Sun spills through the open screen door, highlighting the trodden path of carpet that Clint navigates, stepping over book bags, an organic chemistry textbook that probably has more of Tony's DNA on it than he cares to know, and a set of shoulder pads that Steve has just pulled out of the wash. The strong scent of fabric softener tickles his nose until it's replaced by the sweet swell of sugar that makes his mouth water.

The main floor of the house smells like cinnamon rolls; it also smells like pastrami and Swiss cheese but that's bleeding through from the diner built onto the front of the extensive property owned by Phil Coulson—Clint's foster . . . well, foster person.

He's been the closest thing to a father figure as Clint figures he's ever gunna get, or even deserve, but after seventeen years, ten of them spent in less than stellar foster homes, he's come to understand that the only one really looking out for Clint is himself.

He's in a pretty good place now, though. He'd even go as far as to say that he and Phil are close. Friends even. He has foster brothers, too. And not the kind that slit his mattress while he sleeps and take off with his mother's antique wrist watch. The good kind. The kind that make him wish he and Barney still talked to each other (That he even knew where the hell Barney was really).

Clint wades into the kitchen, sweats tucked around his hips, a purple tee clinging to his frame, mussing his hair and smirking at the sight of Phil. He's got his Kiss the Cook apron on again, the one Tony insisted on buying him, as he pulls the tray of rolls from the oven.

Steve's all over the food, hovering like a starving tiger, all lean muscle and stealth. He's a like a tiger. If tigers were blond, blue-eyed orphans from Brooklyn who grew up on the wrong side of the tracks and still ended up being the all American hero with the manners of a man from the forties.

He reaches for the tray before Phil even has the chance to warn him it's still hot (which is really just common sense at this point, but try arguing with a six-foot-four quarter back with a higher metabolism than superman and see how it goes). Steve jams a roll into his mouth, lips pursed around the heat, chugging back a glass of milk before reaching for another. He pats Phil's shoulder in gratitude.

Clint chuckles as he crosses the kitchen because Phil can't cook to save his life. He owns and runs a diner, but can't tell the salt from the sugar without his glasses. Everything he cooks comes out of a box. Clint salutes Steve on his way to the table, grabbing a plate as he passes, thanking Philsbury for breakfast.

Usually they just grab something to go from the diner. Sam always has extras prepped, but today was the first day of junior year and Phil wanted them all together (probably to take some corny family photo). Clint didn't really mind though. It had been a long time since he had been considered part of a family.

"So . . ." Phil says, laying a plate of cinnamon rolls down and tucking into the table. He's got one of his signature black suits on, rolled up at the sleeves.

Clint swears he's some kind of government agent and that the diner is just a cover-job, but Phil insists you never need a reason to look good. "I don't know," Clint answers around a bite of food, ignoring his conspiracy theories. "I really appreciate the new mattress, Phil, I do. It's great. But I'll trade it in for my own room whenever you get around to getting those renovations started. Not that I'm rushing you. Just saying, you know, with Tony out of the house during the day there's less of a chance of walls imploding and stuff."

Phil looks thoughtful but Clint can tell he's trying not to smile.

"Heard my name," comes the clipped bark as everyone's favourite inventor (the sarcasm here is dripping Philsbury icing it's so coated) enters the room, looking like he's just crawled out of one of the pizza boxes Clint can usually smell from his side of the room.

"Another late night?" Phil asks Tony, who's still currently slouching around in his pajamas. It looks like he might have taken a comb to one half of his head before abandoning it for his toothbrush which presently hangs out of his mouth as he fiddles with a tiny black box.

Clint eyes it warily.

"Do you know how many national robotic championships SHIELD enters?" Tony says. "One. And do you know how many times we've won? None. But this baby here," he shakes the box, "this is the ticket."

"You know those competitions cost more than the student council budget right? With parts and materials added and transport that's a pretty fine bill," Phil says, sipping his coffee. Eyes scanning the funnies section of the paper. "You're lucky SHIELD has it in the budget at all."

Tony rolls his eyes. "I'd fund it myself if they'd just enter."

Clint smirks. "What're you gunna do? Write them a check four years in the making?"

"That's beside the point. The money's there, festering in a pool of its own interest. You'd think SHIELD would take interest in that. In me. I'm an investment."

"What you are is going to be late," Phil remarks, looking at his watch. "Better get ready. And eat something for goodness sake; you look like I haven't let you see daylight all summer."

"Sure you're not a vampire, Tony?" Steve jokes as he nudges his shoulder on his way to the fridge for another glass of milk. Clint's pretty sure his bones have crystalized to diamonds by now.

Tony shoves a battery into the device in his hand, which looks sort of like a remote now that it's turned, and it sparks, setting Clint's napkin on fire. He douses it with a splash of water from his glass. "Seriously," he whispers to Phil. "I'll sleep on the veranda. I think I saw something about this in health and safety."

"That doesn't apply here."

"Sure it does, if I'm coming to you as an employee. And since I technically work where I live, I think the argument stands."

"Sure you don't want to be a lawyer, Clint?" Phil says with that familiar twinkle. The one where he knows too much and it's bad for everyone else.

