Here is the next part to this fun little High School AU! And by fun I mean kinda sad and heartbreaking? Anyways, enjoy this update! As usual, this is unbeta'd and just for fun :D It also marks the first time in a long time that I've actually sat down and written something so yay for that too! You might find it useful to go back and re-read parts 1 and 2 but that's totally up to you!

trigger warning: mentions of child abuse


Clint did his absolute best to avoid Mr. Coulson the next day. He even went so far as to scope out morning detention – fully prepared to skip if needed – to make sure the science teacher, Ms. Simmons, was monitoring it like she was supposed to.

Having acquired the skill of making himself become invisible at a very young age – bitter thanks to Jacobs for the necessity of that lesson – it was actually not all that difficult, in the end, to stay off Coulson's radar for the entire school day.

He might have known his luck couldn't last though. As he made his way into afternoon detention, none other than Mr. Stick-his-nose-where-it-doesn't-belong Coulson was leaning against the teacher's desk.

Clint gave the man a rebellious glare and then purposefully walked to the very back of the room, taking a seat in the furthest desk available. For several tense, silent moments, they just stared at each other. Coulson's gaze was open and concerned and a little too knowing for Clint's taste. Clint did his best to pour every ounce of defiance and rebellion he had into his own stare – daring Coulson to bring up the fresh bruise that had puffed up Clint's cheekbone or the dark hand print that had darkened around his wrist.

Then, just when Coulson drew in a breath, lady luck smiled on Clint one last time.

The classroom door swung open and another student walked in.

Coulson's mouth was startled shut and Clint couldn't help his triumphant smirk.

Then he realized exactly who had just walked in.

Mr. Golden Boy himself, Steve Rogers. And he was sporting a nice new shiner to boot.

"Mr. Rogers," Coulson greeted in surprise.

"I was told to report for detention, sir," Rogers replied respectfully.

Coulson eyed him for a moment, assessing gaze taking in the darkening bruise.

"Should I be expecting anyone else?" he finally asked.

Rogers chewed his lip a little guiltily and shook his head.

"No sir."

"Then take a seat," Coulson instructed. "The two of you can spend the hour doing homework."

Clint breathed a silent sigh of relief and dug into his back pack, retrieving a worn, ripped copy of the first Harry Potter. He was already halfway lost in the wizarding world when he abruptly realized someone had taken the desk next to him.

He slid a sideways look at Rogers, who was dutifully opening his pre-calculus text book and pulling out a pencil and paper. Sensing Clint's gaze, Rogers glanced at him, eyebrows rising in question.

Clint quirked a brow, sending a speaking look around the room at all the other empty desks.

"I'm sorry," Rogers blinked innocently, "was this seat taken?"

He said it with such painful politeness, but Clint heard the undercurrent of teasing sarcasm that most might have missed.

Clint narrowed his gaze in challenge.

"Look, we're gonna be stuck in here together until the end of next week," Rogers whispered, shooting a wary glance towards Coulson at the front of the room. "We might as well make the best of it."

Clint just continued to stare, but Rogers just kept blinking at him with his bright, too-blue eyes – looking all friendly and shit.

Nobody here had bothered to be friendly towards him since before Barney. Clint had gone out of his way to foster that. He didn't want friends. He didn't want people getting too close.

"I'm Steve," Rogers stuck out a hand, smiling warmly.

Clint stared at him.

"I know you who are," he finally replied.

"And you're Clint Barton," Steve nodded. "Coach says you're one of the best pitchers he's ever seen."

"I don't play baseball," Clint countered sharply.

"I know, but he sure wishes you did," Steve answered with a quiet chuckle. "Our pitcher, Jared Matthews, he's all right…but he's not as good as the guy who graduated last year."

Clint gave his best sarcastically enthused face and then pointedly looked back at his book.

"So what are you in for?" Steve asked after a moment.

"Aren't you supposed to be doing homework or something?" Clint muttered without looking up.

