A/N - The end of this chapter is a bit dark, so fair warning.
The others sit at the booth, having already gone through line as they watch Clint's uncle try to convince Steve to get more food. He's pointing at everything and Steve looks desperate as he tries to refuse the kind offers.
"Steve, your ma will kick me in the pants if I don't feed you right. Come on!"
Steve finally leans over and whispers something, his cheeks turning red as he looks downcast."
Clint watches his uncle straighten up and smile softly, "well why didn't you say so?" He marches back to the beginning of the line and starts making a new sandwich, he disappears into the back a few times, bringing out fresh ingredients and slicing them there. He finishes quickly and hands a plate with a sandwich almost as big as Steve over the counter. Steve reaches into his back pocket and pulls out what looks like a vintage leather wallet, and before he can pull anything out, Clint hears his uncles voice speak sharply.
"Steve, if I so much as see a single dollar bill, I will personally follow you home and speak to your ma about your manners." The words are unflinching, but the expression is kind and he closes Steve's thing fingers back around his wallet. "I mean it. It's on the house."
Steve nods numbly, thanking him a few more times before hurrying back to the table and settling in.
"Clint!"
Clint looks up to see his uncle gesturing him over. He peels himself out of the booth and heads towards the back where his Uncle has walked.
"Why does he have a bruise on his face?"
Clint grimaces, "ugh, some punk kid called Rumlow punched him the other day."
"Why?"
Clint thinks back to the brief explanation Natasha had given him when he'd asked between their first and second classes today. "He was saying something dumb I think and Steve corrected him. Rumlow didn't like that."
His uncle's face darkens for a moment and he turns to Clint, placing a hand on his shoulder. "So it wasn't you?"
Clint wants to be mad at the accusation, but he isn't, he understands where he's coming from. "Nah, I don't hang out with that type of crowd anymore."
"Good, being a bully never did suit you."
Clint shrugs but he doesn't disagree. It had been a low point in his life. Watching your mom die slowly in front of you for a couple years will do that to a kid.
"Neither does smoking." His uncle adds, eyebrow raised.
"Sheesh." Clint says, smiling wryly, "can't a guy have any privacy around here?"
"Not in this family."
"You're not—" Clint starts and then stops. He looks up at the man who had taken him under his wing when things had gotten really bad a while back. "Thanks."
Clint's about to walk away when he stops, "hey, what did Steve tell you at the counter."
His uncle smiles and looks over Clint's shoulder. "Kid's got an impressive list of allergies. He didn't want to say anything and was fine not eating but I pressed and he told me. Peppers, pineapple, pork, parsley, peas, and peanuts."
"They all start with P's? That's a joke." Clint huffs.
"He also said blueberries but it's not as fun to say."
Clint looks over his shoulder as Steve sits there, eyeing the sandwich with a look that says he doesn't even know where to begin.
"I think he needs glasses." Clint says. "And…."
"And what?"
"I'm not sure yet."
"Well, stop by here tomorrow morning. I'll have a lunch packed for you both. Got it?"
"Thanks Uncle Ricky.
"Anytime, Clint. Anytime."
—
"So, Steve." Natasha begins as he's chewing his first bite. "You said you were 14, were you a freshman this year? Or are you going into freshman year?"
Steve finishes chewing and swallows, wiping his face with a napkin and using the back of his hand to brush his hair out of his eyes. "I- uh, went to Brooklyn Middle, last year. I'm starting Brooklyn High this year."
Her eyes widen as he looks back down at his sandwich, that's the school Yelena goes to. Maybe she knows him. "I'm at Brooklyn High." She says, drawing his attention back up, "it will be nice to have a friendly face."
"I'm at Midwood." Clint says, sliding into the seat next to Natasha,
"I was at Millenium High," Bucky says, but his eyes are alight, "but I was just talking to my parents about transferring to Brooklyn High because of their engineering classes that you can take at the college that's nearby! It would be fun to eat lunch together if we can."
Just the mention of having friends to eat with has Steve's mood improving. Not that he'd been grumpy, but he'd seemed off, a little melancholic.
"Yeah," Natasha adds, "I wouldn't mind a few familiar faces to eat with."
