"You sure you don't want in on the job, Hawky?" McLeod questions, sceptical.
"I was thinking about it, until you called me Hawky," Claire snits, throwing a knife at the space above his head, the cheap van easily giving way up to the hilt. "Now go away, unless you want me to stab you."
McLeod scarpers, as per usual. Claire grumbles as she retrieves her dagger. She really had been thinking about the job, but honestly, if she kept taking time off, her boss in the coffeehouse was going to fire her. She couldn't afford not to show, because even some legit money is better than money she got from supposedly prostituting herself – supposedly, because more often than not, Claire's robbing banks and doing mercenary shit.
Finding an empty corner clear of cameras, Claire changes back into her civvies, tucking her Kevlar into of a sports bag full of guns, finding her rust-bucket car a pier and a few blocks south of their temporary under-a-bridge base. Though she has donned her sunglasses, it doesn't stop her from seeing the approaching guys pointing at her surreptitiously. Not in the mood for fighting, Claire finds her .45 in the glovebox, twirling it expertly in hand, dead-eyed as she twists towards the guys less than half a block away.
They stop, obviously, at the sight of a gun. Claire loses the dead eyes, giving them a cheery wave before flipping the bird, happy the suppressor is on her gun as she proceeds to shoot down a pigeon right above their heads. They run.
"Awesome," Claire puts her .45 away, before beginning the long drive back to Washington DC.
"Latte for Hutchinson!" She calls over the hustle and bustle, handing the takeaway cup over the marble counter before heading back to the machine, following Vanessa's orders without thinking about it too much. Claire's on high alert as per usual during rush hour, the noise and constant movement always getting her hackles up – which is probably why she notices the Suit.
...shit, she thinks, knowing she'd be a dick if she bailed on Vanessa and Michelle right now. Instead of paying the Suit more than a few cursory glances that could probably be taken as being checked out, Claire gets on with her job, bringing the newest coffee up to the counter.
"Red-eye for Nicholas!" Claire calls, not expecting the Suit to step forwards. Getting the chance to take a proper look at him, Claire notices a couple of things – first being the leather trench-coat, second being the give no fucks attitude and third being the way he watches them make his coffee the entire time, taking his red-eye without only the slightest glance at her hands. Claire watches him leave, until Vanessa kicks her in the shin lightly.
"Claire, stop checking out the customers and make a latte."
"Sorry, 'Nessa," Claire gets back to work, not expecting to see Nicholas the Suit the next day for another red-eye, or the next day. At one point, Claire is on the till and she nearly chokes at the sight of the black card.
"Holy Jesus, Mary wept," she mutters as she rings it up, eyeballing the card as she hands it back. Nicholas the Suit ends up coming most days and for an entire three weeks, day-in, day-out, he orders the same red-eye coffee with the same black credit card.
After that three weeks, Claire doesn't see him because she's halfway across the country blowing someone's eye out from behind with an arrow, hating how her arms burn from it. I need to get back into proper shape, she thinks, knowing she's been relying on guns too much in the last few months if her arms are struggling with the bow she's using. On her return to DC, Claire finds an extreme archery range nearby where she lives – an actual fucking miracle, because as soon as she sees the actual range, Claire decides she's going to train there a whole fucking lot.
When she gets back to the coffeehouse five days after she's left, it turns out that Nicholas has changed his schedule – getting his red-eye half an hour before the usual rush, now. It makes for a quieter exchange, interspersed with some singing from Michelle as the radio blares the latest bop – honestly, she knows them all and Claire tries not to be jealous, but she can't help it.
"A question," Nicholas speaks about two weeks into the new routine, voice demanding an audience – and an answer, as it turns out. Claire hands back his card slowly. "Why do you always look at me?"
Is that his dom voice? Holy shit... "You're hot as fuck," it slips out and Claire adds a wink before she can even begin to panic, smirking. "I'd slip you my number, but I'm not that easy."
Nicholas glances at her name-tag, a frown tugging at his lip. He steps back out of the way of the next customer, who leers at her. Claire is quick to put away her smirk, getting on with her job, catching Nicholas' eye as he leaves with his coffee.
The next week or two are interesting, because Nicholas actually pays attention to her now, rather than just his coffee – though he still watches the process of it being made like a hawk, no pun intended. Claire actually gets a bit cocky, squashing a fly in mid-air in front of him before washing her hands, glancing at him and finding his eyebrow half-raised in amusement.
Then, of course, Claire goes out on another job because McLeod is a fucking dick and is her fucking enabler. Jobs might rake in the cash, honestly though, this little back and forth with Nicholas might be nothing but it's making Claire think bigger – brighter. I could go to college or something. I could learn how to fucking write properly and do essays and shit.
