Chapter 9
Time doesn’t heal wounds as fast as people say it does.
Clint learns this the hard way.
The stab wound to his ribs heals slow, each movement reminding him that he isn’t at full strength yet. Some mornings, he wakes up feeling like his side is on fire, the pain a deep, throbbing thing that settles beneath his skin like it belongs there. He gets used to the way it pulls when he stretches, the way it flares if he moves too suddenly.
He hates it.
Hates feeling weak. Hates lying in bed while Buck works outside. Hates the restless energy that builds in his chest, the kind that used to make him climb the tallest riggings back at the circus, just to feel like he had some control over something.
And worst of all, he hates the waiting.
Because waiting means thinking. And thinking means remembering. Although, he’s never had an issue with remembering in the first place, anyway. But things are different this time. This time, he’d much rather forget.
Barney’s voice, sharp and angry. The sound of his bow snapping in half. The cold, unfamiliar look in Duquesne’s eyes.
The knife sliding between his ribs.
Some nights, he jolts awake, breath coming fast, hand pressed against his side as if he expects to find it bleeding again. But there’s only scar tissue now, healing but still there, a reminder of the brother who walked away from him.
He doesn’t talk about it. Not with Buck, not with anyone. He just focuses on getting better.
At first, that means just moving.
Buck starts slow with him, easing him back into activity when Clint gets too restless to sit still. Some days, that means light stretching to keep his muscles from getting stiff. Other days, it means helping Buck around the place — carrying things, stacking supplies, even chopping wood when Clint insists he can.
He can’t, not at first. His ribs protest every swing of the axe, and Buck watches with an unimpressed stare until Clint finally grumbles, “Fine,” and stomps off inside.
But soon enough, Clint is getting stronger. He stops flinching every time he twists the wrong way. He stops wincing when he throws a punch during practice.
And then Buck decides to put a rifle in his hands.
“Figured you’d take to shootin’ easy, seein’ as you’re already good with a bow,” Buck says one afternoon, setting a rifle down on the table between them.
Clint eyes the weapon. It’s heavier than what he’s used to, all steel and weight where a bow is wood and tension. He reaches out, testing the feel of it in his hands.
“It’s not exactly the same,” Clint mutters, shifting his grip.
Buck tilts his head. “No. But close enough.”
Clint frowns, fingers ghosting over the trigger. “Thought you didn’t want me putting my anger into weapons.”
“I don’t,” Buck says simply. “But I do want you to learn. If you’re gonna carry somethin’ like this, you need to know how to use it.”
Clint exhales slowly, lifting the rifle and lining up his shot. His grip is too stiff at first, his breathing too shallow. The first time he pulls the trigger, the recoil kicks back harder than he expects, knocking his stance off. His ribs scream in protest, but he grits his teeth and keeps his feet planted.
Buck chuckles. “Not bad for a first shot.”
Clint glares at him. “I missed.”
“You grazed it.”
“Still missed.”
Buck shakes his head, smirking. “Perfectionist little shit, aren’t ya?”
Clint just sets his jaw, readjusts his grip, and takes another shot. And another. And another.
Each time, his hands get steadier. His aim gets sharper. It’s not exactly like archery, but it’s close enough that his instincts start kicking in. By the end of the afternoon, he’s hitting his mark almost every time, breath syncing with the pull of the trigger the same way it does with his bowstring.
Buck nods approvingly. “Told ya you’d be good at it.”
Clint smirks. “You also told me I’d crash the truck the first time I drove it.”
And speaking of driving—
“That’s ‘cause you almost did, kid,” Buck grumbles as they sit in the old truck later that week, Clint gripping the steering wheel like it might bite him.
“Did not. ”
“Did too. Damn near ran us into a ditch first time out.”
Clint rolls his eyes and starts the engine, the rumble of it making his fingers twitch on the wheel. He knows how to maneuver a tightrope, how to balance on a moving horse, how to land a backflip from twenty feet up — but driving? Whole different beast.
“Ease onto the gas,” Buck instructs, watching him. “Ease, Barton, not slam—”
The truck jerks forward as Clint presses down too hard, and Buck curses, bracing himself against the dashboard.
Clint swears under his breath, pulling back. “I got it, I got it.”
“Do you?” Buck drawls, unimpressed.
Clint grits his teeth and starts again, this time actually easing onto the gas. The truck rolls forward smoothly, and he lets out a breath, gripping the wheel a little looser.
