Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works.
Author's Note: While I embrace constructive criticism remember this old saying if you choose to leave a review "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all"
So your reactions to this AU were overwhelmingly positive! That's part of the reason I was inspired to crank out another chapter of it! Now, this chapter is a bit heavier, in that we see what Clint's home life is like. For those of you that know his history in the VPU - the name Phillip Jacobs should ring some bells. Also, as a general warning, you guys know me. You know how much I love to write angst and hurt!Clint. So prepare yourselves accordingly.
As usual with these AUs these characters appear as they are portrayed in the VPU and this is unbeta'd so all mistakes are mine.
Trigger Warning: Child abuse
Clint shifted, hardly registering the movement as he instinctively kept his balance. He was standing mostly on the side and top of his chair, his entire body weight precariously balanced on the one leg of the chair still touching the ground.
He twirled a pencil in the fingers of his left hand, looking up at the ceiling. He narrowed his eyes and chewed his lip. Then he shifted the pencil and threw it straight up. It spun in the air once and then the point slammed home into the ceiling tile.
Clint tilted his head, taking in the new addition to his work of art. That pencil and a dozen others were stabbed into the ceiling, carefully placed to form an arrow head. Next, he'd add the shaft and then the fletching would be last.
Coach Bryan was supposed to be monitoring his detention but he'd gotten called away to deal with something to do with the baseball team. They practiced year around, even though Bouclier had other team sports for every season. The Bouclier Avengers baseball team were state champions though, probably because they never did anything but practice.
Bryan had left Clint with a stern glare and an instruction not to leave the room.
He'd been gone all of thirty seconds before Clint was raiding the pencil stash and balancing on the chair. He didn't do sitting still well and Coach Bryan had only really told him not to leave. He hadn't left.
The door to the classroom opened and Clint nearly faltered. He caught his balance a moment later and blinked in surprise at the new counselor, C something…Cullen? Cameron?
"Coulson," the counselor supplied as if he'd been reading Clint's mind. "Mr. Coulson."
Clint blinked at him.
"Coach Bryan asked me to look in on you."
Clint watched Coulson look from Clint's precarious perch to the arrangement of pencil's in the ceiling.
Coulson's eyebrow arched and Clint could swear he looked amused.
"He called you a flight risk," Coulson went on, not commenting on the pencils or the balanced chair. "Apparently you've got a history of skipping out on detention."
"Depends on who the jailer is," Clint replied with a shrug. "Coach Bryan made me run laps for an entire athletics class last time I ditched on him." No way he was risking the coach's wrath again.
"I suppose that explains why you're right where he left you," Coulson smirked, "essentially at least." Another look at the chair and the pencils.
Clint arched a brow, waiting for the scolding to start.
"What is that?" Coulson asked as he came closer, looking up at the pencils. "An arrow head?" he realized.
Clint nodded slowly, wary of the casual nature of Coulson's reaction.
"Was gonna add the arrow part…" Clint trailed off when Coulson shot him a look. "But I guess it's fine as is."
Coulson hummed in agreement and held out a hand. Clint rolled his eyes and handed over the rest of the pencils. Another pointed look from Coulson and Clint eased all four legs of the chair back to the floor.
"That's some impressive balance you've got there," Coulson commented.
Clint shrugged and dropped down to sit. He'd always been good at stuff like that. His particular specialty was climbing though. He couldn't count the number of times he'd scaled the side of the boy's home to sit on the roof. Jacobs had almost broken his neck once trying to get up there after him – unfortunately all the bastard had actually done to himself was dislocate his shoulder.
"Are you a fan of archery?" Coulson asked as he leaned against a nearby desk.
Clint shrugged.
He loved it, to be honest. Whenever it came into the rotation during Athletics class he was always sure to be on his best behavior. Coach Bryan had tried to convince him more than once to join the city archery league. But Clint knew he couldn't. Jacobs would never let him and even if he did, Clint couldn't be gone from the house any more than he already was.
"Do you do any other sports?" Coulson went on curiously.
Clint shook his head. He was already gone too much with detention. That thought had him glancing at the clock on the wall.
Five more minutes.
He'd had to add on ten for being late to morning detention. He'd have to haul ass to get home before the bus dropped off the others. It was Monday, Jacobs got off early on Mondays. He was probably already home.
