There is dried blood on the doorknob and he stops moving. He knows it's not his and he knows it wasn't there when he left. The fact that it's dried means it's been there for a while. It doesn't belong to Reese or Soldier either. She would definitely have let him know if anyone had been hurt. It could belong to a potential client, but even in this case Reese would have informed him.
The door looks undamaged, which is why he considers an attack - although not completely ruled out - to be somewhat unlikely. He carefully opens the door and listens for any suspicious noises. The hallway is dark and only the light from the anteroom provides a light source. It looks untouched and undamaged. However, there is blood on the floor at irregular intervals.
He closes the door quietly and sneaks through the hallway and stops in the anteroom. The blood leads up to the second floor where the bedrooms are. He can make out the rattling sound of the old record player in his office. He frowns at this in confusion. He looks up the stairs but then decides to go to his office.
He opens the door with a quick jerk and enters the room, ready to meet a possible attacker, but the only thing that hits him are different scents. It's like someone is holding a perfume bottle right under his nose.
“Hi Marc,” Reese greets him, sitting on the couch and reading a book. On the small side table, there are several scented candles and incense sticks. “What does that mean?” asks Marc and walks to one of the windows. Fresh air flows through the room and loosens the wall of scents. “I'm just trying to cover up the smell of blood,” she says, looking up from the book. Her red eyes look at him. It's hard to tell what she's thinking.
“What happened?” he asks, trying to be relaxed. The fact that Reese is reading a book and isn't lying somewhere injured or dead calms him down immensely. “Your lover-” Reese starts grumpily and Marc tenses up. “Comes here covered in blood and bleeds all over everything,” she finishes with an angry undertone. “I had to barricade myself here and smoke everything because otherwise I would have lost my mind.”
“That’s Clint’s blood?” asks Marc. He tries to suppress the panic in his voice, but he can hear for himself that he didn't succeed. “Most of it,” Reese explains and then Marc is out of the room. He runs through the anteroom and sprints up the stairs. He almost trips over a step, but manages to catch himself. He storms into his room, heart racing, only to find it empty.
However, the bathroom door is ajar and light streams out. However, it is too quiet to indicate that someone is in there. It only worries him more. Clint is a loud person and when he is quiet, it is a disturbing and dangerous sign. Covered in blood, Reese had said and an image of Clint bleeding out in his bathroom appeared before his mind.
With shaking hands he opens the door and his heart stops.
Clint sits on the floor, his upper body leaning against the bathtub. He sits in a pool of blood that has been absorbed by the carpet. The shirt is halfway pulled up, as if Clint no longer had the strength to take it off completely. The bow and quiver lie next to him and an arrow rests on his lap. There is not a clean patch of skin. Brown dried blood acts like a second layer of skin. Marc would think he was passed out if Clint didn't bat his eyelids as if he were trying to keep himself from falling asleep. There is an unopened first aid kit.
“Clint,” Marc speaks carefully so as not to scare him. Marc takes another step in and, surprised by the movement, Clint's face snaps up and focuses on him with dull empty eyes. The arrow that was resting on his lap is now in his hands and Marc knows that Clint still brings a lethality that serves to protect himself.
There is a hearing aid.
“Clint. Is okay. It’s just me,” Marc speaks, pulling his mask off his face just in case the hearing aid doesn’t work properly. The arrow slips from his hand and Clint collapses again. Marc is with him immediately. “Who was that?” he asks calmly, but he still can’t completely suppress his cold anger. He will find the person and make the person regret every single breath he takes.
“It’s not important,” Clint mumbles, sounding strained and exhausted, like he’s run a marathon. Marc lifts Clint's face to look at him. "It's important-" Marc begins, gently stroking Clint's cheek with his thumbs. Clint's eyes fall on him. “Because you are important. So who was that?”. Clint's gaze becomes glassy and watery. "He's not a problem anymore," Clint replies, tears streaming from his eyes.