They make it down the road without incident, and by the time Clint turns them around, Buck exhales and leans back, arms crossed.
“Not bad,” He admits.
Clint smirks. “Not bad? That all I get?”
“You wanna parade?” Buck deadpans. “Congrats, kid, you can legally crash a car now.”
Clint barks a laugh, and it feels real. Feels good .
For the first time since the circus, since everything, he feels like he’s moving forward instead of just standing in the wreckage of what he lost.
He still doesn’t know what’s next. Doesn’t know what his life is gonna look like from here on out. But at least now, he has options.
And that’s more than he had before.
Clint’s been in Illinois for about five, maybe six months now. Long enough to settle into a routine, long enough for the house to start feeling familiar — but not quite like home.
His 15th birthday came and went quietly, nothing like the ones at the circus, full of rowdy voices and roughhousing. Buck had made an effort, though. Picked up a cake from some local bakery — chocolate, because Clint liked it but never really got to have it much before — and set up a video call with Saul, who grinned at him through the screen and signed, Happy birthday, kid. I expect you to be stronger next time I see you.
Clint had laughed, but something about the whole thing sat strange with him. Maybe because Saul and Buck felt more like family than his own blood did.
The night had ended with Clint and Buck sitting on the porch, passing a bottle of whiskey back and forth, even though Buck kept saying Clint was “too damn young” for it. Clint had just smirked and taken another sip anyway.
But now, a few weeks later, that restless feeling has come creeping back in.
He’s been training every day — mornings at the backyard range, afternoons working on the truck, evenings running drills in the backyard, pushing his body further than he probably should. His ribs don’t bother him much anymore, but he knows the difference between healing and ignoring pain.
The truth is, he just can’t keep living like this forever.
And he’s had an idea in mind for a while now.
They’re in the backyard, Buck cleaning one of his rifles while Clint sharpens a throwing knife, the whetstone scraping against the blade. The sun is low, casting long shadows, and the air smells like pine and gunpowder.
“I’m joining the Army.”
The words land sharp, cutting through the quiet like the blade in his hands.
Buck doesn’t look up right away. He exhales through his nose, finishing his inspection of the rifle before setting it aside. When he finally meets Clint’s gaze, his expression is unreadable.
“Yeah?” Buck says, voice even. “That what you really wanna do?”
Clint nods. “Yeah.”
Buck watches him for a long moment, like he’s waiting for Clint to second-guess himself. When he doesn’t, Buck sighs and leans back, stretching his legs out.
“You ain’t even old enough to enlist.”
“I will be.”
Buck scoffs. “In three years.”
“Two and a half,” Clint corrects. “And I can start the process before that. There’s ways. I look old enough, anyway.”
Buck gives him a look. “Shady ways?”
“Legal ways.”
“That’s a first.”
“I mean it, Buck. I’ve been thinking about this for months. I wanna do something real. Not just sit here waiting for the next thing to go wrong.” Clint huffs, setting the knife down. “And besides, you said not to channel my anger into my actions. What better way to commit to that than channeling my strengths into a sense of duty?”
Buck is silent for a moment, his face unreadable. Then he shakes his head, rubbing a hand over his jaw.
“Damn kid,” He sighs. “I should’ve seen this coming.”
Clint tilts his head. “That a no?”
“Nah,” Buck says. “It’s a you’re an idiot.”
Clint smirks. “So, the usual?”
Buck lets out a dry chuckle before leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He’s quiet for a moment, and then he says, “I know a guy.”
Clint blinks. “A guy?”
“Yeah. Used to run with him back in the day — before all this.” Buck gestures vaguely, meaning before the circus, before you. “He’s got connections. Some pull in recruitment. Might be able to grease the wheels a bit.”
Clint narrows his eyes. “That legal?”
Buck shrugs. “Legal enough.”
There’s something unreadable in Buck’s expression, something caught between reluctant approval and deep-seated worry.
“Look,” Buck rubs the back of his neck. “I won’t pretend I like the idea of you signing yourself up to get shot at for a living. But you’re your own person. If this is what you want… I’ll help however I can.”
Clint feels his chest loosen, just a little. He nods. “Thanks.”
Buck stands, tossing a rag over his rifle. “Don’t thank me yet, kid. Just means you’re about to have a whole lot more work ahead of you.”
Clint grins. “Yeah, well. What else is new?”