Vanessa talks all the time about her daughter, Marina, who likes to pretend she's an octopus and go to the aquarium. Michelle goes to school – George Washington University, which is apparently a big deal – and she's trying to get her degree in English, which is super good for her, Claire supposes, even if she doesn't know what Michelle's going to do afterwards.
The point is: Claire wants to try for a normal life and McLeod is enabling her continual life of crime.
"Last time," she says sternly.
"You say that every time," he replies casually. "Anything new about your life? I've got a kid, apparently."
"Well done for discovering have a kid, somewhere out there," Claire replies, genuinely honest, even if she meant for it to come out sarcastically.
"I knew you were a good guy, Hawkeye, even for a twink."
Ah yes, a twink . Because McLeod thinks I'm a guy, like the rest of the world who want Hawkeye on their team.
Rolling her eyes, Claire thinks of anything vague enough to catch McLeod's interest but not too leading in case he tried to find her real identity.
"Well," she starts, thinking about Nicholas, "I think I accidentally made friends with a Suit in my civilian life."
McLeod nearly swerves off the road, "You're kidding!"
"Nope," Claire shakes her head, grinning underneath her mask. "Knew he was a Suit as soon as I saw him, still fucking made friends with him."
"You're insane – you're the Hawkeye!" McLeod, not knowing how close he'd come to having a knife in his ear as Claire has a sudden flashback to Trickshot introducing her as the Amazing Hawkeye to the circus crowds, controlling her impulse to maim him.
I might be fucked up, she thinks, but Trickshot is the only one who inspires me to murder. Trickshot and her brother, Barney. Claire hopes she never has to see him ever again. He never believed me when I said Trickshot was a fucking rapist.
"If that Suit finds out you're Hawkeye, you're toast, man," McLeod shakes his head. "Burnt toast, which is even worse."
"Don't, you'll make me hungry," Claire says, an idea popping into her head. "Why don't we get pizza? Person with the least headshots out of this bunch we're popping has to pay."
"I agree to pizza, not to the bet – we'll split it. I'm not that stupid."
McLeod is stupid enough to try shooting a dog for fun. Correction: Trickshot and animal abusers are people that inspire Claire to murder. As McLeod stares at a wall, dead as a doornail, while Claire attempts to coax the frightened golden lab out with a piece of pizza. It works and Claire picks up the lucky mutt, taking him to a vets – as soon as she gets out of her blood-splattered clothes.
"He's fine," the vet says, as the lab pigs out on Claire's pepperoni and peppers, "a pretty lucky pizza dog."
Claire snorts. "Okay, that's an awesome name."
"It is," the vet eyes her, "Are you thinking about adopting him? He's perfectly healthy – recently abandoned and more than filthy, but healthy."
Why does she keep saying the word 'healthy'? Claire thinks, scratching Lucky the Pizza Dog, knowing she's taking him home. I named him. I have to keep him now. That's what Barney said when they were kids, brave and stupid, trying to keep a hedgehog in the garden shed and failing to keep both the hedgehog in and from their dad from finding out.
Despite the story behind it though, it's a good motto.
"Lucky the Pizza Dog," Claire grins, tucking a stray strand of blonde hair behind her ear. "How do you feel about coming to live with me, yeah?"
Lucky is a good dog. He doesn't bark or make a mess except on the mats Claire sets out, still young enough to be trained – or maybe, he was already trained and just forgot in his distress. Certainly, once Claire sets out to take care of him, Lucky bounces back, always ready to crush Claire's feet in her sleep.
At the coffeehouse, Michelle coos over Lucky, who gets to hang out in the back room with their manager, Callum, who takes him out for walks as well. Claire can't leave Lucky alone at her apartment, too anxious that she doesn't have a dog-sitter and apparently, Callum can't have animals in his building so it all works out. Claire just has to remember to bring food for him and his leads.
"Red-eye for Nicholas?" Claire grins as he approaches, leaning a little over the counter as the coffee waits just in front of her. "How you doing there, chickadee?"
"Chickadee?" Nicholas blinks in actual surprise, which in turn surprises Claire. He looks so perplexed at the nickname that Claire almost – almost – elbows Vanessa in the solar plexus when she comes up behind her to remind her to give the customers their drinks.
"Sorry," Claire mutters, sliding it over. Nicholas wraps his hand around the coffee, pausing before leaning forwards sharply, kissing Claire straight on the lips. As he leaves – smirk replacing the surprise – Claire stares after him.
