Author's Note: Hey all! A thanks to everyone who reviewed last chapter that I couldn't PM. I love hearing from you. And a thanks again to everyone I could PM! So, not every trip to Walmart is this exciting, but for Clint and Pietro normal just can't happen. Without further adieu, here is Chapter 10.

Chapter 10: A Day in Wally-World

Clint Barton

If I had known going to Super Walmart would be so exciting for Pietro, I would have brought him here days ago. As it is, I need a couple of hardware supplies along with a few groceries, some bathroom junk, a new backpack for Cooper, and whatever Pietro wants. I kinda forgot that Wanda's the only one of them who got to go on a few shopping sprees. So, naturally, about a minute after we enter the store, the brat's gone.

I grab a basket and surf the aisles, inspecting, price-checking, tossing things in the basket, thinking better of it and taking them out. All and all, a normal trip.

I tense. Something's not right. I look left and right, ready to reach for the weapons I'm not wearing. I hate being on a hair trigger when I'm at home, but something's off. I pull out my cell phone, about to dial Pietro's number and tell him to come to where I am, when I hear it.

The click-click of a semi-automatic.

Oh shit. I can't see the potential shooter from where I am near the back of the store in the dairy section. Screams come from the front of the store, and rounds are fired. I call 911 as I abandon my cart and drop into the familiar movements of a soldier on the field. Objectives: find kid; take down the sniper. From the sound of the shots, I can tell the direction. The person's moving, feet pound and shoes squeak on the tiled floor. The sound of metal shelves and racks falling, supplies and produce thudding, and breaking glass fill the air.

"911, state your emergency."

I hold the phone like an old fashioned walkie-talkie, relaying information on the scene and the address of the store to the operator. I hang up once the man on the line confirms units are on the way and text Pietro: Hide.

"OH MY GOD!" someone cries.

It's like the world's coming down with the cacophony of multiple shelves crashing to the ground at once. The gun fires wildly then stops, people shriek. I creep faster, poking my head out at the end of my aisle and staring open-mouthed at the chaos of overturned pantries and displays; food, toys and cosmetics are scattered everywhere. I make my way to the front of the store where it sounds like a crowd's gathered and stand on my toes to see what's going on.

A security guard pins the gunman, a beefy guy wearing all black, to the ground, while another security guard kneels next to a scrawny guy—probably a teenager, in blue jeans, on his knees clutching his arm—"Shit. Let me through!" I shove people left and right until I get to Pietro. I kneel on the other side of him.

The security guard jerks his head over to look at me. "Hey, I need you to step back—"

"I'm with the kid," I snap at the guy. To Pietro, I say, "You okay?" Did you do this?—is what I really want to ask. Hell. This place is a mess, but—as I take full scope of the room, there's no blood. No one looks hurt, just shocked, terrified, awestruck. No one runs away, they just stare. Cell phones come out and I know I'm gonna see my mug on the news tonight.

Panting, Pietro looks up at me, his eyes sunken and dark, his skin waxy pale; his body trembles so fast it practically vibrates. Damn. "Hey!" I grab the security guard's shoulder and point to a couple of small fridges by registers that haven't been overturned. "If there's anything in there with sugar or protein, get it all and bring it here."

The guard nods and runs off. I rub Pietro's back. A few people in blue Walmart smocks start coming forward, yelling for the crowd to stay calm and asking if anyone's hurt. A lady wearing a name badge with the word "manager" on it comes over to us, her face pale, her red hair frazzled.

I point at her. "You, does the McDonald's over there serve milkshakes?"

"Uh—huh, I think so…"

"Run over and find out, if they do, start bringing over as many as you can. Get help. This kid needs food, lots of it, fast. Liquid's best." She blinks at the orders then runs off toward the in-house McDonald's.

The security guard returns with an armload of coke, sprite, muscle milk, and juice. I take a bottle of coke and unscrew the lid for Pietro and get him sitting flat. I press the bottle to his lips, and he takes it from me, guzzling the soda. I have another ready before he's done.

"Is he diabetic?" the guard asks. He's staring at Pietro like he's some alien entity come down to Earth.

