It could've just been a hunch, but the reports he'd stolen that mentioned a shifty-eyed HYDRA agent with a crescent scar to the left of his jaw was enough to make Clint read twice.

He'd scampered to his room when he'd heard the footfalls at his door. The way they were heavier meant his father was drunk again and as long as he was, Barney had warned Clint to stay out of the way. He'd only responded with a shrug and an "I'm older" when he'd told Barney to come hide with him.

"Good for nothing vermin. Useless that's what you are. Always eating the last of the food…you ate the last slices of ham, didn't you boy?"

Thwack.

Clint couldn't suppress a shiver as he heard the slashes of his brother being whipped. Barney hadn't even eaten the meat; he'd given it to Clint. It wasn't right. He shouldn't take the blame. He huddled, frozen, at the top of the stairs waiting for his brother to come and say he was okay.

THWACK.

"We send you to school and all you can do is live off us. Good for nothing trash!"

THWACK. THWACK.

For Clint, it feels like hours his heart is beating through his chest not quite loud enough to drown out the sounds of his brother's beating. But close. He waits until his father shuffles to the kitchen before running down to find Barney panting against the wall, his fists tight and his eyes watering. Some of the skin from his jaw is torn off.

"We have better people for this op, Barton." Fury goes to take the file back, but Clint pulls it away.

"Six hours. It's personal." He isn't about to tell the director about the older brother he has that might still be alive, that the last time he saw Barney was when he'd been left half dead and Barney hadn't wanted anything to do with him. When the brother who'd took care of him his whole childhood had suddenly let the plague of envy corrupt him. Stealing, lying… betrayal…

Fury doesn't quite sigh, but he's clearly not happy. "I need a reason for this. You know I can't just let SHIELD agents go where they please with government equipment."

Clint takes the file off the desk. His fingers worry the edges of the manila folder. "I'm cashing in on a personal day."

"You want the time, then fine. But if you wind up in trouble and I have to send agents to haul your ass out of there, you're on suspension for two weeks."

"Understood," mumbled Clint, before making a quick exit. He keeps to himself in the halls, and since he can't use SHIELD's resources on personal time (something about illegal conduct or something, he doesn't read the technicalities of the job description with the microscope like he should've ages ago) so he takes his own black sportcar. They can't have an issue with that, right?

He'd been cleaning up the kitchen, which had been one of his designated chores since he'd been five. The first couple of times he'd broken a dish or a glass and his father would beat him, which gained him the fear of making future mistakes. Better to do it slowly, then too fast, he'd learned. He wiped a glass dry and stood tip-toe on a stool to reach one of the higher cabinets. The door cracked open and he looked over to see his father entering—oddly, not drunk for once. His heart sped up a bit when he caught his father's eyes before quickly looking away—he could never tell what his father would do. Giving a polite nod, he set the glass where it belonged and reached for two of the dry dinner plates and silently begged his father to leave and stop standing there staring. When he heard his father coming closer, he still didn't turn. Tensed up, expected another beating.

He looked dry. His father never beat on him when he was dry.

"Clinton" his father's voice was low, unable to determine the emotions.

"Yes, sir?" he turned around—saw his father's face hard-set, silent fury, and the gun in his hand a second before it was fired.

Clint involuntarily clutched at his shoulder, fingers digging into the bone as he gritted his teeth. The car swerved and he yanked the wheel back with both hands.

He was usually the one home during the day. They only had money to send one of the boys to school and Barney was the older one, meaning he got things first. I hate being away, he'd confessed to Clint as the brothers lay awake at night whispering. You're here alone with mom and she wouldn't raise a finger to protect you against dad. Clint could usually time him by the clock since Barney rarely made detours before coming home.

I heard the shot even before I got to the door. It wasn't his way to shoot…he'd beat us. I wanted to believe that but then I knew you were the only one home and he left the door ajar again. There was a crack of a dish and a cry of pain. I came in and saw you lying really still on the floor. Hell, you used to be so tiny for an eight-year old. You looked like you were six. And there was dad standing over you and lining up for another shot into the tiny body of his baby boy.

"Leave him alone, bastard!" Barney lunged at his father and tore the gun from his hand.

His father backhanded him roughly across the face. "Watch your mouth, boy!"

