Only You

Chapter Eight

Clint knocks gently on the door to Wanda's temporary new living space. "It's open," she calls, and he lets himself inside. She's in the bed, with at least three blankets covering her. Wanda sets down the leaves of a strawberry on a plate, chewing before speaking. "Is everything alright?"

"Yeah," Clint says. "Yeah, everything's fine." He runs his hands over his face, feeling as exhausted as he looks.

"I'm sorry for all the trouble," Wanda apologizes sincerely. "I didn't think something like this would happen." She squeezes the pillow she holds in front of her a little harder.

Clint can't help but laugh. "Trouble? In the scheme of things, you've hardly left a dent. S.H.I.E.L.D. has seen a lot worse," he assures her. "My kids are treating your room like a crime scene," he adds, which makes Wanda laugh a little.

There's a silence that follows, leading to allowing a question to hang in the air. It's as though they both mean to ask it, but both fear the consequence of giving it life.

"Do you think it's Pietro?" Clint finally asks.

Wanda lets out a breath, unaware she had been holding it. "I don't know. It seems such a ridiculous thing, yet... it is the only explanation I can find." Her throat feels like it's closing up when she speaks. "Do you think Hydra has him?"

Clint feels confident answering the question, at the very least. "No. If he's alive, I doubt he's in enemy hands." S.H.I.E.L.D. and the Avengers were meticulous in assuring, at least for now, that Hydra had no active bases or formidable technology. "Even if Hydra was still operating right now, they couldn't bring anyone back. And if they could, they wouldn't be saving Pietro." Wanda nods her head, unsure of whether or not the information scares her or comforts her.

"How is it possible for him to be alive?" It's the biggest barrier in the plausibility of the theory that, somehow, miraculously, Pietro is anything but dead. "He was so cold and so pale," she whispers.

Clint, silently, asks himself the same question. He saw Pietro die right in front of him; saw his chest cave in with a final breath and never rise back up. Most night he sees his eyes again, a haunting and lifelessly dull pale blue. Clint can see the bullet holes and the blood blossoming from the dozen wounds, seeping across the fabric of his shirt. Clint saw Pietro dead. "I don't know," Clint admits, wishing there was something more substantial he could say. "I'm sorry." He'd come to Wanda hoping she'd have answers, but Clint found himself at a dead end.

Nighttime falls across headquarters rather uneventfully. With a lack of explanations or answers, and only questions hanging in the air, most everyone is looking forward to sleeping. There's small talk made but even Steve Rogers feels himself fading. They all take on their own look of exhaustion, expressed through a variety of clothing, choices of comfort food, and red faces.

"Barton, did Wanda say anything new?" Tony looks at his drink with disinterest, stifling a yawn.

"She knows as much as we do," Clint answers. His coffee does little to nothing to stimulate his senses. He looks around the table — a depressing sight. Wanda is in her room, asleep already. Tony has barely touched his liquor, instead fiddling with the straw in his glass. Steve isn't quite brooding but sits in a stumped silence. He's even got his elbows on the table, a no-no in even the simplest table etiquette. Natasha leans back in her chair with her hands folded in her lap, tired beyond belief. Bruce hardly manages to keep his eyes open, despite his caffeinated tea.

"'m calling it quits, lady and gentlemen," Tony announces, closing his eyes a long moment and gathering the needed encouragement to stand up. After his leave for the night, the others disperse in their own time. Clint's the last one in the room, staying there in solitude for at least half an hour before going to bed himself. His kids are tucked into bed in their room, and he kisses them both on the forehead.

He falls asleep on the floor beside their bed, too tired to relocate himself to his proper room.

The next morning, Tony's the first of him and Bruce to get to the laboratory. "God, that's gross," he says, making a sour face as he takes a sip of coffee. Not his preferred drink, but it would do. Admittedly, he had added some energy drink into the drink. Tony can't recall the last time he woke up so groggy.

In his Iron Man slippers (and, shamelessly in his matching pajama pants), Tony grabs a new IV bag. He'll leave it to Banner to switch out the old one, taking it out as a reminder. He sets it on the countertop near Pietro, and checks the monitor.

It's flatlining.

"We've got an issue," Tony says to himself, blatantly. Following the cord running from the monitor to Pietro, Tony lets out a string of swears. He's never run so fast in a morning in his life.

"Bruce," he wheezes, entering his room without the courtesy of a knock. "We have a problem. Speedy is gone."