night. I don't have to; I know it's probably not the most exciting thing ever to talk about…"

"No, it sounds great. Let me know if you see anything there I can use for my class," Clint reassured. He looked down at his shoes as his right toe kicked a little at the pavement while he tried to decide how to prolong the moment and how far he was willing to risk making a fool of himself. He settled on placing his left hand on the side of Phil's face. Clint waited for a reaction, and when the small surprise faded and he felt Phil lean ever so slightly into the touch, he edged forward slowly brushed a quick kiss against the corner of Phil's mouth. "Thanks for tonight," he said softly. "Have a good trip."

"You too," Phil breathed before catching his error and shaking his head. "I mean, have a good break."

October 12 – Five Years Ago

Phil awoke on a Wednesday morning with a smile settled on his face. His house was unusually empty because Tony had drug Clint away after their mutual bachelor party the night before, claiming something about blushing brides not being allowed to see each other before the big day. Or the small courthouse ceremony. Whichever. Phil looked forward to hearing whatever stories would certainly come about from Clint being forced to crash at Stark's place overnight.

He remained in bed for a moment and listened to the silence of his house. The stillness and quiet was his norm for so many years, an emptiness he'd come to accept as his life. Work was full of laughter and the joy of sharing books with his students, but home was still and stagnant.

And then he'd met Clint.

Clint, who'd officially moved in at the end of last school year even though they'd spent most nights together since Christmas break. Clint, who moaned and groaned when Phil elbowed and shoved at him to turn off the vibrating cell phone alarm under his pillow every weekday morning. Clint, who made coffee and was physically incapable of speaking in full sentences until he'd consumed at least two mugs worth and had a shower. Clint, who left half-graded worksheets strewn everywhere and could never find his keys. Clint, who was constant noise and mess and fidgeting.

Clint, who brought Phil coffee whenever he picked his kids up from the library. Clint, who made amazing dinners and never turned down the opportunity to swat at Phil's ass with the wooden spoon before he used it for its proper purpose. Clint, whose fingers seemed bound and determined to mark, measure, and memorize every bit of Phil's body.

Clint, who by the time the day was over, would be Phil's husband.

A chuckle escaped Phil's throat and broke the silence in the empty house. Husband. He shook his head, and not for the first time, at the thought.

Phil'd brought up their upcoming first anniversary six weeks ago and asked how Clint thought they should spend it. The other man shrugged and answered, "What about with matching wedding bands?" It was not the proposal Phil was expecting, mostly because he wasn't prepared for one at all. But it felt right, so he'd agreed and would forever cherish the memory of the grin that plastered itself onto Clint's face.

They'd told Phil's family, who would be driving in for the ceremony, and a few teachers at work. Most of the staff knew they were a couple, but they kept themselves strictly professional at work. Well, unless the kids were all gone and only their friends were around.

There would be a total of nine of them going to the courthouse today: Clint and Phil, Phil's parents, his two sisters, and Bruce, Tony, and Natasha. The pair had batted around the idea of writing their own vows for the occasion, but the thought was quickly scrapped. Clint claimed he was better with actions than words, and Phil was a little scared his emotions would get the better of him, and his sisters' list of things they'd never let him live down was long enough already.

He was about to roll out of bed and get his morning routine started when his cell phone rang. Phil wasn't sure if it was Clint or Tony who had changed Clint's ID to read as "Hot Pants" last night, but he was pretty sure it was one of the two. "Good morning," Phil greeted.

"Hey," Clint answered, a smile evident in his voice. "You're going to show up today, right?"

"Well, there is a Dog Whisperer marathon on this afternoon."

"Do I need to grow a goatee? Will that change your mind?"

"It wouldn't hurt," Phil answered, causing Clint to laugh.

Through the phone, Phil heard Tony yelling something in the background. "Your mom," Clint answered.

Tony must've closed in on Clint, because his voice and words were suddenly understandable. "Well, seeing as how she's been dead for twenty-some years, your phone bill's going to be a bitch. Is that your lover boy?"

"Shut up, Stark," Clint shot back. "We're just talking. We can't see each other."

"Doesn't matter, give me that. Ow! Purple nurple? Seriously, Barton? Coulson, does he do that to you? Is that the kind of stuff you like? Should I have bought nipple clamps for your wedding present?"

"Please make him stop talking," Phil moaned.

"Go away, Stark," Clint chided. "I'm going to make sure you follow all these idiotic traditions when it's your turn to get married."

Tony scoffed at the notion. "Please, the day I get married is the day Hell freezes over. Now give me that. Hey, Specs." Phil rolled his eyes not only at Tony commandeering Clint's phone but at the nickname the technology teacher had given him the first time he'd seen Phil wearing his glasses to work. "Don't worry about your Pumpkin Patch, here. I'll make sure he gets to the courthouse on time."

"When do you ever run on time, Stark?"

"Fair point. Bruce will make sure both of us get to the courthouse on time. And everything is set up and ready to go for wedding reception lunch afterwards. Food should be here at one. I made sure all my sex swings are put away…unless your family's into that kind of thing—"

"Tony!"

"Okay, okay, calm down. Jesus, Coulson. Now, we've got the old and new covered with you and Barton, respectively. You're borrowing my house later. Just make sure you take care of the blue. And don't forget that lacy garter thing to put on your thigh."

"Please put Clint back on the phone," Phil ground out.

"Nope," Tony replied before hanging up.

Phil sighed and tried to work his way back into his previous good mood. His text alert sounding a moment later with the message of "Love you, too" from Hot Pants helped.

After a breakfast of cereal and coffee and a quick run to try and settle some excited energy (which didn't work), Phil showered. Even before his little chat with Tony, he knew he was going to wear his best suit and navy blue tie with white stripes running down diagonally. Clint had gotten him the tie last Christmas. Once dressed, he checked himself over in the mirror and made sure his shoes were scuff-free. Running right on schedule, he had just enough time to throw his and Clint's luggage into the trunk and head off for the county courthouse.

Twenty minutes later, he pulled into the parking lot. And soon as he climbed out of the sedan, he spotted his parents coming towards him, smiles on their faces. "Hi, guys," he greeted.

His mother, a retired school superintendent for the next county over, wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him down for a hug. "We're so happy for you," she whispered in his ear.

"Thanks, Mom."

"Judy, quit hogging the boy," his father, a lit professor who was still terrorizing students at the university twenty miles away, said. His mother let him go, and Phil's father stepped in for a hug. He pulled away and gave his son a nod, the smile under the silver mustache speaking his love and pride.

"Where are the girls?" Phil asked.

"Christine picked up Suzy an hour ago," Judy answered. "They should be here any second."

"We're right here," a voice called from behind them. "Someone got pulled over for speeding."

Phil bit his lip to prevent a smile from crossing his face as his younger sister glared the oldest of the three Coulson children for ratting her out.

"Christine Marie, how many speeding tickets does that make?" their father asked.

The woman with shoulder-length brown hair rolled her eyes. "Dad, you haven't paid for my car insurance in almost twenty years. Don't worry about it." She then looked over at her older brother gave him a hug. "Congratulations."

"Thanks, Chrissy." He reached over to accept a hug from his other sister. "Thanks, both of you, for taking a day off of work for this."

"It's your wedding day, dumbass, of course we're taking the day off work."

"Suzy—language," their mother chastised.

"Mom, I just turned forty. I'm pretty sure I'm allowed to swear, and you are the only one who doesn't call me Susan." She turned an evil expression on Phil. "Speaking of turning forty—any chance my soon-to-be brother-in-law is going to help devise a sadistic party when you hit the big four-oh in a year-and-a-half?"

"Seeing as how he turns thirty two weeks after my fortieth? No. He knows better than to incite my revenge."

Susan pouted her bottom lip slightly at the news. "I still have some time to convince Hunkalicious otherwise."

"Hunkalicious?" Phil questioned.

His younger sister rolled her eyes. "Please, like you're marrying him for some other reason than his spectacular ass."

Phil sighed and rubbed his eyes with one hand. "Please swear to me, both of you, that you will not grope Clint."

"We will not grope Clint," Christine promised with one hand raised.

"Anymore," Susan finished.

"Enough, girls," their father chided. "Besides, we all know the real reason Phil is marrying Clint—the man can cook. Same reason I married your mother."

"And here I thought the thing Clint and I had in common was our great asses," Phil's mother countered.

"Oh, so you can swear but I can't?" Susan demanded over Phil and Christine's groans.

"Hush, all of you," Judy ordered with a wave of her hand. "Let's get this show on the road."

As they maneuvered through the parking lot, Phil went over the plans. They'd wait in line for their turn in front of the justice, then all go back to Tony's oversized house for a lunch before Phil and Clint took off for the cabin they'd rented for the remainder of fall break. "I know it's not much," Phil said with a shrug.

