Probs shouldn't be posting yet another fic (and a multi-chap/WIP at that) when I still have some lying neglected in my profile, but I shouldn't do a lot of things and oh wow now I've started posting it.
As with many other stories I've penned, this started as a one-shot, was intended to be a one-shot, still tried to convince me it was a one-shot until I cottoned on to the fact it extended well over forty-pages in Word, unfinished, and I put a stop to that nonsense. Not kidding anyone here. It's clearly a multi-chap, so it'll get posted as such.
Ignoring that ramble above, this is the first fic I've posted in this fandom, and I do so hope you enjoy it :)
Title: All The Blood That I Would Bleed
Disclaimer: I own nothing here. Title from the lyrics to 'Ho Hey' by The Lumineers. I'm particularly partial to the version by the Stella sisters, which just so happens to be featured on the tv show Nashville, so there's youtube clips if you're curious – but the original works too in a pinch ;)
A/N: So while it should be obvious that I've used various sources and borrowed and blended from multiple facets, this is supposed to be firmly set in the Marvel Cinematic Universe. As such here is your WARNING: SPOILERS for any and all films that have been released thus far, including the trailers for upcoming releases and possibly set photos also.
Summary: Just because they're not there all the time, doesn't mean they're not there when it matters. It doesn't mean they don't care.
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"To be honest, you're the only one I've ever spent this much time and effort on. And it's worth it."
Notebook of Love
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Chapter One
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He's six months old when it starts.
Well, no, technically it starts before he's even born.
But really, it starts when he's six months old.
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Clint arrives too late.
That's about the crux of it.
There's an assault team positioned out front, and another advancing round the side of the building, ready to breach. Glass shatters as the panes are shot out before the synchronized drop of flashbangs, and there's a shuffle of material across old wooden floorboards at the sudden intrusion.
Multiple bangs resonate from the space beneath him. 9-bangers: one, two, three, four, five of them. He counts. Either someone just got a new batch in, or they're of the opinion this is the only way to gain the upper hand over an opponent such as her. To overload her senses, to momentarily disorientate her, before they storm the place and attempt to subdue her.
Clint knows their style, knows they'll let the stun grenades do their work and then add some gas to the mix to really make it a party worth sticking around for.
Then they'll go in for her.
It means he knows what to expect, gives him a window of opportunity to get in before they do, get out before they do too.
If he'd been earlier, though, he'd have seen it. If he'd stayed in his position across the street instead of involving himself here and now, so close and unable to stop himself dropping through the skylight he's just installed; he'd have seen it.
The flashes from the stun grenades light up the windows like they're stained glass murals of The Crucifixion.
If they hadn't been so focused on their preferred outcome they'd have seen it too.
What's the use of an extraction when she's already been neutralized?
There's nothing to constrict his hearing, so when the screams start they pass right through the ceiling and into his ear canal like sonic waves.
It's not her, but this is worse.
No one else is supposed to be here.
No one else is supposed to be mixed up in all this.
No one else is supposed to be hurt; trapped inside and screaming.
Soles connect with the floor, knees bending and hands releasing to accommodate the perfect landing.
Clint enters the room to the sound of more canisters hitting the floorboards and he tugs his collar up, shifting his scarf to ensure his nose and mouth are covered.
Fingers grip the edge of a nearby table, threatening to unfurl as the shake of bended legs warns of a tandem collapse.
He kneels down, hands molding to curves as he pulls and twists the body round until he feels the breath seep staccato into the hollow by his shoulder.
"I got you," he murmurs, already on the move, "You're ok. I got you, kid."
Tiny hands clasp together, gripping the short hairs at the base of his neck, heels digging into the ridges on the back of his vest.
The kid clings to him and soon the little line of vertebrae stop shifting beneath his palm and the breath falls steady against his skin. For the first time since this all started, he stops screaming.
.
"I wouldn't go that way," is the calm observation he bestows upon the escapee.
"You from around here?" The return question is directed at Phil along the serrated edge of a nasty-looking blade. It looks just as wicked as it's intended in the hand that wields it; oddly maybe even more when the other is holding a young child swaddled close to his chest.
