Chapter Text
January 12, 2004
Clint didn’t really have a lot of time to spare, but he still made a brief bathroom detour to splash cold water on his face and comb damp fingers through his hair. He’d spent the last thirty-six hours on nearly every form of transportation, including the Trans-Siberian railway, a twelve hour economy flight from Beijing to Tijuana on the most rickety, threadbare MD-11 he’d ever seen, a Mexican rental car followed by a series of puddle jumpers that started in San Diego and ended, finally, in Cedar Rapids. The only food he’d eaten in recent memory was the Chinese in-flight meal and he hadn’t really slept since he got on the train in Vladivostok. The flight over the Pacific had mostly been spent doing feverish research utilizing a federal regulations book Natasha had tossed at him as he shoved his things into a duffle bag, interspersed with the occasional light doze.
In short, Clint was exhausted. And he looked it. Purple smudges under his eyes betrayed his lack of sleep, and while the layering gear he wore under his body armor on missions didn’t show wrinkles (or blood, for that matter), he didn’t look particularly professional. He’d hoped to make it home with enough time to change, but his final flight had been delayed due to a mechanical issue. At this point, he’d be lucky to make it to the school in time for the meeting.
Hence the cold water and finger combing. He eyed himself contemplatively, mostly just thankful he was now cutting his hair short so he didn’t have to show up with lank bedhead.
Nothing to be done for the rest of it.
His car was ready and waiting for him at the Avis counter, and after that he drove entirely too fast, crossing his fingers he didn’t get pulled over.
The traffic gods smiled on him, and he managed to shave fifteen minutes off the usual drive time, pulling into the elementary school parking lot just as his phone rang with James's number.
“Parking,” Clint said as he picked the call up. “Be there in like two minutes.”
He stayed on the phone long enough to hear James sigh with relief, and then he hung up, heading for the main entrance.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said, once the secretary ushered him into the principal’s office. “My flight got delayed.” He brushed his hand across the back of James’s neck before taking the seat next to him.
James had called him Friday afternoon, frustrated and threatening to take up assassination as a profession again, and Clint had called in several favors, lied to Coulson, been honest with Nat, and basically begged, bartered, and stopped just short of stealing to be here.
Glancing around, Clint found the combination of people odd. Nathan wasn’t present. His teacher was — Leslie Lee, Clint remembered her from Open House, where she’d given him a brittle smile when James introduced him — along with the principal. But there was also a cop sitting comfortably off to the side. Clint glanced at the deputy badge pinned to his shirt, and then to his face, which seemed vaguely familiar.
The cop didn’t say anything, so Clint decided to ignore him for the moment. Maybe it was some kind of school policy?
James was dressed carefully in slacks and a button-down shirt, left sleeve rolled up and pinned because he’d evidently elected to leave his arm at home, with his hair neatly combed and pulled back. Shiny dress shoes.
He’d obviously been aiming for respectable, if nothing else. You couldn’t see any of his tattoos and he’d even taken his visible piercings out.
Clint still had no idea what the fuck was happening.
Before he could ask, the teacher started talking.
“We need to discuss Nathan’s violent behavior,” Mrs. Lee said.
“I’m sorry, what?” Clint said, startled. He looked at James. This was not even remotely what they’d talked about for the scant few minutes Clint had been able to be on the phone. Violent behavior? “What the hell happened?”
James looked just as bewildered as Clint felt. “I don’t — Nate came home Friday cryin’ because one of the other kids took his dreidel. He took it for Show and Tell. Said when he told the teacher she confiscated it. I thought that’s what this was about.”
“Well,” Mrs. Lee sniffed, “that’s true. I did confiscate it. We don’t allow gambling.”
“Gambling,” Clint repeated, flabbergasted. “It’s — it’s literally a toy? Like a top?”
“What about the coins?”
“The … coins?” Clint said slowly. “They’re … chocolate? I don’t — What is going on?”
“Where’s the dreidel?” James asked abruptly.
“It was broken, so I threw it away,” Mrs. Lee said casually, as though it were nothing.
“You threw it away?” James repeated darkly.
Clint bumped their knees together, solidarity and reminder at once. James took a deep breath and subsided. From the look of his clenched jaw and tense spine, he was just barely holding it together.
“That was a gift,” Clint told her. “I got that for him in Israel. What do you mean you threw it away?”
She shrugged. “I didn’t realize it was important.”
“You — ” Clint cut himself off, looking at James, who looked furious, with his lips pressed together into a thin, white line.
But he didn’t look surprised.
“When I asked the other child what happened, he said it broke when Nathan shoved him,” Mrs. Lee continued.
Clint turned back to her. “When you asked the other child,” he repeated carefully. “Did you see Nathan shove him?”
“Well, no,” she admitted.
“Did anyone see Nathan shove him?” Clint asked. “Because as far as I know, Nathan has never once put his hands on another kid. He won’t swat a spider, for chrissake.”
They’d had far too many conversations with Nathan over the years, explaining with gentle warnings how careful he needed to be with other people and other people’s property. Because ripping down baby gates and learning to walk far too soon had only been the beginning. Nathan’d accidentally yanked off more than his fair share of door knobs, slammed doors hard enough to crack the casing, and once, memorably, torn down half the chicken coop while being chased by an ornery rooster. They talked to him when he started daycare, every year before the start of preschool, before he went to other people’s houses, and anytime he wanted to play a sport.