"Kind of," I grunt, wishing I dared to ask the brat what all he had done in front of these people. But I want him to finish drinking his nutrients first.

Sirens sound in the distance. It's about time.

Pietro goes through four cokes, a sprite, two bottles of muscle milk, and a bottle of apple juice, before the store manager and two McDonald's employees come over with nine large milkshakes on trays—how nice, they even have lids and straws. I wonder if the employees snatched them off tables before the people who'd ordered them could take a swig. They set the trays down in front of Pietro and me, stepping back as the kid goes after those milkshakes like a man possessed.

I frown at the way he favors his right arm, reaching out to touch it myself. He flinches and gives me a wounded look, still slurping a shake. I have to get that jacket off him to see if there's bruising. But that can wait.

I glance over at the guard pinning the gunman and see that he's handcuffed the guy. Rent-a-cops get handcuffs nowadays? Huh. Where's the gun though?

The sirens sound like they're right outside the building now. The guard holding the gunman down pulls out a crackling radio. "Gunman down and secure. Scene secure." His eyes go to Pietro. "Paramedics needed in front."

Police enter the building, the first few going to the security guard with the gunman and getting the man on his feet. Other police go to the crowd, talking to some of the bystanders and giving instructions. The gunman is led out of the building.

A couple of EMT's come in with their bags of medical supplies. A few people point in our direction. The brat's slowing down on his milkshake intake, seeming less desperate. His breathing's calmed and his tremors are less violent. The EMT's come over.

"What happened?" the male one asks as the female talks to Pietro.

"A crazy guy with a gun happened. I think the kid here stopped him," I say. "Listen, keep it down, but we're with the Avengers and his metabolism is enhanced. His pulse and respiration rates aren't gonna be normal and you've got to check him over without interrupting his feeding frenzy, okay?"

"The Avengers! Like stopped aliens from eating up New York Avengers?! Like God of Thunder Avengers?!" the male paramedic screeches, getting the attention of the crowd. "Oh yeah! You're that dude with the bow and arrows! Didn't recognize you in that flannel, man!"

Gossip swarms. I pick up bits of conversations like "…a super hero! He came out of nowhere!"

"He was like a tornado!"

"I felt him push me down when those bullets were flying at me!"

I suck in a sharp breath at that; the brat was almost target practice again. The female paramedic helps Pietro get his jacket off so she can look at his arm, and I want to push her aside and check for hidden bullet wounds. I flashback to seeing Pietro standing a few feet away from me, chest full of bloody holes, eyes going cloudy.

A gurney gets pushed over, but Pietro shakes his head. "I can walk," he rasps. He looks at me. "I don't want to go to the hospital. I'm fine." He's pale and sweaty; fine tremors still run through his body. The hand holding his milkshake shakes as he sips, eyes crinkling with pain as the paramedic probes his right shoulder. He hisses and grits his teeth as she works her way down his arm.

"You're not," I say.

"We need an X-ray of your right arm," the female paramedic says. "The shoulder feels dislocated and I think the wrist is sprained." Her eyes go to the crowd. The police keep them in place and in line, but they stare, phones out. The police will probably keep the people in the building until we leave with the ambulance.

"Come on, brat," I say. "For peace of mind, cooperate. You can sit on the gurney, you don't have to lie down, but I don't want you walking. You're…" too shaky.

He narrows his eyes at me, and for a second I think he's gonna argue, but then he smirks. "Peace of mind, Old Man? Next you'll drink warm milk."

I roll my eyes at him. "Finish your damn milkshake." I grab the last two off the tray on the floor in front of us. The McDonald's employees had cleared off once the paramedics started working.

Pietro lets the paramedics help him to his feet, and I arch an "I told you so" eyebrow when he wobbles and has to be helped to sit on the gurney. The male who'd gushed about aliens in New York raises the head of the gurney to support Pietro's back, and the woman straps Pietro's legs down.

"Clear a path!" An officer shouts. "They're moving out."

Ugh. I hate the feeling of cameras on my back. We're going to be all over everything, the news, Facebook, Twitter, Vine, and I won't just hear it from Fury, but from Laura too. Oh man, Laura. She's going to kill me when she finds out about this.

