The Other Barton Boy

2. Carnie

They were made to stand in front of the manager, shoulder to shoulder, so that he could get a good look at them both. He had shrewd eyes, matted grey hair, and a road-weary, weather-beaten look about him that spoke volumes about this guy. Barney felt Clint shift uncomfortably next to him whenever that cold gaze switched to him, but Barney knew better. This man – Carson – was the definition of streetwise. If he thought they were weak, he wouldn't take them, so when it was his turn to be 'assessed' he squared his shoulders and met those eyes head on (not disrespectfully, though).

Carson grunted. "Where'd you find 'em?" he asked the man stood behind them.

"Wandering round the trailers. Biggun said they was looking for you, wanted a job."

"And you brought 'em straight here?"

"Thought you'd wanna decide yourself."

Hands on his hips, Carson went back to studying the two boys. The silence rubbed against Barney's skin, and he began to worry the old man wouldn't take them on after all. He desperately wanted to plead their case, to appeal to his sympathetic side even though he likely didn't have one, but knew that doing so would only decrease their chances of being taken on. He couldn't risk that. After what felt like an eternity, Carson jerked his chin at him. "What can you do?"

"Most things except cook," Barney told him. "We'll learn stuff if we have to."

"Gimme an example."

"I'm pretty good at fixing things, and Clint can climb like a monkey."

"Why would I need a fix-it kid and a monkey?"

Barney shrugged. "Cheaper to have someone fix things on site, right? And Clint can go places bigger guys can't." Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Clint give him an anxious look, but pretended to ignore it. He hoped he wasn't getting his brother into a bad situation (but they were desperate).

Carson mulled over Barney's words, then let out a short sigh. "I could use someone like the little guy," he said, gesturing to Clint, "but you kid? I've already got a handyman. What would I need you for?"

Barney's thoughts were frantic. He couldn't be separated from Clint, not when the circus was his idea in the first place. It was out of the question. "Two handymen are better than one, aren't they? Things would get fixed quicker! Your guy could teach me stuff, make me better than I am –"

"Please don't split us up, Sir." Both Barney and Carson turned in surprise to Clint, who had been silent since the moment the brothers had been found.

Something softened in the manager's gaze – not by much, but it was still noticeable. "Why shouldn't I, kid? I don't wanna take on more mouths to feed if they ain't making themselves useful."

"Because Barney's good at lots of things – he's good at learning lots of things, too. And if you don't take him, then you don't get me, because we stick together. Always have, always will." Watching his little brother straighten himself up, hardening his expression even though he still showed a hint of fear, declaring his loyalty, Barney's pride in him swelled. He thought back to what Clint had said not so long ago, about being able to stand up for himself. Maybe he was right.

Carson smirked. "Gutsy monkey, aren't you?" He looked between them both a few more times, glancing at the guy behind them once more, then folded his arms over his chest. "You've got one week to prove yourselves. You screw up before then, you're out. Got it?" It wasn't what Barney had hoped for, but it was something. They shared a glance, knowing neither of them would be slacking off anything for the foreseeable future.

"… and then Swordsman jumped right over him, threw two knives, and they landed perfectly either side of Trick Shot's arrow!"

"Uhuh," Barney grunted around the blade in his mouth. One of the performers, Jacques Duquesne, had broken a throwing knife, and after Barney had fixed one previously for him he decided to always pass them his way. Apparently Barney handled them better than Harrison, the other fix-it guy. He was trying to smooth the broken edge on the hilt of the knife, but Clint had come back from watching Duquesne train and perched himself on the table corner before launching into an overly-detailed account of how awesome Swordsman and Trick Shot were. It was a little irritating.

"They're so badass, Barney," he crowed wistfully. "You should come and see them sometime!"

He removed the blade from between his teeth, licking the corners of his mouth habitually (the first time he'd held a knife there, he'd cut himself without realising. One of the young contortionists had freaked out when she saw him with blood dribbling down his chin, and hadn't stopped calling him Vampy since). "The Big Top's not for us, Clint," he chided half-heartedly, reaching for the solder iron. "Besides, your commentary's given me a pretty good idea of how 'badass' they are on its own."

"But you haven't seen them, Barney! They just get better and better!"

"Yet the word badass has been used to describe them for the last six months."

Clint rolled his eyes. "See, this is why you need to get out. You're getting grumpy fixing things all the time! Leave it to Harrison and come and have fun."

"We aren't here to have fun, we're here to work."

