Author's note: Have you ever had a single scene pop into your head, and you write a story around it, and then realize that in writing the story, you totally forgot to write the scene in question? Sigh. That happens to me all the time. It happened with this story, which was intended to be a one shot. Well, here's that scene. It fits into the middle of the story, but can kinda stand on its own too.
Clint sat staring at the American Giant hoodie. He'd heard of them, of course, but this was the first time he'd seen one up close. As advertised, the cloth felt good between his fingers, and it was a perfect shade of black. Clint didn't even know black had shades, but this thing just looked good. He wondered if he could sneak away just to try it on. Not in front of people. In his room, where he could have some privacy.
"Hey." Clint looked up at the softly spoken word. At the other end of the couch, Bruce gave a weary smile. "Are you as wiped out as me?"
Clint snorted. Who would have known that opening Christmas gifts could be so exhausting. He was more than ready to just walk away from that never-ending pile of gifts. He looked at the tree, and for his life, he couldn't see that they had made any dent in the mother load of presents. He looked back at Bruce and nodded. "Maybe if we gathered all the shredded wrapping paper, we could camouflage ourselves and escape."
From across the room, Pepper spoke up. "Alright, I think it's time for a break. Steve, you can relax for a while."
Rogers, who was bent over close to the tree, replied, "Sure, but I just want to deliver this one last gift." He spun around, and pulling his arm back fired a package across the room, right at Clint's head. "Hawkeye! Think fast!"
Clint's reflexes were as sharp as ever, and he dropped the hoodie, and reached up and caught the gift that spiraled in. It was shaped like a football, and Clint had to resist the temptation to throw it away as hard as he could. Instead, he held it on his lap, staring at it, a rock hard lump forming in his throat.
Pepper, sensing his distress, quickly called out, "Well, Steven, get a gift for Tony. And one for everyone else. Then we are taking a break."
Clint fought for composure. He'd had long years to put those particular memories to bed, and he had no desire to re-visit them in this crowded room. He sensed Tasha freezing momentarily, then her soft voice called out, "Clint?"
"I'm fine," he barked out the automatic response. But he wasn't. He could feel the memory like a suffocating blanket fall over him. He'd been all of six years old. Newly orphaned, and still young and stupid enough to believe in the fairytale called Christmas.
He and Barney had been placed in a foster home just two months earlier, and Clint had found it okay. Not great, but at least he didn't have to worry about being beaten by his father. His foster parents pretty much ignored him. Probably because he didn't try to burn things up like Barney did. He had two older foster brothers who would have picked on him if they weren't so afraid that Barney would set their beds on fire, like he threatened.
There was also a foster sister. She was just three years old, and Clint hadn't liked her a bit. She was always crying and hitting him and getting him in trouble. Barney was as willing to protect Clint from her as he was from her brothers. But even at six, Clint had realized that a little girl was not fair game, so when Barney had looked at her with murder in his eye, Clint had worked hard to distract him.
When Christmas rolled around, Clint had been excited. The kids at school all believed they would get fabulous gifts from Santa Claus as long as they were mainly good. Clint wanted presents just as much as the next kid, but he worried about the good part.
He was pretty sure he was responsible for the accident that killed his parents. He'd learned about God and praying from one of the girls in his school, and he had prayed nightly that God would take his father away. He didn't really mean for God to kill him, he just wanted him to go away. He figured that God listened to his prayers, but decided he didn't deserve his mom if he didn't want his father.
But despite his worry, he really wanted a football. He wanted a football all his life, but before, there was no way his father would have gotten him one. He wanted a football more than anything. He thought now that he was in a different house, Santa Claus wouldn't know it was him. If maybe he was good now, Santa Claus wouldn't realize what a truly bad boy he was and he would give Clint his football.
From Thanksgiving on, Clint tried to be a very good boy, and even though he had a few lapses, he was pretty sure he was at least as good as his classmates, who went on and on about the great presents they were going to get.
Clint grew even more excited when his foster mother told him there there was going to be a party at the foster agency, and Santa Claus would be there to give out gifts. Clint had grown more talkative than he'd ever been, pestering his foster mother with questions, trying to figure out if it was the real Santa that would be there. He's asked over and over if she thought Santa would bring any footballs to the party until she'd finally grown exasperated and sent the boy out to play.
The night before the party, he had not been able to sleep at all, and in the middle of the night, he'd crawled into bed with his brother. Barney told him not to get his hopes up. He already was getting a better understanding of their new lot in life, and he told Clint that just because he wanted something, didn't mean he'd get it. And then he reminded Clint of all the years before his parents died when Santa had never come, and Christmas was just a miserable day like any other.
