Apologies for any discrepancies from the movie. I can't remember exactly where everyone went immediately after the battle.

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Blood.

It was what the air smelled like, tasted like.

Clint had to be slow and deliberate each time he exhaled, sure he would be sick otherwise. Actually relished the pain that flared up in his side with each pant, because at least he didn't get out without a scratch.

At least there was something to punish him for causing the death of yet another person.

He had shut his eyes some time after the medic had tried (and failed) to take a look at him, had tried to block out the image of Pietro collapsing, his body oozing blood from the dozen different holes ripped through his body.

A body wasn't supposed to fucking look like that.

He flopped his neck over, craving that further hurt because there was no forgiving what had been done, no absolving the blame, only a twisted form of penance in making himself memorize the damage.

Pietro's corpse was probably still warm, had stopped trickling blood as most of it had congealed in thick clumps, matting the fabric together and sticking to his skin.

This was wrong.

There was no reason for him to have done that.

Clint pressed his hand harder to his side, trying to figure out how his protective feelings towards the twins could have possibly rubbed off on them enough that they would do the same for him. Clint's pathetic ass sure as hell wasn't worth dying over.

Not to mention they had been enemies not long ago, certainly didn't know each other. And as little as he knew Wanda, he knew Pietro even less. It made no sense to him whatsoever and fuck, Wanda.

He had to be the one to tell her - if she didn't already know, he didn't quite understand her mind powers. He had to be the one to tell her because it was his duty, but how could he possibly crush her? She would be just as dead as Pietro.

He thought maybe he'd join them.

. . .

He was pretty sure he had accidentally fallen asleep, because one second he was staring at Pietro and the jet was on the flying city, and the next people were exiting the ramp to board the Helicarrier.

Clint waited until everyone had filed out, nodding numbly at those who paused to thank him (those who offered their condolences were worse and made his already ragged breathing hitch). He waited until the pilot - an agent named Gregg he'd met here and there over the years - asked him if he needed any help, gestured to the kid.

Clint swallowed and shook his head.

"Thanks though."

"No, thank you."

He had to close his eyes, couldn't open them until the footsteps had faded because he had done nothing worth being thanked for.

Swiping a grimy (bloody, but not just his own) hand down his face, he slowly rose to his feet and squatted by the body. Stared at it blankly before mustering up the strength to carefully lift him up, in a nauseating version of bridal style, and carry him onto the Helicarrier.

Heads turned every now and again, but mostly it was a flurry of motion to triage the incoming wounded and families scattered around trying to regroup.

His tracks paused when he realized he didn't know where he was going, and he simply stood there staring until a hand brushed against his shoulder.

He flinched so hard he almost dropped the body in exchange for grabbing a weapon, his stomach screaming in protest.

But it was just Hill.

Her eyes studied his face sternly for a moment (but he recognized that sternness for concern), before flickering down to the kid's. It was another beat before she walked ahead of him in clear expectancy for him to follow.

She took him to the room adjacent to the bridge so that there would be a little privacy but they'd still be right there if needed. After a moment, she even helped him set Pietro's body on one of the long tables in it. His brain told him this was a briefing room, but he didn't actually know.

"I'll send everyone else in when they get back," Hill told him softly.

He thought he nodded, but maybe he didn't.

Part of him kept waiting for Pietro to jump up and smirk "You didn't see that coming?" Maybe confess he knew Clint had jokingly grumbled about taking him out (and that thought made him swallow bile because how could he have teased about that?).

That didn't happen, and so he began fiddling with the kid's clothes. Smoothing back his hair, tugging down his sleeves and hemline, unsticking the fabric from the holes so it wasn't all bunched up. Even spit-rubbed some grime off of his face which only smeared it worse.

Soon he felt lightheaded and was reminded of his own wound - idly mused he'd gone into shock because it didn't hurt - so rummaged around in his cargo pants for the gauze and tape he should have applied forever ago but couldn't bring himself to. Did a shabby job and felt a deeper sense of regret over the fact he got blood in his belly button than the fact he'd been shot in the first place.

It was a pain in the ass and near impossible to get blood out of your belly button, because that thing was actually way the fuck deeper than most people thought. Every time you thought you must have gotten it all, more crusty blood would surface.

No sooner had he finished patching himself up as good as he was going to bother with, then the doors burst open and all at once everyone came in except for Banner. (Must still be Hulked out then).

They all looked exhausted, but triumphant. Stark was muttering about paying better attention to I-Robot scenarios and Cap was trying to ask him what that meant and suddenly they all just froze.

Noticed what was waiting for them in the room.

Maybe Hill hadn't warned them; maybe she did and they just hadn't realized how bad it was.

"Well, fuck," from Stark, because the man was pretty proficient at summing things up.

And then suddenly Wanda's tiny figure stopped in the doorway, her eyes seeing nothing but her brother and Clint had to close his own.

She staggered over to the table, running her fingers through his hair and murmuring to him in Russian loving words that he wished he didn't understand because it felt too invasive.

So focused on the heartbreaking twins, he flinched when a hand again descended onto his shoulder.

"It's me," Nat soothed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Are you hurt?"

Clint shook his head. "He - " his voice cracked when he tried to explain what had happened, when he tried to explain that someone else had died because of him and this one was just a kid and -

"It's going to be all right," she whispered, but he just shook his head again.

"Nat, I - "

He couldn't say it, but she seemed to have figured out what had happened. She was always good at doing that.

Instead of telling him that it wasn't his fault, that he needed to stop adopting the guilt for everything, she simply repeated her earlier question of,

"Are you hurt?"

"I'm - "

"Because if you are and you don't take care of it, then his death will have been in vain," she cut him off, her hand still massaging his nape. "If you die then he will have sacrificed himself for nothing. Don't dishonor his memory by doing that."

Clint swallowed and, after a pause, nodded.

There was silence in the room, other than the quiet half-sobs from Wanda and the choked off Russian, but soon she straightened up, wiping her face and snorting in snot.

And when she looked at him, the only thing he could do was look away.

"He died to save you."

It was a statement. Matter of fact, no emotion. Just a simple truth.

"There are very few people he would do that for," she continued, this time a quaver in her voice betraying her.

"I do not hate you, so you have no right to hate yourself."

With that, she sniffed one last time, and, using her telekinesis, lifted Pietro and walked out with him at her side.

He closed his eyes, inhaling sharply. Darted his tongue out to wet his lips, and fingered the bandage on his side.

"I think this needs to be looked at," he admitted softly.