The first sign that maybe somebody in his life was up to no good came when Pepper jumped out of her skin at the question, "What are you doing?"

"Doing?" Pepper repeated, blinking. She sounded totally calm, but Tony noticed the little flicker of panic in her expression—and, more importantly, the lightning-quick way she exited out of Pinterest. "I'm just browsing the internet."

He narrowed his eyes. "Really?" he responded, and she nodded. "At the risk of incurring your marital wrath, when did you start 'just browsing' anything?"

Pepper scowled at him. "I browse."

"Psychology journals and cookbooks, maybe, but the internet? The endless, unlimited, cat-and-porn filled internet?" He shook his head. "The day you surrender your razor-sharp focus to plain old browsing is the day Banner buys a Hummer."

She rolled her eyes. "If you're only here to pester me—"

"Pester? No. Offer my wife some water and a snack before retreating back into the garage, on the other hand . . . " He trailed off, hands raised, and for a split second, Pepper actually looked a little guilty. He pursed his lips, studying her. "But if you need help—"

She raised her eyebrows. "With cats and porn?"

"With, you know, whatever." He smirked. "Although, if you are looking for porn—"

Finally, Pepper smiled. "Go back to the garage, Tony," she instructed, waving him off.

The second sign, unsurprisingly, popped up about a day and a half later.

"I don't know what demon possessed the first graders today, but—" Tony announced as he walked into the library, but he paused the second he spotted Clint and Coulson. Or, more specifically, the second he registered the stricken looks on both their faces—and the way they abruptly stopped talking. He blinked at them. "What?"

Phil shrugged. "Nothing."

"Did I interrupt a fight? Because please, don't postpone the world's most boring domestic dispute on my account."

Clint frowned. "We're great at domestics," he defended. Phil shot him a delightfully pissy little glance, which he promptly ignored. "What? Our make-up sex is legendary."

Tony shuddered. "On the long list of things I hate imagining, your sex life is at least somewhere in the top ten."

"Finally, something with agree on," Phil retorted, his mouth almost twitching into a smile. "And while we're on the subject: contrary to popular belief—"

"Or just your belief," Clint offered.

"—not everything that happens in this building concerns you."

Tony propped his hip against the circulation desk and shrugged. "As a general rule, sure," he commented, "but the second you start acting squirrelly, all bets are off." Phil rolled his eyes, and Tony seized the opportunity to steal a peek at the guy's bulldog-themed notepad. "And," he added, "when I discover that you're sitting on a mile-long cooking and shopping list? Those bets are double off."

Both Barton-Coulsons immediately lunged for the pad, complete with Clint swearing under his breath. Tony tried hard not to grin when Phil grumbled, "Just go away."

"And miss out on ribbing you about throwing a party without me?" Tony retorted. "I'm hurt."

"It's for book club." Phil jerked his head at his husband hard enough to give Tony whiplash, but Clint just shrugged. "We, uh, joined a historical fiction book club," he said, rubbing the side of his neck. "Didn't want to tell you 'cause we knew you'd give us shit about it."

Despite all his best (and worst) efforts, Tony grinned. "You're right about that," he agreed, clapping them both on the shoulder.

But the third and final sign of workplace malfeasance—the grand reveal, really—popped up when Steve dumped his reusable grocery bag all over the parking lot.

A literal torrent of curse words that cascaded out of the art teacher's usually pretty mouth, and Tony grinned. "Language, Rogers," he teased, and Steve glared at him as he stooped down to clean up the—

Streamers.

And paints.

And little blank wood cut-outs of birds, butterflies, and leaves.

Tony gaped at the mess for a moment before joining the swears like a sailor in the parking lot club. "You're planning the damn party without me!" he spat. Steve's ears immediately flared red. "Is this why Phil and Clint have a to-do list? And why I caught my wife looking at Pinterest the way most women look at pictures of Channing Tatum?"

"People hide that?" Steve wondered, but he raised his hands when Tony glared at him. "For the record," he stressed, "I thought we should tell you before the invitations went out, but Bucky worried you'd swoop in, go overboard, and—"

"Since when do I go overboard?" Steve cocked his head like a mock-confused puppy, and Tony sighed. "Fine, I go overboard," he acknowledged, "but only when the situation calls for it. Like when my best friend and his terrifying other half produce their first-born child."