"I finished most of it in class, it won't take me long," Steve shrugged. "So? What'd you do?"

"I punched the last guy who asked me too many questions."

Steve chuckled again.

"I got caught fighting," the junior admitted sheepishly.

"You?" Clint scoffed disbelievingly.

Rogers just sighed, gaze growing serious.

"I don't like bullies."

Clint stared at him, his own amusement fading.

"Yeah," he agreed quietly, rubbing a hand over the bruise on his wrist without realizing it, "me neither."

Steve watched him for a moment and then nodded at the open book on the desk.

"I love those books," he said abruptly. "My favorite's the fifth one."

"I've only read this one," Clint admitted. "About a hundred times."

"I have the others," Steve stated. "I'll bring the next one tomorrow and you can borrow it."

"That's okay," Clint shook his head, "you don't have to do that."

"I know," Steve grinned. "But I don't mind."

Clint shrugged as if he didn't care one way or the other – though in reality he was completely stunned by the offer. His nurse in the hospital had given him this one as a discharge present. Hiding it from Jacobs had become somewhat of an art.

"I skipped first period," he revealed abruptly, glancing at Steve.

"And you got repeated detention?" Steve asked with a confused frown.

"Six days in a row."

"Ah…" Steve raised his eyebrows in realization. "Did you have a good excuse at least?"

"I thought I did, Fury didn't agree."

Of course, Fury might have cut him a little more slack if Clint had told him the real reason he'd been late six days in a row. 'Sleeping through my alarm' just wasn't something that garnered a lot of sympathy.

"Fury didn't agree with my excuse today either," Steve replied ruefully, flexing his right hand.

Clint caught sight of the split, bruising knuckles.

"You don't like bullies," Clint remembered.

Steve gave him a half grin.

"Apparently that's not enough reason to start a fight on school grounds."

Clint shrugged a shoulder. It sounded like plenty of reason to him. Of course, he'd started fights for a lot less reason so maybe his judgement on that was skewed.

"That's enough chit-chat, you two," Coulson warned from the front of the class.

Steve dutifully focused on his homework and Clint turned back to his book.

Clint, having been watching the clock for the last ten minutes of detention, was ready for it when the hour ended. He stood, backpack already slung over his shoulder even as Steve started packing up his half-finished physics homework.

Clint started to step away, hesitated, and then gestured vaguely at Steve's page.

"Number 3? You did it wrong."

Then he jogged to the door and slid to freedom even as Steve blinked in confusion after him.


Phil rubbed wearily at his eyes and glanced at his watch.

9:45 p.m.

He should go home. Decided, he flipped closed the files on his desk and stood, sliding them into his briefcase. He clicked off his light and pulled his office door closed behind him, locking it quickly and headed down the hallway towards the side exit nearest to where he'd parked.

He had just passed the gym doors when he heard an odd 'thwack' from beyond them.

Confused because Coach Bryan had said goodbye to him personally hours ago, Phil retraced his steps to the gym door and looked through the small narrow window.

He couldn't see much in the darkness of the gymnasium, but there was definitely someone in there. The equipment closet was also open, providing the only source of light, meager as it was in the large expanse of the gym.

Phil watched the intruder straighten, arms drawing up…no, he was drawing something up…a bow. A moment later there was a slight whistle and then another thwack.

A bow and arrow – archery.

He had a sudden memory of an array of pencils in the shape of an arrow head.

It couldn't be…

Phil pushed the door open and started across the gym.

The intruder noticed him immediately and did exactly as Phil should have predicted.

He ran.

"Hey! Wait!" Phil called after him, kicking into a run to pursue. "Wait! Clint!"

He caught up to him in the boy's locker room, halfway out the window. He caught the hem of Barton's jeans and pulled him back. The teen all but snarled at him and retreated from Phil so quickly his back hit the lockers hard enough to rattle them.

"Easy!" Phil held up a soothing hand. "It's just me, Mr. Coulson."

