Chapter 3
Clint isn't sure what to think of Peter.
If there's one thing he knows for certain, it's that Peter is a good kid. He's a little on the quiet side, but Clint knows an honest person when he sees one; he's got a smart head on those narrow shoulders of his and, although clearly grateful whenever he shows up with some extra food, doesn't act greedy or as if he were expecting Clint to have food whenever he's around. It's a good trait. Good kid.
He's got tawny brown hair (that's a little long, but is still trimmed every so often, meaning he either does it himself or there's someone nice enough to give him free cuts) and big brown eyes, doe-like and curious, yet clouded over with a thin layer of something sadder, hardly noticeable yet still so obvious all at once. His skin is pale and the dark circles under his eyes are a constant but he seems more animated rather than a little dead on the inside.
And he doesn't treat Clint as an Avenger, but as an average person (even when he comes around wearing his suit and his bow on his back). He's so used to civilians acting like he's some sort of bigshot, attention-worthy celebrity that being around someone who acts like he's just Clint is startling — and extremely appreciated.
It's these factors beside many more that keep him intrigued; keep him coming back to Peter whether he wants to give him an extra cheeseburger or just have a chat.
He fears that Peter thinks he's only around because he pities him, so he makes it very clear after their first few meetings that he isn't. Sure, the father side of him worries for the kid and how he's far too young to be stuck on the streets of New York, hungry and cold with nowhere to go and no one to rely on. He shouldn't have to go through something as damaging as that.
No one should.
But then he remembers that Peter is independent and strong and can manage just fine without the occasional meal and company from Clint. After all, he's been just fine before they even met, for however long he's been out on the streets (which is information he plans to get, eventually). He's a good kid. A good, smart kid who is determined to kick life in its cruel ass.
When him and Sam go out to buy breakfast muffins (because Tony's questionable cooking just won't do) in their sweats and hoodies, they hardly notice that they order an extra one.
When they leave the shop and turn the complete opposite way from the Tower, they don't bat an eyelid.
When they show up at the base of Peter's wall, they start to grow concerned.
Where Clint expected Peter to be sitting on the top of the wall, one leg hanging off the side and his fingers tapping a rhythm against his thigh as per usual, the space is entirely empty: and he isn't sure why he feels as if something terrible has happened to him. It's not like he's always on the wall.
"He's gone," Sam states with a sullen expression.
"Good observation," Clint snarks, rubbing his forehead with cold fingers. "I know that the kid isn't always on the wall, so it shouldn't be weird that he isn't here, but something feels wrong, Sam." He sighs, glancing up to where Peter usually sits again, half-hoping that he'd randomly show up if he were to look again. "Maybe I'm being dumb. Am I being dumb?"
"No." Sam braces his arms on the top of the wall and peers into the thin space behind it. "His backpack is stuck in the gap between the building and the wall, but not like it's been done purposefully to hide it," he observes, pulling it out and showing it to Clint with a worried grimace. There are scuff marks all over it, but it's intact otherwise. "It's like it fell."
Something that makes his stomach drop occurs to Clint, like a switch turning on. "He never goes anywhere without his backpack."
Sam bites his lip, his eyes watching a corner of the ground as he thinks. "I know that there are a million perfectly okay reasons for him to be gone without his backpack," he starts, swallowing loudly, "but I can't help but feel like something happened."
And that's when they hear it — a scuffle of feet from further down the lane; a shout of anguish; the unmistakable sound of a fist hitting skin.
Clint drops the bag of breakfast muffins and races towards the noise without so much as hesitating. He nearly wishes he had his bow with him, because breaking up fights — and there is no doubt that breaking up a fight is what he is about to do, because he knows the sound of one like he knows the back of his hand — is so much easier when you have a deadly weapon at hand.
He slows down as he reaches an even thinner alleyway branching off the main one. There's the cackle of cruel laughter and more shouting, even more frightened as before, but it sounds muffled and considerably weaker. Anger curls through his stomach, but he channels it into his fists instead of his voice as he stalks into the alley, Sam close at his heels.
And... it's Peter.
Only, he's the one on the floor, a hand over his mouth and a pair of strong arms pinning him to the floor so hard that Clint fears his shoulders will break. There's fear in those gentle brown eyes and a stream of blood running from a mess of bruises and gashes on his forehead and jawline — a mess that sends not just anger but pure fury through Clint's veins, because these guys are beating on a defenceless homeless kid.
