Disclaimer: I own nothing in the MCU or anything drawn from the comics. Unfortunately. Lol. All characters belong to the amazing people over at Marvel! I'm just playing with them for a little bit.
Summary: Homecoming AU. "I swear..." he gasped out between his sobs. "I... I didn't kill Mr. Stark." When the argument after the ferry incident goes horribly awry, Tony is missing and presumed dead, and Spider-Man is suspect number one. Peter believes his mentor is still alive out there, but he'll need help to find and save Tony from who truly wants him dead in time.
Author's Note: Hey, guys! Thanks for your reviews, follows, and favorites, they mean a lot to me! Sorry for the bit of a wait. I ended up writing about three chapters at the same time here, lol. So the good news is, the next couple chapters shouldn't be that long in coming! That being said, the next two chapters are going to span Clint's backstory. Important note. While most of the details of Clint's life have been taken from the comics, CoffeeRanger and I have gone through and put a different sort of spin on them to fit into this Newton-verse, as well as to give a fresh take on it. So not all details are true to comic canon. What Clint sees via the gas, and some events of his backstory, tie very much into what Fennhoff has in mind for all of the Avengers in this story and some future plot points, and there are some crucial clues and details into the doctor's motivations. Also, a bit of a trigger warning, there's some description of (though nothing graphically shown) and reference to child abuse. Also, fun note, the subtitles of these couple chapters are inspired by lyrics from the song "Already Over" by Red, which really had a big influence in writing out this backstory. With all that said, here's part one!
Chapter 21- To Clip an Archer's Wings, Part 1: You're All I'm Reaching For
Peter grunted as he was pulled further back into the alley, struggling against his attacker. He elbowed them hard in the jaw before managing to break away and turning to face them.
The man with dark hair, the thin goatee, the scar, the green bandanna… Uncle Ben's murderer… stood facing him with a mocking smirk.
So. Finally one on one. Just like it was supposed to be. Because he hadn't been able to do anything the first time. The teen stood on the defensive. His first real test as an Avenger. Without his suit. He had to rock this. He had to if he wanted to be taken seriously by the rest of the team. He had to if he wanted them to let him help find Tony…
You've got this, Peter. Focus!
The man lunged for him. The web-slinger blocked the punch aimed at his face with his forearm, wincing with both surprised and pain, before he dodged a kick aimed for his knee. He spun and landed a hard kick of his own on the man's chest before he used the brick wall next to him to propel himself forward and connect with a solid knee to the side of his head.
Even though he knew it was impossible that he was fighting this man right now, each hit was releasing pent up grief… pent up rage… from when this very person had taken his uncle away from him. From when he'd only been able to watch it happen… This had been a long time coming.
But his eyes widened in fear when the dark-haired man seemed completely unfazed by the strikes. With his increased strength, with as much of it that he'd put into each one, his adversary should have at the very least been knocked out cold… not still standing there giving him that aggravating smirk…
Dread rushed through him. He'd gone toe to toe with Captain America… with the Winter Soldier… in Germany. He'd stopped their strikes, he'd made them stumble…
Was this man enhanced like them?
Was he even human?
Though Peter quickly brushed away that thought. He was being ridiculous…
Wasn't he?
The man chuckled, and a flash of gold in his hand drew the teen's attention. It was a watch. A Rolex, by the look of it. Good condition… except for a small crack in the clock face.
Tony's.
It was a pretty basic model, but he was certain of it. He'd seen it on his mentor's wrist on more than one occasion. He never used it to actually tell time, he had plenty of tech to do that for him. No, he'd kept it for sentimental purposes. It'd belonged to Howard Stark. The crack had been there when he'd taken it as his own, and he'd never gotten it repaired…
"Why do you have that?" he demanded. "That's not yours. Give it to me!" He hated how his voice cracked ever so slightly. His desperation to find and hold onto any piece of the billionaire was evident. He could have kicked himself.
The man's smirk broadened. "It's not yours, either," he quipped.
That voice… It sounded almost exactly like the man who had killed his uncle. But there was something… uncanny, something off about it that unsettled him.
Who the hell was he?
"Tony Stark sends his regards."
The quiet voice startled Peter, the words sending a chill through him to his very core. Tony… he knew he was alive, but hearing it confirmed by someone who possibly knew where he was… Sends his regards… what did that mean?
"Where is he?" the web-slinger snapped. He could figure out the rest of the details later. "Who are you?"
The next strike came so fast he didn't have time to prepare for it. Peter stumbled back a little, his jaw throbbing, before the dark-haired man shoved him into the brick wall behind him, his arm in front of his throat keeping him in place. He gasped for breath, not able to take a full one, as he tried to struggle free.
"If you fight, you won't live to find out." The man's quiet threat came from close to his ear. "But if you'd like, I can bring you straight to him."
Straight to him…?
The words bounced around his quickly… too quickly… racing mind. He could find Tony. He could bring him home if he…
Then, his attacker flinched ever so slightly, the sound of another strike landing sounding much too loud to his heightened senses. Peter's eyes snapped open when the man's hold on him loosened ever so slightly, and they widened in shock when he saw Michelle standing behind him, a metal trash can lid in her hands with her eyes narrowed. Ned stood next to her, his eyes also wide in awe.
But then, she wavered a bit when the dark-haired man turned to look at her over his shoulder, seemingly unfazed by the hit from the makeshift weapon. Impossible. She took a few steps back, Ned moving behind her, as she raised the trash can lid in front of them like a shield. The man smirked again, keeping his arm in place over Peter's neck as he fully turned to face the other two teens.
"Oh… You shouldn't have done that, dear…"
No!
The web-slinger cried out as he used both legs to kick the man back with as much strength as he could muster, causing him to stumble away. He landed on the alley floor in a graceful crouch before he leapt forward, shouldering their attacker into the brick wall across from him. He then glanced over his shoulder at his friends.
"Michelle!" he called, holding a hand up. The teen then turned and landed a kick in the center of the man's chest, forcing him back into the wall when he came for him again. His brow furrowed slightly when the strike sounded… hollow? Not exactly but… not like human flesh… More metallic…
That's when it hit him. He knew what he was facing.
With a nod, Michelle tossed the trash can lid at him. Peter snatched it easily out of the air before swinging it out and slamming it into the dark-haired man's head with all of his strength.
Nothing had ever felt quite so satisfying.
Their attacker stumbled, somehow still on his… its… feet. Peter didn't relent as he kept up strike after strike.
Ned gaped. "Dude, what the hell!"
Suddenly, the dark-haired man stiffened, jumbled and incoherent words spilling out of its mouth before it collapsed, rigid, to the hard ground. The web-slinger crouched next to it, moving the dark jacket and shirt aside to reveal the man's chest. It was nearly smooth, not like normal skin.
