NOTES: In this chapter, the school rallies together to collect canned goods to help their community.

"You know if you help your boyfriend win, he automatically loses, right?" Clint asked as he sorted the color-coded score sheets into piles by classroom teacher.

Steve sighed. "Is there anything you don't turn into a contest?"

Clint considered this for a moment. "Sex," he answered, "but I'm working on that."

Clint's classroom sometimes reminded Steve a little of a big top, full of color, life, and maybe just a hint of clutter. The kids had recently finished up a project where they made eight-page newspapers covering the events of their literature circle books, and all of the projects hung from clothes line in front of the window, available for casual browsing. Clint worked hard to ensure that he always showed off everyone's work, even when it didn't qualify as the cream of the crop.

Steve appreciated that, because he tried to do the same in the art classroom.

Steve was also bent over the yearly flyer for the canned food drive, proof-reading it for what felt like the thousandth time. When he'd arrived at the school years earlier, Clint'd run the drive entirely on his own. It'd been mostly out of necessity—Phil'd just picked up the Accelerated Reader mantle, and the book fair used to happen a week before the canned food drive, knocking him all the way out of the running—but he'd turned into a mad man trying to cover everything. That's really why Steve offered to help total up the winners that first year.

That, and Steve remembered the Thanksgivings when he and his mom'd relied on donations from the church for stuffing, green beans, and the other side dishes. He liked watching the kids light up when they put together that they were helping other people, including some that might just be down the hallway.

Plus, having his kids design "Happy Thanksgiving" cards to send off with the donations instead of the usual handprint turkeys helped his sanity.

"How're we looking?" Clint asked, and Steve dragged a hand through his hair.

"I'm never going to stop being convinced there's a typo in here we just can't see," he replied, and Clint grinned around the pen he'd stuck between his teeth. Post-it labels assigning piles of score sheets to the appropriate teacher were stuck haphazardly around his desk. "But the dates are right, so I think we're good."

"Perfect," the other man enthused, and made grabby-hands for the flyer. "Darcy's practicing her best Michael Buffer voice for tomorrow."

"Who?"

"Michael Buffer," Clint repeated. Steve frowned at him. "You know, WCW? 'Let's get ready to rumble?'" Steve shook his head. "Are you sure you have a dick?"

He rolled his eyes. "Because I don't know who Michael Buffet is?"

"Michael Buffer," Clint groaned, leaning forward to rest his head on his desk. "Oh my god, it's like you're not a real boy."

"Well, there's a rumor in the teacher's lounge that suggests James Barnes can confirm that."

Clint already burst out laughing by the time Steve turned to see Bruce Banner wandering into the classroom, his hands in his pockets and a tiny, half-pleased smile playing across his lips. He wore his usual tweedy pants and half-wrinkled button-down shirt, except—

"Is that fingerpaint?' Clint demanded, pointing to the smears on Bruce's forearm and his rolled-up cuff.

Steve resisted the urge to groan. "Finger paint is like marijuana—"

"Who calls it 'marijuana'?" Clint demanded.

"—it opens up the door to every other messy craft in existence, never mind—"

"It wasn't one of mine," Bruce promised, holding up his hands. "Ellie Sinclair came in for a cool-down at the end of the day and found her artistic voice."

Ellie Sinclair was a fourth-grader on a behavioral IEP who hated every teacher and paraprofessional in the entire school—except for Bruce. Carol'd authorized Ellie to take cool-downs in the kindergarten room, provided she didn't interrupt Bruce's students and stuck to art projects and books.

And, apparently, smearing Bruce's forearm with paint.

"All up and down your arm?" Clint asked as Bruce came around and leaned against the corner of his desk. Bruce opened his mouth to reply, but Clint abruptly shook his head. "Never mind, I want to go back to how Barnes knows Steve's a real boy."

Steve rolled his eyes. "I thought personal lives weren't a competition."

"Sex isn't a competition," Clint corrected, "and only because I somehow married the one guy on the planet who isn't into that."

"Technically," Bruce noted, "Tony is the only guy on the planet who is into that."

Clint ignored him to point his pen at Steve. "So, did you bone?"

"I think that's sex," Steve pointed out.

"I think that's a denial," Clint retorted.

"And in the interests of peace-keeping," Bruce offered, spreading his hands in the world's most mollifying gesture, "I was joking. All I heard was that there was a dinner."

"You heard about that?" Steve asked. It actually sounded a little more like a demand than Steve was entirely comfortable with. He wanted to at least keep the dinner dates with Bucky a little under the table until they felt more settled.

Or until Steve felt like he could touch Bucky without his heart taking flight out of his chest, either one.

"Wait, there was an actual date?" Clint chimed in.

