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sarea
Title: Wet Hot Avengers Summer (AO3)
Author:sarea_okelani
Rating: PG-13, for teenagers getting up to what teenagers get up to
Pairings: Clint/Natasha, Tony/Pepper, Thor/Jane, minor Clint/Bobbi and Phil/Cellist, Clint & Coulson, Clint & Tony
Characters: Clint Barton, Natasha Romanoff, Jane Foster, Pepper Potts, Tony Stark, Thor, Darcy Lewis, Steve Rogers, Bruce Banner
Author's Notes: Pre-Avengers. Like, waaaaaay pre-Avengers. Also AU. Waaaaaaaay AU. They're teenagers at summer camp. For the purposes of making this work, the characters are nearly all around the same age. Total fluffy crackfic. This was supposed to be written for the![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
be_compromised promptathon, but... yeah... I waved at that deadline as it blew past. But the prompt was from inkvoices: Kid/Teenage AU: Clint is at a music camp and either Natasha is too, or she's at dance camp or martial arts camp on the other side of the lake – except I made it the same camp and they’re in different classes and everyone co-mingles. The title comes from the movie Wet Hot American Summer, but isn’t any kind of crossover or inspiration, other than that it is also about summer camp. Many thanks to jade_okelani, who's betaing this for me, though she'll more than likely live to regret it. I'm pretty sure there's going to be eight parts. Okay, I lied. Nine parts.
Summary: At summer camp, Clint’s met the girl of his dreams. Then he meets her four brothers.
"Wet Hot Avengers Summer"
by Sarea Okelani
//\\
The roundhouse she executes is perfect, even Clint understands that, even though he doesn’t know anything about martial arts. And it’s even more impressive because she does it in slow motion, her body balancing in a way that a normal person’s just doesn’t. The instructor is standing next to her, not talking to her but addressing the other students, clearly using the girl’s perfect form for demonstration purposes. Clint can hear the instructor’s voice, but from where he’s standing, it’s impossible to make out the actual words.
He feels like some sort of peeping Tom, spying on another class from afar like this, but his guitar session was dismissed early and he was on his way to the lake. The doors to the martial arts classroom are open, probably to let in some air on a warm day, which is how he first caught sight of the girl. Clint has never in his life seen a girl like this.
They don’t make girls like this in Iowa.
She has red hair, which she’s tied back into a pony tail, but it’s a bit too short for the hair-tie thing all the girls seem to use, so a few strands are framing her face. She’s not tall, but she’s strong – he can see the definition of her muscles because she’s wearing only shorts and a tank top – and confidence practically pours off her in waves. The set of her features is serious, her posture is ramrod straight; none of that slouching other teenage girls take so much pride in. Clint can only see her profile, but it’s enough to know that she’s beautiful, which is weird because he doesn’t think he’s ever thought that about a girl before. If they’re attractive, they’re usually just ‘cute,’ ‘hot,’ or ‘pretty.’
Without warning, she turns and sees him staring. Clint should be embarrassed, should look away, should maybe even give her a sheepish smile for having been caught out. But he’s not and he doesn’t. Her initial look of annoyance changes into something else as she stares right back.
The instructor seems to call her name, and when she doesn’t respond, a hand falls on her shoulder to get her attention.
The spell is broken. It’s not like him to stare unabashedly at a strange girl, no matter how attractive she is. In fact, usually, the more attractive the girl, the more uncomfortable he is. There’s really no excuse for what he was doing. She probably thinks he’s a creep, or a psycho stalker. Well that’s just perfect. Phil’s parents are nice enough to cover his camp fees and he’ll repay them with a phone call from a camp counselor telling them that Clint’s been harassing the girls.
He shoves his hands into his pockets and continues on his way. He can’t bring himself to be sorry about encountering her, though, even if he ended up looking like some kind of a freak.
What’s done is done, and the girl probably forgot all about him the second they lost eye contact, anyway.
//\\
“We need more mashed potatoes!” Clint hollers toward the back of the kitchen.
