A/N: Flashbacks are in bold italics
Anything in another language other than spoken English will generally be in italics.

WARNING: herein also lies swear words.

Enjoy :)


Chapter Four: Part Two

.

"What happened to his eye?" Natasha questions when she enters the room more sure-footed than she's felt since she stepped (ok, so maybe she limped a little) onto the property four days ago.

Her eyes shift to the two overzealously decorated owl cards she watched the kid put together a couple of days ago that now sit propped up front and centre on the woman's desk.

"Thought today was supposed to be about love not war," she comments.

Jack looks up from where she seems to be soldering a series of wires to a circuit board; although knowing the elder putting it in such layman's terms doesn't even scratch the surface of what she's currently undertaking with the electronics.

"Cute," is what the elder says to that, but the quick flash of white in her eyes says something else entirely. She jerks her head in the direction of the kitchen and tells Natasha, "Ask him, he's the one who got sucker punched."

So she does.

"You going to tell me what happened?" she asks him, and the response she receives is a grunt as he tries to move past her.

Like that was ever going to work.

"Hey!" Natasha thrusts a red and black plaid-covered arm out in front of him to halt him in his tracks then pulls him back with a firm hand on the woolen padding on his shoulder, grasping his chin between her fingers and lifting his face up so she can get a proper look at him. "How'd you get the black eye?"

"Kid in my class hit me," Francis relinquishes sullenly, shifting bodily out of her hold. His eyes flicker down to the floor where he kicks out at the tiles in unmasked frustration and his bare sole skims across the surface with a whoosh of displaced air.

She looks down at his hands next, turning them over and lifting them up to inspect for any damage, frowning when she sees none. "And you didn't hit him back?" She meets his eyes, still frowning.

She's sure those homely made-for-TV movies use moments like this to dissuade the American youth from committing acts of violence against one another, pulling out some well-spun tale or metaphor of why words are better used in defense of the self and how walking away is the mark of a better man. Only he's still just a kid and she's never been known to do anything other than stand her ground, next to a partner renowned for his similarly stubborn outlook.

Francis is wearing a frown of his own now and a split-second thought runs through her that maybe she shouldn't be so hard on the kid for not splitting the jaw of his peer wide open in retribution for taking a potshot at his (albiet inherently hard) head.

"Not with my fists," he responds, like she should know this, like she should know better because apparently he does, "Elbow's sharper and harder, Gnat. I used that instead."

And then he's grinning at her and there is absolutely no mistaking his parentage: only a maniac like Clint Barton could produce an offspring with similar pride in such dirty fighting (she prefers there to be a tad more finesse when the opportunity presents itself and she's allowed to be picky).

Natasha takes said arm in hand and pushes the navy woolen cuff of his cardigan up until it's past the bend and she can inspect that area too.

"'Got him right in the nose. You should've seen it, Gnat, it puffed up like a balloon and there was blood everywhere!" his enthusiastic commentary picks up, and he's clearly not paying any more attention to her actions, "I saw him after school when Jack came to get me and he had the biggest black eyes ever – like a panda. It was awesome!"

He continues to look at her, that expectant look on his face and she rolls her eyes, finally releasing her hold of him as she relents, "Oh, go on then." She breathes out an overly exasperated sigh as she repeats her original question this time already knowing what the answer will be, "What happened to your eye?"

Kid's positively beaming at her as he replies, "If you think this is bad, you should see the other guy."

He doubles over with laughter, falling forward and she rolls her eyes at him, but doesn't move him from his position, pressed close into her.

After a few minutes where he's still meshed against her black tank and half concealed within her shirt, Natasha coaxes him up with the words, "Come on."

"Where are we going?" Francis questions, even as he follows her, although the cuffs of his pants drag across the floorboards with his slow movements.

"Outside," she turns to tell him, then opens the door and waits until he walks ahead of her into the open air.

"You're supposed to be resting," he criticizes her plan instantly, pointing out what he considers a main flaw.