I walk beside the gurney, passing Pietro another milkshake when he tucks an empty cup between his knees. Radios crackle, engines rumble. A couple of ambulances and a parade of police cars overpopulate the parking lot. My car's out there somewhere. I could follow the ambulance and avoid having to send somebody out to come get it later, but I want to ride with the brat.

I ask to sit in back as Pietro's loaded into the ambulance. Before the doors to the meat wagon close, I see the vans of several news stations pulling up, camera-crews and news anchors jumping out and hitting the ground running. Too bad for them they missed getting actual footage of the hero and villain being escorted out of the building. Guess they'll have to watch it on YouTube like everybody else.

The ambulance begins to move, the sirens silent. The man and woman paramedic clip monitors on Pietro, starting when the heart monitor goes crazy trying to keep up with Pietro's pulse.

"I told you he's enhanced. Work around it." I sound annoyed, but the paramedics don't seem to mind. They go about getting Pietro's long-sleeved shirt off, leaving him in a sleeveless t-shirt. Damn, the kid's wiry, muscle wrapped around bone, no meat—too thin, and his right arm's black and blue, the darkest bruising around his shoulder and wrist. The shoulder looks misshapen, definite dislocation.

"What happened in there, brat? What'd you do?" I ask.

He slurps his shake between hisses of pain as his shoulder's jostled and probed. Bright eyes focus on me. "Got people out of the way of the bullets. Wasn't neat. Ended up knocking a lot of stuff over. Then I ran at the bad guy and grabbed his gun. I…" He stares at the hand holding his milkshake. "I did something with my body, my hands. I wanted the gun gone, and everything moved so fast, and—the gun just went to pieces when I held it. I think—I think that if I'd held the man, he might have gone to pieces too. I moved so fast."

"Yeah, you're a speedy guy," I say with a shrug, but freeze at the freaked out look he shares with me. "What's wrong?"

He swallows more shake. "I've never moved that fast before."

"Adrenaline." Maybe he was scared about getting shot at again. "None of those bullets touched you?" I eye him, there's no telltale blood, and the paramedics are patting him down, asking what hurts while feeling for more injuries.

Pietro frowns at me, like he wants to say something else. He reaches for the last milkshake instead and I take his empty cup.

"That's not gonna be enough, is it?" I ask. We're out of food. I should have grabbed something else. Stupid.

"It's all right," the female paramedic says. I finally look at her name badge, Erickson. She rolls up the front of Pietro's t-shirt. "I felt the PEG, we've got some bags and formula. But we're almost to General now. I'll call it in for the team there to be ready with a G-tube pump and plenty of formula. We're going to do a direct admit and bypass going to the triage rooms. Less exposure that way."

I like Erickson, she's smart, unlike the guy—I read his badge—Smithy. He's doing his job but I get the feeling he's gonna bust out a prescription pad and ask for an autograph in a minute.

"Your medical records—"

"Are confidential," I finish for Erickson. "You're not going to get them through a standard request. If he needs extensive or serious treatment, he'll be transferred to one of our facilities. I can fill out the general paperwork about basic stuff, though."

Pietro gives me a healthy glare and pauses in his milkshake consumption. "I can fill out my own paperwork."

I glance dubiously at his shaking left hand and the right arm Smithy and Erickson are splinting in place. "Sure you can, but we want people to be able to read it. I got this. And," before Erickson can probably say something about how only a legal guardian or spouse can fill out patient information, I add, "I'm his temporary power of attorney. Government says so. I can do what needs to be done."

Pietro's eyes widen, and funny, but I expected to see more embarrassment or outrage, instead he looks a little subdued, thoughtful. He'd known that I had power of attorney—or maybe he didn't. He'd been kind of out of it when I'd come to get him and Wanda out of the med ward and bring them with me.

Erickson raises a brow and looks to Pietro who gives a one-armed shrug.

"All right then, sir," Erickson says. "They'll have paperwork for you when we get there. Estimated time of arrival is five minutes."

