Wow, so this clearly took a while longer than I anticipated.
On the plus side, this chapter grew even longer than it was previously, which is something of an achievement given the previous measure, so it's being posted in two-parts! Both parts will be posted very close together – that I can guarantee. (Proofreading will be done for the millionth time at a time that is not 5am :) )
Anyway, I hope you enjoy.
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A/N: Flashbacks are in bold italics
Anything in another language other than spoken English will generally be in italics.
Oh and there may be some cursing and swearing in this chap.
Chapter Four: Part One
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He's eight years old when they all seem to agree on something for the first time.
They teach him their version of defense and how they justify the use of it.
It's not so different from Jackie's motto, the one he lives by: your home and your own above all else.
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Jack tells him they're coming. "So don't shoot 'em," she says, "unless it's with something that's really gonna pack a punch!" Then she laughs like she actually wants him to do just that, but takes his Nerf guns off him after she says it. She does leave his bow within easy reach, but Jack's always been a little odd like that. All the same, he sneaks one away from her not-so-hidey-hole.
There's only one figure on the road, and he's never known Jack to be wrong about anything so he thinks they must've messed up the message. That or this is their version of a surprise. They can be as peculiar as Jack sometimes.
The first thing Francis notices is the color of her hair. It's not red.
He's sitting on the porch swing waiting for her: the picture of ease with one leg crossed over the other and the opposite arm stretched along the back of the seat. As laidback as he might appear though he's ever mindful of keeping brown leather on gray wool, ankle over knee, as he uses the foot planted on the wooden slats to push himself back and forth. If he gets the sole of his boots caught on his good suit trousers or smears even a smidge of mud into the leg, Jack'll pitch a fit. And then probably make him fix them himself; which Francis does not fancy doing at all.
He watches as she makes uneven tracks towards him, a thin spiral of dust kicking up behind her with each lopsided step of her black heeled booties. (He notices that too because he's been brought up to watch out for everything, even with her, and he's never known Gnat to be anything but sure-footed. So the fact she looks like she's actually trying to be now makes it's kind of obvious something's up.)
The wind catches in her curls and they float more than bounce as she ascends the stairs to where he sits with his Super Soaker filled with spirit vinegar. He was going to go for the stash of Russian that Jack got for her on the trip back, but last time he did that Gnat and Archer just snatched the gun out his hands and took turns drinking it from the nozzle using their stupidly good aim. Jack laughed when she learned of his attempt to piss them off and how it turned into him providing them with refreshments instead. She at least seemed satisfied with the outcome when she asked him what the lesson taught him and he told her with a shrug and a crooked smile that he learned from someone much older and far more jaded (her words) that he'd just have to try harder next time. He's not sure it counts if there's only one of them and he doesn't fire his weapon. He wonders if they planned this; their minds do seem to be in perpetual scheming mode, after all.
Gnat glances at the weapon that's laid across his lap, but doesn't comment on whether he plans to use it. He thinks that'd be a bit hypocritical of her anyway. She's the one who's kitted out in all black and looks ready to take on a legion of enemy forces should they happen to pop up behind Jack's handmade keeper-outter thingimijigs. (For lack of a better term slash patent pending on some of the more creative ones Francis wants to use.)
He'd gone for the gun he and Arch did a custom paint job on 'cos camo print sorta loses its effect when they're not chasing each other through the woods – and besides this one looks ace. Not to mention the splices of orangey-red match most of the block coloring on his puffer vest and Uncle Phil's always said co-ordination's a good thing to aim for if there's nothing else available. (Arch snorted at that first time he heard it, and told him kid, there is always something to aim for; but sometimes Francis wonders if that's because he wears his sunglasses too much and the things have built-in targets on the lenses. It wouldn't be totally outwith the realm of possibility: he's been watching the man shoot for years.)
She doesn't really seem all that interested in the gun in his hand so much as the arm settled across it. The sleeve of his woolen jumper is shoved up, so the dark cuff cuts across his forearm and the scar that runs along the inside of it. Sometimes he forgets she goes a little funny when she's reminded of how he got hurt that time right in front of her and she couldn't really do anything about it. He doesn't think she'd be like that if she knew of all the other times he's gotten hurt when her and Arch haven't been around, but maybe she would. She's got this crazy over-protective streak that flares up sometimes whenever she claps eyes on him.
It's actually sort of nice to think she'd tear his would-be attacker limb from limb for even considering harming him nevermind believing they could do so without consequence. It's certainly a change from imagining Jack electrocuting them with one of her gadgets or collapsing one of her rigs and burying them alive or blowing them sky-high with one of her improvised 'fire-starters'. He's always thought Uncle Phil would probably run his offender down in one of his classic cars, if he wasn't so fond of the model. Unless he used the red one, because there's something that can pack a punch and you'd hardly need to put in any effort to get the blood off the paintwork.
He's not so sure what Archer would do. Sure the man has insanely good aim, but sometimes when Francis catches Archer watching him there's a look in his eyes that's scarier than all the ones he's seen of Gnat's. So Francis doesn't imagine anything good awaits those who try to cross Arch to get to him, which is an even nicer thought in a way.
It's probably not the most 'normal' way of thinking of how safe his life is, and if he was to listen to the message most American TV shows seem to want to impress upon him he should probably be requesting Jack send him to see a psychiatrist (ha! Like that'd ever happen), but he's happy this way. Sure the moving can get a bit tiring and meeting new people all the time can be somewhat annoying at times, and the security detail (human, mechanical, electronic… and the rest) seems far more advanced than the folk in real Witness Protection get; but he has four guardians here on earth that would likely find a way to literally raise Hell to avenge any wrongdoing done toward him. He'll take that as a win any day.
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"Francis." Gnat greets him in the same voice she uses on Archer when she says his name and Francis is within earshot.
