A/N: Thanks for the kind response to this story so far! I've been bad about responding to reviews, but I do love them and appreciate those of you who took the time to review this and encourage me. Thanks to dysprositos for beta help.


Clint climbed out from the top bunk too fucking early the next morning, unable to doze any longer, and he only felt a little better from the rest. He felt like he was coming down with a cold or something, a drained feeling and body aches, and it pissed him off. He couldn't afford to get sick right now with things so weird. He had to be on his toes. He checked the wallet in his pocket to make sure it was still there, and he considered going back to that alley and grabbing that beautiful bow.

It probably wasn't smart, though. New York City was full of oddballs, sure, but the cops might take an interest with a kid with a compound bow slung across his back, and Clint couldn't afford that. Scrubbing his face at the sink in the hostel, he figured he'd try and find another busy place where he could scrounge a few more dollars and use the time it took to make a plan. He left the hostel around seven-thirty and walked a few blocks before heading into a coffee shop.

The menu startled him. It was filled with words he'd never heard before, names of drinks that offered no clues as to what was inside, and the place was full of people sitting with small computers at their tables in front of them.

He ordered a plain coffee of the day and a blueberry muffin, doctored the coffee with way too much sugar and cream, and sat down with his map of the city in front of him. When he saw the words 'Coney Island' on the map, he grinned.

He'd heard of that place from other circus folk. It was supposed to be a wild and fun place, and Clint figured maybe it would feel familiar enough for him to at least get his feet back on the ground and figure out what to do. He stood, dumped his half-eaten muffin in the trash because he just wasn't hungry, and headed out. The crisp, October air felt good as he walked, and he lit a cigarette and tried to blend in.

He was in Midtown, apparently, and had to make his way to Brooklyn to get to Coney Island, so he snagged a bus map from a stand and plotted out his route. It took a couple of hours thanks to a few mistakes, but he made it to the boardwalk late in the morning. It was perfect. It was unorganized and filled with tourists, and clearly getting a face lift. There were half-built shops and a few construction zones, but there was also a whole carnival-like section that did just what Clint hoped it would – settled his nerves a bit.

This kind of crowd was his kind of crowd, and he knew just what to do.

"I can win your kid a prize if you want," he said with a smile to a man who was clearly a grandpa there with his five or six year-old granddaughter. The man looked distinguished, the kind of guy who would rather be anywhere else in the city, but his granddaughter was all curls and bounce and she grinned wildly up at Clint. "I mean, I'm good at this stuff," Clint added as the guy eyed him suspiciously. They were standing near one of those games where you throw darts at a wall of balloons.

The guy clearly wasn't sure, so Clint shrugged, handed five dollars over to the attendant, and stepped up to the game. He took the three darts from the attendant, tested their weight in his hand, and a couple minutes later he was laughing and handing the little girl a big stuffed cat. She was delighted and the man relaxed a little. "Thanks," he said, and Clint smiled. He handed Clint a ten dollar bill and Clint laughed, pocketing the bill. They walked away and a teenager approached Clint.

He looked sheepish, about Clint's age, and was holding hands with a cute girl with dark hair and the most beautiful brown eyes Clint had ever seen. "Hey, I really suck at this stuff, but she wants one of those dogs. Can you get it for me?" He asked, holding out seven bucks in Clint's direction.

Clint shrugged and said, "Know your limits, huh man?" and the kid grinned and nodded. Clint took the cash, gave the attendant five, and pocketed the other two. A couple minutes later the kid shook Clint's hand and said thanks again, as he and his girlfriend strolled away with her new stuffed dog. Clint took a couple other offers but the attendant started giving him the stink eye, so he pocketed his twenty bucks and wandered off to get himself a Coke to try and settle his weirdly nauseous stomach, and it helped a little.

He found another game where you threw balls at old fashioned milk bottles, and managed to get fifteen more bucks until the worker glared at him a little more threateningly than the guy earlier. So he switched games every hour or so, and by three that afternoon he had almost eighty bucks in his wallet.

He decided a break might be good, so he headed across the street to the business area of the place and went looking for another coffee shop. He ended up wandering around just looking at the city instead, and he was going to head back to the carnival games after about an hour, but as he passed an alleyway, a rough hand grabbed his sweatshirt and yanked him to the ground.