"Very unprofessional, Claire, kissing your coffee boyfriend over the counter," Michelle scolds good-naturedly, before Claire gasps in anger.
"He made the first move! That's not allowed – I'm the one seducing him with coffee and tricks!"
"Technically, the coffee comes from all of us behind the bar," Vanessa says as she passes along a hot chocolate for Claire to give out to Jamal, even though she's only half-processing her surroundings.
He fucking kissed me. That bastard.
Callum gets the keys to her apartment so he can dog-sit Lucky when Claire gets a call from a new contact that brings her out to Chicago. It's a messier job than usual and the building has a weird security detail doing impressively random laps around the building halls – but Claire can figure out puzzles, she's good at numbers, even if she isn't as good at the alphabet. It takes her two hours to figure out their timings and routes – two hours her team wastes by getting impatient and stumbling in like a hoard of elephants, getting themselves all killed.
It leaves Claire to do the job, of course, meaning literally twelve times the pay she was going to get – so while she might be angry, she isn't complaining, per say. She's climbing through vents when alarms go off again, though and for a few heart-stopping moments she thinks she's been caught – but then Claire hears the tell-tale ring of gunfire and forces herself not to whoop.
The vents are twisty and small, but while Claire might be of average height, she's thin, has a heck-load of muscle and was taught by the female gymnasts how to do all sorts of shit, because Trickshot was a guy and didn't realise how different girls were from boys until he had Barney and Claire do the same routine he was teaching them. Claire can remember him groaning and muttering to himself in French, before he sent her off to the gymnasts, only ever working with her on weapons.
I was still the Amazing Hawkeye, though, Claire thinks smugly, if a little darkly. She shimmies through the dusty shafts, finding the right office and using a rope to get down – her other buddies used cables, but Claire hadn't bothered buying one. I'm going out of business soon, hopefully, so I won't need one.
She finds the right file, folding it and stashing it in the bodice of her shirt, unstrapping her Kevlar to do so – something Claire immediately regrets as she hears the safety of someone's gun go off behind her.
"Have you got the file?" A familiar voice questions and Claire nearly has a heart attack, reaching up for her mask sharply, making sure it's still on. "Don't move," Nicholas warns.
"I have the file," Claire says, pitching her voice different and changing her accent, freaking out.
"...good. Zip up again and get out of here. I'll get you paid triple if you get that to the Triskelion in Washington DC."
The Triskelion? Claire furrows her brow but does as he says, confused. She chances a look at him and immediately becomes horrified at the bombsite that is his eye.
"What the hell, Nicholas? Are you alright?" She loses the accent and the different pitch, Nicholas immediately stiffening. Claire goes to foolishly take off her mask, to show him it's just the girl he kissed over the counter, but he comes inside, shutting the door and bolting it, putting a chair under the handle.
"Don't – there are cameras," he hisses, coming up close to her. But still, his hand comes up and he lifts her mask, looking at her real face and shit, his eye is done for, Claire thinks. Nicholas stares at her for a moment, before putting her mask down in disbelief, shaking his head. "I don't fucking believe it. Really?"
"I'm known as Hawkeye," Claire offers, before looking to the rope. "Want to get out of here with me instead of sending me off?"
"...I can't see very well."
"Got it, I'll be your eyes. You can be my ears," Claire offers, reaching up with her free hand to bop his nose. His exasperated expression is familiar and she grins at the sight of it, before looking to the door as the sound of gunfire approaches. "Okay, me first. I'll shoot them from the vent if they come through the door."
"With what gun?"
She plucks his from his hand, trapping it between her teeth as she goes to the rope, easily scaling it in a few seconds, climbing into the shaft and settling herself in on her stomach, gun aimed at the doorway.
"Got it," Nicholas says dryly, before using the nearest desk as leverage to get higher up the rope. To be fair, it doesn't take him too long – but Claire still has to fire at someone through the glass window of the door as he gets his legs up through the grate.
"Bullseye," she grins, before pulling the grate up, following the quick-crawling Nicholas, directing him until they're at a four-way junction. "Now, we swap places. Go forwards, then put your feet left and back-peddle."
"Really?"
"Really," Claire confirms quietly, aware of how their voices travel. "Your ass is awesome, but I think you should appreciate mine, now."
"Cheeky," she hears him murmur before doing as he's told. When he's settled himself in the junction, Claire crawls forwards, only pausing when their heads are side-by-side. Ignoring his questioning glance, Claire pulls her mask off, kissing him, even dipping tongue in – stopping when he groans, not in pleasure, but in pain.
Claire can feel blood on her face.
