Chapter 4
Clint is barely halfway through sharpening his knife when Barney’s voice cuts through the quiet.
“Nice way to spend your birthday.”
He doesn’t look up. Just keeps running the whetstone along the blade, slow and steady. “It’s just another day.” The blade running along the whetstone is pretty therapeutic, it almost — almost — lets Barney’s voice melt into simple background noise.
Barney exhales sharply, like Clint just said something real stupid. “Yeah? Another day of you playin’ warrior while the rest of us actually do the work?”
Clint’s fingers twitch against the handle, but he doesn’t take the bait. He’s used to Barney’s jabs, the way his brother’s words always come wrapped in something harsher than they need to be.
“I work,” Clint mutters.
Barney snorts. “Doing what, exactly? Playing with knives? Shooting at hay bales? Maybe if you actually pulled your weight instead of running around with those guys, we wouldn’t still be one bad week away from getting thrown out.”
Clint finally looks up, meeting Barney’s glare head-on. “I’m learning things. Real things. Things that’ll actually help us.”
Barney’s laugh is sharp, bitter. “Help us? You think some knife tricks and fancy shots are gonna put food on the table? You think Duquesne and Chisholm give a damn about you?”
Clint sets the knife down, jaw tightening. “Maybe they do.”
Barney goes still.
It’s only a second — maybe less — but Clint sees it. The flicker of something raw in his brother’s face.
Then, before Clint can react, Barney is shoving him. Hard.
Clint stumbles back, heart pounding. “What the hell?”
Barney is stepping forward now, shoulders squared, fists clenched. “You really think they care about you? You really think you’re special?” His voice is rising, anger thick and choking. “They’re just using you, Franny. Same way everyone uses people like us.”
Clint is shaking his head, breath coming fast. “That’s not true.”
“God, you’re such a damn idiot.” Barney scoffs, but there’s something almost desperate in it.
Clint steps forward now, frustration bubbling over. “And what? You’re so much smarter? You’re the one running around like a damn pack mule while I’m actually learning how to fight, how to survive—”
Barney’s fist slams into Clint’s jaw.
Pain explodes through Clint’s face, his head snapping to the side. He staggers back, eyes wide, ears ringing.
For a second, everything is dead silent.
Barney is standing there, chest heaving, fist still clenched. His face twists — anger, regret, something else Clint can’t place — but then he’s turning on his heel and stalking off without another word.
Clint is left standing in the dim light, breath shaky, jaw throbbing.
Happy birthday to him.
His jaw is aching, his head is still spinning, and all he wants is to focus on something else — anything else. So he grabs his bow and heads to the range, feet moving on instinct.
The air is crisp, the night settling in, and the world feels quieter here. Isolated. He likes that.
He nocks an arrow, draws the string back, and lets it fly.
Thunk.
The arrow sinks into the target, dead center, but Clint doesn’t feel any satisfaction. His hands are still shaking. His vision still blurred with the echo of Barney’s fist.
So he shoots again. And again. Each shot harder, faster.
Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.
His breath is ragged now, muscles tensed, frustration bleeding into every movement. His form is getting sloppy, but he doesn’t care.
Not until a voice cuts through the night.
“Gonna wear yourself out before you even get good, kid.”
Clint freezes, fingers still gripping the bowstring. He doesn’t have to turn around to know it’s Buck Chisholm.
The older man steps into view, arms crossed, watching Clint with something between curiosity and mild disapproval. “You always shoot like that, or just when you’re pissed off?”
Clint exhales sharply, lowering the bow. “I’m fine.”
“Yeah, sure. And I’m the goddamn Pope,” Chisholm snorts.
Clint scowls but doesn’t argue.
Chisholm takes a step closer, nodding toward the target. “Your aim’s solid, but your focus is garbage. You shoot like that in a real fight, you’re gonna get yourself killed.”
Clint glares at the target, jaw tightening. “I said I’m fine.”
“Yeah? Then why’s your stance all wrong?” Chisholm challenges. “Why’re you gripping that bow like you’re trying to break it?”
Clint doesn’t have an answer.
Chisholm sighs, shaking his head. “Listen, kid. It ain’t about just hitting the target. It’s about control. Precision. You take all that rage, all that hurt, and you put it in your arrows, your blades, your fists? Sooner or later, you’ll lose.”
Clint swallows, staring at the ground.
“A weapon’s just a tool. It’s the person holding it that makes it dangerous,” Chisholm’s voice softens — just a little. “You’re better than this, kid.”