"Somewhere to be?" Coulson asked.
Clint looked back at him.
"Home," he replied simply.
Coulson glanced at the clock then back at him.
"Don't do the crime if you can't do the time, kid."
Clint arched an eyebrow.
"I thought we agreed I hadn't done the crime," he shot back.
Coulson blinked.
"That's true. But that was for morning detention wasn't it?"
"Yeah, but I was late for that," Clint reminded. "I'm serving out an extended sentence for the time I missed."
Coulson tilted his head.
"So wouldn't being late be the crime in this situation?"
Clint scowled.
He had been late, that was true. But it hadn't exactly been on purpose. Jimmy had accidently dropped a glass in the kitchen and it had shattered on the floor. Knowing they couldn't just leave it – Clint remembered what happened last time somebody had broken something – Clint had sent Jimmy and the others on to catch their bus and he'd stayed to clean it up. Then he'd spent precious moments rearranging the glasses in the cabinet so that it wasn't immediately obvious one was missing. It wouldn't fool Jacobs for long, but hopefully long enough for Clint to get home and get the others safely out of the line of fire.
He'd ridden to school as fast as he could after that but he'd still been late. Then he'd arrived to realize he'd forgotten to pack a lunch. A search through his bag had revealed a notebook and 2.50 in change. In this rich kid's cafeteria, that had been worth a bag of chips and a soda.
God he was hungry.
Coulson's cell phone rang and he pulled it from his pocket. Whatever was on the display had him smiling.
"Okay, kid," Coulson stood, "I can give you three minutes. Go home. Don't be late tomorrow."
Surprised, but not willing to look a gift horse in the mouth, Clint sprang from his seat, snatched up his bag and headed for the door.
"See you tomorrow, Mr. Barton."
"Yeah, Mr. C," Clint tossed over his shoulder as he jogged through the halls.
"Slow down, Mr. Barton!" Miss Hill called from the office as he sped by. Clint didn't bother responding as he slammed through the doors and ran for his bike.
His tire got tangled in someone else's chain lock and it took him precious seconds to jerk it free. Then he was off, pedaling hard. He was nearly hit by two cars and narrowly avoided going over the handlebars when a dog strayed out in front of him. And by the time he got to his street, he knew he was too late. The bus was already turning back onto the main road.
"Shit," he hissed, taking the corner in a low lean that nearly had his knee scraping the pavement.
He vaulted off his bike, leaving it abandoned with still spinning wheels in the front yard and took the porch steps in one leap.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" a little voice was pleading from the kitchen.
Clint saw three of the other boys huddled on the stairs.
"Go upstairs!" Clint snapped at them, tossing the nearest one his back pack. Wearing varying degrees on relief on their faces, they hurried to obey. "Jon," Clint pulled at a boy hovering just outside the kitchen door, "what happened?"
"He asked about the cup," Jon replied, twitching nervously as his eyes skirted back to the kitchen door at the sound of flesh meeting flesh. "Jimmy started crying."
"Okay," Clint pushed the boy to the stairs, "go. I've got it."
Jon hesitated. He was the second oldest, behind Clint. But he was still only eleven, young enough to still need protection.
"Go," Clint urged again, with a firm glare to back it up. "Block the door after Jimmy until it's me knocking, okay?"
Looking reluctant and a vaguely furious, Jon nodded and finally retreated towards the stairs.
Taking a breath, Clint pushed through the swinging kitchen door.
Phillip Jacobs, proprietor of Waverly Home for Boys was looming over eight year old Jimmy, whose lip was already bleeding. Jacobs was shaking with unspent fury, a reaction that didn't take much to spark.
"Jimmy," Clint snapped sharply, "come here."
The little boy scurried towards him, narrowly avoiding Jacobs' grabbing hand.
"He broke a goddamned cup! Everything has a consequence, you know that Clinton!"
"He didn't break it," Clint argued calmly, pushing Jimmy behind him and backing them both towards the door. "I did."
"Clint…" Jimmy whispered from behind him, small hands pulling at the back of Clint's shirt.
"Don't you lie to me, boy," Jacobs threatened.
"I'm not," Clint denied, reaching back to stop Jimmy from leaning around him. Keeping the boy out of sight was key. "I broke it. I cleaned it up and tried to hide it. It was me, not Jimmy."
