Chapter 3
Clint’s fingers are raw by the end of the first week.
The bowstring bites into his skin every time he draws it back, leaving behind red welts that smart even when he’s not shooting. His arms ache, his shoulders burn, and the blisters forming on his fingertips pop and reform so often he stops noticing them.
“Quit flinching,” Chisholm grumbles one evening, watching Clint fumble through another round of practice. The arrow barely makes it ten feet before tumbling into the dirt, joining the graveyard of failed attempts littering the ground.
“I’m not flinching,” Clint mutters, flexing his stinging fingers.
“Kid, I can see you tensing up before you even let go.” Chisholm sighs, stepping forward and adjusting Clint’s stance with a shove of his hand. “This isn’t about strength. It’s about control. You gotta stop forcing it.”
Clint exhales sharply. He’s tired, his body is sore, and Chisholm’s tough-love approach is grating on his last nerve. But quitting isn’t an option.
He’s seen the way Duquesne watches him from a distance, arms crossed, unreadable. He knows that if he screws this up, if he proves he’s not worth the time, they’ll stop training him altogether.
And then what?
So he sucks it up. Keeps pushing. Keeps trying.
It’s not just archery.
Duquesne is just as relentless as Chisholm — maybe even more so. He still has Clint running drills with the practice swords, making him repeat movements over and over until they’re muscle memory.
“Again.”
Clint grits his teeth as he parries, barely dodging the wooden blade Duquesne swings toward his ribs. The force behind it sends vibrations up his arm, but he doesn’t drop his weapon this time. Progress.
“Keep your stance balanced. You fall over, you die.”
Clint adjusts, grounding himself, and Duquesne nods approvingly before going in for another strike.
By the time training ends, Clint is exhausted. Between archery in the mornings and swordplay at night, his body is constantly aching, muscles burning in places he didn’t even know existed. But he’s improving.
He can feel it.
And for the first time in weeks, he feels alive.
At first, it’s subtle.
The way Barney’s responses become shorter when Clint mentions training. The way he lingers outside the practice area but never steps in.
The way he doesn’t ask how Clint’s archery or sword work is going, even though Clint knows he’s been watching.
One night, they sit outside one of the supply tents, splitting a stolen bread roll. Barney tears his half apart in silence, eyes distant.
Clint hesitates before speaking. “You ever think about learning?”
“Learning what?” Barney blinks, glancing at him.
Clint nods toward the bow resting beside him. “Archery. Or, y’know, sword fighting.”
“Learn what knights did in the medieval times?” Barney scoffs, shaking his head. “Nah.”
Clint frowns. “Why not?”
“Just don’t see the point.”
There’s something clipped in his voice, something Clint can’t quite put his finger on. He lets it drop, but the feeling lingers, sitting between them like an unspoken weight.
And for the first time, Clint wonders if they’re starting to walk different paths.
A little over a month in, his body has finally adjusted to the strain, or at least, more than when he first started training. The bowstring no longer chews up his fingers, his muscles have stopped screaming every time he pulls back an arrow. He’s hitting the target more often than not, even though Chisholm always comments that in real life — in real life, he says; Clint doesn’t even know what real life is in the first place — he won’t be able to hit a single target with the way Clint’s shooting right now.
His blade work has improved, too. Duquesne still knocks him on his ass at least twice a session, but Clint lasts longer in their spars before losing his footing.
One night, after training, Chisholm watches him gather up his arrows, chewing the inside of his cheek like he’s debating something.
Finally, he speaks.
“You ever wonder why Duquesne’s so interested in you?”
Clint pauses, frowning. “What do you mean?”
Chisholm shrugs, but his expression is sharp. “Just saying. Not every kid gets a chance like this.”
That’s Chisholm for “you’re different, Barton.”
Clint doesn’t know what to say to that.
Because the truth is, he doesn’t know why Duquesne has taken an interest in him.
But as he watches the man talking with some of the other performers across camp, something about the way Duquesne moves — measured, precise — makes Clint wonder if he’s just another act being shaped for the show.
Or something else entirely.
It’s not long after that short-lived conversation that Clint starts picking up on the little things about Buck Chisholm.
