So Father's Day would have been as good a time as any to post this, given it was already six months overdue by that point, but then that too came and went and now here we are another two months down the line. Never let it be said I don't get round to doing things eventually!
Given I'm not the only one who can't seem to accurately stick to the calendar, points for realism/~meta? Ha!
Hope you enjoy :)
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A/N: Title from the lyrics of 'I'll Be Home For Christmas'. So many versions, but I had Michael Buble's on repeat.
Flashbacks are in bold italic.
Anything in another language other than spoken English will generally be in italics.
It's not absolutely-necessary-set-in-stone that you read 'All The Blood That I Would Bleed' before this, but it would certainly explain many a thing leading up to and including this fic. If you don't feel so inclined, I'd be happy to answer any queries that result :)
All The Blood That I Would Bleed: Christmas Special
Where The Love Light Gleams
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"For you, a thousand times over."
Khaled Hosseini, 'The Kite Runner'
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He's nine years old when the foundations start to shake. There's a low hum of warning before the electricity between them sparks and the air crackles and the current runs through their circle and hits each of them in turn.
What hurts one hurts them all, but they're in this together, so it'll be ok.
They'll be ok.
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Arch looks terrible hovering (shaking like a leaf) on the other side of the door, Uncle Phil on one side of him and Gnat on the other.
His face is gray and his lips are blue and his eyes are outlined in red to match the blotches inside, making the purple bruises underneath look even worse. The zipper on his jacket's not even close to cutting off his air supply and his hat's perched on his crown like someone shoved it back to get a better look at him; which all seems nuts because it's snowing outside and there's no seeing anything but the bright white out there, and Francis is getting goosebumps just from opening the door to them.
Arch lifts his head and cracks a smile at him.
"Merry Christmas, kid."
He sounds like a frog, croaking out the words like that. And it's not interference or static on Francis's end; Jackie just fixed him a new set of aids, which are even more awesome than the last pair (and that's saying something!) This is all Arch's doing.
"Told ya I wouldn't miss it," Archer says. Except he totally did and now it's nearly January. They're nearly into a whole new year!
Francis doesn't say this, because Arch looks bad enough as it is and the nine-year old doesn't want to be the one to completely ruin his day. Not when he just got here.
He coughs and wheezes like those old men at Church whose bones rattle when they walk like pennies hitting the bottom of a wishing well. Jack says that's what happens when you survive war and the world you come back to tries to beat you for your trouble. Francis always says an extra prayer for those men, because they can't even get through the Our Father without sounding like they're choking on their own breath; and besides, someone should remember all the good they did before life got bad.
A gust of wind has Francis shivering too (though nowhere near as bad as this lot!) His sweater doesn't offer much by way of protection, even with its hood, now he's subject to the harsh cold of the outside world. A smattering of snow settles on the dark material of his pajama bottoms then melts against the heat of his skin; fading into the black like a series of dying stars.
Archer pitches forward, arms still wrapped tightly around himself like a self-imposed straightjacket. Uncle Phil and Gnat reach out to grab him before he teeters over the edge, while Francis opens his arms to him instinctively.
Then all of a sudden Archer stops and just sways on the spot in a terrifying way that suggests he's not fully in control of himself. Like those figures stuck on a spring that you push further than they're meant to go and they're forced to jump back and forth in limbo until you intervene and drag them back to safety and normality, or momentum runs them into the ground.
He looks like he doesn't know if he's coming or going.
He looks like he's dying.
It's scary as f- that word Francis isn't allowed to say, but thinks would work really well right about now.
Arch reaches out to him, but all he can see is the bloody, broken arrow clenched tight in the elder's fist.
Francis blinks, and then he opens his mouth and screams.
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Jack appears before the boy's even reached the high note; sleeves of her camel-colored sweater already rolled up, thick wool bunching at her elbows, and a weapon in hand that Phil suspects is intended to look that amount of distracting. The fancy outer casing doesn't lend much insight into the true nature of the device, but he has no doubt it packs a punch. There's a reason she's still considered a serious threat; and like present company, if anything, age and experience have only made her all the more deadly.
Clint stops clutching his head like it's about to explode, and lifts his eyes in the direction of the silencer.
"'S'at a weapon in your hand, Jack, or 'you jus' happy to see me?" the archer slurs the words; frowning when he hears himself and dragging a hacking cough from his insides as he works doggedly to keep the shaky smile in place.
Jack rolls her eyes and fiddles with whatever that thing is and the minute green light on the side is replaced with red. She hands it off to Phil, with the instruction, "It'll take a minute to power down completely, so no sudden movements if you please."
Phil looks from it to her and then back again. This is payback for something.
"Grab him before he keels over, would you?" she directs at Natasha, and apparently they're all done here because she then turns and motions for the redhead to follow after her, muttering, "Just how I wanted to start the New Year, cleaning up after you lot again."
Oh yes, this is definitely payback.
The kid has scampered off to do his guardian's bidding, all too eager to be shot of the situation, so Phil is left standing alone with an unidentified contraption that is whirring suspiciously loudly as it thaws the cold of his open palms.
"Steady hands, Phil!" comes the shout from Jack as she moves further away from the last place she saw him and he suppresses the urge to do anything by way of immediate retaliation.
If they ever need proof that this woman doesn't take kindly to people arriving on her doorstep unannounced, this would be it. And in the grand scheme of things he considers himself a friendly.
It'd been unnaturally cold out and it's left him feeling as if every single one of his limbs is conspiring against him to send full body shivers from his head to his toes.
His hands are starting to shake.
And Jack's just handed him a bomb.
What a holly jolly Christmas indeed.
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"Hey!" Natasha snaps at him and succeeds in regaining his sluggish blinking attention once more.
His hands are still resting on the lapels of his jacket. Clint peers down at them as if to assess their usefulness and then begins fiddling hopelessly with the zip at the front. If his current mental state couldn't already be called into question, his actions are further hindered by the fact he's still clutching onto the broken arrow shaft. Natasha places her hands on top of his and eases them away.
"Pay attention, Barton," she tells him and her lips twitch in a steady pattern with the words. As she slips his jacket off his shoulders and starts rolling it down his arms, she leans forward to whisper a smile against the sheet of ice that's spread across his skin, "This is the fun part."
And then she proceeds to strip him of all his clothes.
Clint comes to again when she reaches his pants, because he's never been one to miss a trick and he's not about to start now.
"We gettin' naked, Tash?" comes the rasp, with a smile that's as uneven as his balance right now. He leans back to rake his eyes over her while she snaps open the buttons. "'Cos 'm way ahead of you here."
He pulls his hands from where she'd ensured they were tucked back under his armpits (split stick still in his grasp) and reaches for her as if to return the favor. She secures his fingers between her own and slides a new set of gloves on him instead, careful not to catch any serrated edges on her own skin; the splinters from those things can be a bitch to get out.
"Wait, hold up," he objects, voice crackling, and he frowns at the added layer of clothes she's putting back on him, "This isn' how it works."
