A/N: flashbacks are in bold italics
Anything in another language other than spoken English will generally be in italics.
Oh, and WARNING: think there's a swear word or two in this one. (If memory serves the last chap was exceedingly tame, while the first was peppered with them here and there.)
Chapter Three
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He's six years old when he discovers the risk with positioning yourself anywhere is the distance in the fall. They show him he can survive the drop and teach him how to pick himself up and climb back up the ladder.
.
Tasha gets him a plane. That's exactly how Clint phrases it in front of the kid too, because Nat had used the word 'acquired' and there was no way in Hell he was opening that can of worms. Either way, it's his to keep.
He takes the kid up in it, Tasha too, except his co-pilot isn't quite as fascinated by the outside world as the sprog running round in the back. Kid's all excitable over what he can see from the plane as it hovers over the clouds; the view from above so very different from life in it.
"I love going on planes, you know?" Francis announces; as if that wasn't obvious.
Clint looks over his shoulder and indulges him anyway. "I know."
Cocky little thing that he can be, he'd asked Jack if she'd throw him a party for his last birthday and because there never seems to be much difficulty persuading either of them to do as the other asks, she'd readily agreed. And since the woman can never be said to do things halfway, when Francis had requested a party to the theme of "airplanes, clouds in the sky, pilots, little teensy tiny houses and people below – the works", she'd given it to him in spades. And he and Nat were there to witness the whole thing. So yes, he knows the kid loves planes.
.
It's true when he turns up on their doorstep with Nat in tow, he expects some sort of enthusiasm at their appearance – at least on the kid's part, Jack always likes to play the 'I'm severely put out by your presence' card. What he's not quite expecting is for the kid to go absolutely off-his-nut-crazy with excitement at the sight of them.
Apparently it's his birthday the week coming (Jack still claims it's as accurate a date as if she was standing in the delivery room herself, but Clint thinks she's full of shit and she just picked a date that seemed roughly in line with the age of the kid when she got him).
So naturally the kid assumes they're here to celebrate with him, and because they'd shed about three layers off themselves and their other life before they arrived, including their super secret S.H.I.E.L.D Agent statuses and alter-ego personas, neither of them is prepared to bear the brunt of Francis's disappointment.
He's pretty sure half the reason Jack agrees to the kid's sudden wide-eyed request of, "Can I have a party, Jack? Please? Please? Please? Can I have one? With Archer and Gnat and you and me and can I? Can I?" is because she wants to see the two of them squirm at the thought of spending any prolonged length of time trapped in a room with multiple screaming pint-sized beings.
That's pretty much exactly what happens too; but while Nat suggests they try and fit in to avoid standing out, he's more of the opinion that they can fit in with the shadows in the rafters or avoid standing out by positioning themselves in the back room away from the copious number of sugar-hyped ankle-biters.
They compromise by setting up in the kitchen, adjacent to the large hall currently housing the little maniacs. Jack's good enough to leave them some cupcakes to munch on while they "hide out like big ninnies" (her words) and wouldn't you know it the woman can bake about as well as she can do everything else; that is to say extremely well. Because you know being able to make delicious, sugar-filled treats for a bunch of six year olds and their over-bearing parents is totally on par with hacking into a government agency, or tapping into a convoluted relay system, or the million other things Jack seems fully able and knowledgeable about. Like hiding a kid in plain sight for years. Even Tasha indulges in more than one piece of cake, and isn't that something.
They're pretty confident that since the food's already on the tables and there are numerous strategically placed trash cans they'll be fine where they are, undisturbed by the masses for the majority of the event. Apparently they seriously underestimated the needs of these parents to try be everywhere all at once, just in case their child might venture somewhere at some point or other.
Clint ends up caving first, although Nat's not too far behind.
He takes the back stairs two at a time and comes out on the landing directly above one end of the hall. He maneuvers past the thick rope that hangs from the tower and drops down by the stone carved railing, pushing his feet through the openings between the balusters like arrows slipping through the specially-designed cracks in the old castle walls he sees in those history books in the kid's room. (Because it's not as if he has first hand knowledge of such an act and puts them to use himself when the opportunity presents itself and he just so happens to be in the mood to mix business with culture. Nah, Archer wouldn't know anything about that sort of thing.)