"Oh I've had plenty of that already," she dismisses his concerns with an airy wave, continuing her path.

She flicks her ankle and catches his as he steps onto the porch and were it not for inbuilt acrobatic skills and the fact he's actually quite light on his feet, he'd have face-planted the wooden beams. She doesn't even attempt to hide her amusement.

He turns to her with a scowl and she clucks her tongue at him. "Come on. We've got to hone those skills of yours sometime – unless you want to be caught off guard again?" she teases, delving into her repertoire and plucking out an over exaggerated performance perfect for this occasion, "I'm sure all your admirers would be able to look past your panda eyes just this once, given how special this day is, being Valentine's Day and all."

He shrugs, unfazed. "That's one I'd hafta run by Archer," he tells her, and she knows how he's going to spin this even before he's finished speaking because he's a cocky little shit who's spent entirely too much time around his Archer, watching and listening and learning and imitating. "'Cos he's definitely broken his nose a good few times an' you still wanna be seen out with him all the time."

She thinks it'll be worth enduring Jack's wrath to go a few rounds with the kid and drop him in the mud and the grass while he's wearing those clean khaki pants of his. Might shut him up for a minute too.

"An' since we all know I'm the prettiest of our bunch I should have no problem getting the hunnies to stick around, whatever day of the week it is," he concludes with a brimming smile, eyes positively shining in the afternoon light.

Oh, she is so gonna get him for that.

Francis crouches almost instinctively and she lunges for him, catching him easily the third time he tries to dance out of her reach and stumbles on feet too quick for the rest of him. He dissolves in a puddle of giggles still captured in her arms and Natasha smiles at the large green grass mark smeared across his knee like a proposal. She lies back, balancing the weight of him against her, and looks up at the sky; the familiar color of his eyes.

.

He arrives late that night, or early morning depending on how you define it, and slides into the bed next to her. As timing would have it, he missed all the excitement that came with smashing the Hell out of that giant piñata she and the kid spent hours creating for Jack that looked like a real beating heart (because he's weird like his carer). She's no doubt Francis will fill him in on it almost immediately when he notices Clint's presence in the morning.

"Where'd he get the shiner?" he asks, and Natasha smiles in the darkness: of course his first stop would be to check on the kid.

"One of his classmates hit him," she replies, turning more toward him.

"Oh yeah?" he responds, and he shifts positions to be nearer to hers, reaching out and curling a blonde spiral around his finger as it falls across her face.

"Don't worry, papa bear," she assures him with a wink, cups his cheek and feels the light hair growing along his jaw underneath, "I've got it covered."

She sees him quirk an eyebrow in the tired planes of his face, the rationed light funneling in through the curtains. "That so?"

"Oh yeah," she returns, swaps her own regular brand of confidence for some of the swagger and cockiness that she's watched walk around in his miniature replica this past week, "Gnat's got this."

His chuckle is half muffled by the pillow as he nods, and then it transforms as he notices her shirt and she watches the grin slowly rise on his face in the dark.

Clint plucks playfully at the front of her tee; a simple gray number that would be fairly unassuming were it not for the two interlocking black arrows and the swooping 'hello' positioned near the bottom of her heart.

She's fuelling Jack's personal entertainment right now and she knows it, because this top? It was most definitely supplied for this exact reaction, on both their parts.

And he finds it downright hilarious, naturally.

"I like this," Clint tells her, although she already knows.

Natasha smiles, indulgent, easy and true. "Yeah, 'thought you might."

She lets him pull her into him with his fingers pinching the space between the arrows cross-linked by her heart.

There is a reason she comes back and it sounds a lot like the smile she hears in his voice.

.

When Clint awakens a few hours later it's to the unwelcome blindness from the sun streaming fully through the centre crack in the curtains, and the sounds of dull thumps and hard thuds that would shake the surroundings were they any nearer.

