"When you asked me to stand in for Jane, I didn't realize you intended to torture me."

Thor chuckled as his brother tossed another water balloon into a nearby bucket, his face a perfect mask of intense disdain and loathing. "What exactly did you expect from an elementary school field day, brother? Peaceful children sitting on picnic baskets?"

Loki rolled his eyes. "Of course not, but—"

"We found another team, Henry's dad!" a young voice interrupted, and Thor ignored his brother's huff to grin at the approaching group of third graders. As with every year, each student wore a name tag that served to track how many activities he or she participated in. Thor helped himself to a sheet of star stickers (Jane's innovation) and crouched down in front of his station. "And who are our latest competitors?" he asked the beaming gaggle of students.

"Lucy and Chad," Henry's friend Mateo answered. He waited until Thor placed a sticker to his nametag to add, "They're going to get married someday."

Immediately, Lucy flushed. "We are not! We're friends!"

"Justin saw you kiss by the slide," Allie provided.

Lucy balled her fists, clearly ready for further argument, but Chad simply puffed out his chest. "Last year, not now," he said in rather matter-of-fact tone. "This year, nobody has girlfriends. That's for the little kids."

"And you are not children, but mighty warriors," Thor assured the group before anyone argued. They all swiveled in his direction, and he struck what his sons called his "scary Viking" pose. "And now, it is time for you to vanquish your foes here at the balloon-toss station!"

Just as he suspected, the children all laughed at his speech before scrambling into place. Quickly, Thor arranged for each child to face his or her partner and handed out the balloons. The goal, of course, was to pass the balloon back and forth, with the catcher stepping back each time to increase the distance between the pairs. The last team standing (and dry) won a small trinket from a bucket of toys and stickers.

As his eight tiny competitors engaged in the world's most solemn round of catch, Thor spent a moment surveying the rest of the schoolyard. As during every other field day, parents and teachers manned dozens of stations: a tiny putting green, several different relay races, a giant-sized Jenga tower, a round of kickball. On one of the paved patios, Miss Romanoff oversaw three different games of foursquare from a lawn chair; on the sidewalk leading up to the school, a group of girls played hopscotch. For the students less interested in feats of physical strength, Mister Coulson handed out puzzle-filled scavenger hunts to groups of two or three.

Thor knew from experience that the librarian offered different challenges for different grade levels. When he imagined George running to that station with his friends later in the afternoon, he smiled.

After crowning Lucy and Chad the champions of their balloon contest, Thor returned to where Loki continued skulking behind their table. "If you did not want to take Jane's place," he said after a moment of his brother's grumbling, "you surely would have said so."

"And risk her wrath? Missing Henrik's kindergarten graduation taught me well, brother." Thor snorted, nearly smiling, but Loki kept his head down. Hiding his face, no doubt. "And anyway," he continued, "you needed my help. Between that and enjoying my niece and nephews even when they're surrounded by other children, I could not very well say no."

Thor frowned. "But you do not seem happy to be here," he pointed out.

Loki shook his head. "It isn't you or the children. My mind is just . . . elsewhere."

He shrugged off the end of the sentence as he reached for another empty balloon, but Thor caught the way he stole a surreptitious glance over at the area reserved for the free-throw contest. There, Darcy cheered on a group of sweat-drenched boys as they tried to out-score one another. When she laughed, her smile as bright as the morning sun, Loki dropped his gaze back to his hands.

Thor pursed his lips for a moment. "You're still not speaking to her?" he asked.

Loki snorted and rolled his eyes. "And what exactly is there left to say?"

"Besides an apology?" He scowled and reached for the nearby hose, but Thor caught and held his wrist. "You care about her," he said, "and even if you are no longer dating—"

"I saw her out with her friends, Thor," Loki interrupted. Even though he kept his voice low, he sounded choked, and Thor released his wrist. "I'd already suspected that she no longer felt anything for me, but seeing her with Wilson and Parker . . . " He shook his head. "I doubt there is anything more for us to discuss."