(Not just any homeless kid, though — his homeless kid.)
The two men holding him down are dirty-looking skanks, all muscle but clearly no brain in their ugly heads, and don't seem to be phased by the sudden appearance of Clint and Sam. One of them — a tan man with a tangled beard and black eyes that stink of pure stupidity — cackles and hits the back of Peter's head against the floor again. "You out yet, kid?" he spits.
Sam steps forward, taking a less violent approach to the matter, but Clint can see the justified anger in the way his jaw tightens. "Let him go," he says, eyes flashing. "You've done enough to him. This isn't the way to-"
But the other man, with dirt smeared across his skin and a sick grin toying with his features, interrupts him with a sharp cackle. "We've only been at it for ten minutes,” he tells them, and Clint's fist clench harder as he puts a foot on top of Peter's chest. "Kid fought back, but we got 'im quiet eventually. Been a while since I've felt this alive!"
Peter is watching them through eyes shrouded with panic and pain, latching onto their appearance as if they would disappear if he were to shift his gaze away. He looks tired, probably from loss of blood and the numerous blows to the head he's clearly received, but he unwaveringly stays awake — probably with the knowledge that he could never wake up if he had severe brain damage in mind.
Never has Clint wanted to smother a kid that is not his own with affection more than he does now.
"He's a kid," Sam attempts to reason. He looks somewhat queasy. "You're really enjoying beating on a kid?"
"Best part of my day," Tangled Beard answers.
"This one has been a good screamer!" Dirt Face declares, a finger up in the air, as if he were proud (and there is no doubt that he is).
Tangled Beard's eyebrows waggle suggestively. "Gets me excited, y'know?"
That's the last straw for Clint. He dives forward, sending a foot into Tangled Beard's chest and following it up with a kick to the head driven by complete and utter anger. The blow is hard enough to knock him unconscious immediately and he collapses limply into a rotting trashbag, blood running from his nose where it made contact with the floor. "You're fucking disgusting," he spits onto his motionless body.
Dirt Face jumps away from Peter to tackle Clint, but Sam catches it quickly as ever; he drives his fist into the man's cheek and then another into his stomach, then kicks him to the ground beside his companion where he, too, lays still and unconscious with blood running from a cut in his forehead. They aren't dead, but Clint wishes to Hell that they are.
"I can't believe people like that exist," Sam says eventually.
But Clint is too occupied with the shivering figure on the ground to respond. He crouches down beside Peter steadily, throat tightening as he notices the tears pricking at the corner of the poor kid's eyes. He's cold and terrified and hurt and he doesn't know how to go about this without overwhelming him.
It's now that he notices the extensive damage dappling the skin across his face and neck; the bruises swell deep and dark and the gashes are deeper than he first thought. Blood from a couple on his cheeks run off his face and onto the ground underneath him. There's most likely more underneath the thin shirt and skinny jeans he's wearing, but he doesn't want to check until Peter is comfortable.
"Hey, Pete. Can I touch you?" he begins, voice wavering.
The kid hardly even pauses — just nods his consent and winces.
"You're okay." He runs his hands through his tawny hair, which, with a dash of terror, he realizes is slick with blood. He makes no immediate reaction save for showing his hand now stained with blood to Sam over his shoulder, who curses and pulls out his phone. "You're fine, Pete."
"Tired," Peter murmurs, voice slurring.
His eyes close slowly but Clint catches it fast, lightly tapping his cheeks to keep him alert. "Hey. Hey, Peter. Don't close your eyes, yeah? Keep looking at Sam, Peter. Keep your eyes on him." There's probably extensive bruising on his ribs and stomach, so Clint doesn't try to set him up against the wall; just holds his head in one palm and his hand with another.
"We had a breakfast muffin for you, Petey," Sam says. "Blueberry. You like blueberries?"
A hazy grin lights up Peter's bruised face, despite himself. "M' aunt... she made g... good blueb'rry pancakes..."
"Was she a good cook?" Clint asks next. It's clearly draining for the kid to be talking, but they need to keep him awake, and distracting him with conversation is the best they can do before help arrives. Sam shows him his phone screen - a text message from Happy, telling them that he's going to drive a car to their location. "Really? To the Tower?"
