Clint | Steve

SUN 7 JUNE

Clint does what he can, but he eventually runs out of things to say, and Pietro gets that look back in his eyes, the one that tells Clint he's a million miles away. There's less and less for them to talk about, since Clint's fresh out of stories, and there's a hard set to Pietro's jaw that kind of makes it seem like he's not really in the mood to listen to more of Clint's nervous rambling.

He's never been the type to talk, when nervous or unsure. But something about Pietro-something about this whole situation, maybe. The parallels to Barney and when they were younger-makes Clint's talk and talk, even if he should probably shut up.

Still, Clint's never really known when to quit, especially not when it comes to Pietro. There's still a lot to be discussed (like when, where, how) but whenever Clint tries to broach the subject, Pietro crawls right back up into his shell.

Which is the exact opposite of what Clint wants right now.

Pietro's perched on the edge of the tub, while Clint tends to his eye. His head is angled slightly to the side, so that Clint can get a better look at his injuries. The eye itself seems fine, at least, and Pietro can still move it, left to right, left to right. Clint tested it earlier, just like he used to with Barney.

There's no blood in the white of the eye, which is also a good thing. It's a little red, but doesn't look too badly damaged. Clint dabs away some of the darker dried blood that he somehow missed earlier with a damp cotton ball, and it's strange because there aren't a lot of open wounds on this side of Pietro's face, which makes Clint think: that's not Pietro's blood.

Once he's finished, Clint throws the cotton ball into the small wicker bin in the corner of the room, along with his third (and final) pair of latex gloves. He strips the gloves off and dumps them in the bin, happy to be rid of them.

"I think we're about done here." Clint announces, while he's in the middle of lathering his hands up with soap, too distracted to hear Pietro get up behind him. Clint washes his hands underneath a warm spray of water, dries them off on a towel, then turns around.

Pietro's in a little bit of a situation.

He's tangled up in his denim jeans and can't seem to get them off. Not completely, anyway. He's gotten them about halfway down his legs, but every time he tries to stretch and pull them the rest of the way off, he winces and his hand flies to his ribs, cradling the area tentatively.

"Are you trying to break a rib?" Clint asks lightly.

"What does it look like I am trying to do?" Pietro says, and it almost sounds like he's mimicking Clint by trying to put on as much of an American accent as possible.

But instead of being offended (or concerned that that's what Pietro thinks Clint's accent actually sounds like) Clint finds that he's amused. It's a really bad accent. Like bordering on offensively bad. Worse than when Tony tries to imitate Steve.

"It looks like you're trying to bend in half."

"Close," he says, with a sharp smile. "But no. I want to get out of these. My pants."

Nodding, Clint steps closer. "Well, you look just like that contortionist I mentioned earlier. You're doing a good job. Maybe we can runaway to the circus together after all." he says. "Or maybe I'll just help you out of these."

Pietro pulls a face and shrugs. "Or maybe you could just stand there and stare some more. That might also help."

"If you're showering," Clint begins, as he comes to kneel in front of Pietro. He tugs the jeans the rest of the way down, down his calves, until his pants are pooled around his ankles. "Then I'll have to cover your bandages. Don't want any of them getting wet."

"I'll be careful." Pietro says, from somewhere above Clint. His voice sounds strained.

Clint pointedly doesn't look up. Or anywhere, actually, since Pietro's jeans are still very much down around his ankles. He focuses on the next task, always the next: shoes and socks.

"You know, it'd probably be easier to get your pants off if you weren't still wearing shoes." Clint says, and huffs out an exaggerated sigh. He unlaces Pietro's sneakers one at a time. "That might make it easier."

"Perhaps."

"Socks on or off?" Clint asks, leaning back a little to meet Pietro's eyes.

"Do you usually shower with socks on?"

"What, you don't?"

Pietro pulls another face. This one is a little less skeptical, and full of amusement. "Socks off, please." he says, and so Clint takes his socks off one by one (which really isn't something he'd do for just anyone) and dumps them on the floor next to the black and gold sneakers.

