Chapter Text
It wasn’t that Nick had thought Clint would be terrible at baseball. It was just that, he hadn’t been able to imagine his running averse, attention span of a gnat, preferred to play by himself son to be quite so good. And by quite good, he meant—
“Holy shit,” Maria hissed, earning her a few glares from the couple beside them. “Sir, what the fuck. What the fuck.”
He could only nod as he watched Clint, dressed in a tiny red jersey and baseball cap, strike out a second batter in a row. What he lacked in upper body strength, he made up for in unfaltering, precise aim. Galloway had known— must’ve, if the way he’d practically begged Nick to take a detour between two cross-town meetings was anything to go by, and he’d been to all of Clint’s practices. The bear of a man was up at the fence, red faced from cheering so loud.
A third batter stepped up to the plate, looking nervous as hell, while Clint looked bored out of his mind. Just like the first two batters, Clint made quick work of them. The ball sailed unerringly into the catcher’s mitt, even when the catcher— a slip of a child who flailed about, scared of being hit— should’ve made it near impossible. It didn’t seem to matter where the batter swung or how frenzied the catcher flung his arms: ball met glove.
When it came to be his turn at bat, with a crack of aluminum, the ball was flying over the heads of all the players and into the outfield. Clint stood at home plat, bat held loosely in his hand, watching the opposing team scramble deep into the field while the kids on base started pelting for home.
The coach had to holler “RUN, CLINT!” to get him going into a reluctant jog, feet dragging and face the picture of suffering.
When he stopped at first base, the opposing team’s players were still running for the ball and the coach had to urge him on again. To the man's credit, he kept his tone encouraging, even while he shared a harried look with his equally stressed assistance coach. Clint looked skyward, as if praying for divine intercession— a gesture Nick had seen Phil play out on more than one occasion— before he shuffled off again, rounding the bases and reaching home plate before anybody could throw the ball home. His teammates who’d rounded the bases ahead of him were waiting to pull him into a celebration, cheering along with the crowd. Clint reluctantly let himself be drawn into the circle of boys, watching as they jumped and danced around, yelling all the while.
“Sir,” Maria said as she clapped along with everyone else in the stands. “I think that gym teacher was onto something.”
Nick glared at her. Yeah, no shit.
When the game ended, Clint’s team dog piled him in a mess of cheering, screaming, and jumping. One of the older boys even managed to pick Clint up under the arms and flail him around a little. For the first time since the game began, Clint finally cracked a gap-toothed smile, laughing as he held on tight to his teammate.
Well. Maybe baseball hadn’t been the worst idea.
After the traditional hand shakes were done and the game was truly over, Clint bounded over to Galloway, moving faster than he’d managed to during the game itself.
“Did’ja see, ’Way?”
“I did! You were amazing, buddy! Did you have fun?”
“Everybody was happy,” Clint said, unintendedly side stepping the question.
“Yeah, ‘cuz you did your best and were a good teammate,” Galloway told him before lifting him up and giving him a spin. “And look, even your dad watched!”
Nick couldn’t help but laugh as Clint made a staggering, dizzy beeline towards him.
“Daddy,” Clint said as he crashed into Nick’s legs. “Yer here!”
He looked up at him, surprise plain on his little face. Nick tried not to take it personally as he reached down to clutch him close for a moment, almost regretting it when his hand touched his son’s sweaty uniform.
“Couldn’t miss your first game, could I?”
Maria saddled up to them, keeping a respectable distance between herself and Clint as she eyed his sweat and dirt covered clothes.
“Good job, kid.”
“Thanks, Auntie Maria!”
“You know, sir,” she said, checking her watch. “I think we’ve got enough time before our six o’clock. Some ice cream might be in order.”
Nick considered it for a moment. “Sure, but it’ll have to be to-go. We’ve got to make a pit stop.”
It might not have been most parents’ first instinct upon finding out their son was some sort of vector calculating savant, but no one had ever dared to accuse Nick of being average, so after they did drive thru McDonald's, he took Clint to SHIELD's gun range.
“Daddy, you told me I can’t touch guns cuz they’re dane-drus,” Clint reminded him as Nick fitted him with safety glasses.
“We’re making an exception. Just for today. Understand?”
Clint looked up at him, face scrunched, and his tiny, charming little eyebrows furrowed in confusion. He glanced over at Galloway, who was standing to the side, back pressed tightly to the wall and arms crossed over his chest, looking highly disapproving of the entire endeavour.
“Ummm.”
Galloway sighed and shrugged helplessly.
“’kay,” Clint relented, still looking confused.
“I think this is the best option we’ve got,” Maria called, fresh from the armoury with a small Sig Sauer in hand. It looked tiny in her hand, but in Clint’s, it would fit just right.
She set it on the bench in front of the laneway where Clint could eye it curiously.
“First rule of gun safety,” Nick started. Probably the first rule was actually to not hand a live firearm to a small child, he thought idly, before continuing anyway. “Unless you want to shoot it, do. Not. Point. At. It. Gun stays pointed towards the floor— NOT your foot. The floor. You’re going to keep your finger off the trigger until you’re ready to shoot. And after, you’re going to put it back down on the table, alright?”
Clint nodded as he rocked on his heels, fiddling with the overlarge safety glasses perched on his face.
“It might be loud, but I’ll be right here.”
He picked up the gun and checked it over before stepping behind Clint and pressing in close to help with any recoil.
“Okay, give me your hands.”
He carefully wrapped Clint’s fingers around the gun stock. “Now, see that cut out down there?”