Michelle took a few cautious steps forward, her eyes narrowed in both a morbid curiosity and horror. Ned trailed along behind her with a quiet whimper. "What… what is that…?" she asked.
Peter was silent for a couple minutes, his mind moving too fast for him to catch up as he tried to catch his breath. He ran a stressed hand over his face as he glanced up at her. "It's an android," he answered quietly, reaching out and pulling the green bandanna away from their attacker's head to reveal some wires that had come loose from all the strikes from the trash can lid.
Ned let out a long, shaky sigh of relief. "Oh, thank God… You looked like you were going crazy for a minute there, dude…"
The web-slinger gave him a sheepish smile, though it was a look that didn't reach his eyes. "It's felt like it sometimes lately," he admitted. He then turned back to the android, his brow furrowing as he took the Rolex from its limp grasp with shaking fingers.
How did this thing have something of Tony's…? Why had an android even been after him…?
He had to tell someone about this… Happy, Rhodey, Steve… someone. This was the first big lead he'd stumbled on in the search for the missing billionaire.
Michelle straightened up, taking a deep breath as she pressed her hands to her eyes. "Okay… Peter. I think you owe us an explanation." She lowered her hands again, glaring at him. "What the hell is going on here?"
Peter looked up from the watch and met her intense gaze. He shook his head slightly, his face crumpling.
"I… I don't know…"
"Nat? Nat, you're breaking up, I really can't hear you…"
"There's… someone… building… careful…"
Clint sighed with frustration, his eyes narrowed as he glanced at the empty vending machines. "Tasha, I can't hear you well," he said. "There's some interference… Hold on. Let me see if it's better upstairs."
There was only a crackle in response.
Trying to ignore the unsettling feeling starting to seep into his bones, he started to make his way up the steps that would bring him to the offices upstairs, willing his focus to be on what he was supposed to be looking for. But then, he paused, his heart skipping a beat, when he heard a panicked scream come from the hall behind him.
Scott.
"Lang!" Clint backtracked down the steps and down the hall toward the one the ex-con had taken, alert for any sounds of a threat. He couldn't shake the words Natasha had said. "You all right?"
The archer slowed his pace when a moment passed without a word from the other man. Each step was slow, calculated, as he reached for an arrow from his quiver.
But then, he stopped when Scott's voice floated back to him.
"Yeah, all good! Just a, uh… just a stray!"
Clint let out a sigh and fought the urge to roll his eyes. The ex-con was much too nervous for his own good if he really wanted to focus on this mission. He'd have to keep an ear on him through the comms. He took a brief moment to listen for Wanda, noticing everything was quiet on her end, before he turned and made his way back toward the staircase. He once again lingered at the bottom as he looked up at the darker second story, giving his bow a shake to extend it to its full length. It was likely he wouldn't need it, but there was a feeling he couldn't rid of that something was just a little bit off. That the ear pieces weren't working as well as they should bothered him. There shouldn't have been nearly as much interference as there was.
He took each step slowly, his senses on high alert as he reached the top. The lights on this floor had all been shut off, the moonlight streaming in through the high windows casting strange shadows across the floor and walls. His sharp gaze landed on the door at the end of the hall from him, seeing it led to the emergency stairwell, as the light inside flickered eerily.
The first office door he reached was locked, and he made a mental note to return to it once he was done with the others. The next one was completely empty, and he listened to Scott's mutterings to himself to keep himself calm as he did a sweep of the room, just in case. He was just contemplating how to check in the vent on the wall above him when the ex-con voiced a question about the cold.
"There's a freezer down there," Clint explained, going over a quick layout of the warehouse in his head from the last time he'd been there. "For storage."
The archer smirked as he stepped back into the hall to grab the wooden chair he'd passed that was resting against the wall as Scott grumbled about the freezing temperature. Though it faded when he couldn't help but find that a little odd himself. They'd found a few incriminating things in the freezer last time, and he was pretty sure he'd personally ordered it shut off since there'd been nothing left to preserve.
"Let us know," he said when the other man informed them he was about to enter the basement. He dragged the chair into the room and set it beneath the vent before climbing onto it, frowning a little at the distortion in the comm. His two teammates were close, it shouldn't have been so in and out unless they were further out of range. Unless something in the warehouse was just naturally… or possibly not so naturally, he realized… interfering with the signal.
Something didn't feel quite right.
With a couple tools he always had in his back pocket, Clint quickly got the small, rectangular vent cover removed and peeked inside with a tiny flashlight. Though there was nothing of note to be found that he could see, other than years' worth of dust piled up.
His eyes watering and his sinuses burning, he returned the metal cover and hopped down from the chair, leaving the room to head to the next office. There was a table left here, as well as a few cardboard boxes. He went through those first, finding that they were all empty, and was checking the underside of the table to see if there were any possible secret compartments when Scott's voice managed to break through the white noise again. His voice, aside from the distortion, sounded… different, though he couldn't quite put a finger on it.
"Hey, guys… I'm feeling a little weird…"
The archer froze. "Weird how?" he asked.
"I dunno, man… lightheaded, weak…" the ex-con answered before he coughed. He was breaking up more than before. "Maybe there's a… a gas leak…?"
A gas leak? He supposed it was possible, though something about that didn't settle well with him. Clint stood, heading for the door. He had to get him out of there. "Hold tight. I'll be there soon," he assured him.
But he paused when the other man spoke up again. "No, I'll be fi…"
"Lang?" Clint raised his voice when Scott's trailed off. "Lang, come in, are you all right?" Though he didn't get a response, unsure if he'd even been heard over all of the distortion. He sighed with frustration. "Wanda, are you okay?" She'd been quiet ever since she'd answered Scott's question about the cold, which was starting to concern him. But he didn't get a response from her, either, just more static.
Something definitely wasn't right about any of this.
The archer stepped back out into the hall, seeing there was only one office door left other than the locked one. He clenched his jaw. He had to help Scott, despite the other man telling him otherwise. But there was a nagging feeling in the back of his mind, a what if there was something important, some sort of answer, in that room…
Taking a deep breath, he took the few steps needed to peek inside. A quick look, he reasoned. He wouldn't even go inside unless…
There was a piece of paper sitting on the table, the only thing in this room. Almost waiting for him. Clint quickly glanced around before he stepped inside and hurried to the table, lifting what he now saw were two sheets as he directed the thin flashlight beam on them.
The top sheet was a blueprint layout of the warehouse with certain rooms and areas highlighted in different colors. The second was a diagram of the ventilation systems with instructions of how to operate them.
Clint's brow furrowed. Why would these be…
"Guys…? Can you hear me…?"
"Wanda?" the archer wondered, straining his ears to try to hear her better. "You're barely coming in… What's wrong?"
