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Because Clint Barton was a gracious motherfucker, he’d decided not to comment on the fact that Pietro had wandered into and then out of pretty much every room in the farmhouse in the hours since Wanda had left with Laura on a girls-only shopping trip. Sipping his coffee at the kitchen table, Clint listened to the sound of footsteps as Pietro paced through the living room. The sound broke off, briefly, for just a second at most—and then resumed again from the upstairs hallway above Clint’s head.
The kid was getting faster; Clint hadn't even seen the blue and silver blur this time. Clint drained the rest of his coffee, trying and failing not to think about why Pietro, a grown-ass adult, was apparently unable to cope with his sister going to the mall.
Here was the thing about Wanda and Pietro: if there really was anything to hide about their relationship, they sure as hell weren’t trying very hard to hide it. But over a month had passed since the Ultron incident, and Clint still hadn’t been able to figure out if that meant that nothing inappropriate was going on, or just that they didn’t give a fuck what other people thought.
He hadn’t been suspicious at first. Sure, he’d noticed that they were physically affectionate with one another, first during the Ultron fight and then when he’d visited the new Avengers facility while Pietro was still all laid up with bullet wounds. That Wanda was always at her brother's bedside when he visited, holding Pietro’s hand and combing his hair out of his eyes, hadn’t struck Clint as particularly strange. After all, he was her brother, and he had almost died.
But then Pietro had finally woken up, and things—as they so often did—took a turn for the weird. Clint’s fucking nuisance of a conscience had reminded him the kid had gotten those bullet wounds saving his life, and he’d invited both twins to come stay at the farm until Pietro recovered enough to train. He owed it to them, he figured, and besides, it might be good for them to get the chance to experience some normal life before they started living with the shit-show of constant life-threatening situations and neurotic personal drama that was the Avengers.
It had been fine, mostly. The twins cleaned up after themselves and helped out with the chores without being asked, which Clint guessed made sense for two people who’d been living on their own since they were an age he didn’t like to think about. Pietro was still a mouthy little jackass to Clint, but he was hilariously polite and deferential to Laura. And Cooper and Lila had decided that Wanda was the coolest person ever: apparently, there was nothing more impressive to a couple of elementary schoolers than telekinesis and lots of eye makeup, which, yeah, Clint should have seen that one coming.
So it wasn’t that they were bad houseguests. It was just that, well...they touched each other. A lot.
It sounded kind of ridiculous, even in his own head—Clint had seen enough of the world to know that American norms surrounding "appropriate" gestures of physical affection were far from universal. But Wanda and Pietro didn’t just touch one another. No, they caressed. They stroked each other’s skin and hair while gazing into each other’s eyes for uncomfortably long periods of time. They held conversations in quiet voices with their faces just a few inches away from each other, hands resting on each other’s shoulders or arms or hips.
And then there were the little things, like how they always walked around arm-in-arm or holding hands. And sure, holding hands was an innocent gesture; Clint’s kids held hands with each other or their parents sometimes, and he’d never thought anything of it. But Clint’s kids were kids, and Wanda and Pietro were adults. They weren’t holding on to each other to keep from getting lost in a crowd at the mall.
Also, Laura had told him that when she’d looked into the guest room—he hadn’t asked why, but he suspected the answer was ‘morbid curiosity—only one set of sheets had looked rumpled. Maybe one twin was better about making their bed in the morning than the other. Maybe.
Anyway. So they were clingy and they were codependent; that much was obvious. From the way Pietro had vibrated with nervous energy each time he’d passed through the kitchen, Clint felt safe adding 'separation anxiety' to the mix. But two people could share an unhealthy attachment to each other without it being sexual, couldn’t they? Because on the one hand: siblings. On the other hand: siblings with a history of shared trauma, of social isolation. Clint wasn’t blind to the many and various ways that that kind of thing could fuck you up.
To his relief, Clint’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Laura’s truck pulling up the drive. Before he could even get out of his chair, Pietro appeared out of nowhere to hover by the door. Clint rolled his eyes and walked over to put his coffee cup in the sink.
The door opened, and Clint turned around just in time to see the twins reunite like a military couple seeing each other for the first time after a years-long deployment. Wanda set down her shopping bags and threw herself into her brother's arms. Pietro lifted her off her feet and spun her around, then set her down and pulled her close with a hand on the small of her back. Wanda tangled the fingers of one hand in her brother’s hair, and Pietro ducked his head under the touch, burying his face in his sister’s shoulder and then—
—and then turning his face to the side to press a swift kiss to Wanda’s neck.
Clint boggled. Kissing on the hair or cheek or forehead, that was one thing; he could deal with that. But on the neck? Who did that?
He looked over at Laura, who had walked in behind Wanda and then stopped, just inside the door. From the look on her face, Clint wasn’t the only one finding the scene in front of them bizarre. "Hi, honey," he said loudly.
Laura caught his eye. Clint made a series of gestures with his hands and eyebrows that he hoped would adequately convey what the fuck? She shrugged at him, then lifted one of her shopping bags. "I should go put these away," she said, the traitor, and continued into the house, leaving Clint as an awkward third wheel to the spectacle in front of him.
The twins finally separated. Pietro flopped down on the couch, stretching out so his head was on one armrest and his feet were dangling off the other. Wanda, without hesitation, flopped right on top of him, resting her head on her brother's chest. Pietro leaned his head forward to kiss her hair while his arm wrapped around her midsection to hold her in place.
Manfully pretending not to notice, Clint left to follow Laura.
The next morning, Clint read the newspaper and enjoyed a rare moment of silence. It was Laura's turn to drop the kids off at school and the twins hadn't yet emerged, though the sound of the shower running told him that his peaceful solitude wasn’t going to last for long.
He consoled himself with the thought that Pietro was getting close to being fully recovered. Only a couple more weeks, and Clint'd be able to eat his breakfast without wondering if his visitors were Game-of-Thrones-ing it up in the guest bedroom.
The twins entered the kitchen, Wanda's hand clasping the crook of her brother's elbow. They both had wet hair. Clint was certain that the shower had only run once. Christ.
A couple more weeks, he reminded himself. Just a couple more weeks—and then this would all be Steve's problem.