She doesn't sound upset, or angry, or anything really; so he takes that to mean she's not playing messenger for the dearly departed. At least he hopes she's not. If she waits to tell him, springs it on him when he's finally relaxed enough in her sole company, he's gonna shoot the vinegar in her eyes – with prejudice. (It's his word of the day; but that's a really good line so he'll have to remember to tell it to Jack – he reckons she'd like that one.)
"How come your hair's like mine?" he asks, the blue of his eyes tracing each light swoop that frames her face.
Her lips quirk up at his words and her response is all coy and innocent like she doesn't already know the answer to the question she asks in return. "You don't think it suits me?"
He fits her with a look that aims to tell her he knows exactly what she's doing and he's not falling for it. "You could never not be pretty, Gnat," he says, like it's so obvious he'd know it even if it was his eyes that needed help to work right, not his ears. "Changing your hair colour ain't never gonna change that."
"A compliment from the mouth of a babe," she remarks, with a sigh and a satisfied look on her face, "Why thank you, Francis."
He rolls his eyes, because that's her way of making fun of the Southern that's crept back into him since he and Jack've been back in the country. "So why's it different?"
"Work requirement," she answers easily, and even does a sort of half-shrug like it's no big deal at all that she's supposed to be expected to change how she looks to fulfil a job. He thinks it's stupid; but he thinks a lot of what Arch and Gnat reveal about what they do is stupid, and he's learned not to say anything about it. Well, to a point.
She sweeps on by him, calling out to Jack as she does so and receiving no reply in return. Well, even he could've predicted that.
He turns and follows her, amazed that anyone could tell her what to do; near floored that she'd listen enough to actually do it. "They can do that? Like say you gotta do something, click their fingers, and you jus' do it?"
"Well, that depends," Gnat tells him with a conspiring wink, "If I really want to take the job, sometimes they don't even have to ask me nicely."
When she's finished eyeing the interior of the place, she graces Francis with that look he loves; the one that assures him he's been right about her all along, with the glint in her eye and the kink in her cheek.
"They also pay a ridiculous amount of money to keep me in their employment," she tells him, sounding pleased with herself, as she rightly should be. "So it's beneficial in the long-run to occasionally let them think they control my on/off switch."
He grins, because that's more like the Gnat he knows.
Jack appears in the doorway and instructs him to: "Go make some noise in the other room, Birdie. Your girl and I need to have words."
The first time she'd called Gnat that he'd scrunched up his nose so much, Jack had squeezed it until he was gasping out his mouth. She'd told him he was too pretty to make faces like that, and it was too windy where they were and she didn't want it sticking like that. She didn't deal with ugly boys in her ranks, although she dealt with a lot.
Jack's always teaching him stuff in daft ways like that; but sometimes that's the best way, and sometimes it's just 'cos it's Jack teaching him.
Francis laughs at her newest trick and tells her he got his natural beauty from her.
He expects her to give him a playful shove or ruffle his hair and tell him, "you're such a flannel, Birdie", but she doesn't do any of that. What she does is look at him like she's seeing him for the first ever time, with that soft smile she gives him when she's tucking him in at night, and says, "Oh no, Birdie, I can't take credit for that one. You're your mother's double."
"Was she beautiful?" he breathes out, and he's not real sure why that's important, but sometimes he dreams of a lady with long blonde hair and bright blue eyes and he's always thought angels would be the most beautiful of all.
She nods, and now he thinks she might actually cry and he isn't sure what to do or say because he's never seen Jackie cry before. "Just like you."
He throws his arms around her, and she kisses behind each of his ears and holds him close to her, and he feels like he always does in her arms: whole.
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"Get on over here," the elder instructs and helpfully gestures to the space next to her, even going so far as to pat the area she's talking about.
Natasha gives her a sidelong look.
"You got all this way on your own, you can get yourself onto a surface that I can clean afterwards," Jack replies, indignant, "Because if you think I'm letting you stain my good wood with your insides then that wound's definitely infected and you're already well on your way to being a complete goner, so I might not even bother trying to do anything about it."
She rolls her eyes at the insinuation that she can't even irrigate a simple bullet wound, that it's already affecting her ability to form coherent and rational thoughts. She blows out a breath. "He called you?"
"Of course," is the scoff, with a look to question the younger woman's sanity. "He didn't want me putting another bullet hole in you when you triggered one of my prized intruder alert signals."
Natasha quirks an eyebrow at that, and knows she looks as confident as her tone suggests: "I managed to bypass your defenses just fine, granny dearest."
"Or I turned them off for your arrival, young blood," Jack returns, and winks at her, "You'll never know."
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When she's settled in the spot marked out for her, the elder sets about pinpointing the extent of her various wounds and getting rid of Natasha's battlefield options in lieu of her own, which are far superior and actual solutions to her current problem (all Jack's words, naturally).
"Did you hit your head on your latest escapade?" Jack questions, as she finishes tending to Natasha's side, "Because your definition of a graze – in whatever language your tongue takes a fancy to – needs a rethink."
"'Tis but a flesh wound," Natasha quips in return.
The elder just looks at her in that deadpan, unimpressed way she usually reserves for Clint – or the kid, when he's channeling Clint.
"Your idea of what that constitutes needs looking at too," Jack says to that. "I'll give you points for the pressure bandage, but next time you come to me as the walking wounded I'm going to knock you out and fix you up that way. Far easier."
"Next time I'm going to raid your medicine cabinet and do it myself, 'save being subjected to your version of Twenty Questions and whatever this barbaric treatment is you call helping," Natasha responds; because he's not the only one who likes to rile Jack up sometimes just because.
"Whoever said that it was in some way beneficial for the patient to be conscious and alert to gain insight into what is actually wrong clearly didn't have to deal with you being the narrator," is the quick retaliation. "If I have to suffer through your completely unhelpful, amateur and – let's be honest – grossly misleading, self-assessment again I'm ripping your attempt at a dressing off and letting you bleed out in the garden."
