🦔

Where do you see yourself in 5 years?

Look buddy, i’m just trying to make it to Friday.

It’s the best!

rip to you guys but i love assembling ikea furniture its so fun its like legos

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the language of flowers and silent things

Whumptober 2023: Day 3 - Make it stop

Warnings: child abuse, domestic violence, brief touch on car accident that killed Clint’s parents and CPS

Word Count: 1.8k (Image not mine)

Summary: Clint Barton didn’t have an easy childhood, but one safe person made all the difference.

A/N: please read warnings attached to the chapter. There’s a reason there’s not too much before the cut starts, as it starts heavy and stays that way. Please take care of yourself.

Masterlist

Whumptober Masterlist

.

1984

IOWA

“Make it stop,” he whispers to Barney.

Drunken footsteps are loud as his father shouts for more.

Clint can hear his mother opening and closing the fridge and the tirade of abuse continues.

“We can’t, okay?” Barney’s fists clench, his black eye from the week before still not healed and Clint knows it’s an unfair request.

“Not tonight, Mum will have to deal with him,” Barney looks scared and Clint doesn’t understand.

“Why?”

Barney looks down at his little brother and sighs.

“He’s not going to work tomorrow. He got fired.”

Fear and adrenaline dumps it’s poison into Clint’s veins.

“But…”

“Yeah; he’ll be here all day now.”

Barney finishes Clint’s thought.

A slap reverberates through the house and both boys cringe.

Clint can’t take it, he hates the thought of anyone touching his mother.

He’s at the door before Barney can stop him.

Opening it, he finds his father standing over his mother and they both turn to look at the movement and noise. His mothers face is red, hands touching the swelling of her cheek.

“Stop it,” he growls, smelling the alcohol and poison on his father.

The laugh of derision and dangerous smile that follows, makes Clint take two steps back, almost regretting his bravery.

“Stop it?” his father laughs as he repeats Clint’s words, picking him up and throwing him to the side.

“Fine,” he smirks dangerously, “I’ll ‘stop it’ but you need to go get me more beer, okay boy? She says we’ve run out.”

Clint feels like he’s been thrown a lifeline, a chance to get out of the house and away from danger; even if it’s at the expense of his mother.

He scrambles, Barney close behind him.

“We don’t have any money?” Clint asks.

His father raises a hand and Barney pulls him away.

“It’s fine,” he yells, as he pushes Clint out the door.

They run, only stopping when Clint pus his hands on his knees, out of breath.

“If he doesn’t go to work, he’s going to be at home with Mom,” Clint mutters, dragging his feet.

Barney grabs his hand.

“It’ll be okay, he’ll get bored and go out to the pub.”

Clint can’t see how that’s better, using their money to buy a drink that only leads to raised voices and sharp hits.

The shopkeeper stares at the two boys as they enter.

“Go distract him,” Barney urges, “and I’ll go get the beer.”

Nervously, Clint walks to the front of the shop.

“Can I help you?”

Clint nods and tries to smile.

“I.. uhhh.. Need something,” he starts, unsure what to say.

“You need something,” the man asks, suspiciously.

“Yeah,” Clint looks around, “I need those,” he points.

The man chuckles.

Clint shrugs.

“Do you know what I should buy?”

He knows nothing of the product he’s pointed too, knows that he’s seen it in his bathroom before, and there’s many types on the shelf; so the stab he’s taken doesn’t seem like a bad one.

“You need.. Pads?” The man questions, still smiling at Clint’s ignorance.

“Yeah?”

Clint thinks he can keep it going, make the man distracted enough; until…

There’s a clink and a crash and Barney swears as the man moves to back, Clint hot on his heels.

Spilled beer cascades and Barney looks up, guiltily.

Standing frozen, Clint doesn’t know what to do. The man takes a step forward.

Clint weaves in and stands between his brother and the shopkeeper protectively.

“You’re the Barton brothers aren’t you?”

They both look at the floor, and Barney speaks for the both of them.

“Yes sir,” he says softly, “please don’t call the police.”

The man shakes his head.

“Your father is not a good man, is he? Hmm? He send you out here?”

“He hit our mum because we ran out of beer,” Clint tells him, only to get shoved by Barney.

“Is that so?”

The man motions for them to move out of the glass.

“It shouldn’t be like that,” he tells them, handing a beer to Barney.

“You didn’t get that from me, okay?”