His brother slipped off the surface corner, staring at him in disbelief. "You told me when we left it'd be fun!"

"Yeah, well I had to say something to get you to come with me."

There was a long pause as Clint processed that. "So you lied to me?"

"Your brother didn't lie, Monkey." Both boys looked up as none other than Swordsman himself stepped into their trailer, an amused look tugging at the corners of his mouth. "He just doesn't believe his own words, that's all." Clint's eyes bugged.

"I'm almost done with the blade," Barney told Duquesne, reaching for a strip of solder wire. "It might be a bit shorter than the others. Does that matter?"

Jacques leaned over his shoulder, inspecting his work. "Can you get it the same size?"

"Maybe. Have anything for me to go by?" The carnie pulled out another throwing knife from somewhere, laying it next to the broken one, and Barney nodded. Clint stared, entranced by the design on the blade.

"What's it mean?" he asked.

Duquesne chuckled, a low rumble in his chest. "Harrison's wife was Gypsy before she kicked the bucket," he explained. "Helped her husband out from time to time. Made me that one on my birthday. Couldn't tell you what it means, though."

"Why not?"

"'Cause I don't fucking know either, Monkey." Monkey was Clint's circus nickname given to him by the other carnies, who found it funny to always find him scampering up into a high place for a better view of something. Barney didn't have a nickname – he was still just Barton.

"Can I have a look?" Jacques pulled out another one and handed it over. Clint turned it in his hands, noting the symmetry and weight balance that his brother had pointed out to him the first time Swordsman had broken a knife. "How do you throw it?"

"What, you never played catch before, little orphan?" Jacques laughed, and Clint scowled at him. "It ain't that hard – here. Hold it like this."

Barney listened as Jacques coached Clint behind him, keeping his eyes on the soldering he was working on. He didn't mind that his brother was getting friendly with the performer – they needed all the sponsors they could get, even if Carson had kept them on for so long – but he was concerned about Clint breaking something. Sure, he wasn't bothered about having to fix things all the time, but it was repetitive, and kept him occupied longer than he really liked. Harrison was shipping all his work onto him, he just knew it, and the last thing he needed was his little brother causing more problems just because he didn't know when to keep his head down.

There was a soft 'thunk', and Barney looked up sharply. A rough target had been drawn on the wall in black felt-tip, and one of Jacques knives lay on the floor below it. A white nick had been made at the edge of the bull's-eye. Swordsman whistled. "Damn, Monkey, where'd you learn to throw like that?"

Clint shrugged. "I haven't. Did I do good?"

"Good? Kid, lack of muscle aside, I ain't seen a grown man throw that good on his first try, let alone some pre-teen monkey!" He retrieved the knife, handing it back with a "Try again."

This time, Barney watched as Clint adjusted his stance, raised the knife, poked his tongue out, and threw. It still didn't stick in the wall despite the added force put behind it, but the nick in the black markings showed that he had been within inches of hitting dead centre again. If he hadn't seen it with his own eyes, Barney would have accused Duquesne of exaggerating. Clint turned back to the older man. "Like that?"

For a moment, Jacques said nothing. Then he shifted. "Run to the Big Top. Go see if anyone's in there," he said, patting Clint on the shoulder as he scurried out. "You know he was that good?" he asked Barney once the door knocked shut.

Attention back on his soldering, Barney shrugged. "He could always see the hawks," he mumbled.

"Hawks?"

He nodded. "They'd be up high, but he'd always ask why they were a certain colour or something." Jacques made a noise of interest, then left without another word. That hurt a little, but he brushed it aside and kept working. When he finished, he took the blades straight to the Big Top on the off-chance Swordsman was still there. He found him, along with Buck Chisholm – a.k.a. Trick Shot – and his brother. Both men were watching as Clint struggled with one of Chisholm's bows, and didn't notice Barney until he was stood next to them. They praised him on his work with the knife, then sent Clint back with him to their tiny trailer; the way Clint babbled non-stop about Trick Shot's bow, Barney knew something had happened.

And he was right – from that day on, Clint began training with Jacques and Buck, apparently impressing them a fair amount. Harrison was commissioned to make him a bow of his own, and Barney had never seen his brother so excited (the Brandts had given him the wrong toy all those years ago, he thought). Days became different for both of them: whereas earlier Clint had either run errands or watched the stars train whilst Barney worked or delivered fixed goods, now Clint trained with the stars too, and the brothers rarely saw one another. Clint would come back to their trailer after dark, clearly exhausted, and proceed to ramble on about his session with Chisholm and Duquesne (always avoiding the parts where he'd missed – the details were as obvious as the purple marks on his arms and back). Barney went to sleep with a headache more than he liked.