"And you'll have a lifetime to spoil that kid rotten," Steve pointed out. "Let everybody else have the baby shower. Especially since you'll claim his first through third birthdays."

Tony snorted. "First through thirtieth," he countered, "and only if I show restraint." Steve's soft little smile helped against the dull ache of betrayal blooming in Tony's chest. He glanced down at the mess surrounding them. "Do I at least get to know what we're making?" he asked.

True to form, a blush crept up Steve's neck. "They put a bunch of forest-themed nursery decorations on their registry," he said. "Bucky thought we could paint the cut-outs and put it together into a mobile. All we really need is a motor." He paused, smiling slightly. "Know where we can get one of those?"

Tony shrugged. "Maybe," he replied, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't bite back his grin.

Birdie let out a low growl when she hopped up to her usual spot on the couch, which was currently covered with spreadsheets displaying Accelerated Reader test scores for the entire third grade . She started pawing at the pile like a cat in order to manipulate it into a comfortable place to sleep, but instead, she was just starting to make a mess of things. "C'mere, pup," Clint said as he scooped up the dog so that she could sit on his lap. "Your other dad will turn you over to the pound if you mess up his Excel sheets." The dog harrumphed as she sunk into his lap, and he completely understood.

Don't get Clint wrong, he loved his husband more than he ever thought it was possible to care for someone. But during the week leading up to the Accelerated Reader party at the end of every year, Clint honestly considered an open marriage just so he could sleep in someone else's bed and not have Phil constantly toss and turn worrying about leaving a kid off the invite list or not having enough food or prizes donated or stressing out about a chaperone cancelling on him .

"Anything I can do?" Clint loudly asked in the general direction of the kitchen where Phil was once again manipulating pieces of paper to organize the schedule for the five millionth time.

"I'm good," Phil replied.

"Sure you are," Clint muttered.

"Heard that," Phil said.

Clint smiled and rubbed Birdie behind her ears; he could feel her melt against his thighs as he massaged her favorite spot. "Sorry your other dad is a nutcase." He looked around the living room at the dozen piles of neatly organized papers—in Phil's mind at least, Clint still hadn't learned his system after six years of marriage—that covered every open surface except the one couch cushion he sat on. He thought about turning on the television and enticing Phil into the room by coaxing OnDemand into a Top Chef marathon. Because even though Phil couldn't pop a bag of popcorn without setting something on fire, he was an utter sucker for cooking competitions.

But then, he would consider himself to be behind on getting things ready and would fall into a swirling vortex of pity and whining. Clint didn't have enough energy for that grand amount of pity sex.

He could help his husband, but that would require Phil to stop being such a control freak. Which wasn't going to happen ever . He remembered back to this week six years ago when he continuously asked Phil if he could help or just wordlessly tried to assist him in some ways which just pissed Phil off . Out of desperation, he'd called his mother-in-law. Judy had laughed for two straight minutes after Clint had shared his predicament. "My son has never been okay with sharing responsibility. Just do what his sisters do with Christmas presents for my husband and me and let him do all the work. He'll be less stressed, and so will you."

"But what if I want to help him out?" Clint asked.

"Staying out of his single-minded way is the best thing you can do. I appreciate you loving my son this much, but take the path of least resistance and just stay out of his way."

And that was the advice Clint had followed for the last six years. It wasn't the optimal situation, but it did seem to work as well as anything else. Still didn't mean it was a fun week for anyone—dog included—living in the Barton-Coulson household.

Clint grabbed his cell phone and opened the Pinterest app that only Phil knew he had. The app was buried in a folder with things like useless stock updates and other things that Clint never used and only half-understood. The baby shower planning committee had made some secret group where they logged ideas. Clint was signed in under Phil's account so he could see everything (and keep some credit on his man card).

A number of snack examples were suggested: peanut butter cookies with Hershey kisses attached to look like acorns, a bowl of stick pretzels that could be labeled as twigs (something even Phil could do) , a punch bowl made to look like a bird bath. Bruce had snuck Clint a list of foods that were Natasha's craving staples; everything on it was hilariously sweet and high in calories. But despite that, you still couldn't tell Natasha was rapidly approaching her third trimester if you looked at her from behind. Clint's belt was a little jealous.

