AN – Although inspired by the events on his wiki page, this fic is a stab at what led Barton to be the man he is in the 2012 avenger movie. I have not read the comics, nor am I particularly inclined to. This is me having fun with my second favorite character in the Avengers, as he did not get a movie introduction, showing how he became who he is.


Chapter 1

Clint Barton was four years old the first time he fired a bow and arrow. It was one of those cheap ones you bought at the dollarstore, made of bright orange plastic with suction cups on the end of five neon yellow arrows. His mother had taken him and his brother Barney to the Dollarstore of the sleepy Iowa town after going grocery shopping and allowed them to each pick one toy. Barney had gone for a set of plastic money. Clint had picked his first bow and arrows. Upon getting home, his parents had set up a target against a window and he had spent the entire afternoon shooting and retreiving. Before bedtime came, Clint was able to hit the bullseye consistantly.

That night, his mother tucked him into bed, and he could not shut up about his new toy. She had given him a smile and a kiss, and turned off his light. It was the last time he had ever seen her.

According to his older brother, Mr and Mrs Barton died in a car crash that night. Clint may have been young but he knew better. He had heard the screams that night. He had heard the struggles. And his parents had not gone out that night. The fact that their bodies were found in the family car in a ditch three miles from the house seemed to be the only information relevant to the police. No one would believe a four year old anyway.

After his parents funeral, he and his brother had been carted into a foster family, somewhere in Kansas. Clint only remembered the extreme heat of the place, and spending a lot of time outside. He made a small target out of some old cardboard, and practiced using his bow. The foster parents in question worked every day, but had not hired a babysitter or nanny, just letting the boys roam the neighbourhood. When Barney was caught stealing money from their pretend mom's purse, they left.

They were transfered from house to house, foster family to foster family for two long years. One particularly bad one, was a middle aged man who beat the children on their first day there. Clint still had the scars of the bat he had used. That particular caregiver was the first person, but not the last to break Clint's nose. Everytime he screamed, he was hit again. Eventually he learnt to stop screaming. Not easy when you are five, but one did what one had to do. The only possession Clint remembered taking with him from place to place was his plastic bow and arrow, his last present from his parents.

Barney had been eight, and Clint, almost seven, when their last foster family had taken them to see Carson's Carnival of Travelling Wonders. Clint had been mesmerised by the show. He watched as Trickshot, a master archer shot a bullseye from a horse, while jumping on a trampoline and while rolling behind a barrel. By the end of the day, he had made up his mind. He was going to run away to the circus.

Was it horrible to dream when you were a child? Usually a parent was there to control the dreaming, to stop it from becoming reality. But his then foster family was not very attentive of the two Barton boys. They had run that night, hiding themselves as the circus was loaded onto the train and left for Ohio.

Everywhere people were bustling from place to place, each with a specific job to do. Clint and Barney had watched in awe, Clint still clinging to his plastic bow and arrows. That was when Trickshot walked by

« Trickshot! Mr. Trickshot! » Clint had shouted, full of enthousiam, despite his brother telling him to shut it. He had run up to his new idol, and began professing his love and desire to be as good an archer as Trickshot was. His hero had stayed utterly silent. As Clint finished, out of breath, Trickshot had reached out and smacked the small boy. Reeling, Clint saw stars. And Trickshot leant in, grabbed Clint's plastic bow and snapped it clean in half. Clint had been on the verge of tears. His one true possession was broken! Trickshot had walked away, and Barney only said « I told you so » before striding off as well.

After the tears had dried that first day, Clint had climbed into the support beams of the tent to watch the show. His eyes, they were so good that even at a distance like that, he did not miss a beat of the action. He still wanted to be an archer. As good as Trickshot. Only now it seemed that much harder. Barney said something about seeing the circus master. That night, the two boys had shared a bunk on the train. Barney told him the circus master, Carson, said they could stay. That he needed a small pair of hands to do some dirty work. Barney did not know what the work was then.

The first month at the circus was miserable for Clint. Barney was running favors for Carson, and Clint had nothing to do except watch Trickshot practice. It became something of an obsession. He would watch the middleaged man practice each day and then perform each night, from the rafters. He used every sneaking skill he had learnt playing hide and seek to stay out of sight and out of trouble. It did not always work though, and no matter who caught him, whether it was a showgirl, a trapeze artist or an animal handler, they always gave him a beating. It only pushed him to be even more discreet. After three weeks in the circus, he planned a careful steal of one bow and five arrows from Trickshot's stash. From then on, Clint watched Trickshot, and then practiced on his own, in a hidden area of camp each day.