“Okay, mashed potatoes, got it!” Bobbi answers cheerfully.
Phil slops some peas onto the tray held out to him and says to Clint in an undertone, “She likes you.”
Startled, Clint looks over his shoulder at Bobbi, whose blonde hair is pulled into a hairnet and who is tossing margarine and a jug of milk into a large vat filled with steaming potatoes. As if sensing his gaze, she turns and gives him a wide smile. Uncomfortable at being caught, Clint looks away and keeps spooning mashed potatoes onto the endless trays that appear before him.
Newcomers to Camp SHIELD (where teenagers learn Skills Honing, Imagination Enhancement, and Leadership Development) are required to do a rotation of kitchen patrol, which everyone calls KP duty. Despite many of the other campers’ bellyaching, Clint doesn’t mind it. It’s a hell of a lot easier than some of the other things he’s had to do in his life. The others, he knows, want to be eating with their friends, not preparing the food or serving it. But Clint doesn’t have any friends other than Phil, and Phil’s here right along with him.
Other campers keep holding their trays out to him, and Clint keeps slopping on potatoes. He runs out and Bobbi hands him a new container. All the faces pass by quickly; he barely looks at anyone anymore as he methodically serves. But something makes him look up. Maybe because the tray hasn’t been held out to him to fill like he’s a robot.
Clint feels his stomach twist in a weird way. It’s her. The redheaded girl from the martial arts class. He hopes she’s not going to call him out on the way he’d stared at her.
“Uh, potatoes?” he asks. His hesitation causes a noticeable delay in the line, which in turn causes the other campers waiting behind the girl to start fidgeting restlessly.
Instead of saying “yes” or “no,” she says, “Are they any good?”
“Yeah,” Clint says, despite not having actually tasted any yet. He assumes Bobbi knows what she’s doing, and anyway, mashed potatoes are always good.
“Then okay,” she says, and holds out her tray.
Clint is careful to put the serving of potatoes on her plate neatly so that it doesn’t slop out to the sides. After she leaves, the same rhythm as before starts up again, and Clint’s movements are automatic. But his heart is racing a bit from the encounter. He actually talked to her. More importantly, she had spoken to him. About mashed potatoes, yes, but still it was thrilling. He’d liked her voice, deeper than he’d expected, but feminine all the same.
“Stop it right now,” Phil says, after the redheaded girl has left the line and Clint’s lost sight of her. “Don’t even think about it.”
“Huh?”
“That girl,” Phil clarifies, and Clint is dismayed that anyone else – even Phil – had taken notice of an encounter that he’d already been thinking of as private, as his. “Do you know who she is?”
“No,” Clint mumbles. Scoop and serve. Scoop and serve. He doesn’t want a name to the face, or reality to intrude on fantasy. He doesn’t want her to be Someone. He doesn’t want it to be complicated. But somehow, it always is.
“Her name’s Natasha,” Phil says, and strangely enough, learning her name doesn’t dampen Clint’s interest. It’s unusual enough that it actually whets it. Natasha. It’s beautiful and mysterious, which suits her. “I’ve already heard a couple of guys putting dibs on her.”
“You can’t put dibs on a girl,” Clint objects automatically, but he knows what Phil means. Other guys have already voiced their intention to pursue her in some way. He knows it’s over with the girl before it’s even started. Girls like that do not like social misfits who’d rather spend time with a guitar than interacting with actual people, or whose circle of friends currently includes one person. Still, he feels a sense of loss. He didn’t have a realistic shot to begin with, but it’s one thing to assume, and another thing entirely to know.
“Well anyway, that’s not the main reason you should stay away,” amends Phil, who is apparently well versed on all the camp news worth knowing. “There are actually four main reasons.”
“Boyfriends?” Clint guesses.
“Worse,” Phil says. “Brothers.”