When he manages to make it outside, he's rewarded with a front row view of exactly how Nat has "got this covered". The kid circles her, performing exaggerated movements while she coaches him on the finer points of taking an opponent down in close quarters.

"You two enjoying yourselves?" he calls out from the porch, steaming mug in one hand and a water bottle in the other.

He bends down slowly to pick up the pebble resting next to his bare foot, swaps the bottle to his other, already occupied, hand and tosses the flat rock in their direction. It lands where he intended it to; skidding across the ground near enough to garner the kid's attention, but not close enough to actually take his eye out or anything.

He switches the bottle back to his other hand and then holds up the prize as he announces, "Winner's trophy."

The kid turns and Natasha uses the opportunity to sweep his legs out from under him, causing him to land on the ground with an audible oof.

"What have I just been trying to teach you?" she schools him, hovering over him so he can't squirm away from her words or her lessons, "Always be aware of your surroundings."

That's actually a really good thing to teach him, because the kid can be pretty awful at paying attention to more than one thing at one time. So she has a point there.

She looks over at Clint as he stands there watching them, a smile playing on his lips. She shakes her head at him and he lifts his shoulders and holds out his arms in a gesture that screams of 'How is this my fault?'

'Course the little man sees that as his opening. Francis wraps a pair of tiny ankles around her leg and when Natasha looks down, kid twists his body round and yanks her foot out from under her, sending her crashing to the thick grass beside him.

Clint lets out a guffaw at the action and in an instant the kid springs to his feet, bounds across the plane and skips up the stairs to where he stands. Natasha sits up and snarls in their direction.

Francis leaps upwards and snatches the water bottle out his hand and Clint just lets him. He ruffles the kid's hair as he jumps across the threshold back into the house, and lets his praise reach across the space between them, "Nicely done, kid."

She's dusting the grit from her pants as he approaches. He gestures to the mug in his hand, "You knew you wanted this one anyway." He almost laughs, but settles on a half-smirk instead; safer. "'Kid doesn't even like water, not enough sugar, he was just doing it to prove he could best you at something."

She glares at him. It only makes him smile, and he doesn't even try to slow its progression, because she's clearly been spending too much time around Jack and the kid and it shows. It's also fucking hilarious. He can't wait to hear the stories.

"You were teaching him to fight dirty," he defends his words on the kid's behalf, "You should be proud!"

"No, you teach him to fight dirty," Natasha rephrases with a knowing look, "I was teaching him to win by any means necessary."

He figures they're both the same thing and she's just being grouchy and nitpicking, but he's not so much an idiot that he'd add that in so he just holds out the mug for her to take. She doesn't bother. Definitely grouchy then.

She walks past him and hops up the steps like she didn't just have her ass handed to her by an eight-year-old (and yes he is going to remember that for a long, long time to come and enjoy replaying it over and over in his mind). Also, he says walks, but if ever there was a complete embodiment of the term sashays he's watching it in her right now. She's such a little minx.

"So you don't want this?" he calls after her, holding up the mug in question, although it's fairly obvious what she thinks about it already.

"Not when I have a winner's trophy to collect!" is her response, and she throws him a look over her shoulder that should really be accompanied by a wink, before sliding past the open door and slinking inside.

Well, this should be interesting.

At the very least, they should provide something for him to remember them by.

.

What happens is this: they chase each other round the house like they're playing cat and mouse, except they lob random things at one another at every turn and toss pieces of furniture across the space to trip the other up.

The kid's aim is pretty spot on actually, but Nat's better at dodging things of a sharp and heavy nature – to be honest, she generally finds a way out of any and all things thrown in her direction.

Eventually though she manages to clip the speedy cheetah's ankles together and he collides with a stray chair leg lying in his path.

He's on his way to face-planting Jack's good wood when the woman herself appears before them all and catches her little darling in her arms.

She also catches the water bottle that goes flying out the kid's hand when Nat throws a tennis ball at his outstretched arm for good measure.