"Clint, no," Jimmy pleaded, pulling at his shirt again. Clint kept his eyes on Jacobs but half turned to push Jimmy through the door and out of the kitchen.
"It's okay," Clint assured over his shoulder. "Go upstairs."
"Clint…" Jimmy whimpered.
"Go, Jimmy," Clint insisted. He tore his gaze away from Jacobs' stern glare to wink at Jimmy and give him a smirk. "I can take it."
Then with a final shove the door was swinging closed again, Jimmy safely on the other side.
Clint closed his eyes and drew in a fortifying breath as Jacobs shoved aside a chair to come towards him.
He could take it.
Coulson was assigned morning detention – well the science teacher had been, but Phil had offered to take it – and pushed into the appropriate room five minutes earlier than the designated time. He drew up short when he saw a familiar form folded forward over a desk with his head resting on his arms.
Clint Barton was here, early even.
He was wearing a large gray hoodie with the hood pulled up to cover his head and seemed, from a distance at least, to be asleep.
He didn't stir as Coulson moved closer and once he was able to round the desk and see his face, Phil was able to confirm the boy was, indeed, asleep.
But it was the new bruises that caught his attention. The entire corner of Barton's mouth was black and blue and his lip was split and swollen. The bruise that had been healing around his eye had been replaced by a fresh one and there was a slight cut above his eyebrow that hadn't been there before.
What the hell had happened to this kid?
"Barton?" Phil called carefully. He laid a gentle hand on the boy's shoulder and lightly shook him.
Barton reacted like Phil's touch was electrified.
He flinched away and jerked upright, nearly falling out of his chair in an attempt to get some distance. Phil retreated, holding a hand up in a calming manner.
"It's okay," Phil assured. "I'm not going to hurt you."
Barton looked around wildly, eyes wide and confused. He was still caught between awake and asleep, Phil realized.
"It's Mr. Coulson, you're at school, morning detention."
Barton blinked rapidly, eyes focusing and zeroing in on Coulson with alarming intensity.
"I'm not going to hurt you," Phil repeated. Because that point, given the new bruises, seemed important.
Barton's breathing, which had been frantic and rapid when he woke, evened out and eased.
"Who did that to you?" Phil asked, motioning at Barton's face.
"I got in a fight," the teen replied immediately.
"With who? Rocky?"
Barton rolled his eyes.
"A kid from my neighborhood. He was hassling my little brother. I stopped him."
Phil nodded slowly.
"You all right? Have you seen the nurse?"
"I'm fine."
"Maybe you should let the nurse look you over."
"I'm fine," Barton insisted again.
"It'll make me feel better."
Something in Barton's eyes flashed.
"I don't give a shit what makes you feel better."
Phil sighed out a deep breath.
"Kid, I can't just ignore it. Either we go to the nurse or I call him here, your choice."
He could tell by Barton's immediate frown that the idea of Nurse Wilson making a house call to the detention room where just anybody could walk in wasn't a welcome one.
The teen glowered at him and stood, snatching his backpack from the ground and starting towards the door without a word. Phil let out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, and followed.
Barton walked with his head down, hood pulled low over his eyes and leaving most of his face shadowed. His bag was hooked over one shoulder, but his white knuckled grip on the strap belied the relaxed positioning. And there was something about the way he was moving, something less fluid than how he'd been moving yesterday.
Phil felt his brow pinching as concern came to life within him. Again, something in his instincts pulled at him. He had a feeling he was missing something, something important.
Before he could analyze that feeling too deeply, they reached the nurse's office. The door was open and Phil could see a tall, dark haired man rummaging around in a cabinet.
When Barton didn't say anything, just stood by the open door giving Phil a mutinous look, Phil cleared his throat.
The nurse's head twisted, eyes narrowing at them over his shoulder. When he saw Barton, there was a flash of concern – but not surprise Phil realized – in his gaze.
"What now, kid?" the nurse grumbled as he turned and motioned Barton through the door.
Barton just clenched his jaw and moved stiffly into the office, glaring around the room and taking a seat on the cot with a glower.
"He says he got in a fight," Phil supplied.
"Who this time?" the nurse asked Barton as he caught the boy's chin and turned his face side to side to take in the damage done. "Matthews again?"
It was then that Phil remembered the stack of disciplinary actions in Barton's file – fighting often amongst the list of crimes.
