I really wanted to make this the angstiest of fills what with everyone's parental issues but then bb!avocados happened, so yeah this is fluff.
**
The middle of one of Avenger’s Tower’s many boardrooms had been converted haphazardly into what Natasha was calling a play area and Tony a disaster zone. Sleek ergonomic chairs had been upended, linens and blankets and pillows found in one of the cupboards in the residential areas and a wonky tent made. The fort had been abandoned early on following its enthusiastic construction, and since Nat and Clint (who for some reason unknown to everyone were very good with kids) had left for a mission, they’d left behind the three children the Avengers seemed to have temporarily adopted.
Oh, and Frank Castle. No one was quite sure how he’d got in, and didn’t really want to ask. He’d sort of appeared like a mangy tom cat prowling in from the streets, and grunted at James that someone should move the tables because of the sharp edges. “One of them could get hurt,” he’d intoned as he divested himself of at least five knives from various holders. From the side-lines, he’d offered sparse structural advice as the great fort was built, looking up at intervals from checking and oiling the veritable armoury he had on him.
Now Nat and Clint were gone, he was the sole holder of the children’s attention. And it turned out, they inexplicably adored him. Even the dour devil child they were all calling Matt now, who had settled down from trying to fight his way out of this strange and unsettling environment to being placidly led around, with Foggy Nelson’s stubby fingers tugging on his sleeve and excitably narrating everything a mile a minute. Matt was still never more than three feet away from Foggy, but was more than happy to play a game of catch with his uncanny sonar skills. Foggy, who along with Karen had been hit with more of the whatever (Tony was holding out for ‘magical energy beam’ but Bruce had told him that wasn’t sciency enough), was a younger and more appreciative audience, even if he dropped more than he could ever catch, and with encouragement, Matt was now showing off to a delighted Foggy (who it turned out couldn’t catch but had a killer throw).
Frank chucked back whatever softball got sent his way, diligently passing Karen different coloured crayons when the demand came.
“Should we,” Rhodey made a sideways gesture towards the scene. “… you know, get the kids somewhere away from the gun-toting maniac?”
“Be my guest,” Tony grumbled into his scotch. He had a limp and the overcast colour of a burgeoning bruise on his chin to attest to how well his own child-sitting experience went.
He’d made the mistake of grabbing a hold of the struggling and panicking Matt, and the kid had wasted no time in elbowing Tony across the face in a way that most ten year olds definitely didn’t know how to do. Tony had quickly dropped him, but not fast enough to convince the blond six year old who’d barreled into his legs, pummeling him with his tiny fists but delivering a vicious kick to the shins when Tony had tried to hold him by the wrists.
“Despite the fact we need all the help we can get with the littlest ninja and his trained bull over there,” At this Matt stiffened (how did he hear that?), and Foggy, while he didn’t really know what was happening, stopped throwing things at Matt’s head to shuffle closer, whining as though he wanted to play something else but at the same time sending Tony a wary look. “… sunshine-and-smiles keeps sending me murder eyes whenever you turn your back.”
“She’s like seven, Tony.”
“You haven’t seen those baby blues give you dead eyes. They’re cold, like a raptor or something. I’m telling you, she’s planning something.”
“So nothing about appointing the Punisher as the unofficial child-sitter bothers you?” Rhodey continued.
Together, they watched for a moment as Frank helped Karen sort through the pick-and-mix box of Lego someone from SHIELD’s HR department had had in their trunk left over from a birthday party. She had her tongue stuck out in concentration and seemed to be carefully picking out all the greys and blacks, and oh dear lord, she seemed to be assembling a Beretta out of the plastic blocks.
“Of course it bothers me that we’ve let three children under the supervision of a hardened vigilante murderer,” Tony hissed, not even trying to be quiet. Said hardened vigilante murderer was currently solemnly discussing with Karen the pros and cons of owning a fairy or a unicorn (“Unicorn,” Frank had advised immediately, and there was a certain lightning of the frown lines across his forehead that might point to a level of human empathy if it didn’t make him inexplicably appear even more terrifying. “It’s a faster runner and can stab your enemies if you’re cornered”. Karen had nodded eagerly and Rhodey made a choked noise in the back of his throat). “It also bothers me that we have three children in the first place, and that they may well stay children until Bruce figures out whatever it is they got hit with.”