"Mine, I believe," Jack tells them, and a triumphant smile rises on her face.

.

After their early morning escapades (emphasis on early) Jack had sent the kid to shower and get himself ready for school. That actually worked out in their favor since Clint had the chance to give Natasha a proper once-over and pin her to the bed to rewrap the injuries she was pretending didn't exist (nothing new there then) after her squirrelly encounter with the resident imp.

Clint enters the kitchen wearing dark jeans instead of sleep pants and a T-shirt left sitting out for him on the bed (and a pair of shoes that he'd slipped on instead of his boots just to shut Jack up, but that's another point). Francis is sitting at the kitchen table, one hand spooning cereal into his mouth and the other fiddling with one of his hearing aids. It'd be far easier if he just committed both hands to the task, but as usual, the kid is fully aware of this and chooses instead to go with the opposite. Clint's not completely oblivious to that method himself, so he's not about to judge. It is a slight improvement in the kid's attention-splitting ability though, so maybe Nat is handling it after all.

"What are you wearing?" he asks when he steps closer, eyeing up the black fur on the kid's… everything. "Lemme rephrase that: what're you supposed to be?"

Francis just turns and looks up at him with utter disdain for his humor and/or ability to grasp the apparent obviousness. "It's a gorilla suit."

"'Course it is," Clint says, like he should've known. "And you willingly let her buy your clothes?" he remarks, fully aware who's responsible for his own attire. "What? Was there a Halloween sale at the local mall? Or'd she send you out into that forest she loves so much and make you bring home a pelt of your own to parade around in, 'cos it's that cold here in the middle of February?"

"Were you on the same assignment as Gnat? 'cos she came back all weird too," the kid retorts and it sounds as snarky as it usually does when he throws in words that are longer than his arm. "It's warm," he defends, and then he grins and says, "You're just jealous 'cos Jackie doesn't buy you nice things to keep you all cozy and comfy like she does me."

Clint's not fazed by this; he is fazed by the fact the kid is all bundled up inside an animal costume like they're in the wilds of the frozen North. "Might have something to do with the fact I'm not eight," he says flatly.

"Or she just doesn't like you as much," Francis practically sing-songs.

"Well that we all know," he responds without much difficulty.

"You don't like the top she got you?" the kid speaks up, acting the innocent, naïve little angel he pretends all-too-often to be outside these walls and this company to unsurprising effect. "Jack was all upset you weren't here yesterday to wear it. She got them 'special for you and everything."

He looks down at the gray T-shirt that looks sort of purple-ish in this light and reads: You make my heart quiver.

"Yeah, I bet," he comments, not falling for the act one bit; like he wasn't making good money hustling folks with the same easy tactics when he wasn't much older than the kid is now, "She's real thoughtful like that is Jack."

The shirt even comes complete with a heart pierced by an arrow and little lines that move with every breath he takes like the thing's actually quivering in someone's presence.

He looks to Natasha as she enters then, and immediately eyes up the red tee on her frame (that conveniently doesn't clash with her hair given the recent dye-job). There's two little cartoon black spiders on her chest, which he figures are supposed to be black widows given the little red hourglasses on their backs, and a speech bubble of one saying to the other: Single again? What happened?

"Aw, Nat, not you too," he commiserates.

"I was accosted the moment I tried to leave the room," she answers to that, and pulls open the nearest cupboard to make herself a drink.

"And you just let her strong-arm you like that?" he asks, allowing the disappointment to show in his voice and his face.

She lifts one shoulder, seemingly not too bothered as she continues with her current task. "I figured I owed her one from earlier."

"Aw you chose that one?" the kid pipes up at that, not hiding his own disappointment, cereal finished or forgotten by this point. "I was hoping you'd go for the other one."

Clint turns back to her with one eyebrow raised, but Francis continues and answers for her.