"You're right, this isn't how it works." His gaze lifts back up to her face, the sound of agreement in her voice and the counter-moves she's making registering a fraction too late as she pulls the rug out from beneath him in the form of his pants. She tugs on his bottoms just enough that they slip down his legs and pool at his feet, and when his brain seems to catch up fully with what she's doing and how she's looking at him, he tilts his head to the side and sends her a crooked grin. Well-played, partner. "This is how I work."
Natasha moves quickly to replace his pants with a couple of newer, warmer pairs from the pile of clothing Jack had left out before disappearing off to gather whatever else is needed to get their archer back on track and firmly planted in the land of the living.
This time Clint actually attempts to help her help him and shifts his ass so she can slide the thermal liners and pants up over his hips.
He looks like he wants to say something, but wheezes out a breath instead before a coughing fit interrupts anything further.
Natasha's kneeling before him; having just slipped the insulated socks over the icy skin of his feet, when she finds him bent double over her, a protective shell above her.
"My Savior," Clint breathes out, the words disjointed against her hairline, eventually converging to allow his lips to settle across the skin on her temple.
She turns into his touch and reaches up to brace him in the warmth of her palm, using her other hand to smooth down the edges of his beanie; ensuring even the parts of him that are out of her line of sight are still fully protected.
Her thumb hovers over the exact spot where the deep red line breaks in two around his throat and she swallows as she focuses on it. She knows she'd only have to look at his wrist to complete the circle, at the new lifeline crisscrossing his palm.
"Just because it's you saying it doesn't mean it's true," Natasha reasons and her body shakes as the frost begins to disperse and layer by layer, she takes on the ice he's harboring within, "Besides, you'd already saved yourself long before I came along."
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"I'll trade you," the boy proposes and sounds oddly detached about the whole thing. Phil frowns as Francis holds out his end of the deal like that makes it any more tempting. It doesn't.
He's being asked to pass off what's likely the equivalent of an IED to a nine-year-old in exchange for a bundle of warm, dry clothes. Possibly a hot chocolate if the steaming mug on that nearby coaster is anything to go by. And it usually is.
"It won't blow," Francis tells him with a low shrug, like he's not particularly concerned either way. And though Phil knows she wouldn't have left the boy near live ordnance that could in any way harm him, he's still not entirely convinced it won't do damage to his own person. "It's still a prototype – or it's one of the throw-out-and-start-again ones. Jack's better at keeping track of which one's which." The boy tosses this information around like it's going to alleviate any of the tension Phil's currently feeling. It's not.
After things have settled down, they're going to have to have a talk about Francis's definition of helping and how he seems to have a tendency to do the exact opposite; especially where his mouth is concerned. Although since Jack would appear to be the only one who can successfully (and continuously) get the boy to keep his trap shut, and given the current state of affairs, it's not surprising that Phil has some reservations about broaching that particular subject.
"It's one or the other, but if you keep shaking it up and down like that it's bound to make a mess," Francis says, following each jostle and jiggle with a clear set of eyes. He snakes a hand out from under the pile of blankets, "So, I'm jus' gonna take it," and plucks the device up with speedy, spindly fingers; dropping a replacement into the elder's open palms in the form of a pair of thick woolen socks.
Phil's fingers curl round the gift and he lifts his gaze to stare at the boy.
Francis is concentrating on fiddling with something on the side of the possible IED and he thrusts out his elbow, arm laden down with various pieces of clothing, as he distractedly appeals for the elder to: "Take these, would you?"
Phil does as he's asked, holds the group together and keeps them pressed close to his chest as he watches the boy-genius at work.
Francis has always had quick little fingers (perfect for sleight-of-hand work, much to the delight of Phil's own charges) and he would appear to be putting them to good use here.
Of course then the boy drops the device onto the nearby counter with a little less thought and care than perhaps he ought to extend towards a may-or-may-not-be-explosive-piece-of-equipment. This is immediately followed by him using fewer digits than Phil would consider advisable to deftly lift the handle of the still-steaming-cup and present it to the elder for consumption.
"I really wish you wouldn't do things like that," Phil says and he means it.
Francis flicks his wrist in much the same manner as he disposed of the now apparently deactivated hunk of Jack-made metal machinery, dismissing the elder's concerns and holding out the warm mug for Phil to wrap both hands around. The smell of melted chocolate fills his senses and he looks down at the whipped cream swirled high atop the bobbing marshmallows, decorated with an indulgent scattering of red, green and white candy sprinkles in the shape of Santa hats, Christmas trees and snowflakes.
A candy cane appears before him, pinched between thumb and forefinger and accompanied by the observation, "You'll need a stirrer."
Phil accepts it all with a smile, because this, at least, holds the boy's usual flair; and it is a thoughtful gesture.
It's certainly a more acceptable gift to put a person in the Christmas spirit (which Barton is adamant hasn't passed by them yet) than a home-grown bomb. Then again, he should know by now that knocking on Jack's door never results in a simple open-armed welcome.
"It was a chuck-out-and-start-again one," Francis enlightens him. Like this makes all the difference.
The boy's been spending too much time with the terrible twosome.
Phil levels him with a look.
"What? It was!" the nine-year-old responds, but his tone is distinctly lacking in the drama and hysteria he tends to bestow upon such claims, "Jackie'd never have left you to wander the house alone with a real live bomb!"
Call him Doubting Thomas (and Jack would, and she'd appreciate the use of the reference too), but Phil will believe that when he sees it.
The boy shrugs again, and this should (and sort of does) make all the difference, "It was only tech-based, so it only really singed me when I got parts wrong – see?" He sticks out his thumb for Phil to look at and it's swollen red. Honestly, Phil's more interested in the fact the boy still has fingerprints at this stage. "S'what Jackie likes to call a learning curve," Francis explains with a wry look. "I'm jus' glad it never covered me in that glow-in-the-dark paint we bought at Halloween. Though that was pretty great fun when we paintball-ed the house with it." There's a fleeting smile reminiscent of an accompanying memory and then a quick frown of defense and accusation is directed Phil's way. "She wouldn't just go throwing something around here if it had that plasticine stuff inside, so I knew you wouldn't be going kablooey anytime soon."
"That's a comfort," is his return remark.
Francis looks like he wants to smile.
Phil doesn't offer him the encouragement.
"It's a wonder you don't entertain houseguests more often," he comments and knocks back a liberal swig of the drink made especially for him.
"And yet you keep finding a reason to come back," Francis astutely observes as he's always been taught to.
Phil concedes this time, because the boy makes a good point (not to mention an above average hot chocolate).
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Clint's sitting on the edge of the bed staring bleary-eyed up at her, draped in blankets of various colors and designs for the season.
Jack returns and tosses a bundle in her direction, making a beeline for the sudden mute in front of her. "Put those on," the elder instructs and looks up at Natasha from where she's now taken her place kneeling before her partner, "You're no good to him cold, and you're no good to any of us if you end up like him."
Well there's no chance of that happening.