His father patted him on the back. "It's perfect, son. And frankly I don't give a damn what the two of you do. I'm just happy I don't have to pay for this one." Phil could practically feel his sisters roll their eyes behind him.

As they entered the courthouse, a flash of red to his left caught Phil's eye. Natasha, dressed in a knee-length black shift dress and red heels, stood off the side and gave him a tentative half-smile when he looked over. He waved at her and she approached, heels clicking on the tiled floor.

"This is Natasha Romanoff, our new P.E. teacher. I'm her mentor since it's her first year teaching." The woman nodded hello. "Natasha, these are my parents, Gregory and Judy. And my sisters, Susan and Christine." Everyone shook hands and whatever polite little story Phil was about to tell next vanished from his tongue at the sound of the courthouse doors being thrown open.

In his mind, Phil recognized Bruce and Tony had entered the building, unsurprisingly bickering about something, but all Phil could see was Clint. The man wore a black suit with barely-there pinstripes, and it was tailored perfectly to his body—that had been Phil's single demand for this whole thing.

The other man nodded a quick hello to Phil's family before muttering, "Excuse me for a second," and crushing his mouth against Phil's.

When they pulled apart, they were both a little breathless. "Better?" Phil asked as he ran fingers down Clint's silk, purple tie.

"Yeah," Clint sighed before turning back towards Phil's family. The younger man wrapped Judy up in a bear hug that she quickly returned. "Hi, Mama Coulson."

When he let her go, Judy reached up and gently patted Clint's cheek. "I'm sure your parents wish they could be here. And I know they would be so very proud of you."

"Thanks," he replied quietly with a bashful duck of his head. He turned to Phil's father and accepted a hearty handshake from the older gentlemen.

"Always happy to add another kid to the family, Clint."

"Thank you, sir."

Phil smiled at the sight. Clint had been uneasy around the family at first. The idea of relatives was something the man had gone years without since he'd lost his parents at a young age and was estranged from his brother, Barney. But something happened back in June when the two of them had spent the week at Gregory and Judy's as Phil's mother had gone through another of her Let's redecorate the entire house phases that swung around like clockwork every five years. Since then, Clint had been more relaxed and comfortable around his soon-to-be in-laws.

After Phil's dad released Clint's hand, the man then turned to the sisters and embraced them both in a group hug. Susan caught Phil's eyes and made of show of hovering her hand over Clint's ass before settling it on his back.

"Is this hug time? I wasn't aware this was part of the schedule. Do I get to join in?"

Phil rolled his eyes. "Family, this is Tony Stark, our technology teacher. The polite man behind him is Doctor Banner, he teaches kindergarten. Gentlemen, meet my parents and my sisters."

"Ah, a fellow PhD?" Gregory asked Bruce.

"Yes, sir, in physics. You?"

"Shakespeare."

"I have two master's degrees, in case anyone is interested. Mechanical engineering and business—for the record."

"No one cares, Tony," Natasha said.

Clint laughed and leaned over to kiss the redheaded woman's cheek as a greeting. Even though she was Phil's mentee, Clint had basically taken her in as a little sister in the two months she'd been at the school.

Another round of handshakes and hellos passed by before Clint eagerly rubbed his hands together. "Alright, folks, let's do this."

The group waited as patiently as possible for their turn. Clint asked no less than four times if Bruce had the rings, and every time Bruce quietly reassured him they were in his pocket and took them out to show Clint. Phil tried to hide his snicker at the fact that Bruce was using the same tone of voice he used for his six-year-olds.

Finally, it was their turn. Phil wanted to remember more from the brief ceremony. It only lasted ten minutes; he should've remembered all of it, but not everything clung in his memory. The judge did—a petite, older Asian woman who only came up to the men's shoulders. Clint's goof of grabbing for Phil's right hand when it came time for rings and the embarrassed smile he gave before sliding the white gold band over Phil's knuckles stuck out. And their first kiss as a married couple. The rest was a haze, a blur of the most important words he'd ever say or hear. The two of them signed the license, his sisters signed as witnesses, and it was done.

Phil expected to feel different, but other than the weight around his left ring finger, not much else had changed. It probably just needed to sink in.

The gang made their way back out to the parking lot, and Tony gave his address to Phil's family to put in their GPS. He then twirled and pointed a finger at the newlyweds. "Food is arriving in half an hour. I'm eating as soon as it gets there, regardless of whether or not you two sneak off for a quickie."

"Forgive him," Bruce muttered to Phil's family before physically dragging Tony off. Natasha rolled her eyes and moved to her own car.

Once they all reconvened at Tony's ridiculously-sized home, they barely had enough time to make it in the door before the food arrived. Tony, Bruce and Natasha set up the spread furnished by the Thai place where the guys had their first date exactly one year ago. Phil rolled his eyes when he caught sight of the cake. The topper was two men in tuxes and each had one their arm around the other, until you looked at the back and realized that each man was actually groping the other's backside. "I thought it was fitting," Susan whispered in his ear as she passed him.

They ate sitting around the spacious dining room table. Tony offered champagne to his guests, even though he and Bruce stuck to water. By the time the meal wrapped up, Gregory stood and delicately tapped a knife against his crystal champagne flute. "I suppose it's tradition for the father to make some toast, or at least that's what I was tricked into doing with the girls." He paused a moment to smile at Clint and Phil. "Clint, I have never seen my son as happy as he is around you. Judy and I hoped Phillip would find someone for himself, and you, son, are worth the wait. Now, as a husband to one of my children, there are some rules you must follow. One—you must attend a minimum of two holiday dinners per year at our home. Two—you must smoke a minimum of three cigars with me and be regaled with tales from my youth per annum."

"'Per annum', Dad? Really?"

"Hush, Christine, I'm toasting. Three—you call your in-laws once a week to check in. Or we will hunt you down."

"Yes, sir," Clint responded with a smile.

Gregory raised his glass. "To Phil and Clint." The others echoed their names and clinks of flutes tapping each other rang out.

After cake and coffee, the guests began to disperse. Phil's parents hugged both of the men, and the sisters kissed each of their cheeks. Phil turned and offered to help Tony, Bruce, and Natasha clean up, but Bruce waved them off. "You guys get out of here."

"You mind if we change first?" Clint asked. "I really don't want to spend three hours in the car wearing a suit."

"Fine, but only single people are allowed to have sex in this house, so don't get any ideas," Tony answered.

After swapping out their suits for jeans and long-sleeved shirts, the couple came back into the kitchen to give their goodbyes to their friends.

"Before you go," Natasha said, pulling out a gift bag, "I know you said you didn't want presents, but traditions should be observed."

"Thank you," Phil said as Clint eagerly pulled out the tissue paper. The first thing he pulled out was a large padlock painted red with an ornate key stuck in the lock. He passed the heavy object to Phil, who noted the date and their initials etched on its face.

"It's a love lock. You're supposed to attach it to the railing of a bridge, and then throw the key in the water."

Phil smiled at the thought of what such an action meant. "Thank you, Natasha."

She nodded at him before pointing at the bag. "The other thing is also tradition."

Clint whistled as pulled a bottle of vodka from the bag. "I can't read the label."

"Ugh," Tony groaned. "I remember that stuff. Barely. That is death in liquid form."

Natasha nodded. "Go easy on it."

"Thank you, Tasha," Clint said as he pulled her in for a hug.

"Be good to him," Natasha told him while his arms were still wrapped around him.

"Why does everyone think they need to tell me that?" Clint whined.

"I don't care about other people. I just need him alive until the end of the school year so he can sign off on my paperwork. So try not to kill him with sex until June."

Clint laughed. "Deal."

Phil pushed his husband, his brain still humming at the word, out of the way so he could give the petite redhead a hug. "Thank you."

"Thank you for including me in this."

Phil pulled away with a smile. He turned and extended his hand to Stark. "Thank you for letting us use your house."

Tony mouth crooked up in a soft smile. "My pleasure. Congratulations, guys," he said as he let go of Phil's hand to shake Clint's.

It was Bruce's turn to shake hands with the men. "Cherish this," he said with a smile that didn't quite cover sadness in his eyes. "You never know how long you get to have it."

"Thanks, man," Clint returned, patting the other man's arm.

Phil smiled at the kindergarten teacher. "Yes, thank you, Bruce. And thanks for being on ring duty today."

"My pleasure. My kids are going to be so jealous when I tell them on Monday that it was my turn to be a ring bearer."

The men laughed as they headed out to Phil's car. Once Clint was settled behind the steering wheel he turned to Phil. "Are we ready? Do we have everything we need?"

"I'm looking at everything I need."

Clint rolled his eyes. "God, Phil, don't tell me that since we're married now you're just going to be one giant sap."

"I'll try and refrain myself," Phil promised as he leaned in for a kiss. It was nice kiss, and would've been even better if Tony hadn't have started yelling at them from the front door.

"Quit making out in my driveway! Get out of here you two."

