Hello readers! I was able to write this chapter much quicker than I expected so you lucky people get an update!

I just want to take the time here to express my graditude again for all of the reviews and favorites and alerts. You guys rock!

More flashbacks in this chapter. I really like writing these. Possibly more to come in the next chapter too.

I don't own Marvel, etc, etc.


The rain began to pound the asphalt as Clint shuffled down the unlit road in the dead of night. Hood up and jacket zipped, he stuffed his hands in his pocket and kept moving.

It's been three days since he ran away. His parents were dead- a mugging gone wrong. Or maybe it had gone right. He didn't know. But Barney had taken their death hard. Night after night, he would empty a bottle of cheap vodka and pass out on the couch, but not before tearing up the house in a drunken rampage. Clint couldn't stand it anymore. He packed up his bow, a sheath of arrows, and a couple of changes of clothes and left. It was all he had.

Clint hiked on in the downpour, searching for a place to take shelter. That's when he heard a scream of a woman. Then he heard it again. It was coming from an alleyway one block over. Clint sprinted to the opening and investigated the situation. A woman stood, pined at the end of the alley to the rough brick wall by a man twice her size. One hand clasped around her throat and the other her waist, the man chuckled darkly and mumbled something incoherently. From the faint glow of light from a nearby building, Clint saw the glow of the woman's fiery curls.

He scaled the fire escape at the mouth of the alley and perched on the platform of the third story. From his bag, Clint snatched his bow and a single arrow. He gripped the bow and flicked it effortlessly to life, like a flower blooming with the rising sun. A smile twitched on his lips.

His line of sight was perfect and clear, even in the pouring rain. He extended the bow and slid the notch of the arrow onto the string. Pulling his arm back, he waited and watched the situation for a moment longer. When the man moved for his pocket, Clint loosed the arrow. Less than a second later, the man was on the ground, his body limp.

The woman muffled a scream, staring wide eyed at her attacker, an arrow jutting from his neck. She stood there for a minute, ten different types of shock rolling over her, before collecting herself and sprinting away, her eyes never leaving the arrow.

Clint relaxed his bow, folded the ends of the weapon onto itself, and placed it back in his bag. He slung the bag on to his back and slid down the fire escape ladder.

He approached the body and reached for his arrow, but then something caught his eye. A piece of paper laid covering on the man's face. He could just make out the words in the darkness.

Nice shot. We'll be in touch –B

Clint scanned the alley, but he was alone. He pocketed the note and jerked the arrow from the man's neck. As he turned to leave his boot stepped on something. A knife. So thats when the man was reaching for. It could be useful, his bow wasn't made for hand-to-hand combat- something that was bound to happen on these streets. He knelt down and picked up the blade. Before he straightened himself out, Clint decided to rummage around the man's pockets and found a wallet. He'd be sleeping well tonight, he smirked.

The faint screech of sirens approached. Clint deposited the new items into his bag and flicked his hood back on his head. He took off running as the rain lightened, a slight smile growing on his face.


"Nat, you have to rest," he commanded.

She had woken up after four hours in a near comatose-like sleep, restless and somewhat loopy from the pain medications he had forced her to swallow. At the moment, he was pining her chest down with his hand. She was weakened so it didn't take much effort, but she was persistent for someone who had just been shot.

"Barney is going to be home any minute," she growled as she struggled against him, wincing when she accidentally nudged her abdomen.

"I'll handle my brother," he told her confidently.

She huffed and frowned, succumbing to his orders to rest. He handed her a glass of water and she snatched. At her displeased expression, he chuckled and sank down into the chair beside the couch.

"How's your head," he inquired.

"Fine," she muttered into the glass.

He rolled his eyes. Of course. Did he really expect a different answer?

"You owe me a new jacket," he smirked.

She glanced down at the tattered hoodie she was still in, the soft grey replaced with deep burgundy along the entire right half.

"You owe me an explanation," she quipped back, tilting the water glass towards him.

One of his eyebrows raised. "An explanation?"

"Yeah, what you said before you shot him- Brent. What did he have to do with your parents deaths?"

She watched as his entire body tensed. There weren't many topics she danced around with him, but his parents were definitely one of them. So it didn't make sense to her why she so suddenly brought it up. She almost felt guilty, but it was too late to take it back.

