Title: Fledgling Feathers

Rating: T (16+)

Summary: When a strange invention of Black Ghost's turns Jet mentally, but not physically, into a child, things got difficult. An accident late one night only serves to make things even more difficult. One-shot, pre-42

Warnings: Implied past child abuse, depiction of injury/blood, fear of the dark, pre-42, background 67 and 93, kid-fic, gratuitous German, mild language

A/N: Based on a tumblr post by user chiauve: "…Jet getting hit by a ray that regresses him mentally … would actually be pretty interesting…. I realized that a lot of us have the headcanon that Jet was abused when he was young. It starts out cute but then one night Jet tries to get himself a glass of water and he breaks the glass so he freaks out…" found at: (dotcomslash) post/85672115796/i-thought-over-what-i-said-earlier-about-jet

Also this incorporates some of my 009 headcanon: The translators work partially subconsciously, and rely both on sending and receiving. If it's a normal person there is no 'miscommunication'. However, if it's one of the cyborgs to another, because both have transmitters and receivers, if one of them is worked up enough, they can by-pass the subconscious work of the translator and be heard in their native tongue. The listener can translate what is being said if they focus, consciously forcing the translator to work, but they have to focus as much as the other is not focused, in order to overcome the 'emotional break-down' of the translator, otherwise all they hear is another language. (Predictably, it's just my excuse to write in non-English words and phrases; I love to read/listen to foreign languages. Indulge me?)

That being said, if you are fluent in German (I am not), and you see an error, please do let me know so I can fix it. I firmly believe in doing my best not to butcher other people's languages. Thanks!

-FF-

Albert was willing enough to admit that perhaps it hadn't been as much of a coincidence as it might have seemed, that he was up and awake when Jet was that night.

Ivan was only halfway through his 14-day cycle of sleep, so there was no way he could have felt anything to warn anyone. Francoise, with her super-senses, was, first, used to the small, domestic noises and accidental breakages that frequently occurred in the presence of her fellow cyborgs; and second, perhaps a bit… preoccupied with Joe when it happened. Chang had been stress-cooking, and only through an obvious-in-hindsight revelation and quiet coercion from a concerned Great Britain had he been lured away from the kitchen and into bed for the first time in nearly thirty-two hours. Pyunma and Geronimo were covering the perimeter, as it was their turn on watch. And, frankly, for as brilliant as Doctor Kozumi and Doctor Gilmore could be, they were both old men who had been working overtime to try and reverse the effects of this latest upset; neither of them were up to handling any kind of situation to come up at the moment.

Once he had realized that Jet had to be – based on the likely locations and occupations of their teammates because of the time – all alone, Albert had leapt into action. The last thing the redheaded loudmouth needed at the moment was to be alone in a strange house. Granted, it wasn't his job to be watching out for Jet, but for now it needed to be done, and, well… His arm wasn't exactly being twisted into spending time with Jet. It never had been.

A quick, cautious glance into the darkness of the other's room – he could be sleeping, it was one in the morning, after all – only showcased that the redhead was nowhere to be found. Albert was practiced enough in keeping himself in check that he didn't immediately panic: Doctor Kozumi's place was big enough for someone unfamiliar with it, in the dark, without even counting the vast expanse of land attached to the large home. It would just take some poking around. Jet could hide, but he was still physically in an adult's body – lately, that was enough to trip him up.

Ten minutes into the search, every step carefully calculated so his metal-heavy feet didn't clomp around loud enough to wake everyone in the house, Albert found his way into the kitchen. At first, he dismissed the shadows of night and the silvery fall of moonlight over the wooden floor as the normal state of an abandoned room. But a deeper darkness on the floor near the sink made him pause. It was somehow, in the night, more than the other shadows, it was… wet?

He cautiously stepped forward, and the slight shift in perspective was enough to have moonlight catch pieces in the wet-darkness. Albert immediately identified the glimmer-flash of light as glass, and his single, abortive step forward moved instantly into a concerned stride as he knelt by the glass. He didn't even need to touch the liquid the shards of glass rested in to know it – the sharp, copper smell was enough. But just to be sure, just to dispel the lingering hope in the back of his mind, he wet the fingertips of his flesh hand in the puddle, and brought them up to his face.

