Welcome to the final installment of Secrets and Lies. Been in progress for a while, but I really wanted to finish it tonight for some reason even though I have my first college final tomorrow at 8AM (and one the day after that, and one the day after that...sigh). Good luck to any of you out there heading into finals week. Channel your inner FitzSimmons and hope for the best!

I might have gone a bit overboard on this, but hopefully you won't mind the 15,255-word/29-page epilogue I have for you. Special thanks to daisiesinajar for her Tony Stark advice and to shikasgirl10 for the idea they submitted.

Epilogue

FILE STATUS: REDACTED
SUBJECT: ISABELLE MARIE MORSE-HUNTER
FILE REQUESTED ON DATE 11/08/2032 BY SUBJECT
HIGHLY CLASSIFIED - FOR SUBJECT'S VIEWING ONLY

AGE 5

"Mommy, wake up!" Something heavy bounced across her bed, sending it vibrating, and soon Isabelle's slightly flushed face appeared next to hers.

"It's not time yet," Bobbi murmured, eyes still closed in the futile hope of returning to sleep in peace.

"It is too!" Isabelle insisted, causing the bed to rock again with her enthusiasm. "May's up."

"Yeah, because she's a crazy person," Bobbi groaned into her pillow. Her eyes snapped open. "Do not tell her I said that."

"I won't if you get up," Isabelle replied cheekily.

Bobbi knew she was done for. "Fine."

"Do you know what day it is?" Isabelle asked as she released her hold on Bobbi's bed and began to dance around the room.

"Someone's birthday...hmm...let me think who it could be," Bobbi replied as she dragged herself upwards and towards her dresser to change her clothes.

"It's mine!" Isabelle tackled her legs, overcome with laughter. "Daddy said so yesterday. Don't be silly, Mommy."

She rolled her eyes, kissing the top of her daughter's head. "Right, I forgot, only one of us is allowed to be silly in this family."

Isabelle looked up at her indignantly. "I'm five now; I'm not silly!"

"I meant your father."

She grinned. "Yeah, Daddy is pretty silly."

Bobbi finished getting dressed and then took her hand and allowed Isabelle to lead her out the door. Forty minutes later, Isabelle had been fed and watered and the rest of the base was stirring, as evidenced by the various team members wandering into the kitchen off the smell of fresh coffee and bacon. By the time the eighth one arrived—presumably with yawns and bed-mussed hair like the rest—Bobbi almost didn't look at their face as she handed them yet another plate of eggs and fruit salad. Almost.

"Natasha?" she gasped, nearly dropping the frying pan on her own foot.

"Hey, Bobbi," Natasha answered with a smile.

"We couldn't miss her first birthday with the team," Clint explained from behind her, an identical grin on his face.

"Tasha! Clint! You came! Did you get my letter?" Isabelle asked, running up to them. "Daddy helped me write the letters and Mommy said she mailed it. Did you get it?"

"We sure did, and our reply is on its way," Clint told her, scooping her up for a hug. "But we couldn't miss your birthday, so—"

"—here we are," Natasha finished.

Setting her down, Clint eyed the frying pan still held loosely in Bobbi's grip. "So can I get some of those eggs too, or...?"

"Oh, right, of course." She found him another plate and doled out a large portion before setting it down on a non-heated part of the stove and giving the plate to Clint. They all joined the rest of the team at the table, squished as it was.

Once they were all done eating and catching up, the dishes were left in a pile in the sink and—by Isabelle's insistence, of course—it was time for presents. Skye went first: a medium-sized package in wrapping paper decorated with bright balloons. Isabelle tore it open excitedly to find a water color paint set complete with twenty-four colors and three differently-sized brushes.

May gave her a set of her very own mini set of S.H.I.E.L.D.-branded workout clothes complete with the logo on the shoulders and her name stitched in white on the back, just like she had told Bobbi she wanted a few days ago so she could be just like May and Skye when the three of them did Tai Chi together. Bobbi hadn't said a word to the specialist, so she wondered how she knew.

Coulson's gift was some superhero-themed picture books made especially for kids, two focusing on Captain America: The Living Legend and one on The Awesome Adventures of the Amazing Avengers.

"Hey," said Clint as he flipped through the second one. "I'm not even in this!"

"Yes, you are." Natasha pointed at a simplified drawing of the Avengers smiling and encircling the Earth. "Your elbow is visible right here at the edge of the page, next to me. The rest of you just got cut off."

"Typical," Clint groaned.

Simmons's present was similar: a little kid's trivia game filled with more factoids than one could memorize in a lifetime. When asked if he wanted to go next, Fitz exchanged a significant glance with Mack and then shook his head.

Natasha and Clint took up the slack, handing over their joint gift: a silver necklace much like Natasha's but with a dangling arrow pendant and a clear hourglass filled with glitter and red liquid. Isabelle immediately demanded that Bobbi put it on her, so she fastened it around her neck.

Bobbi and Hunter's presents, while not joint, were also related. Isabelle opened Bobbi's to find a silvery blue Elsa dress in her size and in Hunter's a Frozen CD and an Olaf costume meant for a small dog but that would fit Isabelle's stuffed bunny Hoppity perfectly. As she had done with everyone else, Isabelle threw her arms around them both and held on tight while emitting squeals of joy.

Finally it was just Fitz and Mack left, but when Bobbi looked up she realized they must have slipped out. A moment later, the two of them appeared—Mack pushing a gigantic gift along the floor and Fitz bobbing happily along in his wake, a look of boyish excitement on his face. Their gift wasn't wrapped so much as had a sheet thrown over it, and the way Mack was moving it must have been on wheels.

When Isabelle pulled off the sheet, there was a moment of absolute silence before they broke into peals of laughter. It was Lola, the director's beloved 1962 red Corvette in miniature, except with one central child-sized seat instead of two. "It doesn't..." Bobbi said before mouthing, "...fly?"

"Of course it does," Mack answered proudly. "Thanks for finally letting me take a peek under her hood, Director."

"Oh God," Bobbi murmured, putting her face in her hands as Isabelle clamored into the seat.

"Press that button there," Fitz said, pointing and grinning. Isabelle punched it and the engine activated with a smooth purr. "Feel around with your foot for the gas pedal," the young engineer directed. Mini Lola began to move forward, and Clint jumped out of the way.

Mack laughed at him. "Don't be so jumpy, Barton. It only has a max speed of ten miles per hour."

"It can't be exactly like Lola under the hood though," Coulson said, getting into his geek-out mode. He quite possibly loved this gift as much as Isabelle. "It's much too quiet."

"Engine's all electric, some old arc reactor technology so it'll never need to be charged," Mack revealed. "Isabelle, this button here." He tapped one marked FLIGHT. She pressed it eagerly, and the car's wheels rotated into hover position. Soon she was floating two feet off the ground.

"So how much weight can that thing take?" Hunter asked casually, staring at Mini Lola—Lolita!—with unabashed longing.

"Less than yours, Hunter," Mack replied.

Bobbi just laughed, shaking her head, as Isabelle zoomed towards Natasha in her new toy. "I just hope you two know what you've gotten yourselves into."

Standing next to the unmarked S.H.I.E.L.D. van in the parking lot of Isabelle's new preschool, they looked down at their daughter. "Are you sure you're not nervous?" Bobbi asked.

"Nope!" Isabelle answered cheerily. She had a small blue backpack on and was hugging the mandatory pillow all kids were apparently required to bring for naptime, the blanket stuffed in her backpack. She didn't take naps at home, but Bobbi supposed maybe it was just an excuse the preschool teachers used to get an hour or so of peace and quiet in the middle of their raucous day shepherding a bunch of three and four-year-olds. Either way, it wouldn't hurt her to get a little extra sleep.

"You can always ask the teachers to call us if you need us," Hunter reminded her, looking nearly as strained as Bobbi felt.

Isabelle bounced impatiently beside them. "Can we go in yet? All the other kids are going in!"

"I suppose," Bobbi sighed, taking her daughter by the hand. Hunter fell into step besides them, heading towards the preschool building. They knew from their intensive touring that it was one of the friendliest and most academically stimulating preschools in their area, but all the same it seemed wrong to Bobbi to just...leave her there. For a whole day. All by herself.

"Who would've thought we'd be the ones with separation anxiety, not her," Hunter whispered as they approached the door.

A smiling woman greeted them. "Isabelle, Ms. Morse and Mr. Hunter, welcome to Meerwood Preschool. Are you excited for your first day, Isabelle?"

"Yes!" She hopped up and down on her heels.

Katie—as she told all the kids to call her—smiled even more broadly. "I'm glad to hear it! Head right in; Johanna will show you your cubby where you can put your backpack and pillow."

"Bye Mommy, bye Daddy!" Isabelle gave them each a swift hug. "Say bye to Jemma and Leo for me too."

"Uncle Leo and Aunt Jemma will miss you," Hunter promised, giving her a significant look. They had gone over the new titles for all of Isabelle's adult friends the day before, and now were just hoping they would stick. "But don't let that stop you from having a ton of fun!"

"I don't think it will," Bobbi laughed, watching her run inside. They thanked Katie and walked away, Bobbi placing her head on Hunter's shoulder. "I already feel like an empty nester."

"Wanna make another?"

Her head jerked upward, nearly knocking his chin. "What? No! Hunter!" She hit him in the arm, hard.

He shrugged sheepishly. "Hey, it was worth a try."

"Today's the day," Hunter said to her, looking down at her hands so tight on the steering wheel that her knuckles were white, "but that doesn't mean you have to kill us on the way there."

"We're going exactly the speed limit," Bobbi said through gritted teeth, but did release her stranglehold on the steering wheel slightly.

"You nervous?"

"Nothing to be nervous about. We know what the judge is going to say."

"That's right. 'Cause we're amazing parents, Bob."

She glanced in the rearview mirror at Isabelle, who was seated in the back between Skye and Fitz and and singing along loudly to the Frozen soundtrack, which was blasting throughout the car and effectively silencing Bobbi and Hunter's voices to anyone not sitting in the front seats.