Absorbed in scrolling through pictures and ideas, Clint didn't hear Phil sneak up on him. Either he was getting ninja-like in his old age, or Clint needed to check the levels on his hearing aid batteries. Phil leaned over the back of the couch and kissed his cheek. "Take you out to dinner so we can both escape this crazy for a bit?"

"Dear lord, yes please," Clint answered. "But you need to suck up to the fur child, too."

Phil leaned over to scratch Birdie's hind end. "After dinner walk around the neighborhood?"

"I think she'd prefer her spot on the couch being cleaned off, but we can settle for that."

"This," Phil muttered, "is why we have spreadsheets."

Clint shot him a dirty look from across the gym, proof positive that he'd read Phil's lips, but Phil waved him off to sweep his gaze back across the gym. He tried to recount their heads, but they kept darting around, sucked into their game (and the promise of prizes).

The third time Phil lost count, he sighed and rubbed his eyes.

The fourth and fifth graders had just finished the first round of the game—a literary guessing game of sorts, where students had to ask questions to figure out what fictional character's name was pinned to their back—when Clint'd walked up to him, frowning. "We're supposed to have twenty-two, right?"

Phil's heart had dropped into his stomach. "Why?"

"Looks like we're missing three." When Phil'd cursed under his breath, Clint'd raised a hand. "I think one of the chaperones let a couple kids out on a bathroom break. You check that out, and I'll count again?"

"Right," Phil'd said, trying to ignore the sinking dread in his gut. And after finding one girl in the third-grade room (watching Charlie and the Chocolate Factory), he'd felt a little better.

Except back in the gym, his headcount still totaled twenty.

"Okay, so," Clint said as he sidled up to Phil. "Figured out who's missing, and you need to not freak out."

Phil scowled. "Why?"

"One's George Talbot."

This time, Phil swore loud enough for one of the chaperones to hear. He forced a smile, and she harrumphed as she turned back to the kids. "His dad—"

"Might skin us alive? Yeah, I know." Clint ran fingers through his hair. "Jodi—that's the mom in the green—said he was out on the bathroom break, so he might be hiding out somewhere."

Phil nodded. "I'll double check. Who's the other?"

Clint pursed his lips. "Hannah Forsythe."

The sinking sensation in Phil's stomach tripled. Hannah was one of Carol's kids, a sweet fourth grader with a pretty significant hearing impairment. Like Clint, she wore hearing aids most of the time; unlike Clint, she struggled with reading lips and barely signed. And more importantly, she almost never wandered off.

Phil watched the rest of the kids for a second before turning back to Clint. "I'll find George, you find Hannah?" he suggested.

"Done," Clint said, and he squeezed Phil's wrist on the way out the door.

The familiar cinderblock hallways always felt a little strange in the dark of night, with Phil's footsteps echoing loudly down the empty halls. He tried every doorknob, just in case George had snuck into an unlocked classroom; in the bathroom, he peered under every stall.

But before he planned out too much of his unpleasant phone call to George's father, he discovered the boy sitting in one of the stairwells, sniffing. "George?"

The boy sat up ramrod straight. "Please don't tell my dad," he said urgently.

After several uncharitable thoughts about Glenn Talbot, Phil sat down next to the fifth grader. "You know you're supposed to be in the gym, right?"

"Yeah."

"But?" The boy frowned, and Phil shrugged. "You're hiding out in the stairs instead of playing the game with your friends. Either something's wrong, or—"

George looked down at his hands. "I just really want to go home," he admitted. "It's fun now, but spending the whole night . . . "

He trailed off, and Phil smiled. "We can call your parents," he offered.

"Do I have to say I'm homesick?" George asked hopefully.

Phil shrugged. "That's up to you," he replied, and helped George off the stairs.

When they arrived at the office, Phil was surprised to find Clint sitting on the edge of Darcy's desk with the phone cradled against his shoulder. "No, she can totally stay," he said, smiling at Phil as he walked in. "If you just want to bring over the batteries— Yeah, perfect. We're not going anywhere. See you soon." After he hung up, he glanced over his shoulder, and Phil blinked when he discovered Hannah Forsythe perched in Darcy's chair and eating one of the secretary's "emergency" Tootsie Pops. "Your mom's coming with the batteries," Clint said loudly, exaggerating every word and signing as a backup. "She'll be here soon. But know what she said?"