She's not cold, but she strips of the clothes on her back and pulls on the ones Jack's given to her anyway. She keeps her gaze trained steadily on her partner and counts the breaths that manage to escape his clenched jaw through small puffs between his lips.
"You gonna give up the blade while I check you out, or you planning on sticking me with it if I get too close?" she hears Jack ask and watches him slowly, blinkingly, track the path from one female to the other.
It's a valid question of course. Clint is still clutching the broken arrow between taut, bloody fingers, but down-turned and pressed close into his side it looks nothing more than a splintered car aerial. Anything can be made into a weapon in their hands, and something with a sharp edge is already doing half the work for them.
"D'pends," he manages to say, swallows tightly and slurs the accompaniment, "Your fingers gonna find their way to my carotid to try finish the job?"
Jack huffs, rolls her eyes, and extends her hand towards him. "Give me that, you big lug," she instructs, and though he makes no move to comply, the split shaft reemerges in the elder's hand as she rocks back on her heels and a pulse oximeter appears clipped onto his finger.
The weapon is tossed off to the side and Jack begins inspecting the worst of the damage around his trachea while Clint watches it go with a frown. "No, tha's not – I might – " he protests, cutting off any attempt at forming a coherent sentence as he half-heartedly pushes at the blankets cocooned around him, scooting forward slightly and clumsily reaching out in the direction of the discarded arrow.
Jack ignores his attempts to reunite himself with this new prized possession of his and makes quick work of setting up the X-Ray machine (which isn't even remotely similar to the one Natasha was subjected to when she was at the mercy of this form of medical expertise and apparently in need of radiographed imagery of her insides).
Clint looks to her then and because she's his partner, and this is apparently one of those things that fall under that rather large, all-encompassing, umbrella of things they do for one another without having to be asked, she takes a couple of steps to the side and bends to retrieve the arrow shaft herself. She runs her finger along the length of it, but strays away from the split jagged edge and chipped point, ensuring it has remained as intact as he'd last felt it. She keeps a tight hold of it, tucking it neatly between her fingers; this prize, this weapon. This lifesaver.
"No more talking," Jack instructs her partner, while holding out her arm behind her and blindly passing Natasha a lead apron. "No more moving either. You can continue your sad little tale in a minute once I check your breathing tubes aren't collapsing in on themselves or something equally as terrible."
And that's exactly happens.
"'Stuck the guy good, s'my trophy," Clint informs them hoarsely when he's allowed to move and speak once more, looking forlornly in the direction Jack tossed the arrow. Natasha wonders if he realizes it's no longer in the far corner, but lanced within her steady grip. He swallows and proclaims, "I's lucky."
"Oh yeah?" Jack says to that, and bats his protesting hands away with ease to tuck a couple of heat-pads wrapped in cloth under his arms and rearrange the thick covers around his bulky frame. "That its name? Lucky? 'Got yourself a pet now, do you?"
The elder removes the last of the equipment from on and around his person as she speaks, checking the results from each. Apparently satisfied with what she's seeing, she starts to finish patching him up.
His head lolls to the side and he seems to consider this for a moment.
"Wha' d'you think, Nat?" He's not quite with it; so it's debatable whether the wink he sends her is intentional or the result of his crooked smile attempting to prop up the rest of him while his eyelids make a valiant attempt to slide fully shut. "Can we keep 'im?"
Either way, her lips curve in response and her feet lead her back to his side. Of course he noticed her picking up the pieces after him; he always has eyes on her. She places one hand on his shoulder, fiddling with the covers there and readjusting them just so. Another round of shivers run through him and his body jerks sharply with the movement. She doesn't take it personally.
She opens the palm of her other hand and presents him with what he'd been looking for.
"It's an arrow," Jack enunciates as she steps back into the fold, equipment and all sorts slotted back into their hidey-holes until next time. She beats Natasha to it, with a tone that's not too far off the one she'd have used as well. Apparently the elder's indulgence for ridiculousness only extends so far. He may not be fully cognizant at present, but Clint's not Francis; he doesn't get an all-inclusive free pass to just about everything like the kid does.
"S'lucky," he insists, cheeks twitching and teeth flashing between lips that are slowly beginning to regain their color; blue slips to purple as the bloody residue from torn flesh shows itself once more. It'd be reminiscent of his usual self and amuse her a Hell of a lot more if he didn't wrap his fingers around the arrow with such reverence and exhale in the same moment as he says, "Thanks, 'Tasha."
Natasha looks to the other woman, but there's not a peep from her. She knows the elder clutches at her rosary beads and prays to the Lord the same way, but Jack's never grudged them their own rituals and mercies.
"Neck and groin," is the instruction Natasha receives when the woman appears by her side, lifts her hand, and slaps a couple more wrapped-up heat pads into her palm. "You can do the honors while I go see about some soup for you all." Jack passes over duty of care once more, which Natasha supposes is also her way of leaving the pair to recover the rest of themselves. "Keep an eye on his concussion and shout on me if he's having any issues with his breathing besides the current attempt to imitate Wheezy when the mood takes him."
Then she gestures to the tumbler on the nearby side table, lid closed and encased in a protective sleeve.
"And get him to drink more of that; knock his core temp. up," Jack tells her, "Make him use the straw too, it'll help with the swallowing when he's trying to be all macho and pretend he can take a near strangulation on the chin and then just waltz right on up to my door and have me patch him up like I've got nothing better to do with my time."
Natasha watches Clint track Jack's movements with tired eyes and a slack mouth. A piece of paper and a pen is pressed into Natasha's free hand, because Lord-forbid the woman should go without leaving a lasting impression.
"Try to keep him awake 'til he's more lucid." Jack gestures to the gift she's just bestowed upon the younger, laughing as she adds, "This should help. Although don't be surprised if you two end up with lumps of coal in your stockings. That's what happens when you don't make any attempt to get on his Nice List."
Of course Jack would be only too willing to indulge Clint in his hypothermia/strangulation/concussion-induced-delirium that tomorrow-is-Christmas-and-we're-all-going-to-be-together-to-celebrate when there's the prospect that it'll grate on Natasha's nerves. The woman is responsible for delivering some admirably creative forms of payback.
"I'd rather just have arrows," Clint mutters, like this should be an obvious preference for anyone to receive as a gift rather than a miniscule donation from the world's fossil fuel reserves. Some vague sense of recognition seems to flicker in those glassy eyes of his as they reflect the infusion of color from the Christmas lights still tacked round the window opposite.
"You already have an arrow," Jack points out, which includes pointing to the object in hand as well as the man holding it, "You'd be lucky to get a lump of coal right now. Probably just what you need in fact, 'warm you right up."
Natasha shoots the elder a look because Jack's practically carol-singing now, and this so-called present of hers is clearly intended to be along the same vein.
The crisp snow-white parchment has a border of candy canes, elf hats and reindeer antlers sprinkled round the paper's edge. In large swoops and swirls of a glitter-red pen, it reads: Dear Santa, All I want for Christmas is…
"He's all yours," Jack says to Natasha as she takes her leave; like anyone of them really believe that.