"Because 'amazing parents' are totally ones who on the way to their kid's adoption still hasn't decided on a last name yet," she teased, taking on a lighter tone.

"We have: Morse-Hunter."

"Hunter-Morse."

"Morse-Hunter!"

"Hunter-Morse."

They both began to laugh. "See?"

"We're hopeless," Hunter agreed, leaning back against the headrest.

Long story short, the judge said yes. Bobbi and Hunter were the first to hug the newly christened Isabelle Morse-Hunter. They all cried, even Isabelle—though their daughter didn't seem to know why she was crying, just that her Mommy and Daddy were, and she felt like it too. To their daughter, they had been a family long before it was ever put down officially on paper.

AGE 6

"So, what are you going to dress up as?" Skye asked, leaning against the lab counter. Fitz gently moved her away, already clad in goggles and passing more pairs out to the three of them standing there and watching. "This was always my least favorite part of Chem," Skye muttered as she slipped hers over the bridge of her nose. Bobbi made sure Isabelle's were on properly but needn't have worried—her daughter was holding them tight to her face.

"We're, ah, dressing up as mad scientists," Fitz informed her, taking the graduated cylinder and pouring its contents slowly into the beaker.

"So you're just wearing your normal clothing then?" Skye asked.

"No, we're—" Fitz dropped off, finally getting it. "Haha, very funny. No, Simmons made me promise I wouldn't tell before Halloween, so..."

"But today is Halloween," Skye pointed out.

"She said until tonight," Fitz shrugged.

"Isabelle, what's your costume?" Skye asked as they all shielded their eyes from the light emitted by the mixture of fluids in the beaker.

"I haven't decided yet," the little girl told her. "I can be Elsa again but I was Elsa last year, remember?"

"Hmm," Skye said. "What about Hermione?"

"What's Hermione?"

Skye's eyes widened. "I just figured out your bedtime stories...for the next thousand or so nights."

"Sorry, Skye, Hunter's got dibs on that one," Bobbi cut in with a smile. "Says it's all part of introducing her to his culture. We're waiting until she turns seven."

"Because it's too advanced? I guess that's fair," Skye said, looking mildly disappointed.

"Nah, because seven Horcruxes and Hunter's a nerd," Bobbi grinned.

Isabelle tugged on both of their shirts. "What are you talking about?" she whined.

"Nothing. I can't wait until you turn seven," Skye told her, shaking her head.

"Here, Isabelle, come watch this," Fitz said, immediately distracting her.

"Our extraterrestrial visitor gone yet?" Bobbi asked Skye in a low voice.

"Nope. She's still in Coulson's office," the hacker replied back. "She's been asking to see Isabelle though."

"What?" Bobbi looked at her askance. "I've been trying to keep her out from underfoot this time."

"I don't think Lady Sif really minded last time," Skye smiled. "She did let Isabelle hold her sword and called her 'youngling' a lot...which I suppose could be a term of endearment for an Asgardian."

"All I remember is Isabelle nearly giving me a heart attack with that sword," Bobbi grumbled.

"Nonsense, Lady Barbara. Younglings of Asgard begin to learn the art of the sword at an age much the same as Isabelle."

Bobbi raised her eyebrows at Skye's mimicry of Sif's usual brusque way of speaking. "Did she say why she wished to meet with Isabelle again?"

Skye shrugged, a small smile playing about her mouth. "Something about a gift."

"Please don't let it be a sword," Bobbi muttered.

"Hey, they should be out of the meeting by now," Skye grinned. "Let's go find out."

Calling her daughter to her, Bobbi removed both their safety goggles. "Do you remember Lady Sif?" she asked. "She's back and wants to see you."

Isabelle's eyes lit up. "Really? I remember! She was big like you but she has a shield that's my size," the girl said proudly.

Despite herself, Bobbi smiled. "Come on." The three of them headed to Coulson's office, leaving the mad scientists to their experiment. As they approached, the door opened, and the director and the Asgardian stepped through.

"Lady Sif!" Isabelle ran forward excitedly, the honorific falling easily from her lips as if it were simply part of her name.

"Lady Isabelle," Sif greeted her, inclining her head in a short bow. "You are well?" The girl grinned up at her and the warrior seemed to take that as an answer in and of itself. "I have something for you." Sif indicated the leather-wrapped bundle in her arms, then held it out to her.

"For me?" Isabelle asked, glancing back at her mother, who could do nothing but nod encouragingly.

"What do we say when someone gives us a gift, Isabelle?" Bobbi prompted.

"Thank you, Lady Sif," Isabelle said, attempting to hug the bundle to her chest but nearly toppling over with the unexpected weight of the package.

"You may open it," Sif said. Isabelle gently set the bundle on the floor and searched through it for the opening flap with her small hands. She found it after a few seconds, drawing the pouch open and peering inside with an open mouth.

Bobbi stepped forward to get a better look, catching a silvery flash of fine-wrought metal as Isabelle pulled it out of the bag. It was a child-size set of Asgardian armor.

"There is something else," Sif told her. Isabelle pulled out a shield of roughly the same dimensions as Sif's. Even Coulson appeared surprised.

Bobbi found her voice first. "Sif, you didn't have to…"

"It was my pleasure, Lady Barbara," the woman inclined her head again. "Now Lady Isabelle shall be outfitted as any other high-born Asgardian youngling of her age."

"Thank you," the director said.

"It was good to see all of you again, especially you, Phillip, Son of Coul. It is my hope that you shall be able to end this farce with Thor soon, so that both he and I may visit more often."

"It is my hope as well," Coulson told her.

She bowed low to them all, facing Isabelle directly. "I must now return to Asgard. I do not know when we shall meet again, but best of luck, Lady Isabelle of S.H.I.E.L.D."

"I'll escort you up to the surface," Coulson nodded. "Opening the bifrost underground is not exactly the end I had in mind for my base." The two of them set off down the hallway.

Isabelle tugged on her shirt, and Bobbi looked down. Her daughter was grinning from ear to ear. "Mommy, guess what I wanna be for Halloween?"

"Good choice, seeing as she already has the costume for it," Skye chortled. She met Isabelle's eyes with equally excited ones of her own. "Let's go try it on!"

AGE 8

"Why don't you and Dad get married?" Isabelle asked as Bobbi turned the car off and set the parking brake. "Don't you love each other?"

"Don't forget your backpack," Bobbi reminded her as she exited the driver's seat into the base's garage. Lola, the Bus, and the Quinjet were all parked in their spots, meaning no mission had come up while she'd been picking Isabelle up from school.

"You're changing the subject!" Isabelle said, sliding out of the back seat with backpack swinging from one hand. "Come on, Mom—why don't you and Dad get married? All my friends' parents are married except Lizzie's 'cause they're separated. And Carter's dads only got married last summer...we were at the wedding, remember? It's not too late for you guys."

"You know we've been married before," Bobbi replied as they started for the door. "We've tried that. And Hunter and I have agreed—" She stopped in her tracks, nearly tripping over two remote-controlled cars as they zoomed under her feet. One was black with silver trimmings, the other bright yellow. Mack and Fitz were hot in pursuit, screaming around the corner of the Quinjet with controllers in their hands.

"I'm the Ghost Rider, Turbo," Mack shouted, looking somewhat pleased with himself to have come up with that name as he ran after his car. "You never see me coming...until I want you to." Hitting a button on his remote, flames spurted out of the top ventilators and wheel gaskets of his car, though he was too far away to do more than singe the edges of Fitz's.

The engineer spared him a split-second glance away from their RC cars. "Why would you call yourself that?" he muttered. "Sounds like a bloke who'd ride a motorcycle, not in a 1969 Charger to me."

"I could build a motorcycle," Mack mused. "Keeping with the flames, of course. We're still going for the 'straight outta hell' look."

"No!" Fitz said incredulously, twisting the knob on his controller just right so that his car zipped ahead of Mack's as they tightly whirled around the corner. "We're racing cars, not random vehicles.

"I'm just saying, I think it would look really cool to have a flaming motorcycle too..." The two of them disappeared behind the Bus. A moment later, Simmons ran through carrying a fire extinguisher.

"Uncle Leo and Uncle Mack went that way," Isabelle pointed helpfully. Simmons gave her a swift nod of thanks before sprinting after them again.

Bobbi turned back to Isabelle. "Our family is pretty unconventional anyway."

Her daughter smiled despite herself, hefting her backpack further up one shoulder. "Yeah, I guess so, Mom."

AGE 10

"Can I change my name?" Isabelle asked, walking into the kitchen.

Bobbi laughed. "What would you want to change it to?"

"Not my first name, just my last name," Isabelle clarified. "Before middle school, so everyone has time to get used to it."

"What's wrong with your last name now?"

"It's a huge mouthful!" Isabelle exclaimed. "Everyone else has a normal last name, like ten letters long—max!"

Hiding her smile as she continued to cut up green beans for dinner, Bobbi replied, "Fine, you can just go by one last name for the sake of brevity. It doesn't matter to me."

Isabelle hugged her around the middle, now smiling. "Thanks, Mom." Releasing her, she turned away and headed out of the kitchen. "Isabelle Hunter," she mused to herself. "I like it."

"Wait—Hunter?" Bobbi spun around. "But—Morse is shorter, you know!"

Isabelle grinned but kept going.

"You little traitor," Bobbi muttered to her daughter's retreating back.

"What's this I hear about name changes?" Hunter asked, coming into the room and looking after Isabelle curiously.

"Your daughter's a traitor," Bobbi grumbled, resuming hacking green beans in half.

"Bob, you're pulverizing dinner," Hunter told her, grabbing the knife and setting it down gently beside the chopping board.

"She wants to just go by your last name," she informed him.

Hunter grinned, encircling his arms around her waist. "Daddy's little angel!"

"Only because Daddy spoils her," Bobbi rolled her eyes. "Dessert before dinner, impromptu trips to frozen yogurt places with her friends after school..."