Hannah glanced at her shoes and mumbled something. When Clint tapped her on the shoulder, she sighed. "Don't leave when I can't hear?" she asked.

"Right." He flashed her two thumbs up, and she smiled shyly. He winked before turning back to Phil and George. "Up to the full twenty-two?"

George shot Phil a panicked look, and Phil smiled. "George isn't feeling well," he said, purposefully catching Clint's gaze. "He wants to head home."

"Yeah?" Clint asked, and George nodded. "You sure? 'Cause if you just want to hang with us for a while—"

"Yeah, I'm sure," George said, finally smiling. "Thanks, though."

"No problem, kid." Clint slid off the desk and beckoned to Hannah. "C'mon. Let's go wait for your mom."

Grinning, Hannah popped off the chair and trotted right after him. Even as Phil handed George the phone, he watched the girl grinning up at his husband, trying to read his lips and simple signs as they headed for the front doors.

As much as Natasha hated parties, this one wasn't bad. The library was subtly decorated in birds and other forest creatures. Clint had put together a smorgasbord combination of cutesy treats as well as a sideboard of all of Natasha's most popular cravings, including a Make Your Own Waffle station . She was tempted to park herself right there for the hour-long festivity and just have Bruce deal with their unnecessary pile of gifts.

She was grateful for how well her friends knew her. The party planners had not only managed to keep Tony's fingers out of everything, but also made the event feel like it was for everyone and not just focused on her. The invites had asked that all gifts be unwrapped and simply set on a designated table; no need for everyone to gawk and then grow bored as Natasha and Bruce unwrapped presents. Most of the games mercifully focused on things other than the expecting parents. There was a cork board with thirty different baby pictures on it, and the goal was to figure out which staff member was which . Another corner of the library, in honor of Bruce and his love of science, asked the teachers to match the terms for animals and their young. A few teachers had asked for copies of that particular game to incorporate into their classroom . And, of course, there was a sanctioned table in the room where Tony operated betting tables on birth date and time, weight, length, and amount of "unruly curls. " Natasha had overheard Clint ask how he was going to count individual hairs, and Tony had replied with something about developing an equation to generalize the number. "I can show you the down-trending graph of your husband's scalp if you'd like an example," the technology teacher had added.

"Hilarious," Phil muttered dryly.

Natasha took a moment to just stand back and look around. Family wasn't something she was good at. She'd tried, but it never ended well. Because of that, she'd spent too long around these people with thickly constructed walls surrounding her. She felt a pang of regret for that, but counted herself extremely lucky to wind up where she currently was.

Someone bumped into her shoulder, and she looked over to see Bucky grinning down at her. "You do know you're supposed to be in the middle of things, yeah?"

She placed a hand over her stomach. "Feels like if I'm in the middle, there won't be room for anyone else."

"You do remember you have a whole three months left, right?"

Natasha shot him a dirty look. "Thanks for the reminder, I'd almost forgotten otherwise."

Instead of stepping away at the edge in her voice like Tony or someone else would, Bucky's grin just widened. He pulled a manila envelope out of thin air and handed it over to her. "You didn't get this from me, but if you want it for the new house, I can pull some strings."

Natasha was confused but intrigued. Inside the envelope was a water color painting. It was clearly meant to be just a simple idea, not a fully fleshed out piece of art. The focus of the image was a white crib, and behind it was a mural of a birch tree forest. An intricate wood lamp hung from the ceiling, and there was a beautiful rocking chair nearby as well as a small dresser with a changing station on top. "What is this?" she asked softly, fingers skimming over the mini-mural.

"Steve said he was just messing around, but everyone knows he was thinking about what your nursery could look like. So here's our impending baby gift to you—we'll help you paint, build, destroy, whatever at the new house. Consider us your slaves for the summer. We can even throw in some upcycled furniture if you want it."

"Seriously?" Natasha asked.

"Please, you'd be doing me a favor," Bucky answered. "It will help us—mostly me—clear out some space in the garage and spend the summer watching my husband be all manly and sweaty."