Not that the sports had ever lasted very long — it was hard to have fun playing a game when you had to hold back every time you threw a ball.
Still. Nathan was gentle and cautious and careful. He hadn’t broken a single thing in at least six months. He didn’t push people.
She opened her mouth to say something else, but Clint’s brain was starting to put the pieces together, and the picture it painted was ugly.
“So this other kid said Nathan shoved him. After Nathan told you this same kid took his property away from him. Is that right?”
“Yes,” she said, “but I don’t have any reason to think that he was lying.”
“You mean besides the fact that he took something that didn’t belong to him and broke it?” Clint asked sardonically.
She crossed her arms. “That’s not the issue here,” she said imperiously, “the issue is that Nathan shoved another student.”
Clint snorted. “Says another kid. You got any proof?”
The principal — Clint didn’t know her name, he’d never met her before — turned to look at Leslie Lee in disbelief.
Clint took the opportunity to survey her desk and the badge dangling around her neck. Charlotte Hammes. She tried to hide it, but it was obvious she was just as surprised as Clint about all this. He wondered what Lee had told her.
“How long has this been going on?” Clint asked, turning to James. He meant more than these accusations, and James knew it.
James’s shoulders slumped. “The whole time,” he admitted, scrubbing his hand across his face. “She wouldn’t let him celebrate Hanukkah.”
“She what?” Clint said.
“She made him sit on Santa’s lap,” James added angrily.
James wasn’t particularly devout. He never had been — and Clint should know, he’d been there since the beginning — but for the last couple of years he’d been trying to, if not be religious, at least introduce Jewish culture to Nathan. There were mezuzahs on all the doors. They celebrated Hanukkah. They celebrated major holidays — Rosh Hashanah and Sukkot and Purim — as much as James could stand to celebrate anyway. They went to Temple with Maggie Olson, sometimes. James had started lighting candles every Friday, haltingly at first but it was slowly becoming a routine.
Clint knew that the Rabbi at Chabad was on James’s case to get Nathan into Hebrew classes, to, quote, ‘get that boy in front of a book’. Knew that James was hesitant not because he didn’t want Nathan to learn, but because every single step he took to reclaim his heritage was a painful reminder of everything he had lost. His parents. His family. His autonomy. His culture, his religion, his safety.
And now this bitch.
No wonder James was ready to start committing murder.
“We can’t celebrate every little thing someone says is part of their culture,” Mrs. Lee said stiffly.
“Oh?” Clint said. “Got a bunch of culturally diverse little kids in your class? Too many requests for religious observance?”
“We didn’t celebrate the Day of the Dead, either,” she replied waspishly.
James blinked, jaw unclenching in surprise. “That’s … a Christian holiday,” he said slowly.
“It is not,” she snapped, obviously offended.
“It’s … literally a Catholic holy day,” he said, eyebrows furrowed.
“Catholic, not Christian.”
Clint looked at her, at James’s baffled face, and then the principal, who was clearly holding on to professionalism by her fingernails. “I don’t even know what to say to that,” he admitted.
The principal sighed.
Mrs. Lee sat up straighter. “Christmas is the majority holiday,” she said firmly, “so that’s what we celebrate in my classroom. Other celebrations can be held at home, where they’re … culturally relevant.”
“Can you repeat that?” Clint said very, very calmly.
“Well, since Nathan is the only — ”
“No,” Clint interrupted. “The part about Christmas.”
“What?” she asked, confused. “That it’s the majority celebration?”
Ms. Hammes closed her eyes in defeat.
Clint leaned back in his chair. “That,” he told Ms. Hammes sharply, “is discrimination.”
She pinched the bridge of her nose as her shoulders slumped.
“It’s not,” Mrs. Lee protested. “Nathan said you celebrate Christmas!”
Clint turned to her with raised eyebrows. “Sure. I celebrate Christmas. Nathan is Jewish. You’re discriminating against a five year old.”
Then the fucking cop decided he needed to chime in. “Well, now, let’s not go that far,” he said, in a tone Clint knew all too well, an obvious and poorly-executed attempt at de-escalation.
Clint swiveled to face him, eyes narrowed. He looked so damn familiar, but Clint couldn’t place him. He tucked the thought into the back of his mind to percolate, and turned back to the principal.
“Why is he here?” he asked plainly.
She didn’t roll her eyes, but it looked like it was a near thing. Before she could respond, Mrs. Lee spoke again.
“There’s been an accusation of violence,” she started.
“Has someone pressed charges?” Clint interrupted her, turning back to the cop.
“Deputy Nelson is just here to provide support,” Mrs. Hammes tried to intervene, but Clint was incredibly, thoroughly done with this situation. He’d spent the last thirty-six hours frantic to get home for this?
“Has someone pressed charges?” Clint repeated slowly, not taking his eyes off of the cop.
Nelson, Nelson, Nelson. Where did he know that name?
“What?” the deputy asked. His eyes flicked from Mrs. Lee, to Mrs. Hammes, to James, then settled on Clint. His expression shifted, a brief flash of surprised recognition, and then he was blank-faced again. Whatever he had figured out — or remembered — seemed to galvanize him. He straightened up, squaring his shoulders like he was gearing up for a fight.
Clint was unimpressed, and he slouched further in his chair to make sure the guy knew it.
“Has someone pressed charges over an unwitnessed playground altercation, where neither child has any injuries?” Clint asked again.