Clint’s relief is palpable, and Barney can’t stop staring at the gift they’ve been given.

“Thank.. Thank you,” he stutters, stuck on the spot.

Clint smiles, “yeah, thank you,” he repeats.

The shopkeeper it seems isn’t done in his generosity.

He hands them each a chocolate bar, and then on a whim throws Clint a box of pads.

“Give them to your mother,” he smiles, “she’ll be thankful you got something for her too.”

.

Gus the shopkeeper is wirey, thinning hair with dark eyebrows.

Clint finds him funny and kind and when walking home from school, he always gives him a piece of fruit to munch on.

Barney doesn’t like it.

“People don’t do things out of the goodness of their hearts, baby brother.”

Clint ignores the warning, trusting his own instinct of people. He doesn’t agree.

He does things out of the goodness within him, why wouldn’t others?

He tries not to impose on the man’s friendship, wanting to always be around Gus but knowing he probably shouldn’t be.

Sometimes his piece of fruit is all he gets for dinner.

The summer comes too quickly, and Barney gets a job delivering papers. It leaves Clint with too much free time, which he inevitably spends at the shop.

His mother encourages it.

She kisses his forehead and tells him to remember their code.

If his father is on a bender then she’ll put flowers in the window, if he’s not the window will be clear.

It’s a system that’s saved both boys a black eye or concussion a few times. Sometimes though, no amount of code words and secrets saves them from the wrath.

Gus seems to understand.

In the heat of the summer, he finds Clint sitting on the side walk, and invites him in.

Cold drink in hand, Clint grins at the pictures on the wall.

“You used to be in the circus?”

Gus nods, a wistful look on his face.

“Acrobat,” he comments, pointing to picture.

Clint looks in awe

“Those days are long gone now.”

“Can you show me something?”

Gus laughs.

“Something acrobatic?”

He shakes his head, “no, but I can show you something useful.”

Suddenly, there’s a coin in his hand and then it’s gone.

“Magic?” Clint scoffs.

“It’s a skill,” he defends.

Clint’s wallet is suddenly in his hand and Clint’s brain almost short circuits in how useful learning pick pocketing might be.

“You have to teach me,” he exclaims.

“Please!?”

Gus laughs.

“Okay, fine, come back tomorrow.”

.

They start easily.

The summer nights pass quickly with Gus.

Barney notices it, and he seems glad that Clint has somewhere to go.

He rubs his little brothers head and encourages it.

“Hey Barney,” Clint asks, one night, “teach me how to fight like you?”

Barney shakes his head, “nah, little bro, you’ll fight like someone different. But I can teach you the basics.”

Clint’s heart leaps.

He hugs him spontaneously and Barney pushes him back.

“I’ll catch you later okay?”

Clint nods, his smile big.

.

“Try again,” Gus tells him.

The watch sits on his wrist and he holds it out.

“It’s harder if you know it’s coming,” Clint complains.

Gus laughs.

“Fine take it, you need the practice anyway.”

Clint nods, taking it off his friend’s wrist.

“Same time tomorrow?”

Gus nods.

“You better practice,” he waves, and Clint nods.

Clint walks off, heading home, playing with the watch on his wrist, the clasp coming away easier.

He walks to the door and hears it, his mother shouting, his fathers fists hitting wood.

He cringes as he opens the door and tries to sneak in.

He forgets the second stair squeaks in his haste and the sound of footsteps makes him freeze.

“Boy,” his father bellows, “where have you been?”

Before he can even answer, he’s back handed into the stairs.

“Where’s your brother?”

Clint grabs at his face.

He’s better now at not letting the tears fall, even when he wants them too.

“I don’t..I don’t..” he stutters.

“You don’t know?”

Harold seems to grow twice as large as he points to the garage.

“Get in the car, we’re going to go find him.”

Clint can smell the toxicity of his breath, but is powerless to say no, as his mother gathers him up, kisses his cheek and tells him it will be okay.

It’s not though.

The red light.

The other car.

Screams.

Blood.

His head hurts.

He thinks there’s a bright light coming for him.

.

“They’re dead,” he opens, the shop doors opening for him as he stares through Gus.

The older man runs to him, and gathers him in a hug.

“Where’s Barney?”

Clint holds the watch in his hand.

“They’re taking us, but I stopped them because I needed to give you this.”

He holds it out.