"It's not my fault you're not spontaneous," he teased. "But don't worry, I'm leaving some of the fun stuff to you. I overheard her and her friends talking at said frozen yogurt shop the other day—soon she's going to ask to be taken out shopping for her first bra." Hunter grinned. "That's all yours, Bob."

"You're so kind," Bobbi deadpanned before burying her forehead in his shoulder. "Ugh, don't remind me that she's growing up. It can't possibly have happened this fast."

"You've had—" His voice dropped to a whisper. "—the talk with her, right?"

"It's the end of fifth grade; the school has had the talk with her by now," Bobbi groaned. "But yes, we had the talk."

"So she knows no boys before she's thirty?"

Bobbi hit him in the arm, smirking. "You wish."

"Okay, twenty-nine," Hunter compromised. "But no earlier."

Bobbi grinned. "Yes, go propose that to Daddy's little angel and see what she says."

"You know, I think I'll wait."

"Uh huh."

AGE 11

"Block!" May called out. Isabelle's arm shot up to meet the specialist's swing, fingers flexing as she did so despite the tape. She was wearing a black tank-top and black training pants with her feet bare on the mat and her golden hair bound up in the tight ponytail Bobbi had placed it in half an hour earlier. Although it was somewhat less tight now.

"Strike!" May said, and Isabelle aimed a powerful kick at the older woman's stomach which the woman caught with her bare hands. May thrust her leg upwards and knocked her off balance, but Isabelle spun quickly to regain her footing and gain a few precious seconds of breather. "Good," May said shortly, before calling, "Hit!"

Isabelle feinted with her left arm and swung in with her right, hoping to clip May in the jaw but failing to come within even inches of her face as the specialist dodged expertly, touching Isabelle's exposed stomach lightly to simulate a jab. Frustration flashed fleetingly in Isabelle's eyes in recognition of the touch, but she simply readied herself for the next instruction and onslaught.

"Punch!"

The girl did, this time coming a hair's breadth away from May's side.

"Dodge!"

Isabelle ducked the roundhouse kick leveled at her, nearly hitting the mat in her effort to avoid it. May's outstretched leg sailed harmlessly above her head.

"Strike!"

She did, just as fruitlessly as the last, but at least managed to avoid the tricky kick May followed up with, hopping nimbly right over the move.

"Strike!"

Not bothering with a feint this time at all, Isabelle swept her own leg against May's, locking their ankles in an attempt to unbalance her trainer. Unfazed, May grabbed her arm and hauled the middle-schooler upward, releasing her once she was squarely on her feet with a shout of, "Block!"

Isabelle shot her hand outwards as May punched, catching the wrist of the specialist and jerking it hard towards her and stepping out of the way so that the woman nearly flew past her, landing on elbows and knees on the mat. Isabelle's young lithe body sailed after her, straddling her abdomen with both legs and pressing just the right points on the arms so that the agent was essentially immobilized, just as she had been taught.

"That wasn't a block," Bobbi said from the sidelines. Isabelle quickly got off of her, scampering to her feet before offering an hand up for May. She took it, begrudgingly, and then stood for a second without speaking. Dark brown eyes surveyed Isabelle, considering.

"You didn't follow the sequence," the specialist told her finally, rubbing her wrist.

"I still took you down," Isabelle countered, face effusing with the glow of victory now that the danger of May gutting her for what she'd pulled looked to be past. "An eleven-year-old took you down!"

"Cheater," May replied, stepping off the mat. "Go hit the shower; we're done for the day." The specialist exited the gym via the door next to Bobbi, saying nothing else. But by the ghost of a smile haunting her lips Bobbi could tell she was proud.

AGE 13

Once again, Bobbi cursed Hunter as the van wheeled out of the garage. The hasty cast on her left arm itched, and the pain meds the crack S.H.I.E.L.D. emergency medical team had put her on made her head feel foggy.

It wasn't really Hunter's fault, of course, except in the fact that he had been standing in the pathway of the bullet and that the bastard had made her fall in love with him so hard that she'd be willing to brave an actual fall in order to push him out of the way—down two stories and onto concrete, fracturing her left arm beneath her, no less. Hunter of course sustained no injuries other than bruises and the possibility of a concussion, although even the ever-cautious Simmons agreed that was unlikely. He could name the date, his location, his favorite brand of beer back in England—he was probably fine. Simmons still mandated bed rest for observation, however, so when the school called Bobbi to inform her that Isabelle was sick, she found herself with no ride.

So that was how May ended up driving to the middle school with Bobbi in the backseat. "I can feel the tension coming off you," May had told her when Bobbi had tried to go in the front. But being relegated to the back wasn't all that bad—it meant she could worry about Isabelle in peace as they drove. Her daughter had seemed fine this morning at breakfast, although admittedly that was a hurried affair because of the impending mission. Perhaps she had been somewhat withdrawn, but Bobbi had chalked that up to nerves for the hundred-point essay she would have to write in English class today. The school couldn't tell her much more than that she was sick and wanted to go home over the phone—a stupid school policy, in Bobbi's opinion.

"I can still feel you worrying," May said from the driver's seat. "Kids get sick all the time. You just aren't used to it because she gets sick less than most."

"I'm sure you're right," Bobbi agreed absently. "Thank you for driving, May."

"Well it was that or watch one of our best agents risk her life driving on painkillers," the woman replied. She was silent for a moment. "You and Hunter aren't the only family she has on the base."

Bobbi smiled. "I know." Pause. "Apparently she sometimes refers to you as her Crazy Aunt May to her friends at school."

"I'm turning around right now," May deadpanned.

"No, don't," Bobbi laughed, feeling some of the tension knotted in her insides begin to loosen. "I'm sure she meant it with love."

"Good, because we're here." May pulled the van into the bus loop and stopped right across from the main office. "You go get her; I'll park."

Bobbi exited the car awkwardly with her broken arm, then proceeded into the school administration building. "Hi," she said to the man behind the front desk. "I'm Bobbi Morse; I'm here to pick up my daughter Isabelle?"

"Just sign her out right here," the man instructed, pointing to a clipboard with a short list of names and signatures. Bobbi added hers and the time to it as well as Isabelle's name before setting the pen down. "First door to your right, and I hope she feels better soon," the man told her.

"Thank you." Bobbi went down the short hallway to the door and knocked once before opening it. Isabelle, with slightly bloodshot eyes and a reddened nose, sat on one of the chairs lined up against the wall inside, and the school nurse could be seen checking the temperature of another student behind a wall of glass.

"Hi, Mom," she said glumly, standing up to leave. Her eyes widened. "What happened to your arm?!"

"Just an occupational hazard," Bobbi replied, their code for a mission-related injury when in public. "How are you feeling?"

"Crappy," Isabelle answered shortly. They both headed out the door, back past the receptionist, and out into the sunlight.

"How high was your temperature?" Bobbi asked, pressing her hand to her daughter's forehead. "You don't feel that hot."

"The thermometer would disagree with you," she said back rather snappily, spotting the S.H.I.E.L.D. van in a parking spot and heading for it with her backpack swinging from one shoulder. "Shotgun."

"Fine," Bobbi rolled her eyes. "But seriously, what was it?"

"I don't know, 99.7?" Isabelle offered. She pulled open the car door. "Can we just go home, please?"

"Hello to you too," May greeted her. Isabelle didn't say anything else, just pulled on her seatbelt and crossed her arms, determinedly facing forward.

"You've never requested to come home sick from a fever that low before," Bobbi said once they were well on the road and the silence had stretched on long enough. "Did you make it through your English essay?"

Isabelle twisted her head around so quickly to look at her that Bobbi was surprised she didn't get whiplash. "Mom! No! My essay is next period. Just leave it alone!"

"You didn't pretend to be sick just to get out of doing it, did you?" Bobbi asked, overcome with a sudden cloud of suspicion.

"No, of course not," Isabelle said, pupils dilating.

"Isabelle…"

"I didn't! I'm good at English and I'd have to make it up anyway. Stop accusing me of things, Mom!"

"I'm not accusing you," Bobbi sighed. "But there's obviously more to this story that you're not telling me."

"There isn't," Isabelle insisted, looking dangerously close to tears.

"Have you been crying?" she asked, the realization hitting her. Redness in the eyes and nose—not sneezing, but crying.

"No." She wasn't convincing.

"Was it a boy?"

Isabelle shot her mother a look. "No."

"Did something happen with your friends?"

Slowly, Isabelle shook her head.

"Did someone else do something to you? Hurt you?"

Her thirteen-year-old was silent.

"Was it a bully?" May asked in her normal, stoic voice.

"It doesn't matter now," Isabelle said, knees jumping up unhappily to hit the dash. "I just want to go home."

Suddenly Bobbi felt a surge of affection for her daughter, who at the current moment had scrunched herself so small that she looked to be more suited for fifth grade than eighth. "Yeah, of course, we can go home." The look of relief and love on Isabelle's face was palpable.

May said nothing, but the van veered into a sudden U-turn with a squeal of the tires. Even with seatbelts on, they were all thrown against the right side of the car. "What are you doing?!" Isabelle asked.

"You're going back there," May told her, not taking her eyes off the road.

"But Mom just said—" Isabelle looked at her with pleading eyes. "Please, May."

Within two minutes they were back at the school's bus loop. "Get out," May said, affixing her with a gaze that was neither cold nor warm but just stern. "Go back there. Do what you need to do." She pressed the button to release Isabelle's seatbelt. "You have to stand up to bullies."

"May…" Finding no wiggle room there, she looked to Bobbi. "...Mom?"

"This car is not moving until you can come back here with a smile on your face," May told her. "And I can tell when you're faking, Isabelle Marie."

Her daughter gave them both something that was half a glare and half a desperate plea for leniency. Then she opened the door and slid out of the car, heading back onto the school campus.

"Are you sure we should make her do this?" Bobbi asked once the door had shut again. "We could just leave it until tomorrow...when everything has calmed down."

"No."