Steve smiles and his blue eyes light up, "that would be really cool." He says softly as he takes another bite of his sandwich. He glances up at Tony and looks like he might chicken out, but then asks, "Where do you go to school, Tony?"
"I go to Xaverian." Tony says with an eye-roll. "Totally stuffy and uptight."
Natasha expected nothing less. She is positive he's never had less than a silver spoon in his mouth, but… she has to admit begrudgingly that while he may be rich, he sure didn't act the way she expected. He definitely watched Steve with a discerning eye, and felt no qualms about hanging out with those who were infinitely poorer.
"If you don't like it there you could always transfer to Brooklyn High too," Steve says quietly, not looking up from his sandwich, "It would be fun to all go to the same school."
The smile that starts to tug up the corner of Tony's mouth is infectious. "You know what?" He says, a smug grin on his face, "I feel like giving the old man a heart attack, maybe I'll suggest just that."
The confusion on Steve's face has Tony cracking up and soon the rest of the table is laughing along even as Steve just stares at them with a hopeless but slightly amused expression on his face.
—
Bucky can almost not bear it anymore. The tilt. The freaking head tilt. Why. WHY. It plagues him to watch Steve sit there, head tilted, and then when he talks he stares straight. It's like a tic, or a nervous habit. He doesn't know but it drives him crazy.
He wants to ask, but he finds the question dying on his lips every time he tries. He watches as Steve valiantly gets through half his sandwich before looking like he might explode.
"You don't have to eat the rest if you aren't hungry, Steve." Clint says, watching his expression.
Steve looks up, startled that everyone is staring at him. "Huh?"
"You don't have to finish the sandwich if you're full." Bucky adds.
Steve's eyes go into saucers, "No way, I can't just waste this food—"
"Take it home." Natasha says quickly, "Does he have to-go boxes?"
"Yeah, yeah." Clint says in a rush, jumping out of his seat and disappearing for a second. He comes back with a styrofoam box that has a lid. "Here you go."
"I-I can take it home?" Steve asks, doubt plaguing his features.
"Yeah." Clint says, wiping his face with a napkin to give his hands something to do. "Take it home, eat it for a snack or dinner or whatever."
The way Steve gently places the sandwich in the container as if it's made of glass has Tony biting the insides of his cheek. No one should have to look at food as if it's that precious. No one who gets enough to eat at least. He takes a deep breath and notices the narrowed eyes of Natasha and Clint as well. They must realize the same.
Bucky is sitting next to Steve trying to offer him his chips. "I don't want 'em" Bucky says, "I don't like the flavor that much." A bold-faced lie to everyone at the table except Steve who looks up at Bucky in a bit of wonder.
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah, can't have a sandwich without chips anyways."
"Fries are better." Tony states.
"You take that back." Clint snaps, humor lighting his eyes. "A true New Yorker would never—"
"Burgers are better than sandwiches." Tony adds, a smirk across his face as Clint's mouth gapes.
"Oh, now you're in trouble." The two start bickering back and forth about the pros and cons of both items while the other three sit back and watch, amused.
They finally get to talking about the project and before they know it the sun is starting to droop in the sky.
"Can't believe it's almost 6." Bucky says, stretching his shoulders.
"What!" Steve exclaims, practically sliding off the seat. "It's past 4:45?" His eyes are wild and he starts grabbing his notebook and pens and shoving them into his book bag.
"What, Steve? What's wrong?"
"I gotta go." He says, his breathing already elevated. "I'm not al—" He stops himself, clamming up and lifts the strap of his bag over his shoulders. "I just gotta go."
"Steve, just wait, I can get Jarvis and we can take you hom—"
"No!" The shout from Steve, and the pure fear in his eyes has Tony's voice cutting off. Steve takes a deep breath, running a hand through his hair and pushing it back. "No, thank you, but no." He's out the door and gone before they can react.
Simultaneously, their eyes are drawn to the item that Steve has forgotten to grab. Natasha sighs as she drags her nail over the styrofoam, writing Steve on the top.
—-
Steve runs as fast as he dares towards the subway line. He bounds down the steps, ignores the call of Low Balance and jumps onto the train just as the doors are closing. He sighs, falling into an open seat and places his head in his hands.
He hears his stop and practically sprints off the train. He has to stop halfway to his home because his heart is practically beating out of his chest and his lungs feel tight.
