II.

Clint only got better at the bow, spending all his free time at the edge of a field nocking, drawing, and releasing, feeling the pain in his feet vanish every time he lifted the bow. Trick showed him how to measure angles, how to judge distance and speed, and how to make the bow an extension of his body. He told Clint he'd never seen anyone take to a weapon like that, told him he was going to be a main attraction at the circus within a couple years, and he was right.

After Clint joined Trick Shot's act, he was divided. The moments with the bow in the center of the ring were magic, drenching the fire at his feet with calm and clarity and joy. The roar of the crowd actually made his feet cool, filled Clint with pride, and made the world disappear around him.

But after he became a main attraction ("The Amazing Hawkeye!"), the fire still flared whenever Barney was around.

Because after the show, he had to put the bow away.

"You think you're hot shit, you asshole," Barney growled as another boy pinned Clint's arms behind his back. "You're making better money, the crowd loves you, Trick worships you – you're the man, huh?" He pulled his fist back and slammed it into Clint's belly, knocking the air out of him and leaving him gasping in the older boy's arms. "You're still a stupid little shit, Clint," Barney snapped, this time pulling back and decking him across the chin.

Barney was a lot bigger than Clint now that he was sixteen, favoring their mother's side of the family with his height and bulk, and pain exploded across Clint's face. He squirmed, startled by the sudden flare at his feet along with the way his chin was already swelling.

"You'll give me a cut, you understand?" Barney demanded, stepping closer to Clint. "I got us this circus gig to begin with. I looked out for you, and you'll give me a cut. Or I'll tell the strong man you're stealing his pornos."

The fire at Clint's feet raged and he nodded furiously. "Okay," he said, breathlessly. He figured Barney was right, anyway. "You don't have to hit me, Barney. I'll give you some of my cut. You deserve it."

"Damn right I do, you punk," he said, and then he hit Clint in the eye and shoved him to the ground.

Out of one eye, Clint watched him walk away and wondered how his protector turned into his bully, and the pain in his feet became crippling. He staggered back to his bunk and curled into a ball on his cot, hot tears streaming silently down his cheeks.

This was the way it worked: Clint found relief when he was practicing or performing with his bow. There was nothing else then, just the bow, the arrow, the target, and Clint. Trick got him an arm guard, practice formed calluses on the tips of his fingers, and when he shot his bow there was no pain in his world. Barney wasn't there, the ghost of his mother wasn't there, and the fire wasn't there. When he was working with his bow, he felt pure.

When he put his bow away, though, the fire returned. Barney would come to collect and then he'd shove Clint away, and so, alone, Clint began to live only to find time to shoot.

Once, after a show in front of a tough crowd, Clint was caught off guard on the way back to the trailer he shared with Barney and a few of the other boys. The circus had just picked up a new seer, a tall, dark-haired exotic-looking woman who read palms and even had a crystal ball. She called out to him.

"Hawkeye!"

He was startled. He was polite to her whenever he saw her, and thought she was beautiful, but they hadn't interacted much. He looked over at her now and her eyes were wide, staring at his feet. He swallowed hard and strode toward her. "Yes, ma'am?"

She beckoned him to follow her, and he did, wondering what, exactly, she had seen.

It couldn't have been the flames at his feet, even as they burned hot tonight. A hard crowd usually meant blame getting thrown around, and Trick certainly wouldn't take it. Clint figured he'd get blamed, and he knew there was a beating ahead of him tomorrow at practice. He'd been tired during the show today, and it might have been obvious.

So the flames were hot, burning bright, but she couldn't have seen them. That was impossible. No one had ever seen them. He'd told Barney about them after their parents died, but after a few "you're being insane, Clint," remarks he'd learned to keep his mouth shut about it.

The seer woman led Clint out to the edge of the circus, where the corn fields of the nearby town unfolded under the bright stars. She turned to him and stared into his eyes. She took a deep breath took a step toward him.

Startled, he stepped back. "Ma'am?" he asked quietly.

She cocked her head and looked from his feet to his face. "You have a reflector," she said, very matter-of-fact. "I have heard of them, but I have never seen one."

He frowned at her. "A reflector?" he asked. "Do you mean my fire?"

She nodded. "It's a reflection of a part of you made manifest. It is very rare."

He stood quietly for a full minute. "No one's ever been able to see it. I wondered if it was reflection of insanity." He sounded flippant, but he wasn't. He really had figured that even though he could see it and very clearly feel it, it was probably him just being a little nuts after his shitty childhood.

"You're not crazy, Hawkeye," she said gently. "Just unlucky. I am sure it's painful."

He nodded and she sighed.

"I can't help you, but I wanted to tell you I saw it. You may not meet anyone else who can," she said gently.

He took a deep breath and stepped back. "It's okay. It's been here a long time. I'm used to it." This was true, although he hated it. He knew when it flared he couldn't do anything except shoulder through the pain. He was going to walk away, but he looked back at her. "And thank you. It helps to know someone else can see it."

After that night, she would find him occasionally and ask how he was doing, and would even offer lotions and herbs for him to soak his feet in from time to time. He accepted them with a grateful smile and found a little relief before the next flare.