The kid is on his third outfit change of the day – yes, third. And ok, so he was a little badass looking thing in the flight suit, with his hair all spiked up just-so and rocking the gold-framed aviators Clint and Natasha got him (not to mention the helmet tucked under his arm that looked a little more real than replica, and came dangerously close to cracking a few skulls at times). And yeah maybe he looked like the slickest dude in town in the airline pilot costume, shoes shined and polished like he'd been schooled by his Uncle Phil. And sure, he looks ace as fuck in his old-school get up complete with beat-up leather bomber, the matching hat that has his bangs constantly falling in his eyes, scarf tied round his neck and goggles perched on top his head. But still, three wardrobe changes is ridiculous, even for this kid.
There's a stack of pamphlets within arms reach of where he's sitting so he grabs them and starts folding. The first projectile swoops and swirls and hits the guy on the far side of the room square in the back of his head. The guy rubs at the sore spot with one hand and picks up the culprit with his other, spinning on the spot as he tries and fails to pinpoint where it could've come from. Clint can see the pain etched into the lines around the guy's eyes and he smiles. Good, he hopes it hurts; guy's a dick.
He hears a snicker from below and looks down to see the kid watching him; he winks at him and sends another paper airplane flying. He's somewhat disappointed that none of these so called 'hyper-vigilant' individuals seem to have noticed where all the impromptu airborne aircraft are coming from, but given Jack's got a wind machine on the go and the place is covered with fluffy makeshift cloud pillows and hundreds of planes suspended from the ceiling he supposes he can give them a pass. It's not like they've actually been taught to always be aware of their surroundings like a trio of adults in their midst and a certain six year old.
Maybe in another life he'd say those folks are the lucky ones, but as it is he thinks they all need to open their eyes a bit more to the world around them. Anyone could be pointing an arrow at them at any moment – or a paper airplane.
.
"Look at that view!" the kid enthuses, beaming, face pressed close to the glass.
He'd forgone the offer of the jump seat, instead opting for the back of the plane. It's only too apparent why as he leaps from one side to the other, hopping across the seats without a care, trying to get his fill of the scenery that surrounds them at this height.
"Man, even the clouds look cool from up here!" Francis flops back against his seat, content. Then he suddenly freezes, full body rigid, and implores of them, "Don't tell Jack I said that – she'll have me relearning the weather system like cumulus and stratus are going out of fashion."
Clint throws him a smirk over his shoulder, but neither agrees nor disagrees with his terms.
He looks over at Nat and finds her lips quirking at the kid's antics.
The kid lets out a sigh, settling back into the cushions. His head nestles well below the designated headrest, shaggy blond mane rumpling even further against the upholstery as he says, "Man, I could die happy up here."
Beside Clint, Natasha drops the smile.
"Stop talking," she immediately instructs.
Her tone is no-nonsense and the problem here is he can see both sides now, and he can understand it; but that doesn't mean he likes it.
"What she means is," he cuts in quickly, aiming for hasty damage control even though he knows he's already too late, "Don't say things like that, kid. You shouldn't – " He sighs, but finishes up anyway, "You're not going anywhere anytime soon, so don't – don't ever think that, ok?"
It's not that they're walking on eggshells with the kid; it's just that since their first meeting Nat's never been anything close to the Widow around him. He knows the kid's not exactly aware of his partner's in-field persona, but just because Francis can't put a name to the character, doesn't mean he can't feel the sting of the action.
Clint can tell the kid is confused though, because when he's confused and upset he gets this vicious, little vindictive streak about him. He doesn't get away with it in Jack's presence, but Jack's not here right now.
"I've seen this plane before, Arch," Francis says, and for someone so young he can fairly weight his words when he wants to, "In the picture Jack keeps. So it's not yours at all and you should give it back."
When Clint chances another look round at the kid, he's sitting boring holes into the backs of their chairs. He's yanked his hearing aids out, and they're currently being crushed in the tiny fists he's clenching in his lap.
"You're big liars!" is the accusation, and it's more of a shout because of the lack of feedback from his own voice than a necessity to be heard. "I want Jack! Take me back to Jack!"
They're much worse than that, but Clint doesn't say anything to that effect because wouldn't that cause a reaction.
Instead he turns back to the empty sky before them and stares straight into the approaching clouds.
Natasha's hands are on the controls, and she's trying so determinedly not to clench her knuckles into white bone around the instruments. Though she doesn't show it on her face, he can tell the kid's words have punctured her insides.
"Fuck," he mutters, and then repeats it over and over as he turns the plane around and heads back where they came from.
.
He turns at the approaching footsteps, expecting Natasha but meeting another figure in black instead.
"If you were a few decades younger, I'd swear I was looking at the twin of that boy down there," comes the conversational starter as the man takes up place next to him, leaning forward along the edge of the balcony.
"A few decades?" he repeats, looking up and shaking his head, clucking his tongue, "You wound me, Father, two and half at most."