This was no plastic bow that was easy to pull. This bow was a lot harder to even draw. It had taken him three long days to build up the strength to make one shot. The bow was much too big for him, but he practiced with it none the less. He did push ups like he had seen Trickshot do. He lifted heavy logs and stones to get stronger. For a seven year old, the adult recurve was a challenge, but Cling being the determined child he was, took it on. Within a fortnight, Clint could shoot five arrows in a row, and hit the target every time. His musculature and endurance had only risen from there.

It had taken several months before Clint realised what Barney was doing. Besides being the Ringmaster's lackey, he was a pickpocket. As the paying customers would watch the show, Barney would sneak in, unseen and unnoticed and steal change, cards, jewellery and anything else he could nab. Even with the keen eye he had, it had taken several months of watching before he had caught his brother in the act. Barney had immediately denied it. As they had grown older, they had gotten more distant.

Clint on the other hand, became something of a scapegoat to all the other carnies. If something when wrong, even if it had nothing to do with him, he received a hit or two. He learnt to accept it. Who would he complain to? His brother never protected him. Carson, who ran the circus as a drug dealer helped his clients, did not even acknowledge Clint's existance. So he remained stoically silent, as well as staying alone and away as much as possible. He kept his distance, keeping to the shadows and away from everyone, passing out of sight to avoid being hit. When he did get caught, which happened less and less over the years, the lesson he had learnt from the mean foster parent held, and he never screamed once. It had become his approach to anything and everything. Silence, indifference and distance. And it served him rather well. People started to think him a little dumb and people who thought you were dumb were much easier to fool.

Clint had spent eight months with the circus before Trickshot caught him practicing with the adult recuve he had stolen. He had beaten Clint black and blue that night, and Clint had very nearly missed the train out the next morning. But Trickshot had not taken the bow back. So Clint kept on practicing. At their very next stop, Trickshot spotted him again. Clint thought that he was about to be beaten again, and had almost run. But Trickshot had simply approached and corrected his footstance. Not saying a word, Trickshot oversaw an hour of Clint's practice, correcting with a push or a pull of a hand. Then he had left. Clint exhaled a sigh of relief. This pattern continued for six months, before Trickshot spoke his first words to Clint, who was now approaching his ninth birthday.

« You will perform tonight. » This had taken Clint aback. He had not wanted to. It was not why he had learnt to shoot. Why had he learnt to shoot? By now, he knew Trickshot's routine by heart. It didn't seem like he had been given any choice in the matter.

That night had been horrible. Shaking from head to toe, it was all he could do to hit the targets. The large audience that night did nothing to calm him. Even having his bow in his hand, his safety, his protector of a weapon, did not make him feel better. He missed the final shot of the act completely, a shot from on top of a ball. Trickshot beat him again that night, broken his nose (again), two ribs and ankle, and never showed his face at Clint's practices again.

His arms still sore, and his foot in a poorly made cast by a monkey trainer, Clint had taken exactly two days off before lifting his bow again. He practiced until his fingers bled and then practised more so callouses built up. Some would say at this point that it was the only thing that gave him comfort. It was true. His brother was all but non-existant. His hero had rejected him. And once Clint knew every trick better than Trickshot did, he knew he needed to find something new.

At eleven years old, Clint had mastered every trick his mentor (sort of) knew. He therefore sought out other skills to add to his own personal repertoire. He spent six months observing a tightrope walker who showed him how to balance perfectly, then learnt to shoot while standing on a tightrope thirty feet in the air. He spent another half year with a knife juggler who taught him to throw, juggle and use a knife. From then on, he always carried one with him and began adding knife fight exercises to his practicing routine. He even got the opera singer to give him tips on acting. He watched a contortionist to learn flexibility and stretching excercises. He stalked two gymnasts, learning flips, jumps and tumbles from them. He watched a lion tamer move so as to not scare off a dangerous beast. When they passed through a forested area, he even tried hunting, shooting small animals with his circus arrows, and having a small feast on his own. Some might say he was well on his way to becoming a master circus artist. Clint thought he was on his way nowhere.

In that time, oberserving everyone in the circus, skill or no skill, Clint had learnt to depend on all his senses. He used his eyes of course. But also his ears. He learnt every secret of each person. The person they secretly loved. The stash of liquor hidden under the third car. The child one lover had hidden from the other. He had deeply mistrusted everyone since then. Everyone had something to hide. Everyone had something to lose. When someone spoke to you, you never knew if they were lying or telling the truth.

While Clint had spent his years learning and practicing various circus tricks and abilities, Barney had earned a name for himself in all things money. There were rumors he was the gigolo to the dancers and the liontamer alike. And that he would have sold his own brother if someone had wanted to buy him. No one really did, until Clint turned fourteen.

