Cherry Picking
If anyone had been passing through the U-Pick Highland Cherry Orchard late one sunny June afternoon, and just happened to stand directly under the tallest tree in the orchard and looked up, that person would have been treated to a spectacular and unique view of Clint Barton's butt.
It would not have been a very clear view, however, as Clint was at the very top of the tree and it was heavily laden with green leaves fluttering in the breeze and deep red fruit hanging in clumps. Having filled four large buckets with the fat cherries, Clint was now perched in the highest limb he could find that would support his weight, watching the clouds float across the sky.
Many people assumed that it was his time in the circus that made the super spy so unafraid of heights. They had it backwards. Clint had never balked at heights, not even as a young child. He had frightened the wits out of every adult in his life with his predilection for climbing anything he could – houses, trees, lamp poles – and then hanging off the edge with his arms spread. Why did you do that? the adult would always screech after he had returned to the ground. The answer was always the same: I wanted to know what it felt like to fly, Clint would say while the adult clutched at him, or checked his limbs for injuries (even though he never fell, not once), or hauled him off to his room. No one ever seemed to hear his answer, though.
Sitting in the tree now, decades later, Clint felt the same pang of longing as he watched two blue jays soaring above the orchard. Sometimes he positively ached to know the thrill of flight first hand. He had flown in planes – hell, he was a pilot himself – and Thor and Iron Man had both carried him while flying during missions, but he wanted more. He wanted to live in the layer between the clouds and the sky where the air was clear and everything was bright and crisp. He wanted to feel the rush of wind as he sped earthward, only to catch himself and drift off lazily, gliding here or there or anywhere or nowhere, or everywhere all at once. The tree swayed lightly in the first evening wind, and Clint closed his eyes and could almost imagine drifting weightlessly through the heavens, like the hawk whose name he shared. A booming voice broke through his daydream.
"Ho there, friend! We must go soon, else we shall be late!" Thor shouted up at him amicably, effortlessly balancing a long ladder over one shoulder. Clint sighed, and swung himself dexterously down to ground. He scooped up his pails of fruit, and noticed that Thor only carried one – a nearly empty one.
"There's nothing in your bucket, Thor," said Clint incredulously. "What have you been doing?"
"No, my friend, it is not empty. See here, I have gathered several handfuls of the churries."
"Cherries."
"Yes, those." He tipped the bucket to show that it wasn't completely empty, but it was far from full.
"Thor, we've been here for two hours. We're supposed to bring back a trunkful for the potluck tonight. Where are your cherries, man?"
The Asgardian grinned, and Clint saw that his teeth were stained dark red. He let his forehead fall forward into his palm with a slap. He knew exactly where Thor's cherries were.