Millions and millions and billions and trillions and quadrillions and he has to snap himself out of this shit. "It's everywhere," he echoes. But what he means is: "S'posed to be the whole damn universe."
But Frank doesn't need to care about half of the whole damn universe. He's not part of that bigger reality. Earth, down on the streets, New York, that's his reality. And a quaint home on the range in Iowa, too. Clint recognizes that he doesn't need to say it, but he's present enough to say it anyway. "Thanks. For being here."
He takes a breath, and then he moves. He's mostly packed anyway already. Knows how to pack for longer trips away. It's just the small details that keep tripping him up. It's the static in his head where all his feelings want to overwhelm him. It's the skipping record stuck on the god damn silverware.
The list goes a little something like: yes, okay, fine, the god damn silverware, because if someone does get stupid enough to raid the house, that shit's still worth a pretty penny, and it shuts up the record scratch; family photo albums and a couple but not all the framed pictures, takes them out of frames and tucks them into the covers of the albums; Laura's perfume gets wrapped up in leftover tissue paper from Christmases past; a stuffed bulldog in a bright yellow vest and hard hat that's definitely seen rough play and several washes and a couple bouts of emergency stitching that happens when a toy is that kind of beloved; Lila's favorite hoodie, which is hilariously Nat's least favorite hoodie, because it's Black Widow themed and worn to the point where the symbol's most of the way worn off; Cooper's wallet, not for any of the money in it, not for any of the cards to local shops, but for the driving permit tucked prominently on display.
There are other things that he vaguely recognizes would make sense to care about and bring, like laptops, but they would just sit uselessly since he's not going to break into his kids' personal computers like that. (And the silverware, what's that going to do but sit uselessly? Shut up.) If he wanted to list every single thing he wanted to bring with him, well, shit, that'd just be the whole damn house, wouldn't it? He'd dig out Laura's wedding dress, make sure Cooper's first and only Gundam build was wrapped up safely, store Lila's notebooks away from sunlight damage, bring more toys and probably half of Nate's closet. He'd take jewelry and books and movies and the fine damn china. He'd grab his tools. He'd take and take and take and then he'd be right back where he started. At home. In this house. Want to take every nail and floorboard because it's all precious.
At least hearing Frank shuffle around does something to settle some high pitched alarm in his head. The one saying it's too quiet it's too quiet check on the kids run around the yard again one more time to look just look one more time!
The weapons are the last packed. Bow and quiver of arrows get their own special case. Couple guns. Not all the guns, but there are more in the panic room he and Laura built several years ago and thankfully have never needed to use. Some knives. In case.
He takes on and hacks through the ankle monitor still wrapped around him, tosses it in the trash. Pretty sure everyone's gonna be too busy to come worrying after him. Should check on Scott, and his family. Should try to track down Yelena. He hasn't been able to get through to Laura's parents and doesn't know if that means they're also gone or if the phones are just dead or busy.
But his brother is here, and his sister is coming to bring him back to his superhero family. Whatever's left of them. Fuck.
The last thing he does is leave Laura's phone on the counter, plugged in to charge. Just in case. And then his work for the immediate moment is done, and he doesn't know what the fuck else to do.
no subject
But Frank doesn't need to care about half of the whole damn universe. He's not part of that bigger reality. Earth, down on the streets, New York, that's his reality. And a quaint home on the range in Iowa, too. Clint recognizes that he doesn't need to say it, but he's present enough to say it anyway. "Thanks. For being here."
He takes a breath, and then he moves. He's mostly packed anyway already. Knows how to pack for longer trips away. It's just the small details that keep tripping him up. It's the static in his head where all his feelings want to overwhelm him. It's the skipping record stuck on the god damn silverware.
The list goes a little something like: yes, okay, fine, the god damn silverware, because if someone does get stupid enough to raid the house, that shit's still worth a pretty penny, and it shuts up the record scratch; family photo albums and a couple but not all the framed pictures, takes them out of frames and tucks them into the covers of the albums; Laura's perfume gets wrapped up in leftover tissue paper from Christmases past; a stuffed bulldog in a bright yellow vest and hard hat that's definitely seen rough play and several washes and a couple bouts of emergency stitching that happens when a toy is that kind of beloved; Lila's favorite hoodie, which is hilariously Nat's least favorite hoodie, because it's Black Widow themed and worn to the point where the symbol's most of the way worn off; Cooper's wallet, not for any of the money in it, not for any of the cards to local shops, but for the driving permit tucked prominently on display.
There are other things that he vaguely recognizes would make sense to care about and bring, like laptops, but they would just sit uselessly since he's not going to break into his kids' personal computers like that. (And the silverware, what's that going to do but sit uselessly? Shut up.) If he wanted to list every single thing he wanted to bring with him, well, shit, that'd just be the whole damn house, wouldn't it? He'd dig out Laura's wedding dress, make sure Cooper's first and only Gundam build was wrapped up safely, store Lila's notebooks away from sunlight damage, bring more toys and probably half of Nate's closet. He'd take jewelry and books and movies and the fine damn china. He'd grab his tools. He'd take and take and take and then he'd be right back where he started. At home. In this house. Want to take every nail and floorboard because it's all precious.
At least hearing Frank shuffle around does something to settle some high pitched alarm in his head. The one saying it's too quiet it's too quiet check on the kids run around the yard again one more time to look just look one more time!
The weapons are the last packed. Bow and quiver of arrows get their own special case. Couple guns. Not all the guns, but there are more in the panic room he and Laura built several years ago and thankfully have never needed to use. Some knives. In case.
He takes on and hacks through the ankle monitor still wrapped around him, tosses it in the trash. Pretty sure everyone's gonna be too busy to come worrying after him. Should check on Scott, and his family. Should try to track down Yelena. He hasn't been able to get through to Laura's parents and doesn't know if that means they're also gone or if the phones are just dead or busy.
But his brother is here, and his sister is coming to bring him back to his superhero family. Whatever's left of them. Fuck.
The last thing he does is leave Laura's phone on the counter, plugged in to charge. Just in case. And then his work for the immediate moment is done, and he doesn't know what the fuck else to do.