He tried to roll away, but the guy who had him was strong, had at least thirty pounds on him, and slammed a fist into Clint's side, dragging him down the alley away from the nearby street. Clint managed to scramble up for a second, but the guy punched him in the jaw and his head smacked against the brick wall behind him, his vision whited out for a second. He blinked up at his attacker, then, and groaned as he saw a knife in the guy's hand. "You've been scamming those games, punk," the guy growled, "And now you're gonna give me your wallet."

Clint knew he should. He should just hand it over and scramble away, but it's all he has. He doesn't have a place and doesn't have an ID, and he needs this. So he took a deep, shaky breath and made a show of pulling his wallet out of his pocket, keeping a close eye on that knife. As he handed the money over to the thug, he dropped, shooting a kick at his knees. It surprised the guy, and Clint threw his weight into a roll, taking the bigger man's feet out from under him. He swung at Clint as he landed, though, and Clint felt the cold edge of the knife slide against his side. He ignored it and made a grab for the knife as he swung his elbow into the guy's ribs. The knife clattered to the ground as the guy grunted, and Clint grabbed it and threw it, hard, like Trick taught him in the dusty field behind the circus tent.

He saw the knife sink into the guy's chest, and a sickening icy shudder ran through Clint's body as he scrambled away. He stared at the guy as he grabbed desperately at the blade in his chest and try to it out, and his hands fell to his side, slack, and Clint watched as the life went out in the man's eyes.

Clint stood, panting and shaking, every nerve in his body vibrating. He stared at the pool of blood growing around the man's torso, and swallowed thickly. There was a fire escape a few feet away, so he scrambled up to the ladder and climbed in a blind panic, making it to the roof without even registering the climb. He ran to the edge and leaped across to the next roof, but when he landed, pain exploded in his side.

He reached down and pulled his sweatshirt up, seeing blood running from a thin line across the side of his ribs. It hurt like a motherfucker but it didn't seem that deep, so Clint pressed his shirt to the wound and looked around. He needed distance. He needed to get away from that pool of blood in the alley below and find a place to hide, hide, hide. He felt himself begin to pant again. 'Get it together, Barton,' he growled at himself, and moved to the edge of the roof he was on. He found another fire escape and climbed down, landing with a grimace in another alley.

He took a deep breath and knew he had to look normal if he was going to walk down the street, so he schooled his face tightly and headed out. He was about a block down the street when he realized he'd left the wallet in the alley, probably in a pool of blood. So now he had a knife and a cut up side and only twenty bucks that he hadn't put in the wallet, and no ID. He could feel blood sliding down his skin as he found a small clothing shop and managed to buy a fifteen dollar green t-shirt. He used their dressing room and pulled his sweatshirt off, wiped what blood he could away, and pulled the t-shirt on. He ducked out of the shop and kept moving.

He found a drug store on the next block and used his remaining five bucks on a box of butterfly bandages and small tube of antibiotic cream. There was a park across the street, just a small one with a couple benches and a small swing set, but there was a stand of trees and he found one to sit against and he wiped his wound with the sweatshirt and cleaned it the best he could. He put a couple of the bandagers on and then looked around. It was still bleeding sluggishly, and his pants were stained, and he was tired, so tired.

He curled up a little against the tree and fell asleep seeing dead eyes in a pool of blood.


At two in the morning, Jarvis announced to the room of weary Avengers that it was a Devon Smith who had lost his wallet to Clint at the station.

"He's twenty years old, blond like Clint, and only a little taller. Clint can disappear," Natasha said.

"He dumped his bow and clothes in a linear path and we found him de-aged in under five hours," Phil retorted. "We'll find him."

"All we know is he dumped his bow and is a teenager with way too long hair," Tony stated flatly, "We don't know what he can or can't do."

There was a minute of silence before Bruce added, "Tony's right that predictability is low. All we know is that he didn't buy a bus ticket using Smith's ID."

Phil took a deep breath and nodded. They were right, of course. Phil didn't know this Clint. He'd heard about him, late at night when nightmares ripped Clint from sleep and Phil would rub small circles against his back as Clint would mumble about Barney, about his first kill, about doing and seeing things most men never did or saw before he was twenty years old, but he didn't know him, and that sent a little shiver of fear down Phil's back.