"Okay, but...are you sure we shouldn't go with her?"

"No."

"What if…" One look from May through the rearview mirror silenced her. Bobbi looked out the window. "I just hope she knows this is killing me just as much as it's killing her." Two minutes passed with no sign of Isabelle. "Fitz must have showed her how to trick the thermometer the nurse used…" No response. "Means Isabelle went to a lot of trouble to get out of school, doesn't it?" Silence. "Whatever happened must have been really bad…"

"Bobbi."

With a sigh, she forced herself to sit back in her seat. She was going to have to have a serious talk with Fitz about what 'life skills' he was teaching her daughter. Then again Hunter was currently teaching her to stand on one foot with her head tilted back and how to recite the alphabet backwards as practice for passing field sobriety tests—"But never drive drunk!"—so who were they to talk.

It took either seven minutes and thirty-six seconds for Isabelle to return or, as it seemed to Bobbi, seven million years. But when she finally did, it was with eyes a bit more red-rimmed than before and a smile on her face. She climbed into the car.

"Is it done?" May asked, sounding more like a shadowy government figure than a concerned parent. Which, Bobbi supposed, she wasn't.

Isabelle nodded, her smile genuine and widening. "Yes."

"Good."

"Just like that?" Bobbi asked. "What happened? You didn't punch him, did you?"

"No, Mom," Isabelle rolled her eyes. "I know better than to use my secret S.H.I.E.L.D. skills on a civilian. And it was a she." Bobbi nodded, smiling slightly. "Should I go back to class for the essay?" Isabelle asked uncertainly. "Lunch is almost over, but I haven't missed any class yet…"

"You're already marked as out sick for the rest of the day and I don't feel like explaining all this to admin, do you?" Bobbi asked.

Isabelle smiled. "No. So, back home?"

"To ice cream, I think," May started the engine.

"Really?" Isabelle looked happily between May and her mother.

"You've earned it," May told her, pulling out of the bus loop. "And while we're there, maybe we can have a talk about the nickname 'Crazy Aunt May'..."

AGE 16

Isabelle's POV

"Mom, this is ridiculous," Isabelle said, eyes flashing. "You can't just...just...call in reinforcements on me. It's not fair!" She stamped her foot on the ground, not even noticing the action until pain lanced up her ankle from the impact. She pretended not to notice, still staring at her mother defiantly.

"I'm your mother, I have every right to bring in as many reinforcements as I want," Bobbi replied coolly.

"I know what I want to do with my life and I'm well on the track to doing it. Most parents would be glad if their sixteen-year-old knew all that," Isabelle told her angrily.

Unimpressed by her argument, Bobbi pointed towards the door leading to the lounge. "March. It's not polite to keep people waiting, especially when they've come so far just to see you like your aunt has."

"You know she's not really my aunt," Isabelle spat, hardly aware of the words spilling out of her mouth anymore. Was it the truth? Yes. Did it mean Isabelle loved her any less? Definitely not. But would it hurt her stubborn and conniving mother to hear? Hell yes. "And she didn't come just to see me—she came to be your mouth puppet."

Fed up, Bobbi crossed over to open the door herself. "The Black Widow is no one's puppet," she said flatly, turning the handle. "Not anymore."

Isabelle had no choice but to step through as Natasha caught sight of her. She was seated on the couch with a bottle of vodka on the coffee table, a single glass next to it half-filled with the hard liquor. She heard the door click closed behind her. "So I hear you want to be a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent," Natasha said, rising to her feet with a slight smile.

"Yes," Isabelle replied defiantly, adrenaline from the argument with her mother still coursing through her veins. "I hear you've come to talk me out of it. I can save you the trouble, Natasha—it's not going to work."

"Is that any way to greet your aunt?" Natasha asked, eyes sweeping over Isabelle's battle-ready stance. She stepped forward and embraced her, holding her long and tight and feeling the teenager reciprocate after a second or two. When Natasha released her, she said, "I promise I'm not here to talk you out of it, whatever your mother might think."

"You're on my side?" Isabelle asked, stunned.

"I didn't say that," Natasha laughed, but sobered quickly. "I'm here to give you my perspective. This isn't a decision you can take lightly—"

"I haven't taken it li—!" Natasha's look shut her up.

"—but I want you to know where we all come from. And after that, I want to explain a few things to you. I know you think you know what being an agent will be like, but in a few months S.H.I.E.L.D. will be undergoing some massive changes. Even though we've been public for over two years now, you've never lived under the S.H.I.E.L.D. that was before, and will be again." Natasha paused. "Have I at least convinced you to hear what I want to say?"

Abashed, Isabelle looked at the floor, knowing Natasha had heard every word said outside. "I always want to hear what you have to say, Auntie Nat."

"I'm glad." The spy gestured for her to sit down on the couch, then offered her a small glass half-full of clear liquid.

"...you're giving me vodka?" Isabelle asked, taking the glass with a bemused expression. "Does Mom know?"

"It's water," Natasha told her. "The vodka's for me. I don't like talking about things I've put behind me. Vodka helps with that."

"Because it dulls the pain of the past?"

"Because it reminds me of it."

"Oh." Isabelle sat down next to her as Natasha took a small swig from the bottle.

"The first time I remember drinking…" She paused. "It was forced down my throat like fire; I struggled and accidentally inhaled it and nearly died."

"I'm never trying vodka," Isabelle said fervently.

"I was younger than you. Fourteen or fifteen—it all runs together." She drew her fingers through her curled red hair. "It was the build my tolerance early. And it succeeded."

"Who...who would do that to you?" Isabelle asked softly. "I mean...I know you don't remember—that you didn't grow up with your parents. And that you were trained to be a spy from a young age. But I never thought…"

"About what that actually looked like?" Natasha asked with a wry smile. "Don't be afraid to ask me questions. You're old enough to have a few answers." She paused. "I was raised in the Red Room from a very young age. Their business was training young girls to be a Soviet assassin."

"A? Just one?"

"Just one." Isabelle caught the darkening of her eyes, and despite Natasha's invitation did not press the issue. "I escaped them when I was twenty-one, but by then killing was all I knew. Not just for food to eat or a warm place to sleep, but high-level kills—contracts and regime change and basically anything if I was paid enough. They had given me a very specific skill set, and I didn't care who I used it for...or on."

Isabelle was silent. She didn't know what to say. She'd always known Natasha's background was dark and harsh, but her parents had carefully protected from any of this. The Natasha she knew was...not warm, exactly, but always attentive and kind, listening to Isabelle or Lila or Cooper regale her with tales about their days or in the later years complain about the tyranny of their parents. Yes, sometimes she appeared cold and dangerous, but no more so than May did sometimes. She couldn't imagine her killing for anything less than to protect others. She couldn't imagine her killing without caring.

"Clint was already in S.H.I.E.L.D.'s employ. Coulson's first big assignment was to be his handler… Fury thought it fitting since it had been his inclination to take in strays that caused Barton to be recruited in the first place. Apparently that inclination was something he passed on to Clint." At this, the ghost of a smile graced her face. "He spared me when his orders were to kill. He brought me into the fold. I was...resistant...at first, but I came around. He made me come around."

"That's why the two of you are so close," Isabelle murmured.

Natasha inclined her head. "That and he was the only one who could truly understand what it meant to have done unforgivable things...to have lost yourself in the process." She looked Isabelle in the eyes. "That's why we are at S.H.I.E.L.D. Not because we ever chose it, but because we owe an unpayable debt."

"Natasha?" Isabelle said slowly. Her heart hammered in her chest as she considered her question carefully. "If it's unpayable...and I'm not saying you should do this or anything like that...then why try at all?"

The assassin was silent for a few moments. "We were made, not born, to be what we are. They made us the instrument of the pain we inflicted on both ourselves and others. We have both fought to break free. Why would we willingly submit to being what they made us? We can be weapons, or we can be people. We can be monsters, or we can be human. At S.H.I.E.L.D., at home, in the field—we make our choice again and again every single day, with every decision that comes before us." She let the words hang in the air for a moment before meeting Isabelle's eyes and forcibly smiling. "It's very different for Clint and me than most. That's what I want you to understand. We're all here for our own reasons, each as valid for the next. I am very thankful that mine will not be yours, should you choose to pursue this life."

"What about my mom?" Isabelle asked. "When I ask her she just gives me facts. I want to know why."

"Bobbi…" Natasha looked pensive for a minute. "From what I have seen, Bobbi has always felt a yearning to be of service. Did you know that when she was young, she wanted to be a superhero?"

"What? No!" Isabelle grinned. "Like how young?"

"Your age and younger," Natasha smiled indulgently. "Bobbi feels an innate sense of duty, and unlike many she has the relentless courage required to step up and fulfill that duty."

"A regular Gryffindor," Isabelle smiled. "Like me."

Natasha narrowed her eyes slightly, gesturing to herself. "Slytherin, of course. But back to the topic...once Bobbi was a part of S.H.I.E.L.D., she developed a strong loyalty to it. Her martial arts skills and fluid, practical way of thinking may have aided her initially, but it was her belief in the cause that propelled her to the highest ranks." The Widow looked at her. "Growing up in a S.H.I.E.L.D. base surrounded by agents carrying out their duties, I don't know if you feel the same pull."

"What about my dad?"

"Because of Bobbi. At the time when your family was first reunited, I am certain he would not have stayed if not for her. Now...I am not so sure. He's loyal almost to a fault, and through thick and thin she's what he's always been loyal to."

"Hufflepuff," Isabelle said with a small teasing scoff. Natasha inclined her head. "I know the rest of the team's stories, but not Phil. You mentioned he was Clint's handler way back when? Why did he choose to join S.H.I.E.L.D.?"

