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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
Summary: At summer camp, Clint’s met the girl of his dreams. Then he meets her four brothers.
If you missed them: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5
//\\
Bobbi has a minor freak out when they show up at the infirmary, but is especially attentive toward Clint. She doesn’t seem to notice Tony, Bruce, or Thor’s scowls, but Clint does. Twenty minutes ago they might’ve welcomed the sight of a girl other than their sister fawning over Clint; now they seem to be insulted on Natasha’s behalf.
Clint rebuffs Bobbi as best as he can – they haven’t really talked since the arts and crafts day with the kids, and Bobbi’s not stupid, she knows there isn’t anything in the cards for her and Clint – but that doesn’t stop her from being a genuinely nice person, and Clint doesn’t want any of the flak that should be going to him to be directed at her.
The actual nurse in charge gets on the phone to let security know about the wild boar or whatever it was, while Bobbi and Richard administer first aid on the guys. Tony’s handed an ice pack, given that he sustained the least amount of injury, but he bellows about being mortally wounded anyway. When everyone has been treated with antiseptic, bandages, and ice, they’re sent on their way.
Natasha’s waiting outside. “I heard something happened.” She glares at her brothers when she sees Clint’s face, and they sheepishly slink away.
“See ya later, Robin Hood,” Tony calls, friendly as anything.
Clint quickly explains what happened, and since she knows that everyone is okay, Natasha only nods. “Well... at least now that you’ve proven yourself, they’ll probably leave you alone.”
“Great,” Clint says. “I couldn’t have planned it better.”
She smiles. “So you’re really all right, then?”
“Never better,” he replies, though it comes out a bit of a mumble, given the cut on his lip.
“Good,” she says, slinging her arms loosely around his neck and placing a gentle kiss on his mouth. “Because while you were all distracted in there, I helped myself.”
“Helped yourself?” Clint echoes. “To what?”
Natasha smiles impishly, stuffing her hands into her pockets. She pulls out a handful of small foil-wrapped squares.
Clint covers her hands immediately, trying to get her to put them back in her pocket. He looks around, expecting an adult to pop out any second and accuse them of underage fornication. “Jesus! Will you put those away?” he hisses, feeling his face go red. But he can’t help the surge of excitement he feels at the sight of the condoms, and her act of taking them. She really meant to go through with it.
“You’re so cute, Barton,” she laughs, but to his relief, puts them out of sight.
“So there were some in the nurse’s station the whole time?” Clint asks.
“Guess so,” says Natasha. “They should tell us these things, don’t you think? If we’d known, we could have done this ages ago.”
Clint is responding to her words in a way that he doesn’t exactly care to, in public. “I should go,” he says reluctantly, circling her hips with his hands and giving her a kiss. “I was meeting Phil when all that happened. He’s probably wondering where the hell I am.”
“Okay,” Natasha says easily, giving Clint another kiss. “Tell him I said hi.” She gets on her tiptoes and says in his ear, “The night of the dance,” her voice laced with promise.
After she leaves, Clint wonders if there’s anywhere nearby he can get some privacy for five minutes. Certain needs are definitely going to have to be addressed, and quickly, before he can see other people.
//\\
Anticipating and dreading the night of the talent show in equal measure causes it to arrive too quickly. The days and nights fly by, and soon it’s the afternoon before the show’s supposed to start. Clint has butterflies in his stomach at the idea of performing in front of a crowd of people, and from the thought of performing for Natasha, in private, later. He doesn’t particularly relish the idea of failing at either. The fact that they’re going to have to say goodbye the next day is something he’s trying not to think about.
“You’ll do great,” Phil reassures him while gathering up his toiletries.
“What do you care?” Clint says irritably. “All you care about is your cello girl.” She’s performing tonight also, a detail drilled into his brain by Phil, who hasn’t shut up about it.
“She’s a cellist,” corrects Phil a bit haughtily. “And I do care. You just won’t reward me as well.”
Clint rolls his eyes, but he can’t find fault with that argument. He fiddles with the string of his guitar, phantom playing the notes he knows in his sleep by now. “Where are you going?”
“I’m going to shave,” says Phil. “I want to get ready for tonight.” He wags his eyebrows exaggeratedly.
“Shave what?” Clint retorts.