"Perhaps, but an apology is not a discussion." Loki huffed, crossing his arms, and Thor rested a hand on his shoulder. "Darcy may have been your girlfriend," he reminded his brother, "but she is also our dear friend. You cannot spend a lifetime avoiding her, especially when seeing her clearly still hurts you. You owe it to yourself—to both of you, really—to have that conversation. Even if you only say goodbye."

Loki's throat bobbed. "You make it sound easy," he replied, but his words lacked their usual heat. "Like I can simply flick a switch to heal."

Thor smiled and shook his head. "No switch will fix what you are feeling right now, Loki. That is a job best left to time."

Loki released a rough breath, his gaze still distant, and for a moment, Thor could catalogue every ounce of pain on his brother's usually stoic face. But before either of them broke their silence, Henry bellowed, "Dad, we have eight players!"

And as Henry and his friends rushed toward the table, Loki snorted. "There is no rest for the wicked," he decided—but, far more importantly, he smiled.

Exit interviews were an annual tradition in Bruce's class. He used the last week of school to schedule one-on-one sessions with each student. The conversations never lasted more than five or ten minutes thanks to the microscopic attention span of five and six-year-old minds.

Alva Odinson tumbled into the chair across from him at the low-built kidney bean shaped table. Without prompting, she immediately began to count. Bruce waved her quiet. "What are you doing?" he asked.

"Whenever you call me over to this spot, I have to count my numbers for you," she answered. "Was I doing it wrong? Daddy says sometimes I go too fast and forget numbers."

"You were doing fine," Bruce said with a smile. "I actually called you over here to talk about what school will be like when you're in first grade. Are you excited?"

Alva nodded vigorously, and her dirty blonde curls bounced up and down. "I get to go to school for the whole day!" she exclaimed. "That's going to be fun, even if I do like being at daycare in the afternoon without my brothers."

"Do you want to have a certain teacher?" Bruce asked.

Alva shrugged. "George has Missus Howard. He says she's scary, but Mommy says we need someone strict ." Her eyes lit up for a second, and she crooked her index finger for Bruce to lean in close. "I have a secret," she whispered.

"Is it a hurtful secret?" Bruce questioned out of sheer habit.

"No, it's a nice one," Alva replied while crossing her heart. "Mommy is sad because we can't have you as a teacher anymore. She thinks you're the bestest teacher ever, and so do I."

"Thank you, Alva," Bruce replied, his chest feeling a little tight and warm. "I'll miss having you and your brothers as students. But we'll still get to see each other in the halls."

"Good," Alva sighed with relief.

"Does your family have any big plans for this summer?" Bruce asked. "Vacations or anything?"

"I think we're going to go see Grandma and Grandpa soon, and Mommy and Daddy have been whispering a lot. George thinks we're going to the beach. Henry thinks we're going to Disney World," Alva answered.

"And what do you think?"

The girl threw her hands up in the air. "I'm always the last one to know. I just get in the car and go wherever."

Bruce chuckled. "I know that feeling."

"Are you doing anything fun this summer?" Alva asked as she started to pick at a spot of yellow finger paint on the table.

"Ummm… I'm going to move to a new house," Bruce said.

Alva's head shot up, and worry covered her face. "You're going away?" she asked in a quiet, sad, and scared voice.

"No, no, no," Bruce reassured. "I'm still going to be here next year, promise. I'm just going to move to a different house in a different neighborhood. But still living here."

"My daddy builds houses!" Alva exclaimed.

"I know. He's going to help us," Bruce said.

"Us?" Alva questioned. "Who's us?"

Bruce mentally swore. He and Natasha had kept things successfully quiet, at least were the students were concerned, about the fact that they were a couple and Bruce was the father of Natasha's baby. The wheels of his brain went into overdrive as he tried to make up an excuse for the slip—and while he debated for a millisecond to owning up to what was true. "Mister Stark," he said a half second later. "He's helping me with the house too, but you know how he can get distracted and a little crazy."

Alva nodded. "And he would put computers all over your house. Mommy says you shouldn't have that many screens around. It will make your brain melt and rot."

"I've always wondered what's wrong with Mister Stark," Bruce murmured.

"You're not welcome here," Peter said in his most stubbornly authoritarian tone, and Darcy stopped in the middle of the hallway.