October 12 – Four Years Ago

It was wrong to look at the clock when one of your students was crying his eyes out.

Clint told himself this over and over again, a mantra in the back of his head that sounded like a drum beat, but it was four p.m. Not only was it four p.m., but it was four p.m. on October 12, and, well, he had plans, okay?

You only got one anniversary a year. Actually, most people got two, 'cause they could fall back on the dating anniversary if they screwed up the wedding one, and he was the idiot who'd stacked the two dates.

And Chris Petersen was sobbing.

Chris, if Clint had to make estimations, was the most sensitive kid he'd ever had. He was the boy who didn't want to step on bugs or people's toes, who worked harder than anybody in the school not to hurt people's feelings, and who wrote a lot of poetry in the back of his notebooks. He also had a deadbeat dad, a career mom who barely had time for him, and a dead dog.

The dead dog was new. The dead dog'd apparently, from what Clint'd figured out through the crying, happened that morning, but rather than keep her kid home after she'd put his dog down, Mrs. Petersen'd dropped Chris and a note off at the office and kept right on her way.

The ridiculously ineffective school counselor hadn't been able to calm him down. Neither had Carol, the new and completely terrifying special education teacher who'd found Chris crying in the hallway and tried to talk him off the ledge of dog-related misery. By the time lunch came and went, he'd started to pull himself together.

And then Clint'd told him to hang in there, and— Well.

"He was my friend," Chris snuffled, dragging his sleeve across his face, and Clint pulled himself back into the moment enough to nod appropriately. Chris trained big, wet eyes on him. "My mom's always so busy and my dad decided to go find himself because my mom said that's what selfish jerks do—"

"Uh."

"—and now, Munchkin's gone, too!"

The sobbing started fresh, and Clint reached over to his desk to snag a box of tissues for the kid. When he glanced up, he caught Phil hovering in the hallway, jacket on, bag ready, and a concerned look on his face. He raised his eyebrows, and Clint shook his head.

Come get me when you're done, Phil mouthed, and Clint tried to force a smile as he wandered off.

Once Chris settled back down to sniffles, Clint slid the tiny chair he was sitting on a couple inches closer and leaned his elbows on his legs. "You in the place where I can ask you something?" he questioned. Chris raised his head and, very carefully, nodded. His face was red from crying and his eyes looked swollen. "You ever seen All Dogs Go to Heaven?"

Chris frowned. "Is that a movie?"

"Is that a— Way to make a guy feel old, kid. Yeah, it's a movie. It's a great movie." Chris kept staring him down, so he sighed and continued. "It's about a dog who isn't exactly a great person—"

"But he's a dog."

"Right, a dog, that's what I mean. But you know what makes him a better per—dog by the end? Knowing that he helped out a kid who was lonely and needed a friend." Clint reached forward and, very lightly, nudged Chris's knee with two fingers. "I bet that's all that mattered to Munchkin, knowing that he got to be there for you."

Chris sniffled and dragged his hand across his face again. "But the dog died at the end?"

"Yeah. That's what happens sometimes. And you said Munchkin was pretty sick, right?" Clint waited for the boy to nod. "Sometimes, the hardest part about loving somebody else, dog or person, is knowing when they need you to be brave, and then letting them go."

An hour later, after Chris's mother finally picked him up from the after-school program and Clint felt comfortable leaving the poor kid with his misery, he slumped against the car's passenger seat and resisted the urge to beat his head against the window.

"You do realize that All Dogs Go to Heaven was a terrible movie to illustrate your point?" Phil asked without glancing away from the road.

"Realized it as soon as I remembered the dog was kind of an asshole." Clint sighed and closed his eyes. "What the hell is wrong with that woman, anyway?"

"Who?"

"Chris's mom. It's bad enough that she doesn't return phone calls and sends me back form e-mails thanking me for my 'concern about his academic progress—'" And yeah, Clint pulled out the finger quotes. "—but this takes the cake. I mean, what kind of woman leaves her kid sitting in the vet's waiting room while they off his dog and then brings him to school?"

"Losing pets is a part of life," Phil noted.

Clint twisted in his seat to stare at his husband. "You did not just play devil's advocate about this."

He watched Phil cringe. "I did," he admitted, "and now, I feel slightly dirty." He shook his head as they pulled off the main road and into the strip of restaurants and shops that housed their favorite Thai place. "Can I use the 'it's better than her keeping him out for a week of healing' defense?"

"No."

"I'll make it up to you when we get home tonight?"

And thank god for Phil Coulson's wicked smile and the things it did to Clint's belly. "That, I'll agree to," he decided, and Phil spent a couple minutes too long at a parking lot stop sign to grin at him.

The hostess who recognized them on sight ushered them into a back booth, and Clint had to admit that, work drama or no, it wasn't a bad way to spend their first wedding anniversary. He sometimes still got a little blown away by that, actually. It'd been pretty monumental that Phil agreed to date him at all, let alone marry him and stay married to him. Carol'd voiced her surprise about it at least four times in the last six weeks.

They went over their days while they waited for their dinners and complained together that fall break was a week later this year and not on their actual anniversary. Clint recounted the text message conversation he'd had with Phil's mom over lunch—whoever'd taught Judy to text was simultaneously evil and a genius—and maybe even slipped in a little footsie until Phil rolled his eyes about it.

Just a normal day, mostly, but Clint'd never thought he'd have a stable, warm, together life like this. At least, not until Phil.

He thought about mentioning that but then the food came, and it smelled too good to ignore.

They were about halfway through their meal when something occurred to Clint.

"You ever had a dog?"

Phil paused in the middle of reaching for his glass. "I didn't know the traditional anniversary gift for the first year was an obsession with pets."

Clint rolled his eyes. "Sorry. After the day I had, I forgot to order the scattered rose petals or whatever."

"Would they have been in the shape of a dog?"

Clint raised his hands. "Fine, sorry," he promised. He returned to his plate and tried not to feel guilty, but it was a little hard. Phil was right, but then again, rough days with the kids weren't rough days at a bank or a supermarket. It sat with him in weird ways sometimes.

After a couple seconds, though, Phil set his glass back down. "We had a bulldog," he said, his voice softer than just a minute ago. "I don't remember which one of us conned my parents into getting her, but she was a rescue. Daisy. I was probably eight or nine when we got her, and we had to put her to sleep when I was in high school."

Clint watched him run his finger along the side of his glass for a second. "I'm sorry."

"It was a long time ago," Phil said, shrugging as he picked up his fork. "She's one of the things I remember best from being a kid, though, you know? I think it took us putting her down for me to understand why people consider pets a part of the family."

"I always wanted a dog. Barney and me must've driven my dad crazy about it, but he never budged."

"You wouldn't know what to do with a dog." The corner of Phil's mouth twitched slightly in a smirk. "You'd feed it scraps until you had to roll it out to the yard."

"Dogs love me."

"They love the smell of you, maybe."

"You are, like, this close to not getting your anniversary sex," Clint warned, and Phil laughed when he looked up to see just how closely together Clint was holding his thumb and forefinger. He looked so good laughing, his crow's feet bunched together and his face warm, that Clint couldn't help but reach over and grip his spare hand for a second. At least, it was supposed to be a second.

It ended up being a whole lot longer.

Chris Petersen's dog didn't come up again for the rest of dinner, and neither did Daisy Coulson. They finished their huge plates of food, plus the chocolate dessert they didn't order—"From a friend of yours," the waitress explained—and then, a cup of coffee each. When they asked for the check, the waitress informed them that it'd been paid by someone who, quote, "wanted them too fat and full to do anything that decent people would be horrified by."

Phil and Clint spent all of a half-second look at one another before they decided, "Tony."

Fat and full as they were, it didn't keep them from lazily kissing against the side of their car in the parking lot, coffee-tinged brushes of lips that mostly just promised what was going to come next. Clint felt cold when he finally released Phil so he could go around and actually drive them home, but it wasn't a bad kind of shiver.

Halfway through the drive, a thought occurred to him, and he dug out his phone. A couple Google searches later, and he was so caught up in what he was doing that he didn't even realize they'd made it back to the house.

He must've been grinning, too, because as soon as they were out of the car, Phil was nudging Clint's shoulder with his own. "What are you so wrapped up in?" he asked.

"Nothing," Clint retorted, and closed out his phone's web-browser before Phil could see that he was browsing the results for bulldog puppies.

October 12 – Three Years Ago

Clint knew it was only a matter of time before he had an anniversary turn into a disaster; he'd just hoped he'd get more time in before it showed up. But no, their second anniversary went completely off the rails.

This one landed on a Friday. It also happened to be the Friday before the shortened week of conferences followed by fall break. The kids (and the staff, too) could smell freedom in the air, and when you combined that with the normal high energy of a Friday, chaos was bound to ensue.

