The first time Griselda laid eyes on Clint Barton, he was a twig of a thing. Too skinny, too fidgety, eyes too sharp, with a habit of nesting in high, out of the way places, but in his eyes was a spark she knew would get him through his future. He was eleven and had already witnessed so much bad, but there would be plenty more, she knew, she always knew. So instead of ignoring the too skinny, too loud child like the rest of the circus, she invited the boy into her caravan and let him have tea and think through his problems, and when he needed help, she always helped him, but her help always came with a price. A cabinet that needed fixing. A few days' worth of pay. Chores that needed to be done. Nothing he couldn't do. And she watched him grow until he was eighteen, when he flew from her nest to a college he'd managed a scholarship to. She'd never been prouder of her sharp eyed hawk.