Shield High School of the Arts, Freshmen Year, Week Two:

Loki is awoken by a gentle touch and a harsh voice that is trying hard to be soft and whispering.

"Brother," the voice says, "how long have you been here?"

Loki knows that voice. He's followed that voice for years. Even followed it to this place where he still has no friend and He pushes the hand away, squinting into a lit hallway, up at a face he thought-

"Long enough," Loki mutters, and he's not even sure if it's coherent. He's still half asleep when he staggers to his feet.

A hand reaches out to steady him.

"Don't," Loki whispers, shoving the hand away, "Don't touch me,"

"Loki, I"

"-Forgot."

Thor looks like he's been slapped but there is no guilt in his blue eyes, only sorrow. But that is not good enough for Loki, who has been waiting, who has been waiting for Thor –the only person who has never left him alone and—

"Leave me alone," he says, and he could laugh at the way Thor's eyes widen, but he just walks, slightly unsteady, still a bit sluggish.

There are no more helping hands waiting to stop him from falling, but it matters not because Loki walks with white hot tears stinging in his eyes and he does not look back.

Loki is awoken by soft snickers and an exasperated sigh.

"Mr. Odinson," Mr. Wilson's arms are crossed and his foot is tapping when Loki sits up and looks around. "Would you like to present to the class or should I get you a pillow?"

He stands, hastily, and makes his way to the front of the class, where he stands for a moment, and everyone stares at him.

Okay, first of, you can say whatever you what about Wade Wilson. He knows everyone thinks he's a weirdo, blah, blah, but who wouldn't be a little off kilter, er, mentally speaking, if they happened to have the Merc with a Mouth's backstory—

Hold on. This is an AU.

Let's backtrack a little, here.

So, Wade knows everyone thinks he's a weirdo, blah, blah, but he takes acting seriously.

Yeah.

That sounds right. On with the narrative, then:

Wade watches the Odinson kid –Loki –standing at the front of the class, and he doesn't say a word, because you don't just do something like that when a guy in getting his act on. Also, he's interested to see what this kid's got in him. He must be some sort of prodigy, if he got into Shield at such a young age.

The class and Mr. Wilson wait, some expectantly, some impatiently.

Wade's not just waiting for the words –whatever Loki's challenge was –so much as he's watching the emotion on Loki's face. Or rather, in his eyes, because Loki tries to keep as much of a straight face as possible in a way that reminds Wade of a lot of people, but in a way that is uniquely Loki –waiting and cold and quietly calculating.

Loki surveys the classroom, almost like he doesn't really see anyone and he closes his eyes.

There's a long stretch of silence, and Loki's expression is smooth and unyielding and eventually Mr. Wilson clears his throat.

Loki opens his eyes, and Wade knows he's not imagining the fury there, but in a flash, it becomes something softer, something sadder, but when Loki speaks his voice is tight with anger (which is not the assignment). "Maybe I'm not doing this," he hisses, voice harsh, "for you," –his voice breaks on the last word and he looks suddenly, unbelievably heartbroken.

Loki can feel something thrumming under his skin, something that's making his insides turn and he thinks about Thor and the way he says brother and the way he has never –ever let Loki down like this before, not when everyone else had –even Frigga, and –and—

He remembers the acceptance letters and the whoops of joy and thinking, thinking maybe everything was going to be wonderful and oh so magnificent, as Thor declared, and Loki believed it. So Loki followed Thor, his only friend, here to this school but Thor had no intention of keeping Loki along and now what? What is Loki even doing here?

"Maybe," Loki's voice is barely above a whisper but Wade thinks that maybe the class is holding their breaths, waiting –or maybe that's just him –"I'm doing this for me."

There's no tears in his eyes like Erik or a wild, lost look in his eyes like Daken. Loki's performance is a contained rage that is only just fighting to get past Loki's composure. With his words still hanging in the air, Loki straightens out slightly hunched shoulders and stands with a cold dignity unusual for a twelve year-old. A corner of mouth curves in a small, faltering smile, and Wade stares at the hint of fear in Loki's eyes and thinks shit, this kid can act.