Phil lifts his eyes from the weapon as he inquires, "You planning to cut me if I say no?"
The man doesn't respond.
He opts for something different. "Or if I say yes?"
"You wanna play guide? Go ahead," the carrier tells him in a gruff tone, inclining his head towards the alley on his other side. "Let's go back the way you just came."
He focuses in on the man's eyes; where the land meets the sky and people get lost in between.
"Do I need to mention if you try anything I'm gonna cut you?" The man jerks his head forward with the words, and it doesn't seem an intimidation tactic so much as a jolt to get him to proceed.
They need to keep moving. They've been stationary too long already.
"I gathered as much from the gestures and your reluctance to relinquish the blade," Phil replies, tone as genial as ever. "But thank you for clarifying your intent."
The man lifts his eyebrows, and it's not quite impatience; it seems more exasperation if anything.
They really should get going.
"Would you like to relieve me of my weapons?" He doesn't let his eyes flicker to any of the places on his person where such items are currently stored, but he does curve his lips with the remark, "I have several."
The quick scan across his body tells him that the man is well aware of this, intends to play on such knowledge like this is a challenge to be overcome.
"Nah," is the easy dismissal, and there's a quirk of another set of lips, "Keeps things interesting."
A game to be won, then.
"You'd let it fall down to reaction time?" Phil questions, "A test of reflexes?"
There's a roll of shoulders like he's not weighed down by a body and a weapon. "Why not?"
He shrugs in clothes often too cumbersome for this sort of work. Well outside the mission parameters now, he doesn't respond. He starts walking the route back the way he did indeed come; he thought undetected. He should've known not to underestimate his opponent. The man who watches from afar, hides in the shadows, waits it out through wind and rain and snow, takes the shot and never misses. The man they say has eyes like a hawk.
"Are you planning on using the child as a distraction?" he aims for a conversational tone; finds it a tried and tested method of achieving progress in any situation.
"You planning on killing him if he distracts you too much?" The man, this Hawk, responds.
That's the sort of thing that has Phil thinking maybe that folder of his should be a little thicker; the things this Hawk has seen in his time. No one's ever accused him of having the look of a baby killer about him before.
"I remember you," Phil divulges, when they've walked far enough along the route for long enough that he knows they won't be disturbed. Not that he'd really been expecting an ambush: he had a front row seat to the fireworks show left in the Hawk's wake and it wasn't even the Fourth, but sometimes life's just good to him like that.
"Oh yeah?" the incredulity he hears in that tone is mingled with enough sarcasm that he can easily envision the expression that accompanies it, "I'm told I'm not too memorable, got one of those faces people just forget in a crowd."
"I suppose that comes in handy," he agrees with the carrier, "When you've just assassinated the leader of the biggest cartel in all of South America."
He turns his head slowly to the side, watches the Hawk as the Hawk watches him.
"Like I said," he repeats, and there's that smile again, that mild-mannered tone he's long since perfected, "I remember you."
The eyes of the escapee are still on him; the knife still brandished between well-worn knuckles and toughened skin and pointed at Phil's person.
"So this is your way of evening the score." Not a question; which is a reflection of the Hawk's history in itself. Nobody does something for nothing, and everyone expects something in return.
"So you remember me as well?" The prospect pleases him: eyes like a hawk and the memory to go with.
"I remember you nearly bleeding out in the dirt, alone," comes the snipe in return, "I remember thinking: What the Hell is this fuckin' suit doing now? Right before I watched you go down." Funny: Phil vaguely remembers hearing words to that effect at the time too. "I remember you handed me your card instead of thanking me for saving your life."
"The organization I work for, we monitor potential threats," he says, shrugs like the two go hand in hand, and indeed often they do, "Doesn't mean we can't lend a hand when said threat is under fire themselves."
"So you took a bullet for me instead of neutralizing me and I stopped it from killing you instead of doing it myself," is the Hawk's interpretation of events, "We're already even."
"Doesn't mean I can't lend a hand," Phil reiterates, and holds out his own to literally do just that. "I know a guy. Want me to take the kid?"