Clint doesn’t see how that’s worse than the girl he likes having four boyfriends, but Phil points them out after they finish their shift and sit down at an empty table to eat. Thor is someone Clint pretty much hates on sight, because the guy looks like every stereotypical jock who’s ever flushed a nerd’s head down a toilet. He’s good looking to the point of distraction, and is surrounded by girls who fawn over his every word. He’s also huge, but looks like he’d be fast, and Clint knows he’d never stand a chance in a fist fight. Tony is as dark as Thor is light. He’s smaller and lankier, but even from here Clint can tell he has the kind of effortless arrogance that seems to appeal to girls in droves. Clint likes his chances better in a one on one fight with this guy, but Tony has Thor as backup and Clint has Phil, who is as loyal as they come, but isn’t exactly a beefy dude. The third guy Phil points out is Bruce, who’s definitely not as showy as his brothers, sitting quietly at the end of the table reading a book. Clint is bigger and probably scrappier, but he’s learned from past experience never to underestimate an opponent.
“What’s his deal?” Clint says warily.
“Anger management issues,” Phil says. At Clint’s skeptical look he continues, “I’m serious. I heard he burned down his last school and took out four guys on his own. Two of them ended up in the hospital.”
“Bad trip?” Clint suggests. That or some crazy adrenaline rush that takes over in cases of extreme fear or stress. He’d once read about a lady who’d lifted a car to save her baby from being crushed.
Phil shrugs. “Does it matter?”
Clint supposes it doesn’t. “Okay, so who’s the fourth brother?” he asks, though at this point he doesn’t really want to know.
“Look behind you,” answers Phil.
Clint twists and sees a clean-cut counselor talking with another, Maria. “Steve?” he says disbelievingly. “Steve is her brother, too?” He likes Steve, a lot. He’s decent to Clint and treats everyone fairly. But of course, that was before Clint had the hots for his sister.
“Yeah,” Phil says, shoveling in a forkful of meatloaf. “So I dare you to make a move on her now.”
Clint sighs and digs into his chocolate pudding. He’d been looking forward to the dessert all night, but he’s so demoralized that he’s only able to eat two helpings instead of his normal four.
//\\
After one of his guitar sessions a week later, Clint goes to his favorite spot to practice. The small clearing is quiet and secluded, which is perfect because he’s not big on audiences, and his cabin, while likely to be deserted at this time of day, isn’t nearly as nice. There’s a bench so someone else at some point must have thought it was nice too, but most of the campers prefer to hang out at the lake or by the snack bar when they have free time. Clint generally likes his own space, likes the peace and quiet when other people aren’t around. Phil knows that about him and is understanding, which is one of the reasons they get along.
Clint’s in the middle of screwing up one of the most difficult pieces he’s ever attempted when he hears the sound of someone approaching. Blowing hair out of his eyes in irritation, he waits for the person to either pass or make some snide remark – he’s prepared to ignore either.
Instead, in a voice that makes his spine tingle, he hears, “What was that? It was pretty.”
Clint turns to see Natasha appearing out of the foliage. Her Daisy Dukes reveal long, shapely legs, and she wears a top that has flowers embroidered on the collar, pink Converse sneakers and no socks. Clint feels his mouth go dry and forces himself to relax.
“That wasn’t pretty,” he says ruefully. “If I played it right, it would be. It’s called Anji.”
He thinks she’ll pass right on by, but she surprises him by sitting down on the opposite end of the bench. “I could tell it was supposed to be pretty,” she says with a grin. “Did you write it?”
“Hell no,” Clint says. He has no talent for composition. He loves coaxing music out of the strings, but he’s never been good at song writing. “It was written by a guy named Davey Graham, but Simon and Garfunkel made it popular.” God, why is he telling her this? She can’t possibly care.
Natasha doesn’t seem to mind, though, drawing her knees up to her chest and propping her head against a fist. She looks at him with half-lowered eyelids. “Play something else.”
