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For a few days, everything is fine.
As the sun sets on their first day as ghost-felon and kidnappee, reflecting oil-slick shades of sienna and crimson on the hood of the Jeep, Court digs through page after page of listings on every real estate site he can find. He's being as careful as he can, given the timeframe he has to work with.
The Jeep is a legitimate purchase– signed for using an ID he found in a morgue where they keep the clothes and belongings of cremated bodies. And he had immediately switched the plates with the first Jeep of the same make he'd come across. Not the best plan of all time, but the best in the timeframe he was given. He'll get proper fakes the moment it's cool enough to do so.
The phone is a burner– he'll ditch it before they hit the road in the morning– and he's using the wifi of the library they've set up camp nearby. Court is using incognito mode, but it's less for security reasons (it's about as private as a glass door), and more for the wider range of options the real estate websites will show him.
There's only two requirements Court has for the first of their likely unending cycle of temporary homes. The first is that it has to be secluded, unwanted, and/or unlikely to be bothered. The second is that it has to be within ten minutes of the nearest hospital.
Finally, on Zillow, the perfect house presents itself. Two bedrooms, two states away, and no pings of interest in over five years. Court double checks the distance of the address from the town's hospital. Eight minutes. He leans over to scrounge up a pen from the glove compartment, ignoring the twinge of healing lacerations and internal bruising. His hands are….not in great shape. But he finds enough space to scribble down the address in its entirety.
“What're doing?” Claire appears in the middle console, startling him.
“You're supposed to be asleep,” he retorts, quickly closing out the tabs on the phone.
“Oh, sure, because it's so easy to fall asleep after being kidnapped by the government.”
“That's….,” Court sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose, “....fair.”
“Y'know, a few rounds of a bubble shooter usually lulls me right to sleep,” she mimes drifting off by resting her head on the passenger seat, but extends her hand towards him. He narrows his eyes at her expectant palm.
“You want the phone?”
“Yes I want the phone.”
Court scoffs and places it in her grasp, feels his chest warm when her mouth curves into a satisfied smile. She slinks back into her makeshift bed of blankets and pillows built up across the backseat, and opens an app that throws bright, multicolored lights onto her pale face. The healing burn on her cheekbone is stark in the harsh balance of light and shadow, and Court's jaw hardens. He turns back towards the hedge in front of the Jeep and grips the wheel until his anger simmers.
A thought occurs, and he hesitantly warns, “Don't get too attached to your score. I've gotta destroy that in the morning.”
He sees her shrug in the rearview mirror, her expression unchanged, “I'll just download a different game on the next one. Keep it fresh.”
Court allows himself a half-smile at that, and pulls the lever to recline his seat. Just enough to be comfortable– not enough that he can't see through every window. “Goodnight, Claire.”
“‘Night, Mr. Six.”
☆
Claire has nightmares. Her face scrunches up and her breathing goes ragged and shallow, and Court watches helplessly for any signs that her heart might be in trouble. She whimpers, sometimes. The streetlight catches a tear that rolls from the hard-pressed corner of her eye and dissolves into her hair. Court doesn't have to guess what her mind is replaying.
He can't wake her. He can't spare her from these awful visions of the past. Because doing so may shoot far too much adrenaline through her system. All he can do is stretch against the ache in his battered limbs and take her delicate hand in his and hope it's enough to chase away the terror. The world begins to blur, and when Court frowns in confusion, droplets of water splat onto the arm of his jacket.
Oh. At least Claire is asleep, he tells himself, shuddering a breath that burns on the way in. He closes his eyes and permits himself this release, knows that the rules of his father nor Sierra apply to him anymore, and that Claire deserves an anchor in this hurricane he's pulled them into. If what it takes to be that anchor, steadfast and uninjured in the storm, is a few nights of tears shed in secret, then so be it.
The silver lining in all of this is that Claire doesn't seem to remember her nightmares. She wakes up groggy, hair a nest and eyes crusted with sleep, and when Court says, “Good Morning. Sleep okay?”
She gives him a nod and the Rock-N-Roll salute.
☆
“Ugh, I give up,” Claire slams off the radio and throws herself back against the passenger seat, arms crossed over her chest, “You win. We're listening to nothing. Golden silence or whatever.”