“Oh Clint,” he holds him at arms lengths, sees the kindly lady step out of the car, and Barney deliberately not looking towards them.

“Keep it, borrow it, and when we see each other again, you can give it back to me.”

Clint’s eyes well up with tears and hugs Gus again.

“Can you take us?” he asks.

Gus shakes his head.

“Not yet,” he whispers.

“But this is not the end of our friendship, okay?”

Clint steps back, unable to look at him, disappointment radiating off him.

“Keep practicing and come back when you can.”

The woman calls for Clint to come and he backs up slowly.

“Goodbye,” he whispers.

“Good luck,” Gus whispers back.

.

Gus growls.

“I tell you, he’s got potential, get him out of foster care and you’ll see.”

Swordsman hums, contemplating his words.

“And you’d vouch for him?”

Gus swallows, knowing the heaviness of his words.

“And his brother, yes.”

He pauses.

“Clint has aim like I’ve never seen it, has a reason to fight and his brother just needs a mentor to channel all his rage.”

“Aim huh?”

Gus nods into the phone.

“Trickshot would do wonders with him.”

He wonders as the words come out of his mouth if he’s further dooming the Barton brothers.

Swordsman thinks on his words.

“Fine, but he’s in foster care now, how do you propose we find him?”

He shrugs.

“He’ll find me again.”

“Okay, then keep him with you and we’ll come to you, it can’t be now, we still have the operation to finish here, give us a year, and then, if he’s willing and able and maybe can add to the crew, then we will take him.”

“Thanks,” Gus sighs in relief.

Clint has his watch. He’ll come back.

“Oh and Gus,” Swordsman counters, “don’t forget to send the money through.”

He swallows, “uh. Yeah. Of course.”

Swordsman laughs, “you have to pay to stay out, otherwise we’ll welcome you back when we welcome the two boys you so desperately want us to save.”

“I’ll have your money, when you come get them.”

Gus hangs up, deal done, and gets the deposit ready in savings.

A year.

Clint just has to survive the year.

.

I’ve noticed lately that it’s often Americans who leave tags like “I don’t even care if it’s made up” on posts I make that are not particularly unbelievable, but are pretty specific to my way of life or corner of the world (like the one about the cheese vendor). It reminds me of that tweet that was circulating, that said Americans have a “medieval peasant scale of worldview”—I mean, if you don’t want to be perceived this way by the rest of the world maybe don’t go around social media saying that if a cultural concept or way of life sounds unfamiliar it must be made up?

It’s the imbalance that’s annoying, because like—when I mentioned having no mobile network around here I had people giving me info about Verizon to fix my problem. I post some rural pic and someone says it must be somewhere in the Midwest because the Southwest doesn’t look like this. My post about my postwoman has thousands of Americans assuming it’s about the USPS. On my post about my architect there’s someone saying “it’s because architecture is an impacted major” and other irrelevant stuff about how architecture is taught in the US. This kind of thing happens so so so often and I’m expected to be familiar with the concepts of Verizon and the Midwest and impacted majors and the USPS and meanwhile I make a post about my daily life and Americans in the notes are debating like “dunno if real. it sounds made up”

Going online for the rest of the world means having to keep in mind an insane amount of hyperspecific trivia about American culture while going online for Americans means having to keep in mind that the rest of the world really exists I guess

Reblog to give the person you reblogged from the ability to finish their WIPs

Nicole W. Lee, from "Even the Dust"

Happy Friday, friends!

Kiss the Dread

Clint flits between anger and sadness. He lays down, his back towards her, trusting she’s likely not going to kill him.

It’s cold in the vents, the occasional blast of warm air floating through making the air dry.

They need sleep.

Rest.

Something.

Fatigue makes for bad decisions.

He wants to check that she’s sleeping too; but his anger keeps him stationary.

He falls into an uneasy sleep, eyes closed, breathing like a sniper.

It’s easy when you know how to put yourself into a trance.

He hears rustling of a wrapper and is glad that she’s at least eating something.

They’ve been on the go for around 24 hours and he doesn’t think either of them got much sleep the night before.

Clint drifts into an uneasy sleep, dreams are unkind and he sees girls with braids, blood and bombs. He opens his eyes and breathes shallowly.

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Shamelessly poaching someone elses idea, social media poll but the options arent solely geared 2wards 15 year olds

Reblog 4 a bigger sample size dadada you know how it is w polls