It wasn't just Buck and Jacques that suddenly seemed to take a shine to Clint. Barney noticed a lot of the other performers talked about him, laughing at something 'adorable' he'd done or said. Sometimes the people he mended for asked him how his brother was doing, and after a while Barney took to responding to those questions with a shrug and a "Not sure. Don't see him much." The nickname Monkey was heard less and less, and one day it was completely replaced.

"I'm gonna be in the show!"

Not even batting an eyelid as his brother tripped over his own quiver, Barney nodded. "Good for you. About time they actually made that training mean something."

Dusting himself down, Clint continued: "They're gonna make me a costume and everything, one to match Buck's I think. I'll be like a mini version of him, but Carson said I've got my own charm so I'll still be me. Oh yeah – and I get a stage name!"

"Yeah?"

"Yep. You are now in the presence of… The Amazing Hawkeye!"

He couldn't help snorting. "What, you some bird-boy hybrid or something?"

Clint's face fell. "No, it's just that I see like a hawk." There was no reply. "Aren't you happy for me, Barney?"

Barney let the walkie-talkie he was piecing together drop into his lap. "Yeah. I'm thrilled for you, little brother. Way to go."

Unfortunately, it wasn't bought. "What's up with you?"

"Headache."

"Again?"

"Yeah."

"Shouldn't you see someone about that? I mean, you get them a lot –"

"Maybe because I have a kid brother who doesn't shut up about his new fucking toy whenever I see him."

This was the first break Barney would later realise; the way his brother stepped back in shock, how he suddenly became so very quiet, how he didn't even pick up his bow that night like he normally did. The rift wasn't mended until the morning, when Barney promised to watch his act before hurting himself laughing when Clint's outfit was finally ready. He went, though, and was stunned by what his little brother had learnt in just over a year – the kid never missed a shot, not from anywhere, and easily kept up with the older men he performed alongside. Hawkeye may not have been the main part of the trio, but he was by far the crowd favourite. They celebrated that night, the whole show cast, and when there was no-one nearby and Clint asked him how he'd done Barney was drunk enough to smile and say, "Not bad, little bro. Not bad." He couldn't remember if Clint had been pleased with that or not.

"You know what I think?"

Lying back on the bed, Barney blew out the smoke from his cigarette, watching it disappear into thin air like it had never existed. "What?"

Alizeh stepped out of her tiny bathroom, now wearing a black camisole and knickers. "Samuel Sullivan? He's getting too big for his boots."

Barney shrugged, flicking ash onto the bed covers. "How so?"

"Haven't you noticed? He's bossy."

"Everyone's bossy."

"Not like him."

"Guess not."

Raising an arm over her head, the contortionist continued to rant even as she worked her muscles. "I mean, he's everywhere! You can't escape him! And when he does catch you, nothing he has to say is important, or so urgent that it can't wait. And things that should take two minutes, they take twenty with him! Like, doesn't he realise that nobody cares?"

"Uhuh." He watched her stretch appreciatively, wrapping her hands around her ankles before letting one go and raising her leg to point her toes at the ceiling. She caught him staring, and grinned at him upside-down.

"You like?"

His returning smile was sly and one-sided. "We do."

She giggled, relaxing that leg and repeating the action with the other. "Well I'm afraid you'll have to pass on the message: no more."

He groaned. "Come on, Alizeh!"

"No!"

"Why not?"

She straightened up, smirking at him over her shoulder. "Because it's funny to see you suffer."

"Ha fucking ha," he spat, scowling at her. "Thought you Mexicans liked doing it more than once."

Mouth open, she turned to face him, hands on (beautifully curved) hips. "Are you calling me a whore?"

"No, I'm calling you Mexican."

"Well that's a definite no, now!"

His ears pricked up, and he mentally slapped himself. "Wait - you mean I actually had a chance of getting some again?"

"Until a few seconds ago... Maybe, yes."

Barney sighed, rubbing a hand over his eyes. "Damn you, girl." Next thing he knew, the bed was moving beneath him, and a warm weight settled comfortably across his hips. Moving his hand away, he was greeted with the sight many men dream of.

"Eyes up," Alizeh ordered, and tapped his chin when he didn't avert his gaze. "Apologise."

"What for?"

"For slighting me."

"I didn't slight you – it was you who thought I called you a whore."

