So I've already fallen off the 'post one chap a day' wagon, but I might get back on track yet.
A/N: Flashbacks are in bold italic.
Anything in another language other than spoken English is generally in italics.
Chapter Two
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He's four years old when he meets her and that's the start of something else entirely.
.
"Agent Romanoff," Coulson's voice causes her to pause, though she doesn't turn, "Might I advise against the action you are about to undertake."
She stays silent, because what does he know of it?
She'll be off-base, likely monitored, but that's to be expected. They might have granted her 'Agent' status, but apparently they won't blindly trust her when she's not within their immediate line of sight or target range. They're not complete idiots, she admits. Barton would've likely made a quip to the notion of what does that say about you? that she works for such idiots. Sometimes he reminds her of a child, albeit with a darker sense of humor. In any case, she's worked for more idiotic beings for less of a reason than he'd given her when he'd chosen not to kill her. Besides, he's not here. And that's sort of the point.
"This is your first opportunity off-base, without direct supervision," Coulson points out, as if she wasn't already aware. In other words, it is a test. "It would be prudent not to spend it hunting down someone who does not wish to be found."
She takes that to mean that Barton's whereabouts are not currently being monitored, and her seeking him out would not only draw unwanted attention to his position, but also to whatever it is that he and their handler seem so keen for her not to know about. They're keeping secrets from those that are employed to extract them, so of course this just makes her all the more curious to uncover what it is they're hiding.
"Are we not partners?" she enquires.
She turns to look at him, though she knows his eyes have not moved from her position.
"Barton and I?" she clarifies; as if there was any need. "Surely his presence would be enough to keep the guard dogs at bay while I'm out assimilating myself in the real world once more?" she poses it like a question, but it's a statement of certainty. She knows as well as he does, as they all do: the partners are on probation, and if Barton cannot keep her on a leash, he'll suffer the same fate they have in store for her. S.H.I.E.L.D will not hesitate to order a hit on their own agents; in that regard, they are no different from her previous stream of employers. There are, after all, always more assets willing to rise through the ranks and take their place.
"I'm sure you'll manage just fine on your own," is his level response, the unspoken you have all these years not far behind. "Although you'll find the meaning can usually be found in the term itself," he points out. "Personal time." His lips quirk up in one corner while his eyes remain a steady gaze on hers: it is another test, one of Coulson's own. Subtle approval wrapped in a warning. "It tends to indicate a desire to spend time away from others, partaking in activities of one's own choice."
She shrugs and sends a smile of practiced pleasantry back at him, mirroring the one he wears so well. "Hmm, my English is still a little rusty."
She wonders if he'll warn Barton of her arrival, or if he'll let them play this out on their own.
That would be telling.
.
He watches her, his newest asset, as she goes off in search of his other – equally as skilled and every bit as stubborn.
The decision of whether or not to warn them of her incoming weighs on him more heavily than he will admit.
Despite both the educational and entertainment value gained from watching his assassins duke it out, Phil's not sure if the backlash on this particular occasion would be worth it. Barton is unbelievably protective of their whereabouts and would not take kindly to any intrusion in their lives, especially one not of their own making. No matter what he thinks of Romanoff, his feelings for the boy are unparalleled.
There's also the matter of Jack.
.
His phone flashes to indicate an incoming call, but there's no Caller ID to give him early insight. That's not exactly unusual in his line of work, however, so he answers with a prompt, "Coulson."
"Now before you go getting your knickers in a twist, I made sure the line's secure," comes the voice from the other end of the line.
In this case, even if there had been Caller ID it would likely have only led him on a wild goose chase. As is her way.
He immediately identifies the speaker and swallows the words he'd been set to utter in return, instead settling for the simple, but effective: "Proceed."
She waits a beat before informing him, "Something's come up."
If her contact alone hadn't already clued him into the gravity of the situation, her pitch rams the point home. He turns away, drops his speech to a lower tone and feels the words grate against the cage of his mouth before he releases them, "You've barely been in possession of the package for a month, what could have possibly 'come up' in such a timeframe?"
"Been counting the days too have you?" she practically sing-songs, although it lacks her usual level of jest.
She sighs and he allows her the moment.
"He's deaf, Phil."
He exhales. "I can see how that could complicate things."
"Glad you agree," she returns, "You plan on doing anything about it?"
"That depends," he says, still siphoning off options from one side of his brain to the other. "How accurate are your findings?"
"Well put it this way: he seems quite content to just babble away in his own little language, which is fine, really, I'm more than happy to let him go at it all day, doesn't bother me if he doesn't want to get an early start mastering my mother tongue – but none of it would appear to be in response to what I'm saying, or anything that's going on around him." She huffs a laugh to break the tension. "He can see fine though, so I got beady little eyes following me like a hawk all times of the day and night. And don't even get me started on that fact he won't sit still for a minute, restless doesn't even cover it. Figured that one out early though – just needs some visual or motor stimulation, give him something to hold or stare at and I'm in the clear for a good five minutes or more."