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Francis is on the sofa, tucked into the far side and pressed about as far as he can go into the stack of cushions.
Jack and Uncle Phil are in the kitchen opposite having a discussion – of sorts.
They're not being nearly as quiet and vague as they usually are when he's around, and these new aids Jackie gave him have awesome range, so he's picking up more than he usually would. He's hardly spying on them, in fact he's a pretty obvious feature occupying the space with them, but sometimes… sometimes he wonders if they ever forget he's there. He knows Jackie never could. You're in my eyes, Birdie; is what she'd told him once when he was younger and wanted to know if their games of hide-and-seek would ever become lost-and-unclaimed. They tried to take her eyes from her once; they couldn't even get one. So it won't matter if anyone's stupid enough to try again, 'cos he's not going anywhere, not in her eyes. Besides, she sees the world differently now. It's not just her anymore, she's got backup. At least, that's what Francis thinks.
He stretches back over the armrest and reaches out to nab the heavy-set poker and immediately starts to prod at the stack of logs roasting away in the fireplace.
"Two visits over the course of a decade, which require you to dip into your hoard of medical supplies and employ basic first aid," the man recounts. "So, give or take a year, you're looking at another four before we have need of your affecting bedside manner again. Surely that's enough notice to ensure I'm not greeted with a homemade explosive next time?"
That's a little dramatic. Francis disarmed it without instruction. Jack said she was proud of him when he told her how he did it, but her eye did that weird shimmering thing where all the color fades into white, so he thinks he'll leave it a while before he does anymore.
Also, he's not sure anything Jackie does for them could be described as basic. It's probably just one of those things they say when they mean the exact opposite. They hardly ever say what they mean. It can get pretty annoying.
"And I can't believe you think so little of me," Uncle Phil remarks, and he folds his arms over his chest as he continues to lean against the edge of the counter, watching Jackie's every move, waiting to see what she'll do, what she'll say. "What a cheap way of asking you to resurrect Mother Mary. Unless it worked, in which case it was my intention all along."
"Don't call me that," Jack snaps, as mad as a ravenous dog and more ferocious than Francis has ever heard her. She looks to Francis and her eyes flicker and shrink back on themselves and she directs a sneer Uncle Phil's way with the words, "You bring trouble to my door step. That needs to stop."
Still gripping the fire-poker in hand, Francis aims a particularly vicious move at the log positioned as the anchor. Those relying on its seemingly steady and constant presence come tumbling down in a spluttering shock of glowing embers and a whoosh of rising flames.
Jackie's gaze switches to Francis and the slow raise of her brow tells him she's not in the mood for his antics on top of everything else. Francis knows the phrase if you play with fire, you'll get burned; they've taught it at every school he's ever been to. He's not sure he's ever heard them chant the lesson Jack's more partial to: don't start a fire if you can't outrun the flames, the heat will consume you and the smoke will steal every breath 'til it owns your last.
His hold loosens on the would-be weapon of destruction, allowing the adults to pick right back up where they left off.
"If you seriously believe it's our involvement that's the reason the idyllic life keeps eluding you, you've spent far too much time away from civilization." Uncle Phil sounds as cool as ever, which should be telling of how this is going to go; except you can never quite tell with Jackie. That's usually half the fun of it.
"No one's striving for The Little House on the Prairie here, Phil," she says, and it sounds like she's talking behind her teeth rather than through them. "I'd simply prefer it if we didn't have to adopt the fugitive life every time you and yours decide to drop by for a little visit."
Uncle Phil sounds like he's passing on a lesson learned. "Then you never should've let us get that close."
Jack narrows her eyes at the man and then lifts the wooden spoon out of the pot to point it at him. Uh-oh, Francis thinks and he is so right. "Stop drawing unnecessary attention to our position and bringing added trouble to our doorstep, Phil." She's all calm again, calm like she gets when she's in a no-nonsense sort of mood and you better believe you'll listen to every word she says or so help you. "You're not all as close as you think."
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"There's so much red, Nat," Archer spits out the words like he'd rather be saying, rather be seeing, anything else but this.
"I know," Gnat's voice is quiet and steady and Francis isn't sure if she can really see what Archer can, because they're partners and that's how they work; or if she's just pretending because when left to her own devices it's all she knows to do.
"It's killing me, Tasha."
"It can try," she counters, "What you're seeing isn't real, you're in the black."
His hands are clutching either side of his head, his eyes screwed tightly shut and he doesn't look like he's dying anymore. He looks like he's being tortured by his own mind and it is absolutely terrifying.
"I can't breathe, Nat, I can't think straight," Archer chokes out, "It's all red – everything – everything's red."
"Listen to me, you're not in the red," Gnat tells him, digging her heels in. "The red's mine. And I can take it."
He comes to a moment later, gasping and grappling for purchase against her. "Shit, Nat," he breathes out, sounds like he's dragging the air across gravel and sand and snuffing out a fire pit beneath. Francis watches his fingers bend and clutch and claw at her, anchoring himself beneath her skin. "'Feel like I'm drowning here."
"I've got you," she says, and he dips further forward, his head nestling into her neck and she cradles him in her arms, protecting his head from any outside threats while she tries her damndest to fix what's within, "I've got you."
.
Francis turns and hightails it out of there. He grabs his shell pants and jacket on his way, yanking them on and stomping his boots on the welcome mat to shove his feet inside. With one arm through his sleeve and the adjoined hand already fully sheathed in its glove he slams the door shut, and then slips his way across the porch.
He tears across the thick white to the big tree that stands bent double against the wind and the snow. He only makes it about half way up the bark when his feet slide right out from under him. He reaches for the nearest branch, but he's still not quite hit that growth spurt Gnat keeps teasing him about ("What do they put in your American water? Am I destined to be surrounded by dwarves the rest of my life? Why do none of you people grow properly here?") and he falls all the way back down to the solid ground below.
He lies there for a while, staring up at the white falling from above.
And then he starts to move, slowly fanning out his arms and legs.
In. Out.
Just like breathing.
"I'm drowning."
In. Out.
If he can do it so can Archer.
He scrunches up his eyes against the bright white beckoning him from above. He doesn't have his shades or his goggles to hand and it's already beginning to sear his insides; wiping everything else from his mind.
He keeps going.
In. Out.
His arms arch around him and his legs carve out their own place in the ground beneath him.
In. Out.
Maybe if he makes an angel of his own, one of God's warriors will come down and save Arch. Stop the ice from melting on the branches of his insides.
.
Fingers prod at Francis's eyelids and he tries to shrink away from the blinding light until a dark shape takes form above him and casts him under its more bearable shadow.
Gnat appears in his field of vision, kneeling beside him, leaning over him, hands now on his upper arms as she shakes him silly.
"I've been calling you," she tells him, red hair falling over her cheeks, closing in around her mouth. She frowns when he does.
Her hands move up to his face again, stopping when they reach the thick band of his woolen hat and there's nothing else underneath but his skull and the squishy flaps of his ears as they bend easily under her will.