Bruce raised his hands higher. "Rumor in the teacher's lounge," he replied, complete with a nervy little smile that suggested he knew more than he was telling. "Confirmed only by Steve's inelegant flailing."

Clint snorted hard enough that he grimaced in pain. Steve shook his head and reached for the list of preferred donations, just to proofread that as well. When no one said anything for several seconds, he admitted, "There was a dinner."

"And bo—"

"And dinner," Steve cut Clint off. The other man frowned in distaste. "What?"

"Has no one ever told you to grab life by the thighs and seize it?" Clint returned. Bruce's brow crinkled at the slightly-altered proverb, but the other man wasn't deterred. "Hot guy, looks good in a pair of army pants, wants to jump your bones. You spend too long dancing around him with dinners and flirting, he might not jump anything by the time you're done."

Bruce tilted his head slightly to one side. "Didn't you 'accidentally' brush up against Phil a few thousand times in the year between him transferring here and your first dinner?" he asked.

Clint paled slightly. "That's not—"

"And I think I heard a story about thigh-groping, now that we're on the topic . . . "

"Why are you even here?" Clint cut in, and Steve gave into the urge to laugh. Clint flipped him the bird before turning his annoyance back on Bruce. "Don't you have Dr. Seuss books to alphabetize or something?"

"Actually," Bruce replied, a tiny smile still playing across his lips, "I came to ask about Thanksgiving."

"And here, I thought you'd tell us more about Clint's failure to launch," Steve broke in.

This time, Bruce grinned. "Maybe I'll drop in a few of those stories at Xavier's this week, given that the only person who didn't realize Clint was interested was P—"

"Thanksgiving's a holiday," Clint interrupted, and Steve and Bruce shared victorious little grins as the fifth-grade teacher started scribbling more names on post-it notes. "Fourth Thursday in November, first became a holiday during the Civil War thanks to—"

"I more meant whether you're taking reservations for Thanksgiving with your in-laws yet," Bruce interjected.

At which time, Clint's meandering list of trivia was interrupted by him throwing his arms in the air like he was signaling a field goal. "Not my thing," he responded immediately, shaking his head. "Phil's thing. Phil's thing, he's possessive about it, and I don't want a repeat of last year."

Steve's mouth ticked up in a smile. "When you forgot to pass along how many acceptances?"

"I will 'lose' your boyfriend's Odinson green beans," Clint threatened, finger quotes and all, "and you will never get to have victory sex with him."

Steve rolled his eyes while Bruce laughed. "I'll talk to Phil, then," the kindergarten teacher said.

Clint nodded. "You better."

"Place your bets, ladies and gentlemen," Clint announced as he passed Xeroxed forms around. There were roughly twenty staff members who'd come out to payday happy hour, and it was time to start the annual pool. The annual pool for the canned drive, specifically.

Pepper looked down inquisitively at the form everyone was filling out. "Why is there a category for picking the class with the fourth highest total?"

"Because Odinson will buy out the top three spots for his kids," Jessica Drew answered from a table away.

"Is that jealousy I hear over the lack of pizza party for your class?" Bucky challenged.

His team lead rolled her eyes. "Please, Barnes. A few free slices of Papa John's is not worth dealing with that family."

Pepper smiled and turned her attention back to the betting form. There were the usual questions: How many total cans will be raised? On what day will Fury have to confiscate the microphone for the PA system because Darcy and Clint completely lost control during morning announcements? Which class will sucker Stark into buying cans for them?

"No one," Tony muttered to himself as he scribbled those two words as his answer for that particular question on his betting form.

"You know," Pepper said as she leaned in closer to her husband, "you could help yourself win some points on your own betting form by swaying the outcome on which class you're going to help."

"Nope, I refuse for that to be my reputation anymore. I will not be conned into going to Kroger because of the puppy dog eyes and pouty lips of eight-year-olds. Puppy dog eyes and pouty lips of attractive young women? Been there done that, but it was usually for contraceptives or even a pregnancy test a time or two." It took a moment for the heat of Pepper's glare to register. "Oh… really? Still too soon to joke about that?" He shrugged before raising his voice over the din of the bar to drive home his original point. "And whoever is telling their class that I'm loaded and willing and able to buy all the canned carrots—why is that even a thing, by the way—can knock it off."

Clint scoffed at him. "We don't have to tell them—you point out how rich you are all the time."

"And even if you didn't say it with words," Darcy continued, "it would be pretty obvious by your clothes, car, watches, fancy toys, and your wife's shoes."

Tony flipped her off as a response; she returned the gesture with both of her hands. Pepper covered Tony's bird with her own fingers and pushed his hand back down to the table before letting it go and giving it a little pat.

"I mean it," he told her. "I'm not doing it this year."

"Of course you aren't," she reassured him half-heartedly because she knew it was a bald-faced lie.