Clint looks at her, amazed. No one has ever asked him to play for them before. Not that he really gives anyone a chance to, but still. He can’t say no to her, so he plays some Williams, some Cash, some Nelson. In desperation he even plays some Dixie Chicks, but she makes a face at everything. “Not a country girl, I guess,” he says.
She smiles a little. “I guess not.”
“Okay, what about this,” he says, and plays some Lynyrd Skynyrd, followed by Led Zeppelin, Guns n’ Roses, and a little Eddie Vedder (his solo and Into the Wild material, not Pearl Jam). This is more her speed, and she taps her foot and hums a bit while he plays. Clint’s surprised by how steady his hands are, how comfortable he feels even though he should be a nervous wreck, playing the guitar for a beautiful girl he’s undeniably attracted to.
“This, I like this,” she says, and closes her eyes as he starts up ‘Yesterday.’ He actually wants to play ‘I Want to Hold Your Hand,’ because it’s fun and less melancholy, but he doesn’t want her to take it the wrong way. He wouldn’t be opposed, of course, to holding her hand, but it’s not something he’s prepared to declare at this moment. “You have a nice voice.”
Clint ducks his head self consciously. He hadn’t actually meant to sing, had refrained with the other pieces, but it was impossible to play this particular song without singing along. For him, anyway. He cuts off abruptly when he hears far-off voices. They’re calling Natasha’s name.
Her eyes pop open. “Shit,” she says. “I guess I’ve avoided them long enough.” She gets up and brushes herself off. “Thanks for letting me interrupt your practice time.”
“No – uh, no problem,” he says, feeling disappointed but knowing his time with her was ordained from the beginning to be limited. It’s frankly strange that he got as much as he did.
“What’s your name, anyway?” she asks.
“Clint Barton,” he says.
“I’m Natasha.”
I know is on the tip of his tongue, but he keeps it to himself. No need to make himself look like a stalker, even though she probably wouldn’t be surprised. Most people seem to know who she is, given that her family seems like royalty around here. “Nice to meet you,” is what he says.
“You were right, by the way.”
He draws a blank. “I was? About what?”
“The mashed potatoes. They were good.”
“Oh. I’m glad.” Something warns him against deferring the credit to where it belongs, with Bobbi Morse.
“Natasha!” the voices call, sounding much nearer.
She heads in that direction, giving him a little wave. “See you around, Clint Barton.”
//\\
That night, Clint has KP duty again. He tries and fails to be nonchalant, telling himself that he’s not looking for her when he totally is.
The moment he’s been dreading and hoping for comes to pass when Natasha shows up in front of him. “Hi, Clint Barton,” she says with a smile.
Out of the corner of his eye, Clint sees Phil look at him in surprise at Natasha’s familiarity. He ignores the look and Phil’s foot stomping down on his own. “Hi,” he says to Natasha, smiling back.
She points at what he’s holding. “Is that good?”
He can’t remember what he’s serving. Her full pink lips and her voice saying his name have made every other thought fly right out of his head. “Uh...” He looks down and sees yellow kernels. Corn. Right. “It’s okay,” he says finally.
“I’ll take some anyway,” she says. “Just because you’re giving it to me.”
The stainless steel serving spoon trembles only slightly as Clint puts a portion on her plate. He jumps about a foot when Bobbi unceremoniously slams a fresh pot of hot corn near his elbow. He stutters out a thanks, but she doesn’t respond; she’s slightly red in the face and the corners of her mouth are downturned.
Natasha waves a cheerful goodbye and Clint serves the next camper in line, who just happens to be her brother Thor. The much bigger guy is looking at him with a thunderous expression, his blond eyebrows drawn together as he stares Clint down. He keeps his tray held out even after Clint spoons corn onto it, forcing Clint to give him a second portion. Next is Tony, who also looks at Clint as though he’s a disgusting worm that just crawled out from under a rock, followed by Bruce, who had seemed so innocuous from far away, but up close Clint swears he can see insanity in the guy’s eyes. Even after Clint serves him, Bruce keeps staring at him as he goes to the next station.