“Hey, fuck you, I have a beard,” Phil says. “Besides, I can’t hear that song one more time. Seriously man, I’d take a bullet for you, but—” He quickly ducks out of the cabin, narrowly escaping the sneaker Clint has chucked after him with some force.
Clint reluctantly starts to get ready as well, which for him means pulling on some clean clothes. He combs his hair a little more carefully than he usually does, borrowing a bit of Alan’s hair gel, but he doesn’t know what he’s doing and it just kind of... sticks up. Natasha is probably going to laugh herself silly.
The thought of Natasha, of the way she laughs, always with a hand covering her mouth, as if it’s too private a thing to share, brings a smile to his face. Then the thought of her naked, and under him, does other things to him. Then thoughts quickly follow of her pushing him off, telling him it wasn’t good, being relieved that this is the last time she’s going to see him in a long while, maybe ever, and Clint feels slightly sick. He actually has to put his head between his knees and take a few deep breaths, which he either learned in a health class, or from a paramedic one of the times they came to answer a call at the Kirkpatricks’. He’d only been in that house for two months.
It doesn’t make him feel any better, so he lies down, which does help a bit. He has to be careful not to fall asleep, though, not because he’s afraid of missing the talent show (though he doesn’t want to miss it; if he doesn’t perform, he won’t get into the dance, and he’s promised Natasha), but because the last thing Clint wants is for Natasha to think he’s so ambivalent about meeting her that he’d actually sleep through their rendezvous.
He falls asleep.
Luckily Phil is there to wake him and shove his guitar into his hands. “What the hell have you done to your hair?”
As he and Phil sprint out the door, Clint only has time to glance at his reflection in the window, and he sees that it’s sticking up worse than before, right down the middle. He flattens it as best he can as Phil leaves him in the rehearsal area, as he gets ushered to the backstage area of the room where the drama kids have their lessons, as he waits to go on stage.
Then it’s his turn, and there’s no more time to focus on his hair, because there’s a stool for him to sit on, and a mic that he has to adjust to the right height, and sweaty palms to wipe on his pants, and chords he has to remember. The stage lights are really fucking hot, but they’re also bright, and for that he’s grateful. He can’t make out a single face in the crowd, and while he was hoping to be able to stare at Natasha the whole time, pretending like he’s just playing for her in the clearing, it’s better than being able to see all the individual faces. It’s almost like he’s in a room by himself, except for the occasional cough or low giggle. Someone starts to say something snarky, but someone else shushes them, and yet another person says, “Shut the fuck up,” and Clint’s surprised to recognize Tony’s voice.
To his surprise, this makes Clint feel calmer. Tony’s here. Of course. Everyone is here. And that includes Natasha. He strums the opening chords of Anji, and all those hours of practice have paid off. His fingers fly over the strings with almost no conscious thought on his part. It’s all muscle memory. A time or two he stumbles ever so slightly on the trickier parts, but still. It’s the best he’s ever played this piece and suddenly it’s over, there’s applause (and not the ironic kind), even a couple of piercing whistles (Thor, he thinks), and then the hot stage lights aren’t on him anymore and it’s taking awhile to adjust to the darkness.
The second he pulls the guitar strap over his head, someone is hugging him tight, and he recognizes her scent immediately. Slowly his eyes adjust and Clint can make out her features, her big smile. “You were awesome,” Natasha enthuses. “It was the best you’ve ever played.”
“Thanks,” Clint says, and can’t help puffing out his chest a little. “Can’t wait to see your demo.” She’s supposed to spar with another teammate on stage.
“Oh, I’m not doing it,” she says without inflection.
“What? Why not?”
“In our last class I sort of accidentally took out Craig’s knee. He’s okay,” she asserts, sounding a bit disgusted, as though Craig were simply acting like a baby, “but he couldn’t spar tonight so they decided to replace us both.” Natasha hugs him again, then takes the opportunity to whisper in his ear, “I’d rather spar with you, anyway.”
Clint opens his mouth, hopefully to say something witty back, but all that comes out is a croaky, “Uh...”
“I like the hair,” Natasha says, grinning. “You’re like an adorable hedgehog.”