He gave her a look of shocked betrayal. "You don't think I'm serious?"

"I rarely think you're serious, Tony."

"I'm serious about plenty of things. Orgasms, for example." Pepper made sure to give a proper, wifely eye roll at his loud declaration as she took another sip of her martini. "And this. I'm dead serious about this, Pepper. This— The getting sucked into big, anime-esque, tearful eyes to raid the canned goods section of some convenience store at eleven o'clock for potato pearls—whatever the hell those are—is seriously no longer a thing."

Pepper shook her head and lowered her voice so she wouldn't besmirch his reputation too much. "You, despite what you may say otherwise, are a total sucker for helping those kids, and you know it. You could buy a car with the amount of money you spend on Girl Scout cookies each year."

He rolled his eyes. "No, you couldn't."

"Well, maybe you couldn't, but the average American could."

Tony waved off her comment. "Eating frozen Thin Mints is the closest I get to believing there might be a god out there somewhere. It has nothing to do with the kids."

"Whatever you say, dear."

Tony leaned backward on his stool a bit and began waving a handful of fingers at her. "Nope, no. Don't do that. I know that tone. That's your You're wrong and I'm going to prove it to you tone of voice. I strongly dislike that tone."

"Why? Because I'm always right?"

He pulled a face of dismissal, but never actually formed words to argue her statement. "Look, make you a side bet."

"What kind of bet?" she asked before taking another sip of her drink.

"The usual."

Their usual bet involved the following rules: if Pepper won, Tony gave her a grand to spend on whatever she wanted. If Tony won, he got a blowjob whenever and nearly wherever he wanted (obviously nothing to compromise their jobs, and for the ten millionth time—not in her office, Tony. Never where there is counseling of children.)

Pepper had once pointed out that she could get a grand out of him whenever she wanted. He'd shot back that the same could be said of his version of victorious spoils. She made sure the only touch he received was from his own hand for five days to prove him wrong.

Focusing back on their conversation, she asked, "So if you don't sneak cans into a class for some kids, you win, and if you cave—which you will—I win?"

"Yep."

"Deal."

The clink of her martini against his water sealed their bet, and Pepper began to plot which of the younger students she met with on a regular basis she would use to her advantage. You know, for the good of the canned food drive.

"I get it, I do," Jessica Drew said, spreading out her hands. "Family first and everything. But also? Day spa."

Phil bit down on the edges of his smile and purposely refused to glance up from where he was sorting through the recent book returns for a very specific picture book for one of her students. A book she'd arrived to pick up and then hoard for him, since apparently they'd discussed it in class that morning and she wanted to send him home with it the next day.

"I thought this was a ladies-only retreat," he pointed out as he sorted through a pile of battered Goosebumps.

"We're making an exception," Jessica responded. Phil raised his head to glance at her, and she heaved a sigh. "We're trying to get the group rate," she admitted, and he smirked before going back to work. "We've got me, Carol, Ororo, and a couple maybes, but Cage punked out on us to go spend time with the in-laws—"

"Imagine that."

"—and either I expand our membership to the gays, or I'm forced to hang out with Carol's awful college roommate." He glanced up at her again, and she scowled. "She's a kindergarten teacher," she explained. "Fairy dust and constant smiles and all that sunny-side-up bullshit. Rainbows throw up when she walks into a room, Phil. Rainbows."

He laughed and, finding the book, pulled it out and quickly checked it in. "You've met my mother, right?"

"I think once, really quick."

"Then you know she would hunt us down and personally drag us back for dinner." He checked the book out and then handed it over the desk. "Sorry, but no."

Jessica narrowed her eyes. "I will rat you out to Steve for colluding with Clint to bring in extra cans for his class," she threatened.

"You'd have to give Steve information he doesn't already know for that to happen," Phil responded, and smiled as she turned on her heel and stalked out of the room.

Truthfully, Phil wouldn't have accepted the invitation to the day spa even if his mother wasn't the hunt you down and drag you type. Not because he disliked the concept of a spa outing—though, admittedly, that was a small part of it—but because he loved Thanksgiving. He loved the food, he loved the companionship, and he loved that it was one of the handful of events every year where he, his husband, his family, and his friends all got to come together for a long weekend and really enjoy their time.

Clint mocked him sometimes for having a secret "holiday spirit." He'd hidden it almost through the entire Christmas season their first year together, until he'd pinched-hit as Santa at the school's holiday assembly and Clint'd noticed how much he enjoyed it.

Phil usually responded by reminding Clint how much he enjoyed the holiday smorgasbord Judy put together.

Speaking of Clint, Phil barely had time to start checking in his pile of returned books after Jessica's departure before Clint came flying into the library. The canned food drive always turned his competitive streak up to eleven, and today was no exception.

