Chapter 2
One of the first things Clint learns is that the circus wakes early.
The moment the sun creeps over the horizon, the camp stirs — tents rustling, carts creaking, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and sawdust. Clint barely has time to rub the sleep from his eyes before Barney nudges him, murmuring, “Up, Franny. We gotta get moving.”
Moving where, Clint doesn’t know. But he follows his brother out of the sleeping tent, blinking against the harsh morning light.
The circus in the daytime is different.
Gone is the dazzling spectacle of fire-breathers and tightrope walkers, the roaring crowds and flashing lights. Instead, there’s work — real, backbreaking work. People haul equipment, sweep debris, patch up the big top’s fraying edges. It’s not magic. It’s maintenance.
And if Clint and Barney want to stay, they have to prove they’re worth keeping around.
Their first job is simple: do whatever they’re told.
At first, it’s the grunt work no one else wants — fetching tools, holding ladders, scrubbing mud from wagon wheels. Barney takes to it quickly, always flashing an easy grin, always finding the right words to stay on people’s good sides. Clint follows his lead, quieter but just as eager.
They learn who’s who fast.
There’s Jacques Duquesne, who’s in charge of the fencing act, all sharp edges and sharper words. There’s Saul, the strongman, who lifts entire barrels over his head like they weigh nothing. There’s Greta, who runs the mess tent, ladling out portions just big enough to keep you coming back for more. And then there’s a dozen others, each with their own place, their own purpose.
Clint watches them all.
People talk when they don’t think you’re listening. They complain about bad turnouts, about cops getting too nosy, about how this circus isn’t like the old days. Clint doesn’t understand everything yet, but he stores it away.
Because Barney was right — they need to listen.
By the second week, they’re not just running errands.
“Think fast, kid.”
The warning comes too late — Clint barely has a chance to duck before a club sails past his ear, thudding into the dirt.
The juggler, Nico, sighs. “You’re supposed to catch it, Barton.”
“I wasn’t ready,” Clint mutters, retrieving the club.
“Then be ready.”
That’s the way it is here. You learn — no, you need to be quick, or you’ll get left behind.
Barney starts helping the riggers, learning how to tie knots that won’t come undone, how to scale a pole without falling to his death. Clint, smaller and faster, gets pulled into anything that requires quick hands — running ropes, resetting props, even tossing juggling pins back and forth with Nico when there’s no one else around. Every once in a while, he’ll take his own feats up into the heights, copying Barney’s pole scaling or trying to climb up the rafters alone.
And then there’s Duquesne.
The man watches Clint, always from a distance, like he’s measuring something unseen. He doesn’t say much to him at first, but when he does, it’s never idle.
“Grip’s too weak,” He says one day, tossing Clint a wooden practice sword. “Try again.”
Clint tries. And when he fails, he tries again. Every time, Duquesne just quietly points out a mistake, and Clint adjusts to reflect the feedback immediately. The flash of intrigue never goes unnoticed by Clint, though he doesn’t try to interpret what that intrigue exactly means.
Barney notices, of course. “You don’t have to do everything they tell you,” He frowns one night as they eat stolen apples behind a supply tent.
Clint shrugs. “We gotta stay useful, right?”
Barney doesn’t argue.
They’ve settled into the rhythm of the circus by now.
They know which wagons hold the extra food, which tents are safe to crash in when theirs is too crowded. They know which workers will look the other way if they swipe an extra loaf of bread and which ones to avoid when they’re in a bad mood.
They’ve figured out how to blend in.
But staying invisible only gets you so far.
“Kid’s got good eyes,” Duquesne says one evening to no one in particular, watching Clint track a thrown knife across the practice ring. “You ever use a bow?”
Clint shakes his head.
“Shame,” Duquesne grins, a glint of something unreadable in his eyes. “We’ll fix that.”
And just like that, Clint Barton’s life takes another turn.
Clint isn’t sure what to expect when Duquesne tells him to meet someone near the edge of camp after dark.
He half-expects a new chore, maybe another round of drills with the practice swords Duquesne has been pushing on him. But when he arrives, the man waiting for him isn’t holding a blade.
He’s holding a bow.
“Kid, huh?” The man — tall, broad-shouldered, with a thick mustache and a weathered face — gives Clint a once-over, unimpressed. “This the one, Jacques?”
“This is the one,” Duquesne confirms, arms crossed as he leans against a wagon.
Clint shifts under the scrutiny. The man — Chisholm, someone had called him earlier — doesn’t look convinced, nor impressed.
“Listen, kid,” Chisholm sighs, rubbing his temple like he already regrets being here. “I don’t know what Duquesne’s been feeding you, but archery ain’t some sideshow trick. Takes years to get it right, and you ain’t got the build for it.”
Clint bristles. “I’m stronger than I look.”
Chisholm snorts. “Yeah, yeah. They all say that.” He tosses the bow to Clint anyway. “Go on, then. Knock yourself out.”
The bow is heavier than he expected. Not unbearable, but his arms tremble slightly as he lifts it. The string’s taut, the wood polished smooth from years of use. It feels like something important — something that actually belongs to someone. The string bites into his soft, juvenile fingers and forearm, his own knuckles trembling ever so lightly against his cheek.
It hurts, but Clint finds it to be refreshing; it’s a new type of pain, and one that he’s not particularly bothered by.
Chisholm steps behind him before he can try anything. “Alright, stop. You’re holding it like a goddamn shovel. Here—” He grabs Clint’s arms, adjusting his grip, muttering curses under his breath. “Jesus. You ever hold anything but a mop before?”
Clint scowls but doesn’t argue.
Chisholm’s hands are rough as he guides Clint through the basics — how to hold the bowstring properly, how to angle his shoulders, and most importantly, how to breathe.
“Don’t just yank it back. Control it. Steady. You gotta feel the tension before you let go.”
Clint exhales slowly, releasing the string. The arrow wobbles in the air before smacking into the dirt a few feet ahead.
Chisholm barks out a laugh. “That was pathetic.”
Clint glares at him, setting his jaw. “Give me another,” He grounds out. He’s no perfectionist by nature, but for some reason, he wants to get this one perfectly. No, scratch that, he needs to get this perfectly done.
Chisholm raises a brow, glances at Duquesne, then back at Clint. “Huh.”
Something shifts in his expression, though he doesn’t say what. Instead, he tosses Clint another arrow.
“Alright, kid. Let’s see if you can keep up.” Chisholm has a grin on his face now, and it’s not a grin that makes Clint feel confident or happy along with him; it’s a grin that strikes a sense of nervousness in him, like a predator glad to have found a potential prey. “The name’s Buck Chisholm, but you can call me Chisholm for now.”