Avengers: the soles of your shoes are all worn down

[blahnicity]

fandom: Avengers (2012)
pairing/rating: pg13, teamfic, gen
summary: Loki is a crimelord who has been raided and arrested for his crimes. Clint is the teenage captive the police find who knows enough information to make the case against Loki. The rest of the Avengers are a team brought in to ensure his survival until the trial.
length: 10k
warnings: trigger warnings for past emotional/physical/sexual abuse.

On Ao3



Loki’s private residence is raided in the middle of the day, the sun shining bright and the press shoving against each other behind the barricade, made brave by lines of patrol cars and officers crouched behind reinforced doors. Three of Loki’s top lieutenants commit suicide by cop, rushing into bullets, and four enforcers throw themselves belly down onto the gravel just off the front porch, hands held out empty and shouting their surrender.

SWAT is about to knock down the door with their miniature battering ram with the door flies open of its own accord, and bullets spray the edges of the frame, wooden splinters flying into the air. A boy stumbles out, rasping something in a hoarse voice, and the lead SWAT member grabs him around the middle and charges him, disappearing into the house and out of the line of fire.

//

Natasha is the lead SWAT member. She’s not sure why, exactly she does it, why the split second decision she makes is to use her body as a shield, to pull him back into the house without even bringing her gun up and pushing him into a corner. The rest of her team goes by, crouched and swift, and her team leader shoots her a look that says We Will Have Words. She turns to threaten the kid, maybe knee him hard, push him around a little, rough him up, but his fingers are twisted into the front of her fatigues, and he’s muttering, voice like sandpaper, please, please, please.

Natasha pulls her helmet off, little wisps of red escaping the tiny ponytail at the nape of her neck. “Hey,” she says, and he meets her eyes, cringing back even as he raises his head at her defiantly. His hands are clasped in front of him, and Natasha wipes at the blood on his wrists with her gloves, tacky red bracelets of blood, scabbed lines that have bled, dried over and scraped to bleeding again. Underneath the blood she finds plastic, zipties tightened just loose enough so his circulation isn’t cut off. She pulls a knife out of her boot and he sucks in a fast breath, pushes his back up against the wall.

“My name is Natasha,” she says, reaching for his hands again, slower, more carefully. “What’s your name?”

“Clint,” the kid says. Natasha cuts the ziptie in a quick, sure movement, and takes a closer look at him while he rubs at his hands, cracks his wrists. She places him at fourteen, maybe fifteen. He looks better than most of the rescues that come out of raids on Loki’s operations, not as malnourished; his clothes are cleaner, neater.

“Clint,” Natasha repeats. “Clinton?”

The kid curls his upper lip away from his teeth. “Clint.”

“Clint,” she agrees, and listens to the sounds of people being thrown against walls and cuffed, shouts of clear. “Do you have anything in your pockets?”

“No,” he says quietly. “But I’ve got-I’ve got a picture. In my shoe.” He extends his leg, very slightly, in her direction. She pushes it back down.

“That’s fine,” she says. Clint scratches at his hip, and his shirt rucks up a little. There are yellow splotches across his belly, stretching up to his ribs in stripes of purple and green. Natasha frowns a little, and ducks a few fingers into a shirt pocket and curls them around a little pocketknife. She frowns harder, and then sighs. “Give me the picture,” she says, and Clint doesn’t even look surprised, just slumps a little, resigned.

“Okay,” he mumbles.

“They’re going to check you out at the hospital,” Natasha explains, “take your clothes for evidence. I’ll give it back.”

Clint bites his lip. “Okay,” he says again, and bends to reach into his shoe. He comes up with a photograph, small and crinkled but handled carefully. He smoothes the back of it, keeping his fingertips away from the face of the picture.

“I will give it back,” Natasha says, and reaches for it. Clint pulls it away.

“Don’t touch the front,” he says, “there’s oil on your skin. It’ll stain it.”

“Alright,” she says, and carefully tucks it away. “Let’s go,” she says.

//

The picture that makes the papers is Clint, half out of the door, looking desperate and hopeful all at once, and Natasha, her face hidden and her gun knocked aside, hands reaching for him.

//

A day later and Natasha rides with Clint from the hospital to the station, sitting in the back of the ambulance. Clint waits silently, picking at the tape holding the gauze around his wrists. “What’s going to happen to me now,” he says.

Natasha shrugs. “I’m not sure,” she says honestly. “There are victims services available. Foster care. You’re probably too old to get adopted, but you’ll age out soon enough.”