Clint was upset by his brother's words, but he had no where else to turn, so he had cuddled up close to the older boy, and tried not to think about Christmas at all. The next day, due to lack of sleep, he had been sullen, and his foster mother threatened to stay home from the party. Clint tried not to care, but when she relented, he felt his hope blossom. He felt if he could just talk to Santa, he could get his football and show Barney he was wrong.
That afternoon, the party was full of cheer, with games and lunch, and finally, Santa Claus came out from behind a big, decorated door. To Clint's eyes, it was magical. Santa looked just like he did in the movies, carrying a large sack and calling out a jolly hello to all of the kids that gathered around.
He was told to line up with the other children, and in a last ditch attempt to show how good he was, he let the littler kids get in front of him. He watched Santa as he called each child forth, scrutinizing how the man listened, and what gift he gave each child. It seemed to take forever before his turn came, and suddenly, Clint was overcome with shyness.
Santa smiled, shifted his glasses, and gestured for Clint to come forward. Hanging his head, Clint moved over to the man, and when Santa put a gloved finger under his chin, and lifted his head to face him, it was all Clint could do to keep from crying. He could tell that this was the real Santa, and he just knew that Santa knew who was responsible for his parents' death.
To Clint's surprise, Santa didn't tell him he didn't deserve a Christmas present. Instead the man just asked him what he wanted for Christmas. Clint whispered that he wanted a football. Santa moved in closer and said, "Did you say a football?"
Clint froze. In moving closer, Santa had exhaled on the boy, giving him a good whiff of Christmas cheer. It was a smell that Clint was intimately familiar with. It was how his father's breath usually smelled, and to Clint, it was the smell of fear and pain. He backed away, confusing Santa. When he was out of arms reach, he turned to run. Santa called out, "Clint? Clint, don't go without your present! It's right here, come on, son, I won't hurt you."
Warily, Clint turned back. Santa was frantically digging around in his sack, muttering something to the lady dressed like an elf. Suddenly, they both reached in, then the elf backed off, and Santa looked over at Clint, gesturing him forward. Clint stood frozen, but suddenly, Santa was holding out a football shaped gift. Clint wrinkled his nose at the pink My Little Pony wrapping paper, but it was definitely a football, he could just tell. Almost without his control, his feet carried him back to where Santa waited patiently.
The smiling man held out the shockingly pink gift, and as soon as Clint could reach it, he snatched it and backed away. With a sad smile, Santa Claus nodded, saying, "Merry Christmas, Clint."
The sheer kindness in Santa's eyes caused Clint's own eyes to fill with water, and the boy reached up and swiped his arm across his face. He hurried away, totally confused. He didn't know how to reconcile the smell with the kindness.
The fact was, he'd known very little kindness in his life. His father was simply a mean-spirited man who turned cruel when he drank. His mother has seemed kind in comparison, but the truth was, her life was consumed with her own survival, and she had little time to think of her children. Not even his brother Barney could be considered kind. He protected Clint more out of pride than love, and even at that early age, Clint could see the cruelty of their father in him sometimes.
His foster mother had taken the gift from him as soon as he reached her saying it would be under the tree on Christmas morning. Clint had become upset, and tried to snatch back his football, and 'caused a scene,' so his foster mother had packed him and his brother into the car and taken them home before the end of the party.
Clint had sulked all the rest of the day until his foster father had come home, and told him that Santa would take his present back on Christmas Eve if he was bad. Clint felt his heart drop to his toes at that, and later that night, he'd gone to his brother and asked him if Santa was an indian giver. Barney had brushed him off telling him he had no way of knowing,but it wouldn't surprise him.
For the few days remaining before Christmas, Clint had tried really hard to be good. He helped around the house, he ignored his foster sister when she hit him, he even ignored the taunts of his foster brothers who'd seen the wrappings on his football and taken to calling him Clintina.
All that mattered to him was getting his present from Santa. He even lost sight of his desire for a football. He was just determined to prove to Santa that he was worthy of receiving a gift. When Christmas Eve finally came, he went to bed without any fuss, even though Barney and his foster brothers were allowed to stay up later.
In his bed, Clint strained his ears, listening for any sound of sleigh bells. He fell asleep even before his brother came to bed, but then he awoke in the wee hours of the morning. He listened to the silence in the house, and he wondered if Santa Claus had come yet.
