Chapter Text
It was chaos. The entire medical bay was swarming with frazzled doctors and panicked nurses doing their best to appear calm. Injured civilians cried out from behind half-closed curtains, and children no taller than your waist were weaving in and out of the crowd, playing tag, giggling and shouting. You couldn't help but smile at their innocence. Making your way towards the station to grab a file, a hand appeared from nowhere and tugged you off to the side. Clint Barton stood in front of you, swaying slightly, face drawn and pale. '(Y/N)' he muttered, in a voice that sounded as though he were speaking through a throat filled with broken glass. 'We need you on Level 1, now.' His tone dripped with urgency, eyes red-rimmed and shiny with unshed tears. Level 1 was where the most severly injured agents were taken, and your chest clenched painfully as you wondered which of your friends had been hurt. Following Clint down the steps, feet moving faster than you ever thought they could, you found a dark haired girl crying in anguish, Stark's newest creation - the Vision - holding her tightly in his arms. You recognised her vaguely - one of the Maximoff twins, the pair of siblings who had volunteered to be experimentation subjects for Hydra. Instantly, you tensed. As far as you knew, they had been helping Ultron, intent on watching Tony suffer and cry before taking his final breath.
Clint squeezed your shoulder, moving his lips to your ear. 'It's okay. She's with us. They both are.' Swallowing hard, you nodded and walked towards the scrub-down station.
'Can you save him?' That voice, you thought, oh my god, that voice. Heavily accented, steeped in white-hot agony, you'd never heard such pain in four little words. As Barton brought you up to date on the events that had transpired - Pietro placing himself in front of a bullet to save the archer and a child, the speedster collapsing and appearing to be dead, before his heightened metabolism kicked in and began healing the wounds in the boys chest. Glancing to meet wild, black eyes, you inhaled sharply and addressed Wanda directly. 'I'll do my best. I promise.'
In the theatre, you were stunned to see that half the bullet holes were already almost fully closed up, leaving no indication, no hint of white scar tissue along the plane of Pietro's pale chest. The other surgeons, trainees and the like, hovered around to see the master at work. Something occured to you, and a frown creased your brow deeply. 'Were there exit wounds? From the bullets?'
A small girl with mousy brown hair and thick, coke bottle glasses shook her head. You groaned, realising what was happening. 'So his skin is healing over the shrapnel. Shit.'
You requested a scalpel, artery clamps, an IV line and the highest dosage of morphine that you could give without risking the boy's health even further. The surgery you were planning on carrying out was dangerous enough, and all that stopped you from administrating the average amount of painkiller into his bloodstream was the fact that his metabolism would burn it off extremely fast. You had little time, and the moment the IV was connected to a prominent blue vein, sticking out from beneath the frail membrane of skin stretched out across the Sokovian's forearm, you began.
The first incision was careful, calculated, the bullets were far too close to the heart for your comfort. One wrong slice was all it would take for him to bleed out on the table. The first five minutes passed in relative silence. All that breached the still air was the sound of blood squelching, heavy breaths and the companiable hum of the oxygen. Then- the room was split in two as a piercing, monotone ringing sounded as Pietro's vitals dropped.
'No, no, no!' You gritted your teeth, trying to understand the hubbub of chatter surrounding you. One nurse confirmed that there was no bleed or pressure on his brain, another was certain the lungs hadn't been punctured, but no one had the answer you really needed. You didn't need to know what wasn't wrong, you needed to know what was wrong. Pietro gasped suddenly, and the heart monitor flatlined. Oh, fuck. A bullet had made its way into one of his arteries, and there was no way you could resucitate him using CPR or the paddles - the pressure from CPR could force the bullet further into the boy's heart and the shocks could injure him further, because the bullet was metal. There was no other choice - you had to open up his chest.
Your head swam with panic as you slashed deeply across the left of Pietro's chest, clamping down the skin, and grabbing a pair of tweezers. A mere eight seconds had passed since the flatline began. You had to get it out, and begin resucitation within the space of a minute, the longer this process took, the less chance you had of bringing him back. After fifteen achingly long ticks of the clock on the wall across from you, you were unsuccessful in locating the damn lump of silver. Holding back a frustrated scream, you dropped the tweezers, slick with crimson, and went in with your hand. Another risky move - but it proved to be worth the risk. You had it between your fore-and-index finger within a couple of breaths, and extracted it with ease. You ordered a nurse to begin stitching up his chest, fast but well. The defibrilator was brought out and set up, and you held both paddles in an iron grip. As soon as the hole was drawn together tightly by the thread, you pressed the flat of each one and buzzed. Nothing. Second time - nothing. Third time - nothing. The nurses were beginning to look a little uncomfortable, as if they wanted to tell you to stop, but were too afraid to speak. Your features were set hard as concrete with concentration and determenation, because dammit the look in that girls face when she asked you if you could save him was pulling at your own heart. You had to save him. You had to. There was no other option.