//\\
After the talent show is over, everyone goes back to their cabins to get ready for the dance, which begins in an hour. The girls wail about how this is not possibly enough time to prepare, while the boys wonder what they’re going to do for the next fifty-five minutes. Clint and Phil spend it playing cards with their cabin mates. Phil is excellent at poker; no one can tell when he’s bluffing.
Clint loses seven hands in a row, and he’s glad that they’re not playing for real money, because he has exactly $7.65 to his name. He’s also a little too keyed up to give the game his full attention; his thoughts keep turning to what he and Natasha are planning to do later that night. He drums his fingers on his jean-clad knees restlessly.
“Time to go,” Clint announces, the second the clock hits the hour.
“Jesus Barton, what’s the rush? I’ve got Coulson on the ropes here,” Brad says.
“You’re not playing for anything,” Clint points out.
“It’s for honor, man, honor,” Brad retorts. “Besides, probably no one’s even there yet.”
He’s likely right about that, and Clint has no desire to draw more attention to himself than he already has, so he cools his heels. He’s forced to wait another twenty minutes while the showdown between Phil and Brad continues, and he swears Phil is smirking at him. As expected, Phil is declared the ultimate victor, and everyone starts pulling on their shoes. The other guys opt not to wear jackets, since it’s bound to be hot in the dining hall, which is where the dance is being held, and anyway only wussies get cold. Clint is the only one of them to bring a jacket, but that’s because he’s not planning to spend much time at the dance.
It doesn’t take Clint long to spot Natasha, even in the dark, swallowed by the crowd. She’s in the middle of the dance floor, her red hair haloed by the ambient light. She hasn’t noticed him yet; she’s moving sinuously to the beat of the music, eyes half closed, lips ever so slightly curled up in a smile. Clint’s stomach tightens involuntarily. He wants to know who she’s dancing with, who’s putting that look on her face. Bodies move, parting enough for Clint to finally see that Natasha is dancing with her brother Steve, who has a big, toothy smile on his face. Or rather, they’re dancing near each other, but Darcy and Jane are there too, and it seems that they’re just all dancing together. Clint relaxes, feeling slightly silly, before he takes in what she’s wearing – a black dress that’s modest in terms of how much skin it displays, but decidedly less modest in how it molds itself like a second skin to her curves. He swallows.
“Drink?” Phil asks loudly into his ear over the pulsing music.
“God, yes,” says Clint.
They make their way over to the refreshment table, which has a pathetic assortment of cookies, pretzels, chips, and a large bowl of bright red punch. The fact that it can be easily discerned as red in the darkness of the room is indicative of its neon-like qualities. And just his luck, Tony and Bruce are there, looking shifty. Well, shiftier.
“Sup,” Tony greets, while Bruce nods at them.
“Hi,” Clint responds. They’ve had an unspoken truce ever since the incident at the archery range, but he’s still not entirely comfortable around Natasha’s brothers. He can’t help but feel that their newfound tolerance of him is their way of getting him to let his guard down.
Phil reaches for a couple of plastic cups, but Tony stops him. “If you wait sixty seconds, this punch is about to get a whole lot more interesting. You two stand in front of us.”
Tony clearly wants to block the view of the punch bowl from Steve, who is still dancing with Natasha. Clint thinks helping Tony is a bad idea – no matter what the idea is – but he really doesn’t want to get into it with him tonight of all nights, so he and Phil serve as a blockade while Tony and Bruce do what teenage boys have done to punch bowls since the dawn of awkward coed dances.
“All clear. Thank you, gentlemen,” Tony says, handing Clint and Phil each a cup of spiked punch.
Clint waits to see that Tony drinks it before he too downs the liquid.
“Another?”
Clint holds out his glass. The punch is diluted with vodka, but it’s not very strong. “Fill ‘er up.”
“That’s what I like to see. I hope you’re not driving tonight, young man.”
Clint doesn’t even bother to roll his eyes as he drinks the second cup.
“She’s here,” Phil says suddenly, his voice sounding a bit high pitched.
“Who, the cellist?” says Tony, proving Natasha correct, but luckily Phil doesn’t seem to hear him.
There’s really no mistaking who he means. Phil’s been mooning over this cellist since the start of camp and still hasn’t done anything about it. At this point Clint isn’t sure whether Phil likes the girl, or just likes liking her.
