They meet in the rafters.
Obviously, because that's completely normal.
"A bit cramped and dark to be doing your homework, isn't it?" Clint asked, raising an eyebrow as he popped open one of the air vents covers and peeked in at Peter.
"Better than dealing with the risk of them," Peter jerked his head down and sighed, "Destroying my papers."
Clint laughed at that, light and agreeable. "Fair enough," He admitted, "But is it comfortable?"
"Comfortable enough," Peter shrugged, mimicking Clint's raised eyebrow as he continued, "And besides, I figured that nobody would disturb me while I was in here."
Clint neatly popped into the air vents and grinned. "You figured wrong, kid."
"I know that now." Peter groaned and buried his face in his hands. "Yeesh, Clint, can't you take a hint?"
"Never. Leave, and deprive you of my company? That would be cruel."
"What would be cruel is if I didn't finish this essay on drugs and handed in a blank sheet of paper tomorrow." Peter answered in complete deadpan. "For some reason, I always bump into you guys while I'm supposed to be doing my homework, and I always have to stay up late to finish it."
"Hey, kid, I'll even help you with your essay. No problem-o. No distractions, at all."
Peter squinted at Clint's left hand. "You have a bedazzler." It sounded like he had tried to make it a question, but had ended up too tired to even try to figure it all out and put up any pretense.
"Well," Clint coughed awkwardly, shuffling as much as one could while a few (more than a few) feet off the ground. "Yes. But."
Peter levels him with a flat stare. "Homework." He whines, low but high and sicking his Puppy Dog Eyes of Doom on Clint, and damn if they aren't efficient. "Come on, Clint, I'm already really low on my average."
"But Peter," Clint says, and he's not whining, because that's what Peter does, not fully grown men obsessed with the color purple. (Well. Maybe. Just a little.)
"But Clint," Peter mimicks Clint's voice, crawling forward and out of the air vents. "Peace and quiet!" He grumbles, throwing his hands up into the air. "You guys are destroying my average!"
"Superheroes don't need good grades," Clint says dismissively, and Peter would agree with him, he would, but...
"Easy to say when you're freeloading off of Mr. Stark and don't need an actual job." He grouched, raising an eyebrow in challenge.
Clint spluttered, "Look, I'm not a freeloader, I go on dangerous missions to..." He paused, and then sighed, "Alright, so I'm a bit of a freeloader."
"A bit." Peter sounded duly unimpressed.
"A bit." Clint agreed, voice hardening and just daring Peter to say otherwise.
Peter doesn't say anything, but he smirks at Clint, as if that isn't twice as bad as anything that he could say.
"Peter," Clint groans, and Peter finally cracks a smile, full and bright and laughing.
"Alright, alright," Peter pushed himself off of the wall and flipped, before webbing himself gently to the ground. "So, what do you say that we start by bedazzling all of Natasha's shirts?"
Clint offered Peter a shark like grin. "I like the way you think, kid." He smirked.
"So do I." Peter agreed.
He supposed homework wasn't that important...
(Oh how he would regret that when he was still working on it at midnight.)
