Author's Note: SPOILERS FOR CAP. MARVEL! PROCEED AT YOUR OWN RISK!

Thank you for taking a look at this story! When I saw Cap. Marvel, this little line of dialog really stuck out to me. I was like "oooh". So yep. After staving off about six panic attacks over the weekend, I wrote this between those, haha! =)

Please leave any feedback that you have! :) Thank you again for reading!

Summary: "What about your kids?" "If I had any, they'd call me Fury.""He never wanted kids. And he never got them. He'd tell that lie to his grave." AKA: Fury is the parent the Avengers needed.

Story is rated for: Some violence, implied child abuse, mentioned substance abuse, and paranoia on my part. No slash, no smut, no non-con, no incest. :)

Disclaimer: I own nothing!

For your information, this cross-posted on Archive Of Our Own under the pen name of "GalaxyThreads".

Just a personal note, if you could refrain from using cussing/strong language if you comment (no offense to how you speak! Promise! =) It just makes me uncomfortable) I would greatly appreciate that. ;)

My Kids Will Call Me Fury

Fury had never thought about having kids. Well, not really. It was never a possibility that he truly considered, or was presented with. His parents taught him that children came only after wedlock and he'd respected and honoured that his whole life. He'd never married, so he didn't bother much with it. There were moments when his chest ached with the desire for a family and his chest would heave with the longing for a child, but he'd shove it to the side and focus on work.

On S.H.I.E.L.D..

It's his life.

The only part that matters.

Of course he knew about adoption, even met with several kids himself and almost saw it through to the end, but there was a quiet voice in the back of his mind always nagging that it wasn't time and he wasn't ready yet. He'd hated the way those kid's faces would fall, but he'd ignore it and shoulder on.

He's a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. What more matters?

After Carol...after Carol everything changed. The few days he spent with the twenty-nine year old changed everything. Carol was a snot, someone he'd probably punch in the face on a different circumstance, but there was this gentle compassion within her that understood what it meant to be lesser than everyone else. She'd taken the aliens under her wing and Fury knew that they'd be safe under her protection.

Fury was barely seven years her senior when they met, but she'd seemed so much younger. Barely an adult in some mannerisms and well beyond her years in others. When she left, Fury's entire perspective changed.

The first and most obvious: they were not alone out there. There were dozens—thousands of other inhabited planets and each of them could pose a threat to Earth. There were few people who were ever told full details of what happened (and Fury refused to breathe a word of the fact that his eye was ripped out by a Flurken), so the fact that extraterrestrials existed wasn't publicly known.

The second: Carol to him was something close to a sister he'd never had and her few words had changed everything:

"What about your kids?"

"If I had any, they'd call me Fury."

He hadn't thought about children in years. Hadn't had a reason to. He wasn't seeing anyone and S.H.I.E.L.D. took up a majority of his time. Getting past a certain Level meant no familial relations because the threat of the ties being used was a possibility that the Security Council couldn't consider. He was well past that Level.

He wasn't supposed to have any relationships, but he'd turned to Carol's not-niece and spoiled her with anything he could. It was for Carol, he'd told himself, and left it at that. Eventually, she'd left for High School and kept in touch with him by emails.

He was content with that for a little.

Then Peggy brought word of the fact that Stark Industries was holding a gala in Maria and Howard's honour of five years since their death and he guesses this is where the whole mess started.

He never wanted kids.

And he never got them.

He'd tell that lie to his grave.

000o000

"You're plumpy," were the first words Anthony Stark ever said to him. Fury, being the nice person he is on weekends, had gone with Peggy to the gala, but in retrospect he doesn't think he'd expected Stark's kid to be there. Stupid, considering the fact S.I. belongs to Tony now. He'd only met him twice before, once when Tony was much, much younger and they hadn't spoken. Fury had gone to yell at Howard for being stupid and to get off his butt (not his exact words, but the gist). and Tony had been clinging to the butler's, Jarvis, hand and had watched him solemnly. Later, it was only to shake Tony's hand at the funeral and he doubts that the same mundane "thank you for being here" counts as a proper conversation.

Admittedly, he hadn't thought about Howard in years before the gala.

At least months.

He made a point to visit the grave at least once a year out for him, but he found himself there less and less as timed passed.

Fury stares at the young adult, barely over five foot eight with bandaged hands and bags under his eyes so dark they could be mistaken for bruises. Probably one of the reasons that he's always wearing sunglasses in any press issued-pictures. He's skinny, not quite gaunt, but it's obvious that he hasn't been eating enough.

"I'm sorry?" Fury questions, staring the brunet down.