“I’m going for it. I’m definitely going for it.” Despite his words, Phil stays exactly where he is.
“My friend Phil needs some more punch,” Clint says to Tony, handing him Phil’s empty cup.
“What am I, your manservant?” Tony says, but fills it up nonetheless.
Clint places the cup back into Phil’s fingers, still curled around a cup they weren’t holding. Phil hasn’t moved a muscle in the last forty seconds, still staring, unblinking, at someone on the dance floor or on the other side of the room; it’s a little hard to tell. “Drink that,” Clint advises.
Phil does as he’s told, and when he reaches the bottom he tosses the empty cup over his shoulder confidently, eyes still zeroed in on his target. Tony, Bruce and Clint all watch as the cup misses the garbage can entirely and lands on the floor.
“Nothing but net,” Clint says, and shoves Phil forward. “It’s your last chance, don’t fuck it up.” He watches Phil go up to a plumpish blonde girl who has a really nice smile, and whatever Phil’s saying must be working, because she seems to willingly stay and converse with him. Clint reflects that it’s really too bad she lives in Oregon; that’s pretty far from Iowa. Not unlike New York. He frowns as the thought that he always pushes away starts edging toward the forefront again.
He’s so busy watching Phil and trying to rein in his own thoughts that he doesn’t notice Natasha’s standing next to him until she takes his hand, pulling him toward the throng of dancers. “Dance with me,” she orders with a smile.
“Uh, what?” Clint says, slightly panicked. “No, I don’t dance.” He looks behind him to see if Tony and Bruce will save him. Surely they’ll scowl and do their big brothers thing and prevent him from dancing with Natasha. But they seem to have disappeared. It really figures.
Natasha laughs as if he’s made a funny joke. “There’s nothing to it,” she says. “It’s not like when dancing had actual moves people had to know. Just wiggle your body.”
Before Clint can protest further that that is exactly what he does not do, she’s yanked him forward – Jesus, she’s strong – and he stumbles into her, stepping on her foot in the process. He can feel the flush start to creep up his neck and go into his cheeks.
“Relax,” Natasha says into his ear, which doesn’t exactly help. The vibration from her voice and her breath makes the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. He’s pretty much the opposite of relaxed. She puts her hands on his hips and tries to get him to move. “You’re like a statue,” she giggles.
With some additional coaxing, Clint allows himself to start moving, but only a little, and only because she’s guiding him. He’s had so many other things on his mind that it never occurred to him that she’d actually want to dance at the dance. Or at least, dance with him.
After a couple of songs, he’s actually starting to feel a little more comfortable with the whole thing, but then the music changes and so do the lights, and suddenly everyone seems to know to melt into pairs and start swaying against each other. Everyone but Clint, who drops his arms to his sides and considers a quick escape. But Natasha’s anticipated this; she grabs his hands and pulls them behind her, locking them around her waist, and her own arms go around his neck.
“Just sway,” she says, and rests her head against his shoulder.
It’s actually kind of ... nice. Clint glances around, but no one’s looking at him funny, so clearly he can’t be doing anything terribly wrong. He smiles to see that Phil and his cellist are dancing together, their arms in the exact same position as Clint and Natasha’s. Clint gives Phil a brief thumbs up behind Natasha’s back, and Phil just grins contentedly.
While it’s nice holding Natasha against him, Clint’s glad when the fast music starts up again. He feels that he can blend in better when there’s chaos. He’s even thinking that it won’t be so bad to do this for another hour, but Natasha has other ideas.
“Let’s get out of here,” she says, giving him a meaningful look that goes right to his alternate brain.
“What, now?” Clint says, feeling the need to protest. It’s his self-preservation instincts kicking in. He looks around for her brothers.
“Yes, now,” Natasha says. “They’ve had just the right amount of punch by now, and are otherwise occupied.”
Clint finally spots them. Tony, Pepper, and Bruce are all dancing together – though it mostly looks like Tony is gesticulating wildly while the other two look on and laugh – while Thor and Jane are still in slow dancing positions, apparently not having noticed the change of the music. Steve is over by the punch bowl, sniffing it suspiciously. Natasha’s right; if they want to sneak out unobtrusively, now is the time.
