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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 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8
//\\
Three weeks later, Clint gets off the bus and starts the walk home. Phil waves to him from one of the windows, and Clint lifts a hand to wave back, but has to cover his mouth with it instead as he starts to cough, the bus kicking up a tornado’s worth of dust as it lurches off.
The Smith farm is about half a mile from where he gets dropped off, and the whole way back Clint’s thinking about what a loser he is. He’s picked up the phone a hundred times, even dialed Natasha’s full number, but has never let it connect. He’s gotten a letter from her, but he still hasn’t replied. Clint’s started and stopped a dozen letters in response, but he doesn’t know what to say that doesn’t sound stupid and trite. He hasn’t heard from her since, and figures she’s probably given up on him. Now he’s going to have to explain why he’s taken so long to respond to her letter on top of whatever else he ends up writing.
Clint enters through the kitchen, letting the screen door bang shut behind him. He grabs an apple from the fruit bowl on the table and enters the family room, on the way to the stairs that lead up to the second floor, where his room is. Since Anna isn’t in the kitchen where she normally is, Clint figures she’s gone into town with Paul. He doesn’t expect them to be seated together on the couch, looking at him expectantly when he enters.
His heart falls somewhere to his ankles. This scene has played out before, in other towns, other family rooms, with other people. He tries not to be disappointed, tries not to be hurt, tries to prepare himself for the “it’s not you, it’s us” speech. Clint has actually liked it here, liked Anna and Paul, made an effort to keep his head low, stay out of trouble, and not create problems for them. Apparently it still hasn’t been good enough.
Clint sits down in the armchair that faces them. He swallows the bite of apple he’d taken, and it’s harder to choke down than it should be.
“When were you going to tell us about this?” Anna says, and for the first time, Clint notices that Paul is holding a piece of paper. A very thick, expensive-looking piece of paper.
He tries furiously to think of what it could possibly say. A note from the principal? But about what? Clint hasn’t done anything. He’s stayed so low on the radar that half his teachers don’t even know his name. A note from another parent? But he hasn’t gotten into any fights, and pretty much the only other student he interacts with is Phil. He comes up totally blank, and gives up trying to guess after an extended silence.
“I’m sorry,” Clint says. He doesn’t know for what, but it seems like the wisest response for whatever it is.
“You don’t have to be sorry,” Anna says, and reaches out to pat his hand. Hers is wrinkled and spotted, but warm and dry. “We just wish we’d known. You must have been so nervous, waiting to find out if you’d gotten in.”
Clint looks at her blankly. “Gotten in?”
“Oh Paul, he doesn’t even know yet!” Anna says, pushing her husband to give Clint the paper.
Paul hands the letter to Clint, who takes it somewhat gingerly. What the hell are they talking about? “Good job,” Paul says gruffly, and Clint knows this is high praise from a man who generally doesn’t speak much.
Clint scans the letter quickly. He absorbs enough to understand that he’s been accepted by some private school. This must be a mistake. He’s never applied to any school. He hates to disappoint his foster parents, even though part of him is immensely relieved that they’re not planning to kick him out. “I didn’t—”
“Martha Himmelsbach says it’s very prestigious private high school,” Anna says, beaming. “And you got a full scholarship!”
Clint looks at the letter more carefully. It’s addressed to “Mr. Clint Barton” and his address is correct. He reads for himself what Anna has said, confirming that his room and board are completely paid for with a scholarship good for the duration of his enrollment at the school, which would be for his entire high school career, if he accepts.
“Amazing,” he says faintly.
Then he freezes as he notices that at the bottom of the typewritten text, there is a personalized, handwritten note that says, “We look forward to your arrival!” and the dot in the exclamation is a tiny little spider, complete with a red hourglass in its middle. “So it’s all right with you if I go?”
“All right with us?” Anna exclaims. “Of course you have to go! This is an enormous opportunity for you, Clint. Of course, the state has to agree, but there’s no reason to think they won’t. After all, the whole purpose of this is to find you a permanent home. It looks like you’ll be under the care of this Nick Fury.”
Clint can barely take it all in. He’s going to go to New York. He’s going to be with Natasha. And her crazy brothers, true. And her scary foster father. But mostly, Natasha. Until they finish high school. And by then, they’ll be legal adults, free to do whatever they want. Together. The reality of it starts to sink in, and Clint knows he has a stupid grin on his face. “I’ll miss you,” he says honestly. “This was the best foster home I ever had.”
“Oh,” says Anna, her eyes getting all wet and she can’t seem to say any more. She leans forward to embrace him, while Paul pats him on the back. The letter welcoming him to the Academy of Versatility, Exploration, Natural Growth, and Excellence in Recreation & Sciences crumples in Clint’s hand, but he returns the hug anyway. “Now wash up for supper. I made your favorite, chicken noodle casserole, with apple dumplings for dessert.” She beams.