"It had the same little spiders on the front, and one says to the other: Did you see his legs? I ate them all up – but like eight the number, 'cos that's how many legs a spider has," Francis clues him in, grinning. "That was a good one. I liked that."

"What about any of this screams wouldn't hurt a fly?" he questions, directing it more to his partner than the kid under Jack's care who is unbelievably and unshakably loyal to the woman.

Said kid cracks up next to him. "Ha, good one, Arch. 'Cos flies get caught in spider's webs and munch munch munched."

Natasha's leaning against the counter watching the two of them now. Her lips curve and she lifts the mug she has cupped between both hands with a look to say: you did walk into that one.

"I'd put mine on too so we all match, but I wore it yesterday so it's in the basket to be washed," comes the grumble from short-stuff between them, who then suddenly has a light-bulb moment. "Wait! I'll go get it to show you! It's a real good 'un too, Arch!"

And he scampers off to apparently do just that, all happy and non-scowly.

"Seriously," Clint turns to Natasha, "How does anyone buy the old dear routine of hers when she's always doing shit like this?"

She shrugs, takes a steady gulp of her drink. "Because they don't know any better."

"Yeah?" he says, with a laugh. "Then what's our excuse?"

"You're both idiots!" comes the shout from the next room: asked and answered.

They should've expected that to be the extent of Jack's input.

.

Jack must've caught him on his running travels because the kid's changed into real clothes when his sneakers slide across the floor and he comes skidding to a stop before the pair of them as they polish off the contents of their drinks.

"Go on then," Clint prompts, nods to the scrunched up material caught within the kid's tiny, bony fist, "Impress me with some more of your guardian's wit."

"Should've got that top in green for you, Arch," Francis retorts, "You're all kinds of jealous."

Natasha hides her smile behind the rim of her coffee cup, not very well, but she's probably not trying very hard.

He lifts his eyebrows and the kid straightens, yanking up the white T-shirt and flattening it against his front, attempting to make a dent in the creases by smoothing it out right to the edges so they can see it in all its glory. There's various cartoon birds on the front along with the words: Sorry chicks, I'm already toucan. I'm in dove with somebirdy else. It was love at first flight and I'm raven mad about her.

"And I gave these out to the girls in my class," Francis says, as smug as a little kid can be when he's knowingly fucked with the plans of every other male in his grade.

He lets the shirt fall to the side, grasped between spindly fingers, and thrusts a small card forward. There's an outline of a bird where it looks like something should be stuck on the front and inside it reads: I hope you have a pheasant Valentine's Day and find somebirdy who sparrows no expense in tweeting you right.

The kid grins at them both and nods to the card as he retakes his previous seat at the kitchen table and says, "You can keep that one if you want, Gnat. Sorry there's no cookie, but you ate them all."

Tasha rolls her eyes at that and takes another drink; it's debatable whether that means the kid's words hold much truth or not.

"This all your doing?" he asks, lifts the card up again before passing it across to his partner who places her mug on the counter and takes it from him, holding it between the thumb and forefinger on each hand.

"Well, Jack drew all the pictures and baked the cookies 'cos she's the best like that," Francis tells him and that is the God's honest truth, "But I did all the wordy stuff myself – and it was all my idea."

"Yeah, I bet," Clint remarks with a laugh. "What happened? You run out of space for more puns on there or you run out of birds to use as words?"

"Well I was gonna stick to the owl theme an' put one on the front saying 'Who loves you?' That's 'h-o-o' to keep it right. And then have 'not me' inside, but I thought I'd be better saving that for the people I don't like instead. So I did and it was great," he sounds positively gleeful as he says it and he looks it too, "The best would've been if I'd put 'no-birdy' inside, but Jackie said it was a bit much. You can have one, Arch – and no cookie for you either, but not 'cos Gnat ate them, jus' 'cos mean folks shouldn't get nice, sweet things."

"Sometimes I worry about your sociopathic tendencies, kid," Clint mentions blankly.

He flicks the corner of the card attached to the fridge door, the one that does have an owl theme.