He ran a hand over his face and said, "We need to run a check on a ten mile radius from that bus station for anywhere the name Devon Smith or that ID is used for anything." He looked at Bruce, who was sitting so low in his chair he might as well be on the floor. "You guys go get some sleep. I'm going to get a team to take out and canvas the area."

Natasha looked at him like he had three heads, Tony crossed his arms across his chest, Steve stood from his chair, and Bruce just shook his head. "You're getting a team?" he said, standing.

"I thought we were a team, Agent," Tony added.

"It's a long shot," Phil answered. "He could be all the way across the city by now if he's really running."

"We're coming," Natasha said curtly, and Phil looked at them all and nodded, resigned.

Phil printed out five copies of the photo of Clint from the station, contacted the police department in the bus station's precinct and sent them Clint's photo, and the team finally started walking around three in the morning. After three and half hours of pointing at Clint's picture and getting nothing, Phil and Natasha stumbled across a youth hostel on the edge of their ten mile radius, and the hostel manager nodded and said, "Yeah, he was here. But he left about forty-five minutes ago. Nice enough kid, I hope he's not in too much trouble."

Phil called the others and they met outside a nearby coffee shop and Natasha emerged with coffee for everyone and news that Clint had been there, too, but had left fifteen minutes ago. They were so close. Two hours of canvasing later, though, and they had nothing. The police were still keeping an eye out for Clint, but had reported nothing, either.

Phil called a stop to the Avengers' efforts and ordered everyone to go get a few hours of sleep and let the police and computer program checking for Smith's ID to do some of the work. "It's clear he's not in this area anymore," he said. "Just a few hours so we can be a little more clear if we do find him. And we can try and figure out where he'd go."

There were no protests this time, and Phil could see lines of exhaustion on everyone's face, even Steve. They all retired to their apartments in the Tower, and Phil even stretched out on his bed and fell asleep staring at the photograph of Clint.

Three hours later he woke in a sweat with the words "Coney Island" on his lips. He threw fresh clothes on and sprinted down to Natasha's room and pounded on her door. She opened it quickly, and her eyes widened when she saw him.

"Coney Island," Phil panted. "It would be a familiar feel, like the circus. He could get his bearings there."

She grinned and nodded. "Yes," she said, and stepped back to her room to arm herself before accompanying Phil to the common room to call everyone else. It was almost four in the afternoon when the rest of the team stumbled in and Phil explained where they were headed.

"Inspired, Agent," Tony laughed.

Phil nodded, and then his cell phone rang. When he saw the number, his heart started racing. "Hello?" he said, and listened carefully, feeling the blood drain from his face and having to sit down on the nearby couch. The team crowded around him, startled. "What's the address?" he asked, and grabbed some paper and a pen from Natasha's hand. "Thank you, officer. I appreciate it," he said, and hung up, staring at his phone for a second.

"Phil?" Natasha asked.

He looked at her and then at everyone else and stood from the couch. "The Brooklyn police just found a body in an alley, dead from a knife wound. It's not Clint," he said hurriedly, seeing the horrified looks on his team's faces. "But the ID Clint stole was there, and the hat he had as well." He took a deep breath. "Come on," he said, and they all headed for the elevator.

Thirty minutes later they were at the scene, looking around. Phil couldn't stop staring at the spot where the body had been, the blood still spread across the pavement. Clint did this. A scared young boy who was out of time and on the run did this. It seemed like no matter where Clint ended up, his life was destined for trouble.

"The guy was a lot bigger than him," Steve said, staring down at the blood at Phil's feet.

"He knows how to handle knives from an act he did in the circus," Phil answered, stepping back and looking around again.

Natasha was walking a circle around the scene, and Phil saw her look up and grin. "Phil," she said, pointing, "He'd go up." She leapt up to the fire escape and started climbing, and Steve followed her.

A minute later he saw them jump across from one roof to another. Phil thanked the police, and he and Tony and Bruce headed out in the direction Natasha and Steve had gone. A few minutes later they met them at the entrance to another alley.

"He's injured," Natasha reported, and Phil saw her hands clench at her side. "We found a small area where he must have sat down for a minute."