“‘Silence is golden’,” Court corrects.
“I said ‘or whatever.’ Nobody knows what good music sounds like anymore. It's all garbage.”
Court hasn't exactly had the opportunity to develop a taste in music that wasn't whatever classic music filtered through the intercoms of the compound in Tel Aviv. So he doesn't reply. He feels her eyes on him, however, and isn't surprised when she drops her voice into her lowest register to assign him a response.
“‘I dunno about that, Claire, I'm a hardcore Swiftie, didn't I tell you?’” a dramatic gasp, “Of course you're a Swiftie, oh my god. And no, Mr. Six, you didn't tell me, because you never talk. ‘Oh yeah, that's right, I'm all secretive and broody.’”
What the fuck is a Swiftie?
“I'm not broody. I'm just….selective with my words,” Court defends, glancing down at the strategically folded map next to his leg. He indicates a left turn as the road sign approaches.
“You didn't deny the Swiftie allegations.”
“You can't deny being somethin’ you don't know the definition of. Makes you look guilty.”
Claire is quiet for a moment– the kind of quiet that makes Court feel like he's being studied under a microscope– but it passes quickly. “Ignorance is bliss,” she fakes a shudder, “What you don't know can't hurt you.”
Court shakes his head fondly and pulls into a convenience store parking lot, “I'll take your word for it. I'm gonna run in and fuel up, what d'you, uh….eat?”
“Invasive species, mostly, just like any other girl my age.”
“Okay. Well. If they're fresh outta invasive species? You have a second choice?”
She rolls her eyes with a groan and confesses, “Nothing fun. Hard to find snacks that are both delicious and heart-healthy.”
Court nods, making a mental note to research heart-healthy alternatives to popular children's snacks later. “Stay low, don't let anyone see you. I'll be quick. Worst comes to worst, there's a knife under the driver's seat.”
“You couldn't've left me a gun?”
Appalled, Court shakes his head lightly and shakes out his baseball cap, tugs it down low over his eyes, “You don't have any gun safety training, I'm not leaving you with a loaded weapon. That'd be stupid. Once you're trained, you'll have your own firearm, okay?”
“Fine,” Claire pouts, sliding down below window-level. Then, “The blue Gatorade is my favorite, by the way. Light blue.”
“Received,” Court winks at her, then exits and locks the Jeep.
It's a small, rural town, so the convenience store is fairly empty and the registers are vacant. Court scans his surroundings, taking note of every person absorbed in the double bind of chip choices. He fills a basket with protein, carbs, and dried fruit, carefully reading through the ingredients to make sure they're safe for Claire and double checking online if he isn't sure. Once the necessities are covered, he roams into the snack aisle and snags a pack of gum for himself (Extra brand watermelon flavor, Bubblicious is hard to find these days), and the highest percentage dark chocolate bar he can find for Claire.
As he's easing up from the drinks cooler by the registers, Court spots a bin with a sign expressing a one-dollar price tag on everything inside. It contains mostly direct to video c-list movies, but there is a small selection of CDs in the corner. Just in case, he flips through the cases of unrecognizable names, until– jackpot. Court takes every single disc with a name he knows and hurries to the check out.
Still vacant.
Court searches his surroundings, even peers down the “Employees Only” hall, but finds no one. Given no other option, he steps around to the other side of the register and scans and bags each item. He prints the receipt and sets it with exact change on the counter by the monitor, then collects the bags and makes his leave.
Before Court unlocks the Jeep, he knocks on the window in the pattern they'd agreed on to identify him. Claire's head of brown hair pops up into view with a smile and Court opens the door.
“Took you long enough, I'm starving!” she laments, eyes sparkling as Court sets the bags in her lap. She tears through them until she finds the vanilla Greek yogurt and trail mix and Court watches with intrigue as she expertly shakes out a portion of the trail mix into the cup. Claire finds the set of silverware and tears a spoon free to stir it together, then scoops a portion into her mouth with a pleased hum.
“Looks like you've done that before,” he observes, reaching over for his bag to retrieve a stick of jerky he can eat while driving. When he gets the plastic open, his stomach cramps with hunger, reminded of how long he's gone without food.
