New York City, February 1995.

Clint was shivering. He clutched his broken leg closer to himself, biting his tongue as his eyes began to sting with tears that threatened to fall. He shouldn't cry – he wouldn't – because the Swordsman had taught him that crying was a sign of weakness, and that weakness was unacceptable.

The Swordsman.

Barney.

Clint sniffed and gingerly wrapped himself tighter in a ratty blanket, ignoring the aching feeling in his empty stomach as it began to rain. He stared morosely outside the abandoned boxcar that has been his home for the past three days… ever since the Swordsman had beaten him up and left him for dead, as Barney stared in frozen shock.

"I asked for forty percent!" the Swordsman yelled.

Clint peeked from behind the tent curtain, watching covertly as his mentor picked up a trembling man by the scruff of his collar. The slightly stout man yelped as his feet left the ground, whimpering slightly as his bowler hat tumbled from his shiny bald head. Clint recognized him – he was the man who counted the money in the ticket booth after each performance.

"S-sir," he mumbled. "S-sales weren't too g-great this season, y-you know…"

"Do I look like I care?" the Swordsman snarled.

"B-but – we needed to feed the animals, sir..."

"Do I look like I care about the goddamn elephants, Wayne?!"

Wayne gulped.

"The other performers are pretty f-fond of them…" he stammered. It was true. Clint and Barney were particularly doting upon the newborn calf, Daisy, and would spend their free time feeding her overripe apples and giving her baths.

He suppressed a gasp as his mentor, his idol, threw Wayne onto the grimy floor and whipped out his sword.

"No… p-please…. sir…"

Clint would never forget the scream that followed.

"Snitches get stitches," his mentor had sneered, as he dodged Clint's kick and pinned him to the ground.

Clint cried out as he felt his leg crack – just as the Swordsman whipped out his pocketknife.

"What did I teach you about showing pain?" he jeered, as he pressed the blade against Clint's temple. Clint hissed as he felt the knife slice through his skin.

"Better question," his teacher continued, "What did I teach you about loyalty?!"

Clint yelled and wrestled out of the Swordsman's grip, head-butting him square in the nose. He gasped as bright red blood spurted from the clean break, some falling onto Clint's shirt.

His mentor just chuckled.

"Not bad, Clintie," he said, getting up and wiping blood from his face. "I've taught you well."

Clint tried to catch his breath, glaring at the man whom he once idolized.

"Come on, Barney," the Swordsman spat.

Barney was still standing frozen a few feet away, gaping slack-jawed from one bloody person to the next.

"W-what?" he stammered.

The Swordsman sniffed in disgust as he looked down on Clint.

"We're leaving. Before the cops get here."

Barney didn't move. Clint looked up at him, still breathing heavily.

"Come on, kid," growled the Swordsman impatiently. "Or do you want to end up like him as well?"

Barney looked from Clint, to their mentor, then back to his brother. Slowly, he walked towards the Swordsman.

Clint didn't let himself cry as he watched them run away from the circus tent. But now, combined with the constant throbbing pain in his leg, the tears were threatening to fall.

"Hey kid," said a curious voice.

Clint looked up. Standing above him was a slightly balding man wearing an intimidating black suit and a kind smile. In one hand, he was holding an umbrella, and in the other, a candy bar.

He offered the candy bar to Clint, who hesitantly took it. He peeled off the wrapper, sniffed it, and then stuffed the entire thing in his mouth.

Clint closed his eyes, savoring the sweet notes of caramel and chocolate. In the circus, chocolate was a luxury, since there was never much money to go around (No thanks to that bastard, Clint thought to himself). He looked at the man in the suit warily as he took a seat next to him in the smelly boxcar.

"What's your name?" the man asked.

Clint swallowed.

"Clint," he said. "But they call me Hawkeye."

"Why's that?"

Clint was now licking the wrapper for any morsels of chocolate he might have missed.

"Well," he began slowly, "the Swordsm– I mean… people say that I have eyes like a hawk. And never miss the bull's-eye. So… 'Hawkeye.'" He shrugged. "I guess that's why."

He didn't really want to talk about it anymore.

"Who are you?" he retorted.

The man smiled again.

"Phil," he said. "Phil Coulson."

"Got anymore of those candy bars, Phil Coulson?" Clint asked, eyeing his empty wrapper hungrily.

Phil chuckled. He pulled out a pack of donuts from his pocket.

"What do you mean, you never miss the bull's-eye?" asked Phil curiously, as Clint snatched the donuts from him eagerly.

Clint frowned. He stuffed two donuts into his mouth and reached under his ratty blanket, pulling out a small wooden bow and arrow. Aiming for a tree 300 feet away, Clint hit a sawed-off branch right in the middle of the stump.

"That's what I mean," he said, grinning smugly up at Phil, who let out a low whistle.

He ate in silence for a while, as Phil eyed him inquisitively. Finally, as he finished the last donut, his food savior spoke.

"So, Clint. With a talent like that… why are you living in a place like this?"

Clint crumpled up the donut wrapper and shrugged.

"It's a long story," he mumbled.

"I've got time," replied Phil simply.

Clint sighed. Phil was smiling kindheartedly.

"I thought I was doing the right thing…" he began. "I just – there was this guy, we called him the Swordsman. I don't know what his real name is. He taught me how to shoot straight."

He sniffed and wiped his nose on his sodden shirt sleeve, which didn't do much good.

"What happened to your leg?" asked Phil gently, noticing for the first time that it was bent at an awkward angle.

Clint didn't answer and just looked away, as Phil placed a hand softly on his shoulder.

"Let me help you."

Clint winced as he shifted his weight to his broken leg. It took him a whole minute before he finished the last donut and nodded slowly, looking up at Phil. He leaned heavily against his rescuer as he limped towards the black Mercedes, and even allowed Phil to help him into the front seat. Phil didn't seem to mind in the slightest, even when Clint got mud on the black leather.

"Where are you taking me?" Clint mumbled quietly.

Phil started the car.

"The Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division," he said.

He looked over at Clint, and smiled as he saw that he was curled against the window, sleeping.

A.N.: I imagine Phil found Clint when he was around 12 years old. One day he didn't feel like going to work because Maria had a shitload of paperwork for him to do and Fury had been whining about Stark all week. On his way there, he saw a young boy covered in dirt and blood inside a boxcar, shivering and looking starved. Since he wasn't in a hurry to get to SHIELD that day, he parked the car and went to give the boy his snack. But when Clint shot the arrow straight into the tree thirty feet away, Phil decided to take him with him. He had a feeling that this kid was special.