"Coulson is here because he loves Captain America more than life itself," Natasha told her. They both laughed. "Much like your mother, he feels a sense of duty. He wants to make the world a better place for the little guy—for the one person he interacts with on a mission, whose life he can impact in any way no matter how small. Bobbi looks more at the bigger picture—she was never one for the Welcome Wagon—but focuses on taking out the big bads, the kind that could mean danger for many people that she will never see, much less meet." Natasha stopped, taking a breath. "You have to understand why we're all here. Your mom, Clint, me, Coulson—any one of us you admire, because you have to figure out if you truly want to be here. Each of us has sacrificed enormously for this life, by choice or not, and none of us want to see you regret your decision." Isabelle was silent. "Becoming an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D.… It's following orders, even if you might not agree with what they are. It's going on missions that are assigned to you, not the ones you request or helped to plan. It's working with people in a largely professional capacity, always changing, always rotating. What the agents here have built is a family...what S.H.I.E.L.D. will become once again is a bureaucracy."

"Bureaucracy isn't necessarily a bad thing," Isabelle shook her head. "It gets a bad rap, but it only means a government characterized by specialization of functions, adherence to fixed rules, and a hierarchy of authority."

"And red tape, and inefficiency, and a very small level of transparency," Natasha nodded. "There is a time and a place for bureaucracy. S.H.I.E.L.D. could not function if it was not one. But it will frustrate at times. It will stall. It is made up of humans; no matter how many safeguards put in place it will make mistakes. And so will you."

"So what are you saying?" Isabelle asked softly.

"I'm saying being an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. means the chance to make a difference in the world. I'm also saying that it requires a lot of sacrifices. A normal life. Normal relationships. Children. These are all things you put in jeopardy when you choose to join S.H.I.E.L.D. The sudden deaths of friends and colleagues. Seeing the light leave the eyes of a person you've just killed. The acts of evil humans are capable of. These are all things that your parents wish to protect you from. They want something more for you—stability, tranquility, everything they have been trying desperately to provide for you since you were a small child."

"But...it's worth it, right?" Isabelle's voice was very small.

Natasha allowed her a small smile. "Your parents obviously think so."

"Oh. Right," Isabelle said with an uncertain laugh. "...I do understand more now. Thank you, Natasha. But my decision hasn't changed. I still want to be a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. Mom might claim not to get why, but it's the same for her." She gazed, clear-eyed, at Natasha. "I want to make a difference, and I want it to mean something and be exciting and cutting edge. I don't think she gets that I know the sacrifices—growing up here, I've seen them firsthand. I still remember Trip, even though I only knew him a few short weeks before he died. And I know my childhood hasn't exactly been typical—not that I'm complaining; I truly did love it. But I know there were certain things that I couldn't do, that I had to give up, that Mom and Dad had to give up. I don't expect that to change when I'm an adult. An agent."

Natasha inclined her head. "I'm glad you've thought about this, Isabelle. And I can't say I'm not proud of yourself for your choice." She stood up, and Isabelle, sensing a closing to their conversation, did as well. The redhead embraced her again. "You are a remarkable young woman, Isabelle."

"Thanks," she ducked her head almost shyly. "And thanks for, you know, telling me about all of that. You...you didn't have to."

"Any way I could help."

Bobbi's POV

"Here," Skye said, proffering her a glass of golden liquid. The bubbles swirled merrily inside it as she lifted it to her lips, letting a small sip of champagne ghost over her tongue.

"Thanks," she said with a smile.

"Where's Hunter?" Simmons asked, her arm linked with Fitz's like it had been ever since they'd arrived. They both looked especially couple-y with his tie matching the exact hue of her lilac cocktail dress. Skye was wearing a dark blue number similar in style to that one, while Bobbi had chosen a deep red for the occasion. Even May had been forced into a dress, although try as he might, Coulson could not convince her to wear a certain sparkly silver number. All the men were in suits.

Bobbi looked across the small section of lawn to where the hors d'oeuvres were being served. She nodded towards him. "There."

They drifted towards him holding their glasses of champagne. He was bent over the table with an oyster knife in his hand and didn't seem to notice them. "What's he doing?" Skye asked.

"Trying to crack open an oyster," Bobbi rolled her eyes.

"You have to crack them open?" The puzzled expression on her face shifted to one of annoyance as Simmons gave her an odd look. "I didn't exactly have a lot of high-class dining options while living in my van, Simmons."

"That was fourteen years ago," the biochemist protested as Hunter's knife slipped across the hard, slippery exterior of the shell for the umpteenth time, nearly slicing his finger open.

"And living on the secret base of an organization that technically wasn't supposed to exist definitely produced more of those opportunities," Skye scoffed. "For some reason I was always working back-end for the missions involving fancy parties, even though you guys all know how easily I got that intel out of Ian Quinn back on, what, my third mission with you guys?"

Fitz smiled. "I seem to remember you jumped from a two-story window into a pool on that one. Yeah, I wonder why Coulson doesn't assign you to ritzy ops…"

"Oh, shut up," Skye told him, masking the pink tinge to her cheeks by turning to watch Hunter struggle again. "Aren't the oysters alive in there; that's why he can't get the shell open? It seems almost inhumane to me."

"Yeah, well, the oysters are winning," Bobbi laughed. Hunter glared at her before returning his frustrated gaze to the rock-like sea creature in front of him. Taking a small amount of pity on her ex-husband, she took a step forward and put her hand on his shoulder. "Just give up, Lance. Hill already talked to the caterer about the mistake and they're coming back with new ones that actually have already been opened."

"They're less fresh that way," he grumbled, nevertheless setting the knife down. They walked back to the group, which was now surveying the increasingly sized crowd. Bobbi estimated a couple hundred people had turned out for the event, with a few more still trickling in.

"I still can't believe this is happening!" Simmons squeezed Fitz's hand. "Reopening the Academies...for a while there, I didn't think it would ever happen."

"Makes all the work we did to rehabilitate our image seem worth it after all," Skye nodded.

"It's nice to see the old stomping grounds too," Fitz scratched his head. "Whose idea was it to hold the launch party at SciTech?"

"Hill," Bobbi supplied.

"And it looks almost the same, too!" Simmons said delightedly. "We should thank her. She's really helped pull this all together."

"She's making the rounds right now, I think," Bobbi said, scanning over the heads of attendees. "But I'm sure both our directors will come to see us at some point."

"Rebuilding S.H.I.E.L.D. to its former glory was her baby," Skye smiled. "Coulson took care of the ops and current affairs, and she renegotiated all of this. Imagine how she must feel tonight."

"Fury certainly knew how to pick 'em," Fitz nodded.

"Hey, where'd Isabelle run off to?" Hunter asked, turning to Bobbi. "She came in with us and then disappeared.

"Just off to talk to some of the younger agents and the other kids, I'm sure," Bobbi replied. "She's not going to get lost."

"We're not the young people anymore," Skye bemoaned to Simmons.

"No, we're not," a new voice cut in. Maria Hill, in an elegant one-shoulder black dress with the small S.H.I.E.L.D. eagle pinned to it. She too looked noticeably older, Bobbi realized—though perhaps the few streaks of gray that ran through her hair were simply stress, not a sign of age. It suited her, somehow—added an air of experience and command that the subject of Fury's out-of-the-blue and controversial promotion before the Battle of New York had lacked.

"Director Hill," they greeted her warmly.

"How are my senior agents all enjoying their nights off?" Hill asked, joining their small circle.

"Oh, now we really sound old," Skye muttered to Jemma out of the corner of her mouth.

"Although does it really count as a night off if we're all here?" Hunter joked.

"Just shut up and drink your free booze, Lance," Bobbi told him in a teasing tone. "It's an amazing party, Maria. Hard to believe we have this many agents again."

"Well, some of those here are government officials or foreign dignitaries," Hill sighed, looking out at the sea of heads. "But on the majority, yes."

"And the campus looks wonderful," Simmons praised her.

"Thank you," Maria smiled around at them all. "I couldn't have done any of it without Director Coulson, or without all of your support and dedication. This is your night as well, as much as it is mine—probably more."

"Oh, we're not going to hold your brief abandonment to go work for Stark against you," Skye teased. "As long as you finally introduce us, of course."

"He's right over there," Hill offered, rising to the challenge. "I agree; he should meet my best agents."

Skye's eyes widened. "I'm in. Jemma, Fitz, Bobbi—coming?"

"I've met him," Bobbi said, unsure if her distaste was showing on her face and not caring if it was. "You go on."

"Hi, Maria!" Isabelle popped up next to them before the four could leave, gangly boy around her age in tow. "I haven't seen you in ages!"

"That's 'Director Hill' to you," Bobbi reminded her daughter with a playful swat to the shoulder.

She rolled her eyes. "Mom…"

"I've tried to instill in you a proper respect for authority," Bobbi told her.

"And I've tried to instill a proper disrespect of authority," Hunter added.

She glared at him as Isabelle looked at Hill. "As you can see, I've had a complicated childhood."

Their director laughed. "It's fine, Bobbi. She's right; I've known her since she was little." She addressed Isabelle. "I was just about to introduce these three to Tony Stark. Do you want to come?"

"Already chatted with him," Isabelle grinned. "We talked about his work with artificial intelligence and its applications in biology and he uploaded a new version he's testing into my phone and gave me his number so I can call him to give him my feedback. He's pretty cool."

"Whaddya know, Tony Stark has a generous side that has nothing to do with corporate tax breaks," Hunter quipped. "I'm glad to see you've inherited Skye's networking skills."

Isabelle laughed. "I'm not quite sure that's how genetics works, Dad."

Hill, Skye, and FitzSimmons excused themselves and headed towards where Stark had distanced himself from the main party somewhat, flanked as always by his head of security Happy.

"Who's this?" Hunter asked suddenly, noticing the now-very-awkward-looking teen whose hand Isabelle was holding.

"Oh, right! Sorry, Jamie," Isabelle said. "Mom, Dad, this is Jamie Davis. His mother is—"

"Agent Davis, we know," Bobbi smiled, holding out her hand. "It's nice to meet you, Jamie."

Hunter looked scandalized at the prospect of shaking the hand of the boy also currently holding hands with his daughter, but somehow managed to anyway. When it was done, he leaned close to Bobbi. "See, this is why we should never let her go to parties; she's far too socially gifted as it is."