“Gotta get creative,” she says around another mouthful of spruced up yogurt.
“Fair enough,” Court holds the jerky between his teeth and starts the engine. He adjusts the map for the next leg of their journey and reverses out of the parking space.
The crinkling of plastic bags resumes and Court pointedly avoids glancing at her. He's….well, nervous, is the only word he can think to use. Which is ridiculous, he doesn't get nervous. But something curls at the base of his spine and aims its fangs precariously at his throat as he waits for her to find the CDs.
Claire gasps, and the thing like nerves coils tighter. But then she squeals, “Oh my god! Mr. Six! You did not! Where did you find these?!”
The nerves unravel into ribbons and Court can breathe again. He did good.
“They were on sale, I think,” he says in faux nonchalance, crumbling the empty jerky wrapper in his hand and stuffing it into the plastic bag, “Probably ‘cause these disc jockeys wouldn't know good music if it shot ‘em in the face.”
Claire laughs and punches him in the arm. It doesn't hurt, but it lands directly on a stitched up slash from Lloyd's butterfly knife, so he has to suppress a groan of pain. It's well worth it to see happiness on her face, rather than pain or fear, anger or grief.
“Your idioms are so weird,” she chuckles, ripping the plastic off of an ABBA case and gently lifting the disc to tuck it into the built-in CD player.
She cranks up the radio just as a rip of piano keys blares from the speakers, and Claire whoops in delight. Soon, she's screaming along to lyrics about a ‘dancing queen’, and she's flailing in uncoordinated seated choreography, and the wind is whipping her hair around her face, and Court smiles. For the first time since Croatia, he starts to believe that they'll be okay.
☆
What goes up, must always come down.
Court thinks he must have learned that from Fitz, because it sure as hell didn't come from school. Nothing from elementary, middle, or his short stint in high school really stuck with him. In any case, Court should have known better than to hope.
Their last day spent in the Jeep starts off well enough. Claire has picked a Donovan CD for the day's drive, and the dregs of her one allotted fast-food meal of the day are scattered around her. Court's skin itches at the mess, but he's not keen on pressing her on cleanliness. Not when they're closing in on the house.
“We're gonna need aliases,” Claire determines from under sunglasses purchased at the last supply-run. They're massive, plastic-framed and white-rimmed– straight out of a 60's fashion magazine. Which is why Court had grabbed them for her in the first place.
“New identities,” Court agrees, the correction implied.
“Do we get to pick our own names?”
“Sure,” the flavor of the gum in his mouth has long since dissolved into plasticy rubber, so he conceals the adjusting of the map behind retrieving a fresh stick from the pack resting atop it, “Usually they tell me who I am, but seeing as how we're on the run–”
“No one gets to tell you who you are anymore,” Claire nods, and something about her phrasing shakes something loose in Court's chest.
“Something like that.”
“I wanna be called Agnetha Fältskog.”
Court coughs, choking on saliva from the gum transfer, and wheezes, “You cannot call yourself Agnetha Fältskog.”
“Why not?!” Claire throws her arms up in protest before snatching up her soda, staring him down in challenge as she drinks.
He lifts a hand from the steering wheel in a helpless shrug, "It's the most conspicuous name you could've picked. Might as well change your name to ‘Heyimhere Comeshootme.’”
Claire snorts a laugh that sends soda gushing out of her nose, and she doubles over with a napkin held to her face. Court can't help a smile, and gets pelted with a handful of cold French fries for it.
“Besides,” he continues, “I don't wanna memorize how to spell Fältskog. There's probably an accent mark in there somewhere, and if I forget it, we're blown.”
“You'd memorize it,” she says, nasally but unwavering in confidence, and blows her nose to rid it of the last of the soda.
“How about a compromise? I'll figure out our last name, you can come up with your first– and middle, if you want one. As long as it's covert, you've got free reign. Deal?”
For a beat, there's only the sound of tires under some pop-rock song that came out before Court was born. He steals a glance at Claire and finds her absently scratching at her face, just below the pink dragpath of the flare gun.
“We have to have the same last name,” she muses.
“Yeah.”
“So, what, are you supposed to be my dad? My estranged adult brother? Weird uncle?”