"Nah, stuffy suits and dinner parties. That's not my scene."

"Well, keep it in mind," Phil says. "And Tony, how many times do I have to tell you not to finish brushing your teeth in the kitchen sink? There are three bathrooms in this place."

"Right-o, Phil," Tony says, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. He rips into a cinnamon roll then, stowing his toothbrush behind his ear. "Kind of tastes like fluoride."

"That's about normal," Clint mutters.

Phil eyes him over his glasses. "Remember who feeds you, Barton."

Clint looks across the table to Steve and Tony and in unison they all reply, "Sam." Phil pretends to look offended and excuses himself to retrieve his agenda from his office. The three of them break into a chorus of sniggers that only die down when a hulking shadow eclipses the table.

"Good day friends. The day begins anew, the sun shines—

"I hear one doth from you today, Thor, and I'll have the tech department tank your audition," Tony clips, threatening the black mass standing in the screen doorway. "I've had enough Shakespeare in the Park for one lifetime."

The blonde mass of person (who Clint thinks is on steroids, but is really just related to some freakishly gigantic Scandinavian people or something) crosses through the kitchen.

"If you insist." Thor slings his bag over a chair and rummages through a nearby cupboard, ripping into a pack of Poptarts. He takes a bite of one and stuffs the other in the toaster, chucking the box over his shoulder at the recycle bin. "Phil you're out of Poptarts!"

Phil walks back into the kitchen, a stack of files under his arm, fixing his tie. "Which only seems to happen when you stop by. I wonder why that is?"

"He's a growing boy, Phil. He needs his nourishment, especially if he's going to make the audition this morning." Tony points across the kitchen. "Romeo, toss me the syrup."

Thor makes a swipe for it but Phil picks it up and hands it to Tony, muttering something about having too much sugar.

"You are going out for Romeo, right? Not Juliette," Tony continues, gesturing with his fork.

Thor tosses the half-eaten Poptart at him.

Tony ducks and recovers. "I only ask because the hair's getting a little long there. Jane'll be able to braid it soon."

"At least I have a girlfriend, Stark."

"I have friends that are girls," Tony insists.

"Ones that can actually endure being around you for more than five minutes?"

Tony scowls, but Steve claps his shoulder and says, "Tony's holding out for Pepper, anyway."

Tony bolsters at that. "And this is why you're my favourite, Cap."

"Alright before this escalates, or Thor eats us out of a week's worth of groceries again, who wants a ride to school? Offer's only on the table for thirty seconds," Phil says. "I have places to be."

"How many times do we have to tell you that showing up at school with the ex-guidance counsellor is not cool, Phil?" Tony quips. "How many?"

"I beg to differ. Lola is the epitome of cool."

"Car, yes. You no. If you're so concerned about our cool factor how about we drive Lola and you take the van to get supplies today?"

Phil smirks. "Nice try, kid."

"I'll ride with you, Phil," Steve says, tucking his plate away in the dishwasher.

"Well, look at that," Phil says.

Tony scoffs. "He just wants you to let him borrow Lola so he can ask Peggy out."

Steve rolls his eyes. "I don't want to date Peggy; we're just friends."

"With benefits?" Tony asks so casually he might have been asking Steve to pass the milk.

The tips of Steve's ears glow, but other than that he makes no argument one way or the other and Clint suspects, not for the first time either, that even if Peggy was that kind of girl, which she isn't (stiletto up the ass maybe but not a friends-with-benefits gal), that Steve doesn't exactly swing that way. He doesn't know exactly what gives him that impression, not that it matters anyway. Steve's business is his business and Clint's just lucky that at least one of his foster brothers won't be trying to set his gym shorts on fire (It was totally not an accident, regardless of what Tony says. They lock up shit like nitroglycerin for a reason.)

"She's too old for you," Phil says, cutting into Clint's thoughts and when he looks up, Steve's cheeks have turned a pale pink.

"I don't want to date her!" he insists. "Is it too much to assume that a male and female co-worker could be friends without having some romantic involvement attached?"

"Yes," Tony deadpans. Clint shrugs.

Steve huffs and Phil watches him carefully. It doesn't happen often, but Steve's been known to pack a punch (it's exclusively reserved for the boxing-bag in the makeshift gym downstairs), but for some reason Clint thinks Phil assumes Steve's first non-bag target is going to be Tony's nose.

Thor looks like he thinks this too, but his grin is strangely eager as he slurps his juice. It's almost as weird as that time he chucked his mug across the floor of the diner, demanding another root beer (apparently it's a custom). Clint isn't so sure about that, but he is sure that the amount of product used to keep his hair back in a ponytail is starting to get to Thor's head.

Tony waves off the whole thing because he's that sure of himself. "By the way, Cap, you gunna plow into some newbies after school? This something I want to come watch? You know, flattened football players are my favourite kind."

Steve grins then. "Haven't flattened any since we pulled you off the field last year."

Tony scowls. "That was for research and you know it."

Clint stretches his hands over his head, tossing his napkin at the trash across the kitchen. It's disappears into the bag without a second glance. "Keep telling yourself that, genius. But seeing as you're not dressed yet, that means I get to drive."