Plumpy. Plumpy?

Tony squints at him as if trying to focus through a horrible headache. "Plumpy." He repeats, nodding at his assessment. He sighs and rubs at his head as if exhausted,"You know Howard through work?"

The way he says it suggests that he's been asking that question for hours and Fury suddenly realizes that Tony's trying to gauge how many people he needs to know for the business that has fallen on his shoulders. The kid is twenty-two. Stark Industries shouldn't be his until he's older, but that's not the way it ended up. For a brief moment he's tempted to have S.H.I.E.L.D. step in until Tony gets his crap together, but if that was what needed to happen, Peggy would have done it already.

Tony's been in charge for five years now.

Howard.

Not "dad".

Not close, then?

"I did," Fury admits, "but I didn't come for him."

Tony's still blinking and Fury can smell alcohol on him. His lips thin with distaste. He's never been one to turn down a needed drink, but the loss of control is something he loathes. And, all that is good above, Tony showed up to a gala in his parent's honor drunk.

"Mom, then?" Tony presses.

Fury shakes his head, "Your godmother," he corrects, "Peggy."

Tony looks towards where Peggy is standing in his place, shaking hands of the many well wishers and he suspects that that arrangement wasn't requested by Tony. Peggy probably shoved him into the crowd and took over when he couldn't do it anymore.

So like her.

Peggy may not have ran around with a shield, but she's always been a hero.

Tony's lips curve with confusion, then he looks back at him, "She's mean." He insists.

"Yeah, kid," Fury agrees, "only when she needs to be. You should lay down, you look dead on your feet."

And just like that, any connection is severed and Tony scowls at him, taking a swing of a glass Fury didn't even realize was in his hand, "I look fine. Go away, Plumpy, I don't want to talk to you."

Later, Fury suspects Tony doesn't even remember the meeting, but it sticks with him. Some sort of realization that he should get used to the insults, because he's going to be consulting with Stark often in the future. He does his best to ignore it.

Peggy is hospitalized a week later from a wicked car accident and the mental decline is discovered. As he sits by her beside, Peggy grips his hand and whispers, quietly: "Please look after my godson for me".

000o000

He spends the next years between S.H.I.E.L.D. work trying to assist Tony where he can. There's something about the kid's haunted eyes that he can't wash off completely and the way that the only insult he'd been able to properly grapple at him was "plumpy". He's seen the more creative ones Tony's come up with since them. From a recommendation to recruit a Ms. Virginia Potts to S.H.I.E.L.D., Fury realizes where she'd find better success and directs her towards Stark Industries.

He runs a background check on James Rhodes and staves off a handful of kidnapping attempts towards the young CEO. It's only when Coulson steps into the room and remarks: "You suspecting him of terrorism or something?" that Fury realizes it's getting out of hand.

He backs off.

Tony didn't notice what he did behind the scenes, so he stops doing so much.

But Tony hires a bodyguard a week later.

And Fury pretends not to care.

000o000

The spiraling mess really gets going when Coulson drags a young adult into his office late December in 2003 from a mission to stop a group of thieves calling themselves the "Circus of Crime". They'd recently robbed several banks and made away with three million in cash after causing six deaths; the feds were stumped and sent it to them. It's not their first robbery, just the most bold with the largest death toll. Coulson made headway in a week what took the feds four years.

Admittedly, Fury thinks it's a stupid name, but he tries not to be to judgmental about titles villains choose because it can get time consuming and irritating.

The young adult is a little short with wild blond-brown hair poking out in what looks like uncomfortable directions; he looks about nineteen, but it's hard to tell because his eyes hold stories well beyond his years. Bone juts out, but he's clearly held an active lifestyle. The clothing he's wearing is ruffled and thin, not nearly warm enough for the weather outside.

"Sir," Coulson says in introduction and takes one of the two seats on the other side of the desk. He stares the young adult down until he takes the other with a stiff discomfort in his shoulders. "This is Clint Barton," he introduces, tone level, "I want to request WITSEC for him."

Fury's eyebrows raise slightly and he looks towards the kid, lowering the folder he was looking over to stare the kid down.

Barton.

Clint.

"What'd he'd do?" He questions and Clint's eyes refuses to meet his own, staring at his feet. He looks prepared to dive into fetal position at a moment's notice and it's something that Fury isn't happy with.

Coulson has no such obligations with remaining quiet, "You know that Circus you sent me after?"

"Yes," Fury answers impatiently.

"He's one of their members," Coulson announces, resting a hand on the young adult's shoulder despite the flinch that follows, "His alias is Trickshot. He turned them in."