"Well then, I'll have to kick you out like this." She rolled her hips then, making Barney gasp and hiss a curse or two. Thank God he hadn't put his jeans back on yet.

"Alright! I'm sorry for slighting you, Alizeh," he said at last. "Just… Don't force me out in this state. If anyone sees –" He stopped mid sentence as she plucked his cigarette from his fingers, took a drag, then leaned forward to give him a shotgun kiss, her breath hot against his lips.

"No-one'll see," she murmured, then grinned. "Come on, Vampy – let's take care of this."

This thing between Barney and Alizeh had been going on for roughly a year now, although neither of them was keeping track. It wasn't a Relationship – feelings were strictly sidelined, and PDA was a big no-no. It wasn't that they wanted to keep it secret, just that they didn't want to make a big deal out of it; so no-one was too surprised to see Barney leaving Alizeh's caravan, and he almost got away without incident.

"Barton!"

Groaning inwardly, Barney tried to feign deafness and kept walking. Maybe, if the Powers That Be were feeling generous, he'd turn invisible, and be able to slip –

"Barton, there's something we need to discuss."

Dammit. "What do you want, Sullivan?"

The least popular man in the circus appeared beside him, already in step. "We need to talk about the balance pole you're supposed to have fixed for the Greek twins."

"Now?"

"Why hasn't it been finished?"

"I dunno, because I have shitloads to do and it's Harrison's job anyway."

"He told me it was yours."

"Yeah, he says everything's mine."

"I just don't see why it's taking you so long. From what I understand, it's a simple weight adjustment procedure –"

"You know how it's done, you go do it."

"Why haven't you done it yet?"

"I told you, I've got other shit to do!"

"Sleeping with a fellow performer is not –"

Barney stopped in his tracks, whirling round to grab Sullivan by his lapels. "Think very carefully about what you just said, Sullivan," he growled, "then bugger off." He shoved him away, stalking off before any more could be said. Everyone could see it now: he was in a bad mood. Fucking Sullivan; Alizeh was right. 'Simple procedure'. 'Fellow performer'. Jesus!

The caravan was, thankfully, empty when he got back. The bow and quiver were gone, and a scrawled note explained something about 'extra training', so Barney helped himself to a pop tart and grabbed his carving knife, the little figurine he was sculpting with it, before falling ungraciously onto his bed in the corner of the trailer. One of the trapeze artists had a toddler, and when he was bored Barney would roughly carve things for him – this one was a jester. He worked on it all afternoon, forgetting about Alizeh, forgetting about Sullivan, forgetting about what he should've been working on, until the door opened. A cursory glance told him it was his brother, which was to be expected, so he went back to etching details onto the jester's front. "Where you been?" he asked, somewhat accusatory.

"Training," Clint mumbled, standing in front of the couch. "Left a note."

"Oh." He continued to whittle away, waiting for the day's account so he could tune out like he normally did. He wasn't even sure Clint knew he blocked him out, or if he did and just said it anyway, because Clint didn't like silence hanging between them apparently. Said he missed spending time with his brother. So far, Barney had refrained from telling him that it was Clint who willingly spent time away from Barney, and that it was probably better that way. Five minutes later, though, he found himself marvelling at just how well he'd tuned out this time. All he could hear was his knife against the wood, soft and…

Looking up from the jester, Barney was a little surprised to see Clint still stood in front of the couch, quiver on his back, bow in hand, head drooped slightly. Shadowed as his brother was by the lack of light, there wasn't anything immediately obvious. Perhaps he'd passed out standing up. "Clint."

He noticed the small jerk of his head, like he'd flinched. "Yeah?" So not asleep.

"What's up?"

"I…" There was a long pause. "I can't take off my quiver."

Somehow, Barney refrained from laughing. Just. "Why not?" Shadow-Clint shook his head, swayed, and that's when Barney decided this may be more serious than he thought. He abandoned the jester and knife. "Clint, what is it?"

"Nothing," Clint mumbled, even as the lights were turned on and Barney's eyebrows soared.

"Holy shit!"

He knew that, every now and then, Clint's mentors would rough him up a bit if he missed a shot or under-performed. It happened, and Clint got over it – it was just a bruise, after all; but Barney had never seen his brother look like a fricking punch bag before: a dark bruise on his jaw, split lip, swollen nose, the darkest black eye he'd ever seen, hair all over the place, and too many small cuts on his arms, all surrounding more big purple patches the likes of which Barney had hoped never to see again since childhood. It was as if Clint had been dragged through a concrete bush.