"No."
He tilts his head to try and angle a look at the infant. "Is he ok?"
The child is turned bodily away from him, shielded further from his view with the curt: "He's fine."
"How can you be sure?" He poses it like an innocent enquiry; although the words and the situation hold enough weight that he knows he's not fooling the other.
The movement is minute, caught between the flicker of his eyes after the closure of a blink against the ash in the air. Were it anyone else accompanying this man and his charge it would have gone unnoticed. Phil has spent the better part of this journey cataloguing the man and his motives; another up-close-and-personal encounter to add to the mission report of yesteryear and the file as thick as a brick and devoid of any real substance to go with it.
I'm not, the admission or something similar seems to flitter through the man's mind like Phil himself is in possession of one of Stark's gizmos and able to translate every word, but he will be. There's too much truth in that; the words will never make it as far as his tongue.
"Because," the Hawk is choosing the moment and his words carefully; choosing to respond at all.
Phil hears the lessons he was taught when he was young: because is not an answer; now tell me something real, something true.
He watches the words the other still refuses to say filter through the flash of color in his eyes, the quick lock of his jaw, the shift of veins across the muscles in his arm: because he's not crying, because there's no blood, because he's still breathing; until the man settles on something real, something true: "Because I know."
He nods and doesn't say anything.
The Hawk doesn't drop the knife, but he does gesture for Phil to keep moving with his eyes rather than the blade. He'd call that progress. And an early win for mild-mannered, conversational guys everywhere.
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"He's Mockingbird's?" the Suit poses it like a question, like he has so many other things that are really statements coming from his mouth; because he already knows too damn much for his own good, for Clint's liking. "That was her hidey-hole back there? The one you blew sky high with all those men inside, before I could order a retrieval team? Sure to generate a lot of paperwork. Thank you for that."
He resists the urge to bite out, not anymore, in response to the first section and, you're welcome, in regards to the second. Instead he says, "She called herself Huntress."
"I know," the man confirms that he does in fact know too damn much, "It was her cover ID. Part of the mission mandate was that no one could know who she was really working for. It worked a little too well in the end."
"Was I part of the mission mandate too?" he spits out; because at this point, with the Suit spilling more than he probably should Clint might as well fish for more and see what catches.
There's a genial shrug. "Not the one I read."
"Right, and you know everything." He's not sure if he's aiming for sarcastic or scathing with that one; he's not sure he's ever cared to analyze the tone of his words this much before. He's never had to. You can't analyze something that can't be seen, and he works very hard not to be seen.
"I wouldn't presume so, but that's to be expected," the Suit divulges this like the words are easy, and the implications clear. He might not hold the spot of Top Dog around their parts, but he still knows too damn much around these ones.
"Spies and their secrets," Clint remarks, and this time it is scathing.
"While we are in the business of harvesting secrets," comes the response, matter-of-fact, just like the next part: "You seem to have a habit of silencing the holders of such secrets."
"Time is money," he schools the other in one of the basic philosophies he's followed his entire life, rolls his shoulders and passes blame, "Long as I've known, tardiness always carries a punishment of some sort."
That almost makes the Suit smile, but it might be the double meaning that pulls him up short.
"You know about what happened back there?" Clint asks; figures it don't so much matter at this stage if he lies or not, except the knife in his hand may actually end up buried between flesh and bone and the kid would end up with more than just soot and ash covering him.
"She'd been off our radar for a long time," the Suit tells him, and he's inclined to believe that since he was likely on her radar during much of that period and he's not turned up dead yet at the hands of the government or something similar, "And there hasn't been an incident involving a really big stick in quite some time. The higher ups declared her Missing, Presumed KIA. I suppose I'll have to call in at some point to confirm their suspicions now."
"'Your lot in the habit of making stupid-ass decisions regarding the status of your operatives? And then just broadcasting them to the world, telling anyone who asks what's going on with them?" He'd like a truthful answer to that one given he has more than an inkling of where this day is heading, but he doubts that's what he'll get. No one ever likes to advertise their shortcomings. He shakes his head, announces, "No wonder I got to all those folks before you."
