The circus was long gone.
The strongman and bearded lady and even Clint's fellow acrobats had seen him laying there, choking on his own blood, and packed up anyway. Barney had kicked him in the head in front of every one in his carnival right before they left. Well, it's not his carnival anymore, he supposes.
He didn't know who and how or when, but eventually there were hands on him, putting pressure on the wound over his chest, through his lung, making blood gush up his throat and over his chest and arms and the ground and-
There were flashing lights and loud noises. People asked him questions but all he could get out was his name and "my brother did it" even though it came out stuttered and inaudible at times.
They told him not to strain himself. They sounded worried, like they didn't think he was going to live. He was sure he wasn't going to see the next day. He couldn't really see the people, anyway, and his ears were bad enough after years of being thrown around that he wasn't much to save.
And how weird it must have been for them, honestly, because Clint was 16 and had an arrow going almost through his chest to his back and he wasn't even trying to do anything they said that would ease his pain.
He wasn't sure when - he was woozy and time didn't make sense anymore - but they loaded him onto an ambulance and brought him to the hospital. He heard distant gasps, cries and shouts. Maybe he had a crowd; it wasn't a comforting thought. He didn't want anyone to worry about him, especially strangers.
The ride jostled him painfully. He bit his lip to not cry out. He'd learned a long time ago to keep quiet, even when in pain. One of the paramedics told him gently, "it's okay to be loud. You got hurt, no one would blame you if you screamed," and smiled down at him clearly trying to hide her distress at his situation.
And again, what a sight he must've been. In pain but quiet; hurt but doing nothing to help; embarrassed by the possible crowd instead of worrying about his well-being.
Her comment didn't help at all - it just reminded him of the childhood he'd had and the childhood he should have had. He just shook his head at her and squeezed his eyes shut throughout the whole ride.
He was rushed into the hospital; he'd find out later that they put his name as Clint Doe. Another thing; they didn't know whether to put him into surgery. He was a minor and he didn't have a guardian anywhere they could see. Eventually, it happened because he was bleeding out and he couldn't breathe.
Clint was put under, luckily, because the doctors had to do some serious shit to his lung. He came out of it in a better condition than before; he'd been given blood transfusions, the whole nine yards. But, he had to stay and recover there for however many months it took to heal. They weren't sure how long it would be, though, because it's an actual miracle he lived - and apparently he's the only crazy fucker to ever come in with an arrow through their lung and live, probably.
He's mostly out for a week and a half. He's so out of it that he can't tell up from down, blue from green, man from woman.
When he comes around and stays that way, police come to question him. It makes sense. They probably found him in what looked like a failed murder scene.
"What's your real name, kid?" The first one asks. Her voice is accented by a New York accent and her hair is in a braid. Her eyes glared down at him.
"Clint," he croaked out. His voice didn't work very well, so he cleared his throat and tried again, "Clint Barton." He pauses. "Do you know where the carnival went?" He asks it because he is going to find Barney and the fucking lion tamer and rip their throats out with very dull spoons while laughing manically and grinning like the canary who ate the cat. Or however that saying goes.
The second one shakes his head. Clint has to read his lips to get what he was saying. "No idea. Anyway, you're not going anywhere near that carnival until you're healed, and probably not even then. Were you in the show? What were you doing there?"
Clint was mentally rolling around on the floor in despair. Of course they'd say that. Of fucking course. "I'm unofficially Hawkeye, The No-Shit Shot. I was there 'cuz I've been travelling with them since I was 10. And before you assume I don't know nothing, I know exactly who did this to me."
"You do?" The guy asked, sharing a look with the lady. "Who was it? Do you know their names?"
"Barney Barton and Rick Mooney. My brother and the lion tamer."
"Do you even know what happened? Do you know how bad the damage was, Clint?" The lady asks. He likes how she said it slowly, it was easier to understand that way. Maybe they know he can't hear very well. It's not comforting, like it would be for others.
But, Clint tensed. No. No, he didn't know. He just knew he almost bled out because of the arrow and that he couldn't see straight, probably a concussion, thanks to Barney. "Uh," he stutters and the lady cop gives him a look before writing something down on a pad he wasn't aware she had.
"I'll take that as a no," the guy says slowly. "A student on a school field trip saw you laying on the ground outside of the circus grounds, an arrow so far into your chest that the head couldn't be seen. You had bruises all over your body - you still do, actually - and you were just laying there, alone. One of the teachers who knew first aid tried to help while the others called 911. What those teachers said is that all you would do was repeat Clint and My brother did it over and over. Why would your brother do this, Clint?"