Suddenly filled with fear, Clint sat up in his bed. What if Santa had come, and taken his present? What if Santa had realized he was the boy who had killed his parents? Clint looked over to where his brother was soundly sleeping. He wanted to wake Barney up. He wanted Barney to tell him it would all be okay, but he knew his brother wouldn't tell him that. He knew his brother didn't believe things would ever be okay.
Clint knew he wasn't supposed to get out of bed, but he just had to know. He got up, and tiptoed to the door. He listened as hard as he could, but there was no sound. Holding his breath, he opened the door, and peeked out.
The entire house was dark and quiet. Taking a deep breath, Clint tiptoed out of his room, and made his way to the stairs. He stood at the top of the stairs for a bit, again listening. When he heard no sound, he went down the stairs as quiet as a mouse. When he could see the front room, he paused.
Someone had left the light in the singing angels decoration on, and by it's soft glow, he could just make out the tree, and the reflection of gifts wrapped in shiny paper underneath. He took a deep shuddering breath. Santa Claus had been there.
Clint stood there for a long time. His legs did not want to move. He wanted desperately for his gift to be there, but he was terrified that it was not. Finally with a jerk, he went out into the room, and moved over to the Christmas tree. He sat in front of the pile of gifts, and started looking for his football.
It was really too dark to see, and he was trying to feel the shape of the ball, but he wasn't having any luck. He searched, becoming more and more desperate as time passed and his gift wasn't there. He had started out being as quiet as he could, but eventually, he stopped paying attention to the sounds he was making.
When the lights in the living room suddenly blazed on, he was totally startled. He looked up to find his foster father there, holding a baseball bat, and deep frown on his face. Flushed with guilt, Clint leapt to his feet, and stood there, his head down, tears streaming unheeded down his face. When his foster father had asked him what the hell he was doing, Clint had just shrugged.
The man wasn't cruel or even mean, really. He saw Clint's tears, and realized what the boy wanted. He shook his head, and held out his hand. Full of despair, Clint had taken the hand, fully expecting to be led back to bed, and given a beating. Instead, Clint was led to the side of the tree, and a patch of pink paper was pointed out to him.
Clint's breath had caught. His foster father quietly said that Clint should understand that there was a difference between being a bad boy, and being a good boy who occasionally did bad things. His foster father told him he was a good boy, and Clint had almost believed it. He'd smiled up at his foster father, and let the man lead him back to bed, and tuck him in.
When Clint woke Christmas morning, he was surprised that he had fallen back to sleep. He heard his foster brothers thundering down the stairs, and he jumped out of bed, and ran to wake Barney. His brother threw a pillow at him, but Clint persisted. He wanted to go see if Santa had left him anything else, but he was not brave enough to face his foster brothers on his own. With an air of exasperation, Barney finally sat up, and when Clint tugged him to his feet, he didn't resist.
Clint could see the almost-hope in his brother's face, and he pulled Barney along, happy that he would prove to him that Santa Claus and magic existed in their gray world. When they reached the living room, Clint headed straight to exactly where he knew his gift from Santa awaited. He was stopped short when the older of his two foster brothers stepped in front of him, and told him that they couldn't open any presents until their parents were up. With a smirk, the older boy told him that until then, they could get into their Christmas stockings.
Clint looked over to the fireplace, and was surprised to see stockings hanging there. His step brothers had already gotten theirs, and there were two left. With a frown, Clint went over and examined the stockings. They were made of needlepoint, and they each depicted Christmas scenes. Each stocking was personalized with a name, and Clint's heart fell when he realized one had Barney's name on it, but the other was emblazoned with his foster sister's name.
When Clint asked where his was, his foster brothers both shrugged, hiding their smirks lest Barney see them. Barney came over and lifted his stocking from the hook, and put his arm around Clint's shoulders telling him that he would share until they found Clint's. His tone indicated that whoever had hidden it would suffer his wrath, but Clint suspected that Santa was sending him a message, letting him know he hadn't been fooled.
Clint sat next to his brother, despondent. He watched apathetically as Barney pulled oranges and apples and puzzles and other small toys from the stocking. He didn't want to share Barney's stocking. It wasn't fair to his brother. He nodded as Barney displayed each thing he pulled out, but didn't reach for anything.