The Suit chooses to ignore that blatant dig at his employer's incompetence, or maybe just their unfortunate display of tardiness.
"Depends on the threat," he replies to the original line of questioning; eyes crinkling at the edges, lips curving along one side, "Depends on the clearance level."
"Hence the suit," Clint observes.
This time the man does smile.
"I prefer it to the skintight lycra number," is the accompanying quip, "It clings in all the wrong places."
If he hadn't been clued in earlier; hadn't survived the company on a previous occasion, he'd know for sure now: the Suit has a peculiar sense of humor, finely tuned, and wily enough to get under your skin.
"So, you going to keep him?" the other pipes up after they've transferred from the winding city back streets to the dirt tracks that lead them further and further away from the general populous.
He keeps checking in on the kid, but there's not been a peep out of him since just after this all began. Clint's sorta glad for the quiet; he's got enough noise coming from the Suit without trying to settle a screaming baby on top of it.
The kid's still pressed flat against the Kevlar of his chest though; like he figures the closer he can get to the skin underneath the safer he'll be. Like this is how she used to hold him and it's all he knows. And fuck, if that doesn't twist Clint's insides and make him want to gouge out the guilt already clawing at his marrow, desperate to be entrenched in his bones like so many other things he'll never be rid of now; buried too deep to be anything but a part of him.
"She wasn't supposed to keep him," he replies, his frustration carrying from his tightly wound form to wrap around each word as it leaves him, "He wasn't supposed to be here, he was supposed to be safe; with some stranger mom-and-dad who could give him what we couldn't. He wasn't supposed to be part of all this."
There's not a word in response, and he swings his head round to scrutinize the other.
"What?" he barks out, because he's choosing now to shut up? That's just un-fucking-believable that is. "Suddenly you've got nothing to say?"
The Suit rolls his shoulders. "I thought it a tad redundant to point out the obvious, although by all means if you'd prefer I went ahead and did so I'd be happy to oblige."
He voices the thought as it repeats in his mind, muttering "Un-fucking-believable" to the wind.
"You know, given your current situation, I'd venture most people would be of the opinion it's rather fortunate that our paths have once again crossed as they have." The other remarks on it in that gratingly pleasant tone he seems to adopt more often than not, like it really is a wonderful fateful occurrence: the two of them being here, in the same place, at the same time. Except Clint's never been one for coincidences and there's something in the words, wielded like a weapon, slipping out just before they're morphed by that delicate twist of plucky red, that screams at him: stop being an ungrateful shit and take my damn help. Of course, that might just be repressed issues from his childhood playing interpreter to a perfectly legitimate, not at all loaded, statement.
He maintains a healthy dose of skepticism for moments like this, so he figures he should utilize its existence, and side-eyes the other with the observation, "Yeah, your timing's really something, huh?"
The Suit smiles again; it's somewhat unsettling at this stage, especially when he's still choosing to act all genial and mild-mannered when Clint knows he can be anything but. "Thank you."
Clint keeps his mouth shut. He's still yet to decide if the Suit's actually doing him a favour here or not. He'll reserve judgement until this plays out a little longer: if he's going to end up owing the man for a lifetime, he wants to make sure he's good for it.
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They're trekking through the woods – the fuckin' woods – and though he reckons it'd be a bit pointless for the Suit to have led him all this way only to ambush him now, he's not putting anything past the man. There's a small clearing up ahead that you'd only really notice up this close and personal, with a tiny piece of property resting neatly inside an alcove of bark and leaves.
He's not seen places like this since he was a kid, and even then they were surrounded by cornfields and shit, not in middle of a forest like they're about to step into some nut-job's woodcutting shed. If it turns out this place belongs to some fuckwit obsessed with Hansel and Gretel, and they're here as part of a mighty ridiculous, not to mention crazy elaborate, ruse to sacrifice the kid, Clint's gonna burn this whole fucking forest to the ground.
