Clint had seen the boy around for a month. He was always under the overpass that loomed in the middle of the city, just past sixth street. He was skinny, the loose white tank top he wore day after day ripping against the sidewalk while he slept. He was bruised and battered, he walked with a limp and never smiled. He had faintly silver hair, maybe he dyed it once. He never begged. He just sat under the overpass, occasionally strangers would give him money or food. Mothers would point and make examples to their children, the elderly would give him condescending looks. Clint saw him every day on his way to and from work. He didn't know the poor kid's backstory or his name, just that he was alone and hungry. He'd never spoken to him, never given him anything. Just watched over him, making sure nothing was seriously wrong.

It was a cold winter morning when Clint drove past the spot the kid slept in, seeing him to be missing. Curiosity got the best of him and he pulled over, walking around for a few minutes.

"Help! Help!" A russian accent cried out in distress.

Clint rounded the corner, seeing three teenage punks beating someone on the ground.

"Scat! Get out of here before I call the police, you assholes!" Clint barked, scaring off the threats.

"S-sir, p-please. Help." The boy backed against the wall, whimpering. He looked like he could barely move, he was beaten bloody.

"Oh, god." Clint gasped, covering his mouth with his palm in shock.

"Pozhaluysta, pomogite mne." The boy was wincing, shaking in fear and pain.

"Do you speak english?" Clint approached him slowly.

"I not speak very well in this language." The poor, homeless kid coughed, wiping the blood from his nose.

"Okay, kid, should I take you to the hospital, or call someone?" Clint was growing concerned. He knelt in front of the boy.

"N-net. Net. J-just help over to t-the spot, please?"

"How about I take you back to my place, I'll get you something to eat and let you warm up?"

"Thank you, Sir." He struggled to to pull himself into a standing position.

Clint let him lean against his side as he helped the boy limp to his car.

"So, do you have a name?" Clint turned the keys in the ignition.

"P-Pietro." He bit back a whine of pain when the seatbelt touched his shoulder and ribs.

"Pietro." Clint echoed, the name was sweet on his tongue. "Well, I'm Clint."

Pietro was silent, he had stopped shivering. The snow began to fall softly to the ground.

"Looks like I got you just in the nick of time, it looks like it's gonna storm."

Pietro hummed quietly in agreement.

They arrived at Clint's house, a small shack in the middle of a suburban community.

Clint entered the house quickly, sitting Pietro on the couch. He quickly gave him a blanket, the poor kid's lips were practically blue.

"I'll be right back." Clint walked down a hallway, returning with a first aid box.

"What is that?" Pietro pointed weakly at the white box.

"It's just a first aid kit, some bandages to patch you up." Clint was a nurse, something he was neglecting today. He was wearing his scrubs. Hopefully he would get the opportunity to change soon.

Pietro made a noise softly.

"I'm going to need to take off your shirt, okay?" Clint gripped the hem of Pietro's abused cloth that was a shirt.

Pietro nodded. Clint pulled the shirt over his head, eliciting a groan from the beaten boy. His chest was a war zone. He had scars and cuts and bruises all across the pale white.

Clint traced a jagged scar on the upper of the left side of his chest. "Were you stabbed?"

"Home life was no good. Better than street life, though."

Clint sighed in empathy. He was abused as a child too, but not this bad, and even after that, he had the circus at least.

Clint wrapped Pietro's injuries, cleaning the cuts and checking the bruises.

"I noticed you have a limp. When did you get hurt?" Clint looked at him with soft eyes.

"I always had lame leg. That is why parents hit me and not let me eat. I am invalid, dis-disgrace."

Clint's heart melted. He felt so sorry for Pietro. "Aww, you're not a disgrace. When was the last time you ate?"

"I not remember. Most likely about a week." Pietro was jittery, almost.

Clint gave a sad look. "Okay. Alright. I'm going to go get you something to eat."