She slaps Natasha's hand away as her fingers inch towards a strip of gauze nearby, with a swift: "I'm not finished yet." It's not clear if Jack's referring to the spiel she's currently spilling or her version of healthcare.
"Make sure it's around Halloween when you come by though, that way we can use you as our main feature. We'll call you: The Lady in Red. You'll be a hit with the neighborhood kids, it'll be great," Jack continues in a more conversational tone, like they're not talking about Natasha'a dead body being strung up in the yard like a piece of modern art. "And when you decompose, the plants'll flourish and it'll look like I actually put effort into making them look that way." She claps her hands together with a satisfied smile and proclaims, "Happy campers all round."
"Your bedside manner needs work," Natasha says to the other woman's back as she turns to cross to the opposite side of the room, "Doctors are supposed to instill confidence in their patient's recovery, not infer they'd rather leave them to die out in the cold."
"Oh, I'm sorry, next time we'll settle further South for your very specific body temperature," Jack throws back, and makes sure she's facing Natasha as she rolls her eyes with the slight: "You big Russian baby."
"Racist," she snipes back, and deliberately waits until the elder has returned to her task at hand to slide her fingers towards the materials lying nearby, grinning triumphantly when they snag on the plastic of unopened packaging.
"I care for a known-delinquent under the age of ten, I have eyes in the back of my head," Jack remarks, full body still in the closet. "Drop the bandage. I'll get to it when I'm good and ready."
She wasn't trying very hard, but she still grumbles in her native tongue; fully aware that Jack can not only hear her, but also understand every word she's uttering. Still, she doesn't make another move to cover up the gash in her side.
"And I'm not a doctor," comes the statement from inside the nearby closet, slightly sing-song like she's really a high-functioning sociopath under the old-lady-who-wouldn't-hurt-a-fly routine. It wouldn't surprise Natasha if this was the case. There's a flash of something in Jack's eyes as she looks over her shoulder to add: "I'm just handy with tools."
When she pivots in her place it's to step back into the room and wheel a couple of machines into the space with her. Natasha lifts her head and the arm she's using to cradle it at the neck to fit the elder with a look that clearly signifies her thoughts on this sudden turn-of-events.
"Just doing my duty and providing a thorough exam," Jack responds to that, even flashing the other a smile that looks equal parts amused and self-satisfied. It's a step up from irritated anyway.
"Is there a sound, medical reason behind the X-Ray machine and ultrasound equipment you have stashed in your closet?" Natasha queries, "Or did you just fancy getting the kid started on Breaking and Entering and Grand Larceny before he reached double figures?"
"He gets his criminal tendencies from you two. I merely teach him valuable life skills. I don't steal everything I hold in my possession," the elder deflects, "Sometimes they're dropped in my lap."
She doesn't give Jack the satisfaction of rolling her eyes or commenting on such a blatant play.
Jack continues regardless, "And don't think your attempt to derail his upbringing means I'm going to ignore the fact you have a bullet wound through your side that would appear to have somehow missed anything vital."
"Which is not that surprising since it's a graze," Natasha interrupts.
"And yet the tiny measurements of your waist and the fact even the kid noticed something was up with you would suggest a need for further inspection, no?" is the immediate reply to her flimsy defense.
"He tries to emulate his elders too much. I was barely even limping," she dismisses, unperturbed, and then takes pleasure in reminding the other woman, "And you're not a doctor."
"And yet I have all this here medical equipment stashed in my closet," Jack parrots back, "Just think of all the other trinkets I keep in there: analgesics, anesthetics, something that probably constituted some form of Truth Serum once upon a time." She flashes Natasha a wide smile meant as a pure annoyance. "Fun for all the family, I'm sure."
"Let's just get this over with," Natasha grits out, resigning herself to her current fate. She's been through worse; although she's now seriously debating how she could have considered this a better alternative than S.H.I.E.L.D medical – even if it was stationed in a virtual war-zone when she chose to make her exit.
"So grouchy," Jack snipes back, and prods on a particular spot that just happens to be somewhat delicate on a body that's already housing more sections to cause her nuisance than Natasha would like. The elder grins at the ripple Natasha doesn't bother to suppress and says, "But I suppose that's to be expected when the divot in your side results in a couple of cracked ribs. So I won't be donating a kidney or part of my liver, it still deserves an I told you so."
"And apparently the kid's not the only one who needs to lay off the copycat routine," she responds to that, rolling her head to the side.
There's irony there for anyone who knows her line of work, and Jack does, of course Jack does; but she doesn't do more than comment, "Oh, don't be a sore loser."
Then she deposits some pills in Natasha's hand and finishes wrapping the no-longer-oozing wound in her side.
She eyes the little beads in her palm, trying to make out something from their non-descript color and shape. "Are you planning on telling me what you're attempting to drug me with? Or is this another of your games?"
"Something that'll get you to shut up and give me some peace for starters," Jack replies, dismissive of the implications in Natasha's words. It's not such a surprise since that's sort of her 'go-to' response for anything she doesn't like the sound of that comes from the mouths of the three S.H.I.E.L.D. Agents that continually drop in on her and her charge despite her repeated change of address.
"So much for Southern hospitality," Natasha remarks and sniffs at the state of the material covering her body (what's left of it) now Jack's had her hands on her.
"Oh, is that what I'm lacking?" the elder asks. "And here I thought not slamming the door on your face or moving location before you came a-knocking would count for something. That's done out of the goodness of my heart too. But 'figures you lot, with all your demanding and ungrateful tendencies, still give me more work than Birdie."
"I suppose we know who to blame for his dramatic streak," she observes in return.
"Unless you think I'm about to claim my heritage resides in a traveling circus, which it most certainly does not, that one belongs to your man also," Jack tells her, with blatant non-compliance. "Trumps nigh on everything that carnival lark of his does."