The man isn’t as gruff as he first seemed — at least, not all the time. He’s got a sharp wit and a habit of muttering half-insults under his breath when Clint botches a shot, but there’s something almost… patient about the way he corrects him.
“Too stiff,” Chisholm mutters one afternoon, stepping behind Clint and nudging his elbow down. “You keep holdin’ yourself like you’re waitin’ to get hit. Relax.”
Clint exhales, forcing himself to loosen up before releasing the arrow. It hits the target — not dead center, but closer than before.
Chisholm grunts. “Better.”
Clint doesn’t get a lot of outright praise from him, but Chisholm's not the type to waste his breath on empty words. “Better” from him means a hell of a lot more than any exaggerated congratulations.
Duquesne watches from the side, arms crossed, a smirk playing at his lips. Clint has the feeling that whatever unspoken resistance Chisholm had about training him is starting to crack. The lessons are getting longer, and Chisholm's corrections aren’t just halfhearted critiques anymore — he’s actually putting in the effort to make sure Clint improves.
One evening, when most of the performers are settling in for the night, Chisholm tosses Clint a small, wrapped bundle. Clint barely catches it before unraveling the cloth to reveal a set of leather finger guards.
He blinks.
“For your fingers,” Chisholm makes a motion, dramatically wiggling his fingers. “Figured you were gettin’ tired of shootin’ with raw skin.”
Clint flexes his fingers against the material, grinning. “Thanks.”
Chisholm just huffs, looking away. “Don’t make me regret it, kid.”
Clint doesn’t miss the way Duquesne watches the exchange with amusement, but he doesn’t say anything, just claps Clint on the shoulder before heading off.
If archery was a thrill, hand-to-hand combat is something else entirely.
Clint had started picking up some acrobatic skills just by being around the performers, rolling out of falls, flipping over obstacles, and figuring out how to land on his feet no matter how bad the stumble. It’s how Duquesne first noticed.
“You’ve got quick reflexes, mon garçon,” Duquesne had mused one day after watching Clint instinctively twist midair to avoid slamming into a wooden beam. “That could be put to better use.”
That was all it took.
Now, alongside his archery and blade work, Clint’s learning how to fight.
He loves it. Loves the speed, the movement, the way everything clicks into place when he ducks a punch just in time or throws his weight right to send someone twice his size tumbling.
Duquesne teaches him with a different kind of patience than Buck — more fluid, more playful, but no less disciplined. Every lesson ends with Clint on his ass more times than he can count, but it only makes him want to get better.
He can feel himself improving, and for once, he doesn’t just feel like some kid tagging along. He belongs here. He’s actually good at something.
Which is exactly what starts rubbing Barney the wrong way.
Clint should’ve known Barney wouldn’t be happy about it.
His brother sees everything — how Clint spends more time with Chisholm and Duquesne than he does with him, how he doesn’t hesitate to grab his bow first thing in the morning. How he actually listens to them, takes their advice seriously, and gets better because of it.
Clint sees the way Barney’s mouth tightens whenever he catches him practicing, but he never says anything. Not at first.
Instead, Barney keeps his head down and throws himself into work — hauling equipment, sweeping, running errands like the other kids. Like Clint used to, before Duquesne and Chisholm started teaching him something else.
Then, one night, after Clint finishes training, wiping sweat from his brow, Barney finally snaps.
“You ever gonna do any actual work around here?”
Clint pauses, caught off guard. “What?”
Barney throws up his hands. “You think this circus keeps itself running just ‘cause? While you’re off playin’ with bows and swords, the rest of us are busting our asses keeping this place in order.”
Clint frowns, feeling something twist in his gut. “I do work.”
“Oh yeah?” Barney scoffs. “Doing what? Showing off?”
Clint clenches his fists, forcing himself to stay calm. “It’s not like that.”
“Right. Sure.” Barney shakes his head, exhaling sharply. “Keep tellin’ yourself that, Franny.”
He walks off before Clint can say anything else, leaving him standing there, jaw tight, a hollow feeling settling in his chest.
For the first time, Clint wonders if Barney even sees him as his little brother anymore — or just another stray the circus has taken in.