At school, Peter whipped out that voice all the time, which mostly reminded Darcy of a fluffy puppy trying to assert his superiority over a basket of kittens. But at home, away from all his distractible second graders, Peter reverted back into a jabbering geek with a penchant for outlining conspiracy theories on their refrigerator.

In other words, Peter never sounded like a pissed off teacher at home, and dread bubbled up from the pit of Darcy's stomach.

She crept to the end of the hall and peered into the living room. Peter and Wade both stood in the foyer, a two-person wall of walking, talking neuroses that blocked someone from entering through the front door. The someone heaved a sigh, and Wade crossed his arms. "I'm with Pete," he said seriously. "Not in a sexy way, either, but in a 'united front' way. Not that I haven't considered the sexy side of things, but—"

Peter actually groaned aloud. "Wade . . . "

"Hey, look, I'm all for intimidation tactics, I just want to make sure our unwanted guest understands how much I respect your relationship. You and Gwen are practically my OTP." Peter shook his head as Wade returned to glowering at their mystery visitor. "Anyway," he continued, "you're just about as welcome as a Pope in church."

Darcy bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing, but Peter just sighed. "Fart," he corrected.

Wade blinked at the better half of his human wall. "On command?" he asked. "Because ever since you banned me from breakfast burritos—"

"Ew, Wade, no," Peter broke in, his hands raised. "The saying is that you're as welcome as a fart in church, not—" Wade kept staring at him, clearly confused, and Peter waved him off. "You know what? Never mind. Because the longer we stand here, the more likely Darcy catches us, and—"

"Still finds whatever you're doing less horrifying than when you played boxers-only twister?" Both roommates jumped as Darcy walked into the room, but she ignored their wide-eyed panic to grin at them. "The sooner you two realize you can't hide things from me, the happier we'll all be," she pointed out as she wandered up to her boys. "Especially when the thing you're hiding is . . . "

Darcy never knew whether the boys split apart like the Red Sea before she spotted their visitor or after, but either way, the words dried up in her throat. From his spot on the front step, his hair slightly damp from a spitting spring rain, Loki caught her eyes. "Your roommates are truly excellent guard dogs," he said, almost smiling.

She shrugged. "Trick is to house-train them early," she replied. Both teachers sputtered weakly, but she held up her hands. "I'm done with my laundry. Time for you two to fight over whose underwear gets washed first."

Peter flushed, obviously a little embarrassed, but Wade cocked his head to the side. "Uh, we did rock-paper-scissors last night, remember? You were there. Accused me of cheating, meaning we had to start over, and—" She raised an eyebrow at him, and he immediately smacked a hand over his mouth. "You're trying to get rid of us, aren't you?" he muttered into his palm.

"Astute," Loki muttered, and Darcy resisted her urge to shoot him a dark look. In a rare show of snarky restraint, he at least waited for the guys and their death glares to disappear down the hallway before he looked up at her again. "Would you mind if I came in for a moment?"

"Yeah, I don't think that's a good idea," she replied, her voice sharper than she meant it to be. When he blinked at her, a little flash of hurt crossing his face, she sighed. "I just mean— The guys are upset enough with you being here, and given the way we left everything, I don't know if—"

"And that is more than fair." The honesty in his tone surprised her, and she watched as he shook his head. "I recognize that I should have at least texted," he said after a couple seconds, "but I feared you wouldn't respond. And given what I need to say, I wanted to . . . "

He frowned, his brow furrowing slightly, and something in Darcy's stomach clenched without her permission. Loki only ever pulled out that expression when he felt frustrated with himself—his writing, his lack of eloquence, his own emotions. For a guy who faked over-confidence on an almost professional level, he fought against his own brain a lot.

Darcy knew that feeling, and for one terrible second, she really wanted to hug him.

Instead, she waited.

"I'm sorry," he finally said, his eyes finding hers again. "Nothing excuses my insecurities or the way I behaved. You deserved better. I should have given you better." He rolled his lips together for a second. "I hope that, in time, we can be acquaintances, if not friends."

Darcy sucked in a big breath, ready to argue with him, but she discovered all of a sudden that her dread had kind of vanished. Instead of feeling sad or pissed, she felt warm. Fond, like maybe the bottomless pit of hurt had started to fill in with something else.