One of Pietro's hands comes to grip Clint's shoulder, steadying himself. He seems to realize that his fingers are digging into Clint's skin, and hard, so he uncurls his hand a little. Doesn't remove it entirely. Probably doesn't have enough faith in himself to not fall over. It goes unspoken between them that Clint won't baby Pietro, and in return Pietro won't pretend that he's fine if he isn't.

And it's obvious that he isn't.

He sways above Clint dangerously, nails digging through the fabric of Clint's t-shirt, hard enough to leave a mark.

There's not much that Clint can do, not from down here. And maybe not even from up there. Pietro brushes it off as nothing more but exhaustion ("I had quite a day" are his exact words") but Clint still feels something like worry twist in his chest. His hand flies out and grips Pietro by the waist, just above his hip.

"Easy."

"I said I would be careful." Pietro reminds. "And I will be."

"What, this is what you call being careful? You look like you're about to hit the tiles." Clint says, frown deepening. He realizes that Pietro's jeans are still around his feet, constricting his movements, but right now he's a little more concerned with keeping Pietro upright. "Wanna sit? I'll help."

"No." Pietro shakes his head. "I want you to get me out of these pants, old man. Think you're up to it?"

Clint's frown disappears, even if only for a moment, and he feels a faint smile tugging at his lips. Wordlessly, he helps Pietro slip his feet out of the holes in his jeans, then stands up. For some weird reason, Clint starts folding the pants. Because, well, he's not exactly sure what to do next.

Or where to look.

Pietro's standing in the middle of the bathroom with just pair of boxer briefs on, and it's not even like that. It's more that this is the least amount of clothing he's ever seen Pietro in and all he wants to do is wrap him up in a blanket, maybe grab him a cup of something warm, and make sure he knows that he's not alone, because he isn't.

He doesn't have to be, at least. But judging by his expression, he might want to be.

"Why are you covered in paint?" Pietro asks, mouth twitching at the corners. He starts pointing out the dots of paint splattered across the older man's skin, amused. "It's all over you. Like spots on a dog. What happened?"

"That's-I left you a message. It's a long story." Clint stammers. "And I don't know why I said that, since you don't have your phone and I know that. I should go have that talk with Wanda." he says, mostly to himself, because Pietro's smile is gone and it looks like he's zoning out again. "But I'll grab you some plastic wrap first."

Pietro's dark brows draw together in a frown. "Why?"

"For the bandages," Clint explains, again. "You should be able to wrap them yourself, if you want, but I can come back and-"

"I can do it." Pietro interrupts. He's stepping closer into Clint's space suddenly, expression carefully neutral, but his eyebrows are still pinched together. "Leave it outside the door and I'll take care of it. That is unless you think you should join me in the shower."

Clint opens his mouth, shuts it. Opens it. "Ah-that's probably not the best idea right now, all things considered." he settles on, and it sounds weak even to Clint, but it's true.

"Suit yourself." Pietro says, shrugging. It's a jerky movement, and looks like it pains him. "I want to thank you, Clint. For this."

"Don't thank me. I'd do just about anything for you." Clint says, then wets his too dry lips and glances away. "If you need me, I'll just be outside with your sister. Actually, I think it's me that we should be worried about, not you. I don't think Wanda likes me very much."

"She will think that I talked you out of it. Out of driving me to the ER." Pietro says. "Which means she will like you even less."

Clint considers that, then shrugs. "Doesn't matter. At least you'll still like me."

There's a small smile gracing Pietro's lips as Clint pauses in the doorway and looks back at him. He hovers for a moment, lingering perhaps a little longer than he should. It feels weird, to walk away after all of that. The blood, bruises, tears. All of it.

Maybe if things were different between them, he could stay and actually help with this part, but Clint doesn't stay and Pietro doesn't ask him to. And maybe this is just how it has to be, for as long Pietro needs it to be.

Clint closes the door behind him and steps out into the narrow hallway. He pulls out his phone and brings up Steve's number, typing up a hurried message before he stuffs his phone in the back pocket of his jeans. Then, he makes his way towards the kitchen, and doesn't realize until he's halfway there that he's still holding Pietro's pants in one hand.

That earns him a rather strange look from Wanda. She's sitting at the small kitchen table, drumming her fingers against the polished surface impatiently.