"But s'good to hear you don't have any plans to try your hand at this career-wise 'cos you will literally experience the starving artist routine," he says, and lets out a laugh as he eyes up the scraggly artwork. "You can't draw for shit, kid."

"Jackie put it up there 'cos she's proud of my work," Francis snaps back with a distinct so there look.

"I'm proud of your work too!" Clint insists, and he does mean it; but even he has to draw the line somewhere. And he can only bullshit the kid so much. "I'm jus' saying don't expect to be raking in the cash jus' 'cos you've mastered the art of staying in the lines when you color in your mutant looking stick-men."

The kid fits him with a look of utter indifference, and casually remarks, "Better than you."

He spares a second to raises an eyebrow in response as he takes up a seat of his own and Nat decides to vacate the area. Apparently she's choosing not to get involved in this particular debate. He does so enjoy it when the little shit gives as good as he gets. "Oh, yeah? How'd you figure?"

"Well, I did it and you didn't so I'm already lightyears ahead of you," Francis smarts back.

He scoffs; like that means anything. "How d'you know I'm not a world-class drawer or crafter or some shit?"

Kid lifts a brow, like phrasing it like that isn't evidence enough, and snarks, "I'm also gonna have more money by the end of your visit if you keep that up."

"You and that rule," he mutters, deliberately missing out the fucking in between, but reaching into his pocket and fishing out a couple of crumpled up notes anyway, slapping them into the palm of the kid's open, waiting hand. "What d'you even do with all the money anyway?"

Francis looks up from where he's pretty much stroking the paper bill in his hand like that freaky mole person with the ring in those fantasy films they watched that went on for hours. The archery was decent, even if it was coming from a guy with pointy Spock-ears and braids of flowing blond locks.

"Put it in the collection on Sunday, duh," is the eight-year-old's response.

"Seriously?" Clint asks, incredulous; because sometimes it's hard to tell which Holier-than-thou crap is for real and what they use just to take the piss out of him and his apparent ignorance on all things Jesus.

"Yeah," Francis replies, draws it out like he's also asking why the elder would think he'd ever lie about such a thing. Kid can be such a smarmy little fucker when he pulls tricks like these, but he does learn most of them from Clint or Tash or Jack, so being pissed about it's pretty redundant. Besides, it can be hella entertaining to watch. "An' it makes Jack happy," he says, like that should also be obvious.

"Course it does," he says, and then smirks, needles a bit more, "You could jus' say you're buying your way into Heaven, I'm not gonna tattle on you."

The kid shoots him a look. "And that's precisely one of the reasons you won't be there, you big heathen."

"You're not being very charitable, right now," he points out.

Francis shrugs. "You're not being very nice, full stop."

Ok, so the kid may have a point. Clint wonders if Coulson's been teaching him chess again.

"Yeah, sorry," he says, reaching out to the kid, "Come here."

Francis eyes his outstretched hand. "No take-backs!" he exclaims, pulls bodily away and clutches the money to his chest, "And 'sides, it's already set to go to God an' you gotta be out of your mind to go up against Him."

He shakes his head, rolls his eyes and scoots forward, lifting the chair by its seat so the legs don't scrape too painfully off the floor. "Shut-up," he says, holds out his hand again when he's closer, right in front of the kid in fact, "I'm tryna apologize here."

"Oh." There's a little frown and then it fades on a face too young to hold the marks of the past. The bills are shoved into the side pocket of his pants, the chain attached to his belt rattling with the movement. "Ok."

He beckons him over and when the kid eventually leans forward another inch, Clint reaches around his tiny, wiry frame and bundles him up into his arms, pulling Francis into him.

"I'm sorry, ok?" he says, when the kid's perched sideways on his lap.

Francis leans back into his chest, and resting his head on Clint's shoulder the eight-year-old nods his acceptance.

"Sometimes when I've been away so long it takes me longer to remember what's waiting for me on the other side," he explains and it's true.