Clint wonders if his gulp is audible.
“Well, you’ve done it now,” Phil says.
Author:
sarea_okelaniRating: PG-13, for teenagers getting up to what teenagers get up to
Pairings: Clint/Natasha, Tony/Pepper, Thor/Jane, minor Clint/Bobbi and Phil/Cellist, Clint & Coulson, Clint & Tony
Characters: Clint Barton, Natasha Romanoff, Jane Foster, Pepper Potts, Tony Stark, Thor, Darcy Lewis, Steve Rogers, Bruce Banner
Author's Notes: Pre-Avengers. Like, waaaaaay pre-Avengers. Also AU. Waaaaaaaay AU. They're teenagers at summer camp. For the purposes of making this work, the characters are nearly all around the same age. Total fluffy crackfic. This was supposed to be written for the
be_compromised promptathon, but... yeah... I waved at that deadline as it blew past. But the prompt was from inkvoices: Kid/Teenage AU: Clint is at a music camp and either Natasha is too, or she's at dance camp or martial arts camp on the other side of the lake – except I made it the same camp and they’re in different classes and everyone co-mingles. The title comes from the movie Wet Hot American Summer, but isn’t any kind of crossover or inspiration, other than that it is also about summer camp. Many thanks to jade_okelani, who's betaing this for me, though she'll more than likely live to regret it. Summary: At summer camp, Clint’s met the girl of his dreams. Then he meets her four brothers.
"Wet Hot Avengers Summer"
by Sarea Okelani
//\\
The roundhouse she executes is perfect, even Clint understands that, even though he doesn’t know anything about martial arts. And it’s even more impressive because she does it in slow motion, her body balancing in a way that a normal person’s just doesn’t. The instructor is standing next to her, not talking to her but addressing the other students, clearly using the girl’s perfect form for demonstration purposes. Clint can hear the instructor’s voice, but from where he’s standing, it’s impossible to make out the actual words.
He feels like some sort of peeping Tom, spying on another class from afar like this, but his guitar session was dismissed early and he was on his way to the lake. The doors to the martial arts classroom are open, probably to let in some air on a warm day, which is how he first caught sight of the girl. Clint has never in his life seen a girl like this.
They don’t make girls like this in Iowa.
She has red hair, which she’s tied back into a pony tail, but it’s a bit too short for the hair-tie thing all the girls seem to use, so a few strands are framing her face. She’s not tall, but she’s strong – he can see the definition of her muscles because she’s wearing only shorts and a tank top – and confidence practically pours off her in waves. The set of her features is serious, her posture is ramrod straight; none of that slouching other teenage girls take so much pride in. Clint can only see her profile, but it’s enough to know that she’s beautiful, which is weird because he doesn’t think he’s ever thought that about a girl before. If they’re attractive, they’re usually just ‘cute,’ ‘hot,’ or ‘pretty.’
Without warning, she turns and sees him staring. Clint should be embarrassed, should look away, should maybe even give her a sheepish smile for having been caught out. But he’s not and he doesn’t. Her initial look of annoyance changes into something else as she stares right back.
The instructor seems to call her name, and when she doesn’t respond, a hand falls on her shoulder to get her attention.
The spell is broken. It’s not like him to stare unabashedly at a strange girl, no matter how attractive she is. In fact, usually, the more attractive the girl, the more uncomfortable he is. There’s really no excuse for what he was doing. She probably thinks he’s a creep, or a psycho stalker. Well that’s just perfect. Phil’s parents are nice enough to cover his camp fees and he’ll repay them with a phone call from a camp counselor telling them that Clint’s been harassing the girls.
He shoves his hands into his pockets and continues on his way. He can’t bring himself to be sorry about encountering her, though, even if he ended up looking like some kind of a freak.
What’s done is done, and the girl probably forgot all about him the second they lost eye contact, anyway.
//\\
“We need more mashed potatoes!” Clint hollers toward the back of the kitchen.