He's barely in the room before she's out of her chair, and it scrapes against the linoleum floor like nails on a chalkboard. Clint's never seen her look so worried before (granted he's never actually seen all that much of her, except for their little accidental meeting at the bar, but he's still never seen her look like this before).

Like she's bracing herself for the worst.

"Alright, before you start talking," Clint begins, holding one hand out in front of him warily. "Just hear me out. I didn't get talked out of anything. He's doing better. Really, he is. It's not as bad as it looks."

Wanda's eyes widen incredulously. "Is that supposed to comfort me?"

"No. No, it isn't. I just-listen, kid, I've been here before." he says. "My brother used to go out drinking and he'd pick fights with guys twice his size, and come home looking worse than that. It always looks bad, at first. Then it gets better."

"That is not how my brother behaves."

"I know it's not. He's a good kid."

"Did he-" Wanda trails off, hesitating. "Did he talk to you? About what happened? Because he wouldn't let me in the room with him today, when he spoke with the officer. He wouldn't talk to me when we got home either. So I called you."

"And I'm glad that you did." Clint sighs, and leans back against the kitchen bench behind him. He's still holding onto Pietro's worn denim jeans. "He didn't have that much to say. I think I did most of the talking, since he didn't really seem up to it, and I didn't want to push him. Not after the crappy day he's had."

"My brother can be stubborn."

"Has he always been that way?" he asks, eyes downcast.

"Yes." she nods. "Always."

"Good. Well, not good, not always. But in times like this a little stubbornness can help. That's what got Barney through. My brother," Clint explains. "Always so damn stubborn. Too proud to ask for help, so I had to act like he was doing me a favor by letting me help him out. Food, rent, whatever."

Wanda's mouth twitches at the corners slightly, the hint of a smile. "Is he like you?" she asks. "Stubborn, like you? Easily persuaded by my brother, like you are?"

"He was like me, in ways."

"Was?"

"Barney died. It was a long time ago. Six years, I think. Yeah. Six years. I keep forgetting that he's not around. Doesn't feel like he's gone, because he was never around that much in the first place. Which is why I still talk about him like he's here." Clint says, averting his gaze, and if his voice comes out a little more strained, Wanda doesn't comment on it.

Instead, she steps closer, until she's leaning against the counter next to Clint. Her arms are folded tight around her middle, like that's the only way she can keep herself together. Clint wonders if he's closer to falling apart than she is. He sure feels like it.

"What was he like?" she asks quietly, with wide, inquisitive eyes.

Clint lifts his shoulders in a weak attempt at a shrug. "He was a pain in my ass. God, he was an asshole." he says, more to himself than to Wanda, really. "But he was also a good guy. He just got lost."

"So did my brother. Not like that, but in his own way." Wanda says, lightly touching Clint's forearm. "I'm still sorry for your loss."

"It's fine." Clint says, with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Barney's been gone for years now."

"But you talk about him like he is still around. You must still miss him."

"Yeah, well, you know what they say about brothers."

Wanda's silence makes Clint think that maybe she doesn't know what they say about brothers. Which is fine, really, because Clint's already doubting whether the quote actually even applies to brothers. He heard someone say it about women, once. It was probably Tony.

"Can't live with them," he says. "Can't live without them. He was one of those people. The kind that drive you real crazy when they're alive. And when they're not, well, they still find ways to get to you."

"So you do miss him."

"Of course I do. He was my big brother." Clint says. "Speaking of brothers, you said yours got lost? And I don't think you meant it in a literal sense. Barney just didn't know what to do with himself, so he did everything. Never could figure out where he belonged."

"Yes, Pietro was lost. For a very long time." Wanda pauses, lips pulled together in a thin line. "We were only children, when our parents died. It changed him. And he blamed himself. I tried-Pietro has always been so stubborn. He wouldn't listen. Took it all upon himself, and I think I did the same."

Clint pushes himself off the counter suddenly, drops Pietro's jeans down on the small kitchen table, next to his keys, then turns to face Wanda. "It's not your fault. Whatever happened, it's not your fault, or your brother's. People just die."

"I know that. I know." she says. "But we were supposed to take care of them. Keep them safe, like they kept us."

"Sweetheart, no." Clint soothes, stepping closer. "Don't do that to yourself. You can't spend the rest of your life like this, blaming yourself for something that wasn't your fault. It's no way to live and it's not what they would've wanted for you."