He walks briskly when he can and bounds up the large steps and past the big wooden doors.
He runs to the room where he sleeps and drops his bag onto the bed.
He quickly shuffles towards the office door, knowing that avoiding her won't make it any better.
He can hear her in her office, talking to someone on the phone.
"Miss. Schmidt?" He calls softly, not entering her door without her permission. He'd learned that lesson the hard way.
He hears her say goodbye to whoever is on the line and she sighs loudly. "Oh, so he's returned." She says snidely, her German accent crisp. "Come in, prodigal son."
He swallows but pushes the door open softly. "I'm sorry I was late. It won't happen again."
"Where have you been?"
"I was distracted with some—"
"Don't lie."
He winces, "I stopped by somewhere I used to go with my ma. Lost track of time." It's not technically a lie, he thinks.
She stands up and walks around the desk. She's a tall and commanding woman, with dark eyes, and thick gray hair that is braided into a severe bun. Her sharp nails have left cuts when she's slapped him before and he takes an involuntary step back.
"You told me you failed a class, that you have to go to summer school in order to make up for this lack of responsibility. And then you go and lose track of time? When will you learn to be a productive member of society?" Her words have a tone to them that already has the hairs on the back of his neck standing up.
"I'm really sorry—" he starts. She leans forward and he flinches, "it won't happen again. I promise!"
"You think I want to sit and watch these brats all day?" She huffs, hands going on her hips, "No! I'm stuck with them all hours of the day and night. And the least you can do is get back on time so you can earn your place in the godforsaken hell hole. You are responsible for the kids from 4 until 8. If you're late even once more, it's them who'll have to pay for it!"
He grinds his teeth. He wants to shout and yell that it's her job to take care of them. That this place is a hell hole because of her. But he doesn't. The last time he'd said anything to that effect, it had earned him a broken wrist and food privileges revoked for a week. Not to mention she'd been 'forgetful' and didn't feed the rest of the kids some meals. He'd known she was doing it to keep him in line. As the oldest kid in the house he felt an innate sense of responsibility to help the little ones. Every time he tries to speak out or make things better, it always ends up worse for the little ones.
She'd caught him, back in his first year at the house, packing up to run away. He didn't know where or how, but he knew he needed to get out of there.
She'd stood in the doorway, catching him in the act of stuffing what little he had into a book bag. "If you leave, who will take care of them?" She'd said softly, but the threat was there. "If you're gone, who will make sure they eat? Or get their medicine? Who will look after them when they're sick?"
Her words had chilled him to the bone and he knew that he would never survive the guilt if he left. She barely took care of them already, how could he trust her to do so if he was gone? He'd slowly unpacked his bag, and sat down on his bed, staring at the 7 other kids who slept in the same room.
"Good boy." She'd said.
Good boy
The memory made him sick.
"I won't be late again, I promise."
"When Johann gets back, he'll make sure of that."
Steve winces but doesn't respond. Her husband, a power hungry psycho, who works at some governmental agency, is always coming home and inflicting punishments that he calls 'teaching moments' on the kids. Steve has called CPS on the house multiple times, but because of where he works in the government, he is always able to find out about the visits beforehand and manipulate them, or have one of his cronies do the check. Steve knows they receive substantial government subsidies, but the kids barely see a dime. Just enough to keep them alive. Barely.
—-
Bruce sees it first. He is standing at the entrance when Steve walks—no, limps through the doors. Except it isn't a limp, or at least, Steve is trying really really hard not to show it. He walks slowly, and his face is very calm, only his eyes betraying any of the pain he must be feeling. But the motion is so off from how he normally walks that Bruce can't help but stare.
Steve doesn't notice him, but as he walks past, Bruce can't help but notice that Steve's coat collar is pulled up high. Higher than normal, and higher than what would be considered fashionable.
He begins to follow Steve, walking shortly behind him, and pretending to look down at the tablet he holds in his hands. He uses his significant height advantage to try to stare down the back of Steve's collar.
He freezes and watches as Steve continues on, taking slow and arduous steps up the stairs to his first class, Bruce replays the image. Bruises. In the shapes of fingerprints, ringing around the sides of Steve's neck.
—