“S’ a guy.”
“Yeah, it is. You’re going to try and hit it, okay? I’m going to take the safety off and you’ll pull the trigger. Got it?”
“Yeah.”
Nick took a moment to nudge Clint here and there; squared out his shoulders and adjusted his foot placement until his stance was passable.
“Alright, stay like this,” Nick said, using his own foot to knock Clint’s feet further apart. “Take a breath. Okay, aim. Good? I’ll take the safety off now. You can pull the trigger when you’re ready.”
Clint nodded, breathing steadily from his diaphragm for a few moments, before he gathered the nerve to pull the trigger. He rocked back with the recoil and his shoulders bunched up as he flinched from the noise, but his hands remained solidly on the gun. Nick had seen more than one person nearly drop it on their first go.
“Good,” Nick said proudly as he took the gun and settled it back on the bench. He ruffled Clint’s hair as his eyes strayed to the target, expecting it to have just edged onto the paper, and felt a small flare of disappointment when he realised that Clint hadn’t managed to even clip the sheet.
“It’s alright,” he said, trying not to let Clint hear his disappointment. “Accuracy comes with time and practice. Maybe—
“Uh, sir,” Galloway started, pushing off from the wall.
“I’ll be damned,” Maria said, wide eyed.
It took a moment for him to notice what they were seeing, but Nick’s eye slowly slid up to find a hole punched perfectly through the bullseye on the target’s head.
“Daddy,” Clint whined. “M’tired. And I wanna bath. Can we go now?”
The three adults in the room continued to stare at the target in complete silence.
“Daddy.”
Their heads collectively turned to look at Clint, who looked over it and ready to go home, clearly unaware of what he’d just done.
Maria was the first to finally speak. “Clint, do that again.”
“But I wanna—
“Now,” she barked, walking over to force the gun into Clint’s hands. Clint looked down at the gun, before he turned to Galloway again, but the man could only stare back, still slack jawed.
He turned to Nick then. “Daddy—
“Listen to Hill, Clint. Sooner you do it, the sooner you can go home.”
Clint sniffled, his face red and eyebrows scrunching down into Eyebrows of Doom territory. Nick knew the expression well enough to read the incoming tantrum.
“Come on, punk. Once more and that’ll be it.”
Clint sniffed again before he picked up the gun and brought his arms up without any guidance. Whether because of frustration or remembering what to do, he let off the second shot faster, less hesitantly.
“There!” Clint shouted, dropping the gun onto the bench and ripping off his protective glasses to throw them halfway across the room. “Home now!”
For a moment Nick was confused, eyes boring into the target that still only had one hole, wondering if the shot had gone wide.
“Aw, Clint, okay, okay,” Galloway cooed, finally breaking out of his staring to rush over and gather Clint up into his arms. “It’s alright. You’re tired, huh?”
“Yeah,” Clint whined, wrapping his arms around Galloway’s neck and ducking to press his face into the man’s shoulder.
“Alright,” Nick sighed. “Take him home.”
Galloway nodded as he swayed back and forth, trying to soothe Clint, who’d dissolved into overtired tears. Maria, though, had recalled the target from the end of the laneway. She had it clutched in her hands and was staring down at the printout, tracing the single hole punched through the target’s head.
“Clint,” she began slowly, eyes not leaving the printout. “Did you— the second time— did you shoot through the first hole?”
Nick and Galloway both snorted.
“Right, a four-year old kid just—
“Yeah,” Clint piped up, peaking out from Galloway’s shoulder. “S’easy.”
Like it was nothing. Like he hadn’t just done something that people trained for years to do and most still couldn’t manage. Like he hadn’t done it on the first try, while teary eyed and with only the barest idea of how to stand and aim.
“He’s— he’s not enhanced,” Galloway said, but he sounded unsure.
“He’s not,” Nick insisted.
“I knew— I knew he had good reflexes. Decent aim. He’s been that way since he was a baby. But this?” Galloway’s eyes had yet to stray from Clint, who’d started to doze off in his arms.
“He’s four,” Maria muttered tensely. “Imagine him full grown— trained.”
“The things he could do,” Galloway whispered, holding Clint even closer. There was something there in his face that Nick couldn’t quite place— maybe awe, maybe fear.
The three of them stood in silence, surely all thinking the same thing as Clint slept, none the wiser to the turmoil he’d caused. This was the sort of thing that got a kid taken in the dead of night; it meant black hoods and unmarked vans. It was an empty bedroom and abandoned toys. Children stolen away never to be seen again until they resurfaced older, violent, and radicalised.
“We keep this tight,” Nick said quietly. “Inner circle only, get me?”
Galloway and Maria both nodded.
“Hill, I want those erased,” he ordered, pointing sharply to one of the security cameras watching their every move. “Wipe our card swipes from the system too. We weren’t here.”
“On it, sir.”
She was quick to leave, shouldering her way through the door and vanishing into the hallway to track down the security office.
“He’s still little,” Galloway said in Hill’s wake. His hand spanned almost the entirety of Clint’s back, while the other cradled Clint’s head. “When this gets out—
“Don’t worry, nothing is going to happen. Not on my watch.”
Galloway only smiled sadly as he continued to sway back and forth, always so gentle. “Every father thinks that, sir. But the world always comes for them eventually. Especially for an exceptional kid like Clint.”
Nick reached out to brush the bangs from Clint’s eyes, taking a moment to cup his son’s face in his palm. There was a smear of dried ice cream at the corner of his mouth; dirt caked into one of his eyebrows.
“The world can try.”