Clint smiles, suddenly, looking down at his hands. “I won’t live that long,” he says, and doesn’t even sound upset about it. He just says, like he would say the sky is blue.

“I know you’ve… been with Loki a long time,” Natasha says, as gentle as she’s capable of being. “but he’s probably already forgotten about you.”

“He’ll kill me,” Clint says. He bites at his thumb absentmindedly, spits a bit of nail out.

“He doesn’t care about you,” Natasha says. “not really even a little.” She casts around for something emotionally appropriate to say. “He won’t even think about you.” She pauses. “I uh, I promise, okay?”

Which is of course the moment the paramedic in the passenger seat tries to shoot her in the head with a pocket pistol.

Natasha sees the flash of sun off the barrel before he can pull the trigger, and she tumbles sideways, shouting at Clint to get down. She hears him slam against the floor, and she spins on her back to kick the shooter around his chair, catching him in the ribs. The first and second shots go wide, pinging through the walls, and Natasha lunges forward, wraps her arms around both sides of the seat and catching him in a stranglehold.

He chokes, and scrabbles at her arms, tries to get at her eyes. She leans back, and sees the driver reaching down for a weapon. She grunts, panting, and hooks herself up and around to wrap her legs around the driver’s throat. He tries to lean farther down, and she wrenches herself around to keep him away, but something glints in his hand and he stabs her in the calf with a penknife. Natasha curses again, and twists herself to break the neck of the passenger in a quick snap. She pulls herself up with her thighs, cramped against the roof and the top of the chair, and smashes her forehead against his nose. He brings his hands up instinctually, and she snatches the little knife from his fingers and uses it to ventilate his jugular.

The ambulance rolls to a stop, slow, the tires crunching on the shoulder of the road. Natasha slides down, panting a little, rides out the shakes. Clint stares at her, eyes a little wide. Natasha coughs, clears her throat. “You know things,” Natasha says, the last of the adrenaline leaving her feeling a little empty.

“I know everything,” Clint says, and smiles like a shark. “And I’ll tell everything-to you. Only to you.”

//

Natasha waits outside the interview room, leaning against the wall and cleaning under her nails with the tip of a very large hunting knife. She watches beat cops edge around her with mild amusement. After almost five hours Clint shuffles out, looking worn, tired. He smiles when he sees her.

“You’re next,” he says, jerking his head towards the open door.

Natasha puts the knife away. “You get the deal wanted?”

“Yes,” he says, darkly satisfied. “signed by the district attorney.”

“Sit,” Natasha says, pointing to a row of chairs by the wall. “stay.” Clint snaps his teeth at her, and then withdraws, quicksilver-fast. Testing her limits, trying to figure out the rules. Natasha stares at him impassively, and a little furrow appears between his eyes. He slumps over to the chair and curls in on himself in it, He looks young.

The detective asks her a couple of routine questions, sounding bored, and slides the yellow legal pad and a cheap black pen across the table at her. “Sign the bottom when you’re done,” he says. An FBI agent lounges behind him, looking bored and playing tetris on his smartphone.

“What’s the deal with the kid?” she asks, and he grins at her, laughing.

“He knows enough to put Loki down for at least twenty life sentences. The Attorney General is transferring the case to the federal courts, and the government is springing for your team.”

Natasha raises an eyebrow. “That kid got you to agree to that?”

“He drives a hard bargain,” the FBI agent says. “Your team’s been contacted, you’ll be taking custody of Mr. Barton immediately. Marshals will drive you.”

“You know that’s not how we work,” Natasha says, finishing her statement in neat blocky letters. She signs the bottom with a quick hand. “The marshals can brief the kid, but everything after that goes through us and us only.”

The FBI agent frowns, but the detective just shrugs. “You’re charging enough for it,” he says. Natasha withdraws a small white business card from her back pocket, completely plain except for a neat line of numbers in small black font.

“Give this to the lawyer sitting first chair,” she says, and then puts another on the table. “And this one to the lawyer that takes over after the first’s been killed. “

Clint is waiting for her when she gets out, leaning against the wall outside the door and drumming his fingers on the wall.

Natasha beckons at him. “Didn’t I tell you to wait over there?”

Clint sneers at her, teenage rebellious. Testing limits again. “I’m not under arrest.” Natasha reaches to grab him by the collar and he flinches so severely he knocks a shoulder against the wall. Natasha puts her arm back by her side.