To make matters worse, as Clint was in the process of picking his kids up from lunch and taking a bathroom break, the batteries in each of his hearing aids died within minutes of each other. He brushed it off, knowing he had back-ups in his desk drawer. He got his kids back in the room long enough for them to grab their things for math and have them switch places with Jessica Jones's students. As her kids got settled into their places, Clint pulled open the middle drawer of his desk and began rooting around for the backup batteries, but he only found an empty Duracell package.

Mentally swearing, he instructed his students to get started with the journal prompt he had on the board. Judging from their expressions, he guessed he was talking a little louder than normal, but whatever. Pulling up his email, he fired off a quick message to Phil. Even though the other man would be outside for recess duty, Clint had keys to the library and could search Phil's office if need be. The return email appeared quickly in his inbox.

No, I don't have any spare batteries in my office. You used the last two the previous time this happened and swore you'd replace them before this became a problem again.

Clint felt a growl rise up in his throat, but swallowed it. Today was not the day to pick a fight with his husband. Tomorrow? Sure. But not today.

He sat back in his chair and debated about what to do. Half of the fifth graders had already been through his lesson on foreshadowing this morning. He could give the afternoon groups a Drop Everything And Read day, and then give them the foreshadowing lesson next week. But that would be a crunch since the school would be operating on half-days. Clint wouldn't have time to go through everything at the pace he wanted to for a week and a half.

Making the best of what he had, he went ahead and followed through on his original lesson plan. The only modification he made was to have students take turns writing notes on the board for him, and the fact that he taught the whole time while standing on top of his desk.

He saw a flash of blonde hair pass the window next to his classroom door before Carol backpedaled to openly stare at him. She poked her head in and mouthed What the hell are you doing?

Clint ignored her. The sight of him teaching from atop his desk wasn't uncommon; the footprints covering each month of his desk calendar was proof enough for that. But it was usually a brief event—an attempt to make sure everyone was paying attention, driving a point home, singing whatever song or doing a little dance to help his kids remember something important. He never spent the whole afternoon up on his perch. But the upside to this position was his students had to all look up at him, making it easier to read their lips.

Not one to be ignored, Carol wove her way between the desks and came to stand in front of him. She raised her eyebrows in a silent request for more information. Clint rubbed the side of his face with his index finger, which pointed to his ear. Carol learned of his disability the second week they were teaching together when she covered Clint's class while he was called down to the office by Fury for impromptu translation services with a deaf father.

Carol gave him a look of concern and mouthed, "Need help?" Clint shook his head and she gave him a look of uncertainty before shrugging and pulling a few kids to work in her closet of a classroom.

He survived the rest of the day. After walking the kids down to the bus, he printed off the recipes he needed for tonight's dinner. Their customary Thai place was undergoing renovations (the manager sounded honestly sad when he told Clint he couldn't make their annual reservation), so Clint had decided to make his own version Pad Thai at home, as well as a batch of Phil's favorite cookies. He'd already bought ingredients, but having a backup set of recipes handy was probably a good idea.

Normally, Phil stopped off in his room once bus duty was over, but he still hadn't arrived. Clint grabbed his things and was in the process of locking up his room when Steve, the new art teacher, passed him in the hall.

"Is Mister Coulson still in the library?"

"Steve, the kids are gone and it's the weekend. You can call him Phil, even if he is your mentor. And, yeah, I think so, but we're getting ready to head out."

"Big plans?"

Clint didn't catch the fact that Tony was also in the hall until Steve made a face and looked in the technology teacher's direction. Stark was halfway through whatever wittiness he'd just come up with by the time Clint start reading his lips.

"—among other things that your virgin ears do not need to hear about."

Clint rolled his eyes. "Have a good weekend, Tony." He left the two men in the hallway and passed Pepper in the library as she made her way out of Phil's office. The new guidance counselor gave him a smile.

Clint leaned against the door to Phil's office while his husband filled out purchase order forms. "Jealous of Carol being my work wife, so you're trying to pick up one for yourself?"

"What?" Phil asked as he looked up.

Clint noticed for the first time the slightly paler tone to his skin and hint of glassiness in Phil's eyes. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. Did you find batteries?"

"No, but I made it through the day. And you're not fine. You're getting sick."

"I haven't been sick in twelve years. And I'm certainly not going to be sick today."

"Yeah, whatever. Let's go home." Clint put Phil's messenger bag on his unoccupied shoulder and walked Phil out of the library. The pair stopped off at the office to sign out, Clint keeping a hand on Phil's back the whole way out to the car.

The drive home was silent and Clint tried not to become worried at how Phil kept his eyes closed and head against the car window for the ten minute trip. There was a flu bug going around the school, which was not an uncommon event, but teachers (with the exception of Tony who legitimately used every one of his sick days in the few years he'd been teaching) rarely gave in to germs.

Once they were in the front door, they were greeted with a foul smell. Phil slowly moved to hunt it down, but Clint shoved him in the direction of their bedroom. "Go get some rest, I'll take care of it and wake you up for dinner."

Phil turned and signed "New food" in Clint's direction before being shoved once more towards their bed.

It didn't take long for Clint to find whatever pile of bodily fluids their bulldog had left for them. "Bird, you're killing me," Clint sighed.

Upon hearing her name, Birdie slowly approached him with a pathetic expression on her face. Clint bent over and scooped up the not-quite one-year-old dog, holding her to his chest. "Aww, Pup, I still love you even though you're trying to ruin your other dad's favorite rug." He placed a kiss between the dog's eyes before wrenching his head back. "And Phil says I have horrible breath sometimes. Geez, dog."

He carried the dog to the back door and let her out into the fenced yard before gathering cleaning supplies. Once the mess was taken care of, he let the dog back in. Clint emptied her food bowl and silently cursed at the fact that they'd have to probably end up buying some ridiculously priced organic crap since Birdie was too big for puppy food now and nothing they'd tried so far seemed to settle with her stomach. He snuck her a cupful of leftover puppy food and was grateful Phil was in bed and wouldn't catch him and send him off to Petco immediately to find another new replacement for the dog's diet.

Clint stood in the kitchen and weighed his options. He could either carry on with the night's agenda and cook Pad Thai or he could text his mother-in-law and find out how to treat a sick Phil. His husband would probably get mad at having to scrap their plans, but Clint did it anyway. After firing off a text to Judy, Clint at least gathered the necessary supplies to bake the mint chocolate chip cookies that Phil loved dearly. His back pocket buzzed as he measured ingredients, and Clint dusted flour off onto his jeans before reading the incoming text from Mama Coulson.

I'll email you my secret recipe for homemade chicken noodle soup. Don't tell the girls I gave it to you. ;) Tell Phil I hope he feels better soon. Call me if he gets too whiney. Love you. And sorry you got some kinks thrown in your kinky anniversary plans.

Clint laughed aloud at the text. He wasn't sure which grandchild taught Judy how to use emoticons, but they probably regretted it. He also made a mental note not to show Phil the text until he was feeling better; he'd probably die of mortification at the last sentence.

Once the batter was ready to go and had sat in the refrigerator for an hour, Clint put the first batch of cookies in the oven. He set the timer and wandered back towards the bedroom in order to check on Phil and finally change the batteries in his aids since he was sure he had back-ups on top of the dresser. Well, mostly sure.

As soon as he eased the door open, his eyes fell on an empty bed. "Phil?" he called out. Movement to his left drew him to the bathroom where Phil was kneeling in front of the toilet and retching up the leftover casserole he'd had for lunch. Clint wet a washcloth and draped it over the back of Phil's neck before rubbing a hand up and down the man's spine.

Once Phil's stomach was empty, he flushed the toilet and rocked backwards into a sitting position with a groan. He took the cloth from his neck and used it to wipe his face off while Clint filled a little paper cup with water. Phil traded him the washcloth for the cup, swished the water in his mouth, and spat it into the toilet. Clint rewet the washcloth with a new round of cold water before kneeling beside his husband and gently wiping down his face. He leaned forward to place a kiss on Phil's forehead and tried not to grimace at the heat he felt radiating from the man.

Phil weakly shoved him away. "You don't need to get sick, too."

Clint rolled his eyes. "I work in the same petri dish you do. Stop fussing." He stood and stretched a hand down to Phil, who took it and winced slightly at being pulled up from the ground so fast. "Sorry," Clint muttered. "Let's get you back into bed."

After Phil got settled, Clint removed the bag from the plastic trash can in the bathroom and knotted it up. He then took the trash can and placed it on the floor near Phil. He refrained from releasing a happy sigh at the sight of an unopened Duracell package on top of the dresser and quickly removed his aids to swap out the dead batteries for fresh ones. He'd barely put his hearing aids back in and turned them on before noise from everywhere overwhelmed him at once: the smoke detector blaring, Birdie howling, and Phil moaning, "Make it stop".

