Sirens.
All he could hear were sirens.
Clint ran around the tower, shoving people out of the way as he raced to the infirmary. He couldn't leave, not without at least reassuring Pietro that he'd be fine, he'd come back, blah blah blah.
The only problem was, he didn't know if he believed that.
He didn't know if he believed that on any mission.
Pietro sat helpless and vulnerable in bed, his leg propped up. Although the experimentation done on him had given him an extremely quick healing time, he wasn't quite ready to be back on his feet. He groaned, trying to inch his leg out of the cuff that held it in the air.
He couldn't let Clint go alone.
Slow.
Suddenly Clint was there, in the doorway, panting and slightly out of breath as he dashed in and kissed the runner, hard, with every last ounce of energy he had spared. Pietro pulled away, stunned yet enamored.
"I'll be back, I promise. We've got a surprise spring up mission in New Jersey. Apparently Hydra found out that we had restationed the Avenger's base and they're planning on attack, so we're going to take them out first. No sweat, alright? Easy. I'll be back, I promise."
Pietro felt fear wash over him as he grabbed at Clint's jacket when he turned away. "You can't go, you'll get hurt."
"They need me," Clint said, desperate to go but regretting having to. Pietro had such a sad look on his face, puppy eyes killer. It was clear he was thinking of ways to get the archer to stay, to comfort him, to treat him well and to give him kisses when necessary, not to go risk his life on some battlefield. He thought of everything he could, but never did Clint expect what Pietro was about to say.
"They don't need you. You're going to miss at some point, so what's the use?"
Clint felt his heart burn a hole in his chest. His mind blanked out everything else Pietro was saying, his lips moving too fast too read, his heart beating too fast to feel. With a cold stare, he muttered "Turn your comm on in case you need me," snatched his shirt away, and dashed out the door.
Sometimes, Pietro's mouth worked faster than his brain did.
"Clint, please," he said into the earpiece he had now shoved in. "I'm so sorry, you know that's not what I meant."
"Sure," Clint snapped, turning up the volume all the way so it was clearer what the other's crisp voice sounded like. It was so nice, so smooth, and Clint almost didn't want to be mad at it. How could he be? Pietro was the equivalence of an angel, if such a thing existed. But he knew he had to keep up this grudge. What Pietro had said hurt, and it hurt a lot. He had used his deepest insecurity against him for personal gain, and Clint was simply not okay with that. No matter how many times the runner had eaten his food, no matter how many times he had stolen his arrows during practice, he still loved the kid, and he could never be mad at him.
Or, at least he thought he couldn't be.
Apparently, he had proven himself wrong.
"I'm serious, Clint. It was selfish of me to say that. I didn't mean it. I'm sorry."
Clint fought the heavy urge to shut his comm down, to throw it off the plane, and watch the jet engines burn it to a crisp. He couldn't bring himself to it though. What if something happened to Pietro while he was gone, and he wasn't at least there for emotional support and comfort? He shook his head and flicked his bow open, the snap and shudder of it in his hands making him feel more calm, more in control.