He allows himself the moment to smile and lets his thoughts drift to another. "Mmm," he murmurs, "That sounds familiar."
"You gonna tell him?" she prompts at that. He doesn't waste time thinking she's invented a mind-reading device along with everything else in her technological arsenal; his comment had been telling enough.
He's never really left 'Agent-mode' as it's been so cleverly dubbed, but there's a noticeable difference in the twang of his voice from prior, "My asset is currently undergoing a rigorous training program before full immersion into the organisation."
"So that's a no then?" she surmises, and if she was standing before him he could see the roll of the eyes that is not at all hidden from her tone now, and so very telling of her oft-deadpan attitude.
"It's an 'I'll tell him when I've secured his position within the company and I'm confident he's of sound mind and rational judgment before I pass that information along', but thank you for your input," he responds, and he's aware that it might contain an undertone that could be deemed somewhat snarky in nature, but he blames her for that. Besides, sometimes he thinks she responds best to her own kind.
She gives him a minute in return before she says, "I'll just deal with it, shall I?"
He allows the exhale to take with it any other reply he might've been tempted to send her way, and provides consent to the action even though he knows she doesn't actually need it. "I think that would be best."
.
His phone chirps with the sound of an incoming message: sender unknown.
It reads: I didn't realize your high-flyer was in the habit of leaving a trail for others to follow.
Their 'code' is not the most advanced, nor would it be the most difficult to crack if someone were to attempt such an act. However, the measures Jack has in place, not to mention the lengths taken to secure his own privacy, would certainly be enough to render any attempts useless.
He types a quick response: Maybe she's feeling lonely without a partner.
Jack's reply is swift and to the point: Maybe she shouldn't have killed all the others then.
He shakes his head as he envisions her satisfied smile were she saying that to his face. Knowing her he wouldn't be surprised if she was. He'll have to do another sweep of his office later.
She follows her previous message up with another, and that's the last he hears from her.
I suppose I'll just have to keep a closer eye on my birds for the foreseeable future, wouldn't want them to become anyone else's prey.
It's somewhat debatable whether that actually makes his job easier or not.
.
Francis is still little more than a baby when they run for the first time, and indeed enveloped in Barton's arms Phil imagines he'll always look as such.
The tight scrutiny that follows 9/11 means it's not the best time to be hiding out in the good ol' US of A, especially if you are a hacker of sorts ("your words, Phil-istine" and though Jack deliberately butchers the term just so, it's debatable if she's actually referring to him or Barton). There's also the minor detail that she may or may not have entered the country through various illegal means. They don't talk about things like that. Sort of like how they don't mention the fact she has access to the kinds of systems S.H.I.E.L.D runs on – sometimes it's just better that way.
"Scandinavia?" Barton questions and looks from the eldest to the youngest in quick succession, letting his gaze linger on the little boy in his arms like this is his last goodbye. Not quite, but Phil supposes it's close enough.
"Well," Jack says, like she's really going to let her finger drop on a map-point and just take it from there, "That general direction anyway. Maybe Germany – are they still clamoring for the Aryan race over there? He'd fit right in!"
He fits her with a look, because that's in bad taste even for her idea of worldview, as skewed as it is. She just carries on fiddling with the controls on the miniature hearing aids laid out on the desk before her, chancing looks up at them every so often.
"Look at him," she continues on, "White blonde hair, bright blue eyes and a face like that? Scandinavian, German," she waves her hand around airily like the whole region in general will work with her plan, "They'll lap him up over there. And he barely speaks as it is, so he'll be fine."
"And what about you?" he asks, because he knows Barton won't, but it's weighing on both their minds just the same.
"What about me?" Jack returns, like this shouldn't be up for discussion, like this was all decided the moment they turned up on her doorstep and she didn't let them fry on the electrical fence on their way in. "This is all for him, remember?"
She stands and cranes her neck round to capture the infant's attention, an easy smile gracing her features and curing some of the symptoms of age and world-weariness as he spots her in his field of vision and beams and babbles in return.
"Come here, Birdie," she beckons him forth with hand movements, and the boy twists in the other's arms, leaning forward to her waiting embrace.
"What did you call him?" Barton questions as he hands Francis over to her and she sets him on the tabletop, placing a soft-toy between his little fingers to keep him occupied. The cross of his arms would appear to be a move meant to counteract the loss than an obviously defensive tactic.
