He Didn't See That Coming.

0.5

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.