Protected (Gen)
Johnson's eyes are huge as he leaves the commissary, a dreamy smile on his lips; he carries a file against his chest, and Alexander shakes his head at the kid when they pass, chuckling to himself. Beside him, Walker does the same.
These kids... so easily blown away by such little things. And okay, Clint isn't the scrapper he was when Coulson first brought him in on a frigid January day—
The kid is short and too-thin, dragging the long sleeves of Coulson's jacket through ketchup as he devours chicken nuggets and fries at an alarming pace. Medical, of course, is chomping at the bit to drag the food away and replace it with rice and plain chicken, re-acclimate his body to full meals after having been without for some time, but Phil literally slaps one of them on the back of the head when they try to enter the room.
"He's an infant," Walker murmurs to his friend that night, Clint sleeping away with Phil's jacket still around him. "He needs a family."
"I'm on that."
"Where the hell did you find him anyway?"
"Same place I found Natasha. Same place all kids go when they're hungry and alone."
"You have a saving-people thing, you know that?"
Phil gives him a half-grin. "Let those who haven't benefited from that... thing, pass the first judgment."
And a week later, when Walker and Alexander visit Phil's office, they find a new calendar on the wall with Clint's name at the top and a school schedule neatly filled in.
—but it's still not an amazing display of his abilities for him to knock a lemon or an orange or whatever fruit off someone's head from the other side of the room.
They remind Clint of this when they sit down, Alexander eying the kid's plate critically before saying, "Go get a piece of fruit."
"Hey, Dad's not here," he grouses back and takes a bite of the brownie on his plate.
Twenty-six and still a pain in the ass.
"Eat a piece of fruit or we tell Medical you're not getting your daily intake."
He rolls his eyes. "I had two servings this morning—fruit salad and pineapple with blueberry pancakes—so I can totally down a brownie if I want."
And that shifts Walker's focus. "You're carb-loading. What fool mission are you and your sister on now?"
"Something so simple you guys could do it," Clint shoots back with a smirk.
Alexander whips the side of his head with a finger. "Show some respect, infant."
Clint laughs and flicks a pea at the older agent, but shovels a spoonful into his mouth thereafter which pleases both men: his nutrition the first few years had been a big bone of contention between Clint and Phil, with Clint so used to not having regular meals that he would eat anything but only on his terms. His vitamin deficiencies had resulted in hospitalization when Phil realized that Clint would only understand once he saw the end result, though it'd torn his heart out to do so. Ever since, the senior agents had chipped in with monitoring the boy's meals, a habit that had not changed when Clint got older and better with his choices.
Another scoop of peas as the men let the chatter of the afternoon crew fill the air around them, and they smile in greeting when Natasha joins them, already geared up in contrast to Clint's practice gear.
"Dad says we're out in an hour," she says to him as she sits, a hint that he'd best get ready for wheels up soon.
"Go bag is packed and my bow. Just gotta change," he replies. Clint steals a raspberry from her plate as she steals the last of his brownie, then he looks at her and asks, "Wait, was this a rifle mission?"
She lifts an eyebrow at him.
"Damnit. I'll see you on the tarmac. Don't tell Dad."
"If his head weren't attached..." Alexander mutters.
"Dad would staple it on, rest assured."