Chapter Text
December 29, 2000
Clint Barton let out a yawn, the warmth of his breath condensing into a cloud of white in the freezing air.
It was just past six. Not fully daylight yet—everything still wrapped in that dim, gray haze before morning properly arrived.
It had snowed during the night, not too heavily, not too lightly. The city plows had only just gone out. Even here in Midtown Manhattan, where every inch of land cost a fortune, the edges of the sidewalks were piled high with snow—gray-black, half-melted, half-frozen.
Their patrol route cut through one of the backstreets. At the corner stood a business hotel, its Christmas decorations still hanging out front, not yet taken down. The colored lights glowed with a tired sort of persistence. Warm golden light spilled through the glass doors. A doorman bowed slightly as he opened a taxi door for a guest in a long wool coat, briefcase in hand.
Clint stretched, rolling the stiffness from his shoulders, and followed his partner into the alley running alongside the hotel.
A dozen overstuffed black garbage bags were stacked beside a metal dumpster, taking up most of the narrow passage.
His patrol partner, Brock Rumlow, lifted a hand and gave him a punch on the shoulder—not hard, not gentle.
“Wake up, rookie. When some junkie jumps out from behind a dumpster and shoots bullet between your legs for a twenty bucks, you won’t be sleepy anymore.”
Clint forced a smile.
One month into the NYPD, and the night shifts still left his stomach tight and uneasy.
“A junkie?” he said. “In Manhattan?”
Rumlow snorted and jerked his chin toward the hotel.
“You don’t think those Wall Street pricks are clean, do you, Barton? Drunks, junkies, hookers, pimps—rats all over New York. People here are just better at hiding their trash out the back.”
Clint neither agreed nor disagreed. He stamped his boots against the cold and moved to step around the pile of garbage bags.
Then he stopped, like he’d heard something.
A faint rustling, soft, Like the sound of plastic shifting in the wind.
“A rat?” he murmured, lowering his voice. He frowned, one hand already moving toward his holster.
Rumlow came up beside him, the easy look on his face vanishing in an instant, replaced by alertness.
“Shit. Don’t tell me I actually called it.”
Not a rat.
Clint held his breath and nudged aside the outermost garbage bag with the toe of his boot.
The first thing he saw was an arm. It stretched out through the gap between the bags—thin, pale, almost translucent under the reflection of the snow, covered in bruises: blue, purple, black.
“Oh my God—”
He clapped a hand over his mouth.
Maybe ten years from now Clint Barton would be used to this kind of thing.
But not now.
A girl, Red hair. Young, Very young. No older than fifteen. Maybe younger.
She lay twisted on her back between dirty snowmelt and reeking garbage bags, her body bent at an unnatural angle. The only thing she wore was a sequined slip dress, one strap snapped clean off. The skin left bare was covered in bruises—dark purple and deep red, old wounds layered over fresh ones.
Heavy makeup had been smeared across her face, the colors running and cracked, draped over her still-childish features like some grotesque, ridiculous mask.
The only thing proving she was still alive was the faint rise and fall of her chest.
“Rumlow! Ambulance, now!”
Clint tore off his heavy coat in a rush and dropped to one knee, draping it over her. Then he patted her face lightly, trying to keep his voice steady.
“Hey. Kid. Can you hear me? Don’t fall asleep. Stay with me. Tell me your name.”
Her eyelids fluttered, but didn’t open. Her lips trembled.
A few broken syllables slipped out. A language Clint didn’t recognize at all—thick, heavily rolled consonants, unmistakably Eastern European. He bent down quickly, pressing his ear closer, but he couldn’t make out a single word.
The sound reminded him of a wild stray dog he’d once found while hiking—half-dead, shaking, making those same broken little noises as it fought to stay alive.
He looked up at Rumlow, who was already speaking into his radio, calling it in. Then he looked back down at the battered body in front of him.
Beyond the alley, the city was beginning to wake—morning chorus was slowly rising. But here, in this corner piled high with trash, there was only the girl’s shallow breathing— and the pounding of his own heartbeat, louder and louder in his ears.
Don’t die.
Don’t die.
Stay alive.
Stay alive.
Please.