He waited for a moment as he tried to make out her response, but all he could sort of hear was "… weird, too…"
"Can you repeat that? Wanda?"
But he only got static in return.
Clint cursed heatedly under his breath, glancing once more at the sheet on the vents. He scanned over the directions on how to turn certain ones on, how to direct air flow…
Why would these be left for him to find?
"Cassie!"
He jumped slightly and nearly dropped the papers when another voice suddenly managed to break through the white noise of his comm. He knew that name… but it didn't make any sense to him why it would be said here. He remembered Scott telling him all about his little girl after he had picked him up to head to Germany to help Steve, which felt like so long ago now… But he knew there was no way that Cassie was in the warehouse.
"Lang!" Clint called. "What's going on? Lang!"
The only response he received was more panicked shouts from the ex-con.
Clint set the papers down on the table. He needed to get them out of there. Though his gaze landed on the sheet about the ventilation systems one more time as he was about to turn away, and a terrible thought struck him.
Someone had wanted him to see these.
It may not have been a gas leak at all…
Could Fennhoff had possibly known about him after all…?
No room for error.
His heart skipping a beat, Clint hurried out of the room and back into the dark hall. He paused almost immediately, however, when something caught his attention out of the corner of his eye. Dread flooded through him as he tightened his hold on his bow.
The door of the emergency stairwell was now open a crack.
A scream of agony, of despair, echoed in the darkness around him and crackled through his ear piece, causing the very foundation of the building to tremble ever so slightly. He dropped to a crouch to keep his balance, his eyes wide. The sound was enough to make the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck stand on end.
"Wanda?" But he got no response, and he doubted she could even hear him over her anguish.
"Clint!" Scott yelled, and he was glad to hear the other man sounded a bit more lucid now. "Clint, I'm fine! Get to Wanda!"
"On it," Clint replied, rising to a standing position and hoping his tone wasn't as uneasy as he felt. The ex-con sounded like he would be able to hold his own for a bit yet, but Wanda… She had the power to bring this place down if she wasn't careful.
The archer hurried down the hall, once again pausing when he reached the first office, which had been locked. His breath caught in his chest when he saw that not only was the door now open a crack, but there was also a flickering light through the window. He slowly reached a hand out, cautiously starting to push the door open, when he heard the other man again, his voice badly distorted.
"Guys! There's some… in here!"
If Scott was saying what he had already feared, it was that someone else was in the warehouse with them. And attacking his two teammates somehow. And they had access to all three levels through that emergency stairwell…
Clint grabbed an arrow out of his quiver as he cautiously leaned into the room. This must have been the security office, for there wasn't much inside the small space other than a computer hub, a cushioned rolling chair, and a large monitor to display the security footage around the warehouse. That was what was playing now, he noticed as he slowly stepped closer. There were two feeds being shown. One was of Scott frantically looking around the basement and the other was of Wanda screaming and unleashing her power in the production area.
Then, a third screen popped up below theirs, and the archer's eyes widened when he saw it was of himself, watching the security feed. He quickly turned to look over his shoulder at the camera in the far corner of the room that was now blinking red. The camera that decidedly hadn't been on when he'd come in, no matter what the screen in front of him had said.
That camera had been turned on remotely. Someone outside of the warehouse must have been watching them.
No room for error.
Clint then realized that he could no longer hear Wanda, and he turned back to the monitor. His concern increased when he saw the younger woman was kneeling very still aside from how her shoulders would briefly shake. "Wanda, can you hear me?" he asked.
Her answer was quiet, distorted. "Y-yes," she murmured as she shakily pushed herself to her feet. "But you're... king up..."
She was also breaking up. Clint's brow furrowed as he watched her, tapping on his comm to see if the problem was on his end. What had happened in there? "Are you all right?"
A moment passed before he could hear her crackling voice again. "Yes... fine now... Clint, I-!"
At that moment, Scott's frantic voice broke through the white noise again, and Clint raised his gaze to his feed to see that the other man was scrambling around basement.
"Cassie! Cassie! Where are you? Cassie?! Cassie no!" he called as he frantically searched.
Clint cursed under his breath, about to leave the office and head down to the storage area to get the ex-con when he noticed a line of text had appeared on his feed. On alert, he leaned a little closer to read it better.
Your move, Little Hawk.
Clint felt as though a punch had landed in his gut as his breath left him and his blood ran cold. Little Hawk... He could almost hear the kindly voice taunting him, egging him on, showing him just how much he had missed and how much he would lose because of that oversight. The message didn't even need to be verbal. The text held the same amount of patronization and lording as it once had years ago...
Fennhoff.
Just thinking his name was enough to send a chill down Clint's spine. Not able to waste any more time, refusing to waste any more time, though it may have already been too late, the archer left the room and cautiously headed for the stairwell with his senses on high alert, his bow and arrow held tightly in his hands. He paused a few steps down when Wanda's voice, or at least a few words, managed to make it past all the static.
"... Clint... can hear me... else in here... with Fennhoff... gas... have to... here now!"
Even though she said what he had already realized, that someone working with the mad doctor was in the building and was using his greatest weapon, it still chilled him to hear. He had to get to her and Scott, he had to try to reach Nat...
He then held his breath when he thought he heard a footstep from up the stairs behind him, but when he chanced a glance over his shoulder, there was no sign of movement.
The archer knew he was letting himself get too rattled. He had to keep his head and keep focused. Otherwise, Fennhoff would win. He turned his attention back to Wanda, even though all he could hear through the comm was static. "Stay where you are, Wanda," he told her as he headed down a couple more steps. "I'm coming to you."
Suddenly, he felt a sharp sensation in the side of his left thigh, almost like a really tight pinch. Clint glanced down, hardly able to register that an arrow had embedded itself deeply into his leg, and the warm sensation on his skin was blood he was already losing, before the limb gave out from underneath him as the force from the strike propelled him forward. The shaft hit one of the steps on his way down, pushing the arrow further into the soft tissue of his leg and drawing a cry of pain from him, before snapping off close to the entry wound. His forward moment took him all the way down the stairs before depositing him in the midst of the broken glass at the foot of the steps. He could feel several shards dig into the exposed skin of his face, arms, and hands. His bow and arrow both clattered to a halt a couple feet away from him. His comm fell out of his ear and skidded underneath one of the empty vending machines.
He wasn't sure how long he remained sprawled on the ground, the pain pulsing through his thigh and the rest of his body in time with his racing heart. His leg was just a vice of agony, each heartbeat sending another wave of heat through his body. The archer closed his eyes for a moment, his breathing harsh, as the warehouse spun around him.
There was no doubt that there was someone else in there with them.