“Okay, mashed potatoes, got it!” Bobbi answers cheerfully.
Phil slops some peas onto the tray held out to him and says to Clint in an undertone, “She likes you.”
Startled, Clint looks over his shoulder at Bobbi, whose blonde hair is pulled into a hairnet and who is tossing margarine and a jug of milk into a large vat filled with steaming potatoes. As if sensing his gaze, she turns and gives him a wide smile. Uncomfortable at being caught, Clint looks away and keeps spooning mashed potatoes onto the endless trays that appear before him.
Newcomers to Camp SHIELD (where teenagers learn Skills Honing, Imagination Enhancement, and Leadership Development) are required to do a rotation of kitchen patrol, which everyone calls KP duty. Despite many of the other campers’ bellyaching, Clint doesn’t mind it. It’s a hell of a lot easier than some of the other things he’s had to do in his life. The others, he knows, want to be eating with their friends, not preparing the food or serving it. But Clint doesn’t have any friends other than Phil, and Phil’s here right along with him.
Other campers keep holding their trays out to him, and Clint keeps slopping on potatoes. He runs out and Bobbi hands him a new container. All the faces pass by quickly; he barely looks at anyone anymore as he methodically serves. But something makes him look up. Maybe because the tray hasn’t been held out to him to fill like he’s a robot.
Clint feels his stomach twist in a weird way. It’s her. The redheaded girl from the martial arts class. He hopes she’s not going to call him out on the way he’d stared at her.
“Uh, potatoes?” he asks. His hesitation causes a noticeable delay in the line, which in turn causes the other campers waiting behind the girl to start fidgeting restlessly.
Instead of saying “yes” or “no,” she says, “Are they any good?”
“Yeah,” Clint says, despite not having actually tasted any yet. He assumes Bobbi knows what she’s doing, and anyway, mashed potatoes are always good.
“Then okay,” she says, and holds out her tray.
Clint is careful to put the serving of potatoes on her plate neatly so that it doesn’t slop out to the sides. After she leaves, the same rhythm as before starts up again, and Clint’s movements are automatic. But his heart is racing a bit from the encounter. He actually talked to her. More importantly, she had spoken to him. About mashed potatoes, yes, but still it was thrilling. He’d liked her voice, deeper than he’d expected, but feminine all the same.
“Stop it right now,” Phil says, after the redheaded girl has left the line and Clint’s lost sight of her. “Don’t even think about it.”
“Huh?”
“That girl,” Phil clarifies, and Clint is dismayed that anyone else – even Phil – had taken notice of an encounter that he’d already been thinking of as private, as his. “Do you know who she is?”
“No,” Clint mumbles. Scoop and serve. Scoop and serve. He doesn’t want a name to the face, or reality to intrude on fantasy. He doesn’t want her to be Someone. He doesn’t want it to be complicated. But somehow, it always is.
“Her name’s Natasha,” Phil says, and strangely enough, learning her name doesn’t dampen Clint’s interest. It’s unusual enough that it actually whets it. Natasha. It’s beautiful and mysterious, which suits her. “I’ve already heard a couple of guys putting dibs on her.”
“You can’t put dibs on a girl,” Clint objects automatically, but he knows what Phil means. Other guys have already voiced their intention to pursue her in some way. He knows it’s over with the girl before it’s even started. Girls like that do not like social misfits who’d rather spend time with a guitar than interacting with actual people, or whose circle of friends currently includes one person. Still, he feels a sense of loss. He didn’t have a realistic shot to begin with, but it’s one thing to assume, and another thing entirely to know.
“Well anyway, that’s not the main reason you should stay away,” amends Phil, who is apparently well versed on all the camp news worth knowing. “There are actually four main reasons.”
“Boyfriends?” Clint guesses.
“Worse,” Phil says. “Brothers.”