It was one of Barney's old nightmares come true.

Barney was on his feet in an instant, holding his brother at arms length, mouth still agape. He cut the strap of Clint's quiver to get it off his back, concerned by the lack of complaint that should have garnered him, and prised the bow from shaking fingers before grabbing a random cloth and wrapping it round a handful of ice. Encouraging his brother to sit down, he stuck the makeshift icepack onto the shiner (ignoring the tightening of his chest when Clint's face screwed up, a hiss escaping between his teeth) and finally asked the burning question. "What the fuck, Clint?"

Keeping his head low, Clint shrugged. "I messed up."

"By what, shooting a fucking tiger?"

"No –"

"So explain!"

Clint sighed, wincing slightly, and Barney wondered about the condition of his ribs. "Jacques was in a bad mood. He lost a lot in a bet recently, so he'd gotten drunk to try and forget it, but it just made him worse. Every time I said or did something that annoyed him, he uh…" He swallowed. "Lashed out."

"And Buck did nothing?"

"Buck's ill. Was just me and Jacques. Had to learn something new, and I wasn't quite getting it."

"So he laid into you?" Clint nodded, and Barney ran a hand through his hair. "Fuck!"

"Barney, it's okay."

"Okay? The hell it's okay, Clint! I mean have you seen yourself? You look like shit! He has no right to do that to you!" He removed the ice, tilting his brother's face so he could get a better look at his injuries. "What else?"

"Nothing, this is –"

"Clint."

His brother's eyes were filled with something familiar. "I think… I think I have a broken rib, maybe just cracked… and a few bruises on my back."

"Stay still." Using his crafting knife again, Barney cut away Clint's shirt (once more unnerved by the lack of protest), ready to expect the worst. There were only two bruises, it transpired: one on his back, and an ugly one on his torso that Barney was sure indicated a damaged rib. When he touched the skin Clint inhaled sharply, grimacing and tightening his fists by his sides; and that was when Barney recognised what he saw in his brother's eyes.

He stood suddenly, dropping ice all over the floor, raking his fingers over his scalp. The whole situation was bullshit. They'd been free of this for ten years now. They weren't in people's way. They weren't treated like kids who didn't know better. They were part of a – but then again, had they ever really known a family that didn't hurt them? It was just typical that their most recent semblance of happiness resulted in this. The world was fucking with them.

Barney had never felt so angry.

Storming out of the caravan, he barely heard the tremor in Clint's voice as he asked, "Where are you going?" followed by a panicked "Barney!" He had no idea where he was going, having never been able to reach that thought. In fact, his thoughts seemed to be stuck on an endless, furious loop: Duquesne had hurt his brother; Clint had lied about standing up for himself; Barney hadn't looked after him; nothing would be done about it. So wrapped up in this cycle was he that he only realised it had started raining when he knocked on a caravan door. The water broke through the reverie he was in, washing away his defences, and leaving him confused and shaking in front of the plain, dirt-white door. He was breathing as if he'd been running – had he been running? The last thing he remembered was Clint's eyes. He clenched his fists at another flare of anger. Why had he been so afraid?

"This is a little late for you, isn't it?" The warm voice brought him back from the land of red, as did her tanned skin, her long black hair, framed by the light from her home… Alizeh frowned. "Barney?"

It took him a while to find his voice. "Can – can I...?" She nodded, stepping aside to let him in.

Needless to say, Barney's attempts to seek justice for Clint's treatment amounted to nothing; Carson refused to intervene, using the excuse that Duquesne's methods were Duquesne's business, and that a lot of performers went through the same thing, some longer than others, and even Chisholm was wary of stepping in. Thankfully, Clint never came back from training looking so battered again, only sporting the occasional bruise every few weeks. He was becoming something of a star attraction, the kid who could hit any and every target, and when his training was finally switched from Duquesne to Chisholm, part of a compromise on a bet gone wrong between the two, Barney realised they only saw him as little more than a puppet to make their acts look better.

Circus life, though, had never been so perfect – all the acts were at their best, money was rolling in, they were relatively well received wherever they went, and Carson had little to complain about besides his disappearing 'youth'. Barney was still a handyman, still not as skilled as old Harrison but he put twice the effort in, even if he only got half the praise he thought he deserved. People continued to talk to him about Clint, and he continued to tune them out, sometimes going to Alizeh's to blow some steam in one way or another. They still weren't in a Relationship, something he pointed out to her after he dragged her between two stalls to make out for a while. She'd known he was drunk – he was always drunk on a party night.

