Work Text:
“My eyes hurt.”
“I know, monkey, hold on. We’re right…. Here.”
The little boy’s tired footsteps come to a halt in front of a desiccated warehouse door; his tiny right hand enclosed a foot over his head in his father’s large, warm, calloused left one; JARVIS, his constant furry companion was clutched at dutifully in his left.
His father appraised the metal sheet for a moment, eyes lingering on the riper wording and imagery present in the graffiti before relinquishing his hold and kneeling, dropping his wrapped burden (a machine that he really didn’t understand anything about, even after his father’s patiently repeated explanations) on his other side.
He watched, with half-closed eyes and long panting breaths as his father slowly probed the corner of the sheet closest to them, before he seemed to locate what he required, pressing firmly into the spray-painted words.
A panel slid back with a beep.
A screen rose from an obscure crevice, stopping at eye level, and scanned his father’s face and body with those red laser-thingies.
The mechanics made hardly a noise.
He liked this; it reminded him of Sunday mornings, watching his dad work with machines in the garage, mum puttering in the kitchen and walking into the garage as well to tell dad off about something or the other that he was doing wrong (supposedly a fact that said dad denied with a zealous passion, but he always saw how he would change something in the way he was working when she left), so the whole house smelt of pancakes and baking and motor oil and was filled with the sound of cheerful banter, sizzling pans and the laughter of one satisfied five year old.
Another short beep.
A pleasant female voice said, “Please display your identification Agent Fitz.”
His father sat back on his haunches. He said in a clear voice, “Agent Leopold Fitz, badge A 126734” hand simultaneously dipping into the hidden pocket of his jacket in one smooth movement, fingers emerging with a plain black leather rectangular case clutched elegantly between them.
It was smooth and cold to touch, he knew this from hours and hours of sitting on his father’s or mother’s laps during some conference or briefing that he was allowed to, turning them in his hands while engaged in face-pulling contests with Uncle Mack or Uncle Lance (he was the triumphant victor of all such contests waged in the recent past).
This was scanned as well.
“Declare accompanying civilian, Agent.”
He felt his eyes close for a prolonged moment.
He was suddenly lifted off of his aching feet, an arm snaking warm and securely under his legs, as his father rose to his feet in a fluid motion, his other arm slinging the device over his other shoulder before pulling him into a more comfortable position.
He shifted to bury his face into his father’s neck, practically melting into the familiar scent of starched shirts, mum’s perfume, dad’s cologne and something metal, and the soothing heat his father always seemed to give off.
It reminded him of going to school on show and tell dressed in his dad’s too-big flannel shirt and mum’s favourite lab coat, because the teacher told him to dress as his hero and he couldn’t decide between his parents (both had burst into laughter when they picked him up, later that day, stopping only when he indignantly insisted they do so for about the hundred and twelfth time). That day had ended well; they went out for ice cream and mum told him, albeit with a wicked grin turning up her lips as she wiped his mouth, that his father was her hero too and so was he, to which his father smirked wildly. He said, succinctly that she was his hero, before kissing her soundly on the lips (much to his disgust).
“Fitz, Benjamin, permitted by the Director.”
He closed his eyes, letting the heavy feeling of sleep over take his limbs, his torso, his mind.
“Access granted.”