He was a soldier, and had been made so by his people, by his 'immoral' love for Hilda in a dangerous time, and by Black Ghost. Even in the dead of night, it was too easy to feel the viscous fluid, to smell it, and know. Too easy to see the black shine of blood on his hand, real for once.

Immediately, his heart began to race, and he spun around, eyes searching the dark of the kitchen. There was only one person in this house, at present, who would leave a pile of glass shards and blood on the floor without tending to it. The spike of adrenaline heightened his attention to detail, and his eyes snapped to the thin, drip-trail of blood, narrowing down on one particular corner.

He held his breath, and strained to listen beyond the chirping of the crickets, the whisper of the wing through the trees. He was both relieved and horrified beyond measure to hear strained gasps – such as a terrified child, trying so very hard to be quiet, might make – coming from that corner. Jet was scared and hurting, and everything in Albert strained and begged to fix it. He would do anything for the redhead; if in this moment, that meant be his protector, his big brother, his savior, than that was what Albert was more-than prepared to be.

Not daring yet to move closer – who knew how close the boy was to bolting, right now, if those bitten-off whimpers were any indication – Albert swept a dishtowel completely over the mess and then tossed it, distractedly, in the garbage, while calling gently, "Jet? Are you alright, mein liebchen?"

Were it not for Jet's current mental state, the endearment would never have made it passed Albert's lips; Jet was notoriously defensive when it came to (affectionate) nicknames. But as it was, thanks to a strange new device from Black Ghost, Jet had been physically himself but mentally only a seven-year-old for the past week and a half. So far, it had been a wild ride. When a group of world-saving cyborgs ends up with a child, it's bound to incite some chaos… When the child is generated from one of their own, adding the issue of having to explain to the child their own grown up body – the unwanted technology a sour 'bonus' round – and the 'future' to everything else… Well, it was Jet.

He had spent a good couple of hours in the beginning convinced it was all a dream. When he'd accidently discovered how to turn on his rockets, and shot straight up into the sky – with the kind of horrified-and-yet-thrilled scream that only naïve, adventurous children can seem to be able to manage – they'd all scrambled in a panic. Without knowing how to steer himself, Jet had merely come hurtling back down, and it had only been the quick thinking of Doctor Gilmore, Joe, and GB that had saved anyone broken bones. Doctor Gilmore had promptly disabled Jet's rockets to prevent further such mishaps, for which Albert had been quietly grateful. He'd seen enough of Jet plunging helplessly from the sky for one lifetime.

The minor bruising had been enough to convince Jet to start listening to the 'crazy metal people'. But that didn't mean that he'd stopped being fascinated with it all – from his height to his strength to the way it was so different just to run around. It was a childish wonder with their condition that all of them had been missing since their unwilling transformations, Albert had to admit. Seeing Jet so adoringly fascinated with himself – even if he couldn't fly, still – was refreshing. He wasn't tainted by the memories of being forcibly changed, and it put everything in a new light. It was a little easier to look at himself in the mirror in the mornings, lately, if only because of the adoring way the seven-year-old in Jet's bright blue eyes watched every 'new' thing Albert showed him.

For all his childishness, though, Jet was still definitely Jet. Brash and loud-spoken, easy to rile up and easier to make laugh. Quick to roughhouse and climb and jump and be right there in everyone's faces. Albert had been, in passing, disappointed to see the familiar guardedness in his friend's young gaze, but had been just as quick to attribute the glaringly obvious defensiveness to a life lived on the streets (that much, he knew about Jet's past, though not much else).

Seeing this, here in the moonlight slathered darkness though, made Albert wonder if perhaps he shouldn't have been more concerned from the start. Because, as his eyes adjust, what Albert sees nearly breaks him. Jet has pressed himself into a corner, knees drawn up to his chest and arms wrapped around them, his entire posture defensive. Dark stains smeared over his right palm, dripped down his forearm, and stained his pajama pants. His red hair his more wild than usual, and beneath his fringe his blue eyes shine wetly, wide-white and frantic. There was no way to tell in the dim lighting how pale the child-in-mind was, but if Albert had to guess, he'd place his money on the American's freckles standing out like mud on a new sidewalk.