There's a look in Wanda's eyes that Clint recognizes: grief.

And maybe not just for the loss of her parents, but for Pietro's current situation. Wanda drags the sleeve of her cardigan underneath her eyes, wiping at the faint smudges of mascara there. She doesn't answer Clint, not for a long moment, and when she does, it's with a small nod. Clint fixes her with a smile, hopes that it's enough, even though he knows it isn't; losing Barney felt like losing a part of himself.

Pietro's not gone, but he's still hurting, and Clint can sympathize with Wanda's grief. That kind of loss resonates deeply with him. He felt it every single time that Barney walked through the door, all banged up and broken. But he guesses it's a little different with twins, and her pain is probably amplified tenfold.

"I see parts of my brother now that I haven't seen in years." Wanda says, and when her voice wavers slightly, she clears her throat to be rid of it. "He kept it hidden, at first. It was like you were his little secret. Something good that he didn't want to share with anyone else."

Something good.

Clint ducks his head. His chest feels oddly tight, but not in a bad way.

He doesn't know what to say back to that, since he's always believed that Pietro was his little slice of something good-his glimpse of happiness, a taste of the good life-and not the other way around. Yet, here Wanda is, telling Clint all about how Pietro privately gushes over him. Or, how he used to.

"Yeah? Well, he's a good kid. He's more than that."

The first word that comes to Clint is: sunshine. For lack of a better word, Pietro is sunshine. Warm, bright, kind of dizzying. It sounds sweet, in Clint's head, but probably sounds lame outside of it. So rather than share, he keeps it to himself.

Clint finds himself copying Wanda's posture inadvertently, both arms coming to wrap around his middle. "He's something else." he says, a fond smile on his lips.

And then he remembers that he has a probably very anxious Pietro waiting on him (or, waiting for the plastic wrap, more specifically). He finds it easily enough, with Wanda's help, then moves back towards the bathroom. Clint swears that he hears the door click shut-maybe Pietro was listening in on his conversation with Wanda-but he doesn't dwell on that thought for very long.

He sets the plastic wrap down on the floor, raps his knuckles against the door lightly, then turns to leave.

Wanda's waiting for him in the kitchen, with several takeaway menus spread out across the table. There aren't enough groceries in the house to pull something together from scratch, she tells him. It doesn't need to be said that Pietro was on a grocery run and that's why the fridge and cupboards are emptier than usual.

They order Chinese while Pietro showers, and once Wanda's off the phone, she fixes Clint with a look; narrowed eyes, lips pursed together tightly. And then she makes a noise in the back of her throat, something like a low hum of disapproval.

Clint wonders if she dislikes his clothes, or him.

He isn't sure what would offend him more, since he actually likes the clothes he has on (sure, they're meant for housework days and messy paint jobs, but they aren't that daggy) and he also kind of likes his face. Apparently it's the pain stains and splotches all over Clint's skin that bugs Wanda, so he's officially booked in for a shower after Pietro finishes up.

It feels weirdly domestic, like he's a member of the Maximoff household. Clint has to admit that it's nice to feel like he's part of a family, even if it's only for a night, and not exactly under the best circumstances. It's not ideal. Not how Clint would've liked to see Wanda again, and it's definitely not how he wanted to be invited over to spend the night either, but it is what it is.

And all Clint can do now is deal with it.

Wanda instructs him on where he can find towels and new clothes to change into (in Pietro's room, at the very end of the hall). She tells Clint that he's "smaller in size" compared to her brother, so he should be able to fit into most of Pietro's clothes. And yeah, okay, he isn't as broad as Pietro, isn't as bulky either because Pietro is seriously toned, but Clint's still not down with being called small. He's a little shorter than Pietro, but only just.

As if sensing that, Wanda's mouth twitches at the corners, like she's fighting a smile. "I meant-"

"I know what you meant." Clint says. "It's fine, really. Your brother is basically the Hulk, just less green."

As soon as the shower's free, Wanda steers Clint towards it. He doesn't bump into Pietro in the dimly lit hallway. Doesn't venture into his room either, since Wanda offers to fetch the clothes for him; that might have something to do with the fact that after Pietro got out of the shower, he headed straight for his room and closed the door behind him without so much as a word.