Clint threw him another apology as he darted into the kitchen. He snapped a "Birdie, hush" before fanning at the detector long enough to silence it. Turning off the oven, he reached in to pull out the sheet of blackened cookies and didn't realize he'd forgotten to grab a hot pad until his fingers jerked backwards in pain. Giving in to the litany of swears and curses that came to mind, he ran his fingertips under cool water until the throbbing decreased slightly.

Once the mess in the kitchen was taken care of, and the remainder of the cookie batter put back into the fridge to be dealt with tomorrow, Clint moved back to the bedroom. He changed out of his work jeans (one of a few pairs that didn't have holes or ratty cuffs) and polo shirt and into a pair of gym shorts and a t-shirt emblazoned with the elementary school's name. The shirt in question had been given to him his first year of teaching and after eight years was worn and comfortable against his skin.

He then gently sank down onto the mattress and curled up on his side to face Phil. His husband's eyes opened halfway and he tried to give him a smile, but it came across as a barely-there tug at the corners of his mouth. "Sorry," Phil apologized.

"For what?"

"Ruining this."

"You'll just have to spend all of fall break being my sex slave in order to make up for it."

"I thought that was already your plan."

Clint laughed and leaned over to kiss his cheek. "Getting you better is my plan right now."

"Who's the sap this year?"

"I thought I should have a turn every now and then."

The two stayed quiet for a second a moment until Phil told him about why Pepper had stopped by his office that afternoon. "Guess Tony just waltzed right into her office—"

"No one is surprised by that."

"—and told her to wear a cocktail dress and killer heels."

"He just assumed she'd go with him to this wedding? Didn't even bother putting a question mark in there somewhere?" Clint asked.

"It's Tony."

"Fair point. Hey, he's not trying to move in on our anniversary, is he? I'm going to have to have a talk with him about that. Wait, she didn't actually agree did she? She seems smarter than that."

Phil attempted a single-shoulder shrug. "I think she sees him as some sort of social experiment. Or the mother of all head cases to help straighten out."

Clint snorted and shook his head before his stomach growled.

"You should go take care of that," Phil suggested. "Just don't let me smell whatever you eat."

"Fine," Clint said before reaching over Phil to grab one of the books off his nightstand.

"Don't even think about it," Phil warned, his eyes remaining closed the entire time.

"Aww, Phil, c'mon. You're not going to read it tonight."

"I know, and you'll stay up late to read the entire thing in one sitting. And then you'll be bouncing around all weekend because you can't keep spoilers to yourself. No."

Clint sighed. "Can't read a book. Burned my fingers. Can't eat Pad Thai."

"You can still eat that."

"Not without you," Clint replied before continuing his whining. "Can't have sex. Again, not without you. Can't find stupid dog food that the snobby pup can eat." He paused to give a dramatic sigh. "Did I mention the no sex?"

"I'm going to ignore you and go back to sleep now."

"Love you, too."

Eventually October 12 – Two Years Ago

The whole thing started on September 28 with the post-its.

Clint stared down at them where they were stuck to the corner of his desk in their full, hot-purple glory. He hadn't even realized that hot-purple was a color that existed in the post-it lineup until right then. Probably for the best, too, because he wondered whether his eyes would ever recover. The top-most post-it was emblazoned with the number fourteen written in dark marker, and a quick flip through the rest of them revealed that they counted down from fourteen to zero.

He thought about tossing them, but he had a before-school to-do list as long as his arm and decided just to leave them alone. Good thing, because halfway through his first class that morning, he realized what the post-its were counting down to.

At lunch, he ducked into the teacher's lounge just long enough to crowd Phil up against the fridge. "Hi," he said, pretty much crumpling Phil's lunch bag between their bodies.

"You know you have lunch duty, right?" Phil asked, even though Clint caught the tiny smile pushing at his mouth.

"Yeah, I know. I just wanted to thank you for the countdown."

"The what?"

"Don't play dumb."

"I'm not." The frown creasing Phil's face actually looked pretty genuine. "What are you talking about?"

"The post-it note anniversary countdown on my desk."

"Clint, when would I have had the chance to sneak into your room long enough to set up a post-it countdown?" Clint watched him shake his head. "It wasn't me."

"Then who?"

"Stark, maybe?" Phil shrugged. "Ask the closet romantic, not me."

Despite his confusion, Clint grinned. "I've known you to get romantic in a few closets. In fact, if the walls of that one in the library could talk . . . "

He wiggled his eyebrows, and Phil huffed a sigh as he rolled his eyes. Clint knew he was the only one in the world who could recognize the warmth the smile Phil tried to hide, or the fondness in his voice when he said, "We have lunch posts."

"Yeah, yeah," Clint responded, but stole a half-brushed kiss before he wandered out of the room.

Stark, predictably, denied knowing anything about the post-its, and Clint—also predictably—forgot they were there.

Until the morning of September 29, when he discovered that the top-most post-it was gone and now displaying the number thirteen.

The thirteen was a twelve on September 30, and, after walking his kids down to the bus that afternoon, Clint came back into his room to discover a manila envelope in the middle of his desk. Someone had printed out an address label for the front, which advertised CLINT BARTON: CONFIDENTIAL in enormous, bold font.

Clint glanced around before he opened it and tipped what appeared to be a magazine out onto his desk. The glossy cover read Male Power and featured a muscular man in a black tank and a pair of black boxer-briefs. Not bad to look at, Clint reasoned, but he still couldn't shake the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

The feeling opened up into a ten-foot wide sinkhole when he flipped to a random page and—

"Okay, whoa, keep your porn at home!" a voice announced, and Clint nearly tripped backward over his desk chair to discover Carol Danvers and Jessica Drew both looming over his desk with predatory grins. Actually, Carol's grin was predatory; Jessica's grin was more awe-struck, and she reached slowly for the magazine. Carol reached over and slapped her hand. "The hell are you reading in your classroom, Barton?"

"I wasn't doing anything!" Clint defended. "It just showed up on my desk!"

"I didn't even know men's underwear catalogues existed," Jessica commented. She tipped her head all the way to the side. "Hey, the mesh ones come in hot-pink!"

"Would you—" Clint started to snap at her, and reached to flip the catalogue closed. The back cover didn't quite flip all the way over, though, leaving exposed a picture of a man who was, well, mostly-exposed. Jessica's jaw dropped open at the skimpy thong on the extremely built man. Clint felt the tips of his ears burn red and tossed the envelope over top of it. "It's not mine!"

"It's on your desk," Carol pointed out.

"And the envelope has your name on it," Jessica added.

"It just appeared here!" Clint spread out his hands. "Two days ago, the post-its, today, the—"

"Filthy, mostly-naked men?" Jessica offered, reaching for the envelope.

"I hate you both," Clint decided, right then and there, and gathered the whole mess up. He shoved the catalogue back in the envelope, opened his bottom desk drawer, and threw it in. "I don't know where it came from, and I don't want—"

This time, the phone interrupted him. He groaned and snatched up the receiver. "What?" he demanded.

"Uh, hi, nice to hear from you, too," Darcy Lewis, the perky new front secretary said. She popped her gum on the other end of the phone. "Who pissed in your soup, Prince Charming?"

"I don't think that's the saying."

"It is if I say it is. Brenna Hamilton's mom is on the line."

Clint sighed. "Of course she is. Patch her through." He waved Carol and Jessica off as the world's most helicopter-tastic "helicopter mom" started into her usual mid-week rant.

When he finished with the (half-hour long) phone call and a bit of grading, he wandered into the library to collect Phil. The librarian was kneeling in the early-reading section, reshelving whatever havoc the second graders caused that day. Clint tried not to stare at the line of his back and ass before he said, "Hey, you ready to go?"

"Depends," Phil said without looking up.

"On?"

"On whether you plan on sharing your after-school porn with me."

Clint groaned. "I hate them."

"I'm sure."

October 1 went off without a hitch, followed by the weekend and October 4. Sure, the post-its kept counting down, but there were no more terrifying magazines.

Except on October 5—post-it countdown day six—when Clint walked into his room after the kids went down to the buses to find the manila envelope on his desk again.

He groaned aloud, grabbed the stupid thing, and marched it down to Carol's room. "You went into my desk?" he accused.

She glanced up from her literal pile of paperwork and scowled at him. "What?"

"I thought you'd let this go, not that you'd dig in and—"

"I have been updating IEPs all day, Barton," she retorted. Clint realized belatedly that her mess of blonde hair was twisted around three different pencils just to stay out of her face. He frowned. "I haven't had time to deal with your drama yet, and I still don't."

"I thought—"

"You thought wrong." She dropped her attention back to her pile. "Go away now, Mama's busy."

Clint rolled his eyes and stalked out of her room. Halfway back to his room's garbage can—the only place the Male Power catalogue belonged—he noticed that this envelope had a different label.

Specifically, it read SERIOUSLY DO NOT THROW THIS ONE AWAY I MEAN IT.

