High School AU - Warning: Depressing, suicide.
"There comes a point in life," the teacher said, "when you ask yourself some questions. Why is everyone here? Why am I here-"
"Because we have to," a kid shouted from the back, and the teacher scowled at him before adjusting her sweat and continuing speaking.
"Why is anyone here? Why does anything happen?" She paused dramatically, eyes sweeping the classroom.
Now, at this moment, at this time, there were approximately fifteen students in the classroom. Most were gone because of various field trips or another, but the students that were there were generally not paying attention.
The classroom was divided into three parts: the middle and the two sides. On one side there was a large, French-like window that stretched the entire length of the wall, giving the view of the mountains beyond the school grounds. The other wall was filled with posters of various subjects surrounded by a large window that gave view of the main offices inside the school.
Generally during the class the students are spread all over the room; some are listening to music with their headphones, others are texting, and there are a rare few that actually pay attention to the teacher.
At that moment there was exactly one student who was paying attention; a petite red-head who was scribbling down notes in the very back of the classroom. The rest were goofing off, throwing balls of paper at each other and laughing. The main cause of the trouble was a thin, but muscular dirty-blond haired boy wearing a faded varsity jacket. He himself was surrounded by guys and girls alike, not paying the least bit attention to anything.
It was then that the teacher, after adjusting her age-old glasses, squinted her eyes at them. She opened her mouth to scold the troublemakers, but then, much to the delight of the students but disappointment of the teacher, the sound of the bell came through the speaks on the wall. Many of the students leapt up and fled the class nearly instantly – have not even bothered to take out anything at the beginning of class – but there were two that remained; the redhead at the back of the class, who was packing up her books, and the boy with the varsity jacket.
The teacher bent behind her desk, putting the chalk away and wiping the board down for the next class. Grumbling about the injustice of teaching high school and how she should have taught at university level like everyone else had told her, she failed to notice the boy was watching the redhead with a curious look on his face, as though he had just noticed her (he probably had). She also failed to notice, that as the young girl walked down the aisle, the boy turned and brushed a notebook off his desk (he would say, later, that it was a complete accident) and into her path.
The aged teacher looked up just in time to see the girl trip over the notebook.
She opened her mouth to scold the boy (because for all she knew, he did do it on purpose) but something made her pause.
The girl had – miraculously, by any chance – caught herself, but the books and papers in her had did not. They were now sprawled across the floor, and as she bent down to pick them up – shooting a glare at the boy, the teacher noticed – the boy bent down next to her. His mouth parted for an apology but the girl brushed him off, tucking her red curls behind her ear before picking the books up and quickly moving out the door.
But the teacher remained there, staring, at the boy with the varsity jacket as he stared at his hand, where the redhead's fingers had touched his when she brushed him off.
In was then that the teacher, as if having been in a trance the entire time, snapped out of it and opened her mouth to yell at the boy just as the warning bell rang in her ears and the next class began to file in. He hoisted his backpack onto one shoulder and was moving out the door before she could even blink.
It was silent.
It was always silent, now. There was no more laughter.
His parents tried to make his eat. They tried to make him drink and go to school and have friends over. But he refused. They couldn't make him.
Life wasn't worth living without her.
She was in his creative writing class too.
His eyes went back and forth, again and again, from the teacher to her. The teacher was going on and on about writing tips and she was writing something in that journal of hers that he had noticed after a few days of her being here.
In his classes. A freshman.
He still couldn't believe it. After calling in a favor from a friend (cough, cough, Phil, cough) he had gotten her test scores from the school data base. She was smart; Einstein smart.
He craned his head a little, catching a glimpse of foreign writing. He squinted. Russian?
"Mr. Barton, since you clearly know everything as not to pay attention, could you please tell me what the assignment is?"
He jerked forward in his seat, caught off guard. This cause more than one laugh around the classroom, and he noticed out of the corner of his eyes that the redhead had closed the journal and slipped it back into her backpack.
"Mr. Barton?"
"Um…" he started, but couldn't finish.
His teacher narrowed her eyes at him. "Pay attention," she said curtly. "Now, as for the partner assignments. You will write a short story with the person that I pick," – this coughed groans throughout the room – "and any complaints will be met with a detention. Understood?"
The groans were silenced and the teacher began to read from the paper in her hand. "Jones and Eastman…Hamada and Hoffman…Barton and Romanova…Dellanina and Weiss-"
His eyes flickered to the redhead, and for the first time, she was looking at him with raised eyebrows.
They were partners.
"Romanova," he muttered. Her last name rolled off his tongue, but for some reason, it didn't click. Now all he had to do was find out her first name.
"-Walters and Garcia. Now, everyone, find your partners and starting thinking of ideas."
Everyone hopped out of their seats to find their new partners, chairs scraping all across the room – that is, everyone except Clint and his new partner.
But then he made the first move, getting up and walking over, taking a seat right next to hers. She pursed her lips. "Natasha," she said. "Natasha Romanova…"
He held out a hand and she raised her eyebrows. "Clint…but I think Romanoff sounds like a better last name that Romanova."
Her eyes narrowed. "Excuse me?"
He shrugged, before moving his hand up and down. "You gonna shake my hand?"
She took his hand as if it was a snake and shook it quickly, before retreating. "You're in my Russian class too, right?"
He nodded. "Yeah," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "But I'm not very good."
She tilted her head. "Почему вы были бы в России 3, если вы не были хороши?" she asked, and instantly he could tell that her first language was Russian. It sounded so right on her lips.
"Ну, я хорошо, я предполагаю. И ты носитель языка," he replied.