There's soft laughter at that, and then comes the line, "He seems to share your affinity for high places at least."
"Yeah," Clint agrees; thinks there are worse traits Francis could pick up from him, "Kid loves his planes."
"As I imagine my congregation could attest if he wasn't kept on a tight leash during Sunday Mass," the elder remarks, with fondness in his voice.
He looks up and the Priest is smiling at him. He follows the elder's gaze to the dwindling pile of what he now recognises to be a jumble of bulletins for the order of service, all with mismatched dates and topped with his latest creation. Kid's probably been snagging a few to add to his stash of ammo for months. Smart.
"Resourceful that one," Clint remarks, and dips his head in the general direction of the kid.
"The door to the back stairs is usually locked when he slips up here too," is the elder's response to that.
He sends the Priest a vaguely rueful smile. "Really? I'm sure it was open before I came up."
"Tricky little fingers," the man comments, "Seems to be a common occurrence around here."
He tuts the elder, educating him on their preferred school of thought, "Only if you're caught, right Father?"
It's probably not something he should say to a man of the cloth, but he's been getting a vibe from the elder so he decides to just go with it.
It pays off.
There's a rumble of laughter from the space next to him and he lets his smile show his triumph. "I suppose that's one way of looking at it," the Priest concedes; the affection in his tone becoming even more noticeable. "And sneaking into the chapel to attend another Mass is considerably more favourable than ducking out the side exit in the middle, I'll give him that. His methods can be a little questionable at times, but his heart's in the right place."
"He's a good kid really," Clint says, his eyes already seeking out the boy in the crowd below. He breathes out a laugh and runs a hand over his face as he watches Francis dodge in between all the other bodies, repeatedly tearing the number card from the back of one seat and replacing it with another, utterly confusing all those trying to take part in Jack's 'flight-academy' version of Musical Chairs. He catches sight of Jack watching his every move, and sees her shake her head at the six year old with half-hearted exasperation. He can be such a little shit at times, but he really does keep them on their toes; there's never a dull moment when the kid's around that's for sure.
"It's not difficult to see where he gets it from," the elder awards him, and when Clint's head snaps up at that the Priest is smiling down at him. "When you've been in this job as long as I have you get to recognize those individuals trying to repent for past sins," the man says, not unkindly, and gestures to the open space below as he offers a word of praise for the job well done, "Keep going, son, the payoff's already proving to be worth it."
Clint follows the man's gaze and watches as Jack swallows Francis up in her arms, squirming and excitable with a fistful of crumpled place-cards that he tries to bury in the elder's thick white curls. She laughs right along with the boy in her embrace and the kid looks as happy as he ever does.
Yeah, so maybe they're doing something right in the world.
.
"Kid said he'd seen the plane before – in some photos of yours," he broaches the subject the minute he manages to corner her when they get back. Francis stomps off outside and Nat retreats to the back room, and when no one bothers to answer Jack's question of, "what eating you lot?" and then her more direct one to him of, "you didn't crash the thing already, did you?" she throws her hands up in the air, rolls her eyes at the lot of them and returns to her previous task. They'll tell her soon enough and she'll deal with it when they do.
"Mhmm," Jack murmurs, but doesn't raise her head or stop fiddling with the electronics in front of her; the only indication she gives him that she's listening, almost a cue for him to carry on if he must.
"Didn't think you kept any personal effects here," he remarks, and it's almost offhanded, but an accurate observation all the same.
She does physically respond to that. She arches a brow at him and gestures to the space that surrounds them, covered in trinkets and material items.
"Personal effects of any real meaning," he rephrases; because sure she has a lot of stuff in every place they set up house, but as far as he can tell it's all fairly generic, part of like she could (and does) up sticks and leave it all behind without so much as a backward glance or second thought.
"Plane's not mine," she tells him, slaps the circuit board down on the table and spins round in the chair to face him, clasps her hands together in her lap. "Never was."
"Just yours to give away?" he asks, watching, waiting for her to reveal something; considers it a sign in itself that she seems so adamant to cover her tells.
"Just mine to give away," she repeats with a nod, and then smiles, "I imagine the stories you had in your head of how your girl acquired it for you were a tad more action-packed than me simply handing over coordinates for the lock-up and telling her to have at it, if she wants it, it's yours."
"Who did it used to belong to?" he questions, skipping over her amateur attempt at turning the conversation to him and Nat.
And for a moment he doesn't think she's going to answer, and then she opens her glasses case, the one that's seemed like an extra appendage to her person since he met her. She pulls out a small, well worn photograph and holds it out to him.