The applause come hesitantly at first and Wade glances at Mr. Wilson, who looks like he is beginning to seriously regret pulling out 'pain' for the first emotion of these exercises because it's possible that he might have actually broken Loki, who is still standing at the front of the classroom.

Wade looks back at Loki and sees the composure returned to Loki's face. But it's not like Erik or Daken or anyone else, who seem to just drop a mask when they finish their performance, and Wade realizes that Loki's maybe not really acting.

Bruce's class is set back by the fact that every piano is out of tune, but Ms. Cooper takes that opportunity to teach the class how to tune their pianos using a tuning fork.

Once the pianos are in working order, the class sit at their assigned upright pianos.

Rather than have the students play their prepared pieces first thing as promised, Ms. Cooper begins passing out sheet music, turning a deaf ear on the confused murmuring all around. "Today," Ms. Cooper says, "In keeping up with inconveniences… sight-reading. I know, I know," she says as the class groans, "Everyone's favorite thing." she claps her hands together, "Alright, everyone, five minutes –look over the music. Time signature. Signs. Road map. The basics. Read the notes. Imagine the rhythm. Feel it."

The room is completely silent except for the deep breathing of someone in the first row.

Bruce closes his eyes, inhales deeply. He sees the notes in his mind's eye and thinks about the beat. Internal metronome set at a quarter beat equaling ninety-six. And one and two and three and –wait. Is the downbeat-?

Bruce's eyes snap open in panic and he can't—

"Alright?" Ms. Cooper says, "Hands up. Don't let those wrists hang, now. And one and two and three and—"

Despite Steve's greatest fears and his weekend of anticipation, Natasha doesn't give him the stink-eye in their one shared class. She doesn't so much as glance at him and after the warm-ups at the bar, she moves to partner herself with someone else for the continued practice of lifts. Which, apparently, the instructor has decided everyone needs to get greater start on learning, following the Great Dropping of Natasha Romanoff.

Still, the consequence of the incident is that Steve's classmates are very wary about working with him, and in the end, Ms. Hill sighs and tells him to get in line for lifts.

"Ms. Hill," a girl with dark hair steps forward and her accent gives her away as an English transfer student, "I don't mind taking Steve's place,"

Peggy Carter is a senior and a class intern and she is tall and strong, and lifts the freshmen just as easily as any male dancer.

Before Steve leaves class that day, Ms. Hill calls him back and recommends him to the school exercise room.

Steve's face has been burning with embarrassment, and he nods mutely, thinking about Tony's offer to have him over at his place to weightlift. He's going to have to take Tony up on that offer if he wants to get anywhere with dancing.

The thing about mealtimes at Shield is that in the past seven days, only six out of twenty-one meals have not included spontaneous breakout into an improve jamming session. And most of those quiet meals had been breakfast.

Before auditioning with Jane, Steve had never really been into the whole performing arts scene. He's just a kid from Brooklynn who likes to draw and is known to help his neighbors with their groceries.

His mother had asked him, when he first told her he had been accepted to the school, whether he was prepared for the level of commitment he would have to put into his classes.

He'd said yes, and now he's wondering if he really even knew what 'commitment' entailed because he feels like he's not doing it right. He knows that he never worked that much harder than Jane –he'd even quit dancing, even when she kept on going with it.

As Steve moves toward the dining hall, dance bag still slung over his shoulder, he wonders how Jane would feel in his shoes. She was always more eager to dance than he was, and now he's here at Shield, and for a fleeting moment, Steve wonder if it was all a—

"Hi,"

He blinks, turns his head sideways, and looks up, because everyone is taller than him.

"Steve, right?" the tall and slim red-haired girl from Steve's Modern Dance technical class says. She's still in her dance clothes, though she wears a skirt around her waist and a short cardigan over her shoulders. She's also put on regular slippers, as opposed to any of her dance shoes.