"We need to get you aid," she says, mask settling back on as she goes down the right vent. "What's at the Triskelion? How would I have gotten the files to you?"
"You would have explained what the fuck happened and get taken to an interrogation room while the files were confiscated."
"I knew it was you, though," Claire says, twisting left. "I would have been an idiot and said Nicholas sent me. What would have happened?"
"...the same thing, except I would have been called in to see you. No-one is on a first-name basis with me except Peggy Carter herself – I'm on her shortlist, apparently."
"Peggy who? What shortlist?"
"Peggy Carter, the Director of SHIELD," Nicholas says, "and The Shortlist. I might be Director, one day."
Claire stops in the vent, looking back at him, forcing herself to forget that this guy had kissed her over a fucking counter. For a few moments, silence reigns.
"Is my life in danger, now that I've told you about me?"
"If you don't join SHIELD, it is," he says and all Claire can think is, I'm not going to be able to bring Lucky with me when it's time to run.
Like an idiot, she works at the coffeehouse for another week, giving her notice but not just quitting and never coming back. Claire can be a bitch, sometimes, but she's not a dick.
Nicholas, similarly, comes for coffee, eye covered in bandages. Every time she gives it to him over the counter, they have some small exchange and for the life of her, Claire can't find it in her to stop – she even kisses him on the Friday, sweetly and gently. The Tuesday, exactly a week since their longest interaction ever, he isn't alone. The coffeehouse is well infiltrated by the time he arrives and he orders a red-eye, like usual.
Like fucking usual, hmm? Claire glances at one of the SHIELD agents sat on her favourite patron chairs. Well, like fucking usual, then.
When he collects his red-eye, his hand is in his pocket, curling around what might be a badge, but Claire leans forwards like usual and kisses him. But it's not usual and Claire isn't being taken away by feds in front of her friends. She kisses him, hands coming up to grab his lapels and when she feels it's the hottest she can give without getting other parts involved, she looks at him, their breaths mingling with how close they are.
Her hand digs down to grab the badge – oh yeah, that's a fucking badge – and she takes it out of his pocket, muttering.
"Not here, please."
Nicholas nods only slightly, pulling away, leaving her with his badge. Claire pastes on a smirk, taking off her apron and declaring she's going to take Lucky on a walk. She even does it, linking hands with Nicholas halfway down the block. Claire feels like some sort of...some sort of spy, but she doesn't want the guys in coffeehouse to see. She doesn't have any friends other than them who aren't murderers or thieves.
"Nice dog. I can get you a place with grass, if you want."
"Lucky's used to an apartment," Claire glances at the lab, tilting her head. "I'll come with you, but I've got one more shift this afternoon before I'm free. Meet me at my place? You can even borrow Lucky as collateral."
"Do you care enough about the dog for it to be collateral?" He questions, hand still in hers as they walk down the street, the odd couple out of many. Nicholas is still in his leather coat and Claire's still in her uniform from the coffeehouse – which, to be fair, is pretty casual and isn't stupid, just a black shirt and matching skirt. Their brown aprons are supposed to make it look vaguely mainstream.
"...I don't know. But I still have your badge. Admit it, it's got a tracker in it."
"It might," Nicholas says. "Someone will be following you."
More like six, Claire thinks. "Looked me up?"
"Your record is a mess, but one I could use. You've got an unusual calling sign."
Claire snorts, before they fall into silence, walking Lucky.
Nicholas knows where her place is, obviously and Claire follows up on her word – she meets him there. Lucky is in his cage, fast asleep after stuffing himself with the best pepperoni pizza she could find and her laundry pile takes up a corner and a chair in her room.
"Turn off your listeners," Claire says, taking a guess and hitting positive as he frowns. "Well, if you want them to hear you get sexed up-"
He puts his hand up, wincing as he taps a device in his ear a few times. After a moment, he crosses his arms, staring balefully at her.
"...you know, I wasn't kidding when I said you're hot as fuck," Claire leans back against the sofa, watching him stand there like stone. "If you're up to it, I'd like to fuck, chickadee, before I'm sent off to whatever classes as SHIELD boot-camp."
"Operations Academy," he mutters and Claire, for a moment wonders if he's joking. But he doesn't seem to be the type, to be honest, if it wasn't sarcasm. Academy – school. It both excites her and makes her afraid.
"I didn't go to school past fourth grade," she frowns.
"I thought you wanted to fuck?" He replies, stepping forwards until his feet are beside hers, the only thing keeping them from knocking each other over how Claire leans against the sofa. He stops folding his arms, trailing up her hips. "I've never heard anyone ask so goddamn politely before, though. That a habit of yours?"
