Hello! Thank you for the reviews and reads! I hope you find this next chapter more colorful. (and it's longer...)

Chapter 2

With a gentle push, Bruce locked the laboratory door closed. It was 7 o'clock in the morning, about an hour before school started.

Dr. Selvig was considerate enough to give Bruce access to the school's lab rooms anytime he wanted. That was after a particularly long conversation about how Bruce's father treated him, Bruce's anger condition, and the potential the he saw in Bruce to be a notable scientist. Bruce guessed that Dr. Selvig pitied him, but if it came with complete access to everything in the storage room, equipment and all, he really couldn't care less.

It occurred to Bruce that he spent most of his time behind a microscope or test tubes than he did anywhere else. Before school, he came to this classroom and did small experiments. Well, actually he used the other lab room most of the time. There were only two in the entire school, but there was an incident in the other one. Lots of broken glass everywhere and some spilt chemicals, it was actually quite the talk around the school because many of their expensive tools and machinery were no longer usable. It cost them lots of money which was the sole reason as to why the cheerleaders didn't get new uniforms this year.

However, Bruce was beyond relieved when Dr. Selvig let him use this one.

After school, four times a week, Bruce took a taxi to another part of town, the wealthier part, and went to another laboratory. He was paid to clean petri dishes and test tubs while actual scientists and chemists did their work. It wasn't much money, but Bruce didn't care. It gave him an excuse to escape his father and seeing what it was like to be in the big leagues never failed to fascinate him.

Bruce took off his gray coat and threw it casually on a stool. He washed his hands and began to work.

For the most part, Bruce worked alone. By himself, every day. Occasionally, but very rarely, Dr. Selvig would pop in and see how Bruce was coming along, if he needed any help or if he was okay in solitude. But that was only when Bruce was a freshman, and since he was a senior now, Dr. Selvig never checked up on him. As for the loneliness, Bruce told himself that it was okay, that is shouldn't bother him and it was natural.

He has been telling himself that for years.

Even more rarely, once in a blue moon, Tony Stark would come at lunch and see what Bruce was up to. Bruce had to admit that Tony was a great scientist but an even greater inventor. Sometimes over the years, they'd try to invent things together or they'd just goof around with the chemicals. Two curious minds were more dangerous than one.

Although Bruce sometimes missed those days, he figured that Tony grew up. Who would want to hang around with the school's most awkward nerd? Especially when you're a billionaire? Bruce, for the most part, didn't blame him. There were times though, when Bruce wondered what had happened between them and what was the hallow feeling in his chest that he was experiencing now.

Bruce shook the thoughts away and raked a hand through his extremely curly jet-black hair. He pushed the bridge of his glasses up and reached into his backpack for a textbook.

While setting up a slide for his microscopes, Bruce heard a sharp noise coming from within the storage room. Like the sound of a beaker being dropped.

Immediately, Bruce's heart rate quickened. He wasn't sure if it was because of the sudden clash or because the noise meant he wasn't alone. He cautiously put down his slide and slowly walked toward the storage room's wooden doors.

"Dr. Selvig?" Bruce called out attentively. "Are you okay?"

No response.

Bruce gave it another shot, inching closer. "Dr. Selvig, is that you?"

Nothing happened. Bruce was certain he heard something break.

"Tony," Bruce warned, "are you trying to scare me again? Because we both remembered what happened last time you did that…" For Bruce, it wasn't very pleasant. The bruise that was on Tony's arm after the occurrence was enough proof.

Still no response. Giving up, Bruce opened the door.

To his surprise, it was neither Dr. Selvig nor Tony. In fact, it wasn't a person at all. It was a mouse.

The little white rodent must have escaped from his cage. It's black beady eyes looked up triumphantly at Bruce, and let out a soft victorious squeak. Bruce sighed and picked up the broken beaker. He was just about to pick up the mouse when a random shout came out of nowhere.

"Oh my God! You found him!"