"I'm not going back to Safeway so you can pull away from Cage again," Phil said by way of a greeting.

Clint grinned. "Seven ahead and it's only Wednesday. We're always slow-starters, we're bound to win." He hoisted himself up onto the circulation desk. Phil rolled his eyes. "Only surprise so far's Banner. Usually it's like herding cats with the kindergartners, but he's got a whole pile down there."

"Not even Steve follows the progress as obsessively as you do, you know."

"Hey, you're always complaining about how I could be more organized."

"At home, not in the canned food race."

"Maybe it'll translate."

Phil raised an eyebrow. "You've been the head of this for six years," he pointed out. "I gave up on hoping this'd teach you to sort your socks a long time ago."

Instead of keeping up the banter, though, Clint just grinned at him. "You love it."

"Keep telling yourself that," Phil returned, but he had to admit that he was smiling, too. He went back to checking in books to keep Clint from noticing, though. "Did you want something, or is this just my daily update?"

"I remember when you used to get all excited when I came to flirt with you in the library."

"And I remember when Stark walked in on us in my office, so let me ask you again: did you want something?" Clint waggled his eyebrows, and Phil sighed. "Besides that."

"I have to thank you for the Safeway run."

Phil rolled his eyes. "You 'thanked' me sufficiently last night, or did you forget the part where I could hardly drag myself out of bed this morning?"

He resisted the urge to roll his eyes a second time when Clint flashed him the world's most self-satisfied smirk. Though, if he was honest, he'd have to admit watching the line of Clint's side and back as he twisted around and leaned back enough to open one of the drawers on the desk, steal a stick of gum out of it, and then sit back up.

"You think Bruce is getting some?" he asked once he started chewing.

Phil frowned at him. "What?"

"I'm trying to plot against him," he replied, and then waved off Phil's concern. "He challenged my honor as a seductive bastard, it's a long story. Anyway, you think he's getting some? Think I could use that?"

"No," Phil said, shaking his head. "To the first part, not to whether you could use it." He paused for a second. "You could always get mom and the girls to harass him about it at Thanksgiving."

"Yeah," Clint mused, but then he turned around to look at Phil. "He RSVPed, then?"

"Yes. Although his reply e-mail did include the part where, quote, 'your husband refused to acknowledge that I accepted the invitation.'"

"Your mom almost skinned me alive when Stark, Nat, Bruce, and Carol all took us up on it the one time," Clint defended. "I thought I'd be voted off the island."

"She did really like Carol," Phil noted as he put the checked-in books back on the cart.

"Which is why I'm extra-glad they're doing the spa day thing instead of tagging along." He chewed his gum contemplatively for a moment. "So, just Banner and Nat?"

Phil nodded. He leaned back in his desk chair and watched as Clint shifted around on the desk just enough that they could look at each other. He had an extra button of his shirt undone and his sleeves rolled up. That, combined with the messy hair, hinted that it'd been a long day even before the nightly can-count round-up. Phil would be glad to drag him home.

"Tony and Pepper are headed out to the farm," he said after a couple seconds of admiring his husband, "the girls are doing that spa day, and apparently the feud between Darcy and her second-cousin twice-removed is over. It'll just be the four of us."

"Cool," Clint replied, but it didn't sound cool. He swung his legs idly. "It's kind of weird that the group keeps dwindling," he added. "I mean, the first couple years, it was the whole crew. They keep pairing off, we keep losing the usual suspects."

"Well, no one could have expected that Tony would con someone into marrying him," Phil pointed out.

"I heard that!" Tony bellowed from the computer lab, and both Phil and Clint laughed.

Clint slid off the desk after that, though, shrugging as he moved. "I like the big holidays," he admitted. He leaned his hip slightly against the desk and shook his head. "That's all."

"I know," Phil said quietly. They'd talked more than once about the childhood Clint'd struggled through, and how different his holiday season'd always been from the norm. Phil—secret holiday spirit and all—liked giving him the big family events and putting up the ridiculous decorations. Even if Birdie did have a habit of trying to eat low-hanging ornaments at Christmas.

Clint nodded a little and flashed Phil a smile. It had just enough of the shy, sad Clint in it—the Clint he liked to keep hidden—that Phil spent a minute scanning the stacks before he stood up, hooked his fingers in the sleeve of Clint's shirt, and kissed him lightly. He felt the tension in Clint's body uncoil even before he stepped away, and rubbed his hand along Clint's arm. "I'll be good to go in half an hour," he said.

Clint grinned, normalcy restored. "And I can thank you for those cans all over again?"

"If I can survive it," Phil returned, and Clint laughed.

He was almost all the way out the door, and Phil on his way to reshelf the books on his cart, when he called through, "At least we know we'll hold onto Nat."

