Only You

Prologue

A spray of bullets pierce Pietro's skin, simultaneously going through his back and out his chest. In the second it all happens, a car is flipped onto its side.

Clint clutches a boy in his arms, cradling his head against his chest. His heart smashes into his ribs and bounces back off, time and time again. His muscles tense as he waits for the bullets to hit, but they never come.

The boy is sobbing in his arms, trembling. Clint can't relax the muscles in his body and he turns like he is made out of stone. The gravel and rubble on the ground crunch as someone struggles to keep their footing.

"I bet you didn't see that one coming," Pietro chokes, exhaling with the last bit of air that was in his lungs. A ghost of humor tries to stay alive in his deadening eyes. He doesn't breathe in again. His legs collapse beneath him and his body hits the cement. Clint can hear the thud. He can't hear the kid crying or the mother wailing anymore, or the helicarrier whirring yards away. His mouth is set in a rigid line and the creases of his brow are deeper than they've ever been.

Steve lay Pietro down on the floor of the helicarrier, next to where Clint grunts in as a sore and throbbing pain shoots down his back. He takes up several seats as he settles down across them. He keeps his eyes on the sky, not willing to risk the consequences of looking to his side where Pietro was.

His heart beat's dead in his chest in a strange feeling of loss. It physically aches, adding to the agony his body has already taken on.

They won, he supposes. The Avengers had destroyed Ultron; torn apart every last one of his physical forms and wiped all traces of him from the networks he had infected. But as the helicarrier lifts off from the destroyed city, it feels like they lost. He looks to Pietro and feels the failure consume his bones, hollowing his body and beginning to make a devastatingly large section of his heart decay.

Loss follows Clint home. The farmhouse feels haunted by memories and the possibility of memories. The pictures that were scattered around the house, of a smiling couple and two kids with missing teeth, are packed away into bags. The beds are all made, without a single crinkle raised in the surface of the sheets. Dust has already begun to collect in thin layers amongst the furnishings. The air is deathly still.

Clint helps his kids pack the last of their belongings. He tries to smile, but it never reaches his eyes. The expression has been stolen from him and Clint doesn't feel the determination to try to get it back. His heart is as resigned as his body.

The farmhouse stands a lonely building on the rolling hills as Clint guides his two kids to the jet plane, carrying several bags in his hands and with some slung across his slumped and sore shoulders.

"Buckle in," he says with a tight-lipped smile, though it is more just a forced slant of the lips. He crouches down in front of his daughter, kissing her forehead. "Try and get some sleep. It's a long flight." He ruffles his son's hair, who weakly smiles up at him.

The plane lifts off, ascending into the darkening sky. Clint stares longingly at the two graves in front of the house. His heart feels a pain immense enough that Clint wouldn't be surprised if it tugged him back to the ground; forced him beyond the dirt to lay at peace aside two people he'd loved the most. He forcefully swallows. His bloodshot eyes leak a tear and he doesn't bother to wipe them away.

The grave of his wife and unborn son are but a blur as the plane glides on.