She signs, "Why did you take your aids out?"
Francis shrugs as he pushes himself up fully, squinting in the light and stumbling over the words, "Didn't want to hear him hurting no more."
Like it's just that easy to turn off the sound of their lives.
Just because he can't hear the pain, doesn't mean he can't see it; it doesn't mean he can't still feel it.
He bites his lip and it barely even stings when he runs his tongue over it, it's so cold. It's like he's crunching on ice cubes when he speaks. He wonders if Gnat can hear it.
She looks to the flattened snow around him, the white caked to the blue of his winter gear.
"What were you doing out here?" she asks.
Francis doesn't have to look down at the earth beneath him to know it isn't shaped how he wants it to be.
He shrugs again, lifts his hands to sign his response and finds they're too stiff to work like he wants them to.
He drops them to the ground again by his side and huffs out, "'S'posed to be a snow angel."
Gnat cocks her head to the side and inspects the impact he's made on the world. "Show me?" she requests, holding out her hand for him to take.
There are deep holes in the snow where his own hands rest and she doesn't say a word even though he can barely straighten his gloves out of the fists they've formed, encrusted in ice.
They lie back together and make angels in the snow.
Eventually his fingers unfurl and Francis winces at the cramp that shoots through his palms in their wake.
Uncle Phil comes out onto the porch and he lifts his head a minute after Gnat does.
He wonders if Uncle Phil's looking at their version of the angels, or if he's thinking of the totally unfunny, non-joke that's been making the rounds again lately.
What's blue and red and white all over?
The American Flag.
Francis can think of different answer, and it's no funnier than the original.
What's blue and red and white all over?
Blood and bruises freezing in the snow.
.
"You shouldn't have come after me," the kid says, after Natasha takes his outstretched hand and rises above him.
She wants to tell him that that will never be an option. They will always come after him, always come for him. They wouldn't be here now if it wasn't for him. And they all came willingly.
Instead she says none of this, just dusts off the snow from her clothes while he voices his true concern, "You'll get all cold again. You'll get like him."
"No, he was hurt before," she leaves it at that; won't dwell on the thought for either of their sakes.
They step up to the porch and Phil holds open the door for them to slip inside.
She's about to tsk at his insinuation that something as base as the weather could bring her to her knees, prepares to distract him with a remark about "In Soviet Russia…" but following that with "the cold gets you" seems detrimental to her aim here. Instead she shakes her head and gestures to herself. "Russian, remember?" She knows he does. It's a cop out, and she can tell he was half-expecting butchered signs to go along with the warbled movement of her lips spitting out an overly exaggerated accent; lack of hearing on his side be damned.
"Jackie's from Ireland, but you don't see her holed up inside a potato and acting like everything's fine and dandy living in its skin," is what he tells her in response to that. There's much to decipher in the statement; not least because the land of Jackie's birthwould likely be the first to deny any knowledge of her existence, motives or actions, if she were to make an appearance in the real world again; regardless of whether or not this was accompanied by her former displays of patriotism and love for The Emerald Isle. That, or they'd shoot her on sight before anyone was any the wiser; but that could depend on the day of the week as much as the top honcho's mood (an arrangement not so dissimilar to Natasha's with her mother country). And he doesn't even touch on his own supposed Swedish heritage, which Natasha knows the other woman gifted to him.
All of which, while interesting, is not what really garners her attention. No, that's reserved for how ridiculous he sounds. It's also so utterly him she can't help but laugh.
The kid ducks out of reach and glides across to the fire, yanking off his boots and tugging his hat and glove from icy extremities. There's a thud as the soles hit the edging and he marks his place by pinning the others to the line, holding out his palms to lick the flames that dance across his skin like the rise of the morning sun.
He unzips his coat and reaches into one of the side pockets to retrieve his aids and connect them back into his ears. It would be a lot easier if he just turned them off or overrode the automatic volume control Jackie's no doubt installed, instead of pulling them out whenever he doesn't want to listen to something as has apparently become his habit, but nothing with this kid is ever easy so it's to be expected.
She's still laughing when he turns to look at her, and he appears so pleasantly surprised by the first thing he hears that she stops and blinks back at him, unprepared for his reaction.
"You should do that more often, Gnat," the kid tells her with the utmost seriousness, and his face splits in half with the abruptness of the smile that follows, "No wonder Arch thinks it's Christmas."
.
Francis turns instantly and begins tugging insistently at her hand, chanting her name in an exceptionally low tone. She knows he's spotted something, that he wants her attention enough he's willing to speak without his aids in a public place; but he's hesitant enough in case someone overhears and he can't regulate his own volume.
And then Natasha hears a voice bellow, "Is that one of my little helper's I see?"
She looks up. There is a man watching them. An old man decked out in a red velvet suit, complete with white fluffy gloves and black welly boots and a hat with a fluffy white bobble at the end. And he is watching the pair of them with a brimming smile and open arms.
Like she's just going to let the kid run into this fat stranger's arms.
Why the kid had to choose the jumper embroidered with the words 'Santa's Little Helper' for their trip to the mall is beyond her; because this is the sort of thing that happens as a result.
"Come now, my elf friend, bring my little helper over and he can tell Santa Claus what he would like for Christmas this year," the man – Santa – beckons of her.
The kid's looking up at her with those big, pleading eyes, still clutching her hand between his own absolutely miniscule ones.
It should be noted that she's also questioning her own sanity right now. Why did she agree to wear the ridiculous red and green wooly hat, with the fake pointed ears? Oh right, for him. Still, she's starting to regret resisting her initial urge to ram a candy cane through one of Barton's limbs for cornering her before she left with the all-too-gleeful words, "Don't forget your hat, Gnat. You gotta wear it. Kid picked it out for you special' so you two'd match!"
She takes a breath and then a step towards the big fat man in the red suit who looks like Christmas has well and truly come early. Wow. She's definitely not taking her eyes off this one.
She looks down and the kid is absolutely beaming, eyes transfixed on the figure of his holiday dreams.
She holds back on the sigh she so desperately wants to let out and allows herself to be led into the crafted Winter Wonderland.
The twinkling lights decorating every inch of the place bounce off the kid's face, and his hair looks positively halo-golden in the soft glow of the fake fireplace.
The big man himself has taken his seat in the armchair of equally large stature and he opens his arms to the kid once more, his jovial tone filling every nook and cranny in the place except the little ear canals of the boy by her side.
Francis looks up at her and she nods and gives him a little nudge forward. He keeps hold of her hand as he moves to scramble up onto the character's lap and doesn't let go even when he's sufficiently settled.
The man rattles off his speech, awaiting input and getting none. He asks the sort of things befitting to his character and the season, delivering lines she imagines he poses to all the children that pass through his doors, but still the kid doesn't respond.