Clint stopped in the middle of the hallway, cracked open the envelope, and slowly slid out the contents. Never before had he been so grateful that the hallway was empty.

Instead of heading back to his classroom this time, he made a straight-and-true beeline for the library. The place was pretty quiet, but he still glanced around to check for students before he walked up and tossed his newest acquisition onto the circulation desk.

"Please tell me this one's you, 'cause otherwise I'm gonna lose my mind."

Phil, who'd been digging through the books that'd been returned that day, twisted around long enough to peer at the item on the desk. Peered, then walked toward it, then—

Then, the unflappable Phil Coulson actually blanched. "Is that—"

"Yeah."

"With an assortment of—"

"Yup."

"And the pages are—"

"Tabbed with suggestions!" Clint finished. Actually, he announced it more than anything else, his voice carrying through the library. Tony popped out of the computer lab like a jack-in-the-box, Steve right on his heels. Clint silently cursed the district's decision to switch to computerized attendance and grade books—and Steve's inability to figure out how either thing worked.

Phil glanced up at him, concern written across his face, and Clint sighed. "The first one, fine, but if this isn't your joke, I'm not sure—"

Steve closed just enough distance between the lab and the desk to get an eyeful of what was spread out in front of them—and then froze. "Is that a whole magazine—"

"Catalogue, we call them catalogues," Tony corrected.

"—filled with, well—"

"Sex toys," Tony confirmed. He leaned bodily over the catalogue. "Oh, wow, some of those are pretty fantastic, guys, I don't know what you're—"

"Give me that," Phil grumbled, grabbing it and rolling it up into a tight cylinder before Tony could study it too closely.

Tony rolled his eyes. "A guy's gotta keep his own life spicy, Coulson. Just because you and your hubby don't believe in trying anything new in the bedroom—"

"You have less than no basis for that," Clint pointed out.

"—doesn't mean some of us don't like to keep our options open. In a variety of shapes. And lengths."

"And colors," Steve observed. Clint turned to stare at him, and watched as the art teacher's ears turned bright red. "I just happened to notice," he defended.

"I think I hate all of you," Clint decided right then, throwing up his hands. He saw Tony start to open his mouth, though, so he quickly added, "Except Phil. All of you except Phil."

He was certain Tony had a come-back for that one, too, when the intercom sparked to life. "Mister Barton, you're needed in the front office. Mister Barton, please apparate yourself to the front office."

Phil sighed. "I'm hiding the Harry Potter books from her."

Clint was only halfway to the doors when he heard Stark ask, "So, are you going to order out of that or what?"—followed immediately by the distinct sound of someone battering him over the head with a rolled-up catalogue.

On October 6, Clint crept back into his classroom after his kids were gone and only remembered how to breathe after he discovered his desk was bare.

On October 7, however—

"Bridge too far, Stark," he finally said, and dropped the pamphlet on May Parker's desk.

Tony nailed his head on the underside of the desk before he crawled out, cables hanging from his mouth and needle-nosed pliers tucked into the pocket of his work shirt. "Wha ah—" he attempted to say, then spat the cords out of his mouth. "What are you talking about?"

"I know it's you," Clint accused.

"I am many things, all of which are wonderful beyond your imagination, but you at least gotta give me a heads up of what amazing deed I've accomplished this time."

"This prank."

"What prank? I'm pranking someone without knowing? I'm a genius!" He paused. "Well, make that 'more of a genius than usual,' because I'm always—"

Clint narrowed his eyes. "Stark."

"Barton?"

"Just own to it."

"Not sure what I'm owning to, here, buddy."

"This." Clint picked up the pamphlet and handed it down to Tony.

Tony sat back on his legs and squinted at it for a few seconds. "It's for a cruise."

"Open to the next page."

"Barton, listen, I don't know if being married to Coulson's finally caused your usually-sharp brain to turn to weird mush or something, but I—"

And then, Tony stopped talking.

He stopped talking, his eyes went wide, and Clint actually got to watch the wheels in his head start jumping to life. He blinked, tilted the pamphlet to the side, squinted, and then, finally, grinned.

A slow-burn Cheshire cat grin that crinkled his laugh lines and sparked in his eyes.

"This is great," he decided.

"Stark—"

"No, no, it's great. Can I keep this? I think I want to keep this. I mean, it's basically The Dirty, Dirty Love Boat. Maybe I could help them with a slogan. 'Swing around the Seven Seas as you swing on your spouse.'"

"Stark—"

"Think Pep'd be into it? We could make it one big double date, the four of us, I bet if we lubed them up with drinks, she and Coulson might—"

"You know this is sexual harassment, right?" Clint accused, pointing a finger at him. "The underwear, the sex toys, that's fine, but this is crossing a line that even for you is a little—"

"Whoa, whoa, wait, hold your horses," Tony defended. He tossed the pamphlet onto the carpet and then rocked up onto his feet, hands in the air. "I am, arguably, an ass, a playboy, a genius, and maybe a little bit of a slut—"

"Little?"

"—but you're right that this is stepping over the lines I usually balance so delicately on." He dropped his hands. "Seriously, it's not me. I mean, c'mon, when've I pulled something as brilliant as this asshole is pulling and not immediately owned up to it?"

Clint opened his mouth to argue, but the noise of somebody clear their throat interrupted him. When he glanced over his shoulder, he saw Darcy standing in the doorway. "Uh, sorry," she interrupted, her usual greeting (involving puns or a comment about Clint's ass, whichever was easier) significantly subdued. "Pepper wanted me to grab you—"

"Where?" Tony asked, grinning.

"—to talk about that student whose mom's in the hospital," she finished. "And by you, I mean the hot one, not the one who kind of smells like batteries all the time."

"The smelly one's you," Tony declared. Clint rolled his eyes—and took the pamphlet—before following Darcy out.

On October 8—the last Friday before fall break—Clint came in to find the post-it countdown unchanged. He frowned, crumpled up the top note, and left the four on display. He spent part of the time his kids were at specials wondering about why the mystery countdown master hadn't swung by and switched out the numbers, but otherwise, he kind of forgot about it.

At least until he came into his classroom after bus duty and found—

"Look, I'm really sorry," Darcy said, sliding off the edge of Clint's desk and raising both her hands. "I thought it'd be funny. You guys are super cute and I wanted to do silly stuff for your anniversary coming up, and I had no idea that you'd freak out."

Clint blinked at her. "Wait, what?" he asked, freezing in the doorway. She dropped her arms to her sides and stared at the floor. "You— It was you? You're the—underwear-catalogue, sex-toy catalogue, swingers-cruise fiend?"

She nodded.

"Why?"

"Natasha and I got mani-pedis, like, my second week here," she said after a few seconds, raising her eyes just enough to glance over at Clint. "And I asked what your deal was, because hi, you're pretty much a man mountain of hot that deserves, like, shrines and stuff —"

"Uh, thanks?"

"—and she told me your whole epic love story with Coulson. Like, from how you guys first hung out at a sports bar by accident to the fact you pretty much fell in love after your first date—"

Clint's ears burned. "It wasn't that fast," he defended, but then again, they'd practically started living together two months after they started dating.

"—and how you proposed right before your first anniversary. And it just— God, I don't know how you got to be hot and adorable, with your dog and the wedding pictures Natasha showed me on her phone and your Thai place, but . . . " She shrugged. "I've been working the whole last week and a half to get people to chip in to get you guys a spa day or something—I have like a hundred bucks already —but I thought it'd maybe be fun to leave random crap on your desk and kind of freak you out first." She dragged her fingers through her mess of curls. When she sighed, her whole body kind of bounced, like she was trying to release unwanted tension. "I really just thought it'd be stupid-funny, that's all."

Clint stared at her for a couple more seconds, until the silence apparently got to be too much and she dropped her head to stare at the floor again. She'd only been at the school for a couple months, and Clint knew she was a little—well, she was Darcy. There really wasn't a better word than that.

Finally, he asked, "Spa day?"

Darcy's head jerked up. "Uh, yeah," she answered, frowning at him. "I'm here before anybody else and most days I'm one of the last people to leave and you know what I've noticed? You and Coulson are here all the time. I think you work harder than pretty much everybody, except maybe Bruce. I mean, Phil does AR and you pretty much know the history of every family who's had a fifth grader since the beginning of time. I really wanted to do something nice; I just did what I always do and wrapped it up in a big ball of crazy ribbon."

Despite himself, Clint grinned a little. "Crazy ribbon?"

"The only kind of ribbon I know."

He laughed at that, and he was kind of glad to see Darcy start to crack a smile. She rocked back on the heels of her shoes—flats today, but neon-green ones covered in sequins that made them look like snake skin—and he sighed. "Listen, the catalogues were kinda weird," he finally said, "but I appreciate you trying to do something decent for us. Crazy ribbon and all."

Her eyes sparked. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. Just stick with the post-it countdown and the end surprise from here on in, okay?"