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
Summary: At summer camp, Clint’s met the girl of his dreams. Then he meets her four brothers.
If you missed them: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5
//\\
Bobbi has a minor freak out when they show up at the infirmary, but is especially attentive toward Clint. She doesn’t seem to notice Tony, Bruce, or Thor’s scowls, but Clint does. Twenty minutes ago they might’ve welcomed the sight of a girl other than their sister fawning over Clint; now they seem to be insulted on Natasha’s behalf.
Clint rebuffs Bobbi as best as he can – they haven’t really talked since the arts and crafts day with the kids, and Bobbi’s not stupid, she knows there isn’t anything in the cards for her and Clint – but that doesn’t stop her from being a genuinely nice person, and Clint doesn’t want any of the flak that should be going to him to be directed at her.
The actual nurse in charge gets on the phone to let security know about the wild boar or whatever it was, while Bobbi and Richard administer first aid on the guys. Tony’s handed an ice pack, given that he sustained the least amount of injury, but he bellows about being mortally wounded anyway. When everyone has been treated with antiseptic, bandages, and ice, they’re sent on their way.
Natasha’s waiting outside. “I heard something happened.” She glares at her brothers when she sees Clint’s face, and they sheepishly slink away.
“See ya later, Robin Hood,” Tony calls, friendly as anything.
Clint quickly explains what happened, and since she knows that everyone is okay, Natasha only nods. “Well... at least now that you’ve proven yourself, they’ll probably leave you alone.”
“Great,” Clint says. “I couldn’t have planned it better.”
She smiles. “So you’re really all right, then?”
“Never better,” he replies, though it comes out a bit of a mumble, given the cut on his lip.
“Good,” she says, slinging her arms loosely around his neck and placing a gentle kiss on his mouth. “Because while you were all distracted in there, I helped myself.”
“Helped yourself?” Clint echoes. “To what?”
Natasha smiles impishly, stuffing her hands into her pockets. She pulls out a handful of small foil-wrapped squares.
Clint covers her hands immediately, trying to get her to put them back in her pocket. He looks around, expecting an adult to pop out any second and accuse them of underage fornication. “Jesus! Will you put those away?” he hisses, feeling his face go red. But he can’t help the surge of excitement he feels at the sight of the condoms, and her act of taking them. She really meant to go through with it.
“You’re so cute, Barton,” she laughs, but to his relief, puts them out of sight.
“So there were some in the nurse’s station the whole time?” Clint asks.
“Guess so,” says Natasha. “They should tell us these things, don’t you think? If we’d known, we could have done this ages ago.”
Clint is responding to her words in a way that he doesn’t exactly care to, in public. “I should go,” he says reluctantly, circling her hips with his hands and giving her a kiss. “I was meeting Phil when all that happened. He’s probably wondering where the hell I am.”
“Okay,” Natasha says easily, giving Clint another kiss. “Tell him I said hi.” She gets on her tiptoes and says in his ear, “The night of the dance,” her voice laced with promise.
After she leaves, Clint wonders if there’s anywhere nearby he can get some privacy for five minutes. Certain needs are definitely going to have to be addressed, and quickly, before he can see other people.
//\\
Anticipating and dreading the night of the talent show in equal measure causes it to arrive too quickly. The days and nights fly by, and soon it’s the afternoon before the show’s supposed to start. Clint has butterflies in his stomach at the idea of performing in front of a crowd of people, and from the thought of performing for Natasha, in private, later. He doesn’t particularly relish the idea of failing at either. The fact that they’re going to have to say goodbye the next day is something he’s trying not to think about.
“You’ll do great,” Phil reassures him while gathering up his toiletries.
“What do you care?” Clint says irritably. “All you care about is your cello girl.” She’s performing tonight also, a detail drilled into his brain by Phil, who hasn’t shut up about it.
“She’s a cellist,” corrects Phil a bit haughtily. “And I do care. You just won’t reward me as well.”
Clint rolls his eyes, but he can’t find fault with that argument. He fiddles with the string of his guitar, phantom playing the notes he knows in his sleep by now. “Where are you going?”
“I’m going to shave,” says Phil. “I want to get ready for tonight.” He wags his eyebrows exaggeratedly.
“Shave what?” Clint retorts.