“What happened?” asks Marc. Clint looks away and closes his eyes. Seconds pass as Clint loses silent tears and doesn't make a sound. Marc knows he won't get an answer from Clint if he isn't willing to talk about it. But it hurts to see him like this. It hurts that he can't do anything about it.
“It’s okay,” says Marc, wiping away the tears. However, Clint just shakes his head. “I messed up,” Clint mutters in a rough voice, slumping against him. Marc holds him close and makes sure to put as little pressure on his ribs as possible. However, Clint clings to him like his life depends on it. The tears fall like water from a broken dam and Marc feels them soaking through the fabric.
"I've done so much shit," Clint mutters into the fabric. “It’s okay,” Marc says gently and rubs Clint’s back soothingly. “We all mess up sometimes,” Marc adds, already searching for examples in his head when Clint pulls back a little. "Bryce is dead.Because of me-" Clint begins. There is guilt and anger in his eyes. “and a Skrull too. And Steve's in the hospital-" Clint gasps. "and everyone thinks it was me and Bullseye is dead too and I just-"
"Okayokayokay-" Marc interrupts, Clint's slightly beginning hysterical babbling. Clint immediately falls silent, wiping tears and snot from his face. Marc only fully understood half of the information. Lots of dead. Many injured. Massive feelings of guilt. "What was that about?" "I just wanted to-" Clint starts, trying to keep his voice calm. "that he stops hurting people and ruining their lives"
"Who?"
"Parker Robbins"
“The Hood?”
“He’s no longer a problem”
I was only gone for a week, thinks Marc and sighs.
“Okay-,” Marc begins, even though nothing – absolutely nothing – is okay. “We can do it,” he says, looking at Clint. Clint is about to argue, but Marc cups his face and stops him. “We can fix this. Everything will be fine. We will find a solution to the chaos and everything will be fine." For a brief moment, Marc himself believes in his words.
“But first, we have to make you whole. Let me help you, okay?”
Clint nods.
He helps Clint out of the clothes - and the old bandages - and throws them into the laundry basket, knowing that it would make more sense to burn the clothes. He opens the first aid kit and begins to disinfect the wounds. Clint grits his teeth and gives no sign of it burning. He probably soaks up the pain because he thinks he deserves it. “I’m sorry,” Marc murmurs as he goes over a larger area with an alcohol pad.
However, Clint says nothing.
“This needs stitches,” says Marc, pointing to a wound on his side. Fresh blood is still dripping out and it's a wonder there's still blood in the body. Clint just nods. Carefully, Marc begins to sew up the wound. It's a terrible stitch and will leave an ugly scar.
He puts a wound ointment on the area and then sticks a bandage over it. He then takes a washcloth from the tub, dips it in lukewarm water and begins to wash the remaining blood from Clint's skin. Once everything is clean, he puts band aid over minor wounds and wraps Clint's upper left arm in a fresh bandage.
He rushes into the bedroom, randomly pulling clothes out of the closet and helping Clint get dressed. It is a careful slow process so as not to tear the seam. "Okay-" Marc acts relieved and helps Clint get up. “Off to bed with you.” The steps are slow and Clint sways, causing all of his weight to rest on Marc. When they reach the bed, Clint falls onto the mattress and makes no effort to move. Marc pulls out the blanket and places it over Clint.
“Thanks,” Clint murmurs quietly, looking at him with quickly closed eyes. “Sleep,” Marc replies, then goes back into the bathroom to clean up the mess. He stuffs everything back into the box. The carpet goes into the laundry basket, but again with the aim of simply burning it. He takes a bucket, fills it with water and cleaning supplies and begins to wipe away the blood. When the bathroom is clean again, he takes the bucket and goes out into the hallway.
He takes a mop from a storage room and begins to remove the drops of blood. He's glad it's not a carpet. “How is he?” Reese asks when he arrives in the anteroom. “He’s sleeping,” he replies, continuing to wipe the spots. “That’s good,” Reese says. She sounds more relaxed now. "I'm sorry I was so-" "Don't be," interrupts Marc, stopping what he's doing and turning to her.