“No,” Deputy Nelson said slowly. “No charges.”
“Okay,” Clint said. “Has someone filed some kind of formal complaint? Against James or Nathan?”
“Well, no, but Mrs. Lee said she felt uncomfortable —”
Clint rolled his eyes. “She feels uncomfortable meeting with an honorably discharged war veteran with an amputated arm?”
Now everyone else in the room looked uncomfortable.
Good.
His brain finally coughed up where Clint knew the name Nelson from. Chad Nelson had been a shithead of a little kid even before Clint’s parents had died. A little older than Clint but younger than Barney, and when he’d gotten held back in second grade he had made Clint’s life hell at every given opportunity.
Unsurprising that he’d grown up to be a small town cop, really, just a different kind of bully.
Clint leaned back in his chair and looked the room over again. It was painfully, awkwardly silent, while everyone sat with the idea that the teacher had requested police presence to talk to a one-armed vet about a playground fight.
Clint tilted his head, watching Lee fidget in her seat, picking at her cuticles with her leg bouncing. “Uncomfortable,” he scoffed.
James huffed a barely-audible laugh.
“You can go,” Clint told Nelson. “There’s nothing here that requires police presence. We’re having a perfectly reasonable meeting with the school principal and my son’s teacher, about a couple of kids who can’t get along on the playground. I’m sure you remember what that’s like,” Clint added, just so Nelson knew that Clint did remember him, and it wasn’t a fond memory.
Nelson bristled up. “Now you don’t get to tell me to go, I’m the police officer here —”
“That is a jurisdiction battle you’re going to lose,” Clint said, and reached into his inside pocket for the SHIELD badge he carried specifically into civilian situations. He gave Chad Nelson plenty of opportunity to take a good, long look at it. “You can leave,” Clint said again, “unless you want me to call the Sheriff and file charges for harassment.”
The man looked disgruntled, opening his mouth to argue, when Mrs. Hammes cut him off. “It’s alright, Deputy,” she said evenly, “we’ll be perfectly fine.”
Leslie Lee’s eyes darted between Clint, Nelson, and Mrs. Hammes nervously.
Clint could just about see the moment she realized she was in deep, deep trouble.
Clint watched fucking Chad walk out of the office, waited for the door to close behind him.
“Now,” Clint said, giving the principal the same kind of unimpressed look he’d been subjected to when Phil Coulson first picked him up for SHIELD ‘recruitment’. “I want you to give me one good reason why I shouldn’t walk out of this room and file a lawsuit right now.”
“I had no idea any of this was going on,” Ms. Hammes said.
“That’s an excuse, not a reason,” Clint said mildly.
She pursed her lips.
Mrs. Lee opened her mouth to say something, but Ms. Hammes made a sharp gesture. “I’m sure that Leslie didn’t mean to be disrespectful to Nathan’s culture or religion,” she said very carefully.
“Oh I’m absolutely sure she did,” Clint said tersely. “Seeing as how it’s been going on since at least November. To be frank, she wasn’t terribly welcoming when I met her in September. And as far as feeling uncomfortable — she has made Nathan feel uncomfortable about his culture and religion the entire time he’s been in her class. And I would like to know what you intend to do about all of this, since it’s a blatant violation of federal law.”
Ms. Hammes sighed. “Leslie, can you wait outside please?”
“What?!” she said, startled. “I have a right to defend myself!”
“I think,” Ms. Hammes said steadily, “that you have said more than enough.”
Clint watched her walk out, anger in every jerky step.
“What can I do to make this right?” the principal asked.
Clint turned to James expectantly.
“Nothin’,” James said quietly. “There’s nothin’ you can do to make it right. But I want Nathan moved to another class, with a teacher that’s gonna at least be respectful.”
Ms. Hammes nodded. “Of course.”
“And that other kid too,” James added suddenly, “the one she wouldn’t let celebrate Day of the Dead. I don’t know if that kid’s parents know what happened, but they should get a chance to move their kid too, if they want.”
Ms. Hammes nodded again, more slowly, but she did make a note on the legal pad in front of her, and that would have to be good enough.
Then James looked at Clint, eyebrows raised.
“We also want reassurances that there are going to be repercussions.” Clint said, taking the cue. “To be quite frank, I want her fired. But I understand there’s a teacher shortage. So we’ll accept a written record of disciplinary action that goes into her file permanently, and that she has to undergo some training on cultural differences and how to incorporate them into her classroom.” He paused, thinking. “And I think she should be supervised going forward, until those things are done.”
Ms. Hammes smiled humorlessly. “I’ll personally make unscheduled observation visits to her classroom. And I can assure you the rest will be taken care of.”
***
When they got back to the house, Clint wanted nothing more than to fall face-first into the mattress and pass out for at least twelve hours.
James, however, had other ideas.
He fumbled the top buttons of his shirt open and then reached back to pull it over his head and drop it on the floor.
“Take your pants off,” he ordered, backing Clint up to the mattress as he slid his hand up and under Clint’s shirt to press against the bare skin of his back. He dragged his blunt nails down Clint’s spine until he shivered, pressing biting kisses along the edge of his jaw.
Then he yanked and pulled at Clint’s shirt until he got it over his head, ruffling his hair, and tossed it across the room carelessly.
“Sure,” Clint said, breathless. “Pants off, absolutely.” He reached for the button and tried to kick his boots off at the same time. “Not that I’m complaining, but what’s gotten into you?”