"Should I be questioning if his hearing loss is hereditary?" is Jack's response to that, eyebrow raised and residual amusement curving the corners of her lips; because she couldn't just say 'you heard me,' and be done with it.
Barton tosses a look her way and his jaw clicks like he's swallowing a nasty retort full of imaginative curses so as to avoid making a bad impression on the kid. It's oddly endearing in a way. He's usually better at compartmentalizing though. They'll have to work on that.
She finishes refitting Francis's hearing aids and drops the miniature bottle of baby oil in the bag by the table leg, while the kid amuses himself with repeatedly pressing down on the chest of the stuffed doll in his grasp and watching as it lights up over-and-over again. His little eyes flash an even more potent blue with the reflection from the toy figure's chest-piece, and Phil finds he can't look away from the strangely alluring light. The moment's only broken when Jack hefts the kid back up into her arms and Phil's oddly glad for the interruption.
"He gets into places he shouldn't, and climbs on all the furniture and when I try to get him to come down he makes this sound like 'caw caw' and gives me with the bird sign," Jack gives reason to Barton's earlier enquiry, and then rolls her eyes, "No, not that bird sign, boyo, but nice try." She looks from the little boy by her side, resting his head on her shoulder, with his plucky pink lips pulled shut and his bright blue eyes trained solely on Barton. "I'm sure he learned it all from you."
As if to prove he can hear what they're saying about him, Francis nestles further into Jack like he's only too satisfied with her observation.
"Birdie," Barton tests the name out, his fingers mimicking the sign he watched her use just prior.
That one word, that one small hand movement, has Francis's mouth curving, rising high on his cheeks and splitting his face with joy. And Phil knows: while it has much to do with the pet-name and the sign used to communicate it, it has even more to do with the man using them.
"So congratulations on your legacy," Jack awards the other, knowing exactly what she's doing, "The world and I thank you for your contribution."
As much as Barton attempts for nonchalance, indifference even because he refuses to acknowledge his true relationship to this child, it falls flat. Much like his gruff demeanor (frown that stretches from his brow to his lips, arms still crossed over his chest only shifting with the stiff shouldered shrug) which fails him the moment that little boy smiles at him.
Francis sits up further to attention in Jack's arms, making a sign of his own in Barton's direction that is undeniably representative of 'Archer'. By the third go, he's a little too enthusiastic and the plush action figure becomes like a projectile, its blue light blinking like an emergency response as it flies through the air to land easily in Barton's hand as if he'd been the target all along.
Phil watches as his asset stops fighting the instinct and lets the emotion the child instills in him come to the forefront with a brimming smile just for him.
And as much as Phil would like to share in the moment these two have created, he's torn. While this child will undoubtedly ensure that Barton is able to come back to himself, to remain human despite the actions he has and will continue to commit; personally crafting and maintaining such a separation from what is essentially a part of him will not be easy feat. That's why Phil's here though: to hold his hand through the good days and the bad – at least, that's how Jack would put it. He'd call it helping out a friend.
.
The way she later tells it is that she stumbled upon the pair out in the woods. Naturally neither he nor Barton had fallen for that. For one thing: Natasha Romanoff has never 'stumbled' at anything, not unless she's playing a mark. Not to mention he'd been the one to warn her off going looking for her partner in the first place.
The next part? Well, that Phil's more inclined to take as an accurate representation of events and how they unfolded. Given what he knows of the pair and the state they return to him in, it just seems more likely.
When she'd come across their presence it was to the sight of Francis holding a bow and aiming it at something in the distance under the elder's tutelage. She'd taken exception to the idea that Barton was training the boy up to lead their sort of life.
"So much for you being different, better, than those I left behind," she'd hissed at him in her native tongue.
So maybe Clint had let the kid graze her with an arrow on his behalf; apparently she should've known him better than that.
Phil's not sure whether to be proud or exasperated. He supposes the fact they came back at all can be classed as progress and figures they'll work on the rest.
.
He likes spending time with Archer. He takes his hearing aids out and doesn't feel like he's missing out on anything. Archer uses his hands to speak to him and he knows how to answer the same way; it's like their own little language. Except, loads of other people know it too. So they've learned to adapt certain signs, make them their own, adding their own flair. One time Jack said it looked like they were doing some weird version of the Hand Jive and Archer had told her only people of a certain age knew what the heck she was talking about. She made them watch Grease and Archer complained for days afterwards that he was never going to get those hours of his life back. Jack looked super pleased with herself, so it didn't matter that he fell asleep less than half way through and didn't really know what they were talking about.
He likes those times the best. The flurry of movement, trying to go faster than the other, but still keeping up with what they're saying: it's fun. He always ends up laughing, and Archer always smiles at him then. Frans likes when he does that – Francis likes when he does that.