"Am I allowed to watch, too?" Natasha asked. Bucky blinked in surprise at that, but Natasha shrugged. "It's kind of hard to miss how hot your husband is, and my hormones make me hornier than Tony some days."

"You hide it well," Bucky said.

"I can, yes, but when Bruce stumbles into the lounge in the morning needing an entire pot of coffee, know you'll know why," she told him with a wink.

"Gross," he muttered.

Nick leaned back in his chair to observe his surroundings. The eighth grade dinner-dance was sadly one of the few dates he and Melinda got during the last month of school . The middle school next door took care to cater in a dinner that wasn't too awful for everyone. The chicken could be a little rubbery at times, but he couldn't imagine running a catering company , so he wasn't going to judge too hard.

The event was formal, but despite multiple lectures by the eighth grade staff at the school, there were always a few girls who were immediately handed a spare cardigan and threatened that if it were taken off, they'd be sent home . Melinda spent a week teaching basic dance moves to her oldest students, and that meant at some point, he and Melinda would have to grace the dance floor to show them how it was done, which was always Nick's favorite part of the evening.

Already on the dance floor, Wade Wilson was leading the students in an enthusiastic rendition of the chicken dance. His date for the night, an embarrassed looking Peter Parker , huddled in the corner, clearly hoping he'd blend into the wall so Wade wouldn't drag him out into the middle of the gym floor as his dance partner. The second grade teacher's camouflage act lasted all of thirty seconds before Wade started to pantomime throwing a fishing line and reeling him in . Peter fought the act for half a minute before shrugging and going with it. That is until he saw Nick; then, he flushed and waved awkwardly.

When the song turned into the Electric Slide, the British science teacher grabbed the hand of her Scottish counterpart and the two of them began to bark out orders on how to properly move through the song . At a nearby table, Trip and the middle school computer teacher grinned at Jemma's antics. And Nick was pretty the mountain of a man barely fitting into a suit was showing the same affection towards Jemma's male counterpart. Nick for sure knew whenever the other attractive black man with a goatee visited the school, because Melinda always made sure to mention it. It always prompted Nick to ask, "Thinking about trading me in for a younger model?"

"No," she always replied with a dangerous sweetness in her voice. "You should only get worried when I up your life insurance policy."

Across the gym, Sitwell was whispering in Hill's ear. That couple still boggled Nick's mind a bit, even though they'd been together for a while. Sitwell looked happy, which was Nick's main concern. His assistant principal had suddenly stopped sending him pictures of engagement rings about a week back and had been particularly grumpy the following morning . Even from here, Nick could read the cautiousness between Jasper's shoulders. Like a kid wanting to be with his dog even though it'd tried to bite him the day before. Nick had never asked what had happened there, and he wasn't about to.

He lurched forward in his seat when someone slugged him in the shoulder. "Ow," he said as he looked up at his wife, knowing the shape and strength of her fist all too well . "What's that for?"

"For not letting me in on Natasha's baby shower," Melinda answered as she sat back down next to him.

"Sorry," he said sincerely. "You know how this time of the year is—interviews, testing, crazy students, insane teachers. I forget stuff."

"This was important stuff."

"I'll make it up to you," he promised.

"And we'll make it up to them," Melinda said. "We need to do something for her and Bruce."

"Not a dinner," Nick half-groaned. "You and Nat will speak only by doing different glares, and that will leave me and Bruce to try and have awkward polite conversations about science—which I know nothing about—before defaulting back to work. And you know how I feel about talking about work over a nice dinner."

"We need to do something," Melinda reiterated. "Just not babysitting."

"No shit," he muttered.

A group of girls who had been his students all through elementary school waved excitedly as they passed his table. He grinned and returned the wave, watching their faces fall as the song choice turned from an upbeat group dance number to a slower song. He turned to Melinda and extended his hand. "Want to show them how it's done?"

"With pleasure," she said.

"I can't even begin to describe it to you, girl," Trip said, his arm slung over the back of the booth. "It was like Fury turned into a totally different person. With grace and poise. Throw his wife in there, and . . . "

He released a low whistle, and Darcy groaned. "I still can't believe I missed it."

Trip grinned. "Kind of thing you'll never see twice."

