Clint Barton loved his job.
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He got to shoot bad guys and save lives. He worked with his childhood hero and his best friend. Plus, he'd gotten to the point in his career where he could tease his handler without being shot at. Well, shot at much.
Really, what more could he want?
At least, that's what he reminded himself when a spitball hit the back of his head. It was the first day of the spring semester, which meant these new shitheads didn't know better yet.
"Okay, spitwad, that's fifteen laps."
Silence. No surprises there.
"Oh, that's cute. You think I don't know who did it? Good effort, really, but three mistakes. One, you have little wads of paper hidden between your legs—yeah, I can see it—two, you're the only one shuffling through your backpack, likely trying to hide the straw. Three, your poker face is absolute shit. Renner, is it? Quit snickering and get to the laps."
He also, of course, could calculate the angle the spitball hit him from and triangulate who shot it, but that might have been a bit too much information for the little punks.
He was supposed to be undercover, after all.
"Fifteen laps?" Jeremy Renner gaped indignantly. Clint could already tell the kid had a mouth on him. "That's like
fuck, that's like two miles!"
"Three and three quarters, actually, but nice try."
"That's crazy, no one can do that in ten minutes!"
They did only have ten minutes until class ended, but Clint was sure whoever Renner's next teacher was would be more than happy to let the kid run out some of that troublemaking energy before coming to class.
"Sure you can, don't be such a downer." Clint just flicked the spitball he'd plucked out of his hair back at the kid with perfect aim.
"I bet you couldn't!"
Man, kids these days were such oblivious little fuckers.
"I think I can manage. I told you earlier: anything I make you do, you're welcome to make me do."
"Seriously?"
"Seriously. Now c'mon, hup hup, those laps aren't going to run themselves."
Clint let the rest of the kids get back to playing tennis while he quickly passed Renner. Personally, he was looking forward to lunch; Steve had joined the faculty today, which meant just one more semester until the end of this torturous undercover gig.
Well, okay, maybe he didn't mind it so much.
Admittedly, the little shitheads had sort of grown on him. Plus, he'd made friends. Yeah, that's right, friends plural, so suck it, Phil. Real ones, too, not undercover ones he pretended to like to keep cover while he mentally gagged himself with a spoon. And sure, there were a couple of those around campus too, but he actually liked Tony and Pepper.
It had admittedly been a little weird to learn he'd be working with Tony Stark, ex-billionaire playboy turned reclusive high school teacher. He'd expected the guy to be introverted and shifty like the media had played him up to be, but in the months Clint had known him, he seemed just as lively as Clint remembered him being before the whole terrorist thing. Tony was great, really, witty and fun to hang out with and fantastic for prank wars.
Pepper was awesome too, the best at smacking sense into Tony when he got all snarky and twitchy and threatened to run away to his Malibu mansion with playboy bunnies if one more of the shitheads sassed him. She was Tony's Phil, so basically she was awesome.
The bell rang, and Clint let the kids go get changed while he jogged backwards next to Renner effortlessly. That one sure wouldn't be spitballing him again anytime soon.
Thirty-plus pairs of eyes stared back at him.