“Hey, fuck you, I have a beard,” Phil says. “Besides, I can’t hear that song one more time. Seriously man, I’d take a bullet for you, but—” He quickly ducks out of the cabin, narrowly escaping the sneaker Clint has chucked after him with some force.
Clint reluctantly starts to get ready as well, which for him means pulling on some clean clothes. He combs his hair a little more carefully than he usually does, borrowing a bit of Alan’s hair gel, but he doesn’t know what he’s doing and it just kind of... sticks up. Natasha is probably going to laugh herself silly.
The thought of Natasha, of the way she laughs, always with a hand covering her mouth, as if it’s too private a thing to share, brings a smile to his face. Then the thought of her naked, and under him, does other things to him. Then thoughts quickly follow of her pushing him off, telling him it wasn’t good, being relieved that this is the last time she’s going to see him in a long while, maybe ever, and Clint feels slightly sick. He actually has to put his head between his knees and take a few deep breaths, which he either learned in a health class, or from a paramedic one of the times they came to answer a call at the Kirkpatricks’. He’d only been in that house for two months.
It doesn’t make him feel any better, so he lies down, which does help a bit. He has to be careful not to fall asleep, though, not because he’s afraid of missing the talent show (though he doesn’t want to miss it; if he doesn’t perform, he won’t get into the dance, and he’s promised Natasha), but because the last thing Clint wants is for Natasha to think he’s so ambivalent about meeting her that he’d actually sleep through their rendezvous.
He falls asleep.
Luckily Phil is there to wake him and shove his guitar into his hands. “What the hell have you done to your hair?”
As he and Phil sprint out the door, Clint only has time to glance at his reflection in the window, and he sees that it’s sticking up worse than before, right down the middle. He flattens it as best he can as Phil leaves him in the rehearsal area, as he gets ushered to the backstage area of the room where the drama kids have their lessons, as he waits to go on stage.
Then it’s his turn, and there’s no more time to focus on his hair, because there’s a stool for him to sit on, and a mic that he has to adjust to the right height, and sweaty palms to wipe on his pants, and chords he has to remember. The stage lights are really fucking hot, but they’re also bright, and for that he’s grateful. He can’t make out a single face in the crowd, and while he was hoping to be able to stare at Natasha the whole time, pretending like he’s just playing for her in the clearing, it’s better than being able to see all the individual faces. It’s almost like he’s in a room by himself, except for the occasional cough or low giggle. Someone starts to say something snarky, but someone else shushes them, and yet another person says, “Shut the fuck up,” and Clint’s surprised to recognize Tony’s voice.
To his surprise, this makes Clint feel calmer. Tony’s here. Of course. Everyone is here. And that includes Natasha. He strums the opening chords of Anji, and all those hours of practice have paid off. His fingers fly over the strings with almost no conscious thought on his part. It’s all muscle memory. A time or two he stumbles ever so slightly on the trickier parts, but still. It’s the best he’s ever played this piece and suddenly it’s over, there’s applause (and not the ironic kind), even a couple of piercing whistles (Thor, he thinks), and then the hot stage lights aren’t on him anymore and it’s taking awhile to adjust to the darkness.
The second he pulls the guitar strap over his head, someone is hugging him tight, and he recognizes her scent immediately. Slowly his eyes adjust and Clint can make out her features, her big smile. “You were awesome,” Natasha enthuses. “It was the best you’ve ever played.”
“Thanks,” Clint says, and can’t help puffing out his chest a little. “Can’t wait to see your demo.” She’s supposed to spar with another teammate on stage.
“Oh, I’m not doing it,” she says without inflection.
“What? Why not?”
“In our last class I sort of accidentally took out Craig’s knee. He’s okay,” she asserts, sounding a bit disgusted, as though Craig were simply acting like a baby, “but he couldn’t spar tonight so they decided to replace us both.” Natasha hugs him again, then takes the opportunity to whisper in his ear, “I’d rather spar with you, anyway.”
Clint opens his mouth, hopefully to say something witty back, but all that comes out is a croaky, “Uh...”
“I like the hair,” Natasha says, grinning. “You’re like an adorable hedgehog.”