Bruce spun around on his heels and found himself staring at a… girl. Not that he hasn't seen one before, of course, but in the laboratory? Before school? Wearing protective goggles? Never.

"I've been trying to smoke him out of that corner for an hour—not literally of course." Before Bruce could even reply, the girl—who Bruce believed to be Jane Foster from his calculus class—lifted the mouse from his hands and went to the back of the room to place him in his cage among his other furry friends.

Over her shoulder, Bruce could make out the white rodent's gloomy expression. It started to sulk around it's cage, paying no attention to the other sleeping mice.

While her back was turned to him, Bruce reevaluated the situation. First, how on earth did she get in here? It's locked and only he had the keys. Second, what was she doing with a mouse and third, what was she doing in the labs? Girls weren't allowed to become scientists. Or they just didn't. Not that Bruce agreed, but every girl he's ever had to talk to all want to be nurses or stay home mothers—or the next singing sensation.

Jane Foster, looking tired and exasperated, returned, taking off her gloves and goggles. Bruce just kept staring at her in awe. And gradual admiration.

It was then that Jane unfortunately remembered where she was and who she was with.

She bit her lip and looked at Bruce with pleading brown eyes. "Please, Bruce. Don't tell Dr. Selvig about this. Or Principle Fury. Or anyone, really."

Bruce found himself shaking his head 'no' despite his shock. He was surprised that Jane even knew his name.

Things got awkward after that, Jane sort of slid against the shelf and sat on the floor, head drooped. The silence was almost tangible between them. She admonished herself for being so careless. Imagine if Dr. Selvig came in? Or worse her friends? Her reputation, the single most important thing, it seemed, in high school would have been tarnished.

As if Bruce was reading her mind, he crouched down to her eye level and said, "Well, um, I think that's pretty cool. I mean you being a girl and all. Liking science, I mean." Talking to girls was never Bruce's forte.

Jane lifted her head but averted her eyes away from him, her soft brown curls fell off her shoulders. "Yeah, well, you'd be the first," she mumbled, but smiled kindly at Bruce's compliment.

More awkward silence.

"Do you do this often?" Bruce asked after what felt like an eternity. He decided to settle himself on the floor opposite to Jane. Even though nothing was blocking their view, they both were talking to the tile floor instead to each other's faces.

"What? Come before school starts to do experiments forbidden of me because of my gender and hide them away so that my friends don't know about it? Or losing mice that seem to have an air of defiance?"

Bruce chuckled at the last part. The sound of it startled him, he hadn't laughed in a while. It felt warm. And good.

He traced the tile's edges with his fingers, "Uh, the first one."

Jane didn't know what to do, she was still mentally scolding herself. Being caught and sharing her secret in a room with a boy she barely knew wasn't how she planned her morning to be like. She just watched Bruce's fingers move. "I come here about twice a week, if I'm lucky maybe a third."

"How did you get in?" Bruce asked, curious.

"I bring my friend along with me. She good with locks."

"Does she know what you do back here?"

Jane shook her head 'no'. Now Bruce wasn't an expert on body language, but to him it looked like Jane's friend not knowing that she's breaking the unwritten status quo killed her. As if Jane wanted to share it with someone. Instead she was stuck with him.

Progressively, Bruce stood up from the floor. Jane's gaze followed Bruce's body until she meet his eyes.

"Uh, look. If you want to do this kind of stuff so badly, then you can work with me." Bruce offered, not really sure why he suddenly posed the idea to her. He then quickly added, "I mean, if you want to. You don't have to, I'm not pressuring you or anything. I just thought that since you're alone sometimes, you'd want to-"

This made Jane laugh. "I'd like that."

"So…"

"So, yes. Yes I'd like to work with you." Jane confirmed with a smile. She pushed herself off the ground and smoothed down her tan pleated skirt. Bruce awkwardly held out a hand so he could help her up, but she didn't notice it. He then hid it behind his back.

