- One Week Later - Clint Barton House -
The late afternoon sun dipped behind the trees, casting dappled golden shadows over Clint Barton's modest home.
The house semmed small among the dense Iowa forest. Tucked between tall oaks and thick brush, its wooden walls slightly faded, speaking to a life of quiet simplicity away from prying eyes.
The porch creaked under any weight and a stack of chopped firewood leaned haphazardly against the side wall.
A few arrows embedded into worn targets hinted at the true nature of its occupant.
Clint stood on the grassy patch in front of the house, sleeves rolled up, his stance relaxed but ready.
His eyes narrowed as he gave Erik a once-over—again.
"You're a big guy.." He said, shifting his weight with a smile.
"For you." Erik responded playfully.
Li lounged on the porch steps. Legs extended lazily, arms folded behind his head, observing with mild interest.
Clint smirked faintly, but his gaze never left Erik.
Then, they moved.
Clint struck first, a swift combination of precise punches aimed to test Erik's guard.. His large frame should've been a disadvantage. Should've been slow.
But it wasn't.
Erik responded fluidly, his torso bending backward gracefully as if devoid of bones before dropping into a low crouch shifting weight effortlessly onto one hand, spinning like a predator repositioning for a strike.
Clint blinked, taken aback.
Someone Erik's size shouldn't move with such ease.
Recovering quickly, He pressed forward again, throwing a series of strikes and feints.
Each attack was deflected with precise, minimal movements. Erik's stance shifted constantly, low to the ground one moment, balanced delicately on his feet the next. Weaving around Clint's fists with an uncanny fluidity.
"What kind of fighting style is that? Clint muttered, genuinely baffled.
Elbows. Knees. Erik's counters were fast and unorthodox. He didn't fight like a soldier. He didn't fight like a brawler.
His movements were precise but bizarre.. Sudden low stances, quick rebounds, full body rotations like something animalistic.
His hands flicked like fangs, his feet repositioning faster than expected.
"No long-range attacks. Up close and personal." Erik muttered.
He spun low to the ground, launching up with a vaulting kick that hit Clint's shoulder and forced him back.
Clint replied calmly, lunging forward with a series of strikes.. But Erik suddenly gripped the man wrist applying some weird pressure on it before redirecting the momentum to spin him off-balance.
The future avenger stumbled but regained footing immediately, eyes wide with surprise.
"Targeting nerve clusters! Pressure points! Moving like a spider !" Erik explained while he closed the distance swiftly, striking precise points along Clint's body in his weird fighting style.
The archer felt his legs buckle beneath him, dropping helplessly to his knees.
"Ugh!?" He uttered in shock, struggling unsuccessfully to stand back up.
Maintaining a calm, unreadable expression. Erik extanded his hand with a smile. "And that, my friends, is what I call .. The Way of the Spider!"
"How?" Clint breathed, frustration and awe mingling in his voice while massaging his arms and legs. "For someone built like a tank, you sure move like you weigh nothing."
"Genetics.." Erik replied playfully, offering the barest hint of a smirk.
Li applauded mockingly from the porch. "Beautiful art. Now how about teaching me something I don't already know?"
Clint sighed deeply sitting on the grass, glancing at Li with mild irritation before refocusing on Erik.
"Still not gonna spill the beans, huh?" Clint asked, groaning slightly as he rubbed the feeling back into his legs.
"You still on that?" Erik chuckled, watching Clint regain his balance.
The man raised an eyebrow skeptically, giving Erik a thoughtful stare. "You guys can't just be self-taught. So what is it ? Mossad? CIA? Gotta' be something like that." He pressed, curiosity evident in his voice.
Erik shook his head, amusement playing across his features. "Already told you, man. We go around learnin' from different masters here and there. That's how we roll." He said casually.
"Bullshit" Clint shot back, his skepticism lingering.
Still, a resigned smile tugged at the corners of his lips as he glanced away into the forest.
"Getting my ass handed to me by an eighteen-year-old…" He muttered with a chuckle, brushing the dirt off his pants. "Looks like I have to train harder."
Erik grinned at that, crossing his arms.
Clint laughed lightly, shaking his head again before turning serious, eyes gleaming with genuine interest. "Alright, show me how you did that pressure-point thing."
"Bet" Erik said easily, stepping closer.
The sun was high overhead, filtering gently through the tall trees as he began demonstrating the technique patiently.
Clint focused intently, mirroring Erik's movements and absorbing each explanation with quiet determination.