"Yeah," Steve says.

She smiles, "I'm Pepper. Pepper Potts. You're Tony's friend, aren't you?"

Right. Steve's got an inkling of where this is going, "Yeah," he says again. "Uh. Tony's mentioned you before. I mean, I know you. We have the same class together but –uh." he clamps his mouth close but Pepper only smiles at him.

"I wanted you to let Tony know," she says, "That I think he's very immature and he needs to stop thinking the universe revolves around him. Also, I'm not going to the Halloween dance with him. Or the Homecoming Dance, before he asks."

"Okay?" Steve doesn't mean for it to be a question, but he wasn't really expecting this, either. Tony'd been bragging that Pepper Potts liked him.

"Make it sound like I was really angry, okay?" Pepper's still smiling, "Say I yelled." There's a twinkle in her eye. Steve doesn't know what it means, but he thinks if he were Tony, he might. Tony seems to understand girls.

Steve just nods because he's not really sure what to say, and Pepper pats his shoulder, "Thanks, Steve," she says, "I'll see you in class tomorrow. Nice talking to you," she adds, before turning and disappearing into the throng of students moving toward the dining hall.

When Steve arrives, there's already some sort of rap battle happening in one corner of the room. A crowd has formed in that area and they're egging on a student that Steve can hardly hear over the noise. He catches a few words he's pretty sure his mother would not approve of, so he doesn't linger and goes on to the lunch line.

When he gets to the table and relays Pepper's message to Tony, including the bits about how she was "very angry", Tony just sighs happily.

"I think I'm in love," he declares, which makes Steve and Bruce stare at him in disbelief.

"Right," Bruce says, then turns back to the papers before him. It's not sheet music for once, just regular homework. And because Bruce is apparently a genius as well as a musician, his regular homework as a freshman includes AB-Calculus and Chemistry.

At the table beside them, a voice suddenly rings out in a wordless song. A girl climbs onto the table, and the room quiets. Across the room, someone creates a beat, drumming (because Steve has learned the percussionist take their drumsticks everywhere) against something that sounds like one of the metal trash bins.

The girl, still singing, voice scaling higher and higher, pumps her fist into the air and the room explodes with music –violins and winds and brass and stomping feet –which should, by reasonable logic, sound cacophonous, but it doesn't.

Tony is rolling his eyes, but he's grinning, and moving his tray of food to the side just as someone bounds over their table to land on another nearby and present an interlude of clicks and clacks from the dancer's tap shoes.

Another student, standing on a table across the room, stomps their own tap-shoe-clad feet to get everyone's attention, and begins their own impromptu routine.

A trio of stringed instrumentalists start up, accompanying the dance, which is turning more and more complex as windmills and flares are thrown in.

Steve thinks he recognizes one of the instrumentalists –Thor, he's pretty sure the guy's called –who're standing under a cloud of rosin, rising into the air like smoke from the violist and violionists' frenzied playing.

The singers take over again and Steve finds that he's grinning. He knows that he's not likely to join in with in of the dancers sashaying up and down the aisles –besides, most of them are upperclassmen...

One girl, doing something that looks based off a barrel turn, lands in front of Steve's who's seated outward to observe the excitement.

It's Peggy, he realizes, and she grins, teeth white against her painted red lips. Her usually perfect bun is coming loose and Steve just stares and he's not sure what to do, but then Peggy winks at him and turns back to join a group doing a synchronized routine on a line of tables that have been hastily pushed together into a runway.

Something happens that makes the entire room erupt into applause and cheers and everybody is on their feet and singing along with a small blonde girl wearing a short skirt and striped stockings and a tank top that declares "I Know Stuff".

Steve is still sitting, though, and a conga line forms and passes by twice before he can get his brain to start working again. He looks around to find that both Tony and Bruce have disappeared, and while he soon spots Tony in the conga line, Bruce is nowhere to be seen and Steve has a feeling he's not in the room anymore.