But Barton was still in fight or flight mode. His gaze darted from the window to the door and back rapidly as he obviously calculated his best escape route.

"Hey, I'm not gonna hurt you," Phil assured. "I probably shouldn't have startled you and then chased you…that's my bad. You just caught me by surprise. It's awfully late to be here."

Clint's gaze finally stopped rabbiting around the room and settled on him, but only long enough to convey a 'pot meet kettle' glare of sarcasm.

"Hey, I work here," Phil defended. "What's your excuse?"

He saw Barton's posture slowly relaxing as the adrenaline of the moment faded.

"Coach Bryan leaves the window unlocked for me so I can use the archery stuff."

"He does?" Phil wondered in surprise.

"No, I actually bypassed the card reader on the exterior door and broke in but decided to make my escape through a window just for the hell of it."

Phil blinked in the face of the biting sarcasm.

"Well…" he cleared his throat, "how about I give you a ride home."

He was surprised by the naked panic that flashed through Barton's eyes.

"I have my bike," the young man insisted, voice deceptively calm considering his eyes were wide and slightly wild.

"We'll toss it in the trunk," Phil shrugged. "It's late. I just want to make sure you get home safely."

"I…" Barton trailed off, shifting uncomfortably and averting his gaze.

Phil felt an instinct tingle in the back of his mind. Barton didn't want to go home.

"Or," he hedged, "how about I take you for pancakes?"

That earned him a wide eyed look of surprise followed swiftly by distrusting suspicion.

"Just pancakes," he promised, "no strings attached."

He was fully prepared for a refusal, even vaguely prepared for Barton to just bolt.

So, suffice it to say, when Barton merely let out a weary sigh and nodded…Phil was shocked. He recovered quickly, though, and cleared his throat.

"Okay then," he gestured towards the door, "let's go."


Mr. Coulson was staring. He was trying to look like he wasn't staring, but he was staring.

Clint supposed he couldn't blame him, though. He was pretty sure he'd gotten rid of most of the blood before he'd snuck out of the house, but he might have missed some. And even if he hadn't, the swelling was probably pretty dramatic by now.

He had to give Coulson credit, though. Other than an initial sharp intake of breath when the new injuries had become visible in the light of the equipment room as they cleaned up, the guy hadn't commented. They'd driven in relative silence to a 24 hour iHop and were now quietly enjoying their pancakes. Clint was on his third chocolate milk – the waitress had taken one look at him and kept his glass full.

He still didn't know why he agreed to this. It was probably a terrible idea.

But…he didn't want to go home yet. And he hadn't had dinner so he was hungry.

And he was just…tired.

He would have to go back, probably to a room full of worried boys. But Jacobs was done for the night. He'd been already snoring when Clint snuck out. The boys would keep the door blocked for the night anyway, so even if Jacobs woke up, he wouldn't be able to get to them.

He doubted the son of a bitch had the energy to do anything anyway. He'd worn himself out beating the shit out of Clint, after all.

"Pancakes good?" Coulson finally ventured.

Clint looked up at the counselor through his lashes, then back down at his own nearly empty plate.

He'd had five pancakes to start – they were gone. He'd gotten two more to replace them – they were almost gone.

He raised his gaze again and cocked an eyebrow in silent sarcasm.

Mr. Coulson's lips twitched with a poorly restrained grin and he inclined his head.

"Right," the older man chuckled, "stupid question."

Clint felt the corner of his own mouth twitch and he lowered his gaze again, cutting into the meager remains of his second helping.

"So, I'm not going to ask you what happened," Coulson continued casually, "because I've got a pretty good idea already."

Clint forked a bite of pancakes slowly into his mouth and eyed the teacher warily.

"And something tells me you wouldn't tell me the truth anyway."

Clint stared, setting his expression with as much apathetic disinterest as he could while he continued chewing.

Inexplicably, Coulson's mouth twitched with another restrained grin before sobering.

"What I don't know, though, is why you let him get away with it."

