The Cavalry
Methos is dividing his attention between the drone of the television – kept low in deference to those with enhanced senses – and writing in his journal, when he finds out that SHIELD has been both destroyed and exposed.
He’s more than happy to let the superheroes and agents fend for themselves. It’s what they’re trained for and they’re either capable of it or they’re not, it’s not his problem. But there is one thing that is his concern.
“Have you heard from Clint?” Methos asks Alec, because Clint’s closest to him, especially since Loki. If anyone understands brainwashing, it’s the kids from Manticore. Alec shakes his head.
Methos always worries about all his kids, because none of them are exactly in safe professions. Clint, however, is one of the ones who worries him most, since he doesn’t check in. Methos tells himself if he could go back to before he started taking in all of them, he wouldn’t put himself through all the hassle, but he doesn’t bother believing it, not even as he’s thinking it.
“I’ll get Parker’s boy to filter the information and make arrangements, you call in the others,” Methos tells Alec. Most of the kids have left, though they all still have their own rooms for when they stay, but Alec and Ben tend to stick close to home.
Less than twelve hours later, they’re in a rather dismal compound somewhere in Eastern Europe.
Behind him, Eliot and Faith fight back to back and Methos can hear Ben’s whoop of wild laughter some distance away. The others are arrayed elsewhere in the compound while Methos pushes further in. Finally, Methos pushes open a door, cutting down the guard who leaps at him, and takes in Clint’s bloody and bruised appearance.
“They made me, I’m not sure how,” Clint says as Methos unties his hands.
“SHIELD’s fallen.”
Clint doesn’t say anything, just nods wearily, and Methos figures he’s realised at least that much on his own.
“Come on,” Methos says, pulling Clint to him like the man still so rarely allows. It’s a testament to how done over Clint really is that he leans on Methos at all. “Let’s go home.”
Clint exhales like some part of him has been holding its breath for a long time.
“Yeah,” he says finally. “Home.”
-
Three days later, Methos sets a cup of Kusmi Anastasia tea, next to Clint’s black coffee, on a tray and carries it to the attic. He doesn’t pause at the murmur of voices as he pushes open the door and isn’t surprised to see Natasha lying on top of the blankets, curled against Clint’s side. The skylight Methos had installed not long after Clint claimed the room as his own, bathes the room in unobstructed light.
Clint smiles at Methos tiredly when he sets the tray at his bedside and Methos knows they’ve probably been up most of the night, talking to each other on a wavelength very few others share. Natasha watches him with wary acceptance, but it’s an improvement over the blatant mistrust she’d had in the beginning.
“Everyone’s sticking around for a few more days, just until things settle a bit, but I’ll keep them out of your hair for as long as I can,” Methos tells them, more for Natasha’s benefit than Clint’s.
“Thanks, Dad,” Clint says and Methos pats his arm briefly before stepping back to give them their space.
“Adam,” Natasha says, taking the tea Clint hands to her. Methos waits for her to speak. It always takes longer when she’s being honest. “Thank you.”
It’s not about the tea or keeping the kids, and they’ll always be his kids even if most of them are technically adults, in check. Clint rolls his eyes, but lets the moment pass. Natasha sips at her tea, a sign of trust that she’ll accept anything from him she hasn’t seen prepared, and her eyes twinkle just a little when she recognises the taste. He nods.