She leaned her shoulder against the doorjamb. "You know that won't happen overnight, right?" she asked. "Because like that Christmas song says, 'once bitten, twice shy.'"

Loki flashed her a tiny grin. "You're quoting 'Blue Christmas' at me?"

"Better than a Pope farting in church or whatever," she replied, and he actually laughed. She smiled a little before shrugging. "We can try acquaintances," she said. "And, for what it's worth, I accept your apology."

His grin immediately softened to something that, even after everything, tugged at her heart. "Your acceptance is worth a great deal," he said, and Darcy believed him.

After they said goodbye, she hung around the foyer, her arms crossed as she watched Loki climb into his car and disappear down the block. Then, she counted to three in her head and said, "I know you idiots are listening."

"Are not!" Wade shouted from the hallway, and Peter groaned aloud.

Darcy smiled.

Carol stepped out of James's bathroom in a shroud of steam. Unsurprisingly, the bed was empty and she could smell coffee and some kind of meat cooking coming from the direction of the kitchen. James had somehow maintained his Air Force discipline of being an early riser; Carol couldn't necessarily say the same. That could also be because she'd never had much of that motivation to move before nine in the morning before she enlisted. Even now, the awareness instilled by her scalding shower was quickly fading and she needed caffeine in her blood. Fast.

Her fingertips grazed against the handle of "her" dresser drawer. It still was mostly empty, only containing a couple pairs of underwear and a spare hairbrush. James, mercifully, didn't say anything about its sparse contents. "It's yours—use it if you want" were his only instructions when he first made the offer. Carol didn't know if she was scared of moving too much in too quickly if she added more to the storage space, or if she only kept the bare minimum in there in case she had to clean it out.

Okay, after a year (mostly) together, she did know. She didn't want to fill it. Either she would run out of space and then have to take over more living space in James's home, and if something terrible happened again—something that would undoubtedly be her fault—she didn't want to have to clean out all her shit.

But asking her to verbalize that? Forget about it.

Carol cursed under her breath as she pulled on the stupid top Jess made her buy at the consignment store last week . She then made a mental note not to make any more bets with her so-called best friend that required buying clothes and wearing them to work. She threw on the rest of her clothes and wrapped up her damp messy hair in a towel turban before letting her nose lead her to the kitchen.

"Morning," James hummed against her neck before kissing her there. She mumbled something back while taking the large mug of coffee out of his hand. After taking a couple swallows that burned down her throat, she sighed. "Ready for your last day?" James asked.

"Sure," she answered.

"That doesn't sound convincing."

Carol shrugged. "Not going to miss my obnoxious parents and obscene amount of paperwork. And if one student rolls an eye at me today, I'll end them. But…"

"But you'll miss your kids."

"I'll miss my kids," she agreed. "But don't worry, I'll only mope for a bit. And then I'll dig into sleeping in and not wearing work pants for two months and be just fine."

"Fury finalize you for summer school?"

Carol nodded. "I get a week off, then two weeks working with the kids—which I can do in yoga pants, thank goodness—then the rest of the summer is free."

"You seem really hung up on this yoga pant thing," James pointed out.

"That's because someone started cooking dinner for me a few nights a week and my dress pants are tight. I swear I weighed less when we got wings and beer all the time."

"You can call my mother and blame her for teaching me how to cook with lots of butter and fatty goodness. We could always go back to running to help you stay in your clothes," James offered.

"I'd rather work out by taking off my clothes," Carol suggested.

James growled softly in the back of his throat. "No fair doing that to me when you're already dressed. I know how close you cut it getting to school on time, and we don't have time to exercise this morning. Don't be a tease."

Carol smirked. "Tonight? All the teasing."

"As long as there's follow through."

James was right about her barely getting to work on time after chowing down on some sausage and hash browns and finishing her morning preparation rituals. Plus, she had to stop off at her condo to make sure Chewie had enough food for the day and hadn't shredded anything in retaliation for being left alone yet again for the whole night. Thankfully, the cat had shown mercy.