Anger flared through Clint's veins and judging by the assessing glint in Couslon's gaze, it had shown in Clint's eyes.

"I mean, you're a tough kid. Smart. A lot less naive than most kids your age. You know it's not right and yet…" Coulson waved a hand vaguely in Clint's direction.

"So much for no strings," Clint ground out acidly. Typical adult.

"Hey, did I ask you anything?" Coulson held up a hand defensively. "I'm just talking here – thinking out loud if you will."

"How about you keep your thinking silent like the rest of us do," Clint retorted.

"Yeah, you're good at silent," Coulson volleyed back easily.

Another sharp flare of anger boiled in Clint's chest. Did Coulson think he wanted this? That this is the life he'd choose if he actually got a say? But he didn't get a choice. He got dealt his hand and he'd suck it up and take it.

He wasn't weak.

"But you can take it, right?" Coulson went on, voice still pitched in that casual, easy tone.

Damn right he could take it.

"But not every kid out there is tough as shit like you, Barton. Why should those other boys have to take it too?"

"They don't," Clint snapped lowly. He protected them. He would always protect them.

"Yeah, you make sure of that," Coulson agreed. "But what happens when you aren't there? If you get home late because you got detention again?" Coulson leaned across the table, holding Clint's gaze with his own. "What happens when you turn eighteen and the state boots you from the system. Who protects them then?"

Clint's hand ached and he abruptly released the fork he'd been clenching in his fist. The utensil clattered to the table, bouncing off the plate loudly.

"You won't be there to shield them forever, Clint," Coulson pressed on mercilessly. "You think you're protecting them, but you aren't. You're the band aid on the gunshot wound. You want to help them? Treat the wound. For a bullet wound, you'd find a doctor. For this, you'd…"

"What?" Clint hissed lowly. "Call CPS?" He huffed out a dark, sarcastic chuckle. "Been there, done that," he smirked joylessly, "didn't even get a t-shirt because CPS is fucking useless."

He watched Coulson sigh, eyes welling with sympathy.

And that just pissed Clint off even more.

"Don't look at me like that – like I'm just a stupid kid who doesn't understand how the world works. I do, better than most. You think you're spelling out some grand epiphany? You think I don't know how wrong all this shit is? But it's my shit – mine. I'll deal with it just like I always have. I don't need you to save me. I don't need anyone to save me. So you can take your patronizing bullshit and your goddamn pancakes and go to hell."

Clint stood, stalking towards the door and ignoring Coulson's calls after him.

His bike was sticking half out of Coulson's truck, the lid held closed by a spare bungie chord. Clint unhooked the cord and all but ripped his bike free. He put foot to pedal just as Coulson came jogging out the door.

"Clint wait!"

But Clint didn't.

He didn't need anyone to tell him Jacobs was a cruel, violent asshole. He knew. He didn't need anyone to tell him that taking the hits for the other boys was a temporary solution. He knew that too.

He would handle it. He would take care of the others, just like he always had.

No matter what it took.


Clint wasn't in school the next day.

Phil had asked around, but nobody seemed to know Clint well enough to notice he was gone. Nobody, at least, except his detention buddy Steve Rogers, who spent most of detention watching Clint's empty desk pensively.

Phil knew it was his fault.

He had known he was pushing it. He had known he was nudging at a likely very raw wound and that Clint would only take so much before he lashed out.

He just hadn't expected the kid to lash out quite that suddenly or intensely.

The weekend came and went and Clint wasn't in school Monday either.

Phil waited until lunch was over, and when Clint still didn't show, he headed out to the parking lot. It was early. The man who ran the boys home hadn't gotten home until after five last time Phil stopped by, so he should be at work. The rest of the kids should still be in school.

He just hoped Clint was there.


there! That's part 3! things are starting to heat up as we approach the big tipping point of this arc. Where is Clint? Did he skip school to avoid Phil? Will he be at the house when Phil gets there? I'll try not to take so long on the next part! haha

drop me a line if you've got the time and inclination!