His name's different over here than it was when they were in Sweden, but Jack mostly calls him Birdie and Archer calls him Kid, so he supposes it doesn't matter so much what other folks call him.
Still, when he'd asked her why Jack had grinned at him and said it was 'cos Americans weren't as smart as the rest of them. When he'd said this to Archer, the man had told Jack to stop insulting Francis's heritage. He's not sure what that means, so he stores it away to look up when he's older.
He's also not sure why it means he has to add another two letters to his name, but he listens to Jack and does as she tells him.
He also listens to Archer, so when the man tells Francis to stay put, he does so. For a little while, at least. Well, Arch didn't really force the gesture, so he figures he's not in any real danger. Besides, Archer wouldn't leave him if he was – and he's not really left him; he's just a little ways on up ahead.
"He's not a child soldier?" he hears a woman question, and she doesn't sound like she'd be happy with a yes or a no answer.
"Well if he was I'd be doing a pretty piss-poor job of training him, wouldn't I? Couldn't even get a kill shot in you before you bolted," Archer responds, and he does sound happy; but a strange kind of happy. Like Jack when she and Arch are in the same room, or Jack and Uncle Phil when they're together. He mostly sounds like Jack whenever she's with people other than Francis.
"Wouldn't be the first time you've been unable to release an arrow in my direction," the woman says, like she's taunting Archer with a time they shared together.
He watches Archer grin. "Oh, but I did release it this time," he says and he reaches out, flicks her cheek with the back of his fingers and comes away with blood drops across his knuckles, "Got you too. I thought your lot were supposed to bleed blue."
"The Royal Family were hemophiliacs, and they are not my descendants," the woman snips, and Francis can see her more clearly now. Her head is covered in dark red curls like the blood that stains the pale skin near her hairline.
Francis has a moment of guilt, because he did that. At least, he thinks he did. Archer ran off pretty quick after he released the arrow, so maybe the blood should be on his hands instead.
The elder shrugs. "Good thing too, or you'd be dead right now from that scratch, which would suck."
And that's when he chooses his moment: Jack's always said it's good to make an entrance. He thinks this is what she means. She'd be proud if she could see him now. She probably can: Jack likes being sneaky with the cameras around the property, says it's to keep an eye on him, but Francis isn't so sure. He's always good for Jack – well, mostly always.
He runs up to the pair as fast as his legs will carry him, which is pretty fast. "Hey, Archer!" he calls out; too loud, but not really caring.
The woman looks round as he skids to a stop just a little ways off from them to fiddle with his ear, quickly trying to slip the other aid back into place. He has tricky little fingers, but there's a reason even his ears have scars, sometimes his fingers move too quickly for everything else; he's not quite mastered how to slow them down yet, but he will.
She quirks a brow at the elder, repeating "Archer?" with an obvious question mark in her tone, which Francis doesn't understand. It's his name. Duh.
"Come here," Archer beckons him forward, and bends down in front of him, "Let me." Larger hands reach up, brushing his hair away and slipping the small devices properly into place.
He smiles, a little rueful that he needed assistance, and mutters, "Tack."
Archer just nods back at him, his lips curving a little, but he doesn't look angry or anything so Francis reckons he's in the clear.
He looks up at the woman staring at them and says, "Who're you?"
He says it in English, which is why he figures Archer doesn't mention his little slip up before.
Archer grins, wide and true, and looks between the two before he tells him gleefully, "This is Nat, Kid."
"You're Nat?" he says, "Archer talks about you, but I thought you were a fly, like the ones in the Bible – the things that annoyed everyone. They were one of the plagues. They came to punish all the folks."
"A gnat?" she says to that, eyebrows raised as she watches him.
"Yeah, I thought you were a gnat, Nat," and then he giggles at the mistake, "Oops."
Archer just shrugs as she looks across to him. "I can see how he'd think that," he comments, and he doesn't sound like he has a care in the world even though this Nat looks a little on the scary side, "Although I'm sure I mentioned you were of the female variety."
"Well at least he knew I was a female flying creature from the Old Testament," she mutters, and she gives Archer a look like the one he sometimes gives Jack when he's not best pleased with her and she just ends up laughing in his face.
Archer shrugs. "All in the little things, Gnat."
He pronounces it like it's spelled, and Francis can tell he does it to deliberately annoying her.
"Don't." She shoots the other a warning look, but it's too late.
Francis catches on quick, as per, and pounces on the idea, "Hey, can I call you that? Gnat? Can I? Please? It's so funny! Gnat!"
"No," she tells him swiftly.
He's not one to be put off so easily though, "You don't look like one, you're too pretty, and you don't have wings, which kinda sucks 'cos it'd be cool if you could fly, but it's funny, and it's you. Gnat."