Chicken noodle casserole isn’t his favorite, but Anna’s never forgotten how he packed it away the first night he’d come to stay with her and Paul. He never told her it was the first hot meal he’d had in weeks, and he was more concerned about getting the food into his belly than actually tasting it. Since then, Clint’s had plenty of opportunity to try Anna’s cooking, and it’s her meatloaf that he’ll miss when he leaves. But the chicken noodle casserole isn’t bad, and there’s something nice about someone making something for him just because they think he likes it.
In his room, Clint tosses his backpack to the floor and flops onto the bed to read the letter again. Part of him expects it to vanish into thin air if he’s not constantly reading the words. His eyes trace over the handwritten note over and over. He’s not crazy. It has to be from Natasha. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the well-worn piece of paper on which she’d scrawled her phone number a few weeks ago. He smooths it out to read the digits, even though he’d had them memorized practically since the moment she’d written them down. It was the only way he had of getting in touch with her, and Clint wasn’t about to risk that on some fragile piece of paper. He likes to see her writing though, a reminder that she gave him her number willingly, that she wanted him to use it. Even if he hasn’t done anything about it yet.
He sits up, picks up the phone as he has countless times before, and punches in the number. His heart beats erratically as he hears it ring once, twice. This is about as far as he’s ever gone, and he grips the receiver tightly to his ear, practicing in his head what he’ll say to the person who picks up on the other end. She seems to live at some kind of school, so does he just ask for Natasha? What will he say if they ask what he’s calling for?
“Hello?”
It’s Natasha. She sounds a bit breathless but it’s definitely her. Clint’s so surprised that he says “Hey,” as if it’s been three hours instead of three weeks since they last spoke.
There’s a pause on the other end, long enough that it gives him time to kick himself mentally several times over.
“Hey,” she responds, and he can’t tell from the one syllable if she’s glad to hear from him or annoyed that it’s taken him so long to call or if she even knows who he is.
“Natasha?”
“Yes?”
“This is Clint. Clint Barton.” He cringes at how formal and stilted he sounds. This is a nightmare, exactly the kind of phone conversation he did not want to have and why he’d avoided it for so long.
“Hi, Clint Barton.” Natasha definitely sounds amused now, and unsurprised to learn his identity. This makes Clint breathe a bit easier, and he recalls the first time she ever greeted him that way, over a pot of steaming corn. “So you do have phones in Iowa.”
Clint laughs ruefully. “Yeah, I’m sorry it’s taken so long—”
“No excuses,” she says, but doesn’t sound mad.
He takes a deep breath. “So I got your letter.”
“Which one?” Natasha asks, a bit pointedly, and Clint winces.
“Both,” he says, and doesn’t bother to try and come up with an excuse this time. “The second one... about the Academy... Is it... real? There’s really a school and...”
Her voice is softer when she replies. “It’s legit. The position’s yours if you want it.” She hesitates. “I told Nick about you. I hope that’s okay. Tony vouched for you too, we all did. And Nick’s a good guy, really. You’d fit right in. But you don’t have to... I mean, if you don’t want... It’s just an option, that’s all–”
“Natasha,” Clint interrupts, and she falls silent. He struggles to put what he’s feeling into words. He thinks of Anna and chicken noodle casserole, and Natasha doing this for him, and it’s too overwhelming, so he settles for, “Thank you,” and doesn’t even care that his voice has gone all hoarse and might have even cracked a bit.
“You can thank me when you get here.” Her voice sounds light, relieved.
“As soon as I can,” Clint says, and means it.
“I’m serious. I have a list.”
He grins into the phone. “I can’t wait to see it.” It has nothing to do with the fact that he can’t imagine he won’t enjoy thanking Natasha in all the ways she’s dreamed up. Mostly nothing.
For the first time in a long time, Clint lets himself think about the future.
= end =
End notes: It's finally over! *sniff* I started this ages ago, which is kind of hard to believe. I was procrastinating from writing some other stuff, and this happened when I was looking through prompts for the be_compromised promptathon. You know how it goes: plot bunnies strike, spirit you off into the night, and make you work to the bone until you’ve produced what they want you to produce! Even if it’s cracky teenage Avengers at summer camp. I’m as much a victim in all this as you! Still, I really hope you enjoyed the ride. :D
No actual wild boars were harmed during the writing of this story. Also, in reality such creatures are more likely to avoid human interaction than attack us, so let’s assume that even though Tony sounded paranoid and nuts, there might’ve been some merit to what he was suggesting about its aggression due to being genetically altered. He knows about stuff like that.
