For this prompt at avengerkink:
I'd like to see an AU in which all of the Avengers are children/youths in an orphanage. Maybe not all of them are actual orphans, maybe some have been neglected at home, ran away or something similar.

WARNINGS: Implied child abuse, bullying, violence

A/N:Please note that orphanages in the US actually disappeared by 1980. They just don't exist anymore, according to my scant research. Therefore I'm trying to make setting and time period a little ambiguous. Also, I find that different counties in the states have different elementary school grades and ways of doing things. The elementary school near my house goes to fifth grade; the one in my hometown goes to sixth grade. If ages and grades don't match like you think they should, it will fall into place later. Some of these kids have skipped grades, some have been held back, etc. Some places have students rotate classes and some don't. Finally, please keep in mind that every kid is different. This is also my very first attempt at a complete AU, so suggestions and polite concrit are welcome.

Thanks to dysprositos for the usual beta awesomeness.

Clint

Clint was sleepy. It was ten o'clock and he was sitting on the linoleum floor next to his cot with his chin resting on his knees. There were three boys in his room that were still awake, though, and so he couldn't sleep yet. Keeping his mouth shut had been hard when he and Barney had arrived seven months ago and he was still paying for his mistakes. He was learning, though.

He sighed and threw his legs out in front of him and picked up the flashlight he'd stolen from a nearby corner market. It was small enough that he could hold it between his teeth and he let it shine on the pad of paper in front of him as he picked his pencil up and started drawing again. Tonight he was drawing the cliffs of Dover. He'd heard about them at school today and they sounded cool. He wondered what it would be like to dive off of them. Probably not smart.

He wasn't that smart, though, he knew. Barney told him all the time, his dad had told him all the time, and his mom had never corrected him. They'd all know better than him. But he was learning. He was learning how to keep the jerks from tying him to his bed while he slept (sleep in sweatshirts and long underwear instead of under sheets), he was learning how to keep them from stealing his meager belongings (he found a hidey hole on the first floor of an abandoned building near the orphanage), and seven months in he was even learning how to make friends.

He didn't worry about friends, usually. He knew that keeping to himself and keeping out of the way was easier if he didn't talk to too many people, but he'd made a friend today without thinking, and it felt kind of good. He wondered for a moment whether his new friend was having any trouble sleeping. He'd ask in the morning. Clint had forgotten to warn him about getting tied to your bed or beaten up after lights out, but the kid seemed smarter than him and probably already knew.

Finally, the three older boys who Clint was waiting on went to sleep. Clint tucked his flashlight, pad of paper, and pen under his mattress and fell asleep sometime around eleven thirty. Not his worst night.

The next day he woke to the shrill sound of the morning alarm being blared over the PA system and he rolled out of bed quickly, not wanting to get caught off guard. He stripped two of the bulky sweatshirts off and gathered his things for the bathroom. As he stood in line for the bathroom (there were only five stalls for about thirty boys), he realized his first mistake of the day.

He'd forgotten to put his socks and shoes on and one of the older boys who were constantly trying to get into Barney's good graces saw. He was in line in front of Clint and he turned with a leer and stomped on Clint's right foot, hard. Clint could usually duck away from a blow like that, but he was still sluggish from sleep, and pain spiked through his foot and up his leg.

"Shit!" he yelled, hopping up and down on one foot, and that was his second mistake of the day.

"Barton!" hollered the 'floor parent' who was monitoring the bathroom crowd that morning. He was a tall man with bright red hair and with a deep voice and a missing front tooth to add to his menace.

Clint sighed and limped out of line, ignoring the snickers of the other boys. "Yes, sir?" he asked, mustering as much respect as he could this early in the day.

The man reached into his pocket and pulled out a pad of paper and pen, scribbled something and tore half of it off and handed it to Clint. "Ten demerits for bad language, Barton. Clean it up."

Clint took the paper and said, "Okay, sir. Sorry," and then he got at the end of the line, waiting again. He yawned and then felt an elbow nudge him in the side.

"That stinks, Clint," said the friend Clint made yesterday, Bruce. He was looking pretty disheveled, too. His hair was long and curly and looked a little mad-scientist this morning, like a picture Clint had once seen. He was only a little taller than Clint, but then again all the boys his own age were a little taller than him. He had kind brown eyes, though, and a smile that showed up quick and left even quicker. Right now he was glaring at the boy who had stomped on Clint's foot.