He had to get to Scott and Wanda... he had to get them out... He had to protect his team…
Fortifying his determination, knowing what was to come, Clint grit his teeth as he sat up, the motion sending a tremor of pain down his leg. He stifled a groan as he checked the damage. Blood flow was steady but not critical at that point. The shaft, though broken, was still long enough to stop most of the blood flow from exiting the wound. However, that could easily change as soon as he began moving. He hissed and shut his eyes tightly, his face paling and his breath quickening, as he gingerly probed the wound, attempting to determine just how deep the arrow had pierced. It budged beneath his touch, so while tissue damage was going to be something he would have to deal with, it didn't appear the arrowhead had struck bone.
Small favors.
He deftly tore a strip from the hem of his shirt, tying it around his thigh with slightly trembling fingers to attempt to keep what was left of the arrow shaft a bit more still, as well as to staunch more of the blood flow. He let out as lightly shaking breath as he took a moment to mentally assess the rest of him. His body hurt from the rough trip down the stairs, but it didn't appear that there were any other injuries he had to worry about, aside from the scratches from the glass.
Bracing himself, the archer slowly pushed himself to his feet. He had to lean against the wall behind him for support as he cursed under his breath when his left leg shook beneath him. He had to collect himself briefly as he waited for the burning pain to fade even a little, knowing it wouldn't get much better. His hand curled into a fist before slamming into the wall with frustration when he realized that with his comm out of reach. He was on his own. Not that it would have done much good contacting Natasha for some help on the outside since the signal hadn't been working well, anyway...
That was when it sunk in.
"Son of a..."
Of course. Fennhoff must have been jamming the signal somehow, which would also explain how communicating with Scott and Wanda hadn't been working well either. It had been an ambush all along.
But how had the doctor known about him...?
Clint cast his gaze up the stairs he had just fallen down, but the second floor was still dark and silent. No sign of anyone. But the hair on the back of his neck still stood up. He couldn't help feeling more than anything that he was being watched even still...
Then, the warehouse trembled slightly again, and he pressed himself even more against the wall to keep himself upright. The few lights above him flickered; then several more at the end of the hall shattered, faint flickers of scarlet lighting up the darkness.
"Wanda!" he yelled, knowing she probably couldn't hear him. He didn't know what was happening, but it wouldn't take much to turn the situation volatile...
He then remembered the security feed of Scott, scrambling around the basement on the verge of hysterics as he called out for his daughter. His heart wavered, wishing he could be in two places at once to make sure that he could get them both out. If Fennhoff, or someone working with him, had unleashed that hallucinogenic gas into the warehouse... Wanda would have no problem trapping them all in. He had to reach her first, for all of their safety.
Clint winced as he took a few steps forward, each one sending agony through his thigh. His leg shook with each step. He grit his teeth, but didn't move faster knowing he couldn't or his leg would give out on him. He gingerly bent over to grab his bow and the arrow he'd dropped, wincing as he straightened back up.
And froze.
A fine, light mist was filtering into the hall from the vents high on the wall above him. It crept down the walls like a giant gossamer spider inching down to pool just above the concrete of the floor. He had no doubt it was Fennhoff's hallucinogenic gas.
The archer immediately covered his nose and mouth with his arm, but he knew he may have already been too late. He didn't know for sure how long it had been seeping into the space. But he couldn't allow himself to panic. Panicking would only make it worse. He tightened his hold on his bow as he limped forward as quickly as he could, setting his jaw against the pain of every move.
Just stay focused on the task at hand.
Wanda... hold on kiddo... I'll be there soon... Hang in there, Lang...
Focus.
But then, a deep voice that he hadn't heard in many years, one that he'd believed he'd never hear again, slurred loudly from behind him. He instantly stopped in his tracks.
"Clint! What the hell are you doin', boy?"
His breath caught in his chest as the strong, bitter scent of alcohol drifted over to him, invading his senses. The muscles in his lower back tightened in a way they hadn't since he was a young boy, and his heart immediately jumped to his throat. His hands began to tremble against his will as he lowered his arm, nearly causing him to drop his bow and arrow. Just like that, he was that scared little boy that he'd used to be, the one he'd been desperate to leave behind. Even after all this time, it was a voice that still had the power to bring him to his knees.
No... it couldn't be real... It wasn't real. It was impossible...
The lights continued to flicker around him, the warehouse fading into a small, dank living room with the ancient tube television with an antenna that rarely worked, a hastily patched window, the old floral-print couch with a missing cushion, dirty carpets, a lamp in the corner that always flickered, and littered with empty beer cans and bottles. The archer blinked rapidly, attempting to clear what he knew was a hallucination.
He wouldn't play into it...
No... he wasn't back here... He'd turned his back on this place years ago and had never looked back...
He refused to be brought back there now.
Then, he flinched when the sound of shattering glass echoed from behind him, from near that junk TV. Despite telling himself that he wouldn't play into what he knew was a hallucination, his body refused to listen to him and instinctively moved out of the line of fire as quickly as he could. Clint closed his eyes as he let out a shuddering breath, opening and closing his fist around the shaft of his bow.
"What'd I say, boy? You look at me when I'm talkin' to you!"
A moment passed before Clint slowly, hesitantly, turned to face the owner of the cruel voice, almost as though his body was moving on its own accord. As it'd always used to. Even though years, decades, had passed, the reaction – the obedience – had been so ingrained in him that he could not disobey. Though there was no way he could have been prepared for the sight of the dark-haired man with the seemingly permanent scowl set into his lined face, an image which made his very blood run cold. It was a face he hadn't seen, at least outside of his nightmares, since he'd been a child.
"D-Dad..."
It was certainly the same man he'd spent the first part of his life with. There was no mistaking the glazed eyes, the deep scar he wore as a badge of honor on his right cheek from a bar fight, and the constant look of disapproval, of loathing, in his sturdy features. Like he'd never even wanted his children but was stuck with them.
But there was no way it could be the same man. It was impossible because...
The archer's gaze flitted to the walls of the apartment. If he squinted hard enough, the vents on the wall of the warehouse hallway would blink into view for a millisecond. The gas. Fennhoff. He had to keep reminding himself that none of this was real. His childhood home wasn't real. His father wasn't real. This couldn't hurt him.
It's just the gas... it's just the gas...it's just the gas.
"You're not real," Clint muttered as he moved his gaze back to the man standing in the doorway that led into the kitchen. Attempted to meet his dark eyes, stare him down. Though he hated how his own voice sounded like he was trying to convince himself of that fact. He hated the uncertainty he heard there...the fear that lay behind the words…
He raised his bow and secured his hold on the arrow, turning so he could more easily fire, when the older man hurled the beer bottle he held with as much force as he could at him. He managed to avoid loosing the arrow, though he jumped slightly when the smashing sound was louder than he expected as the bottle burst against the stained wall right next to him. He could almost feel tiny glass shards brush against his arm, could almost see thin trails of blood snaking down toward his glove.