“This is your home too,” Marc begins. “You shouldn’t have to hide behind a door with scent bombs. I should have been here. I should have done something-" "Marc-" Reese interrupts and steps closer. “Nobody knew what Clint was up to. I don't even think he knew what he was doing." She holds out her cell phone. News articles with different headlines but still the same meaning shine in his direction. There are pictures and videos. It shows Clint robbing a bank and falling out of a window with Robbins. There are articles about a body found on the train tracks and articles about Captain America in the hospital. The further he scrolls down, the older the articles become. An article from three days ago caught his attention.
Is Ronin back?
“Oh Clinton,” Marc murmurs, handing Reese her phone back. “What happens next?” Reese asks with a helpful tone. Marc shrugs his shoulders. “They will look for him,” explains Marc with a resigned tone. He doesn't feel like arguing with Barnes or any of the others. However, he won't let them get him either.
“I don’t think the cops dare come here,” says Reese. “I don’t mean the cops either. They're the least of our problems. I mean the superheroes with merchandise,” says Marc, grimacing. It will be difficult to avoid them. He would rather go into a cage with thousands of mosquitoes than spend even a second with Barnes. “Do you think they’ll come here?” Reese asks and Marc shrug.
He doesn't know if they would enter the building, but he can imagine that it would be under surveillance. “However, it is important to minimize chaos. Clint mentioned a Bryce who died and it affects him. Maybe we can start with that.”
“You shouldn’t be walking around,” Marc warns as he sees Clint walking down the stairs. “I’m hungry,” Clint murmurs. He still appears weak and unsteady on his legs. However, he is too awake and too stubborn to accept a helping hand now. So Marc watches with a careful eye as Clint slowly staggers through the anteroom and to the small kitchen area. He pushes his bowl of cereal over to Clint, who immediately begins to eat.
“Who was Bryce?” Marc asks after Clint finishes the bowl and reaches for the pack to refill himself. Clint pauses for a moment. A variety of emotions flash across his face before he tries to put on a neutral expression. "He worked for Robbins-" Clint begins to explain in a rough voice. “I then paid him to work for me. He was just a child-". Clint's eyes water again, but no tears fall. Marc sees Clint making a fist, pressing his fingernails into his palm.
“He wasn't even eighteen. He was just-”. Clint stops the sentence. Guilt and anger at himself shimmer on his face. Marc would like to offer comfort, but he knows Clint would refuse. So he just listens. "Bullseye killed him-" There's anger in his voice. "He also killed the Skrull and took Steve to the hospital and framed it on me while he was wearing the Ronin costume."
“And now Bullseye is dead,” says Marc. Clint had already said something along these lines yesterday. “Just like Ronin,” Clint adds. “Someone will identify him as Bullseye and maybe they will believe he was responsible for most of the shit.” “That would be a start,” agrees Marc. "But it doesn't change the fact that you robbed a bank."
"I just stole Robbins' money," Clint says with an indifferent tone, only to sigh and put his face in his hands. “That was so stupid,” he mumbles. Marc nods slightly, but doesn't say anything. “They’ll all be looking for me,” Clint says, his eyes suddenly clear. “Don’t worry,” Marc says in a firm voice. "everything will be fine. We will find a solution. We just have to take it step by step.”
“And what’s the first step?” Clint asks skeptically.
“Get Bryce a funeral.”
"You would do that?" Clint asks in an incredulous voice. Marc nods. “All you have to do is tell me where he is and I’ll do the rest.” Clint wipes away a tear. “I took him to Linda in the hopes that she...she would call a coroner. I don't know where he went." Marc doesn't really want to go to Linda and ask her about it. He also thinks she would just slam the door in his face.
“Do you know his last name?” asks Marc. Reese will have to sneak into various systems. “Bandau,” Clint delivers, pushing the bowl of cereal away. The crispy flakes slowly soften in the milk. “We’ll find him,” Marc promises and Clint nods. "Thanks," Clint says with a wavering smile of thanks and stands up from the chair. “I’m going back to sleep”
Marc knows he won't close an eye.