“That was unspeakably hot,” James growled, trying to help him with his pants and mostly just getting in the way. “I’m gonna blow you.”
“What was —”
James dropped to his knees on the floor.
“Nevermind,” Clint decided, “don’t need to know.”
“You showed up in your damn tac gear,” James rumbled, low and throaty, “looking like that, and then you just —” He huffed out a breath, and then yanked Clint’s boxer briefs down and shoved his hip until he fell back onto the mattress. James pulled and tugged at his boots, then his pants, only to suck in a sharp breath when he encountered the knife still strapped to Clint’s calf.
“I cannot believe —” he snarled, yanking at the fastenings until he could throw it aside.
And then swallowed Clint’s cock, fast and wet and sloppy.
“Oh holy christ,” Clint moaned, falling back on his elbows. “Fuck.”
James’s mouth was hot and wet, and he applied teeth and tongue piercing with surgical precision, until Clint’s thighs were shaking and he couldn’t think straight.
“C’mere,” Clint panted, grasping uselessly at James’s shoulders.
James refused to be budged, fingertips digging into Clint’s hip as he took Clint even deeper down his throat.
“Come here,” Clint demanded, desperate and on edge.
When James continued to ignore him, Clint threaded his fingers through James’s hair and pulled, dragging him off of his cock until James was looking up at him from the floor, pupils blown, his mouth swollen and spit-slick.
Fucking hell.
“I’m probably only gonna be good for one round,” Clint admitted hoarsely, “so get up here and fuck me.”
James groaned, then muttered something obscene in low, biting Russian. “Yeah,” he agreed, already sounding fuck-drunk, “Okay.”
He climbed up onto the bed, crouching over Clint and kissing him while Clint fumbled at the buttons of James’s slacks and then shoved them down his hips. “Off,” he insisted.
James broke away just long enough to kick his pants off and then he was back, mouth demanding, his cock pressed tight into the crease of Clint’s thigh and grinding gently like he couldn’t help himself. Clint scrabbled at his back before getting a firm grip on his hip and pulling him even closer, his own cock sliding wetly against the muscles of James’s stomach.
“God,” Clint gasped, when James broke away to press sharp little bites down his throat. “Oh my god,” he said again, when an especially deft twist of James’s hips left him shaky with want. “I want you so fuckin’ bad.”
“You got me,” James assured him, breathing the words into the thin skin at the edge of his jaw, chasing them with wet, sucking kisses.
Then James set his teeth into Clint’s collarbone, biting hard enough to bruise and Clint gasped wetly, arching into the sensation, the spark of painful pleasure going straight to his gut and sending lightning up his spine.
“Fuck me,” Clint demanded again, wrapping his legs around James’s waist and rolling his hips up, grinding their cocks together, hot and slick and desperate.
“Christ,” James muttered, wrecked-sounding, but he shuffled back just barely enough for them to reposition.
There was an awkward scramble to get turned the right way, and then for Clint to dig lube out of the nightstand, but eventually they settled in side-by-side, James kissing him slow and deep, slick fingers teasing.
“C’mon,” Clint huffed, biting at James’s bottom lip, “c’mon, c’mon, c’mon.”
“Impatient,” James teased, smiling into their kiss, like he wasn’t just as hot for it as Clint was. Like he hadn’t started it in the first damn place. “We got time.”
“Not unless you’re into somnophilia,” Clint said, “because I’m also only gonna be awake like another hour, tops.”
James responded by easing his finger into Clint’s body, thick and familiar. “Better?” he asked.
“Be better if you were fucking me,” Clint groaned, hitching his leg higher on James’s hip. He cupped James’s face in his hands and dragged him into the kind of kiss that, generally speaking, guaranteed him a good time. More tongue than anything, and the drag of Clint’s teeth against James’s lip, slick and filthy.
James made a guttural noise, tilting his chin up to deepen the kiss, the teasing mood burned away under heated desire.
One finger became two, and then three, until Clint was sighing into it and making desperate, choked-off noises every time James brushed across his prostate.
They couldn’t stop kissing. It had been far too long — Clint hadn’t been home in weeks, and rare, furtive phone calls or the occasional text message simply didn’t make up for the absence. So they kept kissing, even when James pulled his fingers free, even when he rolled Clint onto his back and hiked Clint’s knee over his hip, even when he was pressing inside, hot and hard and overwhelming while Clint supported his shoulder.
“Christ,” Clint gasped, blunt fingernails digging into James’s side.
“Okay?” James asked, nudging his hips gently. “Need me to stop?”
“Need you to shut up and fuck me,” Clint said breathlessly, squeezing with the leg wrapped around James’s waist.
“Demanding,” James commented, amusement bubbling up under all the arousal.
Before Clint could complain further, he shifted, pushing deeper, a slow, smooth glide until he was as far as he could go and all Clint could do was breathe around the sensation.
“Ah, fuck,” he managed, low and punched-out.
James kissed him one more time, though Clint was barely participating, focused entirely on the thick length inside of him and the tiny sparks of pleasure every small shift of their bodies sent up his spine.
And then James started to move — slow, deliberate rolls of his hips that kept him mostly inside of Clint and angled just right to ensure he couldn’t do anything but make gasping noises of pleasure.
“How’s that, sweetheart?” James rumbled, low and heated. “That what you need?”