When Santa looks to her with questions in his eyes, a call for help, her lips quirk and she gives the kid's hand a little squeeze. At which point Francis launches into an exceptionally articulate account of each and every thing he would like for Christmas. He doesn't scrimp on the details either, because it's not for his Christmas, but Jack's and Archer's and Gnat's and Uncle Phil's; and could Santa do that? Please and thank you? That'd be aces!
They walk through the candy cane archway together with their arms laden down with multi-colored boxes, overflowing with masses of shiny ribbon and swooping bows.
When she looks to him, the kid is giddy with delight; eyes bright and lips laughing. And fuck if that isn't a sight Natasha would kill to keep around.
.
His eyes snap open. His whole hand is wrapped tight around the kid's wrist and fuck he hopes he hasn't snapped any baby-sized bones. That'd be a fucking great Christmas present to give the kid that would.
He blinks, retracting his fingers and releasing his hold. The fog's still there, clouding his judgment, his actions. The kid's fingers return to his neck, gently prodding at the bandage there, the torn skin underneath and the mottled bruising spilling over the edges.
"Did ya get 'm?" the kid asks. He's not signing, just staring blue into Clint's eyes.
He jerks his head down to try get a look at the kid's hand, maybe he did more damage than he realized.
"The ones that did this – that – the ones that hurt you," the kid explains, pulling his hands away from Clint's wounds to convey his thoughts in another language. "D'you get them?"
The voice in his head is no more trustworthy than the one that shreds across his teeth, so he nods instead, swallows against the pain, and concentrates on reorganizing the joints in his own digits to sign yes.
"Good," the kid says quietly, resolutely, and it has nothing to do with his inability to hear himself.
Clint unclenches his fist and the shorn, spindly weapon rolls across his palm and starts to climb his fingers like rungs on a ladder.
The kid reaches out and takes it for himself, staring intently at it for a moment from splinters to point, before he pulls his legs out from under himself and stands to leave. Arrow in hand.
"Wait, where're you – ?" His arm collides with the bedside table and he grasps the nearest thing he can reach on top that'll do the least damage to the décor. That just so happens to be a soup spoon, and he flicks it across the space towards the light switch. The direct hit cuts out the glow from the sidelamp, making the kaleidoscope strung up across the window distractingly brighter, and the kid turns at the change.
Clint doesn't think he'll ever wrap his head round Jack's idea of effective wiring and electrics, which is another reason he tries to stay on her good side. Anything designed by the woman is done so in a manner that is meant to be as frustratingly complicated as it is admirably precarious and trying to decipher any of it would be a suicide mission. Which he reckons is exactly the way she likes it.
"Where you goin' with… what you gon' do with my arrow?" he asks, so used to speaking and signing simultaneously when they're all here together. The hoarseness gets the better of him though so he's breathless with the effort and really not on board with the separation and distance being imposed on him here. He feels the need to stress, "S'lucky."
He thinks this point has already been covered. In fact, he's almost sure it has.
He got them, and he got them good with his arrow.
This arrow, it's lucky.
"It's a reminder, s'evidence; but it's the past," the kid tells him, doesn't sign it because that'd mean relinquishing his hold on the arrow, which he's clearly not about to do. "I'm going to burn it."
Right, of course he is.
The kid and Jack don't really do keepsakes, and that's not so much a rule as a way of life. People are more important than things (until they're not), plus stuff generally loses its appeal when it's blackened and charred and crumbles to ash with a single touch.
"You should watch," the kid advises, "S'not the same as rigging something up yourself, but it's good." He pushes the door open and leaves it as far as it will go so Clint only has to tilt his head a little further to set his eyes on the open range, and repeats, "You should watch."
"Give the broken weapon back to the nice man, Birdie," Jack's voice calls out, lyrically amused, interrupting the kid's journey before her figure does, not that the nine-year-old seems to notice. She appears next to her charge and plucks the arrow from little fingers, quick and spindly though they may be. "It won't burn anyway, not like you want it to," she educates the boy, lest he be disappointed at the lack of action about to take place. "May as well let him keep it and save us the trouble of contracting epoxy poisoning while we're at it."
She turns and eyes Clint through the open doorway, not unlike how he'd scope out a target, and he really hopes she's not planning to come for him next because that wouldn't be much fun at all.
"He's still not quite with it," Phil speaks up in a way that means more than he's saying. It always does. Clint's gaze skips to the door where a shadow moves between the hinges, giving away the man's position.
"So I'd noticed," she responds with the distinct bite of a she-wolf.
Light and shade shift in the hallway and Clint figures Coulson's got his arm's crossed, staring the elder down. They probably had a spat earlier, wouldn't be the first time.
"Good thing I didn't set him up on the couch or he'd have us all settling down for a wee nap, basking in toxic fumes." For the kid's benefit, she adds, "Should've had you ask Santa for a Chemistry book, 'kill me in my sleep at this rate."
"Surely you've taught him better than that," is Phil's snap response, an edge of truth in the teasing, and not for the first time Clint wonders where his partner is. And then he thinks oh shit, because the kid still believes in Santa and the elves and their magic and all that holiday stuff, right?
He clears his throat and opens his mouth and pushes himself up, locking his elbows against the tremors that snake up the veins of his arms. Before he sabotages his own intentions, limbs crumpling beneath him and lungs deciding they don't fancy giving him more than they already have, he wants to tell their Agent Extraordinaire to shut the fuck up already, because he can't ruin Christmas for the kid the first time they're all together. That'd be shit and Clint'd no doubt get the blame, which would also be shit.
Good ol' Jack beats him to it. Apparently they're still on the same wavelength for some things, which is fan-fucking-tastic when it works out at moments like this.
"Like you've taught yours?" she returns just as steadfast. She blows out a breath, irritation dissipating like the fresh powder kicked up in the wake of their journey. "Give your Archer back his arrow, Birdie, before he attempts a rescue mission and undoes all my charitable work," she smiles and shares it between them and that's a magic unto itself, "It is Christmas, after all."
.
When his eyes snap open next his mind's still playing catch-up and the uneven spread of his body does nothing to help make sense of the haze.
Natasha's by his side, curled like the crescent moon. His other arm is free, but only so far as to be dangled over the edge with a distinctly familiar little hand hooked onto his fingers.
He should've predicted the kid would end up tucked under bed; hearing aid charger within the fist of the kid's other hand. When Clint twists sideways to check, claim something real and true in this mess he's got himself into, Santa's face stares back at him from the black below. There's a glowing promise of the big man 'Coming Soon in 3D' and Clint huffs out a laugh as he settles back onto the mattress.
His body protests, muscles straining at the position he's put them in. It never gets easier, but he prefers the pain of presence to the alternative.
When the kid hands him the arrow, Clint tries to explain its importance. That it's not so much that it's an arrow, his primary choice of weapon, but what he did with it, what it means. It's a symbol.
"They didn' get me," he says, licks his lips and aims for fewer words if it means less swallowing, smaller breaths and not as much pain, "'Tried to, but didn't. S'why it's lucky," he tells the kid, starts to sign again because right now it makes both their lives easier, "It helped me survive."