Phil glanced over at him. "Oh?"

Clint grinned. "Yeah. Because if she ends up all coupled up, I'm making sure we drag him into our family along with her, case closed."

Bucky heard footsteps enter his classroom. They were too light to be Steve's—not that his brain automatically assumed it would be the art teacher. Hoped? Sure, but didn't assume.

Instead, the footfalls belonged to Natasha. She walked in and meandered around the desks to stand next to Bucky in the middle of his classroom. "It's driving you crazy having all these cans in here, isn't it?" she asked with a smirk on her face.

"I'm running out of room. I wanted to the kids to work in groups tomorrow, but how can I when I've lost an entire corner of my class?"

"Just wait till Friday."

Bucky groaned his response. He stared down the canned vegetables that seemed to be reproducing like Tribbles and spreading everywhere despite the fact that it was only Wednesday. He knew deep down he should be proud of his students for caring so much and being so generous with their donations, and all the food they'd be able to donate from his class alone should put a smile on Steve's face.

And Bucky was becoming a huge fan of smiles on Steve's face.

He was jerked out of his reverie when Natasha's manicured nail poked him in the cheek. He tried to slap away her hand, but her reflexes were too quick.

"Thinking about him again, huh?" she asked, the smirk now blossomed into a full-on, feral grin.

"Maybe."

She scoffed at him. "James, you are the worst liar." She paused to stretch exaggeratedly in order to make sure a certain art teacher across the hall wasn't within earshot. "So, you hit that yet?"

Bucky rolled his eyes. "Unlike you, I believe there can be more to a relationship than just sex."

Natasha shrugged her disagreement. "I'll take that as a no."

"Do I even want to know how detailed the betting pool is for this subject matter?"

"Probably not, but if you could move things along around the twentieth of the month, I'll give you a cut of the winnings."

"Why am I friends with you people again?"

"Because we found you a hot piece of ass, that's why," Natasha answered. "You should do something about that."

"The level of hotness, or the fact that it is merely a piece of an ass and not the entire thing?"

She shoulder-bumped him. "You know what I mean."

Bucky looked down at her with a skeptical look. "Sometimes I think you're more of a dude than I am."

"Probably."

He turned so he could face her full on and crossed his arms over his chest. "Speaking of hitting it, how are things going with your beneficial friend?"

"We're not discussing this."

"Oh, so it's fair for you to come in here and interrogate me, but I can't return the favor?"

"Basically."

He shook his head. "You're no fun."

"I'm plenty fun," she said with an evil grin.

Bucky grimaced. "Okay, just because I want to know who you're banging doesn't mean I want details of the actual banging. I have enough experience walking in on you from college to last me a lifetime. Anyway, I actually get to go home for Thanksgiving this year. Wanna tag along? You know my mother thinks of you as her fifth daughter."

Natasha eyed him wearily for a moment before answering, "You're an idiot."

"What?"

"You think if I go with you it will distract your mother and sisters from ganging up and asking a billion questions about Artsy McHotness—"

"Okay, you know I'm going to have to tell him about that nickname."

"—when in reality you should know full well that I will easily be swayed to their side with homemade pasta and perfectly-cooked fish. You won't stand a chance."

He sighed. She was right, as usual—not that he'd ever admit that part aloud. Bucky'd hoped that if she tagged along for his short trip home, he could distract his family with his friend and tales from the old days, but no. Natasha would play right into the hands of his sisters and mother. And the five of them were terrifying enough without his old friend's assistance.

"So what are you going to do instead?" he asked. "Join up with Drew and whoever else for the spa getaway thing?"

Natasha shook her head. "Banner and I usually join in on the Coulson family get-together." Bucky's eyebrows shot up in surprise, causing Natasha to shrug. "Phil's parents always want him to bring home friends who don't have families around. It used to be Stark, too, back in the pre-Pepper days. But now it's just Banner and I."

"You staying with Phil's parents?"

"No," she responded. "Phil and Clint take their guest room. Banner and I stay at a hotel."

"Same room?" Bucky prodded.

She rolled her eyes. "We're adults and it saves money."

Bucky shrugged. "Just wondering what your sexy friend thinks about you spending the night with another man in a hotel."

Natasha mirrored his posture, crossing her arms underneath her own chest and even for Bucky the sight proved to be a teeny bit distracting. "Maybe my sexy friend won't mind, because he's the one I'll be sharing a hotel room with."

Bucky's eyebrows knit together in concentration as he took in her expression—one that screamed of a challenge to call her out on such a statement being the truth. As a result, Bucky began to laugh. Hard.

"Yeah, right," he said, once he got his breathing under control. "Banner's, what, ten years older than you? Mister Goody-Two-Shoes being all adorable and singing songs about letters with six-year-olds? Like that's your type. And judging from his arm hair alone, he has to strongly resemble a gorilla when he's naked. There's no way you'd be into that."