Court….hadn't thought that far. His fingers flex around the steering wheel and he watches asphalt roll away ahead of them. While giving himself the role of Claire's father would simplify everything to come, his top priority is her comfort and her safety. She has only so recently lost everything. Everyone. If there is any inch he can give her in this race, he will try his damndest to get it to her.
“That's up to you, Claire.” He doesn't mean it to sound as grave as it does.
She goes quiet again. Just a few more turns. Court pulls off the highway and wills Claire not to notice.
Trouble is, she might be the only person on the planet who can best him in that particular game.
“Where are we going?” she asks, pulling off her sunglasses.
“Somewhere safe.”
“We are safe. Here.”
“It's not safe to sleep in a car in random parking lots. You need a bed–”
“Wait–”
“–and a kitchen, and–”
“ –no, Mr. Six–”
“ –we need to be close to a hospital in case somethin’ happens.”
He pulls down the meandering driveway of the house, glimpsing the kudzu growing over the “For Sale” sign. The vine coats the house in curtains, too, but it still looks to be in decent shape underneath the rapidly growing foliage. Claire huffs out a tearful breath and gapes at him.
Guilt scorches up Court's throat and he forces himself to look her in the eye. His voice is small when he says, “I gotta take care of you, Claire. I can't do that from a Jeep.”
Claire clenches her jaw shut and a tear streaks down her face, “We were fine.”
Court sighs through his nose and scrubs a shaking hand down his face, “I'm gonna go get the door open.”
He doesn’t expect a response and doesn't receive one.
Court shoulders open the door of the Jeep, hissing at the deep ache in his leg when he puts weight on it. This was their longest stretch of driving, and his injuries are sure to remind him of that. He tries not to limp to the front door of the little house, fishes tools from his jacket pocket as he heaves himself up the concrete steps. The lock is simple, and pops open with little effort. Court will have to reinforce it while they're staying here. He stretches up to rip down the tangle of kudzu over the threshold, tossing the remains into the over-grown hedging. Before he can turn all the way around to trudge back to the Jeep, a force rushes past him and into the house.
Claire stands in the center of the living room, scanning the dim-lit space like she's witnessing a crime scene. Court steps inside and closes the door behind him, tries for levity, “Not too shabby, huh? I mean, it's not a mansion, but–”
She whips her head back to shoot him a withering glare and storms off down the hall. Court hears the sound of a door opening and flinches at it slamming shut. She'll come around, he hopes. She's been through a lot.
Court resigns to unpacking and deep-cleaning the house and the Jeep by himself, getting lost in the repetitiveness. He carefully piles what few belongings Claire has by the door she disappeared behind. The kitchen gets scrubbed– the house still gets running water, thanks to the well– and the leftover supplies from the trip are stocked in the cabinets. He investigates the other bedroom, finds a mattress and, shockingly, a bedspread, likely used for display in hopes of selling this place. He strips the bed and shakes out the linens, for want of any laundering supplies. At least there isn't any mold. As a temporary solution, Court installs a rudimentary alarm system triggered via tripwires and set to blow a strip of pop-gun tabs he found at a gas station.
When he runs out of things to do, Court leans against the wall by Claire's room, rests his head on the doorframe and studies the space on the carpet where her effects were. He knocks on the door in their agreed pattern and waits for a response he doubts he'll get.
“You hungry? Still need groceries, but there's some roadfood left,” he calls. Closes his eyes. Nothing but the muffled sound of a song he can't name. “I'm….Just down the hall. Goodnight, Claire.”
☆
Court waits fourty-eight hours. He'd wait longer, but their supplies are dwindling. Claire doesn't come out of her room, except to cross the hall to the bathroom or ignore him in the kitchen to scavenge for food. She doesn't respond to any of his poor attempts at conversation. She's completely shut down, and Court has no idea what to do.
It isn't like he has a great foundation to work with. The closest thing he's experienced to “good parenting” was from Fitz and Maggie and they….he misses them. He wishes they were still here to brief him on this mission. To teach him how to get through this, to get Claire through this. He's never felt so lost before.
The last thing he wants to do is leave Claire alone, but he doesn't have a choice. He knocks on her door and slides the spare burner under the gap.