"It's pretty simple," he said seriously after a long, silent minute, crossing his arms over his chest,"They were mugged, he was the mugger. They put up a fight, he put them in the ground. End of story."

Her eyes widened. "What?" she whispered. He had never told her this. "When did you find out?"

"Six months ago."

"Why didn't you tell me?" she whispered. Hurt washed over her, dwarfing the pain in her side.

"Because I knew how you would react," he smirked.

She glared at him and shook her head. "I can't believe you would-"

"Would what, Natasha? Keep information about someone who killed my parents from you? Of course I would! To prevent something like this!" he pointed to her abdomen. "If I told you, you would have bolted right out that door and hunted him down. You did the same thing to me with your father."

Her jaw locked and she averted her gaze from his bright blue eyes.

He shook his head slowly. "I'm right and you know it."

She chugged the water and slammed the empty glass down on the coffee table with nearly enough force to shatter it. Tension radiated off they both of them and they sat in a forced silence until she slowly lost consciousness again.


"The Circus Gang?" Natasha asked skeptically one afternoon. They were in her backyard, lounging in the grass as the fall breeze blew the brightly colored autumn leaves from their branches and onto the ground below, tumbling like a gymnast in their descent to earth.

She remembered how her parents wanted her to be a gymnast when she was younger. Either that or a ballerina. All good little Russian girls did one or the other. Natasha had chosen both. It was a grueling schedule, often jumping from one practice to another but she excelled remarkably at each. By the age of twelve, she was a prodigy and by age 16, a master.

"That's what they call themselves," Clint confirmed.

"You joined the Circus?" she scoffed. Natasha yawned, flipping into her stomach to lock eyes with him. "You're better off staying a consultant. Don't get tied down."

He chuckled. "If it means a reliable source of income then they could bind me in chains for all I care."

She rolled her eyes. "That's basically what's happening here, Clint. Don't you see? By committing yourself to a group, you're never going to be able to leave."

"I can walk out of there whenever I want."

"Don't be so naive," she scolded, "You're signing your life away."

Clint sat up, running his hand through his hair. She rolled onto her back again and watched him carefully.

"I never wanted to be this, you know," he confided, "I didn't want to turn I to some fucking hitman."

Natasha reached her arm up and rested it on his shoulder. She never shared his guilt or his apprehension; she did what she needed to do and left her conscience out of it. But Clint was different. He did what he needed to but there was always the odd job that stayed with him long after it had ended. Maybe it was because of the way they looked right before he loosed the arrow or because they reminded him of someone he loved. Either way, he didn't share her indifference when it came to how they made their living.

Clint peered sadly down at her hand then at her. Natasha gently pulled him down so he rested beside her again. They sat silently together as the wind continued to whistle and wave the trees high above their heads.


The sun dipped below the horizon and darkness had settled over them. He had dozed off soon after she had, exauhstion setting in after the stressfilled hours that had hijacked their morning. An engine roaring into the driveway jostled him awake and he opened his eyes just in time to see his brother burst through the door.

At first his brother didn't notice her, snoring softly on the couch, hands curled around her waist. His brother walked past them and into the kitchen, grabbed a beer, and reentered the living too. Then his eyes widened in rage.

"What the fuck is she doing here," his brother spat, his nose crinkled and his mouth twitching.

"She had an accident," he said coldly, straightening himself up in his chair.

His brother shook his head fiercely. "Not in my fucking house. You take her to a goddamn hospital. I want her out!"

When his brother took one step too close to her, he shot up, hand on his brother jugular, and rammed him with a shaking thud into the wall. The bottle of beer smashed against the wall in the scuffle, spilling its contents onto the carpeted floor. He could tell by the stench radiating off his brothers body that it hadn't been his first of the night.

"If you touch her," he hissed menacingly to his brother, who was struggling against his grip, "I will kill you."

His brother growled and threw a wide left hook.

He caught the blunt of the punch on the edge of his jaw and staggered back a step, loosening his choking grip on his brother. His brother took this as an opportunity to break from the hold and swing again. But was blocked this time by a quick elbow. Another swing. Blocked again. Another and another and another. All were blocked effortlessly.

