Chapter 8
The first thing Clint notices is the cold.
It’s not like the sharp wind outside the tent or the bite of rain against his skin — it’s deeper, settled into his bones. The kind of cold that lingers, that makes his body feel like it doesn’t belong to him anymore. He tries to shift, but the dull throb in his ribs flares into a sharp, burning pain, locking him in place.
His eyes drag open, squinting against the sterile white light. The hospital room is too bright, too clean. It doesn’t smell like damp canvas or sawdust. It smells like antiseptic, like something that doesn’t belong to him.
Clint turns his head slightly, just enough to see the figures near the window. Saul. Chisholm. They’re waiting for him to wake up.
Saul’s the first to notice, and he moves closer. You with us? He signs, his thick fingers deliberate, slower than usual.
Clint doesn’t answer right away. His throat feels raw, his mouth dry. His head is swimming, but not enough to forget.
He breathes through the pain, pushing himself up slightly before hissing and stopping halfway.
“Where’s Barney?”
He’s not sure what answer he’s expecting, but the flicker of hesitation on both their faces makes something settle hard in his gut.
Chisholm leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Gone.”
Clint stares at him, his brain still sluggish from whatever drugs are keeping the worst of the pain at bay. The word doesn’t make sense at first. Gone. Gone where?
Saul signs again, slower. We don’t know where.
Clint blinks. He forces himself to sit up properly this time, ignoring the pull in his side, the way the stitches strain. The monitors beep in protest, but he doesn’t care.
“What do you mean you don’t know?” His voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper, but the frustration cuts through. “He just — left?”
Chisholm exhales sharply through his nose, shaking his head. “Left. Ran. Disappeared. Take your pick.”
Clint stares down at his hands. They don’t feel like they belong to him either.
Saul moves closer, his heavy steps deliberate, careful. He’s not here anymore, Clint. And Duquesne’s gone, too.
Duquesne.
His stomach twists. He swallows down the taste of bile.
Of course, he’s gone. Of course, he ran too.
Clint presses his hand against his ribs, fingers curling into the hospital gown as if he can dig past the layers of gauze and stitches, as if he can find something real to hold onto.
Barney’s gone.
The one thing — the one person — he had left. And now, there’s nothing.
He should’ve seen this coming.
Hell, maybe he did. Maybe he just didn’t want to believe it.
Clint inhales, slow and careful, like he's bracing himself for the weight of the truth settling into his chest. Then, finally, he says, “I’m leaving.”
Neither Saul nor Chisholm react right away.
Chisholm watches him for a long moment, then nods, like he expected this. “Yeah. Figured.”
Saul’s hands move. Where?
Clint shakes his head. He doesn’t know. He just knows he can’t stay. Not here. Not in a place that suddenly feels hollow, stripped of everything that once made it his.
Not when every corner of the circus reminds him of something that doesn’t belong to him anymore.
Chisholm sighs, rubbing a hand over his face before standing up. “Then I’m going too.”
That makes Clint pause.
He looks up, frowning. “What?”
“What, you think I’d stay in a place run by a bunch of crooks?” Chisholm shrugs, like it’s nothing. “Not my style, kid.”
Clint doesn’t say anything at first.
He isn’t sure what he expected. Maybe he thought he’d leave alone. Maybe that would’ve been easier.
But Chisholm just smirks, crossing his arms. “Besides, somebody’s gotta keep your dumb ass from getting stabbed again.”
Clint exhales through his nose, shaking his head, but it’s not quite a laugh.
Saul watches them both, his expression unreadable before he signs one last thing. Be careful.
Clint nods, barely a twitch of his head, but it’s enough.
He doesn’t know where he’s going. He doesn’t know what comes next. But he does know one thing:
He’s not staying.
And maybe, for now, that’s enough.
He’s never left Iowa until now; Iowa’s all he’s known for the 14 years of his life, and yet, sitting next to Chisholm in the passenger’s seat, Clint can’t help but look back as the circus becomes smaller and smaller, until it becomes a dot in the distance.
“You nervous?”
Clint breathes a laugh as Chisholm asks the very same question he asked on the night of Clint’s first show as Hawkeye. “Nah,” He responds in the same manner.
He expects Chisholm to hit him with the same line — You’re shakin’ like a leaf — but instead, Chisholm’s expression grows somber, a heavy shadow drawing on his face.
“What you decide to do from now on, I’ll support you as best as I can. But remember what I said about anger. Don’t go pourin’ it all out on your arrows or knives, or you’ll get yourself tangled up in a bigger mess than you were in before.”
Clint stares ahead at the empty road stretching out before them. He’s not sure what he expected when he climbed into Chisholm’s truck, but the weight pressing down on his chest hasn’t let up. If anything, it’s getting heavier the farther they drive.