"No one here," Barton replied lowly. "Kid in my neighborhood."
Phil watched the nurse's eyes narrow.
"Kid, huh?"
Barton just blinked at him, expression stony and eyes daring him to call him a liar.
Without another word, the nurse turned to Phil.
"You must be Coulson. Dan Wilson," he hooked a thumb towards his own chest. "And this pain the ass is a regular. You can go."
Phil was surprised that despite the apparent harshness of the words, there was nothing but warmth and familiarity in his tone. Phil slid a glance at Barton, but the kid was staring down at his own hands, picking at a scab on his knuckles.
"I'm supposed to be monitoring him," Phil replied. "Detention."
Wilson rolled his eyes and shot Barton a glance.
"They should just rent you a desk in there, Barton."
The teen shot Wilson a withering glare.
Then Wilson canted his head towards Phil, eyebrow arching. Phil watched Barton's gaze flick back and forth between them and then settle back on Wilson. Whatever the nurse saw there, it seemed to settle something.
"I think I can take custody," he replied, moving forward to usher Phil back out the door. But instead of closing the door in his face, Wilson hesitated with a hand on Phil's elbow. "Do you know what I'm looking at here?" he asked lowly, eyes intense.
Phil glanced at Barton, but the teen was stretching a rubber band between his fingers, eyes pinned on something across the room. Phil frowned, wondering where the rubber band had come from.
"He's moving stiffly," Phil answered Wilson's question quietly, shifting his gaze back to the man before him.
"Ribs then, getting him to let me see those will be fun." The tone of his voice suggested it wouldn't be 'fun' at all. Then without so much as a parting word, Phil found the office door shut in his face.
Phil looked up from the file on his desk when a knock came at his door. He was surprised to see Dan Wilson standing there.
"We need to talk about Barton."
With nothing but that to lead, Wilson came into the office and shut the door.
"How is he?" Phil asked as the nurse took a seat across from him.
"Nothing broken, no concussion, seems to be nothing but bruises. I sent him to homeroom."
Phil nodded. That was good, he supposed. But Wilson still looked like he'd eaten something sour.
"What is it?"
"He said a kid did that to him?" Wilson asked.
Phil nodded.
"He said a kid was picking on his little brother and that he stopped him."
Wilson's gaze narrowed and he drew in and let out a deep breath.
"Barton doesn't have a little brother," Wilson pointed out.
Phil nodded. He knew that.
"I assumed he was talking about one of the other kids in his home."
Wilson nodded, rubbing at his mouth and looking troubled.
"What is it?" Phil asked.
"Did you know I was a military doctor?"
Phil blinked, taken off guard by the non-sequitur. He shook his head wordlessly. Of course he didn't know that, they'd only just met an hour ago.
"I used to patch guys up that had been in everything from fire fights to bar room brawls. I've seen a lot of bruises from fights in my day. Hell, I've treated Barton after too many fights of his own right here on school grounds."
Phil stared at him, waiting.
"A guy that gets into a fight, is rarely the only one left bruised. And unless they happen to carry boxing gloves with them, evidence is always left behind."
Phil had a sudden vision of Barton picking at scabs on his knuckles.
"No fresh wounds on his hands," Phil realized.
Wilson pointed at him.
"Got it in one. Maybe you won't be as useless as the last guy."
Phil ignored the comment and sat forward in his seat, meeting Wilson's gaze intently.
He realized now, what instinct had been pulling at him.
"You suspect something," he realized. "At home?"
Wilson nodded.
"I even called CPS myself at the beginning of the school year."
"What happened?"
"Nothing. Barton showed up without a scratch for the next two weeks and was on his best behavior. Never missed a class, never stepped a toe out of line. Then everything went back to how it had been. Todd, the athletics coach has tried to pull him into sports to get him out of that house more, but the kid won't go for it."
Phil sat back again with a frown.
"He won't admit to it?" he asked.
Wilson scoffed.
"You've talked to him. That kid could drive some military trained interrogators I've known to insanity."
Phil sighed. That seemed frustratingly accurate.
"But you got him to come to me on his own," Wilson went on. "That's a first. Unless he's caught in the act of brawling on campus, that kid avoids my office like its hot zone in the Afghan desert."
"I threatened to bring you to him."