Clint could only groan and arch in response, trying to get him impossibly deeper.
James shifted, crowding upwards until Clint was bent nearly in half, hips in the cradle of James’s pelvis, and then James started fucking him in earnest — hard and deep and scraping against his prostate with every movement until Clint felt like he was going to shake out of his goddamn skin.
And then he sped up, arm propped on the headboard while Clint gasped for air and dug his fingers into James’s ribs.
“That’s what you need,” James said smugly, flushed as he watched with dark eyes while Clint came apart beneath him.
“Oh god,” Clint mumbled, “oh fuck.” He could feel the orgasm building, scorching heat in his spine, the tightness in his gut.
“Touch yourself,” James ordered, leaning down to bite more bruises into his skin, sharp spikes of pain that just wound him tighter. “‘M close.”
Clint wrapped a hand around his dick with a gasp, slick enough from his own precome that it only ratcheted the sensation even higher. He barely got a handful of strokes in, James fucking relentlessly against his prostate, before he was coming all over himself, clenched down on James’s cock and shouting in pleasure.
“Fuck, I missed you,” Clint panted against James’s mouth as he shook and shuddered and fell apart in Clint’s arms.
***
When Clint’s brain finally rebooted, he turned to look at James — who was sprawled out naked and just the right amount of sweaty, which only made Clint want to mess him up all over again. He used the corner of the sheet to swipe half-heartedly at the come on his abs and resigned himself to the fact that a second round was gonna have to wait until he figured out just what the hell had been happening around here. And took a nap.
“So what the fuck has been going on?” Clint asked, when he was as clean as he was likely to get.
James sighed, but he didn’t try to pretend he didn’t know exactly what Clint meant. “It was just little things, at first,” he said. “A coupla comments about our ‘unusual relationship', how Nate didn’t have a ‘mother’s touch’, stuff like that.”
Clint swallowed down his rage. Maybe James’s homicidal tendencies weren’t misplaced, actually.
“And then she started in on … everything Nate did.” James sounded exhausted. “He talked too much or he couldn’t sit still or he blurted out answers without letting the other kids respond — it was always something. We’ve had about … I dunno, half a dozen conferences.”
He shrugged uncomfortably. “In the beginning I just — I ain’t been to elementary school since 1929, and I don’t really remember it anyway. Just figured things were different.”
Clint scooted closer to rest his chin on James’s shoulder, a silent gesture of support, tracing his fingertips aimlessly over warm, bare skin.
“Then Nathan missed school for Yom Kippur, and she wouldn’t let him make up the work.”
“What the hell kinda work does he need to make up in kindergarten?” Clint asked in disbelief.
“That’s what I said. Then Hanukkah was comin’ up, and I asked if Nate could bring his felt menorah to put by his cubby — the daycare let him do that every year, y’know? — and you’d’ve thought I asked her if he could bring in a dead mouse.”
The more Clint heard, the more pissed off he got. But —
“Why didn’t you say something?” Clint asked.
“I did, we had —”
“No,” Clint interrupted, “to me.”
“Oh,” James said. He shrugged again. “I didn’t — you were busy with … ” he gestured vaguely, encompassing the last six months of Clint’s life. “It was just petty school shit, y’know.”
Which was fair. Between CIA data leaks, the unrest in Yemen, and the Chapman Base attack, Clint had been out of the country more than in it since July. To say nothing of the current bullshit he was embroiled in.
“I — ” Clint started, then reconsidered. “I have been busy,” he allowed, “but I would’ve at least listened to you bitch about it.”
James snorted. “I know,” he sighed. “It just … didn’t seem like a big deal until it did. The Santa thing really pissed me off.”
“Yeah,” Clint agreed. “I bet.” Santa wasn’t really a thing they did, not in earnest. They usually did a Christmas tree and gifts when Clint was home, and he had a Santa hat he wore sometimes, but it was just a joke. Nathan certainly didn’t believe in Santa. Nathan mostly believed in presents.
“I wouldn’ta cared if Nathan had wanted to sit in Santa’s lap, but she made him so she could take a picture.”
“If you still wanna murder her, I’ll help you hide the body,” Clint offered benevolently.
“We’d be the number one suspects now,” James grumbled. “Anyway you can’t solve everything with murder.”
“I mean …” Clint mused. “You can solve a lot of stuff with murder, depending on the circumstances.”
James huffed a laugh. “C’mere,” he said, pulling at Clint’s shoulders. “Haven’t seen you in weeks,” he added, manhandling him into another kiss.
Clint returned the kiss with as much enthusiasm as he could muster, but truthfully he was fading fast.
“I hate to have to tell you this, but I’m about to be unconscious for at least ten hours,” Clint muttered against James’s mouth. “I haven’t really slept in like ... forty hours, maybe.”
“Get some rest sweetheart,” James said, easing him back onto the pillows and tugging the blanket up over his shoulders. “I’ll be here.”
***
Clint actually slept for almost twenty solid hours. He slept straight through Nathan coming home, dinner, the entire night, and finally woke up at the crack of dawn with a full bladder and an empty stomach.
James was stretched out next to him, face slack with sleep and his arm draped across his stomach. The sheets had slipped to his waist, and his leg was half out of them anyway, so it was just miles of bare skin and newly-returned nipple piercings highlighted by the dim light of pre-dawn.