Fury stares at him a little differently after that. There's a firm resolve in his shoulders and something tense between his fingers. "Barton," Fury addresses, and Clint's head slowly lifts to meet his eyes. He stills his face to keep the shock from showing, but he can't quite hold back the slight rear that he jerks into. Clint's face holds the stories of a heavy past, but his eyes hold the weight of it. They look clouded, angry, but strangely...lifeless.

Empty.

Fury gathers himself as best he can. "You turned your group in?"

No honor among thieves.

"Yes, Sir," Clint answers, his voice clipped and the way "sir" falls off his lips suggests that he's not too accustomed to calling people by the title.

Fury's lip twitches slightly. This one's going to be fun.

He turns to Coulson, "Your request is granted."

Coulson nods, as if expecting it and he probably was, that snot. Coulson rises to his feet and Clint follows after him, looking strangely jumpy. "Well then," Coulson turns to the younger man, "guess you're staying at my place. Hope you're a fan of takeout."

"Not particularly." Clint assures in a mellotone. Coulson smiles in a way that's exasperated to a well trained eye, but looks like laughter to another. The two leave the office and Fury returns to the paperwork, digging up more to write Clint's name down on their WITSEC.

Two weeks later with the Circus of Crime successfully behind bars at a well aimed bullet, Coulson has filed a request for Clint to become an active member. Fury's contemplating the idea when Clint plops down from the vents in his office to thank him for the WITSEC.

"Don't thank me yet," Fury says firmly, staring at the ceiling for a second when he realizes he never even heard Clint come into the room. "Coulson wants to hire you."

Clint's eyes go wide.

"How do you feel about active duty?" He questions, clasping his hands together and staring at the young adult with a hard stare.

Clint's mouth open and closes several times before he says, almost as if inaudible with shock: "Where do I sign?"

000o000

Fury begins to finally notice what's going on when Clint breaks into his house late 2004 with a fiery redhead and demands a place to sleep and a Russian dictionary. Fury's trying very hard not to go for the gun at his hip and continues to eat his sandwich staring the two down. The woman is at least five inches shorter than Clint, her red hair tied into a long ponytail with side-swept bangs. Her face is expressionless, but her stance promises someone's murder.

He'd be lying to say it doesn't make him uncomfortable.

Fury relents with a sigh, however, and directs the two to the table, demanding if there's any food that they want. Clint's here often enough that he's starting to keep stock of the brand of milk and cereal that he prefers because that man can consume cereal. Fury hasn't had to worry about anything going stale since Coulson requested Clint be put on active duty.

Both are tired and a little dirty, so once they've eaten he directs the woman to the shower and drags Clint with him to find sleeping materials. "Who is she?" He demands, shoving a blanket towards the archer's face.

Clint's expression grows alarmed for a second and he's quiet. "I…" He chews on his bottom lip, "She's…"

Fury lifts an impatient eyebrow, folding his arms across his chest. "Clint."

"Coulson sent me to kill her," Clint says instead, his expression growing pained for a second, "I want to recruit her."

A little funny feeling of concern and anxiety swirls in his stomach. The last mission Coulson was charged with was to find Black Widow, an assassin that had recently murdered a government official in the U.S.. More importantly (Fury has never loved to bother himself in the details of politics, but, as director, it's expected of him), Black Widow had made an attempt on Tony's life and Tony hadn't even realized.

It was a gala and he danced with her.

It was the first place they gained an actual description, and how Coulson managed to find her.

Fury didn't know that he'd sent Clint to finish the job.

He's probably going to have to yell at him later, because Clint is barely a Level Three and he's too young to be indulging in missions as dangerous as trying to track down Black Widow, something that could have gotten him killed. And that's not acceptable. Clint is too much of a priority to—he's too good and agent to be killed like that.

They need him.

Yes. That's it. The only thing.

"You want me to recruit Black Widow to S.H.I.E.L.D.?" He repeats, disbelief is evident in his tone, and he doesn't bother to mask that. Shouldn't have to. Clint might as well be asking him to recruit Hitler.

"Natalia Romanova," Clint corrects halfheartedly, "but you didn't learn that from me. And yes, I do. She can help us. She saved my life."

Fury glances towards where the bathroom is and is careful to make sure he can still hear the shower running. He turns back to Clint. "We'll see. Both of you stay here for the next few days. What is it that's chasing you?"

Clint winces and rubs at the back of his neck, "That obvious?"

"You ate Chinese without a complaint," Fury points out, "you only do that when you haven't eaten for a few days."

Clint worries his lip between his teeth, "Ah...Red Room, she bailed on them after her last mission."