“I'm going to town, pick up a few things. You can come, but if you're still giving me the cold shoulder, I gave you a phone. Call if you need anything. Don't– don't text, that can be tracked easier, you need to call, okay?”
Footsteps. Court stares with bated breath at the doorknob. It remains still. The footsteps retreat, and the music increases in volume. Court sighs and nods to himself, assures her that he'll be right back.
The first stop he makes is the library. Court flips through every book he can find on grief, only to be met with the same advice regurgitated back to him in fifty different ways. Maybe talk, time, therapy, journaling, closure, would be helpful for civilians, a loss due to cancer or old age. But Claire had to watch her uncle bleed out then blow himself up to give them time to get away. She doesn't exactly have a grave to deliver fucking flowers to. So Court abandons that pursuit and changes course, uses books on heart-healthy eating to make a shopping list.
The sun is setting by the time Court gets back, unloads the groceries and other necessities, and gets a load of laundry started. He lingers in front of Claire's door for a moment, and a memory surfaces. He fidgets with the sleeve of his jacket, considering. It's high risk, high reward. If it goes right, it could mean a breakthrough. But if it goes wrong….it could go really, really wrong.
Fuck it. He's out of options.
Court stalks into the kitchen and sets out two newly purchased bowls and spoons on the counter. From the freezer, running thanks to a gas generator found out back, he takes the ice cream bought on a whim and tears the easy-open plastic off the top. He scoops a portion of vanilla into one bowl and chocolate into the other, returns the container to the freezer, and takes up the bowls with a steadying intake of air.
It takes great effort and strain on his healing wounds to lower himself to the floor hands-free, but Court succeeds and relaxes against Claire's door. He makes a show of clinking the spoon to the bowl and calls out, “I'm sorry I didn't tell you. I'm gonna fuck up a lot, probably. I, uh….wasn't trained for this. And you don't have to forgive me, just….a wise man once said that ice cream's the best medicine, and uh….I tend to–”
The doorknob rattles and Court pivots to lift his weight off the door. It creaks open and a sliver of a tearstained face and a blood-shot brown eye appear to regard him suspiciously. “What kind is it?”
“Neopolitan, technically. But the chocolate part for you.”
The door opens all the way and Claire settles opposite him, leaning against the threshold, hands extended. Court hurries to deliver the second bowl to her, heart in his throat. She takes it and stirs it until it's soft, then takes a bite. Mouth still full, she inclines her head towards him and asks, “What'd'you get?”
“Uhh, vanilla.”
“Predictable.”
Court laughs; a sound so unfamiliar and shocking that they both look up in surprise.
Claire smiles into her bowl and teases, “I didn't know robots could laugh.”
“To be honest,” Court stabs at the melting ice cream in his bowl, “I didn't either.”
An expanse of silence, filled by the crackle of crooners from Claire's record player, and the cricket song outside, and the scrape of metal on glassware. Then the quiet is broken by a stifled sob and Court looks up in alarm.
Claire shakily sets down her empty bowl and wipes at her nose with her sleeve. “It really is the best medicine,” another sob, “I miss him so much.”
“C'mere,” Court whispers, opening his arms. Claire lunges into him, making fists in the fabric of his shirt, head tucked under his chin. Court wraps her in a tight hug, holds her close as her fragile body wracks with sobs. “I know,” he soothes, voice wavering, “I miss him, too. I miss him, too.”
They grieve together in the light of a house that isn't theirs but isn't not theirs, on old, rough carpet, next to bowls of ice cream used as an olive branch. Court cradles her rage and her pain and wishes he could keep it far away from her, but knows he can't, so for now, he'll share the weight.
“Hey,” Court prompts, strained, once Claire has subsided to sniffling. She lifts her head from his chest and searches his face questioningly, “I promised him I'd take care of you. He'd want you to be happy, and healthy, and living in a house instead of out of a car. Fitz was a good man. Smart, too. What'd'you say we listen to his advice?”
Claire scrubs at her eyes and nods slowly, “Okay. Do you think he'd want me to have another bowl of ice cream?”
Court smiles fondly at her and cards his fingers through her hair to unstick it from her face.
“Maybe just a small one,” he says with a wink.