She stiffened, and he knew he had struck a nerve. "I'm not a native speaker."
"Yeah, you are," he pushed. "I can tell."
"не," she said firmly. "Now, back to the assignment."
"So," he said carefully. "We're writing the story on life…and death," he read from the notes on her desk. He laughed, leaning back in his chair and putting his hands behind his head. "Sounds depressing."
She frowned, and before he knew it one of the chairs legs was being kicked back onto the ground and he landed there, glaring at her.
"Well," she hissed. "Got any other ideas?"
"No," he said easily. "But how about," he leaned forward so their faces were almost touching, and it was then he realized just how green her eyes were.
"Well?" she asked, and he realized he had gotten lost in his train of thought.
He cleared his throat. "I mean…nothing," he muttered. "Let's go with your idea."
She opened drew a skinny laptop from her backpack and he saw it was open to a word document. But before he could see anything she minimized it, and pulled up an internet page full of quotes. "How about," she muttered, "this one?" she asked, moving the screen so he could see it.
"I've reached the point where I hardly care whether I live or die," he read aloud. "The world will keep on turning without me, I can't do anything to change events anyway. Anne Frank." Clint glanced at her. "Why do we need a quote?"
She let out a huff of annoyance, blowing her curls out of her face. "Did you even read the guidelines for this assignment?"
"No," he admitted, "but what about this one?" He pointed to another one a bit further down the page.
"Life is but a dream for the dead. Gerald Way," she read. "No," she dismissed it. "Too depressing."
"Well then," he said. "How about this one?"
A hand was at his shoulder.
He wiped away the tears that were clouding his eyes, staring down at the gravestone as rain pounded down on his jacket. The fancy scribble on the gravestone: "You were born a child of light's wonderful secret— you return to the beauty you have always been. Rest in peace, Natasha Romanova."
No, he wanted to scream. She preferred Romanoff. She preferred it! She did! She-
"Let her go, Clint," his father said. "Let her go."
He laughed and she wacked a hand on his chest, glaring at him. "That isn't funny," she exclaimed. But that only made him laugh harder. "It wasn't!"
"Yeah," he said, trying to stop laughing. "You spilling paint all over the art room is so not hilarious."
They were both laughing so hard now, they didn't notice that their faces had gotten so close. But he did first and froze. And then she did, and they were so close their breaths were mingling now.
Her mouth parted, but she never got to say a word. He put his lips on hers, kissing her softly. She moved her hands carefully around his neck and his found their way around her waist, pulling her closer to him. The kiss grew deeper and would have gone on longer until a loud wolf whistle came throughout the park and they broke apart.
A deep blush was creeping up Natasha's neck. "What," she whispered, "the hell was that?"
He shrugged. "I dunno," he muttered. "It seemed like the right thing to do."
Instead of responding, she leaned in and kissed him again.
Someone was shaking him.
"Clint," they were yelling, but it was muffled. "Clint, wake up! It's your graduation day!"
But it was as if he was in a daze, just felt as the bedcovers were thrown off and a gasp was heard. "Clint…"
He knew that they saw the empty bottle of pills on the floor.
Someone was at his window.
He sat up in bed, eyes focusing to the darkness. At the window, he saw a dark shape. He cautiously moved towards it, before recognizing the person. He unclasped the window and the person threw herself into his arms.
She was sobbing into his tee-shirt, and he held her in his arms for a moment, whispering to her. "Tasha, it's all right," he whispered softly. "What's wrong?"
"My…dad," she cried. "Please…don't let him hurt me."
It was then he noticed that her side was bleeding. He pulled her away from him, eyes wide. "Tasha…" he said in a low tone, before pulling her across the room and into his bathroom. He sat her down on the toilet seat and began pulling the cabinets out, looking for bandages.
He founds someone and turned around, helping her pull her shirt off. There was a nasty gash on her side, and he bent down, examining it. It was black and blue and had shards of glass in it. He took another look at the tears in her eyes and embraced her as she sobbed into his shoulder.
"Nat," he whispered. "We need to get you to a hospital."
"No," she cried out. "Please, no, don't take me there. Please," she trailed off, and instead he gave a slow nod.
"Alright," he said. "But this is going to hurt." He pulled tweezers from the drawer and turned to her again.
She didn't make a sound as he pulled out the glass.
"911, please, someone help! Please, my son…"
"Ma'am, calm down. What is the problem?"
"I walked in…my son…he swallowed too many pills…please..."
Everything was blurry. There was no pain, but that was good. It felt like he was floating…he would see Natasha again…they could be together forever…
His phone was ringing. He rolled over in his bed, answering groggily, "Hello?"
"Hello? Is this…Clint?"
He was immediately alert. "Who is this? And why…" he glanced at his phone. "Why are you calling from Natasha's phone?"
"What is your relationship to the victim?"
"Victim? What the hell…what the hell is going on?"
"Sir, please tell me your relationship to her."
"Girlfriend. She's my girlfriend…"
"I'm sorry sir, I hate to inform you, but your girlfriend was found on the side of the road earlier tonight. She died in surgery."
She was walking towards him. There were no bruises, no gashes, only the red hair shing in the light.
"Natasha…" he whispered. "Is that you?"
Her pale fingers framed his face. "Yes," she whispered. "It's me. Why Clint, why?"
Tears were streaming down her face and he embraced her, wiping the tears away. "I couldn't live without you," he whispered. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," he whispered over and over again.
"I love you," she whispered.
"Love you too, Tasha. I will love you forever."
I have no regrets. -speedreader1999