"I can do that. Listen, I—" She hesitated, chewing on her lower lip for a second. "I love that this whole place is like a family. I love how much everybody gets along and likes each other. That's really cool. So if this screwed it up—"

"It didn't," Clint interrupted, "as long as you, y'know, stop."

"Done!" she agreed.

On October 12, the last day before actual fall break, Clint walked into his classroom to find the post-it countdown at zero and a pretty ridiculous hot-pink envelope on his desk. When he opened it, a whole variety of gift cards fell out: one to Starbucks, one to the Thai place he and Phil always went to, one to the bakery Phil constantly got scones from, one to the movie theater in town, one to the fancy pet-store that sold all sorts of gourmet pet stuff .

I figured this'd maybe be better than a spa day, the note from Darcy read.

Clint'd never seen Darcy grin as hard as when he stopped in the office to hug her before he and Phil left for a long weekend away.

"I'm not letting you near the Starbucks card," Phil warned on their way out to the car.

Clint laughed. "Good luck with that."

October 12 – One Year Ago

"This is the worst of all our anniversaries," Clint grumbled from behind the cotton candy machine.

"You know that's a lie," Phil replied, and handed off another spool of candy to an already sticky-faced first-grader.

Clint sent him a sour look before plucking another paper stick from the packet and starting to wind more cotton candy.

The idea for a fall fun fair had originated somewhere on the first floor of the building, although where, exactly, Phil wasn't sure. Bruce'd vaguely mentioned at one of the payday happy hours in September, and Phil thought he'd heard murmur in the front office at some point, but no one seemed to know exactly who had decided it would be a good idea to team up with the PTA and host a miniature carnival on school grounds. And really, it was a carnival; Thor Odinson had somehow managed to secure not only a wide array of "throw the ball in the cup" games but also a bounce house and one of those inflatable obstacle courses.

If Phil were being honest, he'd admit he liked the idea of an all-school event in the fall; a chance for parents and teachers to see each other as human before parent-teacher conferences.

What he didn't like was—

"We paid for the boarder's," Clint groused, shaking his head. "We rented the place. We booked the room. Set the whole thing up 'cause of your sister getting that award—"

"I told you three times we don't have to go to the reception," Phil said with a sigh.

"—over our break, and now we miss out on our first night of kinky hotel sex because of this." Clint gestured to the cotton candy machine in front of him. "A first-grader could've handled this, Phil. Pick any one of Bruce's kids, even, they could—"

As if on cue, a crash sounded just beyond the propped-open gym doors, and a dozen-plus people turned to look as one of Thor Odinson's children—the oldest, Phil recognized, and a first-grader—darted into the gym and ducked under one of the prize tables. "It is fine!" Thor himself announced, coming through the doors and opening his arms. "A few of the fishbowls from the goldfish game fell off the table! The fish have been rescued!"

Most of the parents and children turned back to what they were doing, but Phil watched as Thor scanned the gym before stalking out toward the classrooms. The Odinson boy only reappeared after his father was long-gone.

Phil handed off another couple sticks of cotton candy before glancing back at Clint. "You were saying?"

Clint huffed. "Kinky hotel sex."

"Or kinky bedroom sex," Phil muttered under his breath, and Clint grinned before showing off his cotton-candy making skills to a couple of fourth graders passing by.

The two of them were scheduled to man the cotton candy table for the whole length of the fun fair—after school until seven, four hours originally devoted to driving to a quiet hotel and, well, spending their anniversary in bed—but by about six, the foot traffic started to dwindle. Phil snagged Clint's wallet from his back pocket and left him standing at the machine while he went to pick them up a dinner of hot dogs and potato chips.

He only made it as far as the ticket booth outside before heading right back into the gym.

"Wha—" Clint greeted him as he reached around and shut off the cotton candy machine in the middle of one of Clint's more complicated stick-twirls. "Phil, what's—"

"I am about to give you the anniversary gift you didn't even know you wanted," Phil replied. When Clint didn't budge, he broke his usual professional character and snagged Clint by the arm. "Come with me."

"I don't—"

"Just come," Phil repeated, and ignored when Clint muttered something that sounded distinctly like another thing we could've done at the hotel all afternoon.

The October sun was swiftly setting outside, a sure sign that the outdoor games would be ending soon, excepting one thing: Tony Stark. Specifically, a gloating, grinning Tony Stark who laughed aloud as a third grader's valiant effort at a well-honed pitch sailed far to the left of target.

The ball pinged off the dunk tank's metal cage and the kid grumbled.

And at Phil's side, Clint froze.

In Phil's defense, he'd forgotten about the dunk tank at all, mostly because he'd stalwartly refused to sign up for a round despite all of Thor's promises that the kids wouldn't be able to hit the target. Steve'd kindly taken one for the team (and then spent three days blanching every time Carol mentioned wet t-shirt contests), and Jasper, the part-time speech pathologist Bobby Drake, and Darcy all agreed to suffer the indignity as well.

So, apparently, had Tony Stark. A dry, grinning Tony Stark who announced, "C'mon, someone's got to have better hand-eye coordination than that! Did Mavis Beacon teach you kids nothing?"

Very, very slowly, Clint looked over to Phil. "Pinch me."

"I'll do you one better," Phil offered, and held up the five dollars of tickets.

Tony, unsurprisingly, kept gloating through the whole exchange, though his smile slipped noticeably when Clint stepped up to the line and handed Pepper, the ticket-taker, his five pitches worth of tickets. "You're not allowed to play."

"Nothing says I'm not," Clint replied, stretching his arms over his head.

Tony looked immediately to Pepper. "Miss Potts, he's a teacher. Teachers aren't allowed to play dunk tank when other teachers are in the dunk tank. It's against the Geneva Convention or something."

"He paid," Pepper said serenely. Phil detected a hint of a devilish smile.

"I'll pay five hundred dollars if you take the balls away from him right now. In fact, take all balls away from him, any ball in the universe, maybe don't let him near tightly-packed wads of tinfoil—"

"Why, Stark?" Clint interrupted. "You scared?"

"Scared? Scared?" Tony stared at him. "You have the world's creepiest ability to throw anything at any other thing and hit it. You've made backwards blind shots at the trash can from across the room, Barton."

Clint weighed the baseball between his hands. "So?"

"So, I can add and I'm currently dry and— Augh!"

Phil wasn't certain whether Tony's helpless shout or the splash was more satisfying, but then, they came one right after the other. When he broke the surface of the water, he sputtered and shook his head. "Okay, a little warning next time, you could drown a guy mid-rant."

"One down," Pepper observed.

"No way is he doing that again, once is enough—"

"I bought five tickets," Phil pointed out. Tony shot him the world's dirtiest glare, but Phil simply smiled back. "A present."

"Is this revenge for giving Thor your e-mail address after you tried to skip out on this thing for—" Tony glanced around at the crowd of kids and parents that was slowly gathering around the dunk tank. "—totally mundane Friday evening things that only ever happen on October twelfth?"

"Happens more often than that," Clint responded as Tony hauled himself up onto the seat.

Tony rolled his eyes. "You keep saying that, but I— Gah!"

Phil decided he liked the splash the best.

Two hours later, after Tony was unceremoniously dunked five times and all the cotton candy had finally gone home with already sugar-high children, Clint pressed Phil up against the car in the mostly-empty parking lot and kissed him. It wasn't the promised "kinky sex" kiss Clint'd complained for three days that he'd miss out on for the fair, no urgency or demand, but it was lazy and tasted like spun sugar. Phil hooked fingers in his husband's belt loops and returned the favor for a long while, until they were both a little breathless and someone nearby laid on a car horn.

"Get a room!" Tony jeered from inside his sports car. His hair stuck up at weird angles, and Phil could tell at just a glance that his shirt was still damp.

"That was the plan 'till the fun fair!" Clint returned, and he and Phil both laughed when Tony flipped them off before gunning the engine and racing away.

They were still laughing, inches away from one another, when Clint commented, "Officially the second-best anniversary yet."

"Second?"

"Well, you did marry me the other time. Pretty hard to beat that."

Phil raised an eyebrow. "Only pretty hard?"

"Hey, knowing you, you might be able to pull it off. You did buy me tickets to dunk Tony."

"I just knew they were the gift for the man who already has everything."

"I do already have everything," Clint replied, and his hands climbed slowly up Phil's sides. "Like I said, I got to marry you."

And it was amazing, really, that even after five full years together, Phil still felt bashful and stupid when Clint was so bare-facedly sincere. "I love you, too."

"Yeah, you do," Clint informed him, and kissed him again.

A Few Days Before October 12 – This Year

Their friends were horrible at keeping secrets. Well, mostly Steve and his too-earnest face. So what was supposed to be a surprise fifth anniversary party at Tony and Pepper's became an act-surprised fifth anniversary party.