After seven years travelling from one end of the continent to the other, the Ringmaster had taken notice that Barney, his useful weasel had a younger brother, that had learnt just about all there was to learn. He insisted on trying Clint out again in front of an audience. Clint hated the idea, the memory of his first escapade on stage still haunting him. But Carson was not deterred. Clint performed that night in what became his usual fashion; without expression or emotion. The ringmaster, while pleased, decided to give Clint's act several showgirls to entertain the crowd and detract from Clint's sour visage.

From then on, Clint had been part of the circus, with his own nickname to match; Hawkeye. Carson boasted that he was the best archer in the world. Clint knew it was a ploy to get more people to come see the show. People loved freaks. So his life had continued. Clint never saw a penny of his profits. He knew that his brother was probably claiming it all and shoving it down one drain or another.

Hitting puberty had been an experience for Clint. His arms, already quite musclar from the never ending practice, were suddenly aided by a dose of testosterone. His first girl had been one of the showgirls of his act. She had been pretty enough, but Clint did not trust her. He knew all the dirty secrets of the circus, including that this particular showgirl screwed everyone with a penis. So, he had let her fuck him and never looked at her again. He kept his walls up. He had been building them for so long, he didn't bother taking them down for anyone. Not even his brother.

How they had changed as they had grown. Two different paths to follow both leading away from each other, but that had started in the exact same place. He and his brother didn't even look alike anymore. As children they had both had blond hair, and althought Barney's eyes were sky blue instead of grey, they had had the same square faces, and matching grins. Now only Barney wore a grin. He dyed his hair blonder when it had begun to go brown, whereas Clint had let it become a dark dirty blond. Clint's eyes stayed their steel grey color, while Barney wore colors that made his eyes bluer. Barney hardly ever did any physical activity (unless it was screwing someone over) and had the thin, scrawny frame to match, whereas Clint's constant training had earned him a stocky stance with broader shoulders. No one really thought, looking at them, that they were siblings. Clint hardly believed it himself.

And that was Clint's life. He practised, he shot, he slept with his bow. He occasionally helped his brother out of a tight spot, if only out of something to do. He sometimes hooked up with a performer, or a trainer, out of the same reasons. The circus moved around the country and Clint followed it. He was fifteen and there was nothing else he would ever know. Or so he thought.

Barney had never been a real brother. He had never been protective, or helpful, and other than running away from the foster home, Clint had not feel anything anymore towards the man who shared his blood. But still this was over stepping.

Clint stared as his brother held out the newborn baby, still slick with blood, still turning pink in the light from the streetlamp. It wasn't wailing, in fact, it was simply staring up at the night sky. Its umbilical cord, cut, but not tied, was sticking out of the towel it was wrapped in. It was not how Clint had imagined a baby.

« Please get rid of it. While she's sleeping. » Barney asked, his eyes worried and begging.

They were in Colorado. The mountains surrounding them made Clint feel ever so slightly like he was being watched. The starry sky above them was bright and cheerful, despite the somber nature of the conversation they were having.

Clint just looked at the helpless being. Snuggled in a rag of a blanket, he thought very carefully about it all. Barney had gotten the acrobat pregnant without meaning to, and he had tried to leave her, but in a circus, everyone knew everyone and she had clung to him, as if he might save her. For nine months, the charade had continued and Clint watched as his brother 'break up' with the acrobat again and again as she grew fatter with their child. The girl, the same age as Clint, had still clung on to the dream, that she and Barney could be happy and have a house with a white picket fence. Clint had no doubt his brother had the funds to do it; but he also had no doubts his brother would never do such a selfless thing. It was not something Barney did, caring for others.

The child, the poor child, had been brought into the world, by a father that would not love him, and a mother who was completely delusional. Clint knew from experience just how much love Barney had for his blood. Not only that, but the acrobat, Chelsea, could not have enough money anywhere to care for him. Not on an acrobat in a circus salary, anyway. And Clint knew just how much money actually made it into the performers hands.

Clint heaved a sigh. He held out his hands and Barney placed the infant in them, before turning away without a second glance at his progeny. Clint sat amazed at how the baby fit into his large hands. He couldn't keep it. There was no way a future could be had by the tiny creature now falling asleep in Clint's hands. No one left to care for him.

It struck Clint then that he was an uncle. And that it was in his power to save this child from the hard life he knew.

Walking carefully, so as to not wake the child up, Clint thought about how to dispose of the baby. He could shoot it with an arrow. He could suffocate it in one of the circus trucks. He could drown it in a water bucket, he was so tiny.