"Did you not hear me when I said not to call me that?" she replies, and she sort of sounds like Jack now when the elder's talking in a really low voice, all slow and no-nonsense and people just do as she says.
That should probably be enough to make him stop, but instead he scowls at her. "I heard you. I just didn't want to listen to what you had to say, Gnat," and this time he bites the word out in spite.
"Hey, stop killing the mood," Archer directs at her with a warning look of his own. "You crashed our party, remember? You don't get to do that just to be a buzzkill."
Which is Francis's point exactly. She's not even supposed to be here, so Francis can call her what he likes.
"You too," Archer says to him with a nudge, "Knock it off. She's your guest now, so treat her properly."
He rolls his eyes, but he listens to Archer like he does Jack. "Fine."
Plus, she must be mostly ok if Archer likes her enough to want to keep her around. He grins: he can't wait to see what Jack does when she sees the two of them.
He turns to Natasha. "Want to come back to the house with us?"
She looks like she really has to think about it for a moment before lifting one shoulder, meeting Francis's eyes and saying, "Da."
He grins at her when he hears the Russian inflection; he'll have to remember to tell Jack these new aids are good for making out other foreign people too. "So you're an alien too, huh?" He looks to Archer then, "Oh Jackie's gonna love this!"
And then he turns and runs in the direction of the house.
"Jack!" he shouts, barreling through the front door.
He thinks he hears Archer groan somewhere in the distance; but he might just be imagining that. The aids aren't that good.
"Archer found a friend in the woods. And it's a girl!" he calls out to Jack, amused to heck with this turn of events, "And guess who it is, Jack? It's Gnat!"
He definitely hears two groans then, and neither of them come from inside the house. He's still laughing when Jack emerges and goes to stand in the doorway to greet the two of them, although he's almost certain she knew they were coming before he told her. Jack knows everything that goes on around her.
.
They're fighting it out, sparring like they usually do, except this is slightly different from their training sessions in that she has a lot of pent up anger she's trying to take out on him. For his part he's too amused to be indignant at the fact she's annoyed at him for keeping secrets. Girl can dish it out, but apparently can't take it.
"Hey, where'd he go?" he asks Jack, pushing his sunglasses atop his head as they eventually walk back inside to a room that is now blatantly devoid of the kid's physical presence. "I thought you were just putting him in a bath and then he was coming back out?"
Jack jabs her thumb in the direction of the bed visible through the partially open doorway across the way. When she sees the pair of them still standing there, an expectant look on his face, she heaves a sigh, closes her book and stands up to lead them inside the kid's room.
She yanks back the covers although Clint suspects she'd known all along what they'd find: a pile of cushions lying there instead of a mini human.
"Hmm," she murmurs, like this is some big mystery as to where he could have gone, "Must be the added noise."
She shoots them both a look and then pulls the edge of the blanket up and peers under the bed frame.
"You gonna come out of there any time soon, Birdie?" He watches her sign the words as she says them, and though she's partially obscured from their view he knows Natasha is as keenly observant in such close quarters as he is. He thinks that should be cause alone to worry of the kid's wellbeing: that Jack would advertise the kid's hearing loss in front of Natasha when she's not vetted her fully. "You got yourself some visitors here. Think they want to entertain you proper now."
There's a muffled response that they take to be a negative.
"Come on, those two big babies have stopped their squabbling, no more noise, come on out from under there," Jack says.
"No," the small voice replies, "It's dark under here, and there wasn't any noise, until now."
Clint curses. "Shit, he's having a migraine?" He's dropped to his knees before waiting for an affirmative, ignoring the way one leg protests a little too readily at the movement, while Natasha stands back to watch.
It's testament to Jack's own feelings towards the kid, not to mention how she feels about Clint's relationship with him, that she just signs money to him and doesn't say anymore on his loose-lipped curse in the presence of the four-year-old.
"Come on out kid, Nat's stopped chewing my ear out, so it's like Jack says – no more fighting, ok? We'll just sit quiet, no more shouting or hitting, how does that sound?" He figures repeating the fact might make that bit more believable. Maybe. "Come on," he coaxes, and he's signing now too in tandem with speaking the words because he's not sure how much visibility the kid really has under there. "She's not as scary as she looks."
"Yes, I am," comes the response to that; and she says it so matter-of-fact too, like it would never occur to her to say anything different, so why should it him?
He shoots her a look and then hisses in Russian, "Really? That's how you choose to help?"
"It was helpful," she returns in kind, "He should know that there is a level of threat involved in dealing with us."