"What can I say, I'm polite when I'm not cussing someone out," Claire smirks, reaching up for his shoulders, kissing him and running her hands all over him.
The trenchcoat comes off about the same time as her button-down does and then it's kind of hot and they fuck. It's good and they wake up Lucky, who Claire appeases with some old pizza from the night before in the fridge, uncaring of her nudity as she scratches his head and pays him all the attention he deserves before he finishes eating and she goes right back to what she was doing before – though, changing location to the shower wasn't her idea.
"The dog really is collateral," Nicholas mutters after they've cleaned and dried off. Claire shrugs, reaching down under her bed and taking the pin out of a handy gas grenade meant to incapacitate, checking it at him. Nicholas gets a face-full and Claire makes a run for it as he falls onto the bed, unconscious, grabbing a dress, her subway card and a pair of nearby boots, tying her hair up on top of her head as she slams a cowboy hat on her head.
My guns are in my locker across the city with some spare cash, Claire remembers, my bow is in the rust-bucket, which is too close not to have been checked already during the week. Making sure her dress is tied properly, boots zipped up and her hair hidden under her hat, Claire dons a random pair of sunglasses as she leaves, going out the front, acting like any normal resident of the building.
Subway to the guns and the cash, get out of the city, hope Nicholas doesn't be a dick and use my dog as bait or shit. Right. Got it. Subway, guns, cash, leave...
A Suit sits down next to her three months later as she's eating blueberry pancakes – which, what the hell, she doesn't even like blueberries that much, but it figures considering her situation – and gets a coffee. Claire gives him the stink-eye.
"Get that fucking drink away from me before I throw it in your fucking face."
"You gave yourself away deliberately," the Suit says, all genial and conservative. "Why?"
"Because I took a pregnancy test and I don't have healthcare on either of my false identities," Claire points a fork full of pancakes at the Suit, "which, I have most likely assumed, SHIELD does have and would be available to me on my actual, real-life identity."
"I'm Phil."
"Claire. I wasn't kidding about that drink though, get it the fuck away from me."
"Sorry," he says, sounding apologetic as he hails down the waitress, "Could you take this away? My mistake. I keep forgetting I'm not supposed to be getting it, you know? Diet and all that."
"It's alright, sugar," the waitress takes away the dark brown liquid and if it hadn't been making her feel like she was about to upchuck for the third time that day, Claire would have pleaded for it to come back.
"Caffeine withdrawal, not fun," Phil says, watching her.
"Oh yeah, no, you're right about that." Claire snorts, meeting his eyes. "Neither is being forced into prostitution because SHIELD has taken all your fucking cash."
Phil blinks sharply, "Excuse me."
Claire shrugs, eating her pancakes. "How's Nicholas?"
"Nick is...fine. Why do you want to know?"
Because he's my baby daddy, that's why, Claire thinks, rolling back a second later. Hey, wait a minute.
"You called him Nick."
"He's my friend. I'm here, back-up is ten minutes away..." Phil looks at her carefully, before sitting back in his chair heavily. "Oh no. It's Nick's baby, isn't it."
"We never fucked," Claire lies breezily, "and if you ever insinuate that, you're throwing his career down the drain."
"How could I throw it down the drain?"
Claire frowns at him. "Okay, I willingly said I two fake ID's – this one and the one I had back in DC. Haven't you uncovered my real one, yet?"
"We didn't know there was a real one," Phil admits, frowning. "What's so special about you, Miss Chisholm?"
Claire rolls her eyes, finishing her pancakes. Phil seems to understand the quiet, letting her slump and peer out of the window, brushing her hair back behind her ear. Claire looks at her arms, hoping being pregnant doesn't mean she can't work out at all. Swimming's fine, isn't it? I can do lots of fucking swimming, or something...
"Buck Chisholm took my brother and I in, when we were kids. Our parents died in a car crash – my dad was drunk as hell, so yeah, it was his fault." Claire says shortly, explaining as she uses a finger to swipe the remaining syrup and a stray crumb of pancake into her mouth. "Foster home was a dump, so we ran away to the circus. Trickshot – Chrisholm – he took us into his trailer, raised us as good little circus gymnasts with certain...talents."
"Archery," Phil tilts his head in understanding.
"Oh yeah. Other shit too, like knives and breathing fire," Claire licks her lips. "It was fun, until I got older. Trickshot tried to get Barney to specialise in archery, but that was my talent, not his – so Trickshot took me and got me to do what he liked. Archery, sex, you name it. That was when I was twelve."