Wilson laughed at that.
"Blatant manipulation aside, I like the way you think."
Wilson stood then.
"Talk to Coach Bryan, he's been around Barton more than I have and he's got a soft spot for the kid."
Phil nodded and watched Wilson head for the door.
"Wilson?"
The nurse turned with a questioning arch to his brow.
"Williams, before me, why didn't he do anything?"
He was surprised by the fury that lit the tall man's gaze.
"Williams was a vindictive bastard who had no business working with kids. I don't know what his problem with Barton was, but I guaran-damn-tee it that son of a bitch is the reason Barton won't ever look to any of us for help even if he needs it."
Phil blinked at that, surprised.
"I really hope you're gonna be different."
"I am," Phil assured firmly. "I will be."
Clint Barton wasn't going to slip through the cracks on his watch.
"What are you trying to do? Kill a fly?! Cut that bat like you mean it, Rogers, don't just wave it around! Practice how you play, men, always!"
Phil watched the young man at the plate nod. Steve Rogers. Phil had met with him this afternoon. Rogers was a junior and had already been offered athletic scholarships to half a dozen top-tier schools. He was also a shoe in for Prom King, if the rumor mill could be trusted, even though he was just a junior.
"Coach Bryan?" Phil called out as he approached.
The tall, dark skinned man turned to him and his firm, dark gaze, lightened with friendly warmth.
"New guy! Todd Bryan, nice to meet you." The man pumped Phil's hand firmly in greeting and then glanced at something to their left. "Odinson! I'm sure Ms. Foster will be happy to let you drool over her after practice! Get back behind the plate!"
Phil watched a tall, bulky young man duck bashfully from where he'd been talking to a petite dark haired girl through the fence. The large man's long blonde hair was knotted behind his head and with a sheepish glance at Bryan, he pulled a catcher's mask back over his face. Thor Odinson, son of a foreign diplomat. A good kid, but loud and often disruptive. He was also a junior.
"What can I do for you?" Bryan asked as he crossed his arms over his chest and met Phil's gaze.
"I want to talk to you about a student."
Bryan nodded knowingly.
"You've met Barton, then."
Phil blinked in surprise and Bryan chuckled.
"You've been here all of five minutes," Bryan pointed out. "Who else can get you looking that worried that fast."
"You know his situation, then?"
"If you're asking if I know that kid gets beat up by his asshole of a guardian? Then yeah, I know. But CPS has proven useless and the kid denies it like we're asking him to confess to a capital crime."
"Why would he deny it?" Phil wondered, more to himself than anything, but Bryan answered anyway.
"Beats the hell out of me. The kid may be a pain in the ass I care about, but he still a pain in the ass. My guess, he doesn't think it'd do any good. CPS came and went, remember? And nothing changed."
Phil chewed his lip in thought.
"Look," Bryan sighed. "I've done everything I could think of. I've tried to get him to join the baseball team – the kid's got an arm you wouldn't believe and he can place a pitch like no one I've ever seen. He turned me down flat. I tried to get him to join the city league for his archery obsession, he said no. I want to give him time out of that house, but he keeps shoving away the life line I'm trying to throw him."
Phil frowned. There was something more going on there, something they didn't know about. This went beyond cut and dry abuse. Barton had a reason for going home every day, a reason he wasn't trying to spend every waking moment not there.
"Thanks," he offered his hand to Bryan again, who shook it. But Bryan held on tighter when he tried to pull away.
"The guy that came before you, all he did was make things worse. But if you're legit about wanting to help him, then don't back down. Don't let him fool you. He may act like he's the toughest shit there is, and he is…but he's…"
"Fifteen," Phil finished quietly. At the end of the day, no matter how tough he seemed, Barton was a kid.
Bryan let out a weary sigh.
"Yeah."
"I understand," Phil assured.
Bryan nodded and released him, turning back to bark at Jared Mathews who had apparently just thrown a terrible pitch.
As Phil walked away from the baseball field, he was both heartened and even more concerned.
He was relieved to find out that he wasn't the only one that knew something was going on with Barton. Both Wilson and Bryan had seen exactly what he had and tried to help. They'd played by the rules and called CPS and nothing came of it. Because if Barton kept getting in fights, out in the open for everyone to see, it was too easy to blame every bruise on such behavior.