He knows what she's trying to do here. She's aware that the kid means something to him, has accepted that he isn't training Francis up to be the next him or her or any version of a S.H.I.E.L.D operative in their midst. She's seen something of what he's like with the kid and this is her way of trying to twist him into being brutally honest with him like it's the right thing to do. It's a laughable state of affairs coming from her and her questionable moral compass, but fitting if it's another way for her to teach him a lesson. Attachments in their line of work are dangerous; they'll get you killed or get them killed. All of this he knows.
However, there's honest and there's realistic, and realistically the kid is way too young to be hearing that kind of talk even if they have been preparing him to run from it since he was six months old.
"He's four years old," he replies, unimpressed, "You tell him something like that he'll never come out from under the bed."
She lifts one shoulder, while he straightens from his position, "It's not the worst place to hide, although it is rather predictable."
"He likes it; it's dark and still and quiet, which is what he wants right now." He defends the kid's actions, because they are smart and appropriate in the circumstances and she doesn't even know what she's talking about here.
"Not like you then," she mentions, makes him aware he's not the only one in this partnership that likes to keep an eye on the other. "That's all you ever seem to want."
"And that's such a bad thing?" he poses. Dark and still and quiet usually means a better vantage point, distance and a clear shot; you don't need to be in the thick of it to cause irreparable damage. Dark and still and quiet usually means he's under cover, shielded in the shadows. That he's managed to block out the chatter, the background noise; that he's focused. That he can breathe.
She doesn't comment.
"Stop," is what they hear through their exchange, and it's warbled enough that it's clearly come from the kid.
"Just throwing it out there," Jack says from her own position, watching the pair from more than an arm's-length away, but near enough to the kid that she could grab him and bolt if she needed to, "But maybe he's hiding out under there because you two idiots keep flinging curses and sniping at each other in a language he barely knows and trying to understand what either of you are saying has finally fried his brain. So he's retreated under there with the hope that your voices won't carry and he'll get some peace."
"Shit," Clint curses again in English, while Natasha remains silent. Talk about bringing the fight to the kid's doorstep.
He bends down again, turns his face away so he's half-obscured by the shadows peeking out from under the bed and makes sure his hands are clear in front of him.
"We've stopped now. Really," he tells Francis, "No more."
"It hurts," is the response this time, clearer now.
He lays himself down fully on the floor now, arm outstretched under the bed, coaxing the kid out of his hiding place.
"Come here, kid," he says, is well versed enough with the phrase that he only needs one hand to do it.
There's a shuffling and then a small hand clasps in his before he tugs the body out. Francis whimpers at the sudden change in light and looks set to scuttle back under, when Clint tugs him out completely and pulls him tight against his chest. The kid has one arm flung over his eyes and the other trying to cover one of his ears while he curls up and presses his face into the material of Clint's top.
"You smell," he's told, and the words start a rumble in his chest as he tries not to laugh.
"I know," he agrees. "Nat and I were outside, remember?"
Francis nods against his shirt, and looks like he's trying not to breathe in too much, his nose wrinkling in irritation when he fails.
Clint smiles, enjoying how easily and quickly the kid can amuse him, even when he doesn't mean to. "I'll have a shower once I get you sorted, ok?"
"I'm not having a shower with you," the kid says, sounding put out, and not at all agreeable to that course of action, "I'm all clean after my bath. Jack said so."
He smiles at that, agrees, "I know. I'll wait to have one until after you're feeling better, so I'll try not to make you too messy."
"Tack," is the grateful reply, and Clint doesn't have time to say anything else on the matter before the four year old is burrowing himself into his chest with a pained moan.
"Here," he says quietly, and pulls his sunglasses from his head to gently place over the kid's eyes, "Wanna try these?" And then he reaches up to remove the small devices from the kid's ears, "And how about we take these off too, hmm?" The boy stills ever so slightly and he says calmly, "Just us here, kid, so no need for anymore noise ok? We'll sign if we want to talk, yeah?" He holds the hearing aids out to Jack who places them in their box and then rests them on the side table.
She runs her hand over the back of the kid's head and then turns and pads noiselessly out the room; and he smiles to himself as he thinks of what the kid would say about that if he were fully with it right now. Probably that Jack's got them all wrapped up in a trust bubble or some other shit like that, so they're all safe and good here now. Kid thinks the old woman's God's gift and obeys her every word; which in terms of keeping him safe and ensuring he'll actually listen to her when she says run is not exactly the worst thing in the world. It can be a pain in the ass on a day-to-day basis though; as even Saint Coulson will attest.
Clint signs the next part as he assures him, "I'm here, kid. I got you. You're ok."
Francis stays nestled in his arms as he rises and maneuvers them up onto the bed, lying down and using his free hand to tug a blanket over the pair of them.
After a short while, he watches the kid extract an arm from where it's tucked beneath him and lift one of the legs of the sunglasses up. He peeks open one eye to find Natasha sitting on the chair in the corner watching over them.