They looked at each other with new inquisitiveness. Bruce let Jane exit the storage room first and then followed her out. Together they worked side by side behind lenses and magnifying glasses. They made idle chatter about school, classes and whether or not certain chemicals were going to react to the solutions they had created. To Bruce, it was the first time in a long time where he felt he could share just about anything he wanted. Well, science stuff of course. He never dared to share personal information. Not even to Tony. The pair poked and prodded at specimen and they were extremely surprised when the bell had rang for school to start.

Jane looked up at Bruce from her slide, "Wow, that was quick."

Bruce started to wrap up the microscopes and chords. He nodded shyly, "We didn't even begin to document our results."

The word 'our' made Jane's heart skip. The good kind, though. She realized how relieving it was that Bruce was on her side and he didn't think of her any less of her before today's encounter. And that she was wrong about her theory before, it was good to work with someone instead of being by yourself. Also, not all boys were interested in cheerleaders.

"Don't worry, we'll finish up on Thursday."

Bruce gave a passive shrug. He hated waiting.

"Do you need any help cleaning up?" Jane asked. Although she sounded genuine, Bruce could tell she was itching to go to her first period. She was shuffling closer to the door by the second.

Bruce shook his head, "No, I've got it. You can go ahead."

Before Bruce could listen to her reply, he felt himself being squeezed from behind. The sudden contact startled him and out of instinct he bristled. He squared his shoulders and whipped his head around.

Jane suddenly backed off, feeling Bruce's muscles tense up. She dropped her arms from around his waist and stepped back.

"Sorry, I shouldn't have done that…" Jane looked at Bruce's hands, which were tightening into fists.

Bruce glanced down at his fists, mildly alarmed. He had an acquaintance, and she was a girl, for half an hour and yet he still managed to spook her.

"No," Bruce apologized gruffly, "I shouldn't have done that. Sorry. I didn't mean to blow a fuse."

Jane shook her head violently. "Don't apologize. I sometimes get too excited and just do things without thinking. My fault." The pair waited for someone to apologize next, but no one did. They chuckled at that.

"I just—thank you again. For not telling anyone," Jane said to Bruce after a beat, she meant every word of it.

Bruce waved his hand dismissively. "Of course. But maybe next time we could start with shaking hands?" he replied. Jane saw the corners of his mouth lift ever so slightly.

She laughed, embarrassed. "Right, yes. I'll save the hugging for some other time."

Bruce nodded, pleased with her decision. Sounded like a plan.

Back in good spirits, Jane gave a gentle wave. "See ya later alligator!" She turned around and left the room, her curls bouncing as she did so. Bruce blinked at the term- that was a new phrase for him.

For the most part though, Bruce was wondering what the hell had just really happened in the last 30 minutes. He had a feeling that his life was going to get a bit more interesting and a lot less lonely.

Finally.

The vibrations of the sewing machines did nothing but fuel Natasha's annoyance. She really hated Home Economics. No, she abhorred it. It was only literally the third week of school and she decided that this was the worst course she'd ever taken in her life. She mindlessly watched her hands run fabric underneath the foot of her machine. Maybe if there was enough fabric leftover from the dress she was supposed to be making, she could conjure up a fashionable noose—for whoever though that this class was actually a necessity for graduation.

It wasn't that she was awful at making clothing, her forest green dress was coming along quite nicely in comparison the train wreck skirt her classmate was working on, but she would rather be at home swinging away on a homemade punching bag, or climbing her neighbors' trees to read with a fantastic view. Sometimes, when Mrs. Daly asked the class to present their projects, Natasha wished she was back in Russia—just for that time period. But then she'd let her mind wander off to the events that had been happening in the past couple of months and she reminded herself that America was a far better place to be.

A far safer place to be.

Still, a girl could dream.

Natasha lifted her foot off the petal and cut the remaining thread off her dress. She let out an accomplished sigh and got up from her chair to show her teacher that she was finally done with nuance of an assignment.

"Mrs. Daly, I'm finished."