Carol pulled into her parking space and looked at the school building. The emotions she felt about her professional life echoed those of her personal life. She felt like this was another chapter ending and that soon, another would start. She had no idea what the ending of the next section of her life would look like, but she wasn't necessarily terrified to find out how the story continued.

It took Bucky's eyes a moment to adjust to the dark grime that was the bi-weekly hangout for the school staff. While the adjustment time was an inconvenience, there wasn't enough money in the world for Bucky to want to see Xavier's bar when it was well lit. Natasha gave him a little wave, and he grabbed Steve by the hips to start directing him towards the other side of the bar where she was sharing a table with Bruce and another man. Despite only seeing the new arrival's back, Bucky knew exactly who the gap-toothed fool was.

Sam smiled at Steve as the art teacher walked behind him to sit to Sam's left, but when it was Bucky's turn to walk around, Sam not-so-casually leaned his chair back to block the aisle. "Can you move you seat up?" Bucky asked.

"No," Sam replied in a dry tone.

"What the hell?"

"Man, you been here for two years with these fine ladies and fabulous people and you're just now getting me hired? You're going to be getting shit from for the rest of time," Sam informed him. The two continued to stare each other down for a minute before Bucky shoved Sam forward in his chair so that he could pass and sit between Steve and Natasha. Sam threw a half-hearted elbow at his stomach as he walked by, and Bucky was half-tempted to give in to yet another slap fight with his old friend, but didn't want to deal with Natasha and Steve. The pair would more than likely fall into Mom and Dad role to break up the arguing siblings, and a man doesn't need that kind of treatment, especially in a bar.

"So you're all official?" Steve asked Sam.

The special education teacher nodded. "Closing on the lovely Natasha's condo on Tuesday, then getting the summer to move my stuff up here and get to know the second and third grade teachers I'll be collaborating with." He looked over at Bucky. "Shame we won't get to work together again."

"You want to try and usurp Carol from fourth and fifth grade collab, you're more than welcome to try," Bucky said. "But that is one Mama Bear I would not want to poke, especially at the end of the school year when half her case load is moving on to middle school."

The conversation paused for a second while a round of beers and waters were passed around the table. "You need help getting things out of the condo?" Steve asked Natasha.

"Eventually? Sure," she answered.

"She's procrastinating in all kinds of packing," Bruce said.

Natasha glared at him. "I've been a little busy with end of the school year stuff and making sure I have the beginning of the school year covered."

"So you're actually going to take off the beginning of the year even if the baby isn't here yet?" Bucky asked.

It was Bruce's turn to give a grumpy expression. "We're still discussing it," Natasha said.

"If your stuff is still in there when I move in, I don't care," Sam offered.

Natasha waved him off. "I'll take care of it, I swear. I'm just really hoping this stupid nesting thing will kick in and get my ass into gear."

"I mean what I said," Bucky said. "Steve and I would be more than happy to help out with whatever you guys need this summer: moving, painting, landscaping, or anything else."

Sam snorted. "I remember how those corn plants grew in your class, Bucky. You shouldn't be allowed to touch any plants whatsoever."

"I'm so glad you're around now," Bucky grumbled.

No matter how long he taught, Clint always woke up on the last day of school with a buzzing in his veins, like a low-level electric current humming through him. And he never woke up at the normal time, either. No, on this particular last day, he jolted awake at five in the morning with a brain that refused to switch off.

After a good half-hour of staring at the ceiling, he spooned up behind Phil and kissed the back of his neck. Phil scooted away, and when Clint tangled up their legs under the covers, his husband sighed hard enough that the bed shifted. He rolled over just far enough to sign tired before burying his face back in the pillow.

Clint scowled. "Spoil-sport," he muttered, but he still kissed Phil's temple before rolling out of bed.

After a meandering early-morning walk with a (very grumpy) Birdie, he showered, shaved, and slid into a shirt and tie. One of his better-fitting shirts, apparently, because Phil's eyes darkened as Clint walked into the kitchen. "Remind me to thank whoever required that the fifth grade teachers dress up for graduation."

Clint grinned. "You don't miss my short-sleeved work shirts?"