"Anyway, we were just about to try dancing now that they've got the music going," Isabelle told them happily. "See you guys later."

"Have fun," Bobbi said. For some reason—maybe Hunter's fingernails quietly digging into the skin of her wrist—she couldn't help adding, "And be careful."

Isabelle rolled her eyes again, saying in an undertone, "I know, Mom. Ad I'd never jeopardize my future as an agent for some guy anyways." She looked at the boy. "C'mon," she said, jerking her head towards the music-filled patio. They ran off together.

Hunter stared after them. "I'm not sure if that should make me feel relieved or anxious all over again. We don't have to worry about the boy, but she's still definitely got her sights set on being an agent… So, half-credit?"

"We'll have to accept it sooner or later," Bobbi mused, watching them go. She turned to him. "Honestly, does it really surprise you? She's our kid."

"I suppose not," Hunter sighed. He paused. "You think if I go kiss up to Stark he'll give me some new tech to play with too?"

"Are you a young blonde with boobs?" Bobbi asked.

He scowled, then realized what she had implied and swore violently. "You don't think that's why he…?"

"He is Tony Stark," Bobbi shrugged.

Hunter turned in the direction of the playboy billionaire in question, looking ready to hit him. "That's my daughter he was ogling!"

"Please don't start a fight with Iron Man," Bobbi laughed. "You'd lose."

"Thanks for the support, Bob."

"I was just kidding," she promised. "About him being nice to Isabelle because of that, not about you losing." He shot her a glare. "He has Pepper now, after all. And even Tasha says that he's okay, and you know how hard it is to get her stamp of approval."

Hunter didn't seem to be hearing her. "And she's underage!" he spluttered. "Git."

AGE 17

Hunter sidled up to her, nudging her with his elbow. "Wh—at?" Bobbi asked, lowering her voice to a whisper mid-word at the dozen of significant looks he was giving her.

"Isabelle," he said, nodding to where their daughter was sitting on the couch as if that explained everything.

Bobbi began to scrub another plate with the rough side of the sponge. "Yes, she exists. What about her?"

"She's on the S.H.I.E.L.D. Academy website!" Hunter said in a hushed voice.

She turned on the faucet to rinse the plate before setting it on the rack to dry. "So?"

"So she's supposed to be doing college research!"

Bobbi shrugged. "She's probably just looking at her options for later, getting the admittance parameters so she knows what to look for in a college. Doesn't mean she's definitely decided she wants to go yet. It's smart—she's keeping her options open."

"Open?!" Hunter demanded loudly, forgetting for a moment that he was the one who had insisted on the whispering. "Open? I've been watching her for hours and that's the only site she's been to besides something called Tumblr!"

She turned to look at him. "Did you install a program to spy on her screen on her computer again? You know she found the last one."

"No! I've just been...walking past the back of the couch often this afternoon," Hunter said. "Don't look at me like that! We wouldn't have any of this information if I hadn't been practicing good parenting!"

"I believe the word you're looking for is 'snooping'," Bobbi deadpanned. "And your information isn't even worth anything. Watch." She dried her hands and walked out of the kitchen into the lounge. "Hey, Isabelle," she called. "How's the college search going?"

"Pretty good," the teen replied, barely glancing at her mother over the screen of her laptop.

"What're your top choices so far?" Bobbi asked in a friendly manner, coming closer.

"Actually, I'm not researching colleges, but the Academy of Operations," Isabelle told her.

Bobbi did not miss the 'I told you so' looks coming from Hunter behind her, but she ignored him. "Well, given you're currently a junior in high school, doesn't colleges sound more pressing to research at this point?" she inquired lightly.

Isabelle chewed her bottom lip as she studied something closer on her screen, squinting at it slightly. "Not really. I'm planning on applying for their Training and Education program, which takes applicants straight out of high school."

Hunter made a noise that, if Bobbi didn't know any better, almost sounded like a strangled "Aha!"

"You are not going to skip college," Bobbi shook her head.

"But why go? It's not like I'm going to learn anything there pertinent to being an field agent," Isabelle argued.

"You're going to college," her mother said flatly. "And I am not letting you go into the Academy of Operations! SciTech or Communications, maybe, but Ops…"

"You went through Ops," Isabelle nearly shouted, shoving her laptop to the side and rising to her feet.

"Yeah, but I got a degree in Biology first," Bobbi fired back. "It's called being well-rounded, Isabelle."

"I am well rounded!" She glared at Bobbi before her eyes flicked to her father. "Dad didn't go to college!"

"Your teenaged father is not the paragon of good decision making," Bobbi growled.

"Oi!" Hunter stopped. "No, yeah, that's fair…"

"Skye didn't go to college!" Isabelle continued.

"Yeah, well, Skye spent years eighteen through twenty-four living out of her van, love," Hunter said, looking relieved to have moved on from himself.

She stared at them furiously, then bent down to slam her laptop lid closed, shoving it angrily under her arm. "It's not like I'm saying I don't want to go to a place of higher education, you know!" She stalked out of the room, slamming each foot down angrily with every step as she went.

After a moment, Bobbi sank down on the couch in the space in which Isabelle has previously been sitting. "Well, that went…"

"Abysmally?" Skye offered, walking into the lounge. "Possibly even worse than the Oreo debacle of '15, although no glasses of milk got splashed in people's faces this time. But it was lovely for you to point that out about me, thanks, Hunter." When he didn't reply immediately, she added, "You know, come to think of it, living in my van wasn't all that bad...maybe I'll go tell Isabelle that…"

"Please don't," Hunter said with a weak shake of his head.

"She's going to college, even if I have to write those applications myself," Bobbi cut in flatly.

"That would be kinda unethical, don't you think?" Skye asked, coming to sit by Bobbi.

"Oh. Right. She's going to write her own applications, go to college, and...and she's going to be happy about it!"

"Tall order, there, Bob," Hunter sighed, sitting on her other side.

"Not if you do it right," Skye said nonchalantly. They both turned to her. "You've just got to speak her language. Treat her like an adult."

"But she's not an adult."

"And she speaks English just like the rest of us," Hunter added. "Not the Queen's English, mind you, no matter how much I've tried to teach her…"

"Come on, you just have to make her feel like she's not being steamrollered on this. At the end of the day, yes, you can make her go to college—or at least refuse to pay the Academy's tuition and tell Hill to refuse her a scholarship or even reject her application all together—but there's two ways this can go. She can hate you for it, or you can strike a deal."

"What kind of deal?" Bobbi asked cautiously.

"Oh, off the top of my head...that if she goes to college first, you two won't give her any more trouble about becoming an agent afterward," Skye deadpanned.

Bobbi and Hunter looked at each other. "Well...we have been coming around that idea," Bobbi admitted. "It's not like we haven't been inadvertently training her for it her whole life."

"Combat, arms, living a double life between here and school…" Skye listed off.

"You side with her, don't you?" Bobbi accused. "You want her to become an agent."

"Nonsense," Skye replied with a smile. "I just want this to stay a family business as long as possible." With that, she stood up. "Let's go talk to her."

"I s'pose," Hunter muttered. "...by 'let's,' you mean the two of us talk to her while you hide in the corridor, don't you?"

"After all these years, you catch on quick," the hacker grinned.

With a sigh, Bobbi rose to her feet as well and the three of them headed for Isabelle's room. She knocked on the door, exchanging glances with Skye who loitered at the end of the hall.

"Go. Away," came Isabelle's voice from within.

"We have a proposition," Bobbi called through the door. When there was no response, she just went right ahead with it. "You do your four years at a real college and get a non-S.H.I.E.L.D. related degree, and your father and I won't try to prevent you from going to the Academy afterwards and becoming an agent if that's still what you want to do."

"Any Academy?"

With a huff, "Any Academy."

The door opened and Isabelle stood there with a carefully guarded expression. "And it'll be three years of college, not four. Maybe even two and a half depending on how many of my AP scores they accept."

Bobbi smiled helplessly. "Yes, as long as you get a degree. That's not in basket-weaving."

"Fine. Deal," Isabelle said brightly. "Now, I've got college research to do, so...goodbye." The door shut in their faces.

Bobbi and Hunter walked back to where Skye was waiting in something of a daze. "...That was too easy…" Hunter said. "You don't think...she wanted this to happen? She didn't want to go to the Academy straight out of high school at all, but pretended she did so we would compromise on the whole being-an-agent thing?"

"The mind of a teenage girl works in mysterious and manipulative ways," Skye grinned before walking off down the hallway.

"And I think we've just found one of her accomplices," Bobbi uttered, staring after her. "I have that feeling…"

"...we always get when we get played," Hunter finished. "Hoodwinked. Duped by our own daughter."

"Well, one thing's for sure…" Bobbi said.

"What?"

"She's going to make a great agent someday."

AGE 18

Bobbi knocked on her room door. "I'm back." The door swung open to reveal Isabelle standing on her tiptoes in a mess that looked almost exactly as widespread as when Bobbi had left five minutes earlier. "Here: bath towel, hand towel, and floor towel," she told her daughter, stacking them in her arms. "I see you've made progress."

Isabelle stuck her tongue out at her and then literally hopped, skipped, and jumped back to a place where she could put both feet on the floor. "Shut up."

"If you're going to keep sending me out for things you've forgotten, you could just prop the door open," Bobbi suggested dryly.

"I would, but the door jamb is under one of these piles."

Bobbi lifted one of the bigger boxes and placed it in front of the open door, stopping it from moving. "Problem solved."

Isabelle shot her a look before dropping the load of towels with a thwump! in one of the boxes. Then she began dropping all the rest of her bathroom supplies inside of it, letting her toothbrush fall helter-skelter with her nail polish bottles and face wash.

Bobbi pretended to cover her face with her hands. "Oh God, you got your packing skills from your father."

Isabelle just grinned and continued throwing stuff into boxes. Bobbi straightened them up before sealing the sides with tape.