Clint took advantage of the opportunity to just look. He hadn’t been able to yesterday, too wound up, too desperate, and then too exhausted to really enjoy the view.
There was new ink on his chest — his tattoos always seemed to spread whenever Clint was away, a new design appearing nearly every time he came home — something circular on his sternum that Clint couldn’t quite make out in the semi-darkness.
Over the years James had spent a lot of time and money on tattoos and piercings. He was meticulous about what he got, spending ages sketching things out before going to a shop and having whatever it was inked onto his body. Half of his chest and most of his shoulder and upper arm was inked up, and it’d started creeping onto his back.
Clint figured it was his way of reclaiming himself after all the shit he’d been through, and so wouldn’t have criticized regardless, even if he hadn’t found it unbearably hot. The piercings came and went — James had cycled through various combinations of tongue, eyebrow, nipples, ears, and very memorably, for a brief but enjoyable period of time, his dick. But the tattoos … Clint had never asked but all of them seemed to have some kind of meaning that was largely indecipherable to Clint. The end of the line was old territory, and there were a few others that seemed pretty self-explanatory. Like the wolf he’d turned up with — stylized and broken but pieced back together with gold joinery that was wrapped around a smaller, unbroken cub, Nathan’s birthday inked below it. But most of it was a mystery to him.
Though Clint had to admit that playing ‘find the new tattoo’ was a sexy and enjoyable game he never got tired of.
“Hey,” James said quietly, interrupting Clint’s thoughts, his voice scratchy with sleep.
“Morning,” Clint said, just as quiet. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you.”
“‘S fine,” James shrugged, rolling onto his left side to look at Clint fondly. “Hafta get up soon anyway, and I’d rather spend the time with you than waste it sleeping.”
The change in position illuminated the tattoos even more, a stripe of pink-tinged light falling over his chest.
“What’s this?” Clint asked, reaching out to brush his fingers over the newest design.
James hummed. “You tell me,” he said after a second.
Clint scooted closer, his hand resting on James's ribcage, so he could get a better look.
It was a compass, in traditional naval style, circles around it like it was in motion, but instead of the usual needle, there was an arrow — longer than the compass and pointed just left of north — with purple fletching. And circling around the edges in dark-colored script were the words “If it’s worth it … you take the shot”.
Clint inhaled sharply, something heavy lodged in his throat and the back of his eyes burning.
It was something he’d said to James, ages ago, back when there had been a lot more uncertainty in their lives; back when Nathan was still tiny and James still so terribly unsure that he was doing the right thing for him, giving him the parent he deserved.
James was watching him patiently, something soft in his gaze. “You told me not to get your name,” he reminded Clint gently, when it was clear that Clint wasn’t gonna come up with any kind of articulate response. “But I wanted to get somethin’.”
Clint sucked in an unsteady breath, laying his palm against James's sternum before leaning in to press his mouth, soft and reverent, against the center of the design. “You’re killin’ me here,” Clint admitted, low and hoarse.
James huffed a laugh and pulled Clint closer, until his face was tucked into James's shoulder where whatever expressions he was making would be hidden while he processed … all of that.
“How long are you gonna be home?” James asked, after a while, offering Clint an obvious out.
Clint sighed. “A few days, maybe. We’re digging into Ten Rings splinter factions — there’s been some kind of leadership upheaval. Nat’s coverin’ for me, she’s infiltrating Sojourn Enterprises and they’ve got this whole tourist thing — it was easy enough to put me on those details. Coulson thinks I’m chasing down suspicious passengers.”
The sigh James let out was even heavier than Clint’s had been. “Well,” he said, after a minute, “at least you’ll be here to meet Nate’s new teacher. We have a conference this afternoon.”
“Oh,” Clint said, “that’s good. They moved him already?”
James nodded. “Right after the meetin’ yesterday, they put him in Ms. Anderson’s class.”
“And do we like Ms. Anderson?” Clint asked carefully.
“Well,” James said, a crooked grin on his face, “Maggie likes Ms. Anderson.”
“Good enough for me,” Clint decided.
***
“Hi!” The greeting was accompanied by a wide, friendly smile, underneath a tangle of dark curls. She was fresh-faced and young, clearly not long out of school, maybe twenty-five, twenty-six at the most. “I’m Lacey Anderson, it’s nice to meet you.”
She at least sounded like she meant it, which was hopefully a good sign.
James offered her a handshake and then turned like he was gonna introduce Clint, only to find Clint had disappeared.
Because Clint was already halfway across the room, being insistently dragged every which way by an overly-excited Nathan who wanted to show him everything.
Clint shrugged and held up his and Nate’s joined hands in explanation. Nathan was now painstakingly showing him all of the creature comforts found in the reading corner, including the many and various pillows, beanbags, and stuffed animals, along with a shelf full of books.
James huffed a near-silent laugh, turning back to the teacher easily enough.
“Look!” Nathan demanded, thrusting one of the books at Clint.
Clint dutifully took it — it was a large one, with an ink-style illustration on the front, a simplified drawing of a Chinese boy holding a bow.
“He’s got a bow,” Nate said, smiling wide enough to show dimples. “Just like you!”
“I see that,” Clint agreed. “Is this your favorite one?”
Nate shrugged. “I dunno, I didn’t read it yet. It’s got lotsa big words. But I like the bow, because it’s like you. It makes me remember you.”
“Remember me?” Clint asked, biting back a grin. “Do you forget me a lot?”