What Phil couldn't wrap his head around was why Barton would go to such lengths to protect his abuser. Why he would lie to cover it up.
There was something else. Something even Wilson and Bryan hadn't put together.
He needed to talk to Barton.
Phil pulled aside the torn screen door and knocked on the wood behind it.
There was a thud and crash, a laugh and then the lock was turning.
Phil smiled in greeting at the young boy blinking at him. The kid didn't look more than eleven or twelve but he was watching Phil with a world-weary wariness that pulled at Phil's heart.
"Who are you?"
"My name is Phil Coulson. I'm Clint's teacher."
The boy's eyes lit a bit at the mention of the teenager.
"Is he here?"
The boy glanced over his shoulder, looking hesitant.
"He's making dinner," he finally confessed.
"Can I talk to him?"
He could see the refusal building in the boy's face.
"I want to help him," Phil assured gently, throwing all the sincerity he had into the words.
Something in the young man softened and after a moment he nodded, letting the door open further. Phil followed him inside, down a narrow hallway to where laughter was rising from the kitchen.
"Clint," his escort called as he pushed through the swinging door. "That new teacher's here."
Phil followed him through the door, a bit surprised Clint had talked about him, and found himself the subject of three curious stares, one wary one, and one furious one.
"What are you doing here?" Barton demanded.
"I just want to talk," Phil assured, glancing around to take in all the faces around him.
All of them, save one little boy with a busted lip, were unbruised. Not one of them had a mark on them.
He realized, with a heavy heart, what no one else had put together before.
It was so clear now, with it staring him right in the face.
Barton was protecting them.
Phil suddenly felt sick.
"Jon, take over with the mac. Don't let it burn this time, okay? Jimmy make sure he doesn't. Ryan, table. Bobby, drinks."
Then before Phil could even fully connect the names with faces, Barton was all but shoving him out of the kitchen.
"What the hell are you doing here?" Barton demanded again, unashamedly pushing Phil towards the front door. "You can't be here."
"Barton," Phil tried, unwilling to use any sort of force to stop his eviction. "I just want to talk, I promise."
He found himself unceremoniously out on the front porch, Barton standing in front of the door like a bouncer.
"You can't be here," Barton said again, but the way his eyes darted up and down the street told Phil their position on the porch had less to do with getting Phil out and more to do with keeping watch.
"He'll be back soon, won't he?"
Barton's cool blue-gray gaze cut back to him but if he was surprised by Phil's deduction he didn't let it show.
"You need to go." Barton's tone could cut steel and Phil worried what would happen if the boy's guardian got back and Phil was still here. Barton seemed to think nothing good.
"Come see me in the morning," he requested, backing towards the steps.
"No."
The blunt refusal was surprising.
"Barton…"
"Look," Barton stepped up toe-to-toe with him, eyes cold and voice sharp, "I know you think you're helping, but you're not." Something caught Barton's gaze down the street and for the first time, Phil saw him falter. "Go, now."
Phil was all but shoved off the porch.
"Barton…"
But the teen was having none of it. He practically escorted Phil to his car and forced Phil into it.
"Don't come back here." With that final order, Barton slammed the car door closed and ran back to the house. Phil saw him meet with another boy who had sprinted into the yard. Barton ushered the other boy inside and closed the door with a slam.
Unwilling to discount the urgency in Barton's actions, Phil started the car and pulled away. As he slowed to a stop at the end of the street, he looked in his mirror in time to see a car pulling into the driveway at Barton's house.
He watched a large, burly man climb out and stomp up to the porch. He practically ripped the screen door off the hinges as he stormed inside.
Phillip Jacobs, he realized with a coiling of anger in his gut.
"This isn't over, kid," Phil promised to an empty car.
Whatever it took, Phil would get Clint and every one of those other boys out of that house.
So there you go! Another addition to the Bouclier Academy AU! As many of you guessed, "Bouclier" is French for "shield" ;) And I may have used the French word for it because I'm recently obsessed with The Musketeers which takes place in France *rolls eyes at self*
Anyway, I'd love to hear your thoughts! I know child abuse is hard to read about, it's equally hard to write about. But I couldn't do a high school AU without bringing in Phillip Jacobs. I hope you're also pleased to note that Phil is NOT the first one to notice what was going on.
I await your reactions anxiously!
Later gators!