Pietro sat alone as Clint cooked in the kitchen. He was rigid, back straight and feet planted on the floor, ready to bolt if he were in danger.

"Gay?! You are crippled and useless already, now you chose to be gay, too!?" His father yelled in Russian, pushing Pietro down, an easy task. "Out! I want you out of my house, you disgrace!" He kicked him. "Get up! Get up, you faggot! I want you out!!"

Pietro saw Wanda, his sister crying on the stairwell. "Don't worry, sister, I'll come back for you." He took her smaller hand in his own. "I love you. I promise I'll come back and take you away."

Pietro was crying as his dad pushed him down the front steps, slamming the door.

"Pietro? You okay?" Clint was kneeling in front of him.

Pietro broke down and sobbed. "Spasibo. Bol'shoye vam spasibo, Clint." Thank you. Thank you so much, Clint.

Clint held Pietro in his arms, letting him cry.

"N-no one has ever b-been nice l-like this to m-me." Pietro choked out, accent thick.

Clint's heart broke. Pietro pulled away, wiping his eyes.

A few minutes passed, Clint allowing Pietro to compose himself.

"You hungry?" Clint asked.

Pietro nodded, pulling a small half smile onto his face. It was the first time he smiled in years.

Clint led him to the table, where he sat down, semi clueless. He'd never used utensils before, he never had the opportunity to, or to eat with his family. He always ate in the basement where they kept him. Sometimes he snuck table scraps when he hadn't been fed in a few days.

Pietro had fine motor skill problems in his hands and he knew it, he wasn't sure how or if he could use the utensils. He hated having the various defects he was born with, it made him despise himself even more.

Clint sat down, eating as well so it wasn't so awkward.

Pietro looked at the plate of spaghetti in front of him. He looked at the silverware.

He tried to hold the fork, his hand shaking and the fork slipping, clattering back down onto the table. He tried again and again. His hand just wouldn't tighten enough around the handle. He gripped with his whole fist, the fork still not staying.

"Hey, Pietro, can you do what I'm doing with my hand?" Clint asked. He'd seen this before in palsy patients. Clint held out three fingers.

Pietro tried, he really did, but his thumb only went out half way and his middle finger hardly moved at all, his pointer finger the only one that fully extended. His hand shook.

"It isn't just your leg, is it?" Clint took Pietro's hand, attempting to flatten out his spastic fingers.

The poor boy shook his head, already feeling like a burden to this good samaritan.

"Oh, Pietro." Clint sighed. "Go ahead and eat, however you feel comfortable. I won't watch, if it makes you feel better."

Pietro abandoned the cutlery, eating as neatly as he could with his hands. It was the most he'd had to eat in months.

He was done in minutes, wiping his hands on the bottom of his shirt. Clint stopped him, showing him to the sink and turning the tap on for him.

Pietro washed his hands, the drain going brown from the years of dirt and filth covering him.

Clint sat down with him on the couch, thinking.

"Okay, let's get you in the shower."

"What is 'shower'?" Pietro shook, uncertain.

"It's just gonna clean you off, then I'll get you some fresh clothes." Clint took him to the bathroom, grabbing a white t-shirt and pajama pants from his closet.

Clint turned on the shower, warm water pouring out. "I'll be out in the living room when you're done."

Pietro nodded, waiting for Clint to leave before undressing and nearly falling in the shower stall, catching himself and beginning to clean, black water swirling down the drain. His hair was matted, he scrubbed it as hard as he could but it was ratted and knotted. He remembered once, he and Wanda had died his hair silver on a dare. It hadn't looked too bad, but Father was furious.

Pietro stepped out of the stall, getting dressed in the most comfortable clothes he had ever felt.

Clint was waiting in the couch for him, drinking coffee out of a purple mug with a white arrow on it.

Pietro hobbled over, sitting down with surprising ease next to Clint.

The young boy fell asleep on the couch minutes later. Clint picked him up, carrying him into the bedroom. He tucked the battered boy under the covers, exhaling contently.