There's a man and a woman standing in front of the very plane he now owns. She's pressed close to his side, half splayed over his chest, with his arms around her as they lean against the exterior of the cockpit. They look happy, and completely wrapped up in one another.
Jack smiles at him again, taps the corner of the image and introduces him to: "My husband."
.
"Unburdening your soul?" Natasha inquires, and he lifts his head to watch her slink along the short corridor to join him. She crosses her legs at the ankles and bends at the waist, leaning her elbows on the stone railing to look over at the sight that's captured his attention, sparing him a glance with the words, "You realise how terribly cliché that is, right?"
"You know you're the only confessional I need, Tasha," he replies to that, turning to face her and smirking up at her.
She rolls her head to the side so he can watch her roll her eyes at him, and then she goes back to observing the party below. Her lips quirk up every so often with the soft smile she reserves for the kid, and it's sort of endearing to watch.
"Hey, Tash?" he says after a short while.
She twists her head to look at him, and then mimics his tone, "Yes, Clint?"
The munchkins below have moved on to what looks like it's supposed to be 'Airplane Tag'. It mostly consists of the boys throwing themselves around, slamming into the walls and tossing their bodies on the floor to dodge out of each other's way, while the girls either squeal at the intrusion into their personal space or wordlessly pirouette out of the advancing body's way. He wonders if the blatant gender stereotypes bother Natasha or she just resolves to ensure the kid is aware this isn't always the case. Between her and Jack, Clint reckons they've got a strong case in their favour.
"You ever wonder if we can actually make up for what we've done?" he asks, and he knows the topic would seem out of place to outsiders, when children's laughter is literally echoing all around them, but it's no good a Priest giving him his blessing if he's not got Nat on his side. "All the shit we've put people through with the lying and stealing. Cheating them an' hurting them an' killing them," he says, "You ever think we can wipe the slate clean, free our souls of it all and start fresh?"
She holds his gaze, and he knows she'll answer him as best she can; she won't play with him, not on this.
"I think what we've done will always be a part of us and we can't change that, not when it's shaped us into what – who – we are now," she tells him, and then offers him something attainable to go with it, "But that doesn't mean we should stop trying to make a difference; to balance the scales, so to speak."
"So there's hope for us yet?" he surmises, quirking his lips up at her.
She puffs out a laugh. "Surviving this would be a good start."
"Pfft," he fobs off her apparent concern, recognising it for the sham that it is, and solving their non-existent dilemma with a completely plausible escape route. "Worst comes to worst we take them all out and reset the clock."
She seems to consider this, lips pursing and hesitating like she's never prone to doing in the field, and then proposes, "We could maybe spare one or two of them."
"Really? Survivors?" He lifts a brow and goes for complete surprise, because this is unlike her. Dare he even think it? This place has changed her.
"Well," she quirks her lips, jerks her head in the direction of the only pair they're really concerned with, "I think we can make an exception for them, since they've made one for us."
"Repaying a debt, Natasha?" He shakes his head, and allows his smile to show, fully-formed and facing her. "How very unlike you."
She shoves him, hard. "Shut up or I'll toss you over this balcony."
"You wouldn't," he calls her bluff, still grinning at her only now it's got that cocky edge she tends to bring out in him more than most, "I'd kill one of the halflings down there. Think of the children, Natasha! The children!"
She shakes her head at his out-and-out dramatics, his impassioned speech accompanied by a hand clutched to his chest and wide, pleading eyes.
"Silly American," she chides and then pushes him forward so he smacks his head off the join between the nearest baluster and the handrail, "We already agreed we were only sparing two of them."
When he pulls back it's to see her walking away, and when she looks over her shoulder at him with an all-too-pleased look as he rubs at the sore spot by his hairline, he can't help but shake his head and breathe out a laugh.
She's really something that one.
.
Natasha is watching him through the window at the back of the property. He's still upset by the events of earlier and it shows in his frustration at performing what should be rather simple tasks, given those employed as his tutors and the hours of work put into perfecting such routines. He's managed to secure the thick piece of rope up and over a high branch, round the wide trunk of the tree for added support and then into the nearby ground (after much fiddling with the knots and repeated stomping on the metal peg to hold it all in place).
When he hoists the giant contraption up into the air and it stays suspended in its place, he checks the rope is fed through the various eyelets on the front and back, and then gives each section a sharp, swift tug to test the tension before releasing it. Satisfied, he steps back to admire his hard work.
A feeling somewhat similar to that displayed on the kid's face rises up inside her, and that's when she chooses to take her leave and turns to walk into the adjoining bathroom.