'C'mon, kid. I'm doing my bit, you start doing yours.' You begged the pale boy silently, before you pressed the paddles to his chest a fourth time.
'He's back!' You looked to the monitor, and sighed in relief, savouring the feeling for a few nanoseconds. You had more work to do, but for now, he was alive. You smiled down at the handsome hero, taking a damp cloth to wipe sweat from his forehead. 'We're gonna get you better, Pietro.' You muttered softly, his name rolling off your tongue with ease, and curiousity. 'I promise.'
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It didn't take long for Pietro to get back up to speed (no pun intended), to everyone's relief, of course no one more than Wanda or Clint, or you. To see him racing around the place, leaving his glowing trail of silvery-blue dust everywhere, almost made you collapse. To know that he had been dead not a week before hand, and that you almost weren't fast enough to save him.. You couldn't even bear the thought of not having healed him, didn't like to imagine the consequences of his death.
He came to you, almost a week after his operation. Taking you by surprise, of course, you were sitting in your office, typing up the report for the last week for Fury - you cursed him irritatedly, nothing was worse than paperwork, especially the kind of paperwork the aftermath of incidents like this one required - you were alone one moment, the next, you blinked, and found the silver-haired boy grinning down at you.
'Hello. How's my favourite patient today?' You smiled, grateful for the distraction. 'I am fine, thanks to you.' You blushed slightly, the accent had a serious effect on you, low and deep and, okay, sexy. You had to admit that. 'Are you in any pain?' You questioned, trying to push the inappropriate thoughts from your mind. He had been your patient, for gods sake. You scolded yourself inwardly, not even wanting to think of all the heatlh and safety rules you'd be willing to break with him. 'No, I am perfectly okay, Miss (Y/L/N).'
You shook your head, feeling the long strands of your (Y/H/C) coming loose frm its bun. Reaching your hand to the back of your head, you pulled the hair tie and shook out the wavy mess of hair. 'Please, call me (Y/N). We're not formal here.' He watched your every movement with great intensity, as your fingers twisted the strands back into a knot atop your head. 'I vanted to come here, and ask you something.' He told you, voice strong and confident. You cracked your knuckles, bending each finger individually. The cracks echoed around the room, you looked at him. 'Go ahead.'
His head suddenly dropped, bowing, hair falling across his forehead. You could see the brown roots growing from his scalp, and wondered what he might have looked like with brown hair. A chestnut colour, perhaps, or something a little darker to suit his pale complexion.. You were drawn from your musings by a quiet cough. Colour bloomed across your cheeks as you realise you were staring at Pietro, without listening to what he had wanted to say. 'Sorry, could you repeat that?'
Clearing his throat, Pietro clasped both hands together, wringing them together, almost as if he were nervous. 'I vas just vondering, if you would allow me to take you out to dinner?' He reiterated, the words revolving around your head in circles. 'I vould like to convey my gratitude to you - you saved my life, and I owe you for zat.' The last few words finally reminded you how to speak, and you stood, smoothing out the creases of your pants. 'Oh, Pietro. That is so kind of you, but you don't have to do that. It's my job. I know you're grateful, you really don't have to take me to dinner.'
'I insist. Please, I vould like to treat you, as you vorked very hard to get me better, and back on my feet.' You could tell by the way he spoke that he had no intention of letting the matter drop, so you sighed, hiding a pleased smile. 'You're not going to let this go until I agree, are you?'
'Nope!' He popped the 'p' cheerfully, beaming across the gleaming mahogany desk between the both of you. Folding your arms across your chest, you nodded, surprised to see the speedster's face light up. 'Great! We go tonight, yes?' He confirmed that tonight was good for you, you had the weekend off after all the stress of the previous few days. 'I'll take you somewhere nice, I promise. I shall see you around seven.'
'Can't vait.' You told him sincerely, seeing the light dancing in his icy blues, he began bouncing on the balls of his feet with excitement. 'See you then, Miss- I mean, (Y/N).' He corrected himself, and you laughed lightly. 'See you then, Pietro.'
In the blink of an eye, he was gone. As you seated yourself once more, returning to your report, you found that all of a sudden, the work didn't seem so bad. You were looking forward to later, and the thought of spending more time with the funny, sweet Sokovian gave great incentive to work faster, get home earlier to shower and find something nice to wear.
Whenever someone asked you why you were smiling for the rest of the day at work, you simply smiled wider, and did not answer.