When Darcy threw up her hands, both of Trip's girlfriends elbowed him in his sides. She enjoyed his grimace before jabbing a finger at Wade. "You know this is all your fault, right?"

Wade blinked. "Me?" he asked. He sounded like Henry Odinson playing innocent. "Why me? I only—"

"Refused to invite Darcy as your plus one," Peter supplied.

"Despite her asking," the British girlfriend (Jenna, maybe?) offered.

The indeterminately Asian girlfriend (either Skye or Daisy, Darcy thought) nodded sagely. "Several times, according to your daily date-debates. And don't," she added, holding up a hand, "start back up with the whole 'datebate' thing. I can hear Fitz's head exploding from here."

"Only because we're in the next booth," Scottish Fitz answered. His (amazingly handsome and possibly genetically engineered) boyfriend grinned behind his coffee mug.

The conversation devolved into total chaos for a moment, and Darcy seized the opportunity to steal the rest of Wade's chili. For an all-night greasy spoon, the food tasted kind of heavenly, and Darcy appreciated that her roommates had texted her to join the middle school dance after party. Even if she had missed Nick Fury, scourge of misbehaved elementary school kids and the most feared man in the district, slow dancing with his wife.

"So unfair," she muttered to herself, dipping Peter's fries into the chili for comfort.

"Hey!" he protested. "You could have ordered your own fries, you know."

"Yeah, but nothing soothes the taste of roommate betrayal like food someone else bought." He rolled his eyes, oblivious to Trip's grin. "My one chance this year to wear a formal dress, ruined by—"

"But that's the problem!" Wade announced. "With you and your, uh, you know—" He gestured vaguely to Darcy's t-shirt—or, more importantly, the assets under her t-shirt. She straightened her shoulders, displaying them like the first exhibit at a murder trial, and Peter groaned. "You are beautiful and talented and would almost definitely cause, like, a six-car pile-up the second you slid into some slinky cocktail number," Wade continued, "and that is exactly why you can never enter the hormonal den of iniquity we call our middle school."

British girlfriend choked on her soda, but probably-Skye just crossed her arms. "You're saying Jem and I don't have that problem?" she challenged.

Wade glanced at her—or rather, at her pink dress with the school-appropriate neckline—and tilted his head to the side. "Actually—"

Trip raised his eyebrows. "You want me to stop you before you embarrass yourself, or after?"

Wade flushed a surprising shade of red. "On second thought, your taste in women is totally excellent, probably exceeds mine, and causes several traffic accidents a week."

The group laughed, Trip probably louder than anyone, and Darcy's eyes only wandered over to the front of the restaurant after Peter and the British girl started talking about science for a third time. Perfect timing to watch the door swing open, really.

And to witness Loki walk into the restaurant, laptop bag and grading in hand.

Darcy's chest tightened, the prelude to that collapsing-star feeling she occasionally fought against (thanks, unreliable self-worth), but none of that compared to the way her breath caught when Loki spotted her. They stared at each other for a second, Darcy's mouth dry even as she felt her cheeks flush, and he raised his hand in a limp greeting before glancing away. When one of the waiters rushed up to seat him, he gestured to a booth on the other side of the diner.

As Darcy watched him walk across the room (still tall and graceful, but with a definite slump to his shoulders), Wade snapped his fingers right in front of her nose. "Ground control to major Darce," he said, expertly ignoring the way she almost jumped out of the booth. "We lose you? Or are you planning your inevitable revenge? Because if it's the latter, let me just remind you that Peter's terrified of spiders—"

Peter scowled. "That's playing dirty!"

"—and only one of us bought you ice cream during your mystical moon times two months ago."

Peter huffed, clearly about to argue, and Darcy shook her head. "I—" she started, but she stopped when Loki glanced back at her. They exchanged another look, this one longer but also easier, somehow, and she smiled. "I'm pretty sure spiders'll factor in somehow," she said, "but I need to leave room for Wade's biggest fears."

"Commitment?" British girlfriend asked.

The other one frowned. "I thought it was May before her morning coffee," she chimed in.

In the next booth over, sardonic Scottish ray of sunshine and possibly Darcy's new best friend Fitz sighed. "Ask him about the squirrel in the kiln room," he prompted.

And when Wade turned ghost-white, Darcy knew without a doubt she'd won.