Albert had yet not tried nicknaming this version of Jet, thinking that treating him like he would have treated the older version – within reason – was the way to handle this. But the situation seemed to warrant all the calming tricks in Albert's emotional arsenal; granted, there weren't many, but for those he cared for, Albert did what he could.

"Jet? Liebchen?" he tried again, quietly and calmly, staying sniper-still. His heart clenched when Jet's breathing hitched, tears spilling over freckled cheeks from wide, dilated eyes.

When waiting silently for fifteen full, stretched-out seconds gained the German no other responses, he placed caution carefully aside, and rose off his heels just enough to begin to shuffle forward, hopefully without presenting too much of a threat to Jet. Absently, he wiped his wet fingers on jeans, not wanting to scare Jet further. When he got within arm's reach of the man-child, he stopped and tried again.

"Jet, you're hurt. What do you need? How can I help?"

Jet blinked, the slow and heavy motion of someone in shock. He frowned faintly, before focusing in on the blonde German. Slowly, he mouthed, "Al…bert?"

"That's right, Jet," he soothed, nodding slowly. "It's me, Albert. I'm here. You're okay."

He held up his hand, loose and non-threating as he knew how to make it, in the air between them. "Can I touch you, Jet? Is that okay right now?"

The last thing he wanted to do was startle Jet; the boy was out of it enough as it was. A fraction of a nod was all Albert needed, before he brought his hand to gently cup Jet's face. He smiled at the dazed American, as though this was normal and he wasn't worried out of his mind.

"Hey," he murmured softly. "Hi, Jet. I'm here; it's alright. It looks like you're a little hurt though, liebchen. Can I take a look?"

He'd moved his hands over to Jet's wrists' as he spoke, and gingerly grabbed his wiry forearms. When he met with no resistance, Albert pulled Jet's hands to hang between them, where his own hand had been moments before. Jet was still having trouble tracking, but Albert knew the minute he finally recognized his own hands – he stiffened and choked on a gasp. Albert didn't have time to brace himself before Jet, once more in the present, began to overflow with teary, desperate words.

"I-I was just comin' t' get'a glass'a water! I di'n't mean f'r it'ta break, I promise! Don't be mad, please, I'm sorry!" Without warning, Jet tore his arms from Albert's light hold. Even as the kid continued spilling over with pleas, Albert's stomach knotted with the implications as those injured, blood-stained hands came up to shield Jet's head and face instinctively. "I tried t' clean it up! I did; I'm'a good boy! B-but the g-glass was sharp an' it hurt an' I started bleedin' an' it made it messier an' I'm sorry, please, I-I promise I di'n't mean t'! I know I'm n-not s'posed t'be 'wake when it's d-d-dark, but it was dark an' the things was watchin' me an' g-getting' up makes 'em go 'way 'cause I'm just a stupid little kid; I'm sorry! An' I left the mess just there, oh God please don't be mad at me! Please, Mister H-Heinrich, I really, really, really 'm sorry! I will clean it up, an' I'll be a good boy!"

Abruptly, Jet's stream of words died, like a faucet shut off. It took far too long to compose a reply, Albert knew, but neither of them were in the right kind of mindset for him to break down. He needed the moment to just breathe, and do what he could to center himself (Jet had called him 'Mister Heinrich', for God's sake; the kid hadn't been formal with any of them since his 'arrival'!). Without meeting Jet's wild eyes – because he couldn't do this and that and remain coherent and in control – he gently but firmly reclaimed Jet's hands, dutifully ignoring the violent flinch.

With the end of his long sleeves, he swiped at the thin streams of clotting blood, relieved to reveal only shallow gashes, too small for stiches. Unwilling to stand even long enough to retrieve the first aid kit under the sink, lest he shatter this brittle 'calm' and send Jet running for the hills, he lifted the bottom hem of his turtleneck to his teeth, easily tearing a strip free. He gently wound the black cloth around the boy's injured palm, without a word. It was only once he'd finished, only once he'd wrapped that hand in one of his own and his other arm had softly tugged at narrow shoulders, only once Jet – carefully tucked beneath his chin, nearly huddled in his lap – had stopped shivering, that he spoke with a quiet, firm, indisputable tone.