"Maybe you and Gnat should stop doing funny things to your hair," the kid tells him, and then turns and places both hands on either side of his face, smoothing down the beard that's started to form since his last assignment. "'Cos you both act like you're other people and I like the real you best."

Clint's not sure what to say to that, not sure if there's much he can say.

So he stays as he is, with Francis in his arms, and lets himself be himself for his own sake as much as the kid's.

.

"He didn't show you the back, did he?" Jack says knowingly when the boys have left to walk to school and they're watching the pair amble down the path.

Natasha turns to the elder and the kid's T-shirt is flung across the space towards her.

She catches it in one hand and flips it over, lifting it up to get a good look at what the elder's referring to. And there on the back for the world to see are two blue-footed, light-breasted, dark-winged birds accompanied by the sassy exclamation 'Cute boobies'.

"His grand finale," Jack tells her, smiling unashamedly, "For the walk home."

"I'm surprised none of the girls or their mothers tried to jump him," is what she says to that.

"Most of them get the bus home, so he got a few catcalls out the back windows as they went by," the other woman informs her, "I have it on good authority that my drawings were spot on for likeness, hence all the girlish giggling that followed us instead."

Natasha finds that hard to believe; something doesn't quite add up here.

Jack shrugs. "Apparently they're all studying up on birds this term for a school-wide trip to the state bird sanctuary. So the shirt was better received than you'd believe."

Natasha shakes her head; he does his homework all right, and he knows how to use that good looking face of his and that cheeky, but innocent personality to get away with all the stupid little stunts he likes to pull.

The kid may just outlive them all and Jack looks like she knows it and she's as proud as can be.

.

Clint's walking him to school and because the kid's a right little shit, he's wearing a bright green T-shirt with a black shaded graphic on the front of a pair of boxing gloves and the neon pink slogan: 'Knock Out'. Ok, so it's sort of awesome (kid had to get his quirks from somewhere).

"So what'd he hit you for anyway?" he finally asks, figures he might as well broach the subject at some point on this journey.

"What?" Francis says, distractedly readjusting his gray beanie over his ears, so it slouches at the back of his head and leaves his blonde hair free to spike out at all angles over his brow.

He fits him with a look, because he knows the kid can hear him. Just to prove the point, he pulls his hands from the pockets of his zip-up hoodie and knocks his knuckles against the eight-year-old's shoulder to make sure he has his attention. Then he turns himself halfway round as he walks and accompanies the spoken words with the appropriate signs as he rephrases, "Why did the other kid hit you?"

Francis shoots him an irritated look for playing dirty and using their shared language to make him answer; despite the fact he usually always answers when you ask him something directly. This time is no different.

Hands drop from where they'd moved on to tugging at the gray scarf looped around his scrawny neck and then Francis starts to sign back.

"He was trying to make me feel bad," he starts, words thick with annoyance. "Brick," he spits out the word like it personally offended him, which in a nutshell is basically exactly what happened, "And he's as thick as one too, so you don't forget it in a hurry."

Clint waits for him to continue, add a bit more explanation into his response than he's currently giving.

"We were all outside 'cos the warning bell for the start of class hadn't gone yet, and he starts trying to pick a fight with me, like he's showing off, trying to pick followers from the crowd," Francis divulges, rolls his eyes and his head about his shoulders like the content was tedious enough to live through the first time without having to retell it all now. "An' that was fine, 'cos anyone who does follow after him is as stupid as he is, an' I was being really good and all patient like Uncle Phil says you should be, like jus' letting them say all that stuff an' not saying anything back until they least expect it and then BAM! Hit them with something awesome to really shut them up."

He wordlessly wonders if the kid skipped the wordy version and just went BAM! with his elbow instead. He tends to prefer that method himself, although sometimes he can see the logic in Coulson's lessons. Sometimes. Time and a place and all that, as it appears the kid's learning.