"Of course," she breathes out, and feels her body sinking further into the spread beneath her. For someone who claims they cause her more hassle than she can be bothered to deal with, Jack has put them up in some fairly nice digs over the years, and she always makes sure they're kitted out for the neighborhood and the climate.
Jack smiles at her lazily from the seat next to the bed.
"Pills kicking in yet?"
"They better not be sleeping tablets," Natasha threatens, and cracks open one eye to fix it on the elder.
Jack makes sure to roll hers. "Relax, would you? They're pain meds. You know, to counter the pain you're loathe to admit exists?"
And then the older woman grins in a way that tells her it doesn't matter if this could be counted as a breakthrough in Natasha's own psyche; she's just damn pleased with herself.
"The drowsiness is likely an aftereffect from dragging your poor wounded self from a literal war-zone – I have real-time footage if you want to cozy up together and watch – all the way to my humble abode, instead of seeking medical attention from your bunch of glorified hangers-on at their nearest super-secret government hangout." Natasha opens both her eyes and twists her head round to stare at the other as she continues, "I could've provided co-ordinates and a step-by-step guide to get there if you'd asked. Saved on the exhaustion somewhat. With helpful little tips and nice quality pictures for reference, so you didn't have to work your way through the dross to get to the big Doc in charge – but you didn't bother, and now here we are."
"Don't think just because you're playing nurse that I'll forgive you for slipping me some kind of hypnotic," she warns the elder, eyes closed and hands clasped rigidly in place over her stomach.
"Pfft," Jack fobs her off seemingly without care for the aforementioned repercussions, and Natasha doesn't need to look at the elder to envision the expression or actions she's currently employing. "Contrary to popular belief, missy, even your body needs a break now and then from everything you and your ridiculous antics put it through."
She makes a sound of non-commitment to that statement, and rolls her shoulders back into the mattress.
"That's right, you just go to sleep," the elder voices her approval, "My boy and I have plans, and you've put us off schedule enough already."
"You need to learn to adapt to what life throws at you," Natasha retorts, mildly irritated that the drowsiness she can feel seeping through her is starting to clog up her mouth as well.
"Keep up the comedian act and I'll have to deal with that traumatic brain injury of yours before it alters any more of your personality."
"Still not a doctor," she reminds the elder; because Jack does have a tendency to forget certain facts, which she deems minor irrelevant details that have no direct bearing on this situation. And yes, that is a direct quote from the woman herself. Admittedly, sometimes this leads to fun. Other times, it absolutely does not.
"No, not a doctor," Jack agrees, "But I do have some tools, which would be perfect for performing a lobotomy."
See? She's not sure how that would be fun for anyone, least of all her.
"You're a lot less compassionate than I'd expect from a Florence Nightingale reincarnate," Natasha remarks, finally touching on the elder's past life in the Old Country. A little late given the whole work-up she's just received, but sometimes it's better to play it this way.
"And you've come up a tad short in your morning-after routine by my count. You ought to be more thorough in disposing of all of your bedmates, if the tales are to be believed, Widow," Jack returns smartly.
It's a fine line whether this is a dig at Natasha herself, the two of them in general, or just the fact that they deign to share a bed under her roof. It's probably meant to serve as all of the above. Never wastes an opportunity this one.
"And you lot need to stop spinning tales about my past," Jack chastises with a swift slap to Natasha's fiddling hands.
She still doesn't open her eyes, but she does allow a scowl to form fully across her brow for the elder to see.
Jack leans down to whisper conspiratorially, "I wasn't always Mother Mary."
She wasn't always the Black Widow; it doesn't mean she wasn't to be feared.
And Jack is more than a mother bear ferociously protecting her young cub; there's an undercurrent Natasha has long since recognized as the warning of total and utter devastation that will result if someone so much as thinks of harming her boy.
'Takes one to know one, the kid had once quipped, but he'd looked to them all as he'd said it, like they were each as much as threat to any would-be attackers and every bit as protective of his wellbeing. He'd been right, of course, but none of them thought to tell him that.
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Natasha shoves open the door in her way and shuffles one sneaker-clad foot after the other across the threshold, squinting a little at the light that attempts to blind her for her efforts to get some fresh air and vitamin D.
"Should you be moving around like that?" comes the voice from the other end of the veranda.
She turns to the source and shoots him a look. "I didn't realize you and your minder had set up a fully-fledged medical clinic in our absence. Are we all doctors in this place now? Should I expect to be sedated and shoved back into bed in the next two minutes if I don't comply with your wishes?"
"Pull up a pew before you hurt yourself more," Francis says to that, smiling easily, unfazed by her irritated response, "Or Jackie comes in and catches you and I have to shirk the blame for not playing human crutch to your walking wounded."
He nudges the porch swing in her direction and she reaches out a hand to steady it before lowering herself onto the pillows there. It sways under her weight and she's not sure what those pills of Jack's contained, but she's glad they didn't cause her to wake up nauseous as well as groggy or she'd be about ready to puke from the back-and-forth motion.
There's a sudden scraping sound and a stool comes skidding across the space towards her. She lifts her injured leg and stops it with the other firmly planted on the floor. She raises an eyebrow at him, as she slowly brings her foot down onto the cushioned surface.
The kid just grins up at her, propped up on his elbows as he lies across the wooden slats, the bright highlighter-yellow windbreaker tied round his waist billowing over the backs of his legs like a beacon in the shade. "Just looking out for you, Gnat."
He doesn't say it, but she hears it anyway: Like you look out for me.
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She watches as he slams his books shut; sitting up and sweeping all the utensils he has laid out in front of him into one big pile. When he's finished systematically placing each pen back in its place in the pack, he stacks everything and lifts it with him as he launches himself upright, his feet popping out the backs of slip-on sneakers with the quick snap of his heels. Then he transfers everything to one arm and makes a valiant attempt at brushing the dust off the front of his T-shirt and the sweatpants bunched up around his knees.