Fury sighs and quietly curses whoever it was that decided he needed to run paths with Clint. No, he's going to curse whoever decided he's supposed to run paths with Coulson. Curse that man and his strays. And the strays of his strays.

Nonetheless, Fury agrees to let them stay and by the end of the week, Clint and Natalia have taken out the Russian organization. Fury has been working on that for years and two young adults, one barely twenty and the other a little over eighteen have successfully dismantled it. Within the next two days, Natasha Romanov has a position on S.H.I.E.L.D. under Clint's supervision, which the archer never ceases to bring that up.

The two have an easy relationship, despite all the insults. Natasha frequently calls him "bespoleznyy", or "lenivyy" and Fury suspects that Clint wisely doesn't look up what they mean. It isn't until three months later when he wakes up with Natasha on his couch fast asleep that he realizes that he needs to get better security and she has strangely joined the small list of people that he's perfectly comfortable with knowing that they're staying over.

Even if they do break in.

Curse you, Clint. He's starting to get used to that idea, and that's probably not a good thing.

His apartment isn't even on the S.H.I.E.L.D. database.

He doesn't want to know how Clint learned where it is.

000o000

Afghanistan is one of the most stressful three months of his life. It isn't the first time that Tony's been kidnapped or held hostage; the idiot has successfully angered more than enough people—and there's the incentive that S.I., a multi-billion dollar company, will pay ransom. That rarely falls through.

Fury gets ahold of the ransom video, but even as he tears the Ten Rings apart searching for Tony, he doesn't find a hair of him. He sends Natasha and Clint out to join the wild goose chase, but neither are successful in finding him either.

It's a mess and growing hopeless when he finally, finally hears word of Tony's rescue and call for a press conference.

The details of what happened officially in Tony's kidnapping are dropped onto his desk in a thick folder from Clint, his expression grim, but he's gone before he can ask why. Fury reads through the reports and the details of the suit and all he can think is "good. No one touches my kid." He should be upset about the deaths, he supposes, but he's not.

He would have done worse.

No one touches his kids.

But Tony is an adult and doesn't need him to look after him, so he shouldn't be bothering.

Six months later and one palladium poisoning trip later, Fury had completely re-written the assessment in his head. Tony is the most man-baby adult he has ever met in his life and it is a wonder the boy made it to twenty-two before Fury could step in, if in the shadows, and keep him alive. Peggy is the only reason he suspects that Tony made it to seventeen with his parents.

Natasha's assessment is dropped onto his desk, the official S.H.I.E.L.D. report, then a more private one, documented just for him with specific things that he didn't know he was looking for until she bullet pointed them.

Fury had to tell Howard to pull himself together often, but he never...Howard was a terrible parent. Maria tried, but her addictions didn't help anything. More often than not, Fury's pretty sure she only made things worse.

Fury had paid respects to Howard once a year for sixteen years, but he doesn't go that year.

"I was dying," Tony insists to Natasha's S.H.I.E.L.D. report, his tone strangely desperate and suddenly Fury can see the teenager, still graphing with the desire for someone to take him seriously. To take pride in what he did, but he can't very well pull Tony into the hug that he would like to. The man would probably die of a heart attack, and there are more people in the room than is properly private.

And Tony shouldn't have to use dying as an excuse again.

He won't have to.

Fury will make sure of it.

Idiot almost got Natasha killed, too, and that's pushing things.

000o000

Thor shows up, levels a small town and vanishes just as quickly. Because of Carol, he already knew they were out there, but it's a startlingly reminder that they are hilariously unprepared for everything awaiting them in space. Coulson was in the area when it happened, and he'd dragged Clint along.

Clint had nearly been killed when Thor's machine-thing showed up and this is a little more than he really cares to think over. He's pushing at his limits, he knows, trying to bend the universe to his wills to keep Clint, Tasha, and Tony from dying, but, God help him, he's going to keep them alive.

He turns to the Tesseract, an item that's been sitting in his apartment in a vase for more than ten years and contacts Selvig.

Two days later, Coulson calls him in excitement, his voice a sputtering slur of anything that's hard to make out. Irritated, Fury calls him on it and Coulson calms, then answers, still with the overwhelming excitement: "Sir, they found Captain America—They found his body and he's alive."

Fury nearly drops the phone.

What the—!?

000o000

Steve wakes up a little over thirty hours later after he's been cut from the ice, medically examined, and placed in the room; Fury meets him on the street. His design wasn't to confuse or frustrate Steve, but he had meant to break it to him slowly what happened. The jolt of "hey, you're seventy years in the future" wouldn't be an easy one to process.

He didn't get the chance.