The knock on the door was the last thing Barney needed at God-knows-what-o'clock the next morning. His head was pounding already, never mind a potentially pissed-off neighbour wanting to give him an earful about something he didn't remember doing and probably hadn't done anyway. Besides, Clint could answer the door. He had legs that still worked.

"Clint, answer the fucking door," he ground out, not caring if the pillow muffled his words – his brother would get the gist. Seconds later, he heard the opening of said door, followed by the sound of heavy boots on wood (or was that still his head? Christ, he was never challenging Piotr again…).

"Barton?"

Confused, Barney dared to remove his face from his pillow, looking round and blinking at what appeared to be a taller version of his brother, bow in hand, quiver strapped to his back. He groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "When did you grow up?"

"What?"

Deciding this conversation would be better had on his back, Barney rolled over – and landed solidly on the floor. Throwing out a few cuss words did nothing to ease the pain in his head, nor did it help when he finally took stock of his situation: here he was, hung-over and stark naked, staring up at Buck bloody Chisholm. "What do you want?" he muttered, dragging his bed covers down.

"Where's your brother?"

So Chisholm had let himself in? Wonderful. "Don't know."

"Well when was the last time you saw him?"

Battling through his fuzzy head, Barney attempted to stand. "I dunno, last night some time? I got back late, don't remember much after Piotr fucking conned me."

Buck smirked, glancing over at the other bed. "He didn't show up for training. Thought he might've tried sleeping in, too, but I guess I was thinking of the wrong Barton."

The finger was the only adequate response Barney could think to give. He was more concerned with trying to find his boxers (how the fuck had he gone to bed with no boxers?). "Ask Duquesne," he grumbled. "Thought the two of you shared him now, anyway."

"I have, I asked everyone – no-one's seen him." He frowned. "You realise his bed hasn't been slept in?"

Finally retrieving his underwear, Barney glanced over at it. "How do you know?"

"Because it's fucking cold, moron."

"Well maybe he was at some chick's trailer then."

"Do you even listen, Barton? I just said, ain't nobody got a clue where he is!"

Barney froze, Buck's words finally getting through. "You mean my brother's missing?"

"You gonna help me find him or what?"

And that was how Barney ended up stumbling round the circus at five to ten in the morning, suddenly less hung-over than earlier and trying to keep up with a pissed-off archer whilst searching for one more. "Maybe he passed out in a ditch," he suggested, "or wandered into town by accident and got lost –"

"Yeah, keep telling yourself that."

"You think it's something worse?"

Chisholm scoffed. "He's a star attraction with a popular circus. Desperate people ain't always stupid – you should know that."

"Fuck you very much."

"If we don't find him, we go into town, start knocking a few heads if we have to."

"Won't Carson be pissed?"

"Carson'd do the same, just less efficiently."

They eventually came to the last trailer, which happened to be Carson's. Barney walked round it once, even braving the unpleasant feeling his head gave him to check underneath, but there was no sign of his brother. "Shit," he spat, returning to Chisholm. "Where the fuck is he?"

"Did you look there?" He gestured with his bow, indicating the hedge that ran behind the caravan. It wasn't particularly high, and they both managed to jump (or fall) over it. Barney dug the heels of his palms into his eyes as a wave of nausea rolled over him, vaguely hearing Buck curse loudly. This was turning into a very bad – "Barton!"

"Huh?" Chisholm's voice came from his left, and Barney looked round to find him crouched by a body. At first, he thought it was fake, one of the dummies the circus carried around with them; then he recognised the clothes, the hair, and eventually, underneath all the bruises and blood, his brother's face. "Aw, fuck, no!"

Buck was crouched beside Clint's prone form, fingers pressed to his neck. "He's alive," he announced, though the thought had never even crossed Barney's mind. "We need to get him to Dolly."

"Dolly?" he repeated as Buck slung his bow across back. "She's just a nurse!"

"She's all we got!" Slipping his arms underneath the boy, he lifted him up effortlessly, and Barney cringed at how limp Clint was. "Barton! Get a move on. Go warn her. We'll meet in Big Top."

Running was something Barney had always been good at, for various deep-seated childhood reasons. He may not have been as fit as he could be, and he was almost ready to collapse by the time he reached Dolly's caravan, but he finally brought her to Big Top at the same time as Buck, who had alerted Carson. Dolly's face was mortified, her frown deepening the more she looked over Clint's injuries. "Several broken bones, severe bruising, probable concussion, and I have a horrible feeling there's internal bleeding. I can't treat him here, Carson - he needs a hospital." Carson nodded grimly, turning to phone an ambulance. Dolly shook her head, eyes shining. "Who would do such a thing?"