Observant though he's been throughout the journey, his senses feel like they've been working overdrive since they ditched the car that got them farther and faster than their legs could take them and the woodland started getting denser and denser until it pretty much encased them in tree sap and pine leaves and whatever else is molting off the woodwork here. So while he'd normally be inclined to call this place a shack, he's picked up on some signs that might just point in another direction: namely the kind that suggest this little backcountry hidey-hole has a shitload of advanced technology lingering within.
"Darling!" is the exclamation as they draw closer to the… residence.
The woman standing just over the threshold has a mostly unassuming look about her; her arms stretched out to the side, like she's beckoning them forward for a warm embrace. Clint's not fooled: he's spent most of his life around people who project one image to the masses while living in someone else's skin behind closed doors.
She tilts her head to the side, sweeping back the gray as it falls in practiced dominance over the blonde underneath. Her eyes crinkle with the words, "Uch, and you brought guests – how kind!"
The sarcasm overloading her tone is evident, but whether that means she's genuinely put out by their arrival remains to be seen.
"You're not the only one who prefers to watch from afar," the Suit leans across to tell him, pulling back with a smile. "Hawkeye."
He chooses to take the positive from that statement, and give an internal high-five to his instincts. If you think someone's watching you, they probably are.
"You know a guy, do you?" he says instead, calling the man out on his earlier choice of words.
"I know a guy," the Suit repeats.
When he turns there's that fucking smile again, only it's laced with far more smugness than before.
"Jack," the man inclines his head towards their host, lips tugging and pulling in opposite directions with that one word alone, as he steps inside.
Clint gives a short, silent nod to the woman, Jack, and follows just after.
She moves to join them and closes the door behind her, keeping a watchful eye on the outside world before retreating back inside her own.
"And here was me thinking you'd gone and lost my address," she comments airily, gesturing between them, "But no, you were just biding your time while you gathered up the strays. So thoughtful of you."
The Suit ignores her jab and instead answers to the pursed lips, the raised eyebrows, the arms crossed over her chest. Toted up it's expectation easily interpreted: she knows they want something from her. "My friend here is in need of your assistance."
She doesn't bother to ask which one, though her eyes skirt across to Clint as if to say, Oh really?
He'd bet she's more than a smidge amused, but there's no trace of humor when she speaks, "Are we talking domestic or international?"
Of course just because something's not immediately visible doesn't mean it's not there.
"A little of both, I'd imagine," is the man's response, and there's no hesitation in it; no shame in such an admission. He wonders if there should be; maybe something of an apology for the added workload at least.
She's older than him, this Jack woman; older than the Suit too. She shows it in the way she gets pissed at the other, lines carved out on her face leaving crinkles of residue that weren't there before; like she's already exasperated with this whole routine of his as she rephrases, "Ok, how about this: are we talking local to me and mine, or – "
"How about you both stop trying to riddle me out of this little chat you're having and tell me what your plans are here?" is Clint's suggestion, cutting her off. That he does give an apology for – well, half an apology, of sorts. He tilts his head and lifts the shoulder not playing pillow to the kid's puffy little cheek. She seems to get the gist of what he's getting at. She smiles.
Then she nods at the Suit and comments, "You know I might actually like this one." A wrist less than half the size of his own slips through the space between the trio, her pointer finger displacing the air around it, "That's you scored two now, boyo, well done you."
He looks between them, eyebrows raised, waiting for one or both to explain their intentions. He knows they will. People always do.
"Your buddy over here wants me to take the kid off your hands," Jack tells him, but makes no physical move to actually do such a thing.
"I got that part," he grits out, "What? You think I trekked all this way through the freakin' wilderness without expecting to meet a forger. That part, I know. What else?"
"No, not just get you the papers, that I could do if I was three sheets to the wind or about ready to keel over into the Lord's arms," she fobs off, rolls her eyes and almost looks a touch insulted at the insinuation that that's all she does here. Did he mention the shit-ton of electric and machinery in the place? Yeah, ok, so maybe not just a forger. "He wants me to raise the kid."
That information takes a moment to sink in; along with all the other data he's acquired since he ditched the ambush squad and fashioned himself as a tag-along for the government-issue mountain guide. He's lived in some shitty places in his life; a good fair few of those happening before he was even in his teens, and though this doesn't come close to those; it's not far enough away for his liking either.