Clint shrugged. "Yeah. Not the best start to the day, but I got off easy last night, so I guess it all evens out, huh?"

"What do you mean you got off easy?" Bruce asked, shifting his bag with his bathroom supplies to his other hand and turning to face Clint while they waited their turn.

"Sometimes I have trouble with the older boys after lights out is all," Clint said, figuring his earlier guess that Bruce was too smart to get into much trouble was clearly true.

"Why?" Bruce asked with a curious look on his face.

"Because they're assho—jerks," he replied vehemently, correcting himself with an eye roll. His folks had sworn like sailors and seven months here wasn't long enough for Clint to have wiped that away no matter how many demerits he kept getting for it.

Bruce just nodded and the boys waited patiently for their turn in the bathroom. They saw each other again at breakfast, and Clint managed to save seat for him in the crowded dining hall. There were metal tables and folding chairs placed throughout the room, and the floor was pale yellow linoleum covered in scuff marks and rips. Clint always tried to sit with his back to the wall so no one could tip his chair, but he decided to let his new friend have the good spot today.

Bruce joined him and smiled quickly again. "Thanks," he said as he sat down with his tray of toast and jelly and a banana and orange juice.

Clint shrugged. "Sure. How was your first night?" he asked, and he watched as Bruce just chewed his toast and considered his answer.

"It was okay. No one bothered me, so I guess that's good."

Clint decided then that he liked Bruce, because it was clear from the dark circles under his eyes and his reddish cheekbone from rubbing tears away that he hadn't had a good night, but he wasn't going to complain about it. Anyone who can learn that quickly not to complain at the orphanage was okay in Clint's book.

Suddenly one of the boys from his room snuck past and tipped Clint's chair as he was taking a drink of orange juice and Clint toppled over, spilling all over his shirt. He held his temper, though, watching the tall blonde boy who was laughing as he walked away, knowing that if he got any more demerits he would go from the easy punishment of cleaning the floors of the bedrooms to the more annoying cleaning of the bathroom floors.

Bruce helped him up and glared at the boy who was walking way, and Clint did his best to dry off his shirt. Laundry day wasn't for two days and this was his last shirt thanks to an incident where showing off landed him in the mud at the playground yesterday. He held his temper, though, and his new friend just watched him as he finished his breakfast quietly.

When the boys were finished, they pulled on their charity-issued blue nylon jackets and their plain red backpacks and left for school.

Bruce

Bruce appreciated the boy walking next to him, he really did. He was older than Bruce by a grade or two, probably in fifth or sixth grade, but he was small for his age and barely reached Bruce's nose. His jeans had a hole in one knee and Bruce guessed he didn't have much in the way of clothes since he didn't change after spilling orange juice all over himself. He was nice enough, though, and he'd shared comic books with Bruce yesterday when they met, which was helpful.

Anything that could keep his thoughts from straying back to the scene at his house four days ago was good for him right now.

When the people from the police station told him he was going to have to go to the orphanage for a while, he got scared about what he might find. He didn't know anything about orphanages. He and his family had actually been fairly well-off, despite his father's craziness and anger issues. They'd been living in a college town on the outskirts of the city and his father was a scientist before he snapped last week.

Bruce was also going to have to switch schools as a result of all of this, which made him mad because he and his own science teacher got along really well. The guy had even tried to help Bruce by inventing projects for him to stay after school for whenever he could. The school he was switching to didn't sound too bad, but he was a little worried about the orphanage.

The 71st Street Home for Children was no better or worse than he expected. When he arrived in the afternoon it looked kind of pretty from the outside. It had well-kept grounds, a small front lawn wrapped by a black wrought iron fence and clean, old-looking brick walls with black trim. The front steps were whitewashed and had potted plants lining them, and the door was a deep mahogany with black handles. The place reminded Bruce of something out of a mystery novel, really. He half expected a butler to answer the door.

No one did, though, and the police officer accompanying him just led him right inside to the foyer. The marble floor had recently been scrubbed, and the double staircase that wound up to the second floor was a clean hardwood. The office he was led to was neat and orderly, and the blonde woman who stood when he entered was dressed in a pretty green pencil skirt and gold blouse. The police officer set down the one suitcase Bruce had been allowed to bring (he'd shoved a week's worth of clothes, a picture of his mother, and then as many of his favorite books he could fit inside) down next to the door. After saying good afternoon to the woman and good luck to Bruce, he departed.