She's not exactly sure why she never considers it to be a functional plaything as opposed to something to dress the back yard that they could admire and watch sway back and forth in the breeze like wind-chimes. It's a gift courtesy of Phil Coulson, of course it has a practical purpose.
That's her first mistake – maybe her second as well. It's not just that she takes her eyes off the target; it's that she overestimated his capabilities. And now he's suffering for something she did.
She's the closest to his position, so she has a front row seat to the before, during and after. Not for the first time she wishes she didn't have such a knack for being in the right place at the right time.
She's walking back into the bedroom when it happens. She looks up and through the glass pane just in time to see him soaring through the air on that wooden airplane swing.
That's all well and good. The ropes hold, the knots twisted and taut, the framework is sturdy, strong enough to bear his weight, and he's enjoying himself; brimming smile on his face, wind near sweeping the cap off his head as it whips across his face.
Until it isn't. She's not sure if it's his own momentum that has him tipping forward, or the sudden slack of rope, or possibly a fastening coming loose somewhere along the factory line. What she does know is that she watches, frozen to the spot, as Francis pitches forward, the carved wooden sculpture following after like its one of his limbs flying through the air. He tries to stick his landing, but the weight of solid timber knocks him off his feet and he ends up tumbling to the ground in a messy heap.
She's moving before he is, and she's not sure if that should frighten her, but it does spur her on.
She calls out to Clint and Jack as she rushes out the back door and tears across the yard towards him.
He's just managing to pull himself up into a sitting position as she reaches him and she drops to the ground in front of him, rattling off questions.
He's feebly trying to bat her hands away, letting out little whimpering sounds in between and she's ashamed to admit it takes her that long to realize he doesn't have his aids in.
It's only when he manages to grab hold of one of hers as she tries to feel for injured areas and hold tight to it that she stops and takes notice of what he's trying to say to her.
"Sorry, sorry,"he rushes out with, his fingers releasing her hands to beat against his chest, circling his heart, "Don't wanna die in the air, Gnat. Don't wanna, you're right – m'sorry!"
He near shouts the last part; torn between pain and guilt and a desperation to be heard. She immediately reaches up and pushes the cap, already askew with the rush of air and the fall, up and off his head. Smoothing his bangs away from his eyes, she lets her palm rest there on his cheek for a moment.
And then she signs to him, "It's ok, kid, breathe, I'm here," and watches him calm before her eyes.
By the time Clint and Jack reach them, she's ascertained that his arm is the cause of most his discomfort and his head hurts – sort of.
Jack apparently worked in the medical trade in her past life; because she takes one look at the kid and tells him he's broken his arm and oh look now they're going to have to go to the clinic to set it, because she's not being stuck with a kid with a gimp arm for the rest of her life. Yes, really. And if he's broken his head too, they can keep him there.
It's a wonder anyone falls for her nice little old lady routine, although Natasha can appreciate the art of deception and a well-maintained cover.
Clint wraps the kid in his jacket and scoops him up in his arms, while Jack goes inside to get something to make a splint and sling out of, and Natasha is left with the job of picking up the discarded sneakers, stuck in the mud, and reluctant to leave. They're not the only ones.
"Jack's gonna be mad," Francis fumbles to sign one-handed. He's usually a whiz at it, but the position and pain are hindering him significantly. He nods at the shoes Natasha has pinched between her thumb and forefingers: they used to be orange, now they're as dark as the shoelaces still tied together in big loops, holding in a mud mold rather than child-size feet. They go with his cap, which is now stained with blood from the gash in his hairline. And while his dark jeans haven't suffered from the color of the terrain or a split to his insides, there's a tear across his knee that will never recover. Oh, and the T-shirt that used to be white is now marked with red, brown and green like the kid took some of his markers and just went at it, and his denim shirt is torn at the site of impact from his elbow all the way down to the cuff that's turned up along his mid-forearm. Kid takes after Jack and someone else Natasha happens to know: he doesn't do anything half-way.
"I think she'll live," Natasha dryly responds, signs the words too even though this is usually a practice she's not involved in; especially when it's just the two of them together. "She's a fan of shopping in any format."
"Yeah, but I wrecked Uncle Phil's present," he grumbles, stumbling over the appropriate hand movements; because signing is harder than he likely could've anticipated with one arm pressed close to his side and the other trying to keep it steady while swathed in Clint's strong hold.