Barney didn't really consider that question until hours later, when the doctors finally told him what was happening in the operating theatre. Some of the damage inflicted had apparently been inflicted before, they said, with some older breaks resurfacing. Had Clint recently suffered anything like this? Did he have enemies?

"It's fucking Duquesne!" he hissed when the doctors eventually left. "I'd bet my right arm on that!"

"Jacques said he hadn't seen him," Buck said looking sceptical, "and Clint was wearing the same clothes he was in last night. What would he be doing round the back of Carson's tent anyway?"

"I don't know, I'm just – fuck!" He threw his hands up, storming over to the waiting area and dropping into one of the chairs. His life had been fine until now, he didn't need this shit! Trust Clint to attract misfortune the way he did.

Chisholm left after a while ("I need a drink,") leaving Barney to stew in his tumultuous emotions. Patience was not a virtue the Bartons possessed (except for his mother, once upon a time), and he was in half a mind to smash the clock on the wall, or the perpetually whirring vending machine, or the bloody uncomfortable chairs, or Jacques Duquesne's ugly-ass face – and then the doctor came out, and Barney resisted the urge to snap long enough to hear the words 'critical' and 'stable'; he didn't remember being taken to his brother's bedside, but that's where he ended up, staring down at an unconscious teenager that looked like he was plugged in to too many noisy machines.

"Stupid kid." Even after five years, he still couldn't stand up for himself.

"What the hell were you thinking Clint?"

It had been two days since Clint's admittance to hospital, and having just heard exactly what happened for the first time, Barney was pacing. Buck was sat in the visitor's chair, slightly drunk, and Clint was still bed-ridden; covered in bandages and bruises, he barely looked any better than when they'd first found him – really, the only difference was that now he was conscious.

With consciousness came questions. Barney had been impatient to hear Clint's story, but hadn't expected what he'd been told. Apparently, Clint had seen Jacques bid everyone goodnight before walking off in the opposite direction to his caravan. Curious, he'd followed, arriving in time to see his mentor disappear into Carson's trailer. Turns out Swordsman owed a debt and had fancied using the circus' money to pay it off, until Clint had caught him stealing. He'd threatened to call the police, at which point Jacques had laid into him, and it had been several hours before he was found by his brother and Trick Shot.

Naturally, Barney digested this less than gracefully – but after a few long minutes of cursing Jacques Duquesne's name, he'd suddenly rounded on his brother. "You were gonna call the cops? Really?"

Clint frowned. "Well yeah. He was stealing, Barney – that's against the law."

"You were going to call the police on a fellow carnie, Clint! Your own fucking mentor!"

"No need to shout," Buck growled.

"What was one of the first lessons you learnt at Carson's, Clint? Huh? No calling cops on friends!"

"But it was Carson's money –"

"So tell Carson, don't go dragging outsiders into this! You even said he asked you for help – why didn't you bloody help him?"

"Help him steal to fuel a life-ruining addiction? Why would I wanna do that?"

"Because he's your mentor!"

"And?"

Barney stopped pacing, staring first at Clint and then at Buck. The older archer sighed. "You're always loyal to your mentor, kid. Basic knowledge."

Clint bowed his head, staring at the sheets. "You're siding with him?" he asked in a small voice.

His brother scoffed. "I'm laying into Duquesne the next chance I get. He ain't my mentor."

"You're always complaining about Harrison!"

"Yeah, but I'd never hand the guy over." His little brother was confused, but Barney understood better than he thought. How easy was it to be unconditionally loyal to someone who'd treated you the way Jacques had treated Clint, the way their own father had treated them both? It was one of the things Barney didn't totally resent at the circus – knowing that everyone had your back in turn for you watching theirs. That was something he'd never had before. It wasn't as easy as he'd expected.

After a long silence, Clint glanced at Buck, timidly asking, "Will Carson let you be my mentor after this?"

Buck shrugged lopsidedly, his words drowsy when he answered. "I dunno, kid. I'll ask when I get back."

"Wait, we're not taking him back yet?" Barney asked.

Standing slowly, Chisholm shook his head. "No. We ain't going anywhere. Keep him out of trouble 'til it's all good."

"Are you going to tell Carson?" Clint wanted to know as they made to leave.

"Sure," he said dismissively. "Leave it to us."