“I know,” He says eventually, voice quieter than he means it to be. He knows he shouldn’t let his anger steer him, shouldn’t let it fester into something that controls his every move. He’s seen what happens when people do that.
But knowing something and actually living by it are two different things.
Chisholm exhales through his nose, keeping one hand steady on the wheel. “You say that, but I see it in you, kid. That fire in your gut, that thing that’s been keepin’ you goin’ ever since you got tossed into the damn deep end. You gotta be careful, or it’ll burn you out before you even realize it.”
Clint doesn’t say anything to that.
He just watches the road, the blur of farmland and open sky stretching endlessly around them. He used to think Iowa was all there was. That if he ever ran away, he’d find himself looping right back to the same old patch of earth, stuck in place no matter how fast he ran.
But now? Now the circus is behind him, and there’s nothing tying him down. Nothing except the sting in his ribs and the echo of Barney’s voice in his head.
It was supposed to be just us.
He squeezes his hands into fists, then forces them to relax.
“Where are we goin’?” He asks, his voice rough, like he’s been screaming for hours.
Chisholm shrugs. “Wherever we want.”
That answer should feel freeing. It doesn’t.
Because there’s nowhere Clint wants to go. Not really.
Not without Barney.
But that’s not his call anymore.
Barney made his choice. And now, Clint has to make his.
Chisholm’s place — or Buck’s place, as he tells Clint to start calling him — is just on the outskirts of some small town in Illinois, the kind of place where everyone knows everyone, and strangers stand out like sore thumbs. The drive doesn’t take too much time out of the day, but when they finally pull up to the house, Clint doesn’t know what he was expecting.
It’s nothing special — just a one-story place with a wraparound porch, a backyard big enough for target practice, and a garage stuffed full of junk that looks like it hasn’t been touched in years. But it’s solid, and it’s theirs.
Or, well, Buck’s.
Clint’s just along for the ride.
Buck kills the engine and glances over at Clint. “Ain’t much, but it’s home.”
Clint shrugs, grabbing his duffel from the floorboard. “Better than a tent.”
Buck snorts. “Damn right it is.”
They step inside, and Clint is immediately hit with the scent of old wood, gun oil, and something faintly metallic. The place is lived-in, but not cluttered — just a few things scattered around that make it feel less like a house and more like a home. A couple of framed photos on a bookshelf, stacks of old newspapers on the coffee table, a dartboard with a few stray darts still stuck in it.
Buck jerks a thumb toward the hallway. “There’s a spare room on the left. You can have that.”
Clint hesitates. “You sure?”
Buck rolls his eyes. “Hell, kid, I didn’t drive you all the way out here just to make you sleep in the damn truck.”
Clint doesn’t argue. He just nods and heads for the room, tossing his bag onto the bed. It’s small, but it’s got a window, a dresser, and enough space to breathe. He’s had worse.
After a few minutes of settling in, he steps back out to find Buck hauling in a cardboard box from the truck bed. Clint moves to help, grabbing one of the smaller ones. “What’s in these?”
“Ammo, mostly,” Buck grunts as he sets the box down by the couch. “Some old equipment. Figured I’d clear some space out in the garage.”
Clint perks up at that. “You got a range out back?”
Buck raises an eyebrow. “Somethin’ like that. You wanna test it out?”
Clint nods without hesitation, and Buck laughs. “Course you do.”
They don’t head out right away, though — Buck’s more concerned about getting food in them first. By the time they sit in the kitchen, Clint with a soda and Buck with a beer, the air between them is easy, if a little quiet.
Then, out of nowhere, Clint asks, “You ever gonna teach me how to drive?”
Buck nearly chokes on his drink. He wipes his mouth, shaking his head with a smirk. “You tryin’ to get me killed already?”
Clint grins. “Might be useful.”
Buck huffs, but he doesn’t shut it down completely. “We’ll see,” he mutters.
Clint takes that as a yes.
They sit in silence for a while, Buck leaning against the counter, Clint perched on one of the chairs. It’s not awkward, just… quiet. Like they’re both feeling out what this new setup is supposed to be.
Then, out of nowhere, Buck says, “You oughta start calling me Buck.”
Clint blinks. “Huh?”
“Chisholm’s too stiff.” Buck takes a sip of his beer, watching Clint over the rim. “Been callin’ me that ever since we met, but if you’re livin’ under my roof, might as well get comfortable with my first name.”
Clint turns the name over in his head. Buck. It feels weird, unfamiliar — but then again, everything in his life feels unfamiliar right now.
“…Alright,” He says finally, taking a sip of his soda. “Buck.”
Buck nods, satisfied, like that settles it.
And maybe it does. Clint’s not sure, but then again, he’s not sure about anything right now.
But for the first time in a long time, Clint’s got a place to stay. A roof over his head that isn’t held up by tent poles. Someone who actually gives a damn whether he makes it through the night.