"That's why you should burn it or – " There's conflict on his young face, because Jack's just told him their tried and tested method won't work on this and that causes problems, clearly. "You shouldn't keep it around you," not advice, but a warning. "Jus' 'cos something helped save your life," the kid shakes his head, can't see reason in the risk, "Don't mean you gotta tell the whole wide world it needed saving in the first place."
Clint gets it, what the kid's trying to say, he does, but sometimes how the kid lives and how the kid thinks is way too fucked up for a nine-year-old and he knows that's mostly his fault, his doing, and it's not gonna change not now not ever, but if he can make the kid see a different side, every once in a while, it'd be worth it to do his bit.
"But 's'like a scar, kid," he tries to explain, "Any folk coming after, they see it, that you survived, that you're hard to put down, 'maybe makes them think twice 'fore they try taking you out themselves."
"Or they try harder to do the job right this time," the kid counters. "An' this ain't no scar," the kid says, and there's fear in his eyes, "What you got there, s'like a target on your back, your front, your everything. It tells people that you got hurt, that you can be hurt. It's dangerous, Arch."
So am I, Clint thinks; but doesn't sign, doesn't say. So are you.
.
Sometimes he forgets how much of a little shit the kid can be, and then the kid does stuff like this.
Clint's bombarded with sensory stimuli and just when he thinks he's gathered his bearings enough to open his eyes and deal with whatever brand of crazy he's landed himself in this time; he has a nine-year-old's face hovering disturbingly close to his, and no amount of rapid blinking and backing himself the fuck up helps his cause any.
Kid's wearing a grin like he knows exactly how creepy he's being and he's enjoying every single second of it.
"Morning Arch!" he crows.
Taking advantage of his lack of immediate response, the kid lifts himself up and thrusts his broken arrow at him; only now the broken fibers are tied together with a mass overload of red and white string that spiral the length of what remains of the shaft and the tip's covered with a giant red and white bow. It looks like a deformed candy cane. Clint's not sure if that's intentional or not. He lets the kid set it down between them on the bed.
"Wha'd'you do t' it?" he slurs, tries to clear his throat while he shoves himself up against the headboard. As a general rule, it's just easier to ask the kid outright.
"I wrapped it." It's not immediately clear who's supposed to benefit from the signing.
Clint squints at him, making it super obvious he's skeptical of his motives here, if not the 'gift' in general.
"Never woulda guessed," he snarks back, following suit with his hands and his mouth.
"S'not a present without a bow, Arch, everyone knows that." The kid gifts him with a lopsided smile and a string-light glint in his eyes. "And it's Christmas."
"So this Christmas present of yours, it's not gonna cause me grievous bodily harm soon as I go to unwrap it?"
"Well, no duh," is the reply, "It's broken, an' it's an arrow, Arch, 'course it can hurt you." The kid lifts his brows and smarmily adds, "But you already knew that and you're still insisting on keepin' it around so be it on your head."
Clint grins, wheezing out a laugh at the misquote. "Still got it in for me for keeping it?"
"M'not mad at you, Arch, jus figure you to be wrong," the nine-year-old shrugs, "Now stop trying to ruin Christmas and take your present already so we can go see the others. You gotta act all surprised when you open it with them though, 'cos who'd'a guessed I'd get you 'xactly what you wanted?"
"Exactly what I wanted, huh?" he parrots back, lips still tweaked.
"Well, I wasn't about to wrap myself up with a bow, now was I?"
Honestly? Clint wouldn't put it past him.
"'Course not," he agrees and then shoves the kid off the bed to the sound of stolen laughter, "You or an arrow, same diff'rence. Merry Christmas to me."
The kid sticks his hand up in the air, waving it around, lest the elder lose sight of him. "That's what I've been saying!" He pushes himself up, smiling at Clint like he can't stop, "Merry Christmas, Arch!"
.
The kid quite literally drags Clint from his bed all the way to the table where the others are waiting for them. Only once chicken-legs has skipped across the space to pull out the chair for him is he relieved of his mini-handler.
"Such a gentleman," Natasha awards the kid, her look too adoring to be anything but a taunt, as Clint drops into the space left open for him and marks his place with his arrow decorated in red.
"Sign of a good upbringing," Jack says, and the moment she appears, two plates in hand, the kid scampers off to collect the rest of the dishes so she doesn't have to. Go figure. "Not all of us were raised in a barn."
Natasha bares her teeth, but her curved lips belay the bite. "Moo."
The kid's in his periphery balancing more items than he has fingers. Intervening doesn't look like it's high on Jack's list of priorities right now so they follow by example and let the kid get on with it himself; the elder laughs at Nat's comeback and sets their plates down.
Clint stares at his plate, getting the feeling the candy cane massacre was intentional (his arrow's still tied with more knots than a navy fanboy's wet dream). Their utensils are tucked neatly inside a white napkin with a red ribbon looped smoothly and in a single continuous line around the outside; a clear sign of who was responsible for wrapping what. Kid has a habit of complicating things without even meaning too.
Slices of bananas and strawberries mark a vertical line in the centre of the sky-blue ceramic, curving into a hook at the top. There's a mass of whipped cream smothered across the bottom semi-circle of his plate with a small square of pancake above it that reads 'North Pole' in chocolate sauce.
"You wanted Christmas," Jack reminds him, as the kid deposits the remainder of the plates on the color-coordinated mats with a flourish, "This is how we do Christmas."
"This is not how you do Christmas," Nat says, "Last time I was here for Christmas you gave me a pear for my breakfast."
"Pears can be nutritious," Coulson chimes in. He takes a bite of his food and smiles genially at his Agent, because he can be a contrary son-of-a-bitch like that.
"It looked like the Grinch," she deadpans.
Clint chokes on a laugh. He remembers.
The look his partner shoots him tells him she feels he deserves the coughing fit he's now inflicted upon himself.
"I don't know what could've possibly given you that idea," Jack says, sending her best society-smile across the table as she tucks into her own meal, "The theme was elves that year."
"I hate you all," Natasha announces and unrepentantly stabs one of her strawberry pieces, splashing red across her plate.
The kid grins around a mouthful of pancake, whipped cream coating his lips. "Good one, Gnat. You couldn't even if you tried!"
Scary thing is he might actually be right.
"So, for those of you not as well-versed in our Christmas tradition," Jack makes sure her gaze lingers on Natasha as she speaks, "Every year we pick a theme, and everything that follows has to be in keeping with that theme: presents, cards, décor, the works. This year's chosen theme is – "
"Candy canes!" The kid looks ready to burst with excitement; fitting, since his minder looks like she expected her ticking time bomb to explode long before now. "S'why I wrapped that extra-special present of yours like I did, Arch. 'Was supposed to be a clue!"
He's about to tell the kid that the giant Christmas tree made entirely out of candy canes sitting front an' center by the window is a pretty big-ass clue, when Natasha beats him to it.
"Because the five-foot candy cane tree over there is really inconspicuous," she says.