"Jet. Liebchen. I will never hurt you. I will never lay a hand on you, and Heaven help the one who does. You are allowed to make mistakes – to drop things, and make messes, and be scared of the dark – because you are a child. You are allowed to play, and laugh, and scream, and be unruly – because you are a child. There is nothing wrong with those things – even if you are an adult, there are nothing wrong with these things, honestly – and you will never be harmed for them. Maybe you make a mistake that is serious, like flying off into the sky without supervision? Then you will be disciplined: you will be put in a corner, or sent to your room, or made to clean dishes or floors or windows. You will not be punished, or hurt, or starved.

"You are worth so much more than that, mien schatz. The person – nein, der unmensch – who made you think differently was wrong! You are loved – sie warden geliebt – and if you get hurt we will worry. We will protect you, and teach you, and play with you. When you are sick we will sit by your bedside and care for you. When you are scared of the dark, you can come to us and we will open our beds to you. When you are joyous we will share your joy, and teach you new things to be joyful about. When you are sad, we will… Ich weißnicht, feed you hot chocolate and build pillow forts, or something!

"Jet," Albert sighed, leaning back just enough to hook the familiar chin with his fingers and tilt it back to meet wide, mystified (and no longer terrified, thank God) blue eyes, and decided to be frank in a very American way. "I could give two shits about the glass. I'm just glad you're alright."

Worn to the edges of his emotional endurance, Albert closed his eyes and let his forehead flop gently against Jet's. After a moment, the kid began to fidget in the nervous way of all children who have something to say. Patience – patience Albert could do. There wasn't too much energy involved in having patience, was there?

"Albert?"

"Hmm?"

"I—Well, I mean, you said—That is, if it's dark…" and Jet trailed off, the effort of starting and then failing to finish too many sentences apparently too much for him.

And, really? That was what the kid chose to focus on, out of all that Albert had said? But Albert wasn't about to complain; even if Jet felt relatively at ease, his edges still held the spring-loaded feel of a child who was ready to flee the scene at a moment's notice. Even if his offer of a bed hadn't been genuine – and it had; he more-than remembered his own childish nightmares, and what a relief it had always been to slip into bed with his parents – he wasn't going to chance doing anything that might drive Jet off now.

He ruffled Jet's sweat-dried hair, even as he wearily tugged them both to their feet, humming nonchalantly, "I meant what I said: If the dark's bothering you, I've no problem with you coming to wake me, or wanting to finish the night with me instead of alone. Come, then, mien liebchen – to bed. I'm exhausted."

Jet followed, fingers tangled with Albert's own, and practically glued to his side the whole way back. In the bed, too, he curled up tight and small, and tucked himself back against Albert's chest to be cradled and protected. He was asleep nearly instantly.

It was true that Jet was still gangly and muscled, still taller and more narrow than Albert, still with an age-lined face and cautious eyes… But – especially in the last week – it was moments like these, when for all his adult body, it was more clear than ever just how much of a kid Jet was. Loose-limbed and soft-faced in the circle of Albert's arms, he was vulnerable, and Albert melted a little more.

Nothing changed that, even when he woke, nose-to-nose with a Jet whose baby-blue's were too old for his nineteen-year-old face, to a startled shout of adult indignation. Still sleep-muddled, he wondered how this week-long experience would change, if at all, his relationship with the brash, flight-dizzy American. With a mental shrug, Albert determinedly shook off sleep and faced the future head-on.

(And if that future looked a little more redheaded than before, when Jet wasn't nearly as stand-offish as he'd once been – perhaps even a bit shy… Once, of course, they'd discussed just what it was Albert had seen and pieced together, and just how much of Jet felt like his privacy had been violated, first – well, Albert certainly wasn't complaining.)

-FF-

Mien liebchen/schatz – "my sweetheart/dear/honey"; a term of gentle affection, often for family members/loved ones

nein, der unmensch – "no, the inhuman/monster/beast"

sie warden geliebt – "you are loved"

Ich weißnicht – "I don't know"