//\\
After the talent show is over, everyone goes back to their cabins to get ready for the dance, which begins in an hour. The girls wail about how this is not possibly enough time to prepare, while the boys wonder what they’re going to do for the next fifty-five minutes. Clint and Phil spend it playing cards with their cabin mates. Phil is excellent at poker; no one can tell when he’s bluffing.
Clint loses seven hands in a row, and he’s glad that they’re not playing for real money, because he has exactly $7.65 to his name. He’s also a little too keyed up to give the game his full attention; his thoughts keep turning to what he and Natasha are planning to do later that night. He drums his fingers on his jean-clad knees restlessly.
“Time to go,” Clint announces, the second the clock hits the hour.
“Jesus Barton, what’s the rush? I’ve got Coulson on the ropes here,” Brad says.
“You’re not playing for anything,” Clint points out.
“It’s for honor, man, honor,” Brad retorts. “Besides, probably no one’s even there yet.”
He’s likely right about that, and Clint has no desire to draw more attention to himself than he already has, so he cools his heels. He’s forced to wait another twenty minutes while the showdown between Phil and Brad continues, and he swears Phil is smirking at him. As expected, Phil is declared the ultimate victor, and everyone starts pulling on their shoes. The other guys opt not to wear jackets, since it’s bound to be hot in the dining hall, which is where the dance is being held, and anyway only wussies get cold. Clint is the only one of them to bring a jacket, but that’s because he’s not planning to spend much time at the dance.
It doesn’t take Clint long to spot Natasha, even in the dark, swallowed by the crowd. She’s in the middle of the dance floor, her red hair haloed by the ambient light. She hasn’t noticed him yet; she’s moving sinuously to the beat of the music, eyes half closed, lips ever so slightly curled up in a smile. Clint’s stomach tightens involuntarily. He wants to know who she’s dancing with, who’s putting that look on her face. Bodies move, parting enough for Clint to finally see that Natasha is dancing with her brother Steve, who has a big, toothy smile on his face. Or rather, they’re dancing near each other, but Darcy and Jane are there too, and it seems that they’re just all dancing together. Clint relaxes, feeling slightly silly, before he takes in what she’s wearing – a black dress that’s modest in terms of how much skin it displays, but decidedly less modest in how it molds itself like a second skin to her curves. He swallows.
“Drink?” Phil asks loudly into his ear over the pulsing music.
“God, yes,” says Clint.
They make their way over to the refreshment table, which has a pathetic assortment of cookies, pretzels, chips, and a large bowl of bright red punch. The fact that it can be easily discerned as red in the darkness of the room is indicative of its neon-like qualities. And just his luck, Tony and Bruce are there, looking shifty. Well, shiftier.
“Sup,” Tony greets, while Bruce nods at them.
“Hi,” Clint responds. They’ve had an unspoken truce ever since the incident at the archery range, but he’s still not entirely comfortable around Natasha’s brothers. He can’t help but feel that their newfound tolerance of him is their way of getting him to let his guard down.
Phil reaches for a couple of plastic cups, but Tony stops him. “If you wait sixty seconds, this punch is about to get a whole lot more interesting. You two stand in front of us.”
Tony clearly wants to block the view of the punch bowl from Steve, who is still dancing with Natasha. Clint thinks helping Tony is a bad idea – no matter what the idea is – but he really doesn’t want to get into it with him tonight of all nights, so he and Phil serve as a blockade while Tony and Bruce do what teenage boys have done to punch bowls since the dawn of awkward coed dances.
“All clear. Thank you, gentlemen,” Tony says, handing Clint and Phil each a cup of spiked punch.
Clint waits to see that Tony drinks it before he too downs the liquid.
“Another?”
Clint holds out his glass. The punch is diluted with vodka, but it’s not very strong. “Fill ‘er up.”
“That’s what I like to see. I hope you’re not driving tonight, young man.”
Clint doesn’t even bother to roll his eyes as he drinks the second cup.
“She’s here,” Phil says suddenly, his voice sounding a bit high pitched.
“Who, the cellist?” says Tony, proving Natasha correct, but luckily Phil doesn’t seem to hear him.
There’s really no mistaking who he means. Phil’s been mooning over this cellist since the start of camp and still hasn’t done anything about it. At this point Clint isn’t sure whether Phil likes the girl, or just likes liking her.