"I'm sorry."
Claire shrugs. "I didn't grow up knowing the law or what rape was. I just knew it hurt. Sex of my own choice is different and a freedom I didn't have before I ran off. Trickshot was embezzling, I found out because I lived in his trailer and I told Barney. But he rather would have had the money and we fought. I left, he ran off with Trickshot – I used what skills I had to survive. Only found out what real life was when I started working properly at like...jobs that teenagers do."
"Your record starts in Phoenix," Phil says, Claire nodding.
"It should. A guy took pity on me, set me up with a face and another one, in case I needed a spare. Wasted them, now. I figured Trickshot wouldn't think I was that stupid, to use his name – but Barney would and Trickshot would never believe him."
"So, if he ever wanted to find you..."
"Yup."
Another few minutes silence, Claire asking a waitress for a vanilla milkshake. When she gets it, they start talking again. Phil asks her a question.
"What's your name, then? Who are you?"
Claire sips her milkshake. "Claire Barton. Born January seventh, nineteen seventy-one." She watches Phil's face flicker, before a horrified look appears on his face. "I'm seventeen for another couple of months, I'm afraid."
"Crap," Phil mutters. "Crap- you and Nick-"
"I told you, we didn't fuck. I made my own mistakes," Claire says and she figures that Phil must be Nick's close friend if he told him about how he truly lost her – she can't imagine he'd still have his job if they found out he fucked a minor and got a gas grenade to the face in the afterglow.
"Right," Phil says faintly, but there's a growing anger. "Did you do it on purpose?"
Claire frowns. "Get pregnant? No, no fucking way – I mean, I'm keeping it. It's my baby, my lil' chickadee, but like...no." Claire tries to phrase it as vaguely as possible. "Even...and even if Nicholas was the father, I wouldn't put that on him. The blame or the fatherhood, thing."
"You're seventeen."
"Still my baby. Just because I'm a killer mercenary when I'm not popping out chicks doesn't mean this is not my baby."
Phil shakes his head, "You should be in school – you should be in the Academy, learning how to nerve pinch someone like a Vulcan."
Claire's eyes light up. "We really learn that?"
"I wouldn't know, I was Communications with extra Operations modules," he murmurs, putting his face in his hands. "Are you still willing to come in?"
"I suppose so," Claire says, a little uncomfortable. "I don't just want to be chucked into prison for like...murder and robbery. I don't think I'm a bad person, either."
"It's a good thing I'll be your handler, then," Phil sits up, getting himself together. He spares Claire one last slightly lost and frustrated face before he slips into a vacant mask. The change is kind of unsettling and Claire wants to poke it, make him crack. "Miss Barton, my name is Agent Coulson of the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Espionage and Logistics Division. If you'd be good enough to wait on a transport to some neutral ground, that would be most agreeable."
"Let me finish my milkshake, first...and maybe throw up."
"Just not on my suit, if you please."
"We'll see."
Claire is set up in a spartan apartment in rural area after she finishes going through the loaded heap of paperwork, signing her life away. There's a service station, a mall, maybe two diners – one of which may be more of a bar than a food joint – a large vets and a local surgery. Claire also thinks she saw a sign for a bowling alley, but she may have been fooling herself into thinking that this place had more than just a couple of motels and the necessities.
Phil said the nearby woods were good for hikes, providing you had companions. Claire hadn't known whether he was joking or not – it's not like she has any friends to go hiking with.
For about a week, she does nothing, just walking around town and buying some gym equipment from a local thrift shop that had apparently been unable to sell it. Working out keeps her indoors, but Claire doesn't mind, even if the silence grates on her. She's always lived surrounded by people and the lack is profound.
Then: the joyous sounds of barking, as she comes out of the decent diner.
Claire's heart leaps for joy, but sinks as she has the realisation once again that the dog isn't hers – except a red Corvette approaches, Phil in the front seat and a familiar golden lab in the passengers.
"Lucky!" She squeals, startling another person exiting the Diner as she runs over to where he pulls up on the curb, Lucky not even hesitating before jumping across Phil's lap into her waiting arms. "Oh- shit, shit! What the fuck have they been feeding you, Lucky?"
Overbalancing, Lucky still scrambling about in her arms, Claire drops to her butt on the concrete, pushing Lucky off her so she can breathe, holding him by his collar.
"Sit!" She orders, Lucky sitting but still barking in happiness. "Quiet! Shh!" Lucky stops barking, licking her arm and then her face as she lets him get nearer, hugging him around the neck and actually crying, right there on the sidewalk.
"Happy?" Phil asks her. "I heard you've been scaring the town away with your weight machines."