"Why are you bringing an entire shoebox full of old campaign materials?" Bobbi asked when she reached it.

"Mementos?"

"You know your dorm room is only so big, right?"

"I need my activist cred," Isabelle said, closing the box on her mother's hand. "That stuff is coming. Just like the end of the human species if we don't do something now to combat climate change."

"Hey, I got the cans of soup and bag of ramen from the pantry," Hunter said from the doorway. He took one look at Isabelle and stopped. "Whoa...my daughter is a college student."

"Thanks for getting with the program, Dad," Isabelle rolled her eyes. "I'm only leaving...tomorrow."

His eyes swept over her pink 'Ask me about my feminist agenda' T-shirt, tiny black shorts that left just enough to the imagination, and blue backpack covered in pins reading things like ERA Yes, A Woman's Place is in the White House, and Go Green: Reduce, Reuse, and Recycle. "But...an actual college student." He dropped the cans he was holding onto the nearest box and swept her into a huge hug. "Your grandmother has done a number on you."

"All Morse women are feminists," Bobbi said as he released her.

His eyes were somewhat watery as he looked his precious daughter up and down again. "And bloody hell—go change your shorts," Hunter pointed towards her dresser.

Isabelle only rolled her eyes. "Relax, Dad."

"Remind me to tell Coulson…" Hunter had to stop as a huge yawn took over his face. "...that night surveillance ops are intensely boring, even when they end with a dozen men trying to kill us."

"Ambushes are one hundred times worse when you're drowsy," Bobbi agreed, "but we drew lots and it was our turn."

"Six months without being jumped, and it has to happen on our watch…"

"Did you text Isabelle that we were back yet?" Bobbi asked as they reached their room. She pulled the door open, ushering him in first before letting the door swung shut behind her.

"Yes, although I doubt she'll see it at this hour," Hunter grumbled, looking down at his phone. He froze halfway through flopping down on the bed, staring at the screen. "Bob, she's calling. What do I do?"

Bobbi wrestled the phone out of his hand with a roll of her eyes. "Hey, Isabelle," she answered it.

"Good morning!" Isabelle chirped brightly.

"Give me my phone back," Hunter whined, so she tossed it at him. "So what are you still doing up?"

"Oh, I was just hanging out at a friend's and now I'm headed back to my room," Bobbi heard her say after he put it on speaker.

"How many friends?" he asked.

"Uh...one?"

"It's 4:30 in the morning; whose room were you in?" he demanded. "Was it Eric? Or Suhail? Please tell me it wasn't Stewart, we met him on move-in day and he gave me a bad—"

"Isabelle, please lay your father's fears to rest before he gets an aneurysm," Bobbi requested, coming closer to the phone.

"It's not my fault he's freaking out," Isabelle fired back. "For the record, it was Alex, and were were...playing with swords."

"Is that a euphemism?" Hunter asked in a strangled voice.

She laughed. "Nope. Here, I'm turning this call to video…" A second later, she popped up on the screen, the narrow hallway of her dorm visible behind her. The camera angled down towards the floor as Bobbi heard the sound of a key being inserted into a lock, and when they could see her again the background of the hall had been replaced with that of her dorm room. Grinning, Isabelle produced an actual sword, announcing, "I am Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, the First of My Name, of the blood of old Valyria, the Unburnt, Queen of Meereen, Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Khaleesi of Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Shackles, Mother of Dragons, and rightful Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm."

Both Bobbi and Hunter couldn't help but smile. "You watch that show too much," Bobbi said with a shake of her head.

"Hey, I read the books too," Isabelle defended.

"I'm glad you're having fun," Bobbi told her. "Have the time of your life in college, okay? Don't rush through it. The Academy of Operations will be waiting for you when you get out."

"Assuming S.H.I.E.L.D. doesn't fall again," Isabelle quipped, putting the sword down.

"That's not funny."

"It's a little bit funny."

"Isabelle..."

"Yeah, yeah, I know, Mom—HYDRA bad, S.H.I.E.L.D. good—I gotta go get some sleep. Midterm tomorrow."

"You have a midterm tomorrow?! It's 4:30AM; go to bed!"

Isabelle grinned cheekily. "Night." The call ended.

They were silent for a minute. "She does know that people died in the fall of S.H.I.E.L.D., right? Good people. Her namesake." Bobbi rested her head on his shoulder.

"She knows. But at the same time, she doesn't really," Hunter said wisely. "She'll understand someday."

"That's a comforting thought," Bobbi deadpanned.

"Maybe we should tell Hill to reinstate the mandatory twice-a-year polygraph again."

Isabelle's contact picture appeared on the screen again, and Hunter accepted the video call. "And by the way," their daughter announced rather imperiously, "Game of Thrones is one of the subjects on my midterm tomorrow, so I've been studying for the past six hours, thank you very much."

"You have a midterm on Game of Thrones?" Hunter asked, flabbergasted.

"Yep. It's one of the things we're looking at in my Film and Media Studies class analyzing the role of women and minorities in television through the decades."

"So there's an entire class where you watch TV for a grade?" Hunter asked.

"And analyze it."

"Wow. And you're taking it. Makes me feel like I'm not getting my money's worth out of your college education."

"It fulfills like three GE requirements!"

"Goodnight, Isabelle," Bobbi said. "We love you."

"Love you too." She hung up.

Hunter looked at Bobbi. "Can I go back to college?"

"NO."

AGE 21

Isabelle's POV

Her new living space was crowded, but even though they were all squashed like sardines in the small dorm room, Isabelle couldn't help but feel a burst of pride that every member of the team had immediately volunteered to help move her in. They carried boxes, investigated her room for damage, and just generally tried to make themselves useful in every way possible, which really meant unpacking things twice, reorganizing the things someone else had already put away—sometimes more than once and sometimes with stuff they'd forgotten that they'd put away themselves—and, in the case of Phil and Leo, bumping heads quite hard while reaching for the same, last box. And she loved them for it.

But also, they were driving her crazy.

"Why don't we all head down to the cafeteria for a bite to eat?" Skye suggested finally.

May shot her a skeptical look. "They'll be serving MREs and odorless emergency rations from now until December to get the recruits used to that taste."

"Oh," Skye shuddered. "I don't think anyone can get used to that taste."

"Why not take Isabelle out to eat?" Coulson asked. "One last meal before the regimen of soggy cardboard begins."

"Thanks, guys, for helping me feel real optimistic about these next few years," Isabelle rolled her eyes.

May smirked. "You shouldn't. The Academy of Operations is where optimism goes to die."

"Where optimistic people get extra push ups," Coulson added.

"Where they get stuck with 3 A.M. to 5 A.M. guard rotation," Bobbi nodded.

"Where they get three extra miles on the track," Hunter agreed.

"Dad, you didn't even go here!" They all laughed, only to be interrupted by a knock at the door. Isabelle waded through the sea of bodies to open it.

"Hi!" the young woman on the other side greeted her cheerfully. "I'm Zoey Park, your new suitemate." Zoey was Asian and a few inches shorter than Isabelle, but then again, Isabelle had inherited her mother's genes regarding height.

"I'm Isabelle Morse-Hunter; it's great to finally meet you," she replied.

"I was just about to get dinner with some of the other cadets on this floor," Zoey said. "I was wondering if you'd want to join us?" Her eyes slid past Isabelle and onto the eight other people squeezed in the room. "Holy shit," Zoey hissed. "Is that the Cavalry?"

"Wonderful, the rumors survived," May muttered from behind her.

Phil squeezed her hand. "I don't think the legend's ever going away, Mel."

"Just give me one minute to," Isabelle said to Zoey before lowering her voice, "get rid of them."

"I heard that," said Fitz. "I have very good hearing. Not as good as a monkey's, obviously, but…"

"Yeah, of course," Zoey smiled brightly. She shut the door behind her.

"Sorry, guys," Isabelle shrugged, not feeling very sorry at all. From the smiles on their faces, they didn't hold it against her anyways.

"It's fine, Isabelle," Bobbi told her. "The food you guys are about to eat is more than enough punishments for snubbing us."

"If you can even call that food…" Skye scoffed.

"I guess that's our cue to take off," Coulson said. He went in for a hug. "Take care of yourself. We'll see you around on occasion...most of us have a guest lecture or two lined up."

She raised an eyebrow. "Really? At Operations? Even FitzSimmons?"

"I have one on the new defensive capabilities of the body armor being developed at Sci-Tech," Fitz defended.

"And I have one on the safety protocols of modern-day bio-weapons and one on effective communication between field agents on the ground and the scientists backing them up at base," Simmons said, sounding no less affronted. May snorted at that last one.

"Okay, okay—so I'll be seeing you guys around," Isabelle agreed. "But please don't call me out in class to answer questions or anything like that. That would be...nepotism."

"Not quite," Coulson said. "But don't worry. We won't treat you as anything different than a regular recruit, Cadet Morse-Hunter."

"Thank you, Director Coulson sir," Isabelle mimicked his tone. They all laughed.

"Remember to stretch in the mornings before training," Bobbi told her.

"Remember to be in single file lines if you don't want laps," May added.

"Remember to stay in the blind spots of the security cameras when buying things off the black market," Coulson said.

Her mother looked halfway between scandalized and laughing. "Sir!"

"But as director, I know nothing about that of course," he amended.

They all hugged her and said their goodbyes."Kick some arse for us, love," Hunter said as she embraced him.

"And remember that we love you," Bobbi smiled.

"I love you guys too," Isabelle promised. "Now, shoo!" She forcibly pushed them all out the door. One escaped her purge, however.

"They say the Academy pushes you to your limits," May said quietly from where she was standing in the corner. "Physically, intellectually, mentally, emotionally. They're wrong. You'll only come up against your true limit in the field...this is merely practice."

Not sure what to say, she just looked at the older woman, more than slightly disquieted.

Then the specialist's solemn visage broke into a rare smile. "But I am sure you will rise to the challenge, Isabelle."