Clint doesn’t see how that’s worse than the girl he likes having four boyfriends, but Phil points them out after they finish their shift and sit down at an empty table to eat. Thor is someone Clint pretty much hates on sight, because the guy looks like every stereotypical jock who’s ever flushed a nerd’s head down a toilet. He’s good looking to the point of distraction, and is surrounded by girls who fawn over his every word. He’s also huge, but looks like he’d be fast, and Clint knows he’d never stand a chance in a fist fight. Tony is as dark as Thor is light. He’s smaller and lankier, but even from here Clint can tell he has the kind of effortless arrogance that seems to appeal to girls in droves. Clint likes his chances better in a one on one fight with this guy, but Tony has Thor as backup and Clint has Phil, who is as loyal as they come, but isn’t exactly a beefy dude. The third guy Phil points out is Bruce, who’s definitely not as showy as his brothers, sitting quietly at the end of the table reading a book. Clint is bigger and probably scrappier, but he’s learned from past experience never to underestimate an opponent.
“What’s his deal?” Clint says warily.
“Anger management issues,” Phil says. At Clint’s skeptical look he continues, “I’m serious. I heard he burned down his last school and took out four guys on his own. Two of them ended up in the hospital.”
“Bad trip?” Clint suggests. That or some crazy adrenaline rush that takes over in cases of extreme fear or stress. He’d once read about a lady who’d lifted a car to save her baby from being crushed.
Phil shrugs. “Does it matter?”
Clint supposes it doesn’t. “Okay, so who’s the fourth brother?” he asks, though at this point he doesn’t really want to know.
“Look behind you,” answers Phil.
Clint twists and sees a clean-cut counselor talking with another, Maria. “Steve?” he says disbelievingly. “Steve is her brother, too?” He likes Steve, a lot. He’s decent to Clint and treats everyone fairly. But of course, that was before Clint had the hots for his sister.
“Yeah,” Phil says, shoveling in a forkful of meatloaf. “So I dare you to make a move on her now.”
Clint sighs and digs into his chocolate pudding. He’d been looking forward to the dessert all night, but he’s so demoralized that he’s only able to eat two helpings instead of his normal four.
//\\
After one of his guitar sessions a week later, Clint goes to his favorite spot to practice. The small clearing is quiet and secluded, which is perfect because he’s not big on audiences, and his cabin, while likely to be deserted at this time of day, isn’t nearly as nice. There’s a bench so someone else at some point must have thought it was nice too, but most of the campers prefer to hang out at the lake or by the snack bar when they have free time. Clint generally likes his own space, likes the peace and quiet when other people aren’t around. Phil knows that about him and is understanding, which is one of the reasons they get along.
Clint’s in the middle of screwing up one of the most difficult pieces he’s ever attempted when he hears the sound of someone approaching. Blowing hair out of his eyes in irritation, he waits for the person to either pass or make some snide remark – he’s prepared to ignore either.
Instead, in a voice that makes his spine tingle, he hears, “What was that? It was pretty.”
Clint turns to see Natasha appearing out of the foliage. Her Daisy Dukes reveal long, shapely legs, and she wears a top that has flowers embroidered on the collar, pink Converse sneakers and no socks. Clint feels his mouth go dry and forces himself to relax.
“That wasn’t pretty,” he says ruefully. “If I played it right, it would be. It’s called Anji.”
He thinks she’ll pass right on by, but she surprises him by sitting down on the opposite end of the bench. “I could tell it was supposed to be pretty,” she says with a grin. “Did you write it?”
“Hell no,” Clint says. He has no talent for composition. He loves coaxing music out of the strings, but he’s never been good at song writing. “It was written by a guy named Davey Graham, but Simon and Garfunkel made it popular.” God, why is he telling her this? She can’t possibly care.
Natasha doesn’t seem to mind, though, drawing her knees up to her chest and propping her head against a fist. She looks at him with half-lowered eyelids. “Play something else.”
Clint looks at her, amazed. No one has ever asked him to play for them before. Not that he really gives anyone a chance to, but still. He can’t say no to her, so he plays some Williams, some Cash, some Nelson. In desperation he even plays some Dixie Chicks, but she makes a face at everything. “Not a country girl, I guess,” he says.
