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Thick walls they may be, but not thick enough to muffle the yelling in Wanda's room. There were muffled words, presumably Wanda, trying to calm him down. Pietro's frustrated yell was followed by something between a thud and a smash, which finally worried, or maybe annoyed, Natasha and Clint enough to go into Wanda's room. The scene inside was one of suspended chaos. Pietro stood rigidly by Wanda’s ensuite bathroom, his back to them. His right arm was buried to the elbow in the wall, cracks radiating from the point of impact. Wanda sat on the edge of her bed, her expression one of pure, unadulterated fury directed at her brother. Pietro himself just stared blankly at the crater he’d made, his chest heaving.
‘What the hell?’ Natasha demanded, her eyes scanning for immediate threats.
‘This idiot over here got mad and put his fucking arm through my wall!’ Wanda cried out, her concern not for her brother’s well-being but for the structural integrity of her room. A snort of laughter escaped Clint before he could stop it. He covered it with a cough when Wanda glared at him.
‘It would've been my head if I had known it was drywall…’ Pietro muttered, his voice tight as he began to carefully extract his arm.
‘It’s not drywall,’ Clint chuckled, moving to open the ensuite door. He peered at the damage from the other side. ‘Yep. Clean through. Nice one, Picasso.’
-
‘You owe me for damages,’ Tony stated flatly, watching as the medical team finished their x-ray. But Pietro seemed like he couldn't hear anything, his usual restless energy replaced by a silent anger. He stared at the wall across from him, seemingly deaf to everything around him. ‘No cracked knuckles, doubtful he sprained his wrist, not bad.’ The doctor reviewed the scan.
‘So, Speedy,’ Tony spoke, folding his arms. ‘What made you so angry you decided to renovate your sister's room?’ Pietro glared at him, but he didn't utter a word.
‘For now, I'd advise you to just watch yourself. Try some breathing exercises next time.’ The doctor said, giving Pietro’s back a pat. ‘Come on.’ Clint sighed from the doorway, jerking his head toward the hall. Without a word, Pietro jumped off the table and followed him out.
-
Pietro woke to the tantalizing smell of food wafting into his room. He padded out to the kitchen, one eye still mostly closed. ‘What's cookin'?’ he rasped.
‘Oven's heating up so we can shove your dumbass in it.’ Clint replied without looking up from the coffee maker.
‘I’m hungry.’ Pietro muttered, slumping into a chair at the breakfast bar. ‘Surprising.’ Clint said, the endearment in his tone barely detectable.
‘What happened to you? Fall down the stairs again?’ Sam asked, joining them.
Pietro shot him a glare, a very clear memory surfacing of the time he’d overestimated his spacial awareness when running and tripped over his own feet down a flight of stairs, resulting in a dislocated shoulder he had to pop back into place.
‘He put a hole in his sister’s wall.’ Clint answered, the laugh he’d been holding back finally coloring his words.
Sam raised an eyebrow, as did Steve who was entering alongside him. ‘A brick wall?’ Steve asked.
Pietro scoffed. ‘No, idiot…concrete?’ he looked at Clint as if to confirm. Clint absentmindedly nodded.
‘You better have a good reason.’ Steve fixed him with that profoundly disappointed dad stare always confused Pietro.
‘I was…mad?’ Pietro offered, shrugging his shoulders as if the explanation were self-evident.
Now it was Steve’s turn to scoff. He refrained from saying anything else, knowing a lecture wasn't exactly going to change anything. If anything, it would probably just piss him off again. He took a breath instead. ‘Where’s Wanda?’ Pietro shrugged again unhelpfully. Steve just shook his head.
-
A few hours later, Clint decided on a different approach. He knew what he did when he was stressed, bored, or reeling with too much energy that needed an outlet—he found a project. He figured Pietro needed the same thing: a hobby, a tangible task to keep his hands busy and his mind from eating itself alive. Clint assumed the guy’s usual solution was just to run until the world blurred into something more manageable. It seemed like that was all he did when he wasn't actively picking fights with anyone who looked at him sideways. It was worth a shot. And since Pietro continued keeping his distance from Wanda, Clint got to keep his attention, finding himself on temporary babysitting duty.
He watched as Pietro, with a surprising amount of focus, measured out the dry ingredients for the cinnamon swirls Clint had suggested. The kitchen was filled with a comfortable, flour-dusted silence for a change. Clint never struggled to read people, he could tell Pietro’s anger had mostly mellowed out by now. ‘Soooo,’ Clint drawled, leaning against the counter. ‘Are you finally gonna tell me what happened?’
Pietro groaned, throwing his head back in a dramatic display of exasperation. ‘Wanda's just being a massive dick,’ he sighed, the words rushing out as he set down the flour and grabbed the sugar canister. ‘She keeps going into my head, then complaining about what she sees.’ He shook his head, a sharp, irritated motion. ‘Like–if you don't want to see it, maybe don't go in there.’
Clint nodded, poking a freshly baked cookie to see if it had cooled to an edible temperature. ‘I'd rather be hung upside down than see your thoughts.’
‘I just don't–’Pietro cut himself off, driving his fist into the soft mound of bread dough before viciously folding it over. ‘Get it. Why go in my head? I've nothing to hide.’ he finished, finally looking up at Clint with a flicker of genuine confusion.
‘Maybe she wanted to know about your sex life.’ Clint suggested, wriggling his eyebrows suggestively.
Pietro gave him a look of unadulterated disgust. ‘Dude.’
‘Sorry, I’m sorry it just came out!’ Clint laughed, thoroughly enjoying the horrified reaction.
‘Well I don't want to know about hers, if she even has one with that God damn toaster.’ Pietro shot back, turning to check if the oven had finally heated up.
‘Do you even have one?’ Clint leaned forward slightly, his tone still relentlessly teasing.
‘You’re missing the entire point.’ Pietro intoned monotonously, refusing to take the bait.
Clint just laughed, breaking off a chunk of the still-warm cookie and popping it into his mouth, wincing slightly as it burned his tongue. ‘I’ll tell you about mine.’
Pietro sighed heavily, the sound thick with exasperation. ‘Clint.’ He shook his head in sheer disbelief.
‘Pietro.’ Clint replied through a mouthful of cookie.
Finally, Pietro set the next tray of dough into the oven, slamming the door shut. A short, irritated laugh escaped him, annoyed that he found the other man's antics even slightly amusing. ‘You’re a trip, man.’
Clint decided he really liked babysitting duty.