"So, when you said that they put you back together and you'd owe them..." Clint eyed the little basket sitting on the dining room table.
Phil looked at the tiny little baby. The tiny little purple baby with Phil's eyes and Clint's hair was laying on a plaid blanket staring up at them. "They said that I would have to sacrifice something. I think they're talking about my hair. Because I'm pretty sure if we're raising a little alien baby I'm going to lose the rest of it." He admitted, just in his head for now, that the tiny little thing was pretty cute.
"Well, sir. He's at least my favorite color," Clint said rubbing a finger lightly over the baby's cheek. He gurgled and clamped onto the finger with a surprisingly strong grip. "Can I call him Klaatu?"
"No," Phil sighed and he picked up the baby from the carrier. "I can't believe they actually put him in a Moses basket."
"Well, we did find him on the Hudson with the note and all that. It's almost Biblical," Clint grinned when the baby blew a spit bubble at him.
Phil looked down at the baby's face and sighed. "We're calling him Clark."
"At least you didn't say Steven," Clint teased and kissed Phil's cheek. "We're going to be fine, sir. He's got us and a whole team of godparents. With one actual god in attendance."
"Lord help us all."
The baby spat up something yellow that smelled like bananas and sour milk.
Years later and a galaxy or three from the Milky Way, Clark Clinton Coulson-Barton navigated through the stars. He wore the marks of remembrance from his fathers on his skin. The flying Earth bird, etched in lines and swirls of black and brown ink lay on his skin, ever watchful on his shoulder. There were faint lines of red and pink and black on his chest, a mimicry of a scar that had sat on his First Father's chest. It was the mark that started his birthing and Clark would never forget the sacrifice his father gave to protect his homeworld.
Clark blasted through the line of alien pirate ships like they were meteor dust and laughed loudly. "This is Captain Coulson-Barton of the Federation of Planets. I will blast your shitty ships into slag if you even think of putting a toe or tentacle out of line. Now, how can I help you today?" The voice drawled dry and bland over the open band comm waves through stars and space.
His fathers were long dust, but he knew they weren't gone. They were stars and it was his job to protect them, just as they had loved and protected him for his life.
That was his legacy afterall.