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 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8
//\\
Three weeks later, Clint gets off the bus and starts the walk home. Phil waves to him from one of the windows, and Clint lifts a hand to wave back, but has to cover his mouth with it instead as he starts to cough, the bus kicking up a tornado’s worth of dust as it lurches off.
The Smith farm is about half a mile from where he gets dropped off, and the whole way back Clint’s thinking about what a loser he is. He’s picked up the phone a hundred times, even dialed Natasha’s full number, but has never let it connect. He’s gotten a letter from her, but he still hasn’t replied. Clint’s started and stopped a dozen letters in response, but he doesn’t know what to say that doesn’t sound stupid and trite. He hasn’t heard from her since, and figures she’s probably given up on him. Now he’s going to have to explain why he’s taken so long to respond to her letter on top of whatever else he ends up writing.
Clint enters through the kitchen, letting the screen door bang shut behind him. He grabs an apple from the fruit bowl on the table and enters the family room, on the way to the stairs that lead up to the second floor, where his room is. Since Anna isn’t in the kitchen where she normally is, Clint figures she’s gone into town with Paul. He doesn’t expect them to be seated together on the couch, looking at him expectantly when he enters.
His heart falls somewhere to his ankles. This scene has played out before, in other towns, other family rooms, with other people. He tries not to be disappointed, tries not to be hurt, tries to prepare himself for the “it’s not you, it’s us” speech. Clint has actually liked it here, liked Anna and Paul, made an effort to keep his head low, stay out of trouble, and not create problems for them. Apparently it still hasn’t been good enough.
Clint sits down in the armchair that faces them. He swallows the bite of apple he’d taken, and it’s harder to choke down than it should be.
“When were you going to tell us about this?” Anna says, and for the first time, Clint notices that Paul is holding a piece of paper. A very thick, expensive-looking piece of paper.
He tries furiously to think of what it could possibly say. A note from the principal? But about what? Clint hasn’t done anything. He’s stayed so low on the radar that half his teachers don’t even know his name. A note from another parent? But he hasn’t gotten into any fights, and pretty much the only other student he interacts with is Phil. He comes up totally blank, and gives up trying to guess after an extended silence.
“I’m sorry,” Clint says. He doesn’t know for what, but it seems like the wisest response for whatever it is.
“You don’t have to be sorry,” Anna says, and reaches out to pat his hand. Hers is wrinkled and spotted, but warm and dry. “We just wish we’d known. You must have been so nervous, waiting to find out if you’d gotten in.”
Clint looks at her blankly. “Gotten in?”
“Oh Paul, he doesn’t even know yet!” Anna says, pushing her husband to give Clint the paper.
Paul hands the letter to Clint, who takes it somewhat gingerly. What the hell are they talking about? “Good job,” Paul says gruffly, and Clint knows this is high praise from a man who generally doesn’t speak much.
Clint scans the letter quickly. He absorbs enough to understand that he’s been accepted by some private school. This must be a mistake. He’s never applied to any school. He hates to disappoint his foster parents, even though part of him is immensely relieved that they’re not planning to kick him out. “I didn’t—”
“Martha Himmelsbach says it’s very prestigious private high school,” Anna says, beaming. “And you got a full scholarship!”
Clint looks at the letter more carefully. It’s addressed to “Mr. Clint Barton” and his address is correct. He reads for himself what Anna has said, confirming that his room and board are completely paid for with a scholarship good for the duration of his enrollment at the school, which would be for his entire high school career, if he accepts.
“Amazing,” he says faintly.
Then he freezes as he notices that at the bottom of the typewritten text, there is a personalized, handwritten note that says, “We look forward to your arrival!” and the dot in the exclamation is a tiny little spider, complete with a red hourglass in its middle. “So it’s all right with you if I go?”
“All right with us?” Anna exclaims. “Of course you have to go! This is an enormous opportunity for you, Clint. Of course, the state has to agree, but there’s no reason to think they won’t. After all, the whole purpose of this is to find you a permanent home. It looks like you’ll be under the care of this Nick Fury.”
Clint can barely take it all in. He’s going to go to New York. He’s going to be with Natasha. And her crazy brothers, true. And her scary foster father. But mostly, Natasha. Until they finish high school. And by then, they’ll be legal adults, free to do whatever they want. Together. The reality of it starts to sink in, and Clint knows he has a stupid grin on his face. “I’ll miss you,” he says honestly. “This was the best foster home I ever had.”
“Oh,” says Anna, her eyes getting all wet and she can’t seem to say any more. She leans forward to embrace him, while Paul pats him on the back. The letter welcoming him to the Academy of Versatility, Exploration, Natural Growth, and Excellence in Recreation & Sciences crumples in Clint’s hand, but he returns the hug anyway. “Now wash up for supper. I made your favorite, chicken noodle casserole, with apple dumplings for dessert.” She beams.