The gun went off once. Twice… a bullet in the wall, another to shatter the window above the sink. When the gun clicked empty, Barney backed off breathing hard.

"What did he even do?"

Like every other time his father had ever looked at him, his eyes were bleeding with hate. He hated these kids he never wanted, that he had to support.

His shoulder was a pulsing heat. Clint whimpered when he felt his brother touching him.

"Clint… Clint…you're going to be okay. You need to stay with me."

He swallowed, blearily opening his eyes to see Barney force a grin for his benefit.

"Hey, hey, you're going to be okay. You're tough. You can take it. You can take it, Clint."

You can take it.

Clint pulled to the side of a road, found a gas station and pulled in between a minivan and a Camaro. Shutting off the engine, he pulled the map back in front of him. The HYDRA base was five miles out. He'd have to be on foot here on.

I was only five when you were born. I'd never seen anything that small—the paper said you were barely six pounds. When you'd still been in her, I'd sit next to her since I couldn't fit in her lap and she'd read me stories. A lot of times she'd smell like dad, like liquor. Maybe he told her to do it. Clint, you're going to hear it all your life from them: they didn't want you. They didn't want either of us. But then I finally saw you all new and tiny and I promised I'd always look out for you.

Brothers, Clint. Brothers.

And what kind of brother were you when you left me out there to die? Clint had never forgiven Barney for leaving him almost dead. You didn't just raise a kid brother for fifteen years and then turn on him like that. He saw the rising structure of the HYDRA base looming closer. What was Barney doing there anyway? When he came as close as he dared, Clint climbed up a tree and settled in with binoculars to wait it out.

It's been five hours.

He'd never remembered much of his mother. She'd been there, but she was a shadow compared to their father. When he got hurt, she'd offer a bandage perhaps a kiss and some hurried words of comfort before she told him to go find his brother. Barney had practically raised him. Sometimes, Clint would be in the kitchen cleaning and he'd see her come down, pretending not to see him, to take a liquor bottle from the top shelf and take a long drink. She wasn't addicted like their father, at least not an angry addiction. Hers was more of desperation.

Maybe her indifference masked her fear. Maybe she hadn't been capable of raising two small boys, hadn't been ready for them so her solution was to leave them to fend for themselves. Her touch rarely felt like love.

Clint stifled a yawn, squinting in the dying light to read the time. 9:45. He hoped he wouldn't have to go in there and ask for his brother. If he gets suspended for two weeks, he'll be tempted to kill himself out of boredom. Suspension means catching up on paperwork and there's nothing Clint hates (and takes all measures to avoid) in the world more. If he tries to pawn it off on his handler, Coulson only raises one eyebrow at his pathetic expression and sets another five files to-be-completed in his arms before shoving him out the door. And no coffining up, Barton. You need a clear mind to do those. If you get tired, I'll send the director by to wake you up.

He's always been smaller than his brother. For years, he'd stood as high as he could on his toes to try to be as tall as Barney was. He's blinking back a flash of Barney measuring him at six years before Barney's fist makes contact with his face again.

"Hell, Clint. What the hell."

Clint shifts enough to roll over, scrambling out of Barney's reach and drop his hand to his belt to pull out a handhold and snap off the safety. "What the hell made you pull in with HYDRA. I always thought you were smarter than that…. Don't." He catches Barney cocking his gun and he tenses, waiting to shoot. "Don't make another mistake."

"Why? You keeping count?" Barney drawls, smirking at Clint behind his gun. "You think just because you tracked me down that you have the right to erase the past twenty years?" his voice hardened. "I'm not the one who walked away first. You left me. I took care of you for fifteen damn years and then you walked away."

It shouldn't get to him. Clint's learned to swallow the emotion and keep a straight face, but this isn't like every other job he's faced. His hands start to shake.

"Our lives weren't perfect, but at least they were something until you screwed it up."

He cocks his head. Faint voices, footsteps. He grins slowly. "Over here! SHIELD trespasser!" His eyes never leave Clint's and he keeps the gun held on his younger brother until the reinforcements come. He isn't sure that Barney wouldn't end up pulling the trigger. But a part of him still wants to believe that he wouldn't do it anyway.