"Then he was started saying stuff about Jack," Francis tapers off.

Yup, that'd do it.

If the bruising residue left behind by this brat's face on the kid's elbow is anything to go by, Clint figures this Brick probably realized pretty quick that was a bad move on his part.

"He doesn't even know anything about her!" the kid exclaims, "And even if he did, he shouldn't be saying nothin', 'cos she's better than him – she's better than all of them!"

He's agitated, and he glares at the road ahead and kicks out at it with his foot.

"Some of the other kids started laughing, even though none of it was true, but they're all dumb anyway an' I told 'em so." The kid's getting more worked up, pent up frustration releasing in short bursts with the edge of his hand slapping against his palm and the fingers slicing through the air in quick fractured moves, his face a mix of hard planes and furrowed edges. "An' I told him too, 'cos he's the dumbest of all."

Now comes the main event.

"And then he hit me!" Francis says right on Clint's cue, indignation escaping the grinding of baby teeth. "Stupid as-"

Clint calmly raises an eyebrow by way of response and Francis sheepishly retreats the word back where it came from, even his hand curls inwards mid-movement. Mixed-martial arts is one thing; excessive swearing is another entirely. Plus, Jack.

"-idiot hit me!" he rephrases, "Could've blinded me or knocked my aids out. Why should I be permanently disfigured 'cos he gets a lucky hit in after trying to insult me and mine?"

Me and mine. It's a term Clint knows the kid's learned from Jack, but there's so much belief in it, so much power drawn from it; it's what they live by and for. It's all the kid knows.

"So I elbowed him right in the face," Francis concludes, "That shut him up."

Clint grins, allows himself the pride in the action and makes sure the kid sees it too.

The kid pauses, drags in a breath, and just stares at him for a minute.

"I don't feel bad, he deserved it," Francis eventually shares and Clint believes him word-for-word, "I love Jack and she loves me and that moron tried to mess with that and he had no right!"

Clint wants to tell him no one ever has a right to take away what you love, but it doesn't stop them from trying to screw with you anyway, to destroy your life any way they can, with all they know how to do.

Instead he slings his arm over the kid's shoulders and pulls him bodily towards him to match him step-for-step. "Sometimes you gotta put guys like that in their place," he says; acceptance and approval and advice.

Sometimes you gotta put guys like that down before they rise up and try to put you down first.

"Sometimes what you choose to believe and protect is more important than anything else," he tells him. "And you gotta defend it and fight to keep it with everything you have."

Like the kid. Like what he'd do for Francis. Anything and everything and then some. And he's not alone.

(He's not sure which is scarier.)

"I'd do it for you too, Arch," Francis tells him, quieter now, calmer, pressing himself close into Clint's side even as he signs the sentiment. The kid looks up to him. "You and Gnat and Uncle Phil and Jackie. I'd do anything for you."

"I know, kid," Clint reassures him, tells himself again and again like he has since this all started and they first found each other that it'll never come to that: the kid will never have to fight the battle for them because that's their job, that's what they're here for; to protect him, to defend him, to fight to keep him. "I know."

The problem with caring for someone is you run the risk of having them care for you right back.

I got you, kid becomes I got you too.

.

He's eight years old when he believes they've all found something here, together. Something he knows they haven't got, can't get, elsewhere.

Where there is one, the other is inevitably not far behind; and that's what they'll defend and protect and fight for above all else.

He thinks that's pretty awesome.

.

TBC


A/N: the 'have' via contraction or full word is deliberately missing from the last line, as it is in earlier chapters :)

I'd say there's only a few chapters left and they should be done and posted by Christmas/New Year, and since my forecasting has been absolutely on-point since I started this, you'd no doubt all believe me. HA!
Alas I'm saving us all the trouble, and just leaving it at: this will most-definitely be completed at some point, and life and muse agreeing that some point should be soon-ish.

Thanks for reading, please let me know your thoughts.
Steph
xxx