"That'll teach you to attempt construction work and aero-transport before you've mastered your physics and engineering lessons," Jack appears before them to comment, and holds up her other hand to show off the books she's carrying, their colorful spines deliberately positioned to face him so he can read their titles, "But don't worry, I plan to bring your books so you can learn along the way and we can knock something into your head today other than dirt and wooden plane parts."
The kid tries to burrow into Clint's chest with those words, to the sound of combined laughter.
"I told you she'd be mad," Francis says in what should really be too loud to be constituted a mumble, but it's muffled enough against the cotton of Clint's shirt it comes out that way. And the way his little fingers emerge to half-heartedly form the accompaniment only adds to his sad little act.
"Nice try." Jack's not falling for it for a minute, and it's a testament to how they work that Francis sits up in Clint's arms with her single gesture to do so, and lets her swiftly wrap his arm, sending her a small smile that's immediately returned and a meek "Thanks Jackie" when she's done.
"What do you say we go get that broken wing of yours put back together, eh Birdie?" she says to his enthusiastic, if a little tired nod of the head.
"Come on, kid," Clint announces, although they're already all moving out, "We'll get you patched up and have you back on your feet in no time."
.
Jack makes them drive three towns over and across the next door state before seeking out the first medical clinic available. She suggests he play I spy and tells him she wants to hear him saying the words as well as signing them. By the time they get there Archer and Gnat are looking at Jack sorta like how Homer looks at Bart right before he throttles him. It's funny to see, but no one actually tries to strangle anyone – at least, not while he's around. What they do when he's not around is a whole 'nother matter entirely.
She's got his aids, and he doesn't ask to put them back in. His head's still sort of hurting and anyway she says he'll need them out when he gets it checked by the machine. It doesn't matter so much, since Jack'll probably do most of the talking, but she lets him pick where he wants to be from. He chooses Swedes on vacation and slips into his mother tongue like he's never stopped. Even if he can't hear himself saying the words, he can see Jack smiling when he does it and there's nothing really like it.
Gnat and Archer both send short, sharp looks her way, as if it means something and maybe they shouldn't do it; but Jack sends them a look of her own and neither says a word against it.
Francis smiles; Jack's a peach when she's being a bossy madam.
.
They're waiting out in the car, because they all agree that three people accompanying a kid into an emergency room when none of them will be ticking the box of 'parent' might arise suspicion and direct unnecessary attention their way. Although they could just lie; which is what she imagines Jack is doing right now. Admittedly, the assumed foreigners on vacation cover the two adopted before they'd even stepped out of the car and into the building is fairly convincing; but that could be because it's mostly based on truth.
"He's very breakable," she comments, garnering her partner's immediate attention.
Clint's been staring at the entrance to the medical centre too long for her liking. As if he's willing the kid to come racing out those double doors, cured and healthy again as he goes straight for him.
"We all are." He shrugs, seemingly unperturbed, but she knows better.
She's not. Not really, not like this, not like the kid. And he's not either; well, to an extent.
"He just seems more so 'cos he's little, but not so squishy anymore," Clint tells her, as if he doesn't need to hear her say the words to translate what she's thinking. She wonders if it's a learned trait from spending so much time around the kid and being a part of his little world; or if he just knows her that well.
She thinks it's probably a little of both.
"He'll bounce back soon enough," he says her, giving her a poor attempt at a smile. "Just wait."
She relays her belief in him, in the kid, by placing her hand over his and threading her fingers through the spaces he's left for her to fill.
She doesn't voice any of what she's thinking though, because there's something unsettling about it all and she doesn't enjoy being unsettled.
.
The doctors allow Jack to take Francis home under strict instructions to follow their after-care program. It mostly consists of stuff they're well-versed in already, like repeatedly checking the kid can say his own name, making sure he doesn't spontaneously decide to puke his guts out or become so dizzy he keels over and knocks himself out again. Things like that. Someone on the med staff even prints them off a handy sheet of things to look out for, which Jack hands to the kid with the instruction to practice his English language.
He appears by the car window and waves his big purple cast around until Clint pops open the door and drags him inside.
Jack steps into the driver's seat, while Natasha transfers to the front, and shoots a look over her shoulder at the pair of them. "I blame you," she states.
He laughs. "How did I know?"
"Know what he said when he was getting it done?" is her reply to that, shifting in her seat and lifting a hand as she alternates between watching the road ahead and communicating with her passengers in the back seat, "Wouldn't shut up about it, kept telling me: Arch'll love this! And Isn't this great, Jackie? Wait till Archer sees this."
"You do though, right, Arch?" Francis grins across at him from the centre console, because apparently the next seat over is just too far away. Kid's always had a thing with physical contact.