He sucked in a breath, shutting his eyes tightly.
It's not real...
Though he did not voice the words aloud, the confidence he felt had shrunk considerably. He could hear it and feel it even without the vocalization.
"You show me some respect, boy!" the figure before Clint bellowed, stepping closer to him. "I am your father! I'm tired of you and your brother not listening to a damn thing I say and disregarding what you're told. Well, my word is law here, you little bastards..."
Against his better judgment, the archer slowly lowered his bow at the mention of the other child who had been in this nightmare house with him during that turbulent time. The pain that came along with the reminder of his older brother was worse than he expected as his chest tightened, robbing him of breath.
Barney...
He was a small child again, sitting – hiding if he was being honest with himself – in the narrow space between his bed and the wall of his room. His knees were tucked to his chest with his arms wrapped around them while his hands pressed against his ears. Tears sat in his eyes as he tried in vain to block everything out, to pretend like it didn't exist. Like he wasn't cowering with the hope that he wouldn't be found that evening.
His father's loud voice- angry because dinner wasn't ready yet- echoed throughout the compact house, demanding attention and sucking what small goodness had been present before his arrival from the small space. He flinched, pushed himself further into the corner – further into the pitiful amount of safety and security to be found there – curling as tight as he could and squeezing his eyes shut when movement came from on top of the bed.
He'd been found.
However, a second later, a different head appeared above him, the chin-length dark brown hair falling into Barney's youthful face. The other boy dropped into the space next to his younger counterpart and wiggled so that he was right next to him to him, wrapping his arms around him and pulling him against his chest.
"Hey... it's okay." He whispered.
Another shout echoed through the house, accompanied by the pleading tones of their mother. The younger boy whimpered, pressing himself against his brother.
"Shhhh," Barney soothed, rubbing a hand up and down the other's back. "Hey. Weekend starts tomorrow. How about if it's nice enough and not raining, we go down to the creek and hunt for toads?"
He just nodded, safe – if only for a brief moment – in his brother's arms around him.
They'd each caught a couple of toads that sunny day, he recalled, before releasing them back to their homes.
He was older now, sitting completely still, completely numb, on the hard floor of the bathroom, leaning back against the tub. Barney, his hair tied back in a ponytail revealing a fresh red handprint on his right cheek, crouched next to him. His brother made him press a pack of frozen peas over his left eye while he dabbed at his swollen, busted lip with some wet toilet paper. Concern was clear in his eyes as he tended to his younger brother's wounds with practiced hands, but so too was his exasperation.
"It shouldn't be too bad... Don't touch this," he muttered, adding some Neosporin to the cut. "I'll figure out a way to explain it to your teachers tomorrow."
He didn't say anything. He couldn't even form a coherent thought. He didn't know why his brother even bothered with the excuses anymore. They weren't needed. It wasn't a secret what went on in the Barton household, it hadn't been for a long time now. He'd always hoped, had always dreamed and wished, that someone would finally do something, that someone would actually give a shit. Countless nights he'd spent kneeling by the window in his room hoping to see just one shooting star through the glare of the city lights. Sometimes it would be because he was in too much pain to sleep, unable to find a comfortable position that would allow him to fall into the bliss of unconsciousness through the mass of bruises littering his body. Other times he would keep watch because it would be his heart hurting over the fact that it was Barney who was in too much pain to sleep that night, or over the sight he'd caught of his mother kneeling in the kitchen amidst shattered dishes and broken bottles and sobbing silently into her hands, when he snuck out when his thirst grew too big to ignore.
But he never saw one, was never able to make that wish. And over the years, he'd learned that he, Barney, and their mother were on their own.
No help would come.
Barney sighed as he set the antiseptic ointment aside before sitting down himself, looking into the younger boy's good eye. "Why..." He stopped himself, hesitating, before pushing forward. "Why don't you just stay quiet and listen?"
He narrowed his good eye at him. "He was gonna go after Mom. I-I couldn't."
The other boy's face crumpled, and the boys tumbled into each other's arms. The angry red mark on the older's cheek would only linger for another day or so. The younger's black eye and split lip would take longer. However, the scars on their hearts and souls would never fully heal.
He never really had learned to do that, the archer thought. He'd spoken up against his father more often than not, causing more trouble or pain for him than he would have had had he just stayed quiet and listened. Just like Barney had always begged him to do. But he could never help himself. He'd never been able to respect the man who had never respected them. He'd had to look after their mom, he'd had to look after his brother when he'd tried to talk their dad down when he got too drunk or tried to intervene when he'd go off on one of them in one of his violent rages...
Until one day, he suddenly hadn't had to anymore.
... Barney...
"I'll teach you to respect me, boy!"
Clint was yanked out of his thoughts in time to see his father rushing at him, fist raised. Clint full-bodily flinched back, raising his arms to shield his head even as he began to crouch down, making himself less of a target. The straight spine he'd developed through his many years with S.H.I.E.L.D. disappeared as the lessons he'd learned since he could walk took over, forcing everything out. Though now, he noticed that his father looked different. His face was deathly pale, bruised, and sporting many lacerations. Just how he'd looked after that fatal drunk driving accident that had claimed both him and their mother...
He was lying curled up in bed, his bedroom door open a crack, as he listened to Barney speaking to a couple of men in the living room. He strained his ears, but he couldn't quite hear what they were saying. Their deep voices sounded professional. Somber.
"I know you're awake."
The soft words startled him. He hadn't even realized he'd slipped into something of a doze while trying to hear what was being discussed in the living room. He looked up to see his brother in the doorway.
Barney slowly, almost cautiously, wandered in and sat on the edge of the bed. He hesitantly reached out for him, but pulled his hand back. An uncomfortable silence passed between them for neither one knew how long, the unspoken acknowledgement that their lives had just changed forever lingering in the air between them. Barney's breath hitched as a couple tears rolled down his cheeks. These tears were complicated. His black eye had lightened a few shades.
The worry, fear, and sadness in his soul increased at the sight. Barney never cried not, even when their dad struck or belted him, bruising him so badly that he had to stay home from school until the welts and bruises faded. Not even the time his injuries had been so bad that he'd had to be rushed to the emergency room. Not in front of him, anyway. But he knew he did when he thought no one saw.
His brother swallowed hard, trying to regain himself as he decided on how to best break the news that he already suspected. But he couldn't tell the older boy that. His own voice seemed to have left him.
Finally, Barney spoke. "It's... Mom and Dad..."
That's all that needed to be said. He sat up, leaning into his brother's embrace as Barney held him close to his chest, silent tears shared between them.