AGE 24

Bobbi's POV

"You have to tell me some time," Bobbi said exasperatedly to her stubborn daughter.

"No, I don't."

"I could just ask Coulson…"

"I specifically requested that the director keep my file as private as any other agent's, including from you," Isabelle told her.

"You didn't."

"Okay, no, I didn't, but I could! What does it matter to you anyway—it's probably not anyone you know!"

"I know a lot of people," Bobbi defended. "And Natasha knows even more, and Hunter… You get the idea."

"Hate to break it to you, Mom, but Natasha's kind of antisocial with the exception of you and Clint and the last time Hunter went on a mission without you I was thirteen and he complained so much that afterwards Coulson declared 'never again.'"

Her mother stared at her. "Your memory's too perfect for your own good; you know that? But would you please just tell me who your SO is so I can go back to sit with the rest of the team?"

"Fine," Isabelle relented. "It's Camden Marsh. Happy?"

"Yes, thank you." Bobbi placed a quick kiss on the top of her head. "Have a wonderful graduation ceremony. We'll all be watching."

They weren't.

"What was the name again?" Fitz asked, fingers poised over the keyboard of his phone to search it in the S.H.I.E.L.D. database. His voice was low over the droning of the announcer.

"...came from many different backgrounds when you arrived, whether it was high school, college, the military, or another government organization, but over the course of your training here you have grown together to become the newest agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.…"

"Camden Marsh," Bobbi repeated quietly.

"Wait, did you say Marsh?" Skye whispered. "They say she's the Victoria Hand of the next generation."

Bobbi smiled. "Isabelle will be in good hands then."

"Good but crazy hands," Skye hissed. "She was such a stickler for protocol that she was practically hot glue gunned to it."

"...though I doubt many of you made it through all one hundred sixty-five pages of your contract. S.H.I.E.L.D.'s mission call be distilled dorm to one word: protection. We protect the world from secrets it's not ready for. We track new and dangerous technologies to make sure they're not being abused. We monitor the existence of gifted individuals and ensure both the safety of them and those around them. We…"

"Got it," Fitz murmured, staring down at his phone. "Agent Camden Marsh, 42, joined back in 2022 under Maria Hill. Past history as an officer in the army and then FBI. Currently works out of the Hub. She's a defcon two asset in the field."

Hunter let out a low whistle. "We're defcon two."

"Who's defcon one?"

"The Avengers."

"Oh."

"...the bravery, intelligence, and determination that you have shown here has earned you a spot among our ranks. You are all now agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. Each of you has been assigned a senior supervising officer that will work with you for a year and…"

"She graduated top of her class at West Point," Fitz whispered. "Fourth woman to ever do so in 214 years."

"Shh," May glared at them from the end of the row. At first Bobbi just thought she was doing it in general, but then the woman nodded towards the stage.

"And now, let us welcome Directors Maria Hill and Phil Coulson to the podium," the man in front of the microphone said before stepping back and letting the co-directors into the limelight.

"Thank you," Maria said, looking out at them all. She was dressed smartly in a blue S.H.I.E.L.D. uniform while Coulson was wearing his traditional suit and tie. "First I would like to congratulate each and every one of you for choosing to be here and for coming this far. The Academy is the most elite institution for training agent in combat, arms, interrogation, and languages in the world. Our curriculum is vigorous, as I'm sure you all know." There were a few quiet chuckles from the audience. "But one of the first things we like to teach here at the Academy before sending you off into the real world is what you are capable of. Second, some of you sitting in front of me can speak twelve languages. Some of you can sharpshoot from half a mile away in heavy wind. Others can crack a skull with a single punch. Play to your strengths, and recognize the value of becoming a team."

"As my supervising officer once told me," Coulson cut in smoothly, "a man—or woman—can accomplish anything once they realize they can be a part of something bigger. You are all a part of something bigger now, and with that—please look under your chairs." There was a general shuffling among the cadets as they all reached under their seats to withdraw a bundle of cloth. "Put on the uniform," Coulson instructed. "Then we will call you up one by one to receive your badge as agents." The shuffling rose to an excited murmur sweeping through the audience. Only one they had all donned the S.H.I.E.L.D. jacket did Coulson resume. "First row, stand at attention. Agent John Anderson." A man in the left most seat of the first row mounted the steps to the stage, accepting his metallic badge from Hill and an updated ID from Coulson, shaking hands with both before exiting the stage. "Agent Blair Carson." The next woman walked up, repeating the process. Soon the whole row was finished, then the second was halfway done, then all the way—at the start of the third row: "Agent Isabelle Morse-Hunter."

Bobbi's hand clutched Hunter's tightly as their daughter mounted the steps to receive her badge and ID. She shook hands with Maria first, saying something longer than a simple 'thank you' as she did so, and then moved on to Coulson, eyes shining.

When the ceremony was over, Isabelle met them outside with squared shoulders proudly emblazoned with the S.H.I.E.L.D. eagle and flushed cheeks as they all congratulated her. Everyone except Coulson, that was, because he still had to wade through the sea of agents and others seeking his handshake in order to make it over to them. Looking out across the crowd—unable to look at Isabelle standing there holding her very own S.H.I.E.L.D. badge for a moment longer without risking bursting into tears—Bobbi saw that their group of proud family members was by far the largest. Which made sense, seeing as you needed security clearance just to come to the ceremony.

"Thank you guys so, so much," Isabelle told them all. "I couldn't have done it without you."

"When do you start?" Skye asked interestedly.

Isabelle turned to her. "Supposedly we're supposed to get a week off so we can go home and have some time to move into the base we're stationed at, but Agent Marsh wants me to start right away so I'll be headed out to the Hub tonight with my stuff shipped later." Skye, Fitz, and Simmons shared 'I told you so' looks. Isabelle caught them. "Learning under her is going to be amazing, even if she is strict and kind of—"

"A hardass?" Hunter supplied. They all laughed, with Isabelle checking guiltily over her shoulder to make sure no one could hear them.

They spent another fifteen minutes or so reminiscing and generally enjoying each other's company—perhaps for the last time in a while—until a black-haired agent in full uniform with flinty eyes walked up to Isabelle.

"Agent Marsh," she exclaimed, immediately standing up straighter.

"Agent Hunter," she greeted back, making Hunter jump slightly at the sound of his name coming out of the stern-looking woman's mouth. "Are you ready to go?"

"Yes," Isabelle said. She looked at the others encircled around her, then gave her mother a quick hug and let her father give her a swift peck on the top of the head. Agent Marsh nodded to them all curtly before leading their daughter away and toward the Academy's hangar.

Hours later, they were back at home. Bobbi hadn't expected it to feel as empty as it did without Isabelle—she'd been away at college for three years and then the Academy for another another three already—but it still was different now, somehow. Their daughter was an adult. Not just in the eyes of the law as she had been at eighteen, but she was a functional member of society and while yes, Bobbi had obviously wanted that for her, it still meant she didn't really need them anymore. She had a job of her own making, an income to support her, a place to live more permanent than a dorm room. This was the first time that here, with Bobbi and Hunter, was not 'home.'

Seated on the couch with Hunter, she was as quiet as he was with their hands intertwined in between them. "She'll be fine," Bobbi uttered finally.

His eyes refocused. "Of course she will. She's had the best teachers—Mockingbird, the Cavalry, Turbo, Tremors, me…"

"Why are you the only one Mack hasn't nicknamed?" Bobbi asked in a teasing voice.

"Because my nickname is just Hunter in that exasperated voice he uses whenever he says it." Her lips curved upwards. "I love you," he told her.

Her smile widened. "I know." They stared at each other for a few seconds, so close their noses were almost touching.

"Do you want to watch Star Wars?" Hunter asked.

"Yes." She vaulted off the couch and held out a hand to haul him to his feet.

"You are my perfect woman, Bob," Hunter said, punctuating his words with a kiss.

"And don't you forget it."

Sometime halfway between opening the case and getting the DVD in the player, Bobbi's phone rang. Coulson didn't bother with a greeting, which could only mean one thing. "Agent Morse, suit up with Agent Hunter and meet at Quinjet Five. You'll be mounting a rescue operation for an undercover asset off the coast of Havana in a four-person strike team with Agent Camden Marsh and her agent-in-train—"

"We'll be there, sir," Bobbi said immediately, staring at Hunter as she ended the call.

"What?" he asked, nonplussed. "Mission?"

She nodded.

"Damn it. Always when we want to watch Star Wars..." he sighed.

"Mission with Isabelle."

Hunter froze. Then they both bolted out of the room to get changed.

THE END

And...that's a wrap. But I do have one thing I want to say before getting to my customary thanks-giving to everyone who had any contact whatsoever with this story: *spoilers for Tuesday's ep* I swear I wrote that bit about Mack and Fitz racing cars two weeks with Mack saying he was the Ghost Rider BEFORE this latest (epic) Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. episode. So I called it...kinda?

*end spoilers*

First and foremost, I have to thank redlighting for giving me this prompt and encouraging me to turn it into a story.

Second, to VanillaAshes and daisiesinajar for your help with plotlines, characters, general beta stuff, just being amazing friends...all of it.
- VanillaAshes, we first met through the review section of this fic 1 year, 7 months, and 27 days ago. Without you, neither this story nor Huntingbird, A History would have been the same.
- daisiesinajar, you are a fantastic writer and just as good at giving me advice on my stories. I was reading the parting note I wrote on HH when that ended (posted on the premiere of season 3) and in it I hoped the "new season provides a crapload of new Huntingbird moments to inspire both of us." Well, I guess that didn't go exactly as planned, but I do know that your work has inspired me and I hope mine has done the same for you, because we're going to be in desperate need of some more good Huntingbird fics soon.

Third, to each and every one of you reading this. For your reviews, follows, favorites, and most of all your support. This would not have been possible without each and every one of you. It pains me that this is ending, but I have a feeling we'll meet again over some other fic someday, be it mine or yours.

Until then, don't die out there, okay?

-Sanctuaria