It took place on a Sunday evening, a few days before their actual anniversary. Pepper invited the couple over for dinner, and the men played along at being ignorant up to and including seeing a number of familiar cars parked in and around the driveway of the Stark mansion. They walked in to the huge house to a resounding chorus of "Surprise!"

Clint clasped a hand to his chest and asked "For me?"

Phil gave an eye-roll and gentle shove at his husband while smiling and thanking the guests.

Outstretched arms came toward them, mostly Phil's family at first. The parents, followed by Susan and her brood—husband Mark, and her three high school aged sons. Christine, her husband, their son and daughter went last. Handshakes, hugs, and back-slaps were then traded back and forth with the members of their school family.

A smattering of finger foods and decadent desserts were the food offerings of the evening since Brad and Andy—Susan's fifteen-year-old twins—had peanut allergies and weren't allowed anywhere near things like Pad Thai. Phil caught Clint eyeing the sweets and elbowed him in that direction.

"You want anything?"

Phil shook his head no and moved towards where Bucky and Natasha were talking quietly with each other. As he approached, Bucky paused his conversation to give a smile and "Congratulations" to Phil.

"Thank you," he replied with a smile before turning to Natasha. "You sure you're okay to take Birdie while we're gone? We tried to board her last year, and she absolutely hated it and us for a few days when we got back."

"It's fine," Natasha reassured him.

"Where are you guys going?" Bucky asked.

"Back to the cabin we rented on our honeymoon." Phil answered before giving a shy smile to Natasha. "Need to make sure a certain item is still attached to a nearby bridge."

"Yeah, but that's going to be a Day Two activity," Clint announced around a mouthful of cheesecake as he walked up to the trio. "I have other priorities in mind."

"Let me guess," Natasha said, "you got him a couple of ties for your anniversary present?"

Clint's smug grin was enough of an answer.

"I'm missing something," Bucky replied.

"I married a clothes whore," Clint explained.

"The phrase is actually 'clothes horse,'" Phil corrected.

Clint shrugged. "I like my way better. Anyway, the rule is that someone in this marriage can only own a certain number of ties. If he goes above that number, I get to find ways to ruin the extras." He made sure to give an exaggerated waggle of his eyebrows to go along with the last part of his explanation.

"And I now know way more about the two of you than I needed," Bucky said causing Clint to laugh.

Natasha raised a single eyebrow has her old friend. "James, maybe you need to start investing in some ties to give to someone."

Bucky smirked at her in return. "Say, Nat, a certain friend of yours wouldn't be allergic to dogs, would they? Wouldn't want you to miss out on some benefits because you're dogsitting."

Natasha shot him a look that made Phil cringe internally. "I'm going to go talk to Steve," she announced before turning and walking away.

"Nat—no," Bucky pleaded while chasing after her. "Nat, I'm sorry!"

"You have any clue what that was about?" Clint asked around another mouthful of dessert.

"One half is pretty obvious; the other I'm not touching with a ten foot pole."

"Smart move. Oh, heads up, Tony's moving in to talk to Mom."

Phil sighed. "I'll take care of this, you go mingle."

"You're not going to tell me to avoid eating only dessert tonight?"

Phil shrugged. "Why waste my breath?"

Clint leaned in closer with devious grin. "Don't even bother with that act. I know how much you love my methods for burning off the extra calories."

"Does that mean I'm getting my ties before our actual anniversary this year?"

"I think an arrangement could be made."

Phil grinned and pulled Clint in for a cheesecake-flavored kiss before making sure Tony wasn't being too much of himself around Judy.

"Well, hope for a late-November blizzard in Virginia," Tony stated.

"Why would she be hoping for that, Stark?" Phil asked.

"Oh, hush," Judy said while swatting at her son's arm. "I was just asking when he was going to come back and join us for Thanksgiving—"

"Because that went so well?" Phil muttered.

"You just hate the fact that I've now seen every one of your baby pictures," Tony replied with a smirk.

"—and this time he can bring Pepper, and it would be lovely."

"Pepper would be lovely, yes, I would agree to that," Phil said.

"Judy, I, unlike your miscreant son, will sincerely hope that travel plans to Virginia will be canceled so we can join you for Thanksgiving festivities. God knows you don't make me want to go back to drinking like my in-laws."

"Be nice," Judy reprimanded. "Those people gave you a beautiful wife."

"They also make me miss alcohol more than the first graders. Okay, that's a lie. More than the third graders, let's go with that."

"They can't be that bad," Phil countered.

"They live on a farm, Coulson. A farm. You've seen the shoes I wear. They are all way too expensive to wear within a mile of manure."

"Well," Judy said turning to Phil. "What about Bruce or Natasha? Will they be joining us this year?"

Phil smiled down at her. He loved his mom's willingness to take in his friends who didn't have family around for holidays. "I haven't asked yet."

"Well, October is going to be half-over soon. You need to find out."

"I'm well aware of how far we are into October, Mom."

Two hours and a few glasses of champagne later, Phil found himself off in a corner chatting with Pepper. He looked around the room at the touches she'd added and the laughter that easily filled the large space. "You know, when we were here for our reception, this place just seemed huge and empty. You've made his house a home."

Pepper smiled at him. "Clint warned me about you getting sappy at these kinds of things."

Phil shrugged. "Champagne probably isn't helping matters."

Pepper laughed before placing a light kiss on his cheek. "Thank you," she said with a shy grin. "Oh, I almost forgot—Steve!" The art teacher looked over from where he was discussing something with Darcy, Carol, and Bruce. Pepper waved him over. "I forgot to tell you, Tony got extra tickets to that art gallery opening in a few weeks. You want to come? You could bring a date."

"Umm, sure," Steve replied. "I'd be happy to go. I don't know if I can find a date by then."

Pepper rolled her eyes. "You've walked by a mirror at some point in your life, right?"

The other man blushed, but it became even more noticeable when the words "You could bring your coffee friend" fell out of Phil's mouth.

Steve's blond eyebrows shot up in surprise, and Phil caught him sneaking a quick look in Bucky's direction before the art teacher schooled his face into a more neutral expression. "Heard about that, huh?"

Phil shrugged. "Not everyone knows. And I'm not going to tell."

"Thanks," he replied softly.

A loud, electronic squeal interrupted the conversation causing Pepper to sigh. "I told him no karaoke tonight," she muttered before walking away to detour her husband from his latest round of antics.

"Look," Phil said, "and this could be the champagne talking, and you don't have to pay attention to this since I'm not officially your mentor anymore, but—" He paused and looked over to where Clint was gently correcting their niece's fingers into the proper sign for history. Annie had harbored a bit of a crush on her Uncle Clint since the first time they'd met when she was three, and Phil couldn't really blame her. "I wasted a whole year. Who knows how much more time I would've thrown away if he hadn't have cornered me in the library after that staff meeting, demanding a date.

"I'm not saying you've found a perfect match, maybe you have maybe you haven't. But you're never going to know unless you give it a shot. Don't be an idiot like me and be too scared to give it a try."

He caught Steve's attention drift over to the brown-haired man in a conversation with Christine and Susan. Phil tried not to cringe outwardly at the sight. "They're probably interrogating the new blood; you might want to go rescue him."

"Yeah," Steve breathed. He began to walk away, but turned back a moment later. He worked his mouth but no words came immediately. He shook his head with a smile and turned back to walk toward Bucky.

"So are you ready to get of here yet?" a hot breath whispered against Phil's neck before Clint snuck a quick kiss there.

Phil leaned back against Clint's chest when a strong arm wrapped around his waist. "I take it you are."

"You just had to bring up ties. It's all I've thought about for the last two-and-a-half hours."

"Technically that was Natasha," Phil pointed out, and then giggled at the eye roll Clint gave him.

"How much have you had to drink?" Clint asked at the sound of his husband's laughter.

"I like the way the bubbles feel on my tongue."

"I can think of some other things I'd rather feel on my tongue," Clint hummed against his neck, and Phil had to swallow a moan.

"We should say goodbye," Phil pointed out.

"We've been married for five years—"

"Four years, three-hundred-sixty-three days."

"Whatever, nerd. They'll put two and two together if we sneak out of here. They should all be used to it by now."

"Are we going out the backyard?"

"Seems like the easiest escape route at the moment."

"Are you going to fall in the pool again?"

"That was one time, Phil. And are you going to be trying to shove your hands down my pants? Because that's the only reason that happened."

"I'll try and restrain myself."

"Only when we walk by the pool. And when I'm driving. Otherwise, your hands are more than welcome."

Phil turned in his husband's arms and kissed the man's jaw. "Love you," he breathed.

Clint caught Phil's lips against his own before pulling away and saying, "Love you, too. Now can we please leave?"

"Fine, but you're explaining to Mom why we left without telling her goodbye."

Clint paused a moment, obviously weighing the actions at hand. He shrugged. "Worth it."