They'd fallen asleep like that, he recalled. The officers who had come to inform them of the accident had let them stay that way until morning.
It hadn't taken them long to pack the next day. They really hadn't had too many things to either of their names in that house. Not with that man in charge.
He and Barney stood in the living room, hand in hand, with all of their belongings. Neither of them were fully listening to the blonde woman in the neatly-pressed navy dress suit from Child Protective Services enthusiastically telling them she was going to treat them to a special breakfast out. They both hid their smiles from her when their stomachs grumbled at the thought of this.
They couldn't remember the last time they'd actually gone out to eat anywhere, let alone together.
But when she mentioned that she would be taking them to an orphanage after she took them shopping for some new clothes after getting something to eat, he tightened his hand around his brother's. Taking a step closer to his brother, he looked up. His heart raced in panic feeling as if it were going to come out of his chest.
They wouldn't end up separated... would they? They couldn't end up separated...
Barney smiled down at him, squeezing his hand back. "Don't worry, Clint. I won't let them separate us. I promise."
And he'd kept to his word. They had never been separated in the six years they had spent in the orphanage. If someone wanted one of them, they'd have to take both. They had made that clear since day one.
Though it had also been a little problematic for them. Barney, while he had often kept to himself, was at least pleasant to the other kids and the adults who worked there. Clint, on the other hand, kept to himself and would more often than not pick fights with other kids who got too close. He just wasn't ready to risk it – to risk getting close and caring for someone other than Barney only for them to turn against or be taken from him or used against him. It was better to keep everyone away. It hadn't taken long for the reputation that he had a temper and was difficult to handle to spread. It wasn't a secret that Barney was getting more looks from interested families, even though he'd be aging out of the system in the next year or so.
"Why don't you just stay quiet and listen?" He'd never forget the disappointment in his brother's voice after one particularly nasty fight.
Then, one night, Barney had woken him up in the ungodly hours of the morning telling him to pack his things as quickly as possible. He'd overheard the Home Parents taking about a family that was coming the next day with the intention of starting the process of bringing him home... but not Clint. It was something he wasn't even giving a thought to. Instead, he'd shown his brother a flyer for a travelling attraction that was going to be in the next town over that weekend that he'd picked up when he and a couple friends he'd made had made a run to town earlier that day.
So, they'd silently packed up their things and ran away, leaving the orphanage far behind them as they set their eyes on the next town over, heading toward their uncertain future as part of...
The archer blinked a few times, his father swaying back into his vision as he bore down on him. More instincts took over and he made sure to keep the fleshier part of his arm turned outwards and to keep his fingers tucked well away as he shielded his face with his arm as the other man approached, closing his eyes and turning his head. He was stronger now. He wasn't a scared little kid anymore. He had to remember that he could fight back now. He could defend himself if he had to...
No... it's not real... he's not real... snap out of it, Clint...
A moment passed… and nothing happened. No angry yell, no scared cry, no pain... Nothing.
Instead, the pleasant smell of fresh buttered popcorn, the sweet scents of whirled cotton candy and fried funnel cake, and the distinct aroma of straw and animals washed over him. The distant cheerful melody of circus music reached his ears, and through his closed eyelids, he could see colorful flashing lights.
His whole body stiffened as dread coursed through him. No... he couldn't be back here, it was impossible... This wasn't his life anymore, he'd turned his back on this place and what it stood for a long time ago... just like this place had made it clear it had wanted nothing to do with him.
None of this was real... it's the gas... it's not real...
Then how did it feel like he was under the familiar, welcoming shadows and warmth of that big tent again? His left leg pulsed beneath him, keeping him grounded. But the warehouse he'd been in had been left far behind him.
"Clint! What are you doing? You're not supposed to be back here."
... No...
The archer shook his head slightly. That heavily accented voice... For another chapter of his life, it was a voice that had provided more comfort for him than his father's ever had. But now, it was another that filled his heart with dread.
"Clint?" the impatient voice pressed.
Against his wishes, Clint felt his eyes open as though pried, and he found himself face-to-face with the dark-haired man who had been a big part of why he and Barney had been accepted into the carnival after they'd fled the orphanage, hungry and exhausted from their travel. He'd given them opportunities, he'd taught them everything they knew about handling a sword, even though it had never been his weapon of choice. He'd been his mentor.
When he and his brother had first joined the Carson Carnival of Travelling Wonders, they'd been given mainly menial tasks since they were basically just free labor- picking up after the animals, making sure they had fresh food and bedding, making sure the performers had everything they needed during a show, cleaning up after the audience left, picking up the supplies and tent before they left for the next town. There had been no shortage of troubled youth who seemed to find the solutions to their problems in running away to join the circus, it'd seemed. It hadn't been a pretty life, but at least he and Barney had been able to stay together there.
Until they weren't.
It was when Jacques Duquesne, a man who called himself Swordsman for his performances, had discovered Clint trying his hand at one of his swords after a show one evening that he had decided to take on both him and Barney as pupils, to teach them the blade work they'd need to know to take place in shows along with them. Their dues had been paid, and he couldn't have been more thrilled.
Clint had absorbed everything Jacques had taught him like a sponge, throwing himself into the intricacies of being a swords master. By the time they were actually allowed to perform in shows, he could incorporate the deadly beautiful weapons into his acrobatic techniques he'd also learned along the way; could delicately balance many of them on his hands and feet; could juggle them as if they were nothing, even behind his back; could launch one or more at a target across the room and not miss, with or without another person involved in the mix; and could slice through anything put in front of him and make it look like an art form.
While performing, he could lose himself. He could forget the demons in his past, and in his own heart.
Barney had done well, too, though he had never been as focused on the lessons as he had been. Their mastery of the skills had been about equal over the months they'd spent wearing down their fingers until they'd bled, but Clint had always managed to be a hair ahead. As he recalled, his brother's focus had also been elsewhere during that time. More specifically, on an acrobat and fire eater with ebony skin and hair that waved down her back in hues of orange and yellow that emulated the very flames she had seemed to be able to bend to her will. Simone, a girl a year younger than Barney who had been orphaned and joined the carnival at ten years old, had been one of the people who had made sure he and his brother had had a warm meal and place to sleep the day they'd stumbled onto the site. She'd always been kind and encouraging to them, even before they'd been trained. After all, she'd been through it all, too. She'd been the first person he could say he'd considered a friend in quite some time, if ever. Though even then, he could easily see Barney had had eyes for her.
The more Clint worked and performed over the next few years, he'd earned the spot as the sword master's assistant during shows. But, he remembered, this had also started to cause a rift with Barney. His brother had felt overlooked by their trainer, a little jealous that he'd stayed regulated to a secondary performer. Though Barney had also been training with Buck Chrisholm, a man who called himself Trick Shot for performances, as he'd learned his way around a bow and arrow, which he'd even preferred. Buck had offered to train him as well, but he'd turned it down, preferring to devote his time to his training with Jacques.