"So," Clint says to Phil, who is sitting behind his desk and dutifully doing something that looks important.

Clint is lounged in the chair across from Phil's desk, although lounged is too comfortable a word. In truth, the chair is wooden, and the armrest digs into Clint's back and he's pretty sure the damn seat is actually a medieval torture device.

"So," he says again, when Phil makes no reply. "Are you going to ask me how my day was?"

"Well," Phil says calmly, never looking up, "I was actually thinking more along the lines of 'I notice you've been skipping class'."

Clint sighs. "Guilty," he mutters.

Now Phil looks up, and his gaze is cool and completely void of any emotion. "Why are you missing class, Barton?" he says.

"It's only some class about lighting techniques for photography. I mean," Clint sighs again, with more drama, "I don't even take pictures. Lighting doesn't matter—"

"Have you even been to that class yet?" Phil says, unimpressed, "Clint, look. I know you're not –art isn't your 'thing', and I get it. Classes were a tight squeeze for you, so I couldn't get you into something you might find more interesting, but I'm going to need you to give your classes a chance. Respect the art, even if you don't like it, because all the other kids in your classes have worked their asses off to put together their portfolios and get into this school." he stops, waiting for Clint to say something.

"Are you allowed to swear in front of me?" Clint wonders, teasing. "Also, please don't make air quotes again. It's disturbing."

"Barton," Phil begins in a warning voice.

"Alright, alright," he raises his hands, "I'll be in Photography 101 or whatever tomorrow. Promise."

Phil only nods before turning back to scribbling on some forms in front of him.

Clint figures it's a nod of gratitude. He waits a moment before asking his next question; "So. What's your 'thing'? Deputy Headmaster of an art school's gotta be able to do something, right?"

In reply, Phil only scratches out something in pen.

After Steve lets Tony know that he's leaving via a series of expressive eyebrow movements and finger pointing at the exit of the dining hall, he pushes his way out of the room, and into the hall.

As the door closes, the music and laughter of the students becomes muffled and the empty corridor outside is almost eerily silent in contrast.

Steve heads toward the dorms, a part of the building where the ceiling is lower, the linoleum floor becomes carpeted and beige brick walls become smooth and white. The lighting is dimmer in the dorms, maybe to make the halls seem cozier.

He knows Bruce is a bit wary of the jam sessions that the meals inevitably turn into, but Bruce has never just left and so Steve decides to drop by Bruce's room to see if he's alright. When he approaches the door he's sure is Bruce's he hesitates because there's someone there, another guy trying to get the door open and cursing under his breath.

The first thing Steve thinks is that someone's trying to break in, but then he sees the duffel bag slung over the other teen's shoulder and the backpack on the ground and also the key he's trying to force into the lock, and Steve remembers that Bruce didn't have a roommate yet, and this must be the missing student.

"Do you need help?" Steve asks, because that's the polite thing to do.

And then the guy turns, and though he's a decently handsome fella with dark hair and eyes, there's nothing else particularly noteworthy and yet –and yet, Steve is hit with an undeniable sense that he knows this guy from somewhere.

"The key," the teen says sheepishly with a lopsided grin, "It ain't going in and I swear this is the right room." He has a vague sort of accent that Steve immediately recognizes. It's pure Brooklyn, and it makes Steve think of home and his mom, who he talked to over the phone just yesterday. He misses her suddenly.

"Well," Steve says, realizing it's been a couple of seconds and he hasn't said anything, "My friend –Bruce –he lives in there. He's got a key, if we can find him. I'm Steve, by the way," he adds. "Steve Rogers." He holds out of hand, which the other boy stares at for a moment, eyebrows slowly raising.

"Alright, let's find Bruce, then," He laughs, but there isn't a mocking edge to it, and he clasps Steve's hand in a shake. "James Buchanan Barnes," he introduces. He leans in a little, like they're the world's greatest conspirators, like his next words are for Steve's ears only. "But just call me Bucky," he says.