Mrs. Daly held up a finger. She was writing something down in her grading book. Not only did her teacher's personality bug Natasha, (she was demanding and patronizing) but so did her face. Mrs. Daly always wore more makeup than necessary. It was as if she was auditioning for the circus—and Natasha knew a thing or two about the circus. They were, in fact, quite famous in Russia. Rumor had it that she was trying to impress another faculty member on campus—even though she was married. It was kind of pitiful actually.

After a few beats, she looked up at her student with expectant over-the-top eyes. Then they wandered over to Natasha's dress, where they lost all hope.

"Natasha," Mrs. Daly began in a hesitant tone, "what on earth is that?"

Natasha raised an eyebrow. Her dress wasn't that bad. Sure, the sleeves were lopsided and the hems were uneven and there were some places were the fabric was pinched together but it wasn't unrecognizable.

"It's a dress."

Mrs. Daly squinted her eyes. "It doesn't look like one. It looks like something a dog tore up."

Although Natasha felt like shoving the piece of cloth down the woman's throat, she kept voice even. Okay, maybe with a little edge to it.

"Well, as you can see it has sleeves, a bodice and skirt, therefore it is a dress." Natasha handed her project over for her teacher to inspect.

"Hmm... I see your point. However, this is atrocious. It must be redone. No self-respecting woman would ever wear this—especially if they wanted to impress a man. Now here," she plopped the fabric on the desk, "restart this and come back next week with an improved version of this nonsense."

What?! Make another dress up from scratch? Again? Natasha put in too much effort in this project, more than she wanted to admit. No way was she going to start all over.

Natasha pushed the dress back towards her teacher. "Actually, Mrs. Daly you instructed us to make a dress. You never said it had to have any special requirements. I think my dress is fits that description," Natasha reasoned with clenched teeth. To make the situation pleasanter, she added, "Besides, isn't the concept of beauty relative?"

Mrs. Daly looked at Natasha in incredulity. "Of course not! Honestly, Natasha." Then her voice went soft with concern and pity. "Look, I understand that all this must be new to you. Sometimes I forget you just moved here from halfway around the world! Maybe that is how things are made in Russia, but that is certainly not how they are done here. We take pride in our work."

That was what set Natasha over the edge. She snatched the dress off the desk and ripped it up in shreds.

"Wow. For a country who takes 'pride' in their work, their quality of it sure is cheap!" Natasha stated. "Так же, как вы!" she muttered under her breath.

Scandalized, Mrs. Daly stomped out of the room. The rest of the students were torn between giving Natasha a cold glare, rejoicing, and whether to burst out laughing or not. Natasha herself wasn't entirely sure what to do. Should she return to her seat? Should she follow Mrs. Daly? Should she just leave the class? Suddenly it dawned on Natasha what the consequences of her actions may be. She could be expelled from the school. All that hard work, and blood, that her parents sacrificed to send her here would be for nothing. The more she dwelled on the prospect of having to go back, the more she wanted to cry. She didn't of course. But she felt like it, she felt like a despicable daughter and human being.

Natasha took a deep breath. It was resolved; she was going to go apologize—despite how much she didn't think her teacher deserved it.

She grabbed her backpack and books and headed to the entrance of the door and then found herself crashing against someone else who was trying to enter the same classroom. The impact made her drop her books where they fell with a clash. She had just paid for those books too.

"Oh, uh sorry," came the gruff reply from the boy she had just collided with. He crouched down and picked up any remaining books from the floor, he promptly handed them to her.

He had a slight stockier build than most of the teenage boys here, yet not as much as the football players, Natasha noticed. His hair was a sandy color and ruffled a bit. His grey eyes contrasted with his sharp jawline and they looked expectant, as if he was waiting for her to say something. He looked familiar to Natasha…

Natasha realized he was waiting for a response. "Ah, thank you," was all she said in return.

He did nothing but walk into her classroom—which was peculiar because no boys ever went into the sewing room. Natasha shrugged and continued down the hallway. Americans.