"I gotta go to town, you wanna come with?" he finally lifts his head to announce, looking to her expectantly.
"I thought your whole point was that I'm supposed to stay off the leg," Natasha quips in return, gesturing to the offending injury.
"Well, yeah," he concedes, and she can tell this goes entirely against what he'd been planning, but he soldiers on regardless; plastering on a wide smile and gesturing to himself as he says, "But human crutch, remember?"
"And how do you propose we get to town?" she enquires, already knowing what mode of transport he's going to suggest.
Francis cocks his head to the side. "'Car's an automatic, Gnat, even I could drive it."
His lips twist into a smirk that's all too familiar then and it's not difficult to determine what's going to come next.
"Except for the small matter of being able to reach the pedals," she comments, and then allows her lips to curve slowly as she asks of him, "Remind me again how much you've grown in our absence? Still waiting on the big growth spurt though, right?"
He's not at all impressed by that, which only serves to amuse her. "I'm sure Jack's got something round here I could use to solve what isn't really a problem in the first place." Given his tone, she half expects him to stick his tongue out at her. He's such a child.
"I'm sure she does too," Natasha agrees, unruffled, "Doesn't mean I'm going to be your crash dummy while you test it out. No, if we're going, I'll be the one in control of the twenty-gallon gas tank on wheels."
He grins triumphantly like she didn't know this was his plan all along and scuttles off inside to get the keys, rushing back and grinding to a halt before her with the exclamation, "Ready!"
Kid's not even out of breath.
"So you dress up to be my welcome party, but not to be seen out in public with me?" she asks, gesturing with the smallest amount of movement to his current attire. There's nothing wrong with it, in fact he looks the eight years old that he is, but it's certainly a step down from the outfit he was sporting when she arrived the night prior. Besides, he's spent so much time with Jack the back-and-forth is often as easy with him as it is with the elder.
"No," he responds, "I dress up to go to Church. You just arrived yesterday before I'd changed out of my good clothes."
He tosses her the keys and she catches them in one hand as she pushes herself further upright with the other. That in itself is quite the feat given the beating her body's still reminding her it took not so long ago. As if she's forgotten.
"And you're not Uncle Phil so I don't need to wear my not-quite-Sunday-best all the time," he adds with a quick toothy smile.
"Charming," is her droll response to that, as she swings her legs round and prepares to get to her feet once more.
His grin reappears. "School, Gnat," he tells her, like that should explain it (actually it sort of does) and clues her into the fact she's apparently slept a whole night and day away.
She has a few choice words for Jack about those so-called not sleeping pills.
He holds out one hand towards her with an offering. "Jackie said you weren't feeling too hot, so I got you this to warm you up."
"Funny," Natasha snipes back, but takes the camouflage-print scarf from him anyway and wraps it around herself. It's white and gray with purple accents: of course it is; they do things like this on purpose. That phrase about idle hands? She wouldn't be surprised if it's their family motto.
"Better?" he asks, holding out his arms and awaiting her inspection now he's donned a blue and white checked shirt.
"I suppose you'll do." She sighs like he's a terrible inconvenience to be burdened with and then grits her teeth and pushes herself into a standing position.
Francis just laughs; she's hardly dressed for dinner at a three-Michelin-star restaurant herself. She supposes she can allow him that much, when she's wearing dark jeans and a cotton zip-up jacket over a simple gray tank top. Although if a Michelin-star restaurant of any rating even existed in the same state as the one they're currently residing in, she's sure she'd manage. She knows how to work the body in the clothes, and that's generally all fools see when they look at her anyway; which is the how and why they tend to become dead fools.
"No matter," the kid disregards her comment for better or worse, stepping forward and offering her a steadying hand as he tells her, "I plan to rock my best on Thursday so's to get all the girls' heads turning."
With her hand in his, she shakes her head at his line. "Oh, kid, you have so much to learn."
"Only if you'll be my teacher." He winks at her and allows her to test out the strength of her injured limb unaided.
"I'll be your martial arts teacher, is what I'll be," she returns, and takes two steps forward just to prove she can, "And beat your smart ass into the ground."
She pulls her other hand from the pocket of her hooded top and takes a swipe at him. He jumps back from the playful gesture, laughing, surrendering already with his hands up in defense. It's worth the sudden flare of pain for that alone.
"We need to go to the office supply place so I can get stuff for my school project. Hey, d'you wanna help me with it?" he asks, like the thought's just occurred to him, and this time she suspects it might have.
"What's the project?" Natasha asks, because of course she wants to know up front, she's not an idiot.
"Everyone's making Valentine's Day gifts for their Moms, but since mine's gone, I'm gonna do one for Jack," the kid tells her as easily as he'd just hopped backwards down the porch steps.
"Your teacher suggested that alternative?" she enquires, keeping her voice deliberately even.
"Well, no," he divulges, "But there's not much diff'rence, is there? If they make stuff for their Moms and I make it for Jackie?"
He scuttles off to open the driver's side door for her and she gives him an appropriate look of gratitude for the gesture. He waits until she's settled before skipping off to let himself in too.
"Miss. Leonard, that's my teacher's name," he informs her as he buckles up and she starts the engine, "She doesn't let us away with anything, s'why I think Jack likes her. That and the rosary she spied in Miss. Leonard's desk when she first went to see her. If she could, I bet Jack would've given her a gazillion House Points and filled the hourglass all the way to the top with emeralds, or maybe sapphires – jury's still out on that one."
She remains silent as she peels out onto the open road. She doesn't comment on the reference she knows is Coulson-influenced, or the phrase he's obviously quoted direct from some TV show or film or book – or one of them – simply allows him to carry on with his story.