The thing is about Steve that he had no idea about until he speaks with him is that Steve is adaptable. He adapts himself or he adapts the world to fit him and Fury realizes that his concerns over Steve being able to survive in the 2000's are irrelevant. The captain will take care of himself.

But the trauma from the forty's is a different story.

Fury assigns Steve an apartment and spends the next two weeks talking to Steve when he can. Bit by bit Steve opens up to him and despite his frequent use of the word "Sir", he actually offers Fury a cup of coffee instead of making it for him with an obligation of military duty.

Fury gives him the address of his personal apartment, "If you're in the city, drop by," he commands, "it doesn't do much more than collect dust now."

That's a small lie because Natasha and Clint frequently use his couches (plural now, because he swears that neither have owned property in their lives), and clean it enough. Fury's there at least twice a week, but he sleeps on the Helicarrier for the most part. No one lives there permanently, it's only a barracks, not a house, but that's not the point.

Steve stares at him wordlessly, and the slight nod he gives is one of trust.

"I will, Sir," he reassures.

Fury nods, quietly satisfied.

Steve may have left the ice, but there's still a lot of him that's there.

Fury will fix that, given time.

000o000

Dr. Bruce Banner has more gray hair than a man of his age should. He's barely thirty-three, but he looks like he could be in his late fifties. The worry lines above his forehead indicate that this man has spent more time worrying in recent years than he has happy and it stings a little to realize how ignorant he was of that.

He also goes by his second name, but no one save those who have looked at his birth certificate know that.

Fury is business with him, though, and Bruce seems to appreciate that.

He's kept hostiles off of Bruce's tail for years, though he's never met him in person. It was just a secondary worry that he hardly thought about. He put Maria in charge of Bruce's case and that was that. Natasha briefly searched for him after Harlem, but they didn't press too hard because Bruce wanted to disappear.

They knew where he was roughly, and that was enough.

Bruce looks exhausted and when Tony clasps a hand around his shoulders, pulling him towards the lab, and Fury realizes that he's found another one.

But all that is good above, he is not going to keep him.

After New York, though, Fury is the one to grab the doctor by his ear and shove him into a seat declaring that he moves into Stark Tower with Tony or, so help him, he's going to strangle Bruce. He didn't say that exactly along those lines, and Bruce agrees to stay in New York.

The next time he runs into him, about two weeks later, the weight on Bruce's face has lifted.

He looks happier.

Bruce stops in front of him, and grabs his shoulder, though he looks uncomfortable, "Thank you, Fury," he murmurs, and he's off before Fury can respond with anything. But he's content with that.

000o000

The most unexpected was probably Thor. The Asgardian returns from his home planet a little after four months from Loki, and Maria is shoving the blond into his office within the next hour. The Asgardian looks hilariously out of place among the clean white walls, but Fury nonetheless directs him to sit.

"Everything go well up there?" He questions.

Thor's mouth opens, but nothing exits for a long second. He looks like he's being strangled. The blond clears his throat and shifts a little, "My brother's judgement has been passed," he reassures. It wasn't exactly what Fury was asking—though that's good to know—he was more inquiring on what brought Thor back.

Admittedly, he hasn't expected to see him again after he took the Tesseract.

Sure, Thor swore to defend their planet, but they haven't had contact with Asgard for thousands of years. Fury was sort of expecting the same thing to reoccur.

"Alright," Fury agrees, keeping his tone level, "why are you here?"

Thor looks up at him, "Beg pardon?"

"Earth," Fury elaborates, "you're prince or something up on Asgard, right?" Thor gives a slow nod, "So what are you doing here?"

"I...told Coulson that I would defend your planet, and I will. I will hold true to that—"

He's probably going to start a rant about honor or something along those lines, but Fury's sick of the deception. Thor's not very good at fibbing. "Listen," Fury says, his voice is losing its patience, "I've dealt with a lot of people who are trying to hide things," a particular incident where Clint broke one of his mother's plates comes to mind, "and you're doing awful at it."

Thor pauses.

Then the tic in his jaw stresses slightly.

He sighs. "Director, Asgard is...hard for me at the moment. I know that you know Loki as only a tyrant, but he was my companion for many years. We were brothers and it...it fell apart because of me and I just...I don't know how to repair something that doesn't want to be fixed."

"You're hiding." Fury states blankly.

Thor flinches a little, then nods with some reluctance. "Yes. How pathetic it is, the son of Odin is a coward." The thought is clearly something that's been running through the Asgardian's head a lot because he doesn't even seem surprised when it falls from his lips. Only a little bitter.