"He wants you to raise the kid?" he repeats, turns to the Suit and does the same, "You want her to raise the kid?"
"I am standing right here, you know," she remarks at that. "And I take exception to your tone – there ain't nothing wrong with me," she informs him smartly, looks him up and down, and nods at the bundle in his arms and the makeshift bag of supplies that goes with. "After all, I'm not the one trying to get rid of a baby."
He doesn't answer her on that; he has his reasons. He supposes that's what everyone tells themselves when they shuck responsibility and leave their own on other folk's doorsteps, but he couldn't really give a shit. He knows why he's doing this. It's for the kid. And it'll be worth it. It will.
The kid will be alive for one; which is a pretty top-notch place to start in his book.
He still has rules though: "I'm not having him grow up in some hillbilly shack in the middle of the woods."
Jack looks set to howl with laughter at that one. "Oh honey, if only you knew half of what this place has to offer." She shakes her head, but no secrets fall out.
"There are worse places to grow up," the Suit mentions, like he's telling Clint to pick and choose his battles; that compromise is key here.
"There's better places too," he returns, and he means it.
He's not giving the kid to her so she can raise him like Mowgli in The Jungle Book. He doesn't want him shut away in some little tree house, living off the land and making nice with all the animals. He wants what he can't give him. He wants a home for the kid.
"Well, Hell, Pick and Choosy, maybe I don't feel like moving after all," she throws out, hands in the air and shaking her head at them like she should've known she'd be dealing with two ungrateful wretches when they first appeared on her doorstep with an infant in tow. "Or doing this for you, which you should really be on your knees groveling for."
"Jack," the Suit says, but she doesn't stop, instead she rounds on him again with her next line.
"And can I say? You have a right brass neck on you, Phillis." She shoots a pointed look his way, and a shock of white cuts through one of her blue eyes with the angle and sharpness of her gaze.
It doesn't seem like she expects an apology for the action, and it's not like she's likely to get one anytime soon either.
The other man turns to Clint with that last remark and swiftly rattles off, "Not actually my name, do not go getting any ideas."
He does allow a smirk; it might be unwise, but he's not about to pass up the opportunity completely. He tucks that little tidbit away where the ideas have already started to form; as they always do.
"He's right," the woman agrees, though it's a begrudging statement at best, made up for by the amusement that split her cheeks this time with beaming lips and gleeful words, "But can you tell how it annoys him so?"
She seems content to share that much with him; smile and all, before she turns back to look at the Suit with a narrowed-eyed gaze and puffs out a sigh.
"Which is a good thing," she points out, "Since I did actually like this place, you know," she informs him, and she jabs the air with her finger as she tells him, "And I want that noted in that little noggin of yours when I remind you twenty years down the line of this absolutely gigantic favor I'm doing for you."
"Noted," the man confirms; and Clint notes that she's already talking in the past tense, which is good for them, he supposes, since it means she's agreed already. Something tells him the Suit had known she would all along. "Now," his genial smile is back, brows lifting a touch as he prompts, "Can we proceed?"
Apparently he uses that expression on everyone, and she knows it. She pulls out a nearby chair and plonks herself down on it without ceremony. Then reaching over to start pulling sheets and various instruments from drawers, she boots up some complex-looking system on her computer; muttering the whole time about bloody men and all these years, nothing's changed and never learn, always bailing them out.
When she's apparently finished prepping her tools, she spins round in the chair and fits Clint with a smile that looks as real as the pain behind the flash of white in her eyes, "Now, your little bundle of not-so-joy got a name?"
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"Francis," he replies when prompted. He has no idea if that's what she actually named the kid, knowing Bobbi probably not. Or if she did, she'd have called him by some nickname like Swan Song or White Noise. So it's something Clint would like to give him, if he can.
His palms are rough from years of abuse and exposure, but the kid doesn't stir beneath his hand as he brushes some of those white-blond strands across his little forehead, though they pose no real risk of falling over his tiny closed lids.
"Got a second name?"