"You're Bruce Banner?" the woman asked, gesturing for Bruce to sit down in a chair in front of the desk where she sat back down.

"Yes, ma'am," he replied sullenly, trying not to look at the floor.

"You're nine years old? In fifth grade?"

"Yes ma'am." He didn't offer any explanation of why he was in fifth instead of fourth, hating to sound like a showoff.

She looked up at him and he met her eyes. "I'm sorry about your parents," she said gently.

He just nodded.

She told him some rules (boys on one floor girls on the other and never the twain shall meet except in the dining area and rec room sort of thing) and then showed him his room. She said he could keep his things under his cot and that the morning wake-up came at seven am sharp every week day, nine on weekends. It was past dinner time and the cop had bought him a hamburger on the way, so after she said good night he just curled up on his cot with a book and used the picture of his mother as a bookmark.

After a while, though, his curiosity got the better of him and he found his way to the boy's den on their floor. There were four bedrooms with eight to ten boys in each and there was a den at one end of the wood-floored hallway. When he entered the den there were about fifteen boys there of varying ages, the oldest looking about fifteen and the youngest looking about six. Some were playing checkers or Monopoly – the room had two long metal tables for games, and two couches and a few tattered armchairs. It was lit with a few lamps, giving it a warm tone, and Bruce found a chair to sit in and watch the room.

In the chair next to him was a blue-eyed boy with messy, dirty blond hair. He was reading a comic book and had another one sitting on his lap. It was a Fantastic Four comic and Bruce had a few of those tucked into his suitcase down the hall. He slipped down the hall and grabbed a couple and hurried back to the den. The boy was still there reading. Bruce sat back down and then cleared his throat.

When the other boy didn't look up, Bruce cleared his throat again, more loudly. This still garnered no response, and Bruce was starting to feel embarrassed. So he said quietly, "Hey."

The other boy's head snapped up abruptly. He quickly let his eyes run over Bruce before he said, "Hey."

"Do you mind if I look at that issue of The Fantastic Four?" Bruce asked quickly. "I haven't seen it. You can see these two if you want," he added, holding up the books he'd brought from his stash.

The boy's eyes lit up and he grinned. "Sure! I missed that one," he said, pointing at one of Bruce's books. "Can I look at it?"

"Yeah," Bruce said, and traded books with the boy. "I'm Bruce, by the way," he added, after an uncomfortable beat of silence.

The boy shifted his weight in his seat and nodded. "I'm Clint," he replied. "Thanks for letting me look at this."

Just as he said that an older boy, also blond and blue-eyed, walked behind Clint and slapped him, knocking his head forward. "You're a dick, Clint," he said with a dark laugh and then left the room. Clint glared after him, his kind eyes hardening quickly.

"Who's that?" Bruce asked, hoping trouble wasn't too easy to come by around here.

"My asshole brother, Barney," Clint said. After a pause he cryptically added, "Stay out of his way."

Bruce just nodded and the boys settled in with their comic books. They didn't talk much, and after a brief discussion of the merits of the new artist for the comic book, they said good night and went to bed.

Bruce didn't sleep much.

Now he was headed to a new school with a new friend, and he was starting his life over again.

Natasha

She watched the new boy and Clint Barton as they walked in front of her to school. She had seen the new boy yesterday when he checked in; she always found a way to be in the foyer when new kids were coming in. He looked nice, but she knew better than to trust that. Clint's brother had looked nice enough, too, but she knew he beat Clint up regularly and bullied the other kids. He'd tried to bully her early on, but she kicked him in the balls and glared at him as he squirmed in the dust of the lawn behind the orphanage and he'd left her alone since then.

Clint, though, she didn't know. He kept to himself, and it seemed like whenever she noticed him it was because he was getting in trouble, either with the adults at the orphanage or with the older boys who seemed to take great delight in messing with him. Clint didn't have any friends, it seemed, and he stayed hidden a lot.

This made her opinion of the new boy a different one than usual because he managed to befriend Clint in one day when seven months hadn't garnered Clint anyone except enemies. She'd have to keep an eye on Bruce Banner.

She was walking fifty yards or so behind them on the way to school and she was hoping she'd get an answer to a question she'd had for about a month. She was walking behind Clint Barton one day on the way to school and she had turned the corner and he was gone. She looked all over the street but couldn't see him and then she didn't see him again until homeroom that day. She did it again the next day and the same thing happened. He slipped her gaze every single day for a month, and that pissed her off. She wanted to know what he did when he disappeared, and she wanted to know how he disappeared.