He decided on the second option, which seemed to be the least painful. He left the child asleep on the passenger seat of the car. Getting some hose line from behind the main tent, he fed the exhaust back into the truck's cab. And then, he started the engine.

Clint watched as the exhaust filled the air around the infant that was his nephew. Several minutes past, and the baby began to cough in his sleep. He waved his fists once. And then was still. Clint waited a little longer. He didn't know how he could not watch it. The baby deserved someone to regret that he was no longer there. He may not have lived long, but he still deserved that.

The stars winked at Clint as he removed the tiny corpse from the cab. Walking away from the parking lot, Clint felt his heart breaking. He wondered if it was normal, after killing someone. It is for the best, he told himself, you saved him from a terrible life. He repeated that mantra, until he reached the wooded area behind the main tent. He repeated it as he grabbed a shovel and began digging under a big spruce tree. He repeated it until he believed it.

He placed the blanket swaddled baby into the hole, before covering it. It was only when he finished, his muscles complaining and sweat covering his skin, that he realised his nephew did not have a name. He needed to mark the grave, it felt wrong without something to show that a child lay here before his life could have started. He took the largest, smoothest stone he could find and placed it on top of the freshly dug earth. He grabbed a sharp nail from the maintenance tent, and stared at the smooth stone. What was he to write? The child didn't have a name yet. Making up his mind, he knelt and scratched « Baby Barton » into the stone. It was the best he could do.

That was Clint's first time killing someone. Maybe not someone yet. But it might have been someone. Clint wondered then what was to become of him now.

Barney was in serious trouble. Clint had heard, with his fantastic talent for overhearing things, that an elephant tamer was about to do Barney in, because of a money affair. Something about Barney taking a share of the profits for his help feeding Daphne, the ancient elephant.

As soon as Barney found out there was a price on his head, he asked Clint for help. They were in North Carolina, another stop on the tour. It was fall, they were heading south to where it was warm.

« Please, Clint, your my brother. Don't let him get me. » Barney pleaded as Clint strode along the train. Clint did not say a word, just took his bow and strode back towards the animal car. Barney sighed, certain he was going to die, and left.

Despite being certain that he might actually get more money if his brother was killed, Clint could not in good concience let it happen. The elephant trainer, on the other hand, was a notorious fellow, who took exquist pleasure in beating the young people in the circus. Including Clint. Wtihin his first three years, Clint had received no less than fifty beatings at his hands. And so, it was decided. The circus would be short one elephant tamer that night.

It was as different from the baby as possible. This was not a helpless infant that he would try to kill as painlessly as possible. And in a way, Clint was glad. The amount of pain he had suffered at the evil man's hands made him relish planning his shot. There was no question of how. It would be with his trusted and familiar weapon.

He had placed a sharpened metal tip to his usual circus arrow, to pierce the skin better. He had planned his spot carefully from the top of the elephant car, using the massive size of the animal to hide him better in the rafters. And he had waited till the cover of night, to ease his escape. He had even planned a back up plan, a sharp knife hidden in his boot, ready to be used if, for whatever reason, he missed.

Scurrying on top of the train as slient as a shadow, Clint perched himself with a clean shot to the elephant's feeding trough. He pulled out his bow and chosen arrow and waited.

He waited for nearly an hour, before the tamer showed up. A rare grin appeared on the archer's face, as he saw the drunken state of his target.

He notched and drew. Aiming carefully, he waited until the tamer paused at the trough, filling it with a bag of feed. And he let the arrow fly. It lodged itself exactly where he had wanted it to; in the center of the tamer's back. Arching for the smallest second, a small yelp left his lips before he collapsed into the trough.

Clint swung down into the cart, and retreived his arrow. Daphne looked at him, and he swore she was smiling. He gave her a wink and then said in a clear voice

« Up » she obeyed the command without hesitation, lowering her trunk and lifting him onto her back, where he jumped out of the car and slid away into the night.

He heard the next day, that the coroner in the tiny town could not determine the weapon used to kill the tamer. Just to be safe, Clint had shot the arrow in question into a lake. But he could not help but smile slightly, knowing he had made the circus a better place.

Barney guessed that Clint had killed the tamer. He tried to talk to his brother about it, but got no information out of him. Clint, however, began to receive a small sum every week, placed in his quiver, and took that as gratitude from his brother. It wasn't much but it was something.

From then on, Clint would eliminate anyone who harmed others in the circus. It was his own personal form of justice, his way to make things better. Not necessarily for him, but for everyone. No one really knew who was responsible. The murders happened so far apart, and in so many different ways, never leaving a trace, that people were simply wary of the killer. Clint let everyone continue believing he was the slightly thick archer. No one suspected him as such.


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