"It's easier," Sam answers. Then he turns back to Peter, who remains barely awake, yet still regarding them with a slight smile. It's amazing that he's managed to stay conscious for this long; he's received countless blows to the head if the mass of blackening bruises and the blood-slicked hair is anything to go by, and there is no doubt that there's more to see under his clothes, too.
Peter's skin looks pale where it isn't mottled and he's gripping onto Clint's hand so hard that his knuckles are bone-white - as if he might disappear if he were to let go. Despite being in such a bad condition, he still manages to hold on, and Clint is reminded of how strong and capable this kid really is.
It's familiar. He can't quite place it.
"No hosp'tals," Peter says suddenly.
At this statement, Clint's mind stutters. Maybe he's just being paranoid at this point, but he's pretty sure that refusing treatment at a hospital is something to be suspicious about, and questions that remain unvocalized surface in his brain. The only reason plausible to Clint is that going to hospital will mean that the CPS will be alerted, because he's homeless and — judging by his appearance and size, though that could just be malnutrition — likely running from them.
Head tilting to the left, Sam leans in closer. "No, you're not going to the hospital. We're taking you to the Tower's medical wing, kiddo. Banner is a lot better than those doozies," he promises, a chuckle bubbling from his throat when Peter's eyes light up at Bruce's name.
"Bruce B'nner?" he slurs.
"The one and only," Clint answers. "You're a fan?"
But Peter doesn't reply; just gazes past Sam, out of the thin backlane. Clint follows his eyes to see that one of Stark's cars is parked outside, with Happy's concerned face peering at them through the open window. "How urgent is it? I need to know how fast to drive," he asks them loudly.
Sam turns away to answer him, and Clint refocuses his attention onto Peter. The kid is still awake, but that small dash of energy in his eyes is starting to fade faster and faster behind his half-closed eyelids. "Pete," he says, hitting his cheek softly. "Pete, keep your eyes on me, yeah? We're going to get you in the car. Just stay awake, even if it's hard. Try for me."
"M'kay," Peter murmurs, readjusting his grasp on Clint's hand. His hands are so small - so pale.
"Good kid. You're doing really well."
It takes them some time and a lot of patience, but they eventually get Peter lying in the backseat of the car, his head resting atop of Clint's lap. The archer, while running a hand through his blood-soaked hair, is telling Peter that he'll be okay, that they're getting him help - mostly to comfort the kid, but also to comfort himself, too. He hasn't stopped shaking for twenty minutes.
"Thanks for coming so fast, Happy," Sam says from the passenger seat, turning to the driver.
"It's no problem," he answers as he takes to the roads. "I have to ask, though — what happened to him?"
"Some dickwads beat him up." Clint huffs, feeling anger biting at his throat again. "There was no reason. They didn't want money. They just wanted to have some fun." He shakes his head, glancing down at the half-unconscious kid in his lap. "He has a lot of head injuries."
"I can see that," Happy says, watching them in the mirror. "Who is he, then?"
Sam is drumming his fingers against his knee — something he does when he's anxious, Clint has noticed over time. "His name is Peter, and he's a homeless kid Clint met in a corner store," he explains, speaking somewhat faster than usual, like there's far too much nervous energy and no other way to expel it. "He introduced us once. He's a good kid. Deserves better than what he has."
"We bring him food sometimes," Clint continues, "whenever I buy something like... I don't know, a cheeseburger, I buy extra and bring it round to him. To help him out, y'know? It can't be easy being out on the street, as young as he is."
"That's nice of you," Happy observes.
"Yeah. I'm just glad we got to him. Imagine what could've happened if we didn't show up when we did..." A visible shudder shakes Sam and Clint swallows, feeling queasy at the thought. He hasn't felt this shaken up and scared for someone else as much as he is now in a while, and he is quickly finding that it's not a feeling that is very much welcome.
Happy hums. "Strange that he doesn't want to go to the hospital," he points out after a while.
"I thought it was to avoid CPS. I don't know how old he is, but I hardly think that he's older than eighteen... " Clint looks down at Peter again, noticing his eyes are closed and his grip on the archer's hand has loosened considerably. A streak of anxiety races through his chest. "Hey, Petey. You awake? Stay with me, yeah?" He pats the boy's cheek with shaky fingers.
"'m awake," Peter manages out. "Wh... where..."
No one says anything when Happy passes the speed limit.