Only You

Chapter Seven

 "It happened again," Steve says, falling into step with Natasha as they jog quickly to Wanda Maximoff's room.

"Any serious damage?"

"Nothing physical. She knocked over the table and left a few cracks in the walls, but she doesn't seem to be harmed. I've got Barton with her now."

They move in swift silence down the long, whitewashed halls of the massive headquarters. Despite a significantly shorter stride and height, Natasha keeps up easily with Steve.

"... still feel it." Natasha can hear Wanda through the door of her room. The door, surprisingly, it still intact. She knocks before entering with Steve.

Wanda's room looks like a hurricane had swept through. Her bed had been slammed to the far wall of the room and her dresser leaned into the corner at an angle, half of it in the air. Her nightstand was near the door, broken into splinters of wood. The walls had cracked, more deeply in some places than others. The paint on the walls of the room were chipped and looked weathered, like they'd faced a decade of wear and tear. Her magic had stripped the paint down instead, creating the worn look in mere seconds.

Clint's kneeling down on the floor next to Wanda's distraught form. He has a steady hand on her delicate shoulder. His hand moves down her back in strong but delicate stokes, like he's trying to iron out the way she's shaking. He looks up and greets Natasha and Steve with a tight smile. "She's alright."

Little bits of red magic, like sparks of electricity, occasionally zap from Wanda's body. Aside from casting brief light, they don't seem to do anything. An emotional discharge, maybe, Natasha considers.

By now, the assassin has put two and two together. After the battle with Ultron had ended, there was a minor debriefing. She remembers how Wanda had described what happened; a feeling in her chest minutes before the battle ended, like her heart was being ripped — precisely the time when Pietro had died, Natasha was willing to bet.

She can't smile; the expression would probably be inappropriate. But despite the stress Wanda was undergoing, it meant something: Pietro had taken up his fight.

"Let's try and move her somewhere more secure," Steve offers, "for her safety." He pointedly looks at the way Wanda has herself composed. She's exhausted, leaning against Clint for support. "That way we can keep an eye on her."

"The medical wing downstairs?" Clint suggests. The medical wing is perhaps the safest area, with plexiglass and furnishings secured. If another outbursts happen, there won't be as much damage and there'll be medical aid on hand if she needs it." They all look at each other before looking to Wanda, all seeking her consent.

She nods. Clint offers to help her stand but she refuses his help this time. "I can do it," Wanda says firmly. Clint backs up a few seer to give her space and Wanda grabs into the frame of her bed. Like a newborn foal, she gets to her feet. Her legs wobble but her grasp is strong, so tight that her knuckles pale. A bit of color drains from her face.

"I'll go get the room ready," Steve says. Wanda gives him an exhausted smile. With a grin he musters, he gives her a salute before jogging out the room.

"It's not the most homey place, but it'll have to do," Natasha tells Wanda as they enter a medical room. Steve's done his best to make it less drained of color — how he managed to get flowers, she can't figure out. He brought down several blankets and pillows, as well as a platter of light foods and a pitcher of water.

Wanda manages a laugh as Natasha helps her settle into the bed. "It's fine," she assures them, again humbled by the generosity of S.H.I.E.L.D. After first being their enemy and then being offered residence, she's taken aback by their willingness to shelter her still. (She didn't think an organization so giving would be an organization Tony Stark belonged to, either.)

"There's a radio on the table if you need anything," Steve says, looking at the small but capable handheld device. "Hold down the button on the side and talk if you need to get us. Emergencies, press that red button."

"Impressive," Natasha mocks. "Who knew you were so tuned in with modern technology?"

Clint slides a leather armguard onto his forearm. He prepares a bow, taking a recurve with an impressive forty pound draw weight. He sets a line of targets down the long room, at varying heights and distances. The lights dim, challenging his eyesight. He selects two dozen aluminum arrows, fletched with perfectly shaped feathers at one end and sharp at the other. He occasionally practices with wooden arrows, though aluminum arrows tend to have a more accurate aim due to their consistent density.

He slides the arrows into a quiver and straps it to his back. Clint inhales deeply. Focus. He flicks a switch on the wall upwards and the targets begin to move, up and down and side to side. They cross in front of one another and bump into each other, moving as if they're light as wind chimes though making dull thuds instead of pleasant chiming.

In the same moment he is more still than a deeply rooted mountain, he is moving swift enough to confuse the untrained eye. He loads arrows in under a second, aiming even quicker. He draws back, the muscles in his arms hardly straining against the considerable pressure provided by the draw weight of the bow. The arrows launch through the air and strike true in the targets, always plunging into the dead center. Some arrows quiver in the targets once they hit, moving and buzzing with the force of the hit.

Clint is a deadly machine, consisting of a shut-down emotional system, a bow and arrows, as well as a body trained to endure anything. He sends arrow after arrow into the target range, all of them finding the black dot marked on their designated target. Clint hits where he wants to hit, and only where he wants to hit. Not a single arrow strays from where he wants it to be. Twenty four arrows are lodged firmly into targets in under a minute.

Though a short exercise, Clint feels more relaxed in the slightest as he sets down the bow, unstringing it to keep pressure from splitting the finely crafted weapon. He collects the arrows, firmly setting one hand at the base of the arrow and the other hand wrapped around the aluminum shafts, pulling them from the targets. He slides them into the quiver and sets them aside, making a mental note to have the ends resharpened later.

With his head clearer than it had been upon entering, Clint leaves the practice room. Two bodies run into him at full speed. He laughs, doing his best to return the hugs given to him by his kids. "That was awesome!" His son blurts. "You shot like, a million arrows in less than a minute!" Clint ruffles his hair and wraps an arm around his daughter's shoulders.

"You two have room for dessert?" He asks, leading them to the base floor where the cafeteria is. They sprint ahead of him, like they've memorized the way there.