Though the hint of bitterness that he'd seen in the older man's eyes had startled him. While his relationship with Barney had, at some points, not always been the best, they'd never been at odds like that before. They'd always survived together.
But, as he'd soon realized, not only were he and his brother being trained to be circus performers, they had also been being bred to be full-fledged members of the criminal troupe.
A smirk spread across his face as he raised one of his swords to block the blade of his adversary that had been aiming for his throat. Barney returned the look, his eyes gleaming as he leapt back in a swift, graceful motion before coming for him again, one of his swords raised.
Barney, with Simone's arm linked through his, gave a woman with her older husband, who was buying some popcorn for the upcoming show, a charming smile- small talk had always been something he'd been gifted in- while he deftly lifted a coin purse from her bag as he walked past.
Sometimes, if they'd performed well enough at a show, they'd be allowed to keep whatever they'd managed to take that night.
At least Barney, with his girlfriend in tow, had taken the opportunity to get out from under the shadows of the Big Top and turn his life around before he had, but...
No.
Clint hissed, putting a hand to his head as he grit his teeth against the painful memories. His leg continued to pulse with agony, and he reached out blindly for something to lean against for support. He had to stop that train of thought before it could continue and lead him to a place he didn't want to go. The hallucinogenic taking hold in his system was causing enough difficulty; he couldn't afford to get distracted further by allowing his guilt about Barney to consume him fully…
He had to fight the effects of the gas. He had to get out.
... Barney...
The archer forced himself to look back at his former mentor, sitting cross-legged on an intricately designed rug on the floor of his tent. He appeared almost patient in waiting for him now, a blatantly false smile on his face. It was then he noticed that there were a couple thick stacks of money in Jacques's hands, a cruel gleam in his eye as he regarded him. The older man had had a gambling problem, often stopping in casinos or making bets in every town they'd stopped in. And he'd been laundering money from the carnival to settle his debts.
A criminal stealing from other criminals; what a concept, he thought dryly.
Though of course, it'd been just his luck that he'd been the one to find out the sword master's secret.
Jacques tsked quietly, shaking his head in disapproval. "You know, it's too bad you had to be the one to find out about this, Clint," he murmured, the disappointment- almost regret- clear in his tone as he rose to his feet. "You were a wonderful assistant. I don't know if I'll ever find another like you, not even your brother. You had so much potential..."
He was lying on the straw-covered floor of Swordsman's tent, trying to keep his head covered as blow after blow with the hilt of his sword – the very sword Jacques had gifted him when he asked him to become his assistant – kept coming...
A few tears leaked from his eyes, his voice weak as he cried out in pain... doubting if calling for help would even be worth the energy if no one was around to hear...
He could see flashes of his father's enraged face in the furious, almost deranged, look in Jacque's features above him... except, unlike his father, he knew his mentor wouldn't stop until he stopped breathing...
The edges of his vision began to fade and darken as it became harder and harder to breathe, the hits to his back becoming stronger and stronger as Jacques lost himself to his rage. He began to feel numb to each strike, his voice refused to work...
... He was going to die in this tent, and no one would know what had become of him. Swordsman would see to that...
... Barney...
A familiar panicked cry sounded distant in his ears, and a second man mercifully stopped the beating as he pulled Jacques off him...
Barney crouched in front of him, panic on his face, as he used his own body to shield him in a way so familiar in case the older man came back. His brother's hands cupped his face, hovering over the bruised
swelling already beginning to form from the blows he'd been unable to protect himself from...
"Why don't you just stay quiet and listen?" His brother's words echoed in his mind, but he'd most likely just imagined them as he allowed the pulling darkness to claim him...
He opened his eyes again to see he was in the passenger seat of a car as Barney drove well above the speed limit, coming to a stop in front of the doors of a hospital emergency room...
He assured Barney he would be all right and would catch up with the carnival in a few days before he stumbled out of the car. Barney wanted to come with him, but he refused. He had Simone to get back to, the Circus to get back to. If there were to be further complications and repercussions because of the night's events, he wanted his brother as far away from them as possible. Let him be the only one in danger for once…
He limped into the too-bright emergency room waiting area, hardly able to stand, hardly able to breathe...
A pretty, brown-haired nurse's assistant hurried over to him as he collapsed, helping to keep him on his feet...
... Laura...
Clint suppressed a groan of pain as his left leg nearly buckled beneath him, closing his eyes against the vivid flickers of the night his former mentor had nearly beaten him to death to ensure his secret would never see the light of day. After he had been deemed well enough to leave the hospital, he had caught up with the carnival nearly two weeks later. In that time, Swordsman had fled so he wouldn't be charged with assault, attempted murder, and money laundering and had never been seen or heard from again. It turned out that it had been Buck- the man who Barney had really attached to, looked up to, and respected- who had stopped Jacques's fatal blow, and he'd been interested in bringing Clint under his wing to teach him his trade. To make up for what had happened. And he had accepted.
But Barney...
He made himself comfortable on the small bed in his trailer, one he'd outgrown, pulling his thin, scratchy blanket up around his chin to block out the chill. It wasn't much, but it was still good to be back in the one place he had ever considered home.
A near silent rustle in the heavy darkness caused him to instantly be on alert as he sat up, his wide eyes trying to see anything in the small space around him. Had Jacques possibly found him, hell bent on finishing what he'd started? He thought he caught the faint gleam of a blade in the dark, but his own swords were too far away to reach to defend himself...
"Chill, Clint. It's just me."
He released the breath he hadn't fully realized he'd been holding, tension draining from his body. "Damn it, Barney... What the hell do you think you're doing sneaking around?"
"My bad, I should have realized you'd still be jumpy after... Calm the hell down, okay?" A flashlight beam flared on, causing him to briefly close his eyes before he saw his brother's pale face and shoulder-length dark hair tied back in a messy ponytail revealing his silver earrings. There were heavy shadows beneath his tired eyes.
He watched as Barney slowly sat down on the edge of the bed, noticing that he couldn't quite look him in the eye. He smelled faintly of cigarette smoke. His hands slowly curled into fists as his eyes narrowed at him. This was the first time he'd even seen the older man since he'd returned to the carnival earlier that afternoon; his absence in the group that had greeted him had been noticed. Even Simone had been there, wrapping him up in a tight hug as soon as she'd reached him.
"What do you want?" He couldn't help it. The question had come out harsher than he'd meant it to, almost an accusation. His brother's distance had stung.
At this, Barney's eyes snapped up to his. "Don't look at me like that," he retorted. He sighed, shaking his head slightly. "Look, last time I saw you, you were bleeding out in Buck's car. I... it made me think of Dad, okay? I panicked."