"'Course I do," he easily endorses the kid's color choice and takes the marker from his uninjured hand. "Looks brilliant, kid, good choice," he tells him, grinning all the while. And just to wheedle her further, Clint adds, "Purple really suits you, we should've had you wearing it earlier."
"Like I said," Jack reiterates from the front seat, movements more emphatic than before and locking eyes with him in the central mirror, "I blame you."
He's laughing as he scrawls a message across the fiberglass that reads: Next time, let the engineers assemble the plane. You just concentrate on piloting the damn thing so you can fly.
"Gnat?" The kid hands the marker over to her and thrusts the broken limb across the space between the back seat and front, ever hopeful she'll write something that doesn't blatantly ridicule his misfortune for all the world to see, now he's mostly out of the woods. He should really know better by now.
Still, kid's wearing a faint scowl when he finishes reading what she's written and when Clint tugs his cast-covered arm towards him, he barks out another laugh at the Russian's accompaniment to his own.
Next time, pick a place with a softer landing spot. And take a parachute, just in case.
On the inside of the cast, running up the length of his arm, Jack's written in Swedish: Birds are supposed to fly, silly. You won't get where you want to go if you aim for the ground.
It's a light-hearted chide, mixed with what he knows is her hope for the kid's future; same as all of them. That he'll find there's more to life than this, and he'll strike out on his own and do more than just carry on: he'll thrive.
.
They're in the back room, when she looks to him and says, "He'll be ok, yes?"
It strikes him that she might actually be concerned for the kid's welfare. Sure he'd watched her earlier, but that could be passed off as her simply reacting to the current scenario, judging the situation and responding in a way that compliments what he and the others around them are doing, like she's so very good at.
He doesn't voice such thoughts, lest she run away from them like he knows she would.
"Kid's got scars coming out of his ears, Tash. Literally," he assures her, feeling more assured now himself. "One more won't hurt. He'll be fine."
She nods. "Of course."
"It's nice though, that you were asking after him," he broaches the subject that much.
She says nothing.
"He's taken a liking to you," he continues, "But I guess you already knew that. Gnat."
He grins at her and she takes an easy swipe at him like she'd swat at the fly she's been named after.
"S'why he got so defensive on you earlier," he notes, "Kid likes you, which means he doesn't like it when you do anything that could be seen to contradict the little bond he's so sure the pair of you have."
"I was aware," she responds, her lips twisting as indication that she's humoring him here and she doesn't mind so much letting him spell out something she already knows, even if it is what she does. Read between the lines; tease information from the morsels left for her; ascertain sensitive intel by any means necessary from those tasked with keeping it out of the hands of those like her. Except there's no one like Nat, not really.
Still; there's no one quite like the Kid either, he's sure.
"Kid likes you," he reiterates and then draws attention to what runs alongside this, "And you like him."
She neither confirms nor denies this, but her lips curve more than curl and he knows it's true.
"So now we all like each other, maybe we should get Jack to throw a party to celebrate?" he suggests, already prepared for the answer.
"No more parties," comes her flat-out refusal, and just to ram the point home she grabs the nearest pillow and smacks him with it. "I mean it, Clint, I'm not putting up with that many children in the same room, hyped up on that much sugar again. Not unless I get to shoot or otherwise maim at least one person per child present and I'm getting paid a ridiculous amount of money for it. Like the kind of reimbursement I'd expect from babysitting a billionaire eccentric and having to put up with all the shit that goes with."
"So that's what I've got to work with here? Ok," he agrees, and then stops short to ask, "Wait, are you imposing a ban on the sugar or just the children?"
He grabs the cushion when she aims it at him again, because of course she doesn't believe him for a minute, and pulls her bodily towards him.
"Ok," he relents, softer now as he breathes out into a smile, "How about we just celebrate this little victory ourselves then?"
She pretends to consider this even as she draws closer into him. "I suppose I could be amenable to such plans."
Before he can go getting any ideas though, she rips the pillow out from between them and uses it to shove him backwards, towards the door.
"But first, you need to go outside and deal with that boy out there because he did not learn enough about the laws of physics during that journey to stop him falling off another tree swing," she instructs, and nods to the little figure in the backyard, who has indeed plonked himself down on the tire that hangs from another giant tree out there, swaying back and forth. "I'm not watching someone fall from the sky twice in one day; once is more than enough. Go teach him it's ok to plant your feet on solid ground sometimes and see where it takes you."
"Yes, Ma'am," he replies, like he would his superior once upon a time, and even salutes her.