It worked for a couple of years.

When Clint was sixteen and had made it through his growth spurts, he was still a few inches shorter than Barney and, well, most boys his age. He was tough, though, using his body as a tool and taking care of it as such. He knew the second he stopped being good enough would be when he lost everything. Barney didn't seem to care about Clint anymore except for his cut of the earnings, and everyone else was too wrapped up in their own troubles to care about a loner sixteen year-old sharpshooter.

Clint still hid up high when he could manage it, still gritted his teeth against the flames at his feet, and still thought he was lucky to have anything at all, much less a headliner gig. He smiled a bit each time he saw the Hawkeye posters, and the sight of his bow steadied every nerve in his body like nothing else could.

Then he was in the wrong hiding place at the wrong time and everything changed.

Again.

"We can do this," Clint heard Trick say sharply, and he peered down from the rigging of the tent to see Trick, Barney, and the swordsman huddled around a card table. "Carson will never know it was us, and we can pin it on Ramsey easily. Then we can split. Finally." Trick's voice was hushed, low.

"It's going to be dangerous," the swordsman countered. "Is it gonna be worth it?"

Clint was watching Barney's face, knowing he was deferring to the adults but willing to go along for the ride and a cut if he could get it. It took Clint a minute, but he figured out what they were talking about. Robbing Carson. The guy who had taken Clint and Barney in when they had nothing but a suitcase. The heat at his feet smoldered. His concentration wavered and the rigging slipped a little, making a rough noise in the tent.

The men snapped their necks up and Clint froze, but it wasn't good enough. He was too easy to spot.

"Hey," Trick drawled, pushing his chair back and standing slowly. "It's the little Hawk. Come on down. It seems we have business to discuss."

Clint swore he saw Barney pale a little, but his face turned to stone quickly. He nodded at Clint, and Clint sighed and started climbing down, nausea settling in the pit of his stomach. He reached the ground quickly, but the swordsman was waiting for him and he was grabbed by his shirt collar and dragged roughly down into the dirt, lying splayed out on his back. Trick Shot's boot ended up on Clint's neck, pressing slightly.

"Nosy little Hawk," Trick said quietly. Clint kept his mouth shut, knowing talking would only make matters worse.

"He might be able to help us," Barney interjected, stepping into Clint's line of sight. "He's little, and he's quick." Clint was grateful for the attempt, but he could see in the swordsman's eyes that it was useless.

"He's just one more person to cut it with," Trick answered. "No, he ain't helping." His boot pressed harder down on Clint's throat, and Clint gagged a little, feeling pain blossom along his neck. "We're doing this tonight, and he's not gonna get in our way."

Clint couldn't help the trembling that started in his chest as he watched Trick pull a knife out of its sheath on his leg.

"Trick, no," Barney pleaded, and he stepped toward Clint.

But Trick didn't listen; he just flipped the knife blade into his hand and threw it downwards. Clint felt the metal slide into his stomach, but it didn't hurt at first. Trick lifted his boot off of Clint's throat and Clint managed to get a yell out before the boot connected with his head and the world spun. He closed his eyes against the nausea and the burn in his feet became nothing compared to the fire in his belly. He opened his eyes wide and saw Barney standing over him, eyes empty.

Clint tried to plead with his brother, but when he moved his mouth, all that came out was a trickle of blood. Barney was motionless above him, his green eyes dark.

Time seemed to stand still.

But then Barney shook his head and Clint heard Trick growl, "We gotta get outta here." Barney turned and walked away, and as they left his field of vision Clint found his voice again.

Heavy with pain, he cried out, "Barney, please! Help me, don't leave me, please Barney!" But the flames at Clint's feet raged and the pain in his stomach clawed its way through Clint's chest and spots danced in his eyes. He laid gasping, feeling blood seep through his fingers clasped over his stomach, and then he heard footfalls and voices crying out for an ambulance, and to go find the bastards who did this, and what the hell was Hawkeye doing bleeding on the dusty floor of the tent?

He tried to call out to his big brother again, but his voice left him and the world faded away.

That was the year he quit the circus. Even after his knife wound healed and he snuck out of the hospital and found his way back to Carson's circus route, nothing was the same. Trick and Barney and the swordsman had all disappeared the night of Clint's stabbing, and while the performances and practice time vanquished the flame at his feet, it was worse than ever when he didn't have his bow in his hands.

He was shaky all the time, he lost weight, and the few people he ever bothered to hang out with seemed distant. It was too much effort to stay engaged, so he retreated. He convinced one of the older clowns to help him buy a gun, a pistol, and taught himself how to use it. He saved his money, though, and six months after he returned, when he turned seventeen, he quit. He took his bow, gun, and knives and hid out until the circus pulled away from the small town in Illinois where they were playing. He watched the caravans drive off, his hand resting absently on his belly, his duffel bag thrown over his shoulder, and his feet warm against the ground.

He had about a thousand dollars saved, which he figured would get him by for a while at least. It did, but about four months later, when the money ran low, he was left in New York City with a recurve bow, a set of throwing knives, and a 9 millimeter pistol that he didn't even have a permit for.