“Noooooo,” Nate huffed. “It’s like, um …” he tilted his head adorably, obviously thinking very hard. “It’s like how Papa gets pizza when he misses you. The pizza helps him remember.”
“Oh,” Clint said, unexpectedly choked up. “I miss you guys too,” he said, once he was sure it wasn’t going to come out completely mangled.
“You should have something to remember us,” Nate said sagely.
“Yeah,” Clint agreed.
James pointedly cleared his throat.
“You wanna read books while me and Papa meet your new teacher?” Clint suggested.
“Yep,” Nate said, plopping onto the biggest yellow bean bag in the lot, already reaching for a book that had an illustrated dinosaur on the cover.
“Sorry,” Clint offered, when he made his way back to the incredibly short table that James and Ms. Anderson were sitting at. Clint was legitimately shocked that the child-sized chair was holding James's weight. He’d left his arm at home again, so he weighed significantly less, but he wasn’t exactly skinny.
Clint opted to sit on the floor.
James glared sideways at him, obviously disgruntled that he hadn’t thought of that.
“Ms. Anderson, right?” Clint asked.
“The kids all call me Ms. Lacey,” she said cheerfully. “I heard there’s some exciting news at home.”
Clint and James looked at each other in confusion.
“There is?” James ventured.
“Well,” she said, now slightly unsure, “Nathan said you might be … expecting a new addition.”
James looked gobsmacked, and then he just pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed.
For a brief, ridiculous moment, Clint thought she meant an addition to the house.
Then it clicked, and he couldn’t hold back the startled bark of laughter or the hiccuping chuckles that followed.
James sighed again, kicking half-heartedly at Clint’s ankle.
But Clint couldn’t stop, shoulders shaking with the force of repressed laughter as tears gathered in the corners of his eyes. He took a deep breath and tried to calm down but —
“New addition,” he managed, which just set him off again.
James elbowed him sharply.
“Sorry,” Clint gasped. “Sorry. I just —”
“Don’t,” James warned him, obviously exasperated. “If you keep sayin’ it you’re never gonna stop gigglin’ about it.”
“But —” Clint started, only for James to roll his eyes and turn back to the teacher.
“Sorry ‘bout him,” James said, “but I should introduce you. This is Clint.” He paused briefly. “My partner.”
“Oh,” she said, a half-second later. “I’m so sorry —” she started, blushing furiously.
“Don’t worry about it,” Clint said easily, before she could turn it into some kind of horrifyingly awkward apology session. “Kids, y’know?”
James on the other hand …
“Nathan Grant,” James called sharply, not quite a you’re-in-trouble tone, but with a clear indication it could become one.
“Huh?” Nate asked, blinking owlishly at them.
“Come here,” James said.
He obediently hopped up, bringing his book with him.
“Did you tell your teacher we were having a baby?”
“Oh,” Nate said. “Yep.”
Clint manfully bit back more laughter, pressing his hand over his mouth to hide his smile.
“Why would you tell her a lie?” James asked, exasperated.
“It’s not a lie,” Nate said, looking genuinely confused. “Nick said —”
“Who’s Nick?” James interrupted.
“My friend. In my old class.”
James frowned. “And he told you to lie?”
“No!” Nate said, his mouth falling into an all-too-familiar stubborn scowl. “I didn’t lie,” he insisted.
“Nathan Grant,” James said sternly, with a very similar mulish expression.
“Hey bud,” Clint interrupted calmly, leaning back on his hands. “Why’d you think we were gonna have a baby?”
James shot him a dirty look that Clint willfully ignored.
“Because Nick said babies come from sex, and you guys have a lot of sex!”
There was a brief moment of perfect silence, so quiet you could hear a pin drop and then —
Clint howled with laughter — he didn’t even bother to try and suppress it this time — clutching at his sides and trying valiantly not to roll sideways onto the floor.
James buried his face in his hand, an embarrassed flush creeping its way from his neck all the way up to the tips of his ears.
The teacher watched all of this happen in wide-eyed surprise.
“Oh man,” Clint managed, after a good few minutes of hiccuping laughter, and honestly still kinda snickering. “Amazing,” he added.
Nate was watching him with narrowed eyes. “Why are you laughing at me?”
“Oh, I’m not laughing at you,” Clint assured him. “I’m laughing at Papa.”
“Why?” Nate did not look like he believed him.
“Because his face looks funny when it’s all red like that,” Clint said. “C’mere.”
Nate came over easily, and Clint dragged him into a bear hug, then burbled his neck until he was shrieking and giggling.
When that subsided, Clint eased him back gently, and ruffled his hair. “Sorry to disappoint you, but two men can’t have a baby, no matter how much sex they have.”
Nate pouted. “Why not?”
“I’ll tell you when you’re older,” Clint told him with a grin.
“How much older?” Nathan wheedled.
“Oh, at least a hundred and two,” Clint said breezily.
“You’re not even a hundred and two,” Nathan said suspiciously. “Are you?”
“Well, not quite,” Clint agreed. “I’ll tell you when you’re, oh, I dunno.” He glanced at James, but there was no help in that department because he was still hunched over the table, face hidden in his palm, and approximately the color of a firetruck. “How’s twelve sound?”
“That’s too long,” Nate argued. “What about when I’m six?”
Which was in just a few months.
“Nine, and that’s my final offer,” Clint said.