"And uh…" Smithy begins, scratching the back of his neck as he finishes wrapping Pietro's wrist. "Before we get out and things get crazy, can I uh… maybe get your… autograph… a picture with you? Iron Man's my hero, but hey, Avengers rule, right? You think you could maybe call Iron Man? I mean, would he come visit this guy?"

I stare at Smithy, wishing I had my bow, a gun, a taser, a rubber chicken, anything—and glad I don't.

(~*~)

The private room is small with a single bed, a couple of chairs, a sink, and a TV mounted to the wall in front of the bed. There's no sign on the door, but I bet squeezing four people plus the patient into this room is a fire hazard. The general hospital is about 45 miles from home, but it didn't seem to take Laura and Wanda very long to get here, and they'd dragged Bruce along. Nat got left behind to go pick up Coop and Lila from school and get them situated with homework and afternoon snacks. It's cute how she can go all domestic around the kids. She likes it too—so much so that it pisses me off and makes me melancholy at the same time. She could've had this for herself.

Pietro's half asleep, lids drooping as he reclines, propped up on pillows, listening to Wanda berate him about being an idiot. The gentle hum of the G-tube pump sending a nutrient shake through Pietro's PEG gives Wanda's rant a good beat.

"You should have found Clint and stayed with him!" Wanda shouts. "What if you'd gotten…?" She trails off. "I was too far away to help you!"

I don't know if Pietro's really listening; his head lists every now and again and his lashes flutter. Laura places her hands on Wanda's shoulders and whispers in her ear.

Wanda lets out a huge huff, glaring at her brother, and then turns her glare on me. Whoa. I hold up both hands in defense. "Hey, he was too fast for me. I was moving into action. He beat me to it."

Now Laura's glaring at me too. "Clint, you weren't armed."

"Laura, you know I can do a lot of damage without weapons," I say. I'm no Captain America, but I can fight with my hands, and I know more than a few tricks, all of them dirty. "Look, there was no way to predict anything out of the ordinary was going to happen. So, when it did, it was a shock and happened fast." I'm not gonna pretend I'm not mad at the kid for throwing himself in harm's way again, but "Pietro did good. Seems like a lot of people might have gotten hurt had he not been there and acted as quickly as he did."

"And I'm not shot," Pietro murmurs, sounding punch drunk. Oh, that's right, the doctor had given him some painkillers and had to triple the dose because of the rapid rate Pietro burns off drugs. "Just…"

"Tired," Wanda finishes for him. "You're always tired, dragă. And your arm!"

"Doesn't hurt anymore," Pietro slurs.

"Because you're drugged up," I say. The verdict is a dislocated shoulder, popped back into joint by a guy built like a linebacker, and a severely sprained wrist. The whole arm will be in a sling, the wrist in a splint, for a few days until it heals.

Bruce is silent, busying himself with reading the charts at the foot of Pietro's bed. He's got the iPad that was in Pietro's black duffle too, the one with the SHIELD medical notes on it. He does his standard Bruce Banner "I'm off in my own little" world hum.

"What is it, Bruce?" I ask. The man's got something to say, he just never knows it until someone points it out.

"Huh?" Bruce looks up, and blinks like he forgot we were all here. "Oh—yeah. I was just…" He frowns at Pietro. "You're faster than you were when these last stats in SHIELD were recorded. You've noticed it, right?"

Now it's my turn to frown, remembering what Pietro said in the ambulance about never having moved that fast before.

Pietro yawns. "The world moves a lot slower if I don't concentrate."
Bruce hums and nods to himself as me, Laura, and Wanda stare at him.

"What does that mean?" Laura asks. "Is he all right?"