Fury shrugs his shoulders and draws himself together, "It's not cowardice to take a break from it all," he says firmly, pointedly, trying to ground the blond together.

Thor stares at him as though he'd never heard of such an idea before.

Goodness gracious, don't they know about self-care on Asgard? Fury is more than happy to indulge in random splurges of cheesecake when things are intense. First week after Loki's invasion? Yeah, he hate cheesecake every night to deal with it all. Was it healthy? Probably not the healthiest choice, but some foods are just for taste and comfort.

Cheesecake is one of those.

"Thor," Fury addresses and suddenly wonders when this turned into a counselling session, "you're not a coward for not being able to handle Asgard. That's common for people on Earth to not be able to face what's giving them a hard time. I'm going to give you a month and then you need to go back because you can't hide forever."

Thor gives a slow nod, but he looks relieved, as if a month was a great deal longer than he expected to receive.

"I'll contact Stark about housing arrangements," he reassures, "he's been getting the rest of the Avengers together in Stark Tower. I assume you can find your way there?"

"Yes." Thor reassures, and he looks a little less weighted. He gives a nod, "Fury, you have my thanks."

Fury waves a hand, "Just being a decent human being. Now get out, I have paperwork to finish and you're distracting me."

000o000

The climax of the entire mess is when the Avengers, a little over a year after their formation, go missing. Stark Tower was attacked and the upper half blown to smithereens and despite how hard Fury searches, he can't find a trace of any of any of them.

A thrum of panic stretches through him for the following four days until Coulson, grim and expression thinned, arrives at his apartment with a yellow folder in hand. "This came for you, Sir," he says, tone clipped.

Fury takes it, walks to his counter and dumps the contents across the granite surface. There's a picture of the Avengers, chained to some sort of post with their hands above their heads and all slumped as if drugged. All are bleeding from lacerations and a burning fury settles in his stomach.

They, who ever they are, drew blood.

That is not allowed.

It's not acceptable.

He's going to kill them.

The other piece of paper is a ransom note, typed on a typewriter.

Five million for their lives. You have until Tuesday to deliver.

It's not signed, but it doesn't need to be. Fury's not going to pay five million for them, they're worth so, so much more than a mere five million. He hands the paper to Coulson, "Analyze the ink, take the photo to Jarvis. He might have insight that we don't."

Coulson nods, "Yes, Sir."

He leaves the apartment, and Fury holds his head in his hands and tries not to succumb to a panic attack.

A few days later after dead ends, he receives a phone call. The number is unknown, but Maria, standing in the room with him encourages him to pick it up. He does so irritably, quietly blaming her if he has spam for the next few months, "What?" He demands.

"Is this Nicholas J.?" A female voice questions, voice accented with a thick French.

Fury pauses, "Yes."

"Good," The woman says, "I believe my ransom was not enough incentive for you. You've made no move to gather the money, Nicholas."

His stomach coils, "And? What's that to you?"

"I'm a little trigger happy," he can almost hear her lackadaisical shrug, "and I want you to know I'm serious. So," there's the distinct sound of safety being clicked off before a gun fires. His blood rushes cold and he hears someone scream in the background.

Steve.

His grip tightens around his phone, the desire to string her up by her toes and skin her growing.

"See? There you go. Give me what I want or someone else gets shot."

"If you touch my kids—" Fury starts heatedly.

The woman laughs, "Oh, getting possessive are we? You hear that, 'vengers? Daddy's getting mad at me." She clicks her tongue, "Should I be worried? You have the details of where to deliver. Be there tomorrow and you'll get your precious kittens back."

She clicks the phone dead.

Fury seethes.

No.

He's not going to pay the ransom.

He's going to find them by tonight.

Maria stares at him, her expression knit with concern. "Sir?"

"It was the kidnapper for the Avengers," he explains, his jaw tight, "she shot Steve."

Maria's eyebrows lift with surprise and her lips form a voiceless, "oh".

000o000

Three hours, twenty-two minutes later after a voice trace and assistance from Jarvis, Fury has secured the Avengers. After a visit to medical, he doesn't take them back to headquarters, or Avengers Tower because it's in pieces. He drags all six of them to his small apartment and Steve gets the couch.

No one complains.

Fury feeds them and then shoves them off towards bed, which for most is simply the floor with a blanket and pillow. He wakes up later that night and the Avengers have all shifted into his bedroom, Clint curled at the end of his bed and Natasha on her side on the mattress, just out of reach of physical touch with him.

The rest of the Avengers are sprawled across the ground and each other.

He releases a quiet groan, curses Coulson for the umpteenth time for not shooting him when he was on the run with Carol, then falls back asleep.