For the rest of the afternoon, beneath the golden warmth of the sunlit clearing, they trained together. Mentor and student roles reversed, bound by mutual respect and an unspoken camaraderie.
- Three Weeks Later - Clint Barton House -
SHNK!
The sharp sound of an arrow splitting wood echoed through the clearing.
Li's arrow had pierced straight into the shaft of a previous one, already planted deep in the tree's bark.
"Excellent" Clint said, nodding in approval. "Now try it again, twenty paces back."
Li rolled his shoulders with a sigh. "Not a problem. But it's been weeks of this. When are we gonna shoot at moving targets? Or better — with guns?"
His voice carried that same edge of impatience he'd had for weeks now. Erik couldn't blame him. Li was a natural with the bow, hitting bullseyes with frightening ease.
And Erik... Erik was still catching up.
He breathed slowly, trying to center himself. Focus. Easy. Loose grip, controlled breath, steady release...
He let the arrow fly.
THUNK.
It hit — just under Li's arrow. Not far, but not close enough.
"Fuck" Erik muttered under his breath, lowering the bow, jaw tight.
"You need to relax, Erik." Clint said, stepping beside him, arms crossed. "Drawing and releasing should be as intensive as a stroll. No tension."
"I know, I just…" Erik started, frustrated, until—
"He doesn't know how to relax." Li cut in, already nocking another arrow.
FTTT. SHNK!
Li's new arrow slammed into his own again, a perfect shot.
Erik stood still, gaze fixed on the tree, eyes dull and distant.
Li let out a long sigh and turned to Clint. "Come on. Just one moving target. There's plenty flying around us."
Clint didn't look away from the bow in his hands. "There are limits to what a bow can do, Li. Among trees, you can correct for the wind. But the open sky…" He tilted his chin upward, watching a group of Canvasback circling high above. "Winds can be wild. Arrows drift. You shoot and the air decides the rest."
"That's why we need guns." Li muttered. "Reliable. Precise. Modern."
But before he could finish, FTT — the sharp whisper of a bowstring broke through the air.
An arrow sliced upward.
THUD.
A bird dropped from the sky like a stone, hitting the dirt near them with a soft final thump. Its wings twitched once, then went still.
Clint blinked, stunned. "I… How did you-?"
"If you're prepared.." Erik said, lowering the bow. "Nothing is unpredictable."
Hawkeye watched him in silence for a few moments before nodding slowly, the faintest ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"When I was younger, I trained under a Native-american girl." Erik said, crouching beside the fallen bird. His fingers were calm and precise as he pulled the arrow free.
"She was part of a nomadic tribe." He continued, his voice quiet, almost distant reminiscing his previous life.
He wasn't talking to impress.. Just remembering. "She taught me how to read the world around me. To feel the subtle shifts in the earth. In temperatures, in the changing of the wind."
He stood, slinging the canvasback bird over his shoulder, not sparing either of them a glance.
"Dinner's on me tonight." He added simply, before walking past them toward the house.
Li watched him go, fists clenching subtly at his sides.
"I think we're ready." He said said after a moment, his tone sharper. Eyes on his teacher. "For Moving targets, and.. guns."
He turned without waiting for a reply, following Erik.
Clint stood alone and silent for a few seconds longer, watching them disappear inside the house..
____
An hour later, Erik had finished preparing the meal. Outside, the sun had long set and darkness wrapped itself gently around the small house.
Inside, Clint and Li sat around a worn wooden table in the rustic kitchen. The fire crackled softly in the fireplace, casting flickering shadows across the walls and filling the room with a faint scent of burning wood.
On the table was a small lamp, a pitcher of water, cups and utensils neatly arranged. Erik approached, carrying steaming plates of food and placed one in front of each of them.
Li, unable to resist his curiosity, broke the comfortable silence.
"So, You said you grew up in a circus ?"
The archer paused momentarily, fingers idly unwrapping his napkin as his eyes grew distant.
"Yes, I did…" Clint responded, his voice quiet as his thoughts drifted to the past. His eyes didn't focus on anything in particular—just somewhere beyond the room, beyond the present.
"I was born in '74. Never saw my dad… Not even a photo." He said with a faint, humorless chuckle. "And my mom… well, she tried, I think. But living…" He paused, the word hanging on his tongue. "Living is a pretty strong word for what we did."
He leaned back slightly, eyes narrowing as old memories crept back uninvited. "We survived. That's more like it. Days blurring into each other. We lived in her car. A rusty old Plymouth with a heater that didn't work half the time."