"But she's usually real specific with how she says things, which can get mega boring 'specially since she's always giving me these looks like she's checking I'm ok with it. It's worse when the Principal's around, 'cos then she looks at me like I'm made of glass an' I'm gonna break if she says or does the wrong thing, which is weird – and kinda insulting."
He scrunches up his face at that and then shrugs it away.
"Anyway, I didn't wanna bring it up 'cos I do like her and who knows what would've happened if she thought she'd somehow managed to upset me." The kid rolls his eyes, like this woman, and likely the rest of the faculty as well, are being far too overzealous in their definite-and-not-at-all-subtle-kid-glove-treatment of him. For someone who's only ever been familiar with a very specific style of protection detail, it's not difficult to see how he could find it so overbearing and off-putting. "Honestly, sometimes it's like they're all scared of me."
She turns to Francis and he gifts her with an easy smile, like he's never known any different, and it's close enough to the truth that she'll grab it and run with it.
Because all Natasha can think is: They should be scared of you; and she stares into those bright blue eyes a moment longer, allows his smile to be seared into her memory and take its place among all the others he's given her over the years.
They should be scared of you, the thought anchors her; they don't know who you belong to.
.
They're in town gathering art supplies, because like every other kid around he insists on purchasing new stationary before undertaking such a weighty task. At least he can count himself normal in that regard. Besides, Jackie's always said not to start something you can't finish, and not to start something at all unless you've got the right tools for the job. He's just doing as he's been told, they should be proud something from their thousand-and-one lessons appears to have stuck.
And it's all going fine (yes, really!) until someone mistakes Gnat for his Mom.
She stiffens ever so slightly, and he wouldn't have noticed except she had her hand on his shoulder at the time to steer him away towards the checkouts, because: "Seriously kid, that's enough. Put the gel pens down or I'll send you through the metal detectors with a tag on you and leave you to deal with Jack when you get caught."
He can tell she's torn between setting the other person straight – well, straight-ish – and just going along with it. That's a tough one either way, so Francis jumps ahead and makes the decision for her.
"She's sort of as good as," he tells the lady, who's now nodding like broken and patchwork families are the norm around here, accepting her mistake even as he decides to add, "Since my Mom's dead."
The woman looks horrified and immediately starts to apologize, reaching out to Gnat, who looks like she's trying hard not to flinch away. She's usually pretty good in, well, in any situation, so he thinks maybe she was more hurt than Jack would let on to him.
"It's ok," he assures the older woman; tries to play go-between and even takes a step forward so her hand lands on his arm rather than Gnat's (she definitely can't say he never does anything for her again), "Like I said, mine's not here, and she's pretty much like a Mom to me anyway."
The girl standing by the woman's side, Lucy, who sits across from him in class, tugs at her mother's arm with wide eyes and an 'I can't believe you just did that!' look on her face. The boy by her other side, Tommy, whose seat is right next to his twin sister's, just looks between the two of them and then beams at Francis like this is the best thing he's heard all day. Francis isn't sure if it's 'cos the boy's pleased with the sudden drama caused by someone else for a change, or because he thinks Francis is making it all up.
He'd laugh at the turn of events, but for some reason he doesn't find anything funny in his words.
Gnat seems to agree because she's quieter than normal on their way home, only speaking to tell him, "You shouldn't have done that."
Francis shrugs, and offers her all he's got right now: "Don't see why not. It's close enough to the truth, and sometimes it's nice not to have to lie about my life all the time."
If his actual Mom was around he thinks she'd be as deadly and beautiful as Gnat. She'd care about him the same way too.
A bit like Jack. She's deadly and beautiful and cares about him a whole bunch, but while Gnat's sort of like a Mom to him; Jackie's more like his everything.
.
She's been quiet the whole time they've been sitting there and it's really annoying. Even when Francis deliberately up-ends the contents of the shopping bag all over the table and spreads it across the both of their workspaces, she doesn't say a word. So he sighs and slaps some colored card down in front of her and explains what he wants to do and how she can help him. She lifts her eyebrows to him when he's finished like that might be a tad ambitious even for him, given the time they have to do it in and how good he is at all this arty stuff.
He just smiles right back at her and smugly tells her, "Which is why you're going to help me, Gnat."
She looks like she's having doubts about agreeing to lend him a hand, and he supposes that's not totally unexpected. She's probably never been asked to help make an anatomically correct heart in the form of a piñata before. He has faith in her though; he's never known Gnat not to see a job through to the end.
"Jack likes destroying things," he justifies, and how could she not love this idea of his? He's even gonna drape a banner across the front that reads: 'Be still, my beating heart'. It'll be brilliant. Right up her alley. She'll be so proud. "An' it'll be funny."
She silently gets to work, even if she does stall for a good minute or two afterwards like she'd really have preferred it if he'd just asked her to try hack one of Jack's systems and relay the message there instead. As if. He's young, not stupid.
He's only about halfway done with his owl cards: they're supposed to overlap wings, but his outline had been a little wonky to start with and now he's colored the two in it's more like they're conjoined than holding hands – or wings, whatever. He sets about writing his message on each, which are pretty great if he does say so himself ('Owl always love you' and 'You're a hoot!' – clever, right?).
She's still not said anything, and after a while he decides to do something about it. He sits up in his seat, and with his feet tucked beneath him, he stretches across the table under the guise of reaching for the glue pot. Then he turns his attention towards her and moves to touch a stray strand of blonde, only for her to grab him by the wrist before his fingers get that far.
He frowns at her, at the hand wrapped tightly around his wrist. "Ow," he says, drawn-out and obnoxious.
Gnat drops his arm with a hasty, "Sorry." He can tell she means it, because she even signs along with it.
"S'fine," he tells her, but deliberately doesn't rub the skin tinged red by her grip, despite the fact she nearly broke him in half.