Then his brother hesitated, exhausted from the sudden exertion of energy. Just what he was waiting for. He delivered a devastating blow to his older brother's stomach.

"You always fought dirty," his brother grunted, spitting splatters of blood onto the ground in front of him.

He snarled and slammed his brother's head back against the wall, this time at knife point. "You don't touch her, understood?" His brother just stared darkly at him.

He momentarily tightened his grip on his brother's neck before releasing him, letting him slump onto the floor. From the couch, she mumbled his name softly in her sleep and he turned towards the sound. That's when his brother pounced like a cat stalking its prey. The pair tumbled onto the coffee table, shattering it into shards of wood.

"And you said I fought dirty," he breathed, rising to his feet and pulling a wood fragment from his arm. His brother only smirked and leapt for him again. He grabbed his brother midair and redirected him into a bookshelf, landing with a shuddering crash and falling to the ground. Books toppled down on top of his brother as he stumbled to his feet.

"All this for that little whore?" his brother spat, wiping the blood leaking from his nose. His jaw set as he closed the short distance between him and his older brother, grabbing him by the shirt in two fistfuls and hurling him onto the ground.

"You like her, don't you," his brother slurred a taunt as he squirmed on his back, his conniving smile tinged red with blood, "Your little friend from when you were seven. Tell me, Clinty, when did you fall for her, eh?" His brother laughed triumphantly and spit a new mouthful of blood to his side.

He'd had enough; enough of his brother, enough of his drunken slurs. Without speaking, he hauled his brother to his feet by his collar and shoved him forcefully into the hallway. His brother rolled until he collided with the staircase.

"Ah," his brother smiled darkly past the pain, "Now I know why Brent always wanted you. Too bad you two fell out; we could've made some more money."

His face was expressionless as he approached his brother.

"Brent is dead."


"Clint my man!"

He looked towards the voice coming from his chair at his kitchen table. It was late: nearly midnight when Clint wandered into the house. He and Natasha had spent the past four hours at the shooting range, tirelessly ramming bullets and arrows into various targets, and then another hour grabbing a quick bite to eat at her favorite Thai restaurant.

"Brent," Clint nodded in acknowledgement.

The dark haired man stood up and clasped Clint on the shoulder. "Boy, have I got a job for you."

Clint's eyebrow rose as he looked to his brother, sitting opposite of where Brent had just been. Barney inclined his head, encouraging him to listen to the proposal.

"There's a... situation," Brent smirked, "down at Marty's. We need you to... take care of some people, if you catch my drift."

He stared at the hand resting on his shoulder and then at the man it belonged to. "Why."

"Why what?"

"Why?" Clint repeated. "Why Marty's? Why me?" The Circus had three other snipers but he always seemed to be first on their list if there was a 'situation' that needed to be taken care of.

"Clean up," Brent's lip turned up, "They're liabilities. And you? Of course you! You're the best shot we've got!"

"An arrow to the head is pretty conspicuous in the middle of a packed bar, don't you think?" he grimaced, walking away from the man and the table, rummaging through the refrigerator and grabbing a beer.

"The cops won't hear nothin', trust me," the man grinned deviously.

"Targets?"

"Three."

"How much?"

"Six big ones."

"I need at least seven or no deal," Clint finalized, twisting the cap off the bottle and taking a substantial swig.

"Done," the man nodded, looking over to Barney.

Clint hated when he did that. Barney wasn't his 'handler'; there was no need to include him in any of their transactions. His older brother was nothing more than a drunk who used Clint to make a quick buck. He sighed and turned to Brent.

"When?"

"Tonight."

Clint nearly choked on his current mouthful of alcohol. "Now?"

"It would be greatly appreciated," Brent smiled his toothy, doll like smile. It was creepy.

"Now you're talking eight."

"Seven and a half if you leave now," Brent's smile dissipated and Clint knew better than to argue. The dark haired man plucked a paper from his pocked and handed it over to him. "Get to it, boy."

He nodded and left the room, snatching his keys off the table. Orders were orders.


Let me know what you guys thought!

The next chapter might take a little longer to upload because finals suck

Stay tuned!