She smiles a little. “I guess not.”
“Okay, what about this,” he says, and plays some Lynyrd Skynyrd, followed by Led Zeppelin, Guns n’ Roses, and a little Eddie Vedder (his solo and Into the Wild material, not Pearl Jam). This is more her speed, and she taps her foot and hums a bit while he plays. Clint’s surprised by how steady his hands are, how comfortable he feels even though he should be a nervous wreck, playing the guitar for a beautiful girl he’s undeniably attracted to.
“This, I like this,” she says, and closes her eyes as he starts up ‘Yesterday.’ He actually wants to play ‘I Want to Hold Your Hand,’ because it’s fun and less melancholy, but he doesn’t want her to take it the wrong way. He wouldn’t be opposed, of course, to holding her hand, but it’s not something he’s prepared to declare at this moment. “You have a nice voice.”
Clint ducks his head self consciously. He hadn’t actually meant to sing, had refrained with the other pieces, but it was impossible to play this particular song without singing along. For him, anyway. He cuts off abruptly when he hears far-off voices. They’re calling Natasha’s name.
Her eyes pop open. “Shit,” she says. “I guess I’ve avoided them long enough.” She gets up and brushes herself off. “Thanks for letting me interrupt your practice time.”
“No – uh, no problem,” he says, feeling disappointed but knowing his time with her was ordained from the beginning to be limited. It’s frankly strange that he got as much as he did.
“What’s your name, anyway?” she asks.
“Clint Barton,” he says.
“I’m Natasha.”
I know is on the tip of his tongue, but he keeps it to himself. No need to make himself look like a stalker, even though she probably wouldn’t be surprised. Most people seem to know who she is, given that her family seems like royalty around here. “Nice to meet you,” is what he says.
“You were right, by the way.”
He draws a blank. “I was? About what?”
“The mashed potatoes. They were good.”
“Oh. I’m glad.” Something warns him against deferring the credit to where it belongs, with Bobbi Morse.
“Natasha!” the voices call, sounding much nearer.
She heads in that direction, giving him a little wave. “See you around, Clint Barton.”
//\\
That night, Clint has KP duty again. He tries and fails to be nonchalant, telling himself that he’s not looking for her when he totally is.
The moment he’s been dreading and hoping for comes to pass when Natasha shows up in front of him. “Hi, Clint Barton,” she says with a smile.
Out of the corner of his eye, Clint sees Phil look at him in surprise at Natasha’s familiarity. He ignores the look and Phil’s foot stomping down on his own. “Hi,” he says to Natasha, smiling back.
She points at what he’s holding. “Is that good?”
He can’t remember what he’s serving. Her full pink lips and her voice saying his name have made every other thought fly right out of his head. “Uh...” He looks down and sees yellow kernels. Corn. Right. “It’s okay,” he says finally.
“I’ll take some anyway,” she says. “Just because you’re giving it to me.”
The stainless steel serving spoon trembles only slightly as Clint puts a portion on her plate. He jumps about a foot when Bobbi unceremoniously slams a fresh pot of hot corn near his elbow. He stutters out a thanks, but she doesn’t respond; she’s slightly red in the face and the corners of her mouth are downturned.
Natasha waves a cheerful goodbye and Clint serves the next camper in line, who just happens to be her brother Thor. The much bigger guy is looking at him with a thunderous expression, his blond eyebrows drawn together as he stares Clint down. He keeps his tray held out even after Clint spoons corn onto it, forcing Clint to give him a second portion. Next is Tony, who also looks at Clint as though he’s a disgusting worm that just crawled out from under a rock, followed by Bruce, who had seemed so innocuous from far away, but up close Clint swears he can see insanity in the guy’s eyes. Even after Clint serves him, Bruce keeps staring at him as he goes to the next station.
Clint wonders if his gulp is audible.
“Well, you’ve done it now,” Phil says.