His feet burned every day. The orange flames weren't even wispy now; they were thick, rolling off his feet with every step. He needed to shoot his bow, but he was too busy trying to find work, trying to find a place to stay at night.

Work finally found him; there was always someone looking for a hired gun, and Clint had learned enough street jargon to get him around, so he took a job on a tip from a guy he saw regularly at the corner store he frequented.

The guy had followed him out one night and whistled at him, like a dog. "You look like you need work," he said, his voice gravelly from too many cigarettes. Clint looked around and then nodded. He really was getting kind of desperate. "Here," the man said, and handed him a business card. "You look kind of tough, too, and they need tough guys." Clint stared down at the card and up at the man, nodding. He said a quick 'thanks,' and then headed toward the address.

The guy in charge thought Clint looked tough, too, and Clint told him he was a good shot, too. After a brief demonstration at a warehouse nearby, the job was his.

He stashed his bow and all but two of his knives in a locker along with his duffel bag of possessions, and went out on his first hit. He was going on eighteen and needed money, so he didn't ask many questions. They gave him a picture, an address, and a clip for his gun. He wanted to use his bow, but even he was smart enough to know that a calling card wasn't something he could afford.

The address was an upscale part of town near one of the major club scenes. The photo Clint held in his hand was of a middle aged man with a black moustache and short, black hair. He looked like a businessman. Taking a deep breath, Clint headed toward the address. When he got close, he took to the roofs, finally arriving at the right building around dusk. He only had a couple hours before his boss wanted the hit done, and then he had to lay low for twelve before reporting back to get his money.

He had his gun tucked into his brown leather jacket (a treasure he'd bought himself when he was fifteen after two years as a headliner) and he dropped back down to street level and casually entered the apartment building. It wasn't too swanky, but it did have security, so Clint couldn't get up to the address he needed. He was able to grab a brochure about the place from the front desk before he headed back out to the street. It had a map of the building, and Clint crouched down on the steps of another building a few doors down to look at it.

Fifteen minutes later he had his eye on the mark's window. He was on the fire escape of another building, watching. The guy showed up about an hour in, and Clint tensed as the light went on in the apartment and he pulled his gun from his pants and checked around. The alley he was in was deserted, he had a silencer on his gun, and the mark was clearly taking his coat off inside. Clint raised his gun, took a deep breath, let it out, and shot. The mark dropped to the floor and Clint scrambled to the roof, knowing he'd killed his first person. He made it two roofs away before the fire at his feet roared and crackled like never before, and he tumbled to his knees taking deep, heaving breaths.

He listened for sirens but didn't hear anything, so he threw up and then curled into a ball in the corner of the roof he was on, clenching his hair in his fists and screaming through his teeth as quietly as he could manage. The pain was excruciating.

He finally unfurled from the corner and pulled himself up, knowing that staying in the neighborhood was just plain stupid. He ignored the fire, pushing it to the back of his mind, and weaved his way across roofs and then through back alleys until he was on his side of town again. He had thirty dollars in his pocket and so he found a cheap hotel, checked himself in, found his room, and curled up in the bathtub fully clothed for a few hours, flinching every so often when the sound of the silenced bullet leaving his gun replayed itself in his head.

He couldn't sleep, but he eventually climbed out of the bathtub, stripped down, and took a long, hot shower, clenching his eyes shut and trying to get the picture of the businessman out of his head.

He collected his money and another job assignment the next day, but the boss cheated him. He only gave him half the money, one hundred and fifty bucks, and demanded that Clint do another hit. Clint tried to fight it, but they held the hit over his head and had three burly guys standing there to enforce the new arrangement. He took the money they were offering. And the new job.

He started carrying peppermint gum in his pocket, didn't hide in any more bathtubs, and stopped puking quite so much. He also got very good at what he was doing. Eighteen came and went and Rick, the guy running the hits he'd been doing, started farming Clint out to other bosses who needed guaranteed kills.

The fire always licked, sometimes roared, and never ever retreated.

Three years in and the hits got more complicated. Clint still got sick every so often, especially when a family was involved, but he'd finally gotten enough jobs that were taking down truly hideous people that he'd learned to justify it and focus on getting good at what he was doing. He'd given up on moving, though. Rick, his boss, knew how to manipulate Clint, and held the law and thugs over Clint's head every time he got too mouthy.

He was a natural, though, at not getting caught. He could climb any wall there was, he could parkour with the best of them, and he was quick and thorough. He'd been in a few tight spots – he could now point to some of his scars and say they weren't from the hands of people supposed to be looking after him – but he'd never been seriously injured.

Until he got asked to take down another hit man.

He thought it sounded like a good challenge. Take down another gunner and build his rep even more, and get paid good money to do it. Seemed like a good gig. The shooter he was after had a file two inches thick, and Clint was given an extra day's prep time, which was impressive. He usually only got a day, tops. So he sat in a coffee shop in Chicago thumbing through pages of reports. There were only a few grainy photos of his target, and he almost spilled his coffee when he saw the first one.

Barney looked older, but it was unmistakably him.