"Very funny, Phil."
"Thank-you, I thought it was." Phil's smile slips, slightly. "Nick's coming to visit in secret. He said he'd be here sometime today, to see you. That's between us, though, yeah?"
Claire swallows nervously, nodding. "Yeah."
He's waiting at the house in the shadows of her living room like a fucking freak – but of course, not like Nicholas can let up on the surprises. As soon as she gets a good look at him, putting Lucky's cage in the kitchen and his things on the floor, Nicholas has her up against the wall – and not in a good way.
"Let me go," Claire demands, standing perfectly still as his eyes rove downwards. There's nothing much to hide, not year, though according to the doctor at the surgery down the road, it'll start to be apparent in the following weeks.
"Were you doing it on purpose? Were you chaining my reputation to you?"
"…Nicholas, I wanted to fuck you because I wanted to fuck." Claire doesn't elaborate, like she did with Phil, no matter how subtly. Sex of choice is freedom. "The pregnancy was an accident because I forgot to get the condoms out of my bedside table."
"I am twenty-two years older than you." Nicholas growls, sounding angry, "I was reckless and an idiot."
Claire lightly tugs at the restraining hand around her right arm, but he doesn't let go, digging tighter around both wrists. Abruptly, her panic swells, but she keeps it down, inside.
"Let me go, Nicholas," she tries to order, but it comes out as more of a plea. Immediately, he frowns, letting go and Claire sucks in a deep breath, holding it in until it burns, tucking her arms against her chest. He stares at her for a short while before speaking.
"What did I do?"
Claire wants to say nothing, but he wasn't just being rough in the sexy kind of way, he was being controlling. She swallows, mouth dry.
"Phil didn't tell you everything, did he?"
"He filled in your file. I read it. The only thing I didn't read was his psych evaluation, notes meant for when you go through the mandatory psychiatrist sessions. That shit is private, until the psychiatrist removes the black tape."
Oh crap, really? Claire shakes her head with a bitter laugh, eyes shut for a moment. "Then you didn't get the memo about how the man who raised my brother and I was a paedophile. Don't grab me."
"Shit," Nicholas swears, stepping back. Claire looks at him, admiring him for a second before she reaches out, lightly taking his jacket, tugging. "What do you want with me?" He asks.
"I don't really know. Company? You thought I was funny, I think."
"You're confident," he says, not moving from where he's standing. "You're seven-fucking-teen. Doesn't matter that you're already pregnant, I'm not touching you."
"And when I'm eighteen?"
"Waiting is just as predatory."
"...you've got a good moral compass," Claire admits, letting him go. "Do you want to know the foetus when it's not a foetus?"
Nicholas flinches slightly. "You shouldn't ask me that."
"Why?" Claire frowns, before he points at a fly buzzing around the ceiling. It takes a few seconds for the epiphany to hit. "Oh. Right. Should really get all the bugs out, shouldn't I?"
"Yes," Nicholas says, "I actually have them disabled for my visit, but that won't be for long."
"Long enough for a shower?" Claire asks cheekily, smirking. He gives her a dark look and she puts her hands up. "I liked showers."
"They don't remind you of the man you grew up with?" He replies sharply. Claire narrow her eyes at him.
"Don't you dare. My ID at the time said I was twenty-two. Trickshot knew I was fucking eleven. Ten years might not seem like a big fucking distance, but it is."
Nicholas' fist clenches, but he doesn't move and for that, Claire is only slightly relieved. When he leaves, Claire realises she never got an answer to her question.
Six Years Later
"Edelweiss, edelweiss, every morning you greet me," Claire sings quietly into the satellite phone, listening to the heavy breathing on the other end. "Small and wise, clean and bright, you look happy to meet me."
Lily joins in at the chorus, her voice small and trembling. "Blossom of snow may you bloom and grow, bloom and grow forever. Edelweiss, edelweiss, bless my homeland forever."
"There, all done," Claire reassures, glancing through a crack in the window of the Montmartre apartment. "I know it's hard, but mama will be home soon, chickadee. You can watch Sound of Music anytime you want and Lucky will be there, too!"
"But I want you, mammy!" Lily cries and her wails are audible through the satellite phone. On the bed, Agent Flores cracks an eye open.
"Hey, Barton, lemme try – I've got a kid my brother looks after for me."
Wary, Claire hands the phone over, "Just don't scare her."