The kid opens his mouth, and as always he doesn't bother that he can't hear himself because he's home and the only people that are ever here are those that don't care about the volume. His tongue slips over the guttural tones in swipes that are as unnatural as the language to his tender years and he tells her in the staggered words of her native land, "My Russian is not very good."
Natasha leans forward, elbows resting on her knees and jerks her head in the direction of Clint. Her lips quirk up at one of the corners, and he watches her hold the kid's gaze, plush red lips parting with the enunciation clear in the words of his (adopted) home-country, "Sounds better than your archer's English."
Francis smiles at that, and Clint sees that twinkle in his eye that he always gets whenever he recognizes Swedish around him before he lets the sunglasses drop back onto the baby bridge of his nose and nuzzles into Clint's chest. She leans back, crossing her arms and legs, satisfied; eyes staying fixed on their figures.
Eventually the kid falls asleep in Clint's arms, curled in a tight ball, dark glasses still shielding his face.
"Why is he like that?" she asks when the soft breath of slumber against his chest is the only other sound in the room, and the question would weigh as heavy in the light as the darkness surrounding them now.
"There's nothing's wrong with him," is his instant response, guilty and defensive and true all at once.
"I never said there was," comes her even return.
When he looks over at her he can see the evidence even if he didn't already know. She doesn't mean it negatively; she's genuinely interested, sympathetic even – if he is to believe such a thing possible of her. He looks down at Francis, curled up sleeping in his arms, and thinks if the kid can't soften the Widow, nothing can.
"He lost most of his hearing when he was six months old. The aids help – and with Jack's embellishments they probably help even more. The migraines, the sensitivity to light, it's like there's an overload on his senses sometimes," Clint divulges, "It happened – it's from before."
He doesn't explain, but her reputation at interrogation well precedes her so he doesn't imagine he has to. It's a cop-out, he knows, but he doesn't think he'll ever find the words to be able to say it's all his fault; everything the kid is going through.
So he sticks with what he can do: being there when it matters, and he makes sure that counts.
.
It's early evening and Francis is sitting on the front porch, wedged in between Natasha's side and a stack of cushions he's obviously shoved out of the way to be closer to her, completely ignoring her attempt at keeping some semblance of distance between them. Clint's lips curve at the sight; kid has a way of wheedling his way into your psyche, not that he's entirely complaining.
"I didn't know you kept Russian books around this place," he comments, watching the pair, "No wonder Nat agreed to stick around."
Jack arches a brow at him as if to ask if he is being serious right now and if so, she can't quite believe the stupidity of him. She sniffs. "We don't."
"Ah," he voices and turns back to look at the duo. Apparently his partner has taken it upon herself to translate the book into her native tongue. Well, this should be interesting.
"Where Phil finds you lot is beyond me, some archive room no one goes near anymore or the dregs of society, no doubt," Jack remarks, and there seems to be a fine line between her being derisive and mildly charmed by the notion; as there usually is with the elder. "I swear the strays he attracts get weirder and weirder with every passing year."
"Must be your welcoming nature," Clint returns with a wide grin.
She huffs and twists the thick strip of material in her hands, swatting him with it. "You're making me old before my time."
"Pretty sure you were pushing seventy when we met," is his reply to that.
It turns out the material is the kid's dressing gown and the ties wrap themselves around his arm with her quick snap of movement.
"Didn't know you were into the kinky stuff, Jack," he remarks, eyeing up the restraint and her hold on it.
"Did no one ever teach you not to question a woman's age?" She yanks on the straps and they leave a faint rope burn when they unravel from his wrist.
He lifts one shoulder, the barest attempt to act like the innocent, victimized party here. "Did I specify an exact birth date?"
She shakes her head at him, like she's disappointed with the world in general starting with him. "The men definitely had more charm in my day."
He laughs at that, because now she's just playing with him. And given the kid pulled on his superhero top ("check out my cape as I fly past you, Arch!") before rushing on by him to join Nat outside on the porch is an opening he can't resist. Francis fiddles with the brim of the blue hood just at that moment, and it's like he's taunting Clint into saying something about it: the thing's got an eye-mask sewn on the front underneath a star for flip's sake.
"It was Captain America wasn't it?" he says, openly amused and quite happy to show it, "You and Coulson bonded over your love for the man, the myth, the legend."
"Fairly sure you're mixing up your Supers there," she comments at that, sparing him a sideways glance.
He shrugs, both shoulders this time. "So what? You lived through the era and he idolized it so you regaled him with stories and he indulged you with his playing cards and all his other mint-condition merchandise?" He's laughing again. "Oh this is just too good."
"Like I said," she states, deadpan as ever, "They had more charm."