Phil shrugged. "Leaves something to the imagination," he replied casually, but Clint still heard the heat in his voice. The buzzing in Clint's veins tripled as he crowded into Phil's personal space, pinning him against the counter for a greedy morning kiss.

But when he tangled his fingers in Phil's belt loops, Phil nudged him away. "Don't you have a graduation to obsess about?"

Clint wrinkled his nose. "In a minute," he grumbled, and kissed Phil again.

Strictly speaking, graduation belonged to a whole bunch of people: the students, sure, but also the other fifth-grade teachers, Carol, Fury, Sitwell, and even Darcy. Still, Clint managed the graduation certificates and a couple of their quirky school traditions, and that shit mattered.

Which explained why his stomach dropped into his shoes when he walked into the office and discovered Darcy scowling at her computer. "You working on your updated hottie rankings before the new school year?" he joked.

She glared at him. "No, I'm dealing with a sword crisis."

"You don't mean—" She cocked her head expectantly, and he resisted the urge to swear. "How'd you lose them?"

"Okay, first, no one losesa giant bag of plastic swords," she fired back. "And second, I'm waiting to hear back from Central Office. Pretty sure the night maintenance crew's to blame, since they usually move our stuff."

"And eat our snacks!" Sitwell chimed in from his office.

Darcy jabbed a thumb in the direction of his voice, and Clint sighed. "Just find them before Fury gets wind of this," he instructed.

The rest of the pre-bell morning flew by even faster than usual as Clint double-checked on all the other arrangements for the graduation ceremony and handed each homeroom teacher their packet of certificates. When he stopped by Carol's room with her packet, though, she smirked. "Who pissed in your raisin bran?"

He rolled his eyes. "You catch a guy eating high-fiber cereal one time—"

"And receive the gift that keeps on giving." He snorted at her, and she crossed her arms over her silver—

He grinned. "Is your shirt sparkly?" he asked, fighting back his urge to snicker.

This time, Carol scowled like somebody with seriously ruined cereal. "I lost a bet to Jessica," she grumbled, and Clint almost broke a rib laughing.

Like every other year, the fifth graders hummed with excitement even harder than Clint, bouncing around his classroom so hard that attendance felt like an impossible task. A couple kids brought gifts—a coffee mug, a clearly homemade pen cup, a gift card—and he displayed them on his desk like at the end of every year.

A couple minutes before everybody needed to head down to the gym for the graduation assembly, though, Tommy Carter popped into Clint's room. "I, uh," he stammered, and Clint realized that the kid was holding out a little stuffed dog. "Somebody said you liked bulldogs, and since the pet store was out of bulldog magnets . . . "

The kid blushed, obviously embarrassed, and Clint smiled at him. "It's perfect," he promised, and his heart warmed at the way the kid beamed back.

The feeling tripled when he realized the kid also carried a red gift bag labeled Mr. Stark.

By the time Darcy called with the all-clear to bring the fifth graders down to the gym, Clint thought that his excited buzzing might just power a whole city. Leading them down the stairs and through the halls felt huge, an honor he never quite figured out how to put into words. Still, he suspected the other teachers felt the same weight, especially since Carol was already losing her resting bitch face to dab at her eyes.

But nothing quite compared to walking into the gym to see all the other teachers at the school, all of them in this year's grade-specific t-shirts, holding out plastic swords to create a tunnel for the graduating fifth graders to walk through. Even Clint, who prided himself on holding it together every year, fought against a tickle at the back of his throat as he gestured the first of his students through. The line moved slowly, thanks mostly to the kids who requested high-fives or hugs from some of their favorite former teachers, but none of that mattered. Not on their big day.

From his place over with the other specials teachers, Phil smiled knowingly. Shut up, Clint signed, but he smiled like a sap, too.

Clint knew that the rest of the ceremony'd look like every other year, with a speech by Fury and certificates for all the kids, plus a surprise baby gift for Natasha that a bunch of students and their parents had pulled together. And he knew that, after everybody headed home, he'd flop down on the couch with Phil and reminisce with him about the last thirty-something weeks of school.

But for now, he waved his kids past the line of teachers, pausing for his own high-fives and smiling at every last face that passed him by.