Bruce sets down the paper charts and removes his glasses with his free hand, his brown eyes earnest-seeming. "It means his powers have been, well, enhanced. We don't have medical records of how he was before Sokovia, but I'm willing to bet when he—uh—received his jump-start back in Sokovia…" Bruce's eyes go to Wanda briefly, then focus on our group as a whole "…it kicked his metabolism up another notch. As a result, he can probably move faster than before, because his body processes input more quickly. The downside is—well…"

He looks at Pietro, like he's assessing him. "I think it's still accelerating. You're having a hard time keeping up with it all. It'd be different if you'd gotten the boost while you were healthy. Then it'd just be a matter of eating and sleeping more, but you had to recover from fatal injuries. It sapped up more strength and resources than you had—and you were probably running lower than usual after all the action you saw that day—so you're playing catch up. Your body's struggling. That's why you're always tired, can't gain weight, and keep getting sick. If you think of it in terms of money, it's like you've spent all your cash and you're charging everything on a credit card that you can only make minimum payments on. You've got a huge debt hanging over your head and while you're not bankrupt, your credit's terrible."

"How do we help him?" Laura asks, fear in her voice. She reaches out to stroke Pietro's hair.

Bruce sighs. "By keeping him fed, hydrated, well-rested, and hoping that his metabolism settles, so he can catch up to it. Or hoping it slows down entirely."

I crack my knuckles, wondering why the brat's not complaining about us talking about him like he's not here. I glance down to see that his eyes have finally closed, soft snores rumble in his chest.

"If it doesn't settle down, if it keeps increasing?" Laura asks, face pinched around the mouth—the worried mom face.

Bruce clears his throat. "How about we wait and see what happens for a little while longer, before we talk about that."

Because that doesn't sound ominous—

"He dies," Wanda says flatly. "The doctors at SHIELD thought that a lot—that he would die. But it won't come to that, not if we keep him fed and rested like you said." She gives me a pointed look.

"How was I supposed to know going to Walmart would turn into a shoot-out?"

Laura smacks me over the head. I just can't win. I run a hand through my hair and change the subject. I already said it: no kids are dying on my watch. The brat'll get better if I have to hand-feed him myself. "So, the doctor wants to keep him overnight for observation, but I think we can take him home. What do you think, Bruce?"

Bruce looks at me, and I don't know how to interpret his expression. He looks hopeful, nervous and scholarly at the same time. "I think it'd be okay. We've got what we need to monitor his vitals at your house, though I don't think his vitals really need to be monitored. Like Wanda said, we just need to keep him full and quiet."

Laura smiles at Bruce, her eyes twinkling. Okay. Since when is Bruce her favorite guy?

"All right," I say slowly. "Let's let him sleep for a little while, then I'll sign him out and we'll go home. Oh—just had a terrible thought."

"What?" Laura asks.

"Does Nat think she needs to cook dinner?" Horror stories of Nat's cooking projects come to light: raw chicken, charcoal pasta, rock hard bread and dirty veggies.

"I'll call her and tell her we'll pick something up." Laura seems to be thinking the same thing I am. She rubs her belly, probably thinking of saving Nate from poisoning.

Bruce snorts back a laugh and Wanda looks amused for a second, before she climbs onto the bed next to Pietro. She rests her head on his good shoulder; then looks at me with soulful eyes. "I didn't even know he was in danger. He was out of my range."

"Hey," I start. "That's gonna hap—"

"I know," she cuts me off, eyes sliding over to Laura. "Doesn't mean I like it. I hate it. But," she sighs, "he doesn't."

"What do you mean?" I ask.

"His feelings—when he recalls what happened," Wanda says, "he's proud. He liked helping those people. He liked them calling him a hero. He didn't care before, but he does now."

"Well good," I say, even though I'm very sure it's not what she wants to hear from me. "Avengers should like helping people." Not everybody's got a hero's calling, but like the cliché goes, with great power comes great responsibility. The brat's got power and signed up to use it, it won't suck for him to actually like the job too.

Wanda sighs, and I reach over to pat her head, wanting to tell her it'll be okay. It's what she wants to hear, I know, but we'd both know it wouldn't be true. No one can ever guarantee a 'hero' will be okay in the long run.

My cell vibrates in my back pocket and I fish it out. I glance at the face and groan, caller unavailable. My phone's rigged to block out all calls that don't come from my Circle of Friends—meaning Fury hacked my Circle. Wanda, Laura and Bruce watch me as I answer the phone with a "You heard?"