"Have a good night, James," was her only response as she gracefully spun on her toe and sashayed out of his room.

"There's no way," he called out after. He never got a response. "No way," he muttered to himself. "Right?"

"Wait, wait, okay, hold up," Tony interrupted, and almost snagged Diego by his t-shirt to drag him back into the computer lab. "I was being sarcastic. It's like a joke that you don't really mean." The first-graders stared at him. "You can't annoy Mister Coulson enough to convince me to buy cans for your room, is what I mean," he explained, and he swore to god, they all whined in unison.

Tony hated the canned food drive. He hated the way the kids got whipped up into a frenzy about it, he hated the stupid games the specials played to earn extra cans for the usual classrooms, he hated Thor Odinson's voice echoing down the hallway, and he hated this. Because here was how it happened every year:

Some wolf in sheep's clothing colleague of his mentioned casually that Mister Stark happened to have a lot of money, and if only some class could convince him to part with it for canned goods, well, wouldn't that be lucky?

He suspected Rogers. Rogers garnered that kind of pull with the little snot-nosed hellions.

But now it was Thursday, and Tony felt like he'd been dropped in the middle of the freaking Hunger Games. Especially since, this year, every wide-eyed pleading look and well-timed lip-wibble served as a reminder that there were blowjobs on the line.

And money.

But mostly, blowjobs.

"But you said you'd buy us cans," Chrysanthemum pointed out. No, really, her parents actually named her that. Tony hoped she found a great job in the future that'd pay for her years of therapy.

"No," Tony replied, and leveled a finger at her. Most the other members of marauding horde were finally returning to their educational math video games. "I conditioned possible purchase on a condition that can never happen."

"What?" asked Lewis.

Tony sighed and planted his ass on the corner of his desk. Chrysanthemum, Diego, and Lewis all stared at him like he was about to explain the meaning of life. "Okay, look," he said, and spread out his hands in front of him. "You ever go to the store and ask your Mom—"

"I have two dads," Chrysanthemum interrupted.

"You're a Doctor Phil special waiting to happen, then," Tony informed her, and waited until she frowned to continue. "Anyway, you're at the store, you ask your appropriately-gendered parental unit for a candy bar or whatever, but they don't want to give it to you. So, what do they say?"

"You'll ruin dinner," Lewis answered, and wow, did he sound bitter about that one.

"It wouldn't be fair unless Poppy and Violet get them too," Chrysanthemum replied.

Tony tried not to visibly shudder at those names. He hoped to hell they were cousins or something, because otherwise, somebody needed to call children's services on those fathers. "What else?"

"Maybe if you clean your room?" Diego attempted.

"Bingo!" Tony announced. He snapped his fingers and everything, catching the attention of some of his less-engaged ankle-biters. He waved them all back to their games, then pointed at the current three-child congregation of the Church of Tony Stark. "And what happens if you actually clean your room just like you're told?"

Lewis crossed his arms over his chest. "No candy," he muttered.

"Exactly." Tony crossed his arms over his chest and shrugged. "So, see, I was doing to your class the same thing that your parents've been doing to you since they realized how Pavlovian kids are."

"But we're losing," Diego said. Well, whined, honestly. Diego whined it.

"We only have a couple cans," Chrysanthemum added.

"Everybody's gonna make fun of us," Lewis chimed it.

Diego nodded. "We'll be the worst in the whole school—"

"—we won't get a shouting-out from Mister Barton on the big speaker—"

"—and Mister Coulson buys cans for Mister Barton's class, Violet said so—"

"—that we needed the corn for our house and took it out of my backpack—"

"—called it 'spirit of givingness' and that means doing nice things, not—"

"Enough!" Tony announced, because holy crap, it was like the millions of voices that cried out before Alderaan exploded, those three little kids whining in unison. They all buttoned up their lips right away, and he took a second to remember what actual quiet sounded like. Well, quiet interrupted by video game laser blasters and mouse-clicks, but whatever.

Diego, Lewis, and Chrysanthemum all peered up at him pathetically.

He scrubbed a hand over his goatee. "Okay, look, here's how we're going to play it," he said after a couple seconds, "but you need to keep your big mouths shut about it." The kids all nodded in agreement and leaned in, like they were about to get the inside scoop on a big secret. Tony leaned in, too, but mostly because he didn't want the rest of them nosing in and creating a giant first-grade dog pile. "You're all in the after-school program, right?"

They nodded again.

"End of the day today, and every once in a while until the end of the school year, I'm gonna come down to the after school program and I'm gonna grab you three. And you'll come up here, with me, and help me out with whatever I need. Wiping down desks, stacking chairs, testing out new software, anything I say."

