So many people have been asking, so I suppose I should tell you that, according to comic canon, Natasha was born in 1928. She retains the appearance of a woman in her twenties, however (I like to think about 24) because she's been injected with some very super soldier serum-ish things. Marvel actually classifies her as a superhuman for this and other reasons.

I'm disregarding Cap 2 in favor of this because MCU is five kinds of confused and I had the comics in mind when I started this fic.

**8**

Tony, at age ten, is approximately the size of a particularly portable eight year old. This makes it easy for Natasha to pick him up and drop him at the exact place Tony happens to not want to go to: school.

To start, the name of the school he attends is so long he can only remember "School for Boys". He doesn't much care who started the school or who it's dedicated to, except to maybe dislike those people for only allowing rich families to enroll their children. It's evidenced in every piece of fiction and even some nonfiction that rich boys are rude brats, unless in his mom's romance novels (which he picked up once, dropped when he got to the middle, and proceeded to give each one similar a wide berth from that point on). This isn't to say people of a "lower class" can't be rude brats as well: he has no evidence to the contrary, after all. It's just that the people he's forced to attend classes with tend to be mean and infuriating.

He privately thinks they must all have neglectful fathers like he does; they just don't know how to manage their attention-getting attitudes in a way that works best. It doesn't excuse their actions, of course, but he likes to think he understands.

"Natasha," he whines as she straightens his ugly little plaid tie.

"No," she says firmly, tugging on the sleeves of his jacket. She steps back and eyes her work critically. "Good enough, I think. Go get your shoes."

"But -!"

"No."

Grumbling, he stomps off to find his nice shoes.

**8***

"I see you've mastered the 'take no prisoners' attitude necessary for herding unruly children," Jarvis chuckles over breakfast. He seals Tony's bag lunch and slides it over to join the backpack on the counter.

"It's a gift," Natasha says airily. Tony pouts over his pancakes.

"Oh, chin up," Jarvis says gently. "At least now you'll have work to do."

"But it's boring work," Tony says mulishly, "and it won't keep me busy for long."

"It won't," Jarvis concedes. "But it's something."

"I hate school," the boy complains. "I don't wanna go back, they're all jerks."

"Quit whining," Natasha snaps suddenly, and they all jump. "At least you get to go to school." No one really knows what to say to that.

She sets her fork down and stares at her plate. "Sorry," she says after a pause.

"I'm sorry, too?" Tony offers, uncertain. She shrugs with one shoulder and picks her fork back up. Jarvis, still in his part of the kitchen, heaves a sigh.

"It's certainly not your fault," Natasha says, pulling back a curtain of good humor over her tone. "D'you think your school will accept adults?"

Tony actually considers this. "Probably not," he says after a moment. She shrugs again.

"Maybe I'll use my pay to go to college," she says.

"Hey," Tony says, perking up, "I'm almost in college! We can go together."

"Not for another three years," Jarvis says sternly. "And that's assuming you can keep up with your classwork."

Natasha looks positively astonished. "What do you mean, three years? Aren't children supposed to be in junior high school at that point?"

"I'm a ninth grader," Tony says proudly. "I could even be an eleventh grader right now, like dad said, but Jarvis said I had to have time to grow up a little."

"I would've insisted he didn't skip at all if I hadn't seen how miserable he was," Jarvis puts in.

"Huh," Natasha says. "Is it even legal?"

"There aren't many rules against it," Jarvis says dryly, "and the ones that are can be bent easily under the weight of money."

"I see," Natasha says, and Tony thinks that maybe she really doesn't.

**8**

"I'd like to meet your teacher," she says as the car rolls to a halt outside his school. His is the third limo in the line.

"Sure," Tony says. "Are you going to stay with me in class?"

"I'm not allowed," she answers, with something like regret. "I can wait outside the building, however. And in the school yard."

"I'll come say hi, then," Tony promises, and she smiles. The bell rings for the start of class. "Class is starting. If you come with you can meet my teacher."

"I'll park the car."