"Hold up!" the same voice shouted. She turned around and saw the boy catching up to her. She stopped in her tracks, marveling at what the kid in the dark green plaid shirt could possibly want with her.

The boy stepped in synch to Natasha's walk. "You're the new girl right?"

Natasha suspiciously narrowed her eyes, this better not be another guy wanting to ask her out. She didn't move here so she could date. If so, he's be third boy to ask since school started.

"Yes." She responded steadily, pushing a red curl behind her ear. "What do you want?"

"I'm supposed to show you around."

"Show me around? Where? Why?" she asked distrustfully. The boy obviously got her suspicious vibe.

"Listen, I'm not doing this for kicks. Your teacher told me to show you around the campus. Something about you 'needing to realize where you are'. I dunno what she was on about, but she's a real pistol isn't she?"

One thing Natasha found so confusing and anoying about their culture was all the words they made up to represent what they were saying. Why did they have to make up words? Why couldn't they just say what they actually meant? Not understanding what phrases meant only made her feel more like an outcast. For example, last week a girl in her English class said to watch out for this boy who was attempting to "make a pass with you". Natasha just stared blankly back and the girl, Pepper, had to explain what it meant. Evidently the idiot was trying to flirt with her. After, the girls befriended each other. Maybe it was because of how bright both of their hair colors were. They were the only two red-heads in the school.

Natasha digressed to their conversation. "No offense, but I have no idea what you said."

He raised his eyebrows, "Uh, she's dynamic. She's got a wild personality?" He hoped that made more sense to her.

"Oh, I see. Thanks. Yes, she does," Natasha frowned.

"Well, come on. We don't have all day!" the boy sighed.

"Go where?"

"Around campus! Don't you listen?" the boy asked, annoyed. She was pretty all right, but she was a bit slow.

"I don't need to be shown around. I've been here for almost a month. Just go back to class."

The boy shook his head, "No way. I hate philosophy." Natasha eyed the kid curiously.

"What's your name?" she asked.

To Natasha's surprise, the boy looked like he was trying to remember it.

"How 'bout I make you a deal. I'll tell you my name, if and only if, we take a tour?" he offered, sticking out his hand for an agreement.

Natasha pondered at the outstretched hand. "Fine." She finally agreed and they shook on it—both of their shakes were equally firm.

"Clint Barton," he said, smiling triumphantly. He looked Natasha up and down. Not in the perverted way but in a way in which he was measuring up another boy.

"Natasha Romanoff" she replied and did the same. Then, to Clint's surprise, she suddenly tugged him down to her eye level.

"If you try anything on me, one sudden move, I promise you, that this will be the last time you will be walking around these halls—without a wheelchair," Natasha whispered in almost a growl. This is what scared they last boy off and it seemed to work on everyone. Except Clint.

Clint only smirked. "Got it." He straightened himself up and begun walking to the end of the hall, keeping Natasha in check. "By the way, I don't do 'moves'. In fact, I can hardly stand you girls."

Well that was a first to Natasha. "Don't worry, I can hardly stand them too," she sighed.

A low, deep rumble came from Clint's throat and flowed out his mouth. A hearty, resonant laugh filled the empty halls and silence. Oddly, the sound made Natasha feel as if she skipped a few steps down a staircase. It felt peculiar—she had never experienced a feeling like this before. Which made her the slightest bit uncomfortable.

"Let's get this over with…" Clint mused and opened the exit door so the tour can commence. With that. Natasha had forgotten about Mrs. Daly, the dress and even her parents. Right now she was focused on one thing; why her fortress for a heart had been breached.

Alrighty!

-smoke out: force out

-blow a fuse: to get angry

Quick Fact: many teenage girls actually did have some type of home economics class like sewing. They were also taught how to properly do laundry and were shown beauty culture. Very interesting times... maybe just not Natasha's style.

Penny for your thoughts? I hope you all enjoyed. Who do we want to see next...?

-ltr