“I’m going for it. I’m definitely going for it.” Despite his words, Phil stays exactly where he is.
“My friend Phil needs some more punch,” Clint says to Tony, handing him Phil’s empty cup.
“What am I, your manservant?” Tony says, but fills it up nonetheless.
Clint places the cup back into Phil’s fingers, still curled around a cup they weren’t holding. Phil hasn’t moved a muscle in the last forty seconds, still staring, unblinking, at someone on the dance floor or on the other side of the room; it’s a little hard to tell. “Drink that,” Clint advises.
Phil does as he’s told, and when he reaches the bottom he tosses the empty cup over his shoulder confidently, eyes still zeroed in on his target. Tony, Bruce and Clint all watch as the cup misses the garbage can entirely and lands on the floor.
“Nothing but net,” Clint says, and shoves Phil forward. “It’s your last chance, don’t fuck it up.” He watches Phil go up to a plumpish blonde girl who has a really nice smile, and whatever Phil’s saying must be working, because she seems to willingly stay and converse with him. Clint reflects that it’s really too bad she lives in Oregon; that’s pretty far from Iowa. Not unlike New York. He frowns as the thought that he always pushes away starts edging toward the forefront again.
He’s so busy watching Phil and trying to rein in his own thoughts that he doesn’t notice Natasha’s standing next to him until she takes his hand, pulling him toward the throng of dancers. “Dance with me,” she orders with a smile.
“Uh, what?” Clint says, slightly panicked. “No, I don’t dance.” He looks behind him to see if Tony and Bruce will save him. Surely they’ll scowl and do their big brothers thing and prevent him from dancing with Natasha. But they seem to have disappeared. It really figures.
Natasha laughs as if he’s made a funny joke. “There’s nothing to it,” she says. “It’s not like when dancing had actual moves people had to know. Just wiggle your body.”
Before Clint can protest further that that is exactly what he does not do, she’s yanked him forward – Jesus, she’s strong – and he stumbles into her, stepping on her foot in the process. He can feel the flush start to creep up his neck and go into his cheeks.
“Relax,” Natasha says into his ear, which doesn’t exactly help. The vibration from her voice and her breath makes the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. He’s pretty much the opposite of relaxed. She puts her hands on his hips and tries to get him to move. “You’re like a statue,” she giggles.
With some additional coaxing, Clint allows himself to start moving, but only a little, and only because she’s guiding him. He’s had so many other things on his mind that it never occurred to him that she’d actually want to dance at the dance. Or at least, dance with him.
After a couple of songs, he’s actually starting to feel a little more comfortable with the whole thing, but then the music changes and so do the lights, and suddenly everyone seems to know to melt into pairs and start swaying against each other. Everyone but Clint, who drops his arms to his sides and considers a quick escape. But Natasha’s anticipated this; she grabs his hands and pulls them behind her, locking them around her waist, and her own arms go around his neck.
“Just sway,” she says, and rests her head against his shoulder.
It’s actually kind of ... nice. Clint glances around, but no one’s looking at him funny, so clearly he can’t be doing anything terribly wrong. He smiles to see that Phil and his cellist are dancing together, their arms in the exact same position as Clint and Natasha’s. Clint gives Phil a brief thumbs up behind Natasha’s back, and Phil just grins contentedly.
While it’s nice holding Natasha against him, Clint’s glad when the fast music starts up again. He feels that he can blend in better when there’s chaos. He’s even thinking that it won’t be so bad to do this for another hour, but Natasha has other ideas.
“Let’s get out of here,” she says, giving him a meaningful look that goes right to his alternate brain.
“What, now?” Clint says, feeling the need to protest. It’s his self-preservation instincts kicking in. He looks around for her brothers.
“Yes, now,” Natasha says. “They’ve had just the right amount of punch by now, and are otherwise occupied.”
Clint finally spots them. Tony, Pepper, and Bruce are all dancing together – though it mostly looks like Tony is gesticulating wildly while the other two look on and laugh – while Thor and Jane are still in slow dancing positions, apparently not having noticed the change of the music. Steve is over by the punch bowl, sniffing it suspiciously. Natasha’s right; if they want to sneak out unobtrusively, now is the time.