When he wakes up, no one is present as if it didn't happen.

But he knows better.

And they make him a burned, frankly awful breakfast, but he didn't have to cook so he counts it as a win.

000o000

He immediately suspects it's a joke or a threat when he receives six cards on Father's day. He's not a parent, hasn't had the opportunity to birth kids and doesn't really want to at this point, but the six cards are on his desk when he enters his office that morning. He suspects foul play, and opens them with a handgun in one hand.

It's just cards.

From each of the Avengers.

Every card starts with "Fury," and Fury remembers the words of his and Carol's conversation, nearly twenty years ago in the car with her snickering judgmental laughter.

"What about your kids?"

"If I had any, they'd call me Fury."

Fury stares at the cards and realizes with a sick jolt in his stomach, that they...well—well crap.

He can almost hear Carol's stupid taunting laughter and considers pressing the panic button solely so he can punch her in the face, then realizes it's to much work. Curse her. She knew. She knew like some sort of sick physic link that it was going to happen, he doesn't know how, but she did.

And—gosh darn it, he even named the Avengers after her, like some sort of sentimental sibling naming their family members after each other. She was like a sister to him for those few days, and he named his family after her. Curse her.

He sees her again and he's going to sick Goose on her.

Stupid alien.

Fury doesn't have a family.

He's not a parent.

But when the Avengers pop into his work-space or apartment with more vigilance to complain loudly or receive sympathy, he doesn't shoo them out.

So yeah, he's not a parent, but his kids still call him Fury.

000o000

They kick Thanos's butt, drag a few trillion souls back from the Soul Stone, and Carol considers it a day. She's exhausted, injured, grouchy, and sweaty in places she didn't even know she had. Most prominent, though, she's starving.

Thor swings an arm around her shoulders, dragging her through the streets of New York. "The other Avengers are waiting for us," he explains at her confused look. She's to tired to protest his tugging, so she doesn't. The Asgardian looks just as dead on his feet as she feels, so she cuts him the slack.

"I hope that you have bread," Carol says and rubs at the back of her neck, swiping sweat that's formed there—and, like, gross—and glances towards the one-eyed man. "C-22 is only good for bread."

Thor raises an eyebrow towards her, "I would like to think that Midgard has a little more to it than that."

Carol huffs, "Not really. Believe me, I've been everywhere. All you have is bad jokes and technology from the dark ages of the universe."

Thor opens his mouth, then closes it, looking a little frazzled, but in agreement. He doesn't have an argument.

Carol gives him a smug smile.

A few minutes later she's being shoved into a fast-food restaurant that's completely empty save two tables, one of them is stuffed with the original Avengers. The other contains those that were brought back after they kicked Thanos's butt, and the Guardians. Carol recognizes Loki among the mix, looking awkwardly out of place as Tony's whatever-his-name-is-she-can't-be-bothered-to-remember son rambles on about some sort of physics equation to him.

Thor offers a tight wave towards his sibling (that the dark haired Asgardian returns) before pulling her towards the table with only five. Tony flicks his gaze up to her, "Still haven't found time for a shower, I see." He notes with a nose wrinkle.

Carol sweeps her gaze up and down him. "Not looking so hot yourself."

Tony waves a hand and Natasha scoots over a little to make room for her on the bench as Thor sits opposite of her. "We almost died, like, three times today, cut me a little slack." Tony requests.

Carol shrugs, "I mean I could, but…"

"Oh my gosh," Bruce groans and drops his head into his hands, "Please don't. I am too tired to deal with you two at the moment."

Carol smirks a little.

"Food?" Steve offers instead and shoves some of the wrapped hamburgers towards her. To be a little honest, Carol's amazed that the restaurant is still open. Personally, if she ran a restaurant, which she doesn't, she wouldn't leave it open after an alien attack.

Terrans.

Stupid, beautiful Terrans.

She's in the midst of downing her second smoothie when the door jingles and two figures step inside. Her eyes narrow a little with wariness before the lighting shines on their faces and she recognizes them.

Fury.

The other agent from the stairwell. Colby-something. No, that can't be right.

But Fury.

She's on her feet with relief without remembering standing and sets the smoothie on the table as she moves towards the S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. Fury's eye widens as he spots her before she envelopes him in a hug. It's been more than twenty years since she last saw him. Twenty years far to long. She should have stopped by C-22 before now, but she was busy.

She pulls back and stares him over, noting his eyepatch with some amusement. "Flurken really did a number, didn't it?"

Fury snorts, "You have no idea."