Diego's eyes widened to the size of small planets. "Like spies?"

"No, not like spies, you're six," Tony corrected. Diego frowned at him. "Like— I don't know. Sidekicks or something. Helpers."

"Like Robin," Chrysanthemum informed Diego, who at least looked a little happier.

"Right. And in return for your sidekicky services—which had better be awesome, by the way, since I'm agreeing to this and it literally goes against everything I believe as a human being, this altruism stuff—"

"All-tree-ism?" Lewis repeated.

Tony waved a hand. "Mister Rogers's 'spirit of givingness,' whatever. Just focus." The kids leaned in even further. They were maybe just a little bit cute. Maybe. "My point is: you do this for me, you might find a bag of canned goods hanging in each of your coat cubbies tomorrow. No questions asked."

Their faces lit up like freaking Christmas trees. Tony put a stop to that by holding up his hands. "You tell a living soul, and I swear to you, I will eat every can of creamed corn myself."

"We won't," they promised in creepy first-grade unison, and then, miraculously, finally went back to their desks to play their games. Thank god.

it doesn't count as a loss if i'm exchanging the cans for goods and services, he informed Pepper in an e-mail a couple minutes later from his throne of wheeled glory in front of the classroom. He sent the message and everything—convenient since, less than three seconds later, Chrysanthemum popped up next to his desk right then.

He resisted the urge to shriek in surprise. "What?" he asked.

"Miss Potts said you were the nicest," she half-whispered. Conspiratorial-like, like maybe she knew at the tender age of six that she was dangerously close to ruining Tony's street cred.

Tony frowned at her. "What?"

"She said you were secretly the nicest and liked the can games."

"She did, did she?"

The kid nodded enthusiastically.

"Well, she was at least two-thirds lying," he returned. "Back to the game. I want all those numbers munched, or whatever you do in math games these days."

Chrysanthemum grinned delightedly at him and then ran back to her seat to finish the damn game.

When Tony turned back to the computer, there was an e-mail waiting. I think "caving" necessarily includes reverse bribery, the e-mail read, in Pepper's disgustingly perfect spelling and grammar. Guthrie's first-grade class, then? Kroger after work?

i think you cheated, Tony fired back, fast enough that the keyboard clattered a little. your little spy outed you as the mole. i think for that, you need to give me a grand and the other, sexier, much better reward. only fair.

It was all of thirty seconds before a reply chimed in his inbox. Or, I'll wear the Beyonce boots tonight, and then the boots you're about to purchase me next time. Everybody wins.

Tony pretended to consider it. deal, he sent back after a record-breaking ten-second delay, and then went to stop Meredith from dismantling her mouse. Again.

Thor'd barely made it through the mudroom and into the kitchen when he felt a child latch onto each of his legs. He laughed, leaned over to kiss Jane's cheek, and then crouched down to wrap his large arms around his daughter and younger son. Once he pulled away, he let his gaze switch back and forth between their faces like he was observing a tennis match. "I am missing a child," he declared.

"He got in trouble," Alva informed her father with a wicked gleam in her eye.

"Would you like to get in trouble, too?" Jane asked without looking up from the pasta salad she was preparing.

"No, ma'am," Alva answered, her back going ramrod straight at the threat of a punishment.

"Then go play. Dinner will be ready in ten minutes." The pair of children scurried out of the kitchen as Jane set the salad aside to check on the chicken baking in the oven. "He's mad at you. That's why he got in trouble."

Thor felt his eyebrows knit together in confusion as he reached for a piece of fruit. "Why is he mad at me?"

Jane gave him a stern look. "Did you not hear me just say dinner will be ready in ten minutes?"

"I have not eaten since breakfast. A mere banana will not ruin my appetite."

"Bad day at work?"

"Just busy. I spent all my afternoon with the Hansons, debating which wood to use for the cabinets."

"Haven't they already changed their mind about that like four times?"

Thor shrugged his answer since his mouth was full. Once he swallowed, he replied, "To be fair, this is only the second time for the cabinets. You should have seen how long it took them to decide which side of the house the garage should be on." He quickly finished the rest of the banana and threw the peel in the giant bowl on the counter set aside for the compost. "You did not say why Henry is upset with me."

"The canned food thing," Jane answered as she pulled the glass dish containing chicken breasts from the oven. "Which I would like to reiterate is not a good idea. Our kids need to learn how to lose at competitions, and this is prime evidence of that."

"Did they not win?" he asked. "I thought I brought enough for all three of their classes to ensure victory."

And it was true. He, along with one of construction workers, had brought in a gross of canned goods for each of the Odinson children's classes. And that was on top of the supplies Thor and Jane had already sent them to school with each day this week.

"Of course they won. Each of their classes won for their grade—they'll get the promised pizza party."