"That's a decoration, Gnat, it got put up ages ago," Francis snarks. "An' don't go getting all grouchy 'cos your arts 'n crafts skills suck an' you know you're gonna lose the present-making challenge."
Natasha raises an eyebrow at the kid, and looks to be equal parts intrigued and amused. It's not the worst sight ever, so Clint's pretty content to just sit back and watch how this plays out.
"Oh, I'm sorry," she says, playing for contrite, "I didn't realize we were placing a wager."
The kid just looks at her, like he wasn't born yesterday and he knows what she's up to. "Someone always comes out on top, Gnat."
"And that's going to be you, is it?" she proposes. She's gonna eat him for breakfast if he's not careful.
"Never said that," the nine-year-old is quick to respond, and he looks so damn pleased with himself. "Jus' 'cos you're gonna lose, doesn't mean I'm gonna win. Jus' means you're gonna lose."
And Tash is so entertained by this she bursts out laughing, so pleased at the gleams of guile their little protégée is showcasing that the smile stays on her face for the rest of the meal.
Merry Christmas is so fuckin' right.
.
They call a tie on the present-making competition. With so many conflicting opinions as to who should come out on top, short of continuing to take it out on the candy cane piñata Clint spent most of the day pasting together for Coulson; they're stuck as they are. It's not a bad place to be, all things considered.
He's got Nat by his side, stretched out on the sofa, nursing her bottle of candy cane vodka. She'd looked about ready to curse Jack out when the elder had first presented it to her after dinner, wrapped up with a bow on top; now the rest of them are lucky if they get a whiff of the fumes when Natasha tears off the lid for another swig.
Jack's sitting in the armchair by their side, eyes flittering between the kid and Phil, and her prized candy cane tree by the window. The star Coulson made for her still sits at the top, and the structure hasn't budged an inch since the kid scrambled to attach it to the tree's peak, but there's always the possibility of a late collapse, which would be a real treat.
Jack had side-eyed him so hard when he'd given it to her, and Phil's explanation had done nothing to warm the elder to the notion of him tampering with her work of art. "You're dangerously close to encroaching on your own rules with that blatantly non candy cane version of a star you've got up there," he'd said, "So I made you one more in keeping with your theme."
In defense of their S.H.I.E.L.D superior, the candy cane star he crafted is impressive in its own right, and seems a pretty supreme addition to Jack's tree. Not that Clint or Natasha have voiced any of this. Nor do they hold any plans to do so. At all.
When the kid had hopped backwards, arms spread wide at a job well done on his part by safely securing the star to the top of the tree, Phil had sent an especially brimming smile across to Jack with the words, "Would you look at that? It's a perfect match."
Her response had been the mild-toned, "If your contraption makes my masterpiece top-heavy, I'm gonna take one of those candy canes and stab out your left eye with it, Phil. Make you match."
Clint's been pretty heavily warned with the same retribution should Jack's handmade sculpture find itself interrupting the flight-paths of any projectiles at any point during their stay. He doesn't doubt she'd do it, to both of them, regardless of the season, and he likes his eyes so he doesn't so much as think about tossing anything at the red-and-white Eiffel Tower and watching it collapse in a cloud of crushed sugar dust and candy snaps. No matter how cool the imagery might seem.
The kid's loud cheer bounces off the walls and Clint's wonders if he's turned the volume on his aids down again just to fuck with them. It soon becomes clear he's just that excited. Of course he cheated (again), which is how he beat Phil (again), but he won (again), which is all that matters. Hence the cheering.
Natasha built the kid a race track out of plastic tubing and piping and then coated the whole inside in water before shoving it in the freezer. The kid's face had been a right picture when he'd unwrapped it, staring at her like this was some sort of test and that wasn't part of their present brief at all. She'd nudged the smaller parcels across to him with her toe and the instruction, "These go with it, dumbass." The mini candy cane sleds topped with marshmallow snowmen and cracker bears were a nice touch.
Kid's been playing with it all night, only moving long enough to sprint back and forth to the tap to refill his water jug since the ice melted. It's now a water flume rather than an ice luge and Tasha's not eyeing it quite as much as she was earlier so he figures she's no longer considering pouring her precious vodka down it. Although she may just be waiting it out until the kid goes to bed and she can have free reign of his toy.
Clint's candy cane placeholder holds court in the centre of the mantle, arrow situated neatly between the two hooks. The kid had severely butchered his attempt to tame the broken splinters and looked like he'd just hack-sawed the worst of them off instead before inserting a pen nib into the frayed end and leaving the arrow tip in place. His reasoning being: "You never know Arch, ye might need it if ye find yourself in a sit'ation where the pen's mightier than the sword." Clint had looked to Natasha; she'd shaken her head and for once Coulson hadn't looked like he was about to comment either. Jack had barked out a laugh and told the kid, "Oh to dream, Birdie."
He's taken this as mutual acknowledgement that he'd probably just use both ends of the arrow to stab someone or something instead. Especially now they've both got a point.
.
Natasha looks down at the piece of paper Clint's just pressed into her hand.
There are large swoops and swirls of a glitter-red pen, joined by a dark scrawl she'd recognize anywhere, even if it lacked distinctive markers and a paper-trail of priors.
Dear Santa, All I want for Christmas is… This. Just this.
It's as ridiculous as any admission written on crisp-snow-white parchment decorated with candy canes, elf hats and reindeer antlers.
When she looks at Clint, his attention's on the boy who's grinning at him like the little maniac he is and appears one step away from bounding across the space and leaping into her partner's arms and never letting go.
So yes, it's ridiculous, but it's also true.
.
When Clint wakes up the next morning, Natasha is pressed in close to his side under the covers and the kid is bent out of shape by their feet.
He's taking stock of Phil resting in the armchair in the far corner when Jack appears in the doorway.
"Happy New Year," he says, all crooked lips and raspy voice.
There's no quip about his convenient amnesia and reliving the holidays for the rest of their gang, no remark about his inability to look after himself and ending up on her front step; there's no mention at all of any trouble she's gone to harboring them here and all that that entails.
"Not even close," she replies, "Merry Christmas, boyo."
Her eyes shift seamlessly to the mini human curled in on himself and trying to bring them all with him.
Clint settles with a breath of laughter and when Jack lifts the steaming mug to her lips they curve higher than the rim.
And if there was ever anything like coming home, Clint reckons this would be it.
.
He's nine years old when they all spend Christmas together for the first time.
Only it's not really Christmas and they're not really all there, but still! They pretend. For him.
That feels pretty real to Francis.
.
The End / TBC in later sections of 'All The Blood That I Would Bleed'
Nearly nine months late. I'd probably have been as well to put it off and post it when the related season rolls around again, but that'd mess with my timeline and I'm really hoping it's not another three months before I have Chapter Five finished and posted.
Not the first time I've committed this particular offense and definitely won't be the last given my track record, but I apologise for anyone waiting on updates of my fics. They will come, just not always in the most timely manner, sorry!
Hope you liked, feel free to let me know your thoughts.
Thanks
Steph