“Or that anyone thought you’d be good at looking after them,” Rhodey said and Tony shot him a filthy look.
They went back to watching with morbid fascination.
The former Devil of Hell’s Kitchen was proudly telling Foggy and Frank about his dad while his surprisingly neat blood red nail varnish was drying, courteously of Nelson (who was clearly the only boy out of umpteen sisters). Foggy was trying to find a colour for Frank, and held up three for inspection.
Frank stared stonily at the offerings without even a twitch. Foggy’s smile faltered slightly.
“The green,” he said finally, not even a hint of an ironic smirk. “Better for camouflage.”
Foggy beamed and settled himself down cross-legged to paint the Punisher’s nails. Tony Stark wondered how his life had become this weird.
Partly because he was a sensible rational man who knew about mealtimes and partly because he secretly wanted the kids to like him (because c’mon, there was no way they could like the Punisher more than Iron Man, right?), Tony went off in search of sugary foods that would win over their tiny fickle hearts.
When he came back with a plate full of s’mores and pop tarts, Frank was just finishing reading a story to Karen, who had dozed off in his lap. He wasn’t any good at the voices, delivering the whole of Green Eggs and Ham in a gravelly monotone. Tony’d never heard Dr Seuss sound so aggressive over strange coloured foodstuffs before.
Foggy and Matt accepted the food with a chorus of polite thank yous, and the blond at least looked like he was warming a little towards Tony from the way he dug into the pop tarts happily. Matt ate slower, but still picked up more than one.
Frank fixed Tony with his usual gimlet-eyed stare.
“You shouldn’t feed them that much sugar before dinner,” he said coldly. “It spoils their appetite.”
Tony decided he knew when he was beaten, and decided to just leave the four of them at it. Nat and Clint would be back soon, he told himself. They could handle it.
“So, Matthew,” he heard Frank say in a growl behind him. “Tell me more about this Stick guy.”
Tony frogmarched Rhodey out of the room before he potentially heard anything illegal and / or murder-related. Nah-ah, not his problem.
FILL: Papa Frank
**
The middle of one of Avenger’s Tower’s many boardrooms had been converted haphazardly into what Natasha was calling a play area and Tony a disaster zone. Sleek ergonomic chairs had been upended, linens and blankets and pillows found in one of the cupboards in the residential areas and a wonky tent made. The fort had been abandoned early on following its enthusiastic construction, and since Nat and Clint (who for some reason unknown to everyone were very good with kids) had left for a mission, they’d left behind the three children the Avengers seemed to have temporarily adopted.
Oh, and Frank Castle. No one was quite sure how he’d got in, and didn’t really want to ask. He’d sort of appeared like a mangy tom cat prowling in from the streets, and grunted at James that someone should move the tables because of the sharp edges. “One of them could get hurt,” he’d intoned as he divested himself of at least five knives from various holders. From the side-lines, he’d offered sparse structural advice as the great fort was built, looking up at intervals from checking and oiling the veritable armoury he had on him.
Now Nat and Clint were gone, he was the sole holder of the children’s attention. And it turned out, they inexplicably adored him. Even the dour devil child they were all calling Matt now, who had settled down from trying to fight his way out of this strange and unsettling environment to being placidly led around, with Foggy Nelson’s stubby fingers tugging on his sleeve and excitably narrating everything a mile a minute. Matt was still never more than three feet away from Foggy, but was more than happy to play a game of catch with his uncanny sonar skills. Foggy, who along with Karen had been hit with more of the whatever (Tony was holding out for ‘magical energy beam’ but Bruce had told him that wasn’t sciency enough), was a younger and more appreciative audience, even if he dropped more than he could ever catch, and with encouragement, Matt was now showing off to a delighted Foggy (who it turned out couldn’t catch but had a killer throw).
Frank chucked back whatever softball got sent his way, diligently passing Karen different coloured crayons when the demand came.
“Should we,” Rhodey made a sideways gesture towards the scene. “… you know, get the kids somewhere away from the gun-toting maniac?”