"No more than you deserve, Birdie," Jack appears before them both, and clips him about the ear for good measure. She turns his head to face her, chin caught between her thumb and forefinger, "What've I told you about touching things that don't belong to you?"
She schools him in etiquette and manners he should already know by now and Francis can't help but scowl back at her.
Jack flicks him in the centre of the forehead. "Stop that," she instructs, unraveling his attempt to be mad at her in an instant. She looks from what she deems an "unintelligible mess" on the table, back to the pair of them. "What're you two doing anyway?"
"Nothing," he answers, too quickly even for him, although he does make sure not to move his arms from their place covering the card underneath lest he ruin the surprise three days early.
She eyes him with suspicion and looks close to rolling her eyes and blowing out a sigh. "Stellar performance there, really, I'm so convinced now."
The corners of Gnat's lips twist into something that is probably supposed to half resemble a smile, but actually looks more like one of Archer's smug little smirks.
"Have I really brought you up all these years?" Jack muses. "Remind me to do a better job next time, because that is just shocking. I'm ashamed, truly."
"We're playing Cheat later, aren't we?" Francis guesses, although he already knows what she's going to say.
"Damn right we are," Jack confirms, "We need to work on your deceptive skills."
"It's just you!" he cries out, because it's so unfair; how is he supposed to be able to lie convincingly to Jack? "I can lie just fine to everyone else."
"Hmm, we'll see," she comments, lips pursed, and he's all too aware this would not be a point to be encouraged or even congratulated in other children. But it's Jack, and they entertain company like Gnat, so he supposes he's not really like other children. "We've got Poker Night at Sally's on Friday, so you keep this up I'm gonna take this one along with me instead and leave you here."
She jerks her thumb in Gnat's direction, who remains quiet – go figure – and then turns her attention back to him.
He drops his brow and his mouth follows suit, and the sad little puppy face falls into place. "But who's gonna distract the others with their wily charms?"
Jack laughs, clearly has no objection to kicking him when he's down. "I think she'll do just fine, Birdie, but if you're good I'll let you be our backup."
"S'better than abandoning me completely, 'suppose," he grumbles and crosses his arms over one another, drawing them towards his chest and dropping his chin to rest on top.
"Oh quit the drama act, your Archer's not even here," is her flyaway comment to that.
Then she drops a kiss to his hair and ruffles it afterward, replacing one form of affection for another.
"But your girl is, so be nice and give her that smile that makes it worth coming home," Jack says. So he does, and when it takes Gnat a moment longer than usual to lift her lips in return, he smiles even more just for her.
.
The kid's all tucked up in bed asleep when she broaches the subject.
"I don't look like her, do I?" she asks of the elder; straightforward and on point, because why waste either of their time dancing round it?
"No," Jack tells her, apparently of the same opinion for once, and Natasha doesn't have to spell out whom she's referring to. "And she died before he was even a year old, so he don't remember her none anyway."
"Oh, ok," she murmurs, "That's good."
Jack nods, but doesn't call her on the events of earlier. Doesn't ask her if it's really such a bad thing that someone would – could – mistake her for Francis's mother.
"What about the other one?" is what Jack does say. "Seen him yet? 'cos he'll remember her plenty, I imagine."
"No, he's still away," Natasha replies, fully aware she's being vague now, "I had a work thing, he had a work thing and I'm here."
"Mmm, indeed," the elder murmurs, and then tells her, "Well, in any case, you're more sexy siren to her wholesome chickadee-next-door routine, which, no offense, girlie, but you ain't ever gonna squeeze into no matter how many hair dyes you get done."
Natasha considers this with a pinch of salt. In any case, it's usually more beneficial in her job to stand out. She is, after all, generally considered the bait to lure the target in. Although she prides herself on being whatever she needs to be at any given moment: the ultimate chameleon.
"Not that you don't do a good job of putting up a show on your little excursions here, mind. And not to say she wasn't a tasty little thing herself, who could wield that stick of hers like nothing I've never seen before; but no, to answer your question, you don't look like her," Jack concludes, and then because this is Jack and she has a tendency not to know when to shut-up, she adds, "He's not gonna look at you an' see her – or at least, he shouldn't if his memory's even remotely intact in that regard." She rolls her eyes, gestures towards the bedroom door Natasha knows houses a certain eight-year-old. "Which, let's be real, it may not be given the sprog I've ended up with."
She smiles at that, allows herself it this time with the words, "He knows his father."
"Aye, don't we all," is Jack's retort.
Natasha nods in agreement; her sentiments exactly.
.
She's sitting next to him on the lounge sofa while a cartoon plays on the widescreen in front of them; something about a yellow-haired Elvis impersonator with a chest three times the size of his lower body. Logic tells her that the concept is ridiculous, but then she remembers Clint telling her the cartoons the kid watches are generally designed to be just that and a little ridiculousness is hardly going to kill him.
There's a card lying discarded on the cushion between them where the remote is positioned within a tiny hand's reach. It still wouldn't make his position angled as he is any less awkward; although it would save her a maneuver and free up her arm that he has pinned by the sleeve against the sofa.
Instead she reaches across with her other arm and plucks it from its position, bypassing the downright terrible drawing on the front to flip it open and scan the inside. In saying that, the animals on the front of the kid's gray tee aren't exactly museum-worthy either: one's a snake with a blindfold on and she doesn't even know what the other's supposed to be. The word 'Ninjas' outlined in black between them is clear enough, however. No doubt another of Jack's jokes.
She leans forward again and taps his knuckles with the edge of the card to garner his attention, holding it up when he turns to face her. "What's this?"
"Early Valentine's Day gift," Francis grunts in return, looking suitably unimpressed in the sparing glance he gives it, "Supposed to be from a girl in my class."