"Must like me some, Jack," he grins at her, not one to be put off and half teasing, half true, "You put up with the kid."
"He knows how to treat a woman," she dismisses.
"Rude," he'd act offended, but this is all part of how they do, "I know how to treat a woman. Ask Nat."
She lifts an eyebrow at that suggestion. "I'm not asking that woman anything, you can keep that crazy. I'm going to have enough trouble dealing with the aftermath."
"She's not that bad," he says to that and looks to her with wide eyes that beseech her to take his word for it for once.
Her response to that is to turn and leave the room. Of course that could have something to do with the fact that when he next looks over at the pair, Natasha has what looks like a Bible sitting in her lap as Francis points to the pages with his usual unrestrained enthusiasm. He's never taken her as a believer, but given present company he supposes it's possible she's making an exception. When in Rome, and all that.
.
Jack is with Francis in his room, having bathed him and put him to bed, now she's readying him for evening prayers. Clint supposes he should have some opinion about her indoctrinating the kid into her faith and maybe he does, but what did he really expect when he rocked up on her doorstep all those years ago and left the kid in the arms of a Irish kook who conversed with Jesus on a daily basis? Besides, he's always figured it wasn't his place, and believing in something is better than nothing and who is he to begrudge the kid that? He passes by the door on his way back to Natasha in the sitting room, when he stops at the sight, the sounds.
"Hey, Jack," the kid says, "Can I show you something?"
She nods and he smiles, obviously pleased; his face lights up under the glow of the bedside lamp.
"Watch this – or listen – or… do both? Do one of them anyway, you'll like this, just watch, listen – "
"Alright, out with it," she prompts. She accompanies it with a tap on the bed to spur him on, but her tone is indulgent as it often is with him. Clint wouldn't put it past her to have slapped the kid's leg through the bedding to get him to act like he was readying his horse and all his men to go ride off into battle the way Francis's face splits in a grin again. Sometimes Clint thinks she must enjoy the kid's games as much as he does to all day every day with it.
So the kid begins, "Pater noster qui es in coelis…"
He hears her intake of breath, watches as she takes in the Latin, her eyes trained on his little hands as they sign the accompaniment and she joins him in reciting the Lord's Prayer.
"Did you like it?" he asks when they've finished, "Nat taught me it earlier, she says I have an ear for languages." He tugs one of his hearing aids out with the joke, "Get it? An ear for languages!"
She opens his charger case and takes the device from him as he dissolves in a fit of laughter. "You'll have a thick ear in a minute if you don't settle down," she tells him, but there's mirth in her tone and a crinkling around her eyes.
He does as he's told, pulling out the other aid and holding it out to her and she places it alongside the other before closing the lid and putting the small box on his nightstand for easy access when he wants them.
He lies back and tugs the covers up to his chest and Jack leans over, smoothing away his fringe from his eyes, looking directly at him as her hands form the shapes to go with her words, "Thank you, Birdie."
The kid's still smiling when she turns off the light and closes the door.
"Tell your girl thanks," she says to Clint as he stands there waiting out the nightly ritual.
"You can tell her yourself," he replies, and he can't resist smirking at her.
She hmphs, but makes her way down the hall to the room Natasha's in anyway. He grins: progress. He wonders what Coulson'll make of it all; he can't wait to point out it was mostly all his doing that led to this happy ending.
There's a portrait of Jesus on the wall watching over him as he watches the two females in the other room. He nods to the long-haired gent, like they're in this together, and then feels the weight of two potent stares on him and makes a clumsy sign of the cross instead.
Jack looks like she'd burst out laughing if she wasn't so satisfied with the result; like this has been her ploy all along, to lure them to her shack in the middle of nowhere and convert them all and then send them out across the globe to do her bidding. Natasha's lips curl up slightly at the corners, like she's equal parts amused by his actions and pleased with the outcome of her own.
When in Rome indeed.
He feels like he's just been played, on all fronts.
Fuck. They'll be the death of him this lot.
.
When the pair return together, Phil doesn't say a word. Barton has bruises, some hidden, some not-so, and a limp that's only pronounced when he's reached his own quarters. Romanoff has a thin slice that runs from the top of her cheek through her hairline to split cleanly through the tip of her ear, as well as a shiner that looks like it's coloring spectacularly under her cover-up. Apparently they hashed out their differences in their most favorable way.
"So much for 'personal time', boss," Clint grunts at him as he goes by.
He looks to Natasha.
She shrugs, looking unperturbed, "So maybe the meaning got a little lost in translation."
.
He's four years old when he learns you don't have to be from a place to have a life there; and sometimes just knowing someone is as good as belonging to them.
.
TBC
Thanks for reading, it means alot.
Feel free to drop me a line with your thoughts.
Steph