“Be my guest,” Tony grumbled into his scotch. He had a limp and the overcast colour of a burgeoning bruise on his chin to attest to how well his own child-sitting experience went.
He’d made the mistake of grabbing a hold of the struggling and panicking Matt, and the kid had wasted no time in elbowing Tony across the face in a way that most ten year olds definitely didn’t know how to do. Tony had quickly dropped him, but not fast enough to convince the blond six year old who’d barreled into his legs, pummeling him with his tiny fists but delivering a vicious kick to the shins when Tony had tried to hold him by the wrists.
“Despite the fact we need all the help we can get with the littlest ninja and his trained bull over there,” At this Matt stiffened (how did he hear that?), and Foggy, while he didn’t really know what was happening, stopped throwing things at Matt’s head to shuffle closer, whining as though he wanted to play something else but at the same time sending Tony a wary look. “… sunshine-and-smiles keeps sending me murder eyes whenever you turn your back.”
“She’s like seven, Tony.”
“You haven’t seen those baby blues give you dead eyes. They’re cold, like a raptor or something. I’m telling you, she’s planning something.”
“So nothing about appointing the Punisher as the unofficial child-sitter bothers you?” Rhodey continued.
Together, they watched for a moment as Frank helped Karen sort through the pick-and-mix box of Lego someone from SHIELD’s HR department had had in their trunk left over from a birthday party. She had her tongue stuck out in concentration and seemed to be carefully picking out all the greys and blacks, and oh dear lord, she seemed to be assembling a Beretta out of the plastic blocks.
“Of course it bothers me that we’ve let three children under the supervision of a hardened vigilante murderer,” Tony hissed, not even trying to be quiet. Said hardened vigilante murderer was currently solemnly discussing with Karen the pros and cons of owning a fairy or a unicorn (“Unicorn,” Frank had advised immediately, and there was a certain lightning of the frown lines across his forehead that might point to a level of human empathy if it didn’t make him inexplicably appear even more terrifying. “It’s a faster runner and can stab your enemies if you’re cornered”. Karen had nodded eagerly and Rhodey made a choked noise in the back of his throat). “It also bothers me that we have three children in the first place, and that they may well stay children until Bruce figures out whatever it is they got hit with.”
“Or that anyone thought you’d be good at looking after them,” Rhodey said and Tony shot him a filthy look.
They went back to watching with morbid fascination.
The former Devil of Hell’s Kitchen was proudly telling Foggy and Frank about his dad while his surprisingly neat blood red nail varnish was drying, courteously of Nelson (who was clearly the only boy out of umpteen sisters). Foggy was trying to find a colour for Frank, and held up three for inspection.
Frank stared stonily at the offerings without even a twitch. Foggy’s smile faltered slightly.
“The green,” he said finally, not even a hint of an ironic smirk. “Better for camouflage.”
Foggy beamed and settled himself down cross-legged to paint the Punisher’s nails. Tony Stark wondered how his life had become this weird.
Partly because he was a sensible rational man who knew about mealtimes and partly because he secretly wanted the kids to like him (because c’mon, there was no way they could like the Punisher more than Iron Man, right?), Tony went off in search of sugary foods that would win over their tiny fickle hearts.
When he came back with a plate full of s’mores and pop tarts, Frank was just finishing reading a story to Karen, who had dozed off in his lap. He wasn’t any good at the voices, delivering the whole of Green Eggs and Ham in a gravelly monotone. Tony’d never heard Dr Seuss sound so aggressive over strange coloured foodstuffs before.
Foggy and Matt accepted the food with a chorus of polite thank yous, and the blond at least looked like he was warming a little towards Tony from the way he dug into the pop tarts happily. Matt ate slower, but still picked up more than one.
Frank fixed Tony with his usual gimlet-eyed stare.
“You shouldn’t feed them that much sugar before dinner,” he said coldly. “It spoils their appetite.”
Tony decided he knew when he was beaten, and decided to just leave the four of them at it. Nat and Clint would be back soon, he told himself. They could handle it.
“So, Matthew,” he heard Frank say in a growl behind him. “Tell me more about this Stick guy.”
Tony frogmarched Rhodey out of the room before he potentially heard anything illegal and / or murder-related. Nah-ah, not his problem.