"Then why is Henry upset?"

"Why don't you go ask him yourself?" Jane said in attempt to dismiss him from the kitchen so she could finish getting dinner ready. "Hopefully by now he's done throwing things."

Thor heaved a sigh as he made his way toward the stairs. All his children had tempers, something he was only half to blame—not that he would ever point that out when Jane was in earshot.

He'd noted a voicemail from Mister Barnes on his phone, but he hadn't had time to check it yet. He considered pausing halfway up to the second floor of the home to listen to the teacher's side of things, but decided to hear what his son had to say first.

Knocking on the door to the boys' bedroom, Thor waited a moment but didn't get a response. "Henry, open the door."

"I don't wanna talk to you," came a small voice from inside.

"Henrik, I build houses for a living. I know how to take a door off its hinges if need be. You do not want to know what your punishment will be if it comes to that."

He heard some angry muttering from within the bedroom before the door opened barely an inch.

Thor took what he could get and pushed the drawing-covered door open the rest of the way. Henry was already back in his top bunk, eyes red from crying. The room was in disarray as a result of whatever temper tantrum the boy had thrown.

Sticking his hands in his pockets, Thor walked over to stand next to the bed. He was at eye level with his son, even though Henry wouldn't look at him. "Why are you upset?"

"You lied," Henry sniffled quietly.

"And how exactly did I do that?"

"You said you were going to bring a bunch of cans to my classroom this morning and you didn't. You lied."

Thor took his hands out of his pockets and crossed his arms over his broad chest. "I clearly remembering purchasing all the cans needed to ensure your class's victory today. And I remember loading them in my truck and taking them to school this morning."

"Yeah, but it wasn't you who brought 'em to my class," the boy argued. "You didn't do it."

"I care to dis—"

"I've been telling the kids in my class all week how you were going to show up on Friday every year like you always do. How you were going to walk into class with more cans than anyone could count and make sure we got our pizza party."

Thor nodded. "I see. So even though you still won—not necessarily earned, but won—your pizza party. You are still upset with me?"

"It wasn't you who brought them to class."

He sighed. "Do you know who the man was who delivered the cans to your classroom?"

Henry shrugged. "Maria's dad. He works for you."

"Yes. I brought him with me this morning so he could help me. Do you know why your school collects those cans?"

The child fought an eye roll. "All we've heard from Mister Rogers and Mister Barton on the announcements the last two weeks is how the cans are needed to help families have food for Thanksgiving."

"That's right, because not all families have a pantry as overflowing as ours."

"I still don't see why it wasn't you who brought the stuff in this morning," he grumbled.

Thor leaned in slightly toward his son. "Can you keep a secret? One that you can't tell anyone, especially your classmates?" It was the first time since Thor walked into the room that Henry actually looked interested in speaking with his father; the boy nodded. "Do you know what Hector was doing three years ago?"

"No."

"Looking for a job. He couldn't find one, and his wife—Maria's mother—had to stay home with all their kids because they couldn't afford daycare." Thor leaned in further before sharing his sensitive piece of information. "They were one of the families who received food from the school so they could have a Thanksgiving dinner.

"Son, you have no idea what it is like to be poor, to be needy. And, frankly, neither do I. But I know the look in the eyes of the men who come to me begging for work. And I am grateful that I've never had that fear of not being able to care for my family."

Thor leaned back away with a shrug. "But now Hector doesn't have that fear in his eyes anymore. He can feed his family. And this morning, he got to help feed other families who were in the same place he was." He grinned as he recalled Hector proudly placing three cans of creamed corn he'd brought from his own home on top of the stack of green beans he'd wheeled down to Mister Barnes's class. "How could I deny him of that joy?"

"He did seem pretty happy when he got into the class. So did Maria. They ran around the room giving everyone high fives."

"And did you high five them in return?"

"No," Henry responded with a hint of shame in his voice. "I was mad that you weren't there."

"We will be writing an apology letter to Hector, Maria, and Mister Barnes for your poor attitude."

"But—" the boy began to whine.

"And," Thor continued in a voice loud enough to carry over his son's, "I can ask your mother to arrange for a doctor's appointment at the same time as your pizza party if your poor attitude continues." The threat caused the boy's mouth to clamp shut. "You will also not be allowed to do anything involving a screen—television, video games, computer—this weekend. It will give you time to think about what it is like to have less than what you have in your life.

"Do you understand now why I did what I did this morning?" The boy gave a half-hearted shrug as an answer, and it was Thor's turn to fight an eye roll. "Good enough. Give me a hug, and then we're eating dinner. And you and I will be responsible for dishes this evening."

"But it's George's turn," the boy whined. Thor raised his eyebrows in a silent challenge. "Fine," Henry huffed.