The poem, for lack of a better term, reads: Roses are red, Violets are blue, You have nice hair, and you don't smell like poo. It's written in overly large lettering with exaggerated swirls and signed Love Suzy. Attached to the underside is a pocket mirror that has a miniature fold-out brush inside and an oversized lopsided bow on top, crudely stuck to a stack of aftershave samples. Honestly? It's a bit much. Also, kids these days really need to work on their penmanship and what they consider to be a compliment, because this? This does not count.
"I looked it up," he tells her, "It's from this show."
She looks across to the TV and the caption reads: Lesson #5: Foreign chicks love big buff American men. Natasha resists the urge to laugh, that one she might share with Clint.
By the time it's about half-way through, she's already ascertained that it is most definitely not one of the cartoons the kid should be watching. There's a stream of women who systematically reject the man and his shockingly bad advances in a variety of inventive ways, some with a slice of violence thrown in, and those are definitely her kind of women. So there's that, but it's still not the sort of viewing she'd choose for the kid.
And then on walks on the redhead with the big hair and the right words and cartoon equivalent martial arts moves to boot and Natasha just knows this is going to end horribly. She's not entirely sure why she's not switched the TV off yet.
It turns out the gorgeous redhead's a spy, because of course she is.
The kid doesn't even bat an eyelid. In fact, when the credits start to run soon after he proclaims, "Well, that was stupid."
So maybe they're doing something right after all.
"Just like this," he adds, reaching out and flicking the corner of the folded card, which then tries to imbed itself in the soft gray cotton of her sweat pants. It ultimately fails even though hers don't offer nearly the same thickness as his own black pair. Apparently Jack doesn't skimp on quality garments for them either though, which is handy to know. "Susie spells her name with an 's' and an 'i-e', not a 'z-y'," he looks up to inform her, "And she's nice and smart. This is rubbish and stupid an' I'm pretty sure she owns a calendar, so she'd have made sure to give it to me on the right day."
Her lips twitch at the sheer indignation in his voice that they thought they could put one past him without him noticing.
She decides to test her theory with a simple: "Why'd you bother to watch the show if you knew she wasn't the one responsible?"
Francis sends her a look like he knows what she's trying to do (not quite), but his smile wins out and he tells her, "You lot're always saying knowledge is power." He shrugs, "I know it was them, and where they got all the stuff from, but they don't know I know any of that. 'Means I can get them back twice as good."
A green hi-top sneaker knocks against one of hers, the far more non-descript black version that rests atop the coffee table; and its silver swoosh winks at her in the flicker from the TV as he makes sure he has her full attention now.
"An' besides," the eight-year-old tells her, "I have you lot to teach me stuff, so I'm always gonna come out on top."
She laughs outright at that.
Kid's grinning at her, especially pleased with himself now. And as he leans forward, unable to contain his glee, she catches sight of the back of his tee and the word: 'Lethal' stamped across it in block black capitals.
Yes, they've definitely done something right by him.
.
"Do you think you love him?" Francis asks her when Jack's gone inside to make them tea and they're sitting out on the porch. "Archer?"
Valentine's Day's tomorrow and she's not said anything about it. He knows old people usually do old people stuff for it, but Arch isn't here and neither's Uncle Phil so maybe that's why she's been all quiet and weird lately.
"I know who you were referring to," she tells him, still staring up at the stars even though he's stopped pointing out all the constellations they can see from their spot in the world. He'd been trying to match them with the ones on his glow-in-the-dark pjs, which are awesome by the way.
"Well?" he prompts, because if she knows that then she has an answer for him too. And he knows what he thinks about it; he wants to know what she thinks. "Do you?"
"When I was younger, the people I was with told me 'Love is for children'." She shrugs and the big gray jumper she's got on bunches up even more around her arms. "Sometimes," she says and turns to look at him with a blank face and words that sound like they match, "Sometimes I do not think they were wrong."
"Well that's just dumb," is his immediate response to that.
She coughs out something he's gonna take to be an attempt at a laugh. Maybe it is in Gnat world. "You disagree?"
She seems amused by his opinion and his blatant disregard to give any sort of credit to her own. He scoffs; like that wasn't obvious. "Yes," he states bluntly.
"Are you going to elaborate?" she enquires and lifts an eyebrow as she does so, shifting the leg that's supposed to be mending and tucking her other beneath her so her black leggings skim across the cushions like the pebbles he and Arch tossed over the lake that one Summer.
"Are you going to tell me what I have to say is dumb if I do?" he replies, because he knows the sorts of tricks she plays; and some of them are dirty, like Jack's and Archer's. They all have a mean streak in them they like to use to 'teach' him stuff. He thinks they just do it for a cheap laugh.
"That depends," Gnat replies and smirks back, making like a parrot in those pirate movies he's seen and saying what he did in a voice that he doesn't think sounds like his, but definitely isn't her usual one either, "On if what you have to say is dumb."
"If love was jus' for kids then Arch wouldn't watch you even when your back's turned and there's no one around, and you wouldn't look back at him 'cos you know he's there even when no one else does. An' you wouldn't say each other's names in that funny way you do sometimes, like you got your own language hidden inside an' they're presents only you get to open," he tells her, because he knows this. He's not going to stop, not going to let her interrupt or tell him he's wrong because he knows this. Just like he knows Jackie loves him 'cos she looks after him and hugs him and kisses him and keeps him safe and tucks him in at night and no one no one else does it like her. "An' you wouldn't make that face that you do when he's hurt, like you wanna crush the world between your hands instead of leaving us standing when he can't."
Francis gulps down a breath and then another and waits for her to say something, but she doesn't say anything.
"If love was for children like those dumb folks told you," he tells her and she's watching him so closely now, his eyes and his mouth and his hands; she's taking in everything he has to say, "He'd have made that arrow go through you, and you wouldn't keep coming home to us."
.
TBC – in Part Two
Thanks for reading, feel free to let me know your thoughts :)
Steph
xxx