“Deal,” Nate said, and stuck his hand out.
Clint shook it solemnly. “Now go read your book, kiddo,” he said, ruffling his hair one last time just to watch Nate wrinkle his nose, offended, and then try to flatten it down with his palms. And then he skipped off to the yellow bean bag, completely unconcerned by the humiliation he’d just subjected his parents to.
“Kids, y’know?” Clint said again, turning back to face the teacher. “What are you gonna do?”
Ms. Lacey Anderson looked between him, James, and Nathan curled up with the dinosaur book for a long moment before she huffed, her mouth curving up into an amused smile. “Well, that’s not the worst thing I’ve ever heard a kid say,” she reassured them finally.
“What could possibly —” James started, and then apparently decided he didn’t want to know because his jaw snapped shut. His face was still vividly flushed, though it was starting to get a little better.
“Now,” she said, bulldozing past the awkward atmosphere by flipping open the folder in front of her. “I got Nathan’s grades from Leslie,” she said, “and it looks like he’s maybe a little behind in math, but he’s reading above average.”
“He learned to read in preschool,” James said hoarsely, then cleared his throat. “He likes books.”
“That’s great,” she said happily. “I put him at the green table,” she went on. “I put the kids in groups, five or six to a table, and I try to mix their strengths and weaknesses up. So some of the kids are good at math but not so good at reading, or maybe they’re good at spelling but not so good at writing. And that way everybody helps everybody else, which helps build good social skills.”
Clint and James nodded.
“And every few weeks we change seats,” she added, “so they can get to know all their classmates.”
“That sounds good,” James said hesitantly. “But. There was —” he started, then cut himself off frowning, before taking a deep breath to try again. “He kinda — I mean … I guess he talks a lot, and, um —”
“Mr. Barnes,” she interrupted kindly. “He’s five. They all talk a lot. And they wiggle and they get out of their seats and sometimes they interrupt people. That’s developmentally normal behavior.”
James took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
Clint shuffled closer, bumping his shoulder against James's side.
“I watched Nathan all afternoon,” she reassured them. “He’s a sweet kid. Very polite and respectful. You’ve obviously done a very good job parenting him.”
The breath James took that time was hitched and shuddering, and he stared down at the hand in his lap.
“I know there were some … conflicts,” she allowed, mouth twisting at the word. “In his other classroom. But I don’t have any concerns about his behavior, and in my opinion we’re starting over with a clean slate, alright?”
James nodded sharply.
“Sounds great,” Clint said honestly.
She spent about half an hour walking them through the current curriculum, which was apparently slightly different from what he had been doing previously, and then took a few more minutes to explain the class schedule, the (very basic) rules and expectations, and offered both of them the sign up sheet for parent volunteers.
James hesitantly put himself down to read books a couple of days in February.
Clint just shrugged. “I’d like to,” he said apologetically, “but my work schedule is a literal nightmare.”
“Oh,” Ms. Anderson said, “that reminds me. Nathan says you travel a lot?”
“A fair bit, yeah,” Clint said cautiously. It wasn’t like half the damn town didn’t know he was always coming and going.
“If it’s not too much trouble, do you think you could send us a postcard sometimes, from wherever you’re at?”
“A … postcard?”
“If it’s not a hassle,” she said. “I think it would be a good way to teach the kids about different places. And they like things they can see and touch — not like a map. We could hang them up somewhere.”
“Sure,” Clint shrugged, after a minute. “I can do that.”
He obviously couldn’t do that from whatever terrorist base they sent him to next, but he was in regular cities — traveling between missions or doing undercover work — often enough, he could send a postcard or two.
If nothing else, he could probably pick up some random ones in New York someplace.
“Great!” she smiled broadly. “One last question, and then I’ll let you get out of here — I’ve already taken up plenty of your time.”
“It’s fine,” James was quick to reassure her. “We appreciate you doin’ it.”
“It’s no problem,” she said, pulling the pink-striped notebook she’d been taking notes on back towards her. “Just one more thing — what’s the next Jewish holiday that’s coming up that we could celebrate in class?”
James gaped at her, mouth half open, for several long moments. Then he swallowed roughly, a couple of times, obviously trying to force the words out.
“Purim,” Clint told her, when it was clear James wasn’t going to be able to. “I’m pretty sure, anyway,” he added, glancing at James.
He nodded, kinda jerky. “Yeah,” he said finally, quiet and hoarse. “There’s some— some others but Purim’s— it’s easy. Kids like it. It’s in March this year.”
“It’s noisy,” Clint added, grinning. “Kids love makin’ noise. And there’s cookies.”
“Okay,” she said, writing it down. “I’ll look it up, of course, but if you have any suggestions I’d be happy to have them.”
“I guess it’s kinda like Halloween,” James said, after a minute, “sort of. There’s costumes, anyway, and cookies and sweets. The kids can make graggers outta paper plates —”
“Noisy,” Clint stage-whispered.
James shoulder-checked him before continuing. “Paper crowns. Masks. Stuff like that. I can —” he paused, then seemed to gather himself. “I can ask the rabbi if he’s got any books, y’know, for kids. If you want.”
“That would be very helpful,” she agreed, kindly ignoring how emotional James was getting over the whole thing. Clint reached out under the table to squeeze James’s hand, got a shaky squeeze back. Lacey Anderson smiled at them, easy as anything. “It sounds like it’ll be a lot of fun,” she added.