Behind her, she can hear the Avengers shifting and Fury glances towards them, and then his expression clouds with some irritation. He walks up towards the table and rests his hand on the surface staring at Clint. "You're eating with a knife." He states obviously.

Clint shrugs, "No forks left."

"It's a knife, Clint." Fury's voice lacks any amusement.

Clint frowns a little, "Do you want me to get two knives and use them as chopsticks?"

"That's not any better." Fury insists. "You can't use chopsticks."

Clint makes a disagreeing noise, but Natasha's nodding. He looks at her and gawks a little, "Hey!"

"You can't." Natasha agrees, "It's a problem."

"She's got a point, bro," Tony says and pats Clint's shoulder sympathetically, "sorry."

Clint scowls, "I hate all of you. All of you."

Carol smirks a little and leans towards the table to make a snarky comment, but stops as Thor groans an exclamation of exhaustion and slumps to the side to lean against Fury. The S.H.I.E.L.D. agent doesn't rear back like she was expecting, instead, he simply rests a hand around Thor's shoulders and lets him slump as he glares at the rest of the Avengers. None of them seemed the least startled with the action, as if it's normal.

Her lips part with some surprise.

Clint stabs at the salad aggressively with his plastic knife and Fury rolls his eyes in exasperation suggesting that he's dealt far to many times with Clint's attitude, and then Bruce turns to the older man. "Do you know where the nearest bed is? Everything itches. Because of Hulk. I didn't step in poison ivy, or get bit by a bug, or some sort of space parasite, I—"

"Nearest place I know is mine." Fury interrupts and sighs a little as all of the Avengers visibly perk. "Don't any of you own any property?"

Carol bites at her tongue as she stares at the six, and then Fury back and forth silently. After nearly another minute of watching their banter and body language, her lips twitch with a slight smirk. She and Thor were delayed on their return by about two days, and she's pretty sure that the Avengers have already seen Fury before now.

Her lips press together as Agent maybe-Colby-something lifts up his phone, "Sir? The U.N. wants to meet to go over the Avengers pardons again."

Fury visibly sighs before releasing Thor and stepping back from the table, "Fine. Tell them I'll be there in fifteen." He looks towards the six and Carol's smirk grows wider as his eye rolls with exasperation. "I'd offer to let you drop by, but I know that you'll break in anyway."

None even bother to look guilty.

Her lips twitch as she tries to withhold her laughter.

Fury looks towards the other table where and argument is rapidly breaking out after the racoon leapt on the table and started demanded plastic cups to finish the bomb he's working on. She should probably be concerned, but she isn't.

"Loki," Fury calls and the Asgardian looks up, his eyes wide and desperate. "Don't you and Thor have something to go over?"

Loki's gaze flickers with confusion before he nods and all but leaps from the table and rushes towards the other one beside Thor, talking in rapid, hushed tones. Probably the best move, Carol notes with some admiration. Fury's lowered the chances of someone getting stabbed.

Fury releases a deep breath and moves to step out of the fast-food place. Carol follows behind and as they make it to open air, he looks back at her.

"You need something?" He questions.

Carol rests her hands on her hips. "It's so sweet that you named them after me." She says, barely able to contain her laughter.

Fury's eye widens a little and he looks back at the restaurant. "I...don't have the slightest idea what you're talking about."

Carol lightly nudges his arm. "Don't be stupid. You lied to me."

His fists clench and maybe-Colby flicks his gaze between them, his eyes narrowed a little. "I didn't—"

"You told me you don't have any kids," she protests, "when we were driving. You said that "if I have any—""

"What is your point?" Fury demands harshly, but quickly, as if trying to veer her off subject.

Carol smirks, "Fury," she says slowly, quietly relishing how uncomfortable he looks, "you need to let me know when I've become an aunt. Even if it is adopted. Congratulations on your six babies."

Fury visibly face palms and maybe-Colby's eyes widen a little, the twitches of laughter on his lips. But she can tell from the way that he's body language is mostly hiding his amusement that he has known for much longer than she has about the relationship. His control is admirable, but Carol can't help herself and laughs out loud, lightly punching Fury on his shoulder. Fury rubs the area and looks up at her, scowling. "They're not babies."

"Man-babies," Carol insists, then presses rhetorically: "But yours?"

"Better believe it, Danvers. They're my man-babies." He grabs her shoulder and his lips twitch on a smile, "Congratulations, Aunty Carol. Now what the heck were you thinking dragging my kids off into space for a no-return mission?"

Carol only laughs, looking back at the fast-food place and at the Aveng—no. Her gaze lingers on Fury's kids.

She doesn't bother to answer and instead mercilessly grills him for details about the new members about the rest of her adopted family.