The other odd thing was that his backpack always seemed to be nearly empty when he left the orphanage, but then he had everything he needed when he was at school. There was a puzzle here, and she hated puzzles.

So today she watched carefully and was rewarded. Apparently Clint didn't want to just disappear on his new friend, so both boys stopped when they rounded the corner from the orphanage. She could see Clint gesturing to Bruce, instructing him to stay there for a minute. Then he slipped down the nearby alleyway, something he usually did too quickly for her to catch. Today, though, she was able to sneak past Banner and follow Clint.

He hugged the wall of the alleyway and came to the next corner, which was an old, abandoned warehouse. She saw him slip in through a broken window and she approached, peering in through the splintered glass. He was kneeling in the far corner, where a pile of rubble and an old, antique desk sat—a perfect hiding spot. She watched as he pulled his notebook, a pencil case, and what looked to be a diary or some kind of book and slipped them into his backpack. He pulled a baseball hat out and put it on, and he also put on a checkered red scarf. When he was zipping his backpack she slipped away, her question sadly answered.

She might be ten years old, but she knew about protecting things from idiots who would take them like they meant nothing.

That day at school, when she saw Clint and Bruce sitting at the lunch table together, she walked over and gestured to an empty seat nearby.

"Can I sit with you guys today?" she asked curtly.

Clint looked at her wide-eyed, and Bruce noticed.

"Uh, yeah? Sure, I mean, if you want," Bruce said, waving his hand in front of Clint's face. "Hey, Barton, what gives?"

Clint shook his head and offered a weak smile. "Oh, sorry. It's just. Um. Yeah, sure, sit down," he stumbled. "I'm Clint Barton," he added.

Bruce chimed in quietly, "Bruce Banner."

She leaned over and pulled her orphanage-issued lunch out and said, "Natasha."

"You live at 71st Street, too?" Bruce asked, taking a bite of his sandwich.

She nodded.

"Hey, how long have you lived there?" Clint asked. "You scared the shit out of my brother a while back so I knew you were cool, but how long have you been there?"

She shrugged. "Most of my life. I don't remember anywhere else."

Bruce and Clint both paused in their chewing and then went on after a moment, clearly understanding the look on her face that said, "I will use this plastic knife on you to whatever ends I can if you ask anything more." She smiled inwardly at their intelligence.

"What do you think of the school so far?" Clint asked Bruce.

"It's okay," he replied. "At my old school we got to switch teachers a couple times and here we're stuck with the same one all day, so that's going to be weird."

"You didn't get stuck with Ms. Alton did you?" Clint asked around a bit of apple. "She's a witch."

Natasha had to agree with that. "How do you know? You weren't here in fourth grade," She asked.

Clint grinned sheepishly. "Hellooo, playground duty? She won't let me do anything. And she doesn't just bitch at me, either. She hands detentions out like they're candy."

"I've seen you, though," Natasha said. "You climb on places you're not meant to climb on the playground. I saw you get on the roof one day." She paused. "I didn't tell anyone, though."

He nodded gratefully. "Thanks."

Bruce waited for a lull in the conversation before he answered Clint's earlier question. "No, I don't have Alton. I have – Fisher. She seems okay."

"She doesn't care what I do at recess," Clint said. "She's cool."

"She likes Mr. Coulson," Natasha said, leaning over the table to share the news.

"Yeah?" Clint said. "How do you know?"

"Who's Mr. Coulson?" Bruce said at the same time.

"Fifth grade history teacher – that's when you start switching teachers around here, by the way," Natasha said, and then she looked at Clint. "I know because I figured out if you move one of the hand dryers in the girls' bathroom you get a view of the teachers' lounge, and she eats lunch there every day. And she's not very subtle."

"He's my history teacher," Clint said thoughtfully, leaning back in his chair. "He's too smart for her."

Natasha shrugged. "She likes him anyway."

They spent the rest of lunch trying to pair up teachers and figure out as many routes to get to the roof as they could. Natasha actually enjoyed lunch that day. She liked school, liked learning, but growing up in an orphanage actually made her kind of crap at social skills. She knew how to be polite to adults- they made sure of that-but she was never very good at making friends with the other girls. Their interests were boring and she preferred sneaking out of the orphanage grounds and wandering the few blocks around it on her own.

These two boys seemed interesting, though.