Clint wants to follow, of course he does. But he won't, not unless Pietro asks him to.

He said that he wanted Clint here, wanted him close by. Close doesn't always mean with. It can mean just being nearby, in the next room or out in the hall. Clint's content to sleep on the couch.

That's if he can even sleep at all.

It's only once he's alone that Clint realizes how angry he still is. He tries to focus on something else, like he has been trying (and failing) to do since he got here. Pietro's a wreck and Wanda isn't much better, and neither of them deserve any of this.

Clint braces himself against the sink and closes his eyes, for a moment. Faintly, he hears the sound of raised voices and wonders if it's coming from Pietro's bedroom, or a different apartment on their floor.

Eventually, the muffled shouting grows quiet, and Clint can hear himself think again. He pulls himself away from the sink and gives the bathroom a once-over. It's quaint and significantly less decorated than the other parts of the house. There's less stuff, for starters. And less color, too, apart from the bright shower curtain; it looks like a kaleidoscope, and Clint's not sure how he missed it the first time he was in here.

The tub doubles as a bath and a shower, something else that Clint's only just noticing.

It's not too cramped, but it isn't ridiculously large either, unlike Stark's bathroom. Tony's shower is encased in delicate, frosted glass and there's some sort of stone bed against the far wall, which is really just too much, even for Tony.

But this one isn't bad at all.

Clint strips out of his clothes, starting with his t-shirt. He unbuttons it slowly, then peels it off and drops it on the edge of the sink. He's wearing a pale undershirt underneath, but that comes off just as easily and Clint adds it to the pile. Next, he pulls his boots off and lines them up in front of the empty tub, next to Pietro's sneakers.

It isn't until he glances up at his reflection in the mirror that he realizes Pietro wasn't exaggerating when he said that Clint was covered in paint.

Because he is.

Not large, thick stripes of paint. Small dots of color, like freckles, but only blue. Clint's never met anyone with blue freckles before. He distinctly remembers the light dusting of pale brown freckles on Pietro's shoulders.

It's a nicer thought, nicer than dwelling on Pietro's bruises and butterfly stitches. He tries not to think about it too much, about how his hands were covered in Pietro's blood (well, not his hands since he was wearing gloves. And he wasn't covered in it, really, but it was still there. It was still bad). He tries so hard not to think about it, even just for a moment.

Once he's out of the rest of his clothes, Clint adds them to the pile that balances precariously on the edge of the sink. He pulls the shower curtain back and climbs inside.

It's too hot, at first. Almost scalding. Clouds of steam swarm Clint's vision, and it's starting to feel a little too much like a sauna when the cold water finally kicks in. He fiddles with both taps, adjusting the pressure and the temperature until it's just right.

There's a bottle of something pink in the corner of the tub, elevated on a small shelf, that catches Clint's eye. He picks it up, flicks the lid open and sniffs, and yep, that is definitely some kind of fruit. It's strong, but there's not much else in the shower to lather himself up with.

So he uses the pungent strawberry shower gel and scrubs at his skin until he feels clean again. Once that's all over and done with, and Clint's fairly sure that there isn't a speck of paint left on his body, he ducks his head underneath the steady spray of water.

His entire body feels rigid, wound up. He can't even imagine how Pietro feels if he's feeling like this. Strung out, and tense. His muscles ache and there's the beginnings of a headache throbbing faintly behind his eyes.

Stepping back and out of the spray of water, Clint digs the heels of his palms into his eyes until there are spots in his vision.

He doesn't linger in the shower. It's not like the paint was everywhere, coating his skin. Clint switches off both taps and drags the shower curtain back across, revealing that his clothes are now gone from the sink and have been replaced by ones that must belong to Pietro. He spots a fluffy green towel on a nearby rack that wasn't there before either, and reaches for it.

Wanda's doing, of course.

And maybe it should bother him that he didn't hear the door open or close, and that he didn't even notice that someone was in here with him, but he's mostly just grateful for the clean clothes and the unexpectedly warm towel. Clint climbs out of the shower and dries himself off.