"If he's hurt he might be close," Tony said, and he looked around. There was a drugstore across the street and he didn't even wait to tell the others; he just jogged across the street. He came back nodding. "Yeah, he was in there an hour or so ago."

They all looked around. When Phil spotted the tiny park a block down he motioned to his team and they followed.

Steve saw him first. He pointed, and Phil saw Clint curled almost into a ball at the foot of a tall tree, and his heart stuttered. Clint would be scared. Phil looked at the others and spoke softly. "He's not going to trust us. I'll approach and you all take up a perimeter. Make sure he doesn't get away."

He met Natasha's eyes for a moment, and then she gave a slight nod and walked to the edge of the park. The others followed, and Phil approached the young man. He knelt down about a foot away and just looked for a moment. He saw tousled blond hair, longer than Phil had ever known Clint to wear, and a lean, lithe-looking body, not far from the man's body he would have soon, but smaller than Phil was used to. Phil saw sweat beading on Clint's forehead, and his eyes were moving quickly behind his lids. There was a bandage box sitting on the ground nearby, and a tube of ointment. Phil had to tamp down the sudden thought that his Clint never would have let anyone get within ten yards of him in this situation – this was not his Clint.

"Clint, hey," he called in a voice as even as he could make it. To be fair to the kid, he woke immediately, snapping his chin up and pulling himself to a sitting position with a harsh breath. He looked at Phil and would have scrambled backward if not for the tree behind him. "It's okay. I'm here to help you," Phil added.

Clint looked at him warily through the bangs that hung almost in his eyes, taking deep breaths and looking around the park. As soon as he spotted the others he turned back to Phil with a glare. "Who the hell are you?" he demanded.

"It's complicated, Clint," Phil answered. "But the short version is that we're your friends." As soon as the words registered, Phil wondered if he'd made a mistake not opening with the government organization information.

Clint's eyes narrowed and he set his shoulders, and he stood slowly, looking around. "That's bullshit," he said, his voice low. "How do you know who I am?"

"I assume you're aware that it's 2013 now," Phil began. "I also assume you know that it was 1993 when you woke up yesterday morning, so please don't expect what I'm about to tell you to make much sense, but it's true." Clint just nodded and turned his stance a little more defensive. "You are actually part of an elite fighting team – the people you see here around me – and you were hit with a weapon that turned you back into a teenager."

The laughter or cussing that Phil halfway expected didn't happen. Instead, Clint looked around again at the others and took a step away from Phil. "I don't believe you," he said quietly, his mouth suddenly making a determined line that Phil was very familiar with. "I can't fight that good and I'm not that smart, so I doubt I'd end up on some elite team," he added scornfully, "And who the fuck has a weapon that would do something stupid like that?"

"Do you have an explanation for what happened to you in the last forty-eight hours?" Phil asked, staying where he was.

Clint looked around again and then shook his head. "No," he said, and then something clearly clicked in his head. "You're cops, aren't you?" he said, taking another step away.

Clint looked ready to spring, and sure enough he gave Phil one beat and then leapt, trying to shove him to the ground. Phil dodged easily and grabbed Clint's wrist, twisting enough to bring him to his knees. Clint swung his free hand and managed to get a little strength behind it, slamming his fist into Phil's nose. The pain surprised Phil for a moment, but Natasha was there, pulling Clint off of him and slamming him to the ground. She pinned his arms.

"Clinton Francis Barton," she said evenly, holding Clint's gaze with ease. "You grew up in Waverly, Iowa and were orphaned when you were seven. You spent time in the foster system and at an orphanage and then you and your brother joined a traveling circus. You became The Amazing Hawkeye and were the star of your own act." She paused and looked at Phil.

He nodded and looked down at Clint. "Your brother and a man called Duquesne were robbing the circus and you tried to stop them. Barney stabbed you," and as soon as those words were out of Phil's mouth all the tension left Clint's body and he shut his eyes.

"Shut up," he said, his voice shaky. "Shut the fuck up about Barney. You can't know anything about him."