Jack's still watching him when he looks back up from the tiny human resting against the dip in his shoulder.
He pauses, catches himself before he says his own: he doubts he'll be granted such an indulgence and even if he was the point is to keep the kid safe, not paint an almighty target on his back as soon as he ups sticks and leaves him. "Thought you'd just make one up, or base it off whatever it says on some poor dead kid's gravestone."
"Crude," she comments, though she relents, "But not wholly inaccurate."
He waits for her to continue, eyebrows raised, and she heaves a sigh, rolling her eyes.
"Look I'm one of the best at what I do, which means I can do as I please. You want the kid to have your name, the kid can have your name," Jack tells him, "Can't guarantee how long it'll stick, mind, but he can have it for the time being. Ok?"
"One of the best?" he questions instead of offering up his own namesake on the kid's behalf.
"Yes, one of the best," she repeats, and then expands with, "Don't wanna be the best or they hound your ass for everything and nothing. Your face gets plastered all over the place, people try talk to you like they know you," she shakes her head, resolute, "No thanks, leave that to the boy-geniuses of the world. Anonymity becomes me and I prefer it that way," and then she concedes with a wink and a smile, "And quite frankly I'm getting too old for that shit."
"But not too old for this?" He's always been told he's quick on the uptake; sometimes too quick for his own good.
"It's Morse," the Suit cuts in before they can continue.
Clint looks to the older man, who simply raises a brow that seem to say, you would have preferred your own?
He shrugs and concedes the point.
"Morse as in Doc?" Jack directs at the Suit, and there's that flash of white on blue again; only it lingers a little longer this time. A tell. "As in Bobbi?" she demands, "This is her kid? And you two were just going to palm him off to me without a word to his mother? Or me?" She shakes her head, expression of plain disbelief, "Oh you make quite the pair, don't you?"
"Agent Morse is no longer part of the equation," the other man responds, swallows and then nods at the computer before her as if that'll make her get back to their previous task.
Apparently he should've known it wouldn't be that easy.
"Wow, ok, remind me never to ask you to play doctor. Tales of your bedside manner have clearly been grossly exaggerated all these years," she scowls at the bearer of the news, but Clint can tell she's hurt by this; she doesn't make much attempt to hide it either, and it quickly morphs into anger: "What happened?"
"I'm not quite sure yet," the Suit admits, "I'll know more when I return to base and can order a full investigation if one isn't already being carried out as we speak. It seems her cover for Counter-Intelligence was blown. They took her out."
"Who's they?" Jack demands, and there's an undertone there that betrays what she can really do with all this technology that surrounds her. "Your lot? 'They do it?"
"It wasn't us," he returns quite calmly; as if this woman isn't a powder keg near-ready to explode on them. "She was undercover. It could have been any number of groups she was investigating. She was dead before we could get to her."
"I was late," Clint chooses to add; because it matters, and she should know.
"It happens," the Suit allows, sparing a glance in his direction.
He shoots him a look right back; it shouldn't happen. Not if you want to complete your objective; not if you want to live.
"So now we're playing Pass the Parcel with the leftover baby," is what she says to all that, and the way she now seems to be compartmentalizing is another sign that there is far more to this woman than meets the eye. "Great."
"Jack," the Suit chastises, and this time she does drop it, at least to pick up where they left off.
"Francis Morse. Bit of a mouthful, but ok. Let's just hope the kid doesn't have a lisp," she replies in a tone that belays the unspoken 'aye-aye-Captain' and gives the other a swift nod to go with it.
"Yeah, for now, but after that just Francis ok?" Clint shrugs off the other man's inquiring gaze and murmurs, "He should at least get to keep one thing from all of this."
"Don't worry boyo, I got this handled," Jack assures him, already moving between typing away rapidly and scribbling across documents, "Now you won't be on his birth certificate or anything like that, and for all intents and purposes we're gonna pass it off like he was abandoned – but if I'm going to be so kind as to pass along the family name to the little darling, I suppose I could swing the whole grandma-guardian thing."
Clint near balks at her, before he gets himself in check. This whole thing has been a cluster-fuck from start to finish, but really what did he think was going to happen?