"I won't," Flores says, bringing the phone to her ear. "Hey, little one, are you listening? Can you hear me- no, it's not your mom, kiddo, but I'm a friend and I wanted to promise you that you'll see your mommy soon. We're flying home tomorrow – yes, really! Tomorrow, I know, it's so soon, isn't it? Just one sleep and on day and when the sun goes down and you get ready for bed, your mommy can kiss you goodnight. Does that sound good? Yeah, I know, yeah it does – do you want to tell mommy you'll see her tomorrow?" Flores holds the phone out, triumphant.
Claire looks at her, disgruntled, "How the hell did you do that?"
"There is still a child on the phone," Flores reminds cheekily. Claire quickly puts the phone to ear.
"Chickadee, did you have a nice conversation with Agent Flores?"
"I'm going to see you tomorrow, mammy," Lily says staunchly, all trace of upset gone. "You're going to tuck me in!"
"Yeah, I am going to tuck you in." The phone beeps, the untraceable connection giving its time warning. "I've got to go now, chickadee – you be good for Miss Georgie."
"Promise! I love you, bye!"
"I love you, bye, chickadee."
"Bye!"
Claire smiles, before hanging up, happy that she didn't end the call sad. However, a moment later their window is slammed through, a canister being chucked through.
"Grenade!" Claire leaps for behind the bed, but instead of a flash or smoke, it's a bang, concussive force ringing out. Claire is mid-air when it rings out and her trajectory changes, slamming her against the bed-frame. Before she knows it, everything is silent and she's in the black for who the fuck knows how long, seeing stars when her sight returns. Hands are pulling her up, gentle but hurried – efficiently carrying her to a gurney.
Her head pounds, but what freaks Claire out the most is that she can't hear.
The farmhouse is a bit dated. There's a red barn full of broken machinery from a bygone era and one tractor; the fields surrounding the house go on for miles, a series of fruit orchards behind the house and meadows for the half a dozen horses on the left. Out front, past the mowed green grass is a tree with a large tire swing, currently hosting a seven-year old Lily Barton.
Fury approaches warily.
Claire, laid back in a white plastic chair nearby, in the shade of the tree, has her eyes locked on him from afar and he can see Lily asking questions with her hands, having picked up ASL quickly, apparently. Her dark skin like Fury's is a sharp contrast to her yellow summer dress, hair braided back and twirled into a large bun – she stands up to jolt the ropes as her swinging slows, Claire motioning him over.
"Chickadee, this is my friend Nicholas," Claire says, voice quiet, hands slow as she signs. Fury raises his eyebrow, signing sharply, even as he speaks.
"Friend is a nice word for it."
Claire purses her lips, pulling her legs under her as she jolts her head at the swing. Feeling rather caged, Fury steps closer, getting the chance to peer closer at his daughter as she sits in the tire – a rope net inside to keep her from falling through. They look at each other for a little bit, Lily obviously pretty damn curious as to who Fury really is. Likewise, Fury wants to know her.
I've got a feeling I might be a bit late to help out in the parenting department, he thinks, even though he knows – is poignantly aware – that he never wanted children. Ever. The fact that Lily stares back at him is undeniable, but she's his liability, now, one of the few things people can hold over him. I'd go to hell and back for this kid and I don't even know her. Fury frowns, before pushing the swing experimentally, striding forwards until Lily is grinning, holding on for dear life, sliding on the rope net – then, he pushes it around so the tire spins in a circle, like a fish flushing down a drain.
Lily squeals and Fury hurriedly gets out of the way, standing by Claire as she lays back in the tire.
"You haven't got any rights to her."
"I wouldn't want to – as you said to Coulson, my position would go down the drain."
"You didn't get promoted, anyway."
"I let a friend take it. He's already named me his successor."
"...decent enough friend," Claire sighs before standing, reaching up to scratch at the skin around her healed implant. Even with it, she still signs – something Fury read in a psych evaluation that she uses positively as a way to move on from what she left behind. "I got my tubes tied, recently."
"That's why I'm here," Fury replies bluntly.
"Awesome," Claire rolls her eyes. "Come to woo me now there can't be any more surprises?"
"Yes."
Claire pauses, blinking and for once looking decently surprised, looking up at him with wide eyes and a slightly agape jaw. Fury remembers that look, from a day nearly nine years ago.
"Do you want to be wooed?" He asks, raising his eyebrow. Claire startles, before she grins and shimmies up to him, a familiar spark appearing in her gaze.
"Woo me, chickadee – but after you meet your kid."
Fury glances at the still-spinning Lily, high up in the air and wonders if he can actually do this. Then, he remembers something pretty fucking important.
I'm Nicholas J. Fury. I'll woo Claire Barton and I'll help raise my own damn child – strike me down if I don't.