[yeah. I'm a terrible person.]

The cramped space between the large block of cement and the wall is beginning to smell like blood, kerosene, and gun powder.

"I do not know how much longer I can hold this," Pietro grunts between clenched teeth. "It's too heavy."

You nod tiredly, not even bothering to try and cover the gushing wound over your ribs. "It's okay. Just go. I'll be fine."

"No," he hisses, gets a better grip on the chunk and repositions his feet. "You will not be. And I am not leaving you."

"I'll be dead within an hour, Pietro. If this wound doesn't kill me, that piece of cement will. Think. Get out while you-"

"No. I am not leaving you."

"Then pick me up. Run us out of here. That's possible, right?"

He nods. "Y-Yes, but-"

"Then do it."

Pietro looks down at you, at your paling face, and the small puddle of red collecting underneath you. In all honesty, Pietro doesn't know if he's fast enough. He does not want to risk the chance of smashing you into a pancake by accident.

"I-I cannot."

Your eyebrows furrow. "And why is that?"

A sickening crack overhead makes Pietro look up, watches as the ceiling fractures and sends dust raining down on him.

"It's now or never, Pietro. Make your choice."

It's when the ceiling completely caves in does Pietro swoop down and sprints out of the building. It collapses right as he gets outside, skidding to a halt on the sleet and doesn't even get a chance to gather his thoughts when a Quinjet lands beside him.

"Pietro!" Wanda rushes out of the jet, hair whipping around wildly. "Where's (Y/n)?"

Whirling around, Pietro finds your body curled up in a puddle of melted snow. He races to your side, makes it just in time to catch the small smile and a weak "you did it", before the air leaves your lungs.