Clint grimaced. With a sigh that hurt more than it should have, he told them, "he would do it 'cuz I was gonna rat him out to the ringmaster for stealing money. Apparently the cash they gave me that I shared with him wasn't enough."
The lady wrote down everything he said. Well, he thinks that's what she was writing. Maybe she was making a list of stuff she needed from the store instead of helping him. Wait. He thought that over for a hot second. God, he is so fucking out of it. "Clint, are you saying you got the money in your family and you shared with them? You were the breadwinner? Only for your brother to try to kill you before you could tell on him?"
"Yes." Clint nodded. "He was probably flipping his shit, though. His younger brother was the only source of income. He was getting nothing being the stables cleaner."
"How many people are in your family, Clint? Do you have any parents? Any other siblings? A guardian?"
Clint swallowed roughly. There was a lump in his throat. "I got no one now."
The cops shared a look again and left after an awkward goodbye. They didn't need to ask any more questions.
Clint was shaken awake. The hand on his arm was covered by a medical glove and under it was a dark-colored hand with lots of wrinkles. He remembered when he used to have a knife under his pillow - if you could call it that - to fend off things like this. There were pedos in the carnival, just like there were rapists. His eyes went up to the face above him, looking down at him. It was a black man with a smile on his face. The smile said Hi! Nice to meet you, not shut up and it'll hurt less.
Clint sat up in the bed with some difficulty. He knew by now to be cautious of the guy, even if he was a doctor. And it's not because he's black either. He's a stranger.
"Hi, Clint. I'm Doctor Alexander, and I've been the one overseeing your recovery. The police report says that you don't have a guardian. Is that true?" He kept his eyes on Clint's, which wasn't something that happened a lot. Most people thought of him as their inferior, and didn't deserve their eye contact. They thought it meant respect - it doesn't, not really, just proves you think of the person as a human being.
"Why do I have to answer so many questions?" He moaned childishly. He was sick of being there. He couldn't be in the sky anymore and he couldn't have his bow and he was sick of being there. At the look Doctor Alexander was giving him, he complied with a sigh, "yeah, it's true. Parents dead, brother thinks he killed me and doesn't have to worry about me and nobody else to pay my bills."
The doctor had a weird look on his face, almost like he was sad or something. "No one?"
"Well, there's Bullseye but I'd rather be in a room with Hitler, Jack the Ripper and Barney with no weapons than anywhere with him." What? He'd never liked Bullseye, especially since the guy started to hit him, so why not rat his ass out?
The man doesn't comment on that, just looks down at the clipboard in his hands. "Clint, do you know-"
"That the damn arrow went through my fucking chest? Yes, I do, thanks for telling me again. Why are you really in here? Do not sugar coat it," he demands.
The doctor tilts his head. Clint almost expects him to be angry at the little outburst, but he just looks more sad. "The damage to your lung is why I'm here. You'll be lucky to ever be in a sport again. It was a hooked arrow and it caught on some important things inside of you. We fixed you up as best we could, but if you were really an acrobat and an archer in the circus, you probably won't get to be one again."
"It was a carnival, not a circus." He spat before pausing. "How am I gonna get to where I can be an archer again?"
"Lots of training, and maybe not even then." Doctor Alexander sounded resigned.
Clint tries to put his head around that, the very idea that he won't be able to ever shoot an arrow again even if he puts in effort. He knows that's not happening, that he is going to do it, he's going to shoot arrows from a bow better than ever. He's gonna show everyone just how much this meant to him.
He ends up staying in that hospital for months upon months. It feels like years, and the nurses all act strange around him. At first, he thought it was because of how he couldn't pay for his hospital bills, but then he figured it was because the only people he was ever nice to were the cancer survivors and the kids of the people who were having another kid.
He'd sit with them, when they let him get out of bed, and he'd tell them stories of when he was on the tightrope, or exaggerated tales of his older brother, both of which always captivated them. The younger survivors always asked him what it was like, being that high up and having all those people looking at him.
Their parents loved him, but were mindful about his injuries, always making sure their kid knew that he couldn't be hugged too tight or in a certain place. He told them that his ribs were hurt, that his lungs were hurt, and they backed off.
Clint's days weren't boring, though, not with them around, laughing and being happy in the face of death.
They drew him pictures, which he folded up and put under his pillow; they told him stories of their pets and he always made sure to smell their feet, and make a big deal out of it.
He still wanted to be an archer, though, still was fixated on getting back to peak conditions.
It took years to get back to where he'd been, and years to get so much better that it got him a regularly paying job, but he did it. And if Doctor Alexander smiled and told him that he'd always wanted Clint to be able to shoot again, well, no one had to know.