‘ i don’t know what to say. ’ his voice is — francis isn’t sure how to describe them. he thinks about a world, maybe, out there, that he doesn’t have to grow up hiding underground and always away from ultron’s grasp. he is - an animatic child. if there isn’t anger splattered right across his face, it’s satisfaction, it’s pleased, it’s worry and concern and, sometimes, just sometimes, when things aren’t so bad and the scavengers are singing around the fire, he’s even - happy. but right then, just now, his voice is - nothingness. empty. he doesn’t even look at clint barton. he couldn’t. in his head, he sees the same face: older, rougher, and he’s smiling at francis for the last time before him and his troop disappears over the horizon. there was no body. nothing to even be burnt or buried. just that memory. again and again. ‘ i had a dad, i lived in a messed up world, and i didn’t grew up okay. i don’t know a day in my life when i wasn’t holding onto a weapon. i didn’t think this was what my parents wanted me to be, but it’s what i become. i’m tired and confused and paranoid, and i feel like all i can be from now on is something that kills, if that’s how i can protect, but every time i look at you, i want m - more, but i can’t have that, i can’t, because that’s not who i am. ’
francis wipes at a tear, and he still can’t look at clint barton. just at the wall that’s become of his room. a white wall, and a clean sheet of bed, but every night, francis falls asleep better on the floor. he hears his own voice echo again: that’s not who i am.