"Don't think I would have if someone wouldn't have let it get out that super heroes were on the scene." Fury's gruff voice sounds amused. Good.

"Is this a social call? The kid's doing okay, if you want to know," I say, though I'm sure he knew already. "We're at the hospital now, but we're going home in a bit."

"Home? You want to keep the twins?" Fury asks. There's no surprise in his voice.

"Yeah. We're good. Got some other company too."

"Mm… Nat and Banner. I know. It's good that you all stick together like that."

Big Man's approval. I'd pat myself on the back if I was the type to do stuff like that. "So… uh… not to be rude, but—"

A deep-throated laugh. "Yeah, yeah, get to the point. Well, the point is, the Maximoff boy made quite the impression on a few folks. Got news crews calling around and someone even had enough connections to get to Stark's people who got to Potts' people who got to Stark himself and he got to me. People want interviews, pictures—they want to make him into some teeny bop heartthrob for high school girls."

I laugh too. "What?"

"Oh yeah, Stark's having a field day, but he might not have called me if it wasn't for this one, though."

"What's that?" I stop laughing, ignoring the eyes on me, and press the phone closer to my ear.

"Somebody in that Walmart crowd got some good pictures of those McDonald's employees in their uniforms bringing out those milkshakes and even better ones of the Maximoff boy sucking 'em down. Now everybody wants a milkshake from McDonald's, and McDonald's wants to sign the kid to an endorsement deal. A lifetime supply of Mickey D's, in exchange for posing for a picture every time he gets something."

"You're bullshitting."

"I'm gonna forward the message, since you're the boy's power of attorney and all," Fury says with a dry chuckle.

I shake my head. "Oh man."

The chuckling fades. "You're really okay, Clint? All of you? Banner, Nat, the twins?"

"Yeah, I think we are," I say, touched really. The guy might be a bear, but he keeps showing us that he cares.

"All right then. Stay out of the news," he says. "You'll hear from me when it's time."

"Okay, and hey, you're always welcome to drop in if you feel like it." I'm such a boot-licker. Who invites the boss to dinner because they actually want them to come? Me. But I'm not doing it for a raise. "You're okay?" I care too.

"I'm good, Clint. You'll hear from me."

The call ends.

"Who was that?" Laura asks. Everyone, sans Pietro who's still snoring, stares at me.

"Boss," I say, tucking my phone back into my pocket.

'What's he want?" Bruce asks. "Do we—is he calling us back?"

I raise a brow at him. "Us? You're with the team again, Bruce?"

He flushes and looks away. Laura narrows her eyes at me, and I sigh.

"Sorry," I say. "And no, he was just making sure things were okay. And letting us know we may be living with the next teen idol."

"Huh?" from Laura and Bruce.

"What is a teen idol?" Wanda asks.

A laugh builds in my chest, and I can't fight it. I laugh. "Your brother! McDonald's called; they're offering him a lifetime supply of French fries and milkshakes if he agrees to be their poster boy."

Laura and Bruce blink. Wanda tilts her head to one side, mouth twisting in disgust. "McDoanald's!"

"Clint, what?" Laura asks, recovering. "Nick called to tell you that?"

I shrug.

"Mc Donald's." Wanda pokes Pietro who snuffles and scratches his nose but doesn't wake. "I hate McDonald's. All fast food in Sokovia was McDonald's."

"Have you had your break today?" I can't resist. I laugh again and Laura joins me. Bruce looks undecided.

"What is it, Bruce?" I ask.

"Think he'll share? I love quarter pounders."

Wanda smacks herself in the forehead as Laura and I laugh some more, and Bruce turns out the first honest grin I've seen from him in a very long time.

If I had known going to Super Walmart would be so exciting, I might have stayed home, but hell Murphy has ways of making shit happen. Not all of it ends up too bad, though. I move closer to Bruce, taking a chair and gesture for him to sit too.

"So uh…" I begin, hesitantly, "you and Nat, huh?"

He blinks at me, then smiles softly. "Me and Nat."

I nod and he nods back.

Author's Note: So, what's the verdict? Like it? Hate it? Don't care either way? Well, any way you liked it, let me know. Please review.