"Barney?" He stopped in the doorway. "Aren't you gonna stay?"

"Got work to do, baby bro. Need to keep Harrison happy." Perhaps it was a bit of a low blow, but he wanted to make a point.

Carson was sympathetic to Clint's request, and agreed to switch up the acts to accommodate the necessary changes. Things between the brothers also changed: Barney continued to work while Clint healed and returned to training, but now they hardly spoke. They were both too busy Barney claimed (it wasn't that easy to explain why he'd been spending less time with Alizeh, though). Things came to a head when Harrison had an accident that, unfortunately, took his life. The way Barney saw it, he had a new lease of freedom – the way Carson saw it, he had a new main handyman. An argument ensued, one that culminated in Barney storming back to his caravan after having mouthed off quite eloquently at the old manager. He didn't want to be a carpenter anymore, Carson knew that! He'd let Clint move up into the big time, so why couldn't Barney? It was another case of people trying to split them both up. Time to come up with a new plan for life.

"The Army?"

"Yep." He was already packing, throwing all his clothes into a tatty bag. "I saw a recruitment place in the last town we were at. Say you're eighteen and we'll both get –"

"Wait, what? You want me to go too?"

Surprised as he was by Clint's question, Barney didn't stop clearing the caravan of his belongings. "Well yeah, dipshit. Who else would I be on about?"

Clint licked his lips. "I don't think I want to join the Army."

He laughed. "What? Why not?"

"Because I like it here."

"You like being beaten up every time you do something wrong? Being constantly on the move, living in this shitty excuse for a trailer?"

"I like archery," he said solemnly, "and I like the people here. They're family."

Barney threw his bag onto his bed. "So what does that make us then, huh?" he demanded. "We're brothers, Clint – blood. None of these tossers know you the way I do."

"But Barney –"

"Who stuck by you when Duquesne was giving you grief? Who got you to this damned circus anyway? Who defended you when other kids said shit about you and picked on you 'cause you were small?" He swallowed. "Who stopped Dad from beating you black and blue when Mom couldn't?"

Clint actually cringed. "I know, Barney… but I'm not a kid anymore. I can take –"

"Don't even think about finishing that sentence, 'cause it's a fucking lie."

His brother glared at him. "I was going to say I can take responsibility for my own decisions."

"Fine." Zipping up the bag, Barney tossed it over his shoulder and headed out. "The next bus leaves in thirty minutes. I'm getting on it, with or without you." He didn't wait for a reply, just stepped out into the big wide world, and as he left the big tops, colourful stalls and worn-out caravans behind, there was a great pleasure in giving it all the finger; and who cared if no-one saw him go? The quicker and quieter his exit the better, just like the first time he ran away.

Clint would come, he was sure of it. Standing at the bus stop as dusk coaxed the world into darkness, Barney tapped his feet impatiently, swapping his bag from shoulder to pavement then opposite shoulder, absently thinking he should've brought something to carve out. He had his carving knife, and knew that Clint would take his bow with him regardless of how odd it looked. His brother would do well in the army – he'd ace sniper training hands down. He was smart, too, so he'd easily learn how to use a gun over a bow. Or maybe he'd go in for officer? Barney knew that line was out of the question for himself, being probably the polar opposite of what they'd want in an officer. The idea of answering to his baby brother's orders made him balk, too, but he knew Clint: the kid would choose sniper school, just as he would arrive in time for the bus. After all, it was Clint who'd said that the two of them stuck together. "Always have, always will."

The bus swung into view, headlamps casting a piercing light over the empty pavement, making Barney squint as he looked too close. He turned, wondering where Clint was, and heard the bus stop in front of him. The doors opened, ready and waiting. "You getting on?"

"Yeah…" In a minute.

"So get on."

He spared the driver a sullen glance. "I'm waiting for someone."

"How long they gonna be?"

"Any time now."

Barely a minute later, the driver called out again. "Listen, either you get on or you don't. I ain't waiting for this guy, and I got places to be."

"Alright! Keep your wig on." He glanced down the road – empty; put his foot on the step and looked again, lingering as long as he could – still no sign of Clint. Barney paid his fare in silence, throwing his bag onto an empty seat and dropping down next to it, jaw tight, fists clenched, and watched the desolate bus stand slide from view before settling back to take a nap and forget again (if he'd looked a little longer, he wouldn't have missed the boy with a bow and quiver strung across his back, bag in hand, waving frantically at the vanishing vehicle).

'Always'? Just another Clint Barton lie.