Phil nodded and said, "Natasha, let him up." She did, and she offered Clint a hand, which he took hesitantly. As soon as he was vertical he put a hand to his side and looked at the ground. He didn't say a word. "We'll take you to our base of operations where you usually live and get you cleaned up. Then we'll start trying to figure out how to fix this," Phil said gently. Clint didn't say a word, just kept looking at the ground. He gave a brief nod, though, and the rest of the team approached cautiously. "Stark, can you call for a –"

"Happy's on his way, Agent. Figured he was the best choice at the moment. He'll be here in ten," Tony interrupted. He reached his hand out to Clint. "I'm Tony Stark," he said simply, and Clint looked up for a moment and then just looked down again, leaving Tony's hand hanging. Tony shrugged and introduced the rest of the team to the top of Clint's head.

Phil watched Clint sneak a glance and measure each person carefully before he dropped his eyes back to the ground and crossed his arms defensively. They stood quietly until Happy pulled up, and then Phil ushered Clint to the limo and climbed in next to him. Clint just stared out the window until they got to the Tower.

Forty minutes later Clint had a fresh bandage on his side, had managed to wash his face, and had fresh clothes that almost fit that Natasha brought down from his room. Phil had stayed with him the whole time, but the kid never said a word, just letting the doctor patch him up and mumbling answers to other questions. It came up that Clint hadn't eaten in a while, so the doctor asked Phil to make sure he got some food and then some serious rest.

Phil took the doctor's orders and then took Clint upstairs to the common room where the rest of the team were waiting.

"So!" Tony said, "Do you want a soda or a juice or something non-alcoholic?"

Steve glared at him but waited for Clint to answer. He didn't.

"Sprite with a lime it is," Tony said, reaching down to the mini-fridge and pulling out a soda can. He set the drink on the bar but the teenager made no move to claim it.

"We've got some spaghetti and salad if you're hungry," Bruce said, keeping his voice in that 'you're safe here' mode that Phil admired greatly.

Clint shrugged and Natasha steered him over to the table. They sat down and passed plates quietly.

"So," Tony said. "Where were you before you woke up in the Big Apple?"

Phil had to give him credit for cutting right to the chase.

"Richmond, Indiana," Clint replied, eyes locked on the plate in front of him. Phil watched as he glanced at Steve, who had dug into his food, and took a hesitant bite of spaghetti. His voice was quiet, something none of them were used to when dealing with Clint in a group.

"What were you doing there?" Steve asked politely.

Clint stopped his fork as he was spinning some pasta, and looked up at Steve and shrugged. "I don't know. Just hanging out."

Phil took a sip of his iced tea and said, "Clint, is there anything you want to know from us? We can tell you whatever you need."

Clint stared at Phil for a moment and Phil had to try hard not to wilt under his gaze. After a moment, Clint shoved his plate away and turned his eyes downward again, crossing his arms across his chest.

"Clint?" Bruce said.

His head still down, Clint said, "You guys know I killed a guy this afternoon, right? No one seems to be addressing that little issue, and I can't figure out why I'm not sitting in some jail cell right now."

Phil sighed, kicking himself in his own exhaustion. That should have been explained first off. "Clint, the police and our team have clear communication. They know you're with us and they know you confessed about killing that man. But they also know it was probably self-defense and the guy had a rap sheet a mile long. We organized a compromise where you stay with us until we have a chance to figure this magic out and they set it aside until then. We have a bit before we have to go back to that issue, but if we do, we also have a fine legal team who will work with you to make sure you're cleared."

There was a pause, and Tony asked, "It was self-defense, right?"

Clint glared at him and nodded, and Coulson realized he was barely holding it together. That told Phil a lot. "Clint, it wasn't your fault. It was his knife, you were just defending yourself. We know that."

"Okay," Clint said, and he reached for his Sprite.

An half hour later, after Clint took about four bites of the spaghetti and said nothing else, Phil took him to his apartment and explained Jarvis and the security he offered.

"You can shower or sleep or watch TV, whatever you feel like doing, okay?" Phil said, standing in the living room of Clint's apartment.

"This place looks. . . unused," Clint said, opening an empty refrigerator.

Phil sighed. "Yeah, you don't stay here much, really," he said, hoping that explanation would be enough for now. Trying to explain their three year relationship and apartment a few blocks away seemed like a bad idea at the moment. Phil just wanted to reach forward and wrap Clint in a hug, but that was definitely a bad idea, too, so he didn't.