The memory surfaced gently, like a tide creeping up on the shore. Familiar and distant.
"As a single mother living on the streets, she didn't have many options." Clint said, eyes closed, voice low. "She had no money to support us. So… She became a petty thief."
And just like that, he was ten again.
The scent of fried dough and kettle corn filled the air as he walked alongside her. Lights from the local fair blinked all around them, casting colors over the crowd.
Laughter echoed from children on spinning rides and the rickety creak of a Ferris wheel turned slow and steady in the distance.
Booths lined the narrow path—ring tosses, dunk tanks, balloon darts—all run by aging carnies with crooked teeth and practiced smiles.
"Well, I think it's because he helps so many people." His mother said, leaning into him playfully as they walked side by side her hand gently brushing his back in that unconscious, maternal way.
"But why use a bow and arrow?" Young Clint asked, a crease on his brow. "Why not just use a gun?"
The question made her laugh. "Clint, I don't think they had guns in the Middle Ages."
He looked up at her, curious. "Why's it called the Middle Ages? Are we living in the Big Ages?"
"Mnhh… no. Maybe the Late Ages? I don't know—ouch!"
She stumbled slightly, bumping into a man in a tan coat.
"I'm so—"
"It's my fault!" She said quickly, cutting off his apology. Her hand had already slipped the man's wallet and stashed it behind her pants in a movement so natural it looked like nothing had happened at all.
"Are you okay?" The man asked, concern in his voice.
"No, my head's just spinning, trying to keep up with this little guy." She replied with a playful smile, wrapping an arm around Clint as she began to walk away.
The man chuckled, pointing at the boy. "Hey, don't wear your sister out."
"She's my mom." Clint corrected automatically, turning back over his shoulder.
"Hey, don't keep the conversation going." His mom whispered sharply, one hand guiding him forward.
"Right. Sorry.." He mumbled.
A few steps later, she pulled out the wallet, thumbing through it quickly.
"Ugh… only a few bucks." She muttered, disappointed, pocketing the cash and tossing the rest in a nearby garbage can.
Clint tugged at her sleeve and held up a shiny golden watch.
Her eyes lit up, caught off guard. "That's my little guuuy." She grinned, wrapping an arm around him, pulling him close with pride. Her voice dropped to something warm, almost gentle. "You did good."
He chuckled, pleased with himself. "Did I do a good job?"
"You did a great job." She said, planting a kiss on the top of his head. "Now c'mon… let's go play some shooting games. You earned it."
____
Oh! So.. you were a little thief Clint. Said Li with a smirk reaching for the fork
The Archer gave a quiet, almost embarrassed chuckle. "Yeah, I guess you could say I was a little thief."
Li grinned, stabbing his fork into a piece of meat.
Across the table, Erik stayed silent, slowly chewing, his eyes thoughtful as Clint's voice softened again—memories pulling him back.
This time, it wasn't the fair. It was later that same day, long after the blinking lights and music had faded into the distance.
The night had settled over the parking lot like a blanket.
They were sitting in the front seat of his mother's beat-up car, parked just outside a mall.
The windshield was fogged in patches. In between them was a warm paper bag from a fast food place, the smell of fries heavy in the car.
"What happens if somebody catches us?" Ten-year-old Clint asked, a bit of fry hanging from his mouth.
His mother waved the question away like it didn't matter. "Don't worry about that."
"But… we're stealing from people." He said, eyes uncertain.
She didn't respond right away. She reached into the bag, pulled out a fry and leaned back. "From people who can afford to give back. And don't."
"How do you know that?" Clint pressed, his small face scrunched in confusion.
"I just know." She answered, her voice laced with weariness and bitterness. "There's people in this world Clint, who have more than they'll ever need. They sit on it. They could help… And they don't. Hell, most of the time, it's them who make sure people like us stay right where we are."
She popped the fry in her mouth and chewed slowly, her jaw tight.
Clint looked at her, still unsure. "So… it's okay to do bad things to bad people?"
She turned to him then.. A soft look in her eyes despite the tired lines on her face.
She touched a hand to her chest. "Remember what I always tell you? The only way to know what's good or bad… is to listen right here."
She tapped twice, firmly. "Your heart knows, even when your head doesn't."
Clint nodded slowly, still processing it. His mother looked away.
"Besides.." She added with a small sigh "That guy probably won't even miss a few bucks. But for us? That money means we get to eat tonight."