Chicken noodle casserole isn’t his favorite, but Anna’s never forgotten how he packed it away the first night he’d come to stay with her and Paul. He never told her it was the first hot meal he’d had in weeks, and he was more concerned about getting the food into his belly than actually tasting it. Since then, Clint’s had plenty of opportunity to try Anna’s cooking, and it’s her meatloaf that he’ll miss when he leaves. But the chicken noodle casserole isn’t bad, and there’s something nice about someone making something for him just because they think he likes it.
In his room, Clint tosses his backpack to the floor and flops onto the bed to read the letter again. Part of him expects it to vanish into thin air if he’s not constantly reading the words. His eyes trace over the handwritten note over and over. He’s not crazy. It has to be from Natasha. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the well-worn piece of paper on which she’d scrawled her phone number a few weeks ago. He smooths it out to read the digits, even though he’d had them memorized practically since the moment she’d written them down. It was the only way he had of getting in touch with her, and Clint wasn’t about to risk that on some fragile piece of paper. He likes to see her writing though, a reminder that she gave him her number willingly, that she wanted him to use it. Even if he hasn’t done anything about it yet.
He sits up, picks up the phone as he has countless times before, and punches in the number. His heart beats erratically as he hears it ring once, twice. This is about as far as he’s ever gone, and he grips the receiver tightly to his ear, practicing in his head what he’ll say to the person who picks up on the other end. She seems to live at some kind of school, so does he just ask for Natasha? What will he say if they ask what he’s calling for?
“Hello?”
It’s Natasha. She sounds a bit breathless but it’s definitely her. Clint’s so surprised that he says “Hey,” as if it’s been three hours instead of three weeks since they last spoke.
There’s a pause on the other end, long enough that it gives him time to kick himself mentally several times over.
“Hey,” she responds, and he can’t tell from the one syllable if she’s glad to hear from him or annoyed that it’s taken him so long to call or if she even knows who he is.
“Natasha?”
“Yes?”
“This is Clint. Clint Barton.” He cringes at how formal and stilted he sounds. This is a nightmare, exactly the kind of phone conversation he did not want to have and why he’d avoided it for so long.
“Hi, Clint Barton.” Natasha definitely sounds amused now, and unsurprised to learn his identity. This makes Clint breathe a bit easier, and he recalls the first time she ever greeted him that way, over a pot of steaming corn. “So you do have phones in Iowa.”
Clint laughs ruefully. “Yeah, I’m sorry it’s taken so long—”
“No excuses,” she says, but doesn’t sound mad.
He takes a deep breath. “So I got your letter.”
“Which one?” Natasha asks, a bit pointedly, and Clint winces.
“Both,” he says, and doesn’t bother to try and come up with an excuse this time. “The second one... about the Academy... Is it... real? There’s really a school and...”
Her voice is softer when she replies. “It’s legit. The position’s yours if you want it.” She hesitates. “I told Nick about you. I hope that’s okay. Tony vouched for you too, we all did. And Nick’s a good guy, really. You’d fit right in. But you don’t have to... I mean, if you don’t want... It’s just an option, that’s all–”
“Natasha,” Clint interrupts, and she falls silent. He struggles to put what he’s feeling into words. He thinks of Anna and chicken noodle casserole, and Natasha doing this for him, and it’s too overwhelming, so he settles for, “Thank you,” and doesn’t even care that his voice has gone all hoarse and might have even cracked a bit.
“You can thank me when you get here.” Her voice sounds light, relieved.
“As soon as I can,” Clint says, and means it.
“I’m serious. I have a list.”
He grins into the phone. “I can’t wait to see it.” It has nothing to do with the fact that he can’t imagine he won’t enjoy thanking Natasha in all the ways she’s dreamed up. Mostly nothing.
For the first time in a long time, Clint lets himself think about the future.
= end =
End notes: It's finally over! *sniff* I started this ages ago, which is kind of hard to believe. I was procrastinating from writing some other stuff, and this happened when I was looking through prompts for the be_compromised promptathon. You know how it goes: plot bunnies strike, spirit you off into the night, and make you work to the bone until you’ve produced what they want you to produce! Even if it’s cracky teenage Avengers at summer camp. I’m as much a victim in all this as you! Still, I really hope you enjoyed the ride. :D
No actual wild boars were harmed during the writing of this story. Also, in reality such creatures are more likely to avoid human interaction than attack us, so let’s assume that even though Tony sounded paranoid and nuts, there might’ve been some merit to what he was suggesting about its aggression due to being genetically altered. He knows about stuff like that.