He winks at her, which isn't so much part of the basic military etiquette they tried to drill into him as what he's like around her.
"What would I do without you there to keep me on track?" he comments, and he's not really expecting a response, but she give him one anyway.
"Probably throw yourself off a greater height than him," she says knowingly.
To which he grins at her and gifts her with his gratitude for all their sakes: "Thanks Nat."
.
The kid is sitting on the tree swing he fashioned himself – the original one, before the whole wooden-plane fiasco.
He doesn't need to concentrate very hard to hear him in his head: "I only need you to throw the rope over, Arch, 'cos you're bigger 'n me. But if you're gonna try an' help more so you can steal my glory, I'll jus get Gnat. She can wear those heels of hers so she's super tall and she can do the best knots too, so it won't wiggle free. 'Fact, maybes I'll just ask Gnat to help."
Clint's response had been something along the lines of, "Sure kid, you go do that."
And then he'd sat back on the porch to watch events unfold.
Now he watches the little legs kick off the ground, tiptoes skimming the earth as the tire sways under the movement. The only indication the kid's in any way bothered by the cast on his arm is when it gets stuck upon entry to the cookie jar in his grasp. The little frown on his face becomes quickly obvious along with the complete indignation that such a thing is possible: that he's actually being thwarted by this medical contraption. And his determined pout and the way he jiggles his bum arm back and forth till he pulls it free, sans cookie, has Clint actively trying not to shake his head and laugh at the kid.
Francis glares at the cast and then at the glass jar, pauses for but a moment and then grins like a feral cat before it pounces on its prey. The six year old cups the palm of his good hand, hooks the cookie jar in the crook of his arm and then shakes it until the contents all fall out. What he doesn't catch in his tiny hand, settles in the scoop of his t-shirt and he drops the jar to the grass with a dull thud and begins devouring the cookies at once.
Kid probably shouldn't be on the swing in the first place with the gauze taped to the side of his head, the scrapes and bruises covering his skin, and the arm that's immobilized at an angle in vibrant purple. He probably shouldn't do a lot of things that Clint and Jack, and even Nat, stand back and let him do; but he'll never learn if he doesn't get back on the horse and start riding again.
He'd discarded the sling almost immediately, getting tangled up in it and the seat belt while trying to sign on the ride back. He always has more fun using both hands.
Clint carries it over to him now though with the lesson, "Maybe if you'd kept this on you'd have had somewhere to catch all those cookies."
"I have somewhere to catch all the cookies," Francis tells him, like this should be obvious, "Got two hands, Arch!"
The kid waves at him with both, nearly toppling from the makeshift seat with laughter and the imbalance caused from being severely weighted down on one side.
"And s'long as they end up where I want 'em don't matter how they got there," he adds with a cocky little grin Clint knows he's learned from him. Then he uses a couple of fingers of his supposedly 'useless' arm to flick a cookie up in the air like he's tossing a coin to decide his fate and jerks forward to catch it between his teeth. It's almost like the kid's saying: Take that, gravity, you bitch! But of course, he wouldn't, and he doesn't. He just may have also got his love of the theatrics from Clint.
Clint's in front of him before he can land face-first in the dirt, although he seriously contemplates letting the little guy go it on his own to knock him down another peg or two. Of course, the streak of pride when the kid grins at him around a mouthful of cookie stops him and instead has him silently congratulating himself on a job well done by someone's count.
"You have so much more to learn, kid," he says, and shakes his head at the antics that are so familiar, as he marvels at the boy in his arms who just offers him a cookie with the unspoken prompt: Your go.
"Yeah, but that's why you're here, Arch," the kid says, looking up at him with an easy smile and munching happily on treat he won for himself like he doesn't have a care in the world.
He supposes when your mentors consist of three of the top agents of a multi-national secret organization and a woman who makes it her mission to avoid any direct contact with said organization and succeeds, you probably don't have much to worry about.
As life should be for the kid.
.
"He's yours, isn't he?" she whispers into the darkness and finds him staring back at her.
"I know his Dad," he responds, clear as day in the dead of night.
Don't we all, she thinks and scoffs, "Sure you do."
"That's right, I do," he tells her. "I know his Dad."
When she stays quiet he nudges her.
"Stick to the party line, Nat," he says to her, "It's better for everyone."
He is the first person she's ever taken for their word.
The last time she did that he spared her life. If this is what she has to do to repay that debt, she'll do it; she'll do it for him, so it's better for everyone.
.
He's six years old when they show him that caring for people comes with a price, but sometimes it's the only thing that's worth a damn.
.
TBC
Thanks for reading.
Steph