"I know," Jack placates him and his obvious thought-process, standing and moving towards him, "But he's my first," she excuses herself then, hands crossed over her chest, pressed close to her heart; and Clint can see how this will play out under any public scrutiny, small-town gossip or prying eyes of watchdogs who cross their path, "And he's just so cute, and little – look at those itty bitty fingers and toes." She's bending down, cooing at the bundle still held securely in his arms, and then she straightens, rolls her shoulders and the nonchalance emanating from her now replaces any old-dear routine of a split-second ago, "We've got time."
It takes him a moment too long to realize she's standing watching him again, only this time she's holding out her arms, obviously expecting him to hand the kid over.
"You planning on relinquishing your hold on him anytime soon?" she asks, cracks him a smile with a smidge of sympathy.
"Let him be for now, Jack," the Suit instructs, and steps beyond them to the armchair by the window; leaving the one next to it with a clear view of the door and the surrounding entry points free for Clint. "He's only let go of him twice since he got him, and those were both struggles in themselves."
That elicits a gasp from her, and the scandalized expression: "You mean you let some random women - plural - hold my baby before me?" One hand on her heart again, and Clint can see the faint tracings of a star shaped shrapnel wound teasing her fingertips. She looks between the two, continuing her act, "You two are sure making a good job of wounding me today."
His lips quirk up in a grin and he shifts his arms, shoulder nudging forward with the kid still attached, "If you're that desperate, I think he needs a change." He tilts his head, though he has more than an inkling she's not going to fall for his charms, "And you know what they say? Third time's a charm!"
That doesn't please her any.
"Sorry, that's still classed as daddy duty while you're here," she flat-out rejects his version of an offer to bond with the kid, although she does reward him with: "But nice try."
The Suit laughs from the other side of the room. "Oh go on, Jack, he sweet-talked the young cashier at the gas station into doing it on the way here, got her to fill a bag full of essentials and throw in a quick feeding lesson too. The other one practically jumped at the chance to lend a hand as soon as we stepped inside the store; apparently a baby was the most exciting thing she'd seen all day. If she'd had any, her other customers would've probably been of the same opinion, the amount of screaming that followed. Kid's got a killer pair of lungs on him. Though I can't imagine it'll be the most tasking role you've ever undertaken in your life."
"I'm insulted you consider me as easy as those others you conned. And if you're so sure, you do it. I'll have plenty of that to fill my future and I refuse to perpetuate the gender stereotype," she snubs the oh-so-tempting offer again. "Besides, if my hands are full of baby, who's going to ensure my having him's all legal and just in this here free and brave land?" She flashes them a grin before turning back to her computer screen. "Enjoy gents."
And that's how Clint ends up with a self-taught, crash course in feeding, changing and caring for the kid in other ways than simply being a human pillow for him to sleep on.
Enlightening is one way to put it.
The kid conks out again on his shoulder not long after Clint's made it through ensuring he's been cleaned, fed, watered and he's not about to choke on any of it after all that effort.
It's a comfortable weight he's grown quickly used to, and in the months that follow he finds not even the load of a sniper rifle or the draw of his bow can fill the void.
The kid's left an imprint, and he'd known the moment he left that he'd find his way back to him.
So much for giving the kid a normal life.
Then again, they'd left him with Jack.
That's an adventure in its own right.
.
He's six months old when he tries to save himself and someone else offers to do it for him. Maybe he's too young then to realize it, but soon he comes to understand: sometimes it's ok to accept the hand that's offered to you.
.
TBC…
A/N: Hope it wasn't too confiusing. Sections and characters should be easier to distinguish now that the two have 'officially' been introduced.
Like I said, it was supposed to be a one-shot. I just don't know when to quit.
Can't guarantee following chapters will be quite as lengthy, but it's a distinct possibility since I don't know when to shut up in print or in talkative real life. Lucky you lot.
Aim is to post one chap a day, again no guarantees.
Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed it.
Drop me a wee line or whatever with your thoughts if you're so inclined – any and all recognition of acknowledgement is greatly appreciated!
Steph
xxx