Wrapping the towel around his waist, Clint steps closer towards the pile of clothes and sorts through them: a black v-neck shirt with long sleeves, a pair of fleece track pants and some navy blue boxer briefs.

He starts with the briefs and the track pants, then the v-neck. It's not as loose fitting as Clint would've expected, but it still hangs off his leaner frame, if only a little. Clint adjusts the shirt, fidgeting with the sleeves nervously. He rolls them up to his elbows, exposing a stray fleck of paint on his right forearm.

Clint uses his towel to wipe away some of the steam from the mirror.

There's some stubble growing along his jaw and a dot of white paint just near his left temple. He accepts the fact that he's probably going to be covered in paint for the remainder of his life and turns away from the mirror, but not without one last glance.

Fuck, he thinks.

It's not that he looks like shit. Except he does. He looks exhausted. Feels it, too, and it seems to hit him out of nowhere. Clint grips the edge of the basin and bows his head, exhaling a low sigh as his eyes slip shut.

He stays like that until his phone vibrates loudly somewhere on the basin, disturbing the silence. Clint jolts away from it, stung, startled. He doesn't know why it bothers him as much as it does. Still, he reaches for the iPhone and drags the notification panel down. Two new messages from Steve.

[7:47PM]:

Sure, Barton. I can talk. Unless it's about the party.

[7:48PM]:

I'm not allowed to discuss it with you.

[7:49PM]:

What?

[7:49PM]:

No, it's not about the stupid party.

[7:53PM]:

Oh, don't do that. Don't call it stupid in front of Stark. Or Natasha, actually.

[7:55PM]:

I don't give a shit about Stark, ok?

[7:57PM]:

You said you needed a favor and you don't ask for those lightly. I'm guessing it's not about the party. You're sure this is something you want to talk about over the phone? I can always swing by tomorrow.

[8:01PM]:

Might not be home tomorrow. Think you can swing by anyway, feed Lucky for me?

[8:03PM]:

Yeah, I can do that.

[8:05PM]:

Is that the favor?

[8:07PM]:

Yes, but also no. It's part of it. Look, it's complicated. The favor is work related, so there's a chance that you might say no. A big chance. But I still have to ask. Were you at the precinct today?

[8:09PM]:

I was there. Why?

[8:13PM]:

A kid came in. I don't know what time, maybe around lunch or just after? Tall, fair, a little bruised up. Did you talk to him? Take his statement? I'm not asking to know the details of what he said. Whatever he said, it's something he has to tell me on his own.

[8:15PM]:

Then what are you asking? You know I can't discuss this kind of stuff with you.

[8:16PM]:

And how do you know all of that anyway?

[8:19PM]:

Because I know the kid. I know him. And I just need to know that you're working on the case. That you have an idea of who did this and you can charge them for it. I need some good news right now. Something I can tell him so that he'll sleep a little easier.

[8:23PM]:

Clint.

[8:24PM]:

Even if I wanted to discuss any of that with you, I can't.

[8:26PM]:

All I could say is that we don't have anyone in custody. This isn't their first attack, but I'm determined to make it the last. That's all I can say at this stage. I wish I had better news.

[8:28PM]:

Your friend seems like a good kid. How's he holding up?

[8:30PM]:

Not so well, but better than me. He's tough.

[8:32PM]:

Are you two close?

[8:33PM]:

Yeah, we are. We're very close.

[8:34PM]:

There's no one in custody, but you have suspects, right? If this isn't their first attack, then you've gotta have suspects. Think I could get a couple names? Maybe follow up some leads?

[8:36PM]:

And then what? You beat them half to death? That's not how it's supposed to work, Clint. You can't take the law into your own hands and I thought you of all people would know that by now. It's the law for a reason.

[8:38PM]:

The most I can do for you is keep you in the loop. No details or names, just updates. That's all I can do for you. And even then, I'm not sure I feel good about it. Not with where your head's at right now.

[8:40PM]:

Sure. I appreciate it. Thanks, Rogers.

[8:41PM]:

Clint?

[8:42PM]:

Yeah?

[8:45PM]:

Don't do anything stupid.

[8:47PM]:

Come on. Does that sound like me? Stupid's not my style.

A/N: Spoiler alert: Snowball makes an appearance in the next chapter.