That makes Clint look up to meet Chisholm’s eyes. As far as he can tell, there’s not a single drop of pretense in Chisholm’s words.
Clint exhales slowly, shoulders slumping. He knows Chisholm is right.
But right now, standing here with the ache in his jaw and the burn in his chest, he doesn’t know how to stop feeling like he needs to fight something.
Chisholm claps a hand on his shoulder. “Come on. Let’s fix that stance before you start embarrassin’ me.”
Clint hesitates for half a second, then nods.
Chisholm doesn’t say anything right away, just watches as Clint steadies himself, draws back the bowstring, and releases. The arrow flies clean, hitting just outside the center of the target. Not bad, but not great either.
“Better,” Chisholm hums, stepping forward. He taps Clint’s elbow. “You’re still a little tense here — loosen up. You keep that arm too stiff, and you’re fighting the shot before it even leaves your fingers.”
Clint nods, adjusting, but the frustration is still bubbling under his skin. His jaw still aches from Barney’s punch, and his hands feel too tight around the bow, like they want to clench into fists instead. He forces himself to shake it off, forces himself to focus.
He takes another shot. This time, it lands closer to the center.
Chisholm huffs. “Alright, now we’re gettin’ somewhere.”
Clint lowers the bow, exhaling. His shoulders are still stiff.
Chisholm notices. Of course he does. “You gonna tell me what’s got you wound up so damn tight?”
Clint doesn’t answer.
Chisholm clicks his tongue, stepping beside him. “Look, kid, I ain’t gonna pretend I know what’s goin’ on in that head of yours, but I’ll tell you this — anything you put in your hands can be a weapon. Bow, blade, even your fists. And if you’re carrying a whole lotta anger, you’re gonna let it decide where you aim.”
Clint swallows hard.
“You got every right to be pissed, Barton,” Chisholm leans in slightly, voice quieter now. For a second, his tone makes Clint wonder what Chisholm’s been through; what he’s done in his past to get himself to a place like the circus. “But you can’t shoot mad. Not if you wanna be great.”
Clint exhales slowly. He resets his stance, lifts the bow, and this time, when he shoots, he doesn’t think about Barney. He doesn’t think about the fight, the punch, or the way his brother’s been pulling away.
The arrow lands dead center.
Chisholm grins. “There he is.”
Clint doesn’t smile, but something in him eases just a little.
Then Chisholm frowns slightly, studying him. “You ain’t gonna run off after this, are ya?”
“Not in the mood to be around a bunch of people,” Clint shakes his head.
Chisholm hums. “Yeah, figured. But c’mon, we’re gettin’ outta here.”
Clint frowns. “Where?”
Chisholm jerks his head toward the main tents. “Duquesne’s got some decent cider left. And since you didn’t bother tellin’ anyone it’s your damn birthday, looks like it’s up to us to celebrate it right.”
Clint stiffens. “How’d you—?”
“Kid, you ain’t subtle,” Chisholm scoffs. “Besides, I’ve got eyes and ears everywhere.”
Clint hesitates, but he follows.
Duquesne raises an eyebrow when Chisholm drags Clint into the tent. “This better not be another half-baked excuse for you to drink my cider, Chisholm.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Chisholm says, then nudges Clint forward. “Turns out our boy here just hit thirteen today.”
Duquesne blinks. Then he sighs, rubbing his temples. “And he didn’t think to mention this?”
Clint shrugs, awkwardly shifting on his feet. “Didn’t seem important.”
Chisholm snorts. “Kid, gettin’ through another year is always important. You think we let just anyone drink this fine, aged, probably expired cider?”
Clint huffs, but there’s the ghost of a smirk on his face.
Duquesne shakes his head, already moving to grab the bottle. “Alright, alright. Sit down before Chisholm starts getting sentimental.”
They settle in. Chisholm hands Clint a small cup — barely enough cider to do anything, but enough to make him feel like he’s being let in on something. Duquesne pulls out an old deck of cards, and before Clint knows it, they’re deep into a game.
Chisholm cheats, Duquesne calls him out, and Clint sits back, watching the two of them bicker like an old married couple. For the first time all day, his chest doesn’t feel so tight.
The ache in his jaw is still there. The weight of everything — his parents abandoning them, Barney pulling away, the fight — none of it has disappeared. But for now, in this small, dimly lit tent, with Chisholm dealing him a terrible hand and Duquesne smirking at Chisholm’s failed attempt at misdirection, Clint doesn’t feel quite so alone.
And maybe, for tonight, that’s enough.