His gaze faltered slightly. He couldn't fault him that. "So where were you?" he pressed, picking at his fingers. Simone had told him that Barney had no-showed the performances last weekend, which had already been missing Swordsman's act since the man had vanished and he'd been in the hospital, and they'd had to scramble for coverage. The clowns, apparently, had had a lot of work those nights.
"I had some thinking to do." Barney set his jaw. For the first time, he noticed that his brother was holding onto a couple pamphlets. "Clint... I'm leaving the carnival in the morning. Sunrise. Simone's coming with me."
A moment passed as the words sank in. "Leaving?" he repeated, the word heavy on his tongue. "Where... where are you going?"
And why aren't you bringing me along? The question hung heavily in the air between them, unspoken.
You promised. 'I won't let them separate us.' That's what you said…
Barney made a gesture with the pamphlets. "A recruitment fair's being held," he explained. "In the city, few towns over. I'm going to enlist. Simone and I have enough money to cover any charges and for a down payment on a small apartment that we've been saving up for. She's going to look for some work somewhere while I'm in basic, so... we should be okay."
He got a better look at what was on the cover of the pamphlet. The Army. Barney was enlisting in the Army. He had some fond memories of the two of them playing Captain America with handmade shields as kids, one day dreaming of being soldiers and fighting bad guys, too. His brother was finally going to do it.
Alone. Without him.
"I won't let them separate us", his brother's voice echoed back to him through the years.
"I just... I can't stay here anymore, Clint," Barney continued when he was only met with silence. "We're not kids anymore. What are we going to do? Play pretend forever?" He paused briefly when he saw his brother flinch ever so slightly. "These aren't good people. You know that. After what Jacques did to you... Look, stealing is one thing. But that? I can't do this anymore. I'm done. I want to do something better with my life than this."
"And bringing your girlfriend with you instead to play house with since you're all grown up now," he added quietly. He hated that he couldn't keep the betrayal out of his voice.
Barney's eyes widened. "What? Clint, you think I would leave you?" he asked. There was hurt there. "After everything we've been through? After what we've survived together? Are you kidding? That's why I brought these. We want you to come with us."
All he could do was look back at him, not even glancing at the pamphlets when they were passed to him. "I... I don't know..."
A hint of distress crossed Barney's face. "Not exactly the reaction I was hoping for," he muttered with a chuckle. "Look, Clint. I know that we've been relatively comfortable here. But shit, if what Jacques did isn't a damn wake-up call, I don't know what is. We had fun here, I know, but we can't do this forever. We have the opportunity to turn our lives around, to make something of ourselves. Just like we've always wanted to. Because we deserve better than the cards we've been dealt. Don't you think so?"
This time, he did glance down at the pamphlets, studying the stock photo of men and women standing proudly in uniform. He remembered a time where that had been his dream, to wear the same uniform and help people. Even if sometimes that uniform had included a star-spangled shield.
But now... now his life consisted of the home he had made for himself here. The people who didn't fit in with normal society, the unhealthy food, the bright colors and lights of the performance space.
Could he really step back into a relatively normal life after being acclimated into this one?
Barney's gaze faltered, and he passed a hand over the dark stubble that lined his chin. "Just... do me a favor and think on it tonight, will ya, Clint?" he murmured. He tone was pleading. "We're both over the minimum age of enrollment, so..." He cleared his throat, the sound awkward. "If you change your mind, Simone and I are taking the bus at half-past seven. The stop's just a mile or so down the road from here. I... I hope you're there."
No matter how much he wanted to, he couldn't bring himself to say anything. It was as though he'd forgotten how to. He'd literally had a chance for a better life dumped into his lap by some fluke in the universe, and he couldn't tell himself to reach out and take it. Here he'd been worried and angry about Barney abandoning him, only to find out that that wasn't happening and now he was wavering about going? He could easily pack up the little bit he had and leave with his brother right that minute. But he couldn't leave.
Barney lingered for a moment longer than was comfortable before he sighed and slowly, reluctantly, rose to his feet. He made his way across the cramped trailer before stopping in front of the door. He pulled another cigarette out of the pack in his jacket pocket before he glanced one more time over his shoulder at him. "Think about it?" he repeated earnestly. "And remember. Half-past seven."
He then turned off the flashlight and disappeared into the night.
It would be the last time he would see the older man for years.
Clint remembered how he'd gotten no sleep that night, turning over the possibility of leaving the carnival along with Barney and Simone as he read and reread the Army pamphlets in the minimal moonlight. It hadn't felt like he could do anything with his life, not at that point. Performing, training, learning new skills had given him life. And he'd had more to learn. He hadn't thought that he could belong any place else in the world.
But then, he had decided to try.
It hadn't taken him long to pack up everything he owned into his duffel
bag and leave the junk trailer he'd called home for what had felt like so long, leave the carnival site, and dash up the road to where the bus stop was to join his brother on the next adventure. After all, it had always been them, together. It should stay that way. Looking back on it, he didn't know why he'd even hesitated, except for fear. Fear of the unknown. Fear of leaving the comfortable. Even though Barney would have been right next to him. Just like he'd always had.
But fate could be cruel, and he was too late. The bus had been early, and by the time he'd reached the sign marking the stop, it was already pulling away with dust in its wake. He'd only been able to see, almost feel, Barney's disappointment that he hadn't joined him as he'd watched the bus until it was out of sight. Even though he had tried.
The archer tightened his hold on his bow as another tremor of pain ran through his leg. He'd often looked back on that time, to that one moment, and wondered what would have happened had he made that bus. He probably wouldn't have joined S.H.I.E.L.D., he wouldn't have become an Avenger. He likely would have never gone back to Laura, he wouldn't have Cooper, Lila, and Nathaniel. He wouldn't be a fugitive, living on the run.
Barney may have been...
No, he couldn't let that guilt take him over, not now. Focus... he had to focus and find the way out of this nightmare. He had to find Lang and Wanda and get them to safety. Before it was too late.
Laura. It was the image of the face he loved more than any other that he attempted to focus on the most. He couldn't lose the image of her smile... He clung to it, willing it to give him the strength he needed to beat the hallucinogenic gas wreaking havoc in his system, to see through his darkest dreams, to be able to push forward to find his teammates. He had to keep going...
At the top of the stairs behind him, a masked figure watched the archer carefully, a gleam in his eye as he twirled another arrow of his own between his fingers.
Author's Note: So, Peter's got a bit of a clue here! At least a little bit of a lead to go on. And Clint's beginning his spiral downward, unaware of Fennhoff's threat against his life. Thanks for reading! Your reviews are much appreciated, as always. Part two should be up in a week or so! Thanks, guys! Until next time!