Barney had long since pulled the last of the nuts from the bottom of his stocking when their foster parents came down the stairs, carrying their foster sister, and yawning. The little girl wiggled until she was let down, then she ran to get her stocking. As if just remembering something, Clint's foster mother came over to the couch and squatted in front of him, explaining that she had only the time to finish Barney's stocking, but not Clint's. She told him he could share his brother's this year, then next Christmas, he would have his own.
Clint listened, shocked at what she said. Santa hadn't brought the stockings? But he thought... he looked down at a weight on his legs. Barney had given him his stocking, saying he didn't need a bunch of fruit anyway. Clint had just stared at it, only peripherally aware of his foster parents whispered argument over whether she should have bought a stocking of some sort.
Clint swallowed hard and asked meekly if he could open his presents yet. There was a brief pause as all of the children in the room turned hopeful eyes to the adults. Caught red-faced with his anger, the foster father swallowed hard, and smiled gamely, gesturing to the tree and telling the children to go pick a gift.
Clint beelined for his football. When each child had a package in hand, the foster father nodded with a more genuine smile, telling them all to go ahead. With his heart full, Clint pulled off the offensive pink wrapping paper, and found a hard plastic football shaped case. Frowning, but still believing, Clint opened the case, hoping to find his football within. He slumped down when he saw instead that the case was a whimsical dollhouse fitted with little furniture, and with a tiny plastic pony dressed in football gear.
A hard lump formed in his throat as he realized that Santa Claus had been messing with him the entire time, and had never intended to give him a gift. He was a bad boy, and even Santa Claus knew it.
Clint shook himself to free his mind of the smothering memory. He knew Steve couldn't have had any idea that a football shape wrapped in pink would cause him such distress, and he knew he would not under any circumstances find a dollhouse in the wrapping.
He took a deep breath telling himself to man up, and he started picking at the paper. Steve, having delivered gifts to everyone else slid in next to Clint and said, "Sorry about the paper, man. It's all I could find."
"No problem. I just figured you had the hots for Dora the Explorer."
"Is that what that is? I had to get it at this little old Chinese lady's store last night. I don't know where she pulled it from, but I was grateful to get it."
Clint looked over at his team mate like he was crazy. "You could have just taped the bag closed. Oh, wait, is this one of those giant fortune cookies? Because I have to tell you, they're always stale."
Steve grinned in anticipation, "Just open it. I'm pretty sure you're going to like it."
Clint sighed. "Well, as long as there's no pressure." Clint finally got a good grip on the paper, and pulled it all off in one sharp tug. There, in a hard plastic case was a regulation football, and taped to its side were a pair of tickets. With a slow smile, Clint looked closer at the tickets. "Damn, it's for the Pats Giants playoff game! Where the hell'd you get these?"
Steve rolled his eyes. "There are actual perks to being Captain America. There's a parking pass there too. You and Tasha should have a good time."
"Tasha? At a football game? Like that would ever happen. No, you've got to come with me. We'll drink beer and tailgate and watch the Pats go down."
"Seriously? That'd be great!"
"All right, everyone. No more gifts for a little while. Instead, everyone come get their stockings. There's fruit in them and I think we could all use a bit of a sugar boost." Pepper stood up and moved toward the faux fireplace.
Surprisingly, Bruce was the first to stand up. When he saw everyone looking at him, he grinned sheepishly and shrugged. "I've always thought stockings were the best part."
Steve and Clint shared a smile at the scientists enthusiasm, but neither of them stood up. Clint's stomach was tightening up on him again. He'd seen that there was one stocking short, and it so reminiscent of that first Christmas, that he couldn't bring himself to face the disappointment.
"Steven Rogers!" Pepper called out, sounding so much like an aggrieved mother that Steve couldn't help himself. He sat up straight, and gulped. "Yes, Pepper?"
"Where is your stocking?"
Steve relaxed slightly. "It's in my bedroom. If you get up before anyone else, you can take your stocking into your bedroom. That's a rule. I'm surprised you didn't know that, Pepper."
"Yeah, Pepper," Tony called out from his seat, his mind on looking at some toy he'd pulled from his stocking.
"Well, of course I knew that. I just didn't realize you'd gotten up that early. Clint? Are you waiting for someone to bring yours to you, because it's not going to happen."
"Hey, I've got a robot that can bring it to you!"
"No thanks," Clint was casual as he replied and went over to the fireplace. He swallowed a lump in his throat as he looked at the beautifully stitched winter scene on his stocking. He couldn't quite keep the soft smile from his face as he carried it back to his seat. The scent of tangerines and chocolate wafted up, and almost against his will, a hole in his soul was stitched up.