“You’re entering the Witsec program,” she tells him, “sort of. The marshals are going to brief you.” She steers him towards the conference room by shepherding him, stepping close to drive him further away until he’s more or less pointed at the right door. “Listen close, sign everything they tell you to sign. My team will meet you afterwards and we’ll go for something to eat.”

Clint hesitates, rocking back on his heels and then cringing forward, away from the police officer following him. “You’re not… coming in with me?”

“No,” Natasha says. Clint bites his lip, squares his shoulders with visible effort. Natasha sighs. She grabs his hand and shakes it, ignoring his surprise and the way he looks hunted at the feel of her skin on his. She presses her penknife into his palm, and his eyes widen. He takes it, slipping it up his sleeve with the ease of long practice, and smiles, a real smile that makes the edges of his eyes crinkle up.

“See you,” he says, and walks into the conference room with a bit of a spring in his step.

Natasha goes to the waiting area and doesn’t jump when someone appears at her shoulder, leaned in close to whisper in her ear. “I see you’re just handing out my phone number to any old law enforcement officer.”

“You’ve never complained before,” Natasha says, and tugs a chair closer with her toes hooked around the leg. “Stark,” she greets.

“Natasha,” he mocks, dropping into the seat. “Where’s our boy?”

“Don’t pretend like you don’t know,” she says, and turns the page in a three year old copy of The National Inquirer.

Tony pouts. “It’s more fun this way. Thoughts?”

“Abused,” Natasha says, “definitely physical , probably emotional, possibly sexual. Too early to tell.”

“Dangerous?” Tony asks.

“No.”

Tony hums. “Steve’s driving. Thor and Bruce are at the safehouse.” Natasha holds out a demanding hand and Tony laughs. “Medical records are already downloaded onto your phone,” he says. “Stay or go?”

“Go,” Natasha says, “I’ll introduce you and Steve together.”

“I’ll tell him to pull up the car.” Tony leaves as quickly as he came, blending into the trail of traffic effortlessly.

Natasha boots up the pdf reader on her phone and starts on Clint’s chart.

//

Clint slinks out of the marshal’s briefing, looking pale and tired, drawn. He trails Natasha down the hallway and out to the back entrance to the parking lot. She stops him just to the side of the door. “Wait,” she says, and listens.

There’s a faint rumble of an engine, and then an unmarked black car drives up on the sidewalk and stops just outside the entrance. The front and back doors swing open. Clint stares. “Get in,” Natasha says, and angles herself to block him while he scrambles into the backseat. She swings in after him and shuts the back door with a thump, echoed by the passenger side, and the car pulls into the lot and onto the main rood smoothly.

Tony cranes his head around from the passenger seat. “Hey.”

Steve waves, one hand lifted from the steering wheel. “I’m Steve. The lout is Tony.” Tony grins.

“It’s a term of endearment,” he mock whispers.

Steve snorts. “It’s really not.”

Tony twists back to glare at him. “Why don’t you concentrate on keeping your hands in the six and four o’clock position.”

“Those aren’t even the right numbers, Tony. This is why you don’t drive.”

Clint has shrunk back into his seat, watching them carefully. Natasha clears her throat pointedly and the bickering slows. “Tony is our communications liaison,” she says, “Steve is in charge of logistics.” She turns her gaze to Clint and he starts.

“I’m Clint,” he says quietly. “I’m in charge of testifying.” Tony laughs, loud and a little mocking. Clint bristles.

“Only if we keep you alive that long,” Tony says cheerfully. Steve takes a hand of the wheel to punch him hard in the shoulder.

“You’ll be just as dead as me,” Clint says coldly, and Tony grins.

“I like you,” he says.

“We’re very good at our job,” Steve says reassuringly. “Our success rate is nearly one hundred percent.”

“Nearly,” Clint repeats. Tony punches Steve’s bicep.

“Um,” Steve says awkwardly. Natasha sighs.

“It’s fine,” Clint says. “I always figured Loki would be the one to kill me. The setting doesn’t matter much.” Silence falls inside the car, and Clint turns to stare dully out the window.

“Good job,” Tony hisses, and Steve glares, darting little guilty glances to the backseat. Natasha checks her phone for updates from Bruce.

“Is this your whole team?” Clint asks, not looking away from the window.

“No,” Natasha says, tapping out a quick update and sending it. “We have a doctor, Bruce, and Thor, our securities expert.”

“Thor,” Clint repeats.

“Yeah,” Tony says, “don’t worry, it’s been said.”

“Okay,” Clint says. His fingers flex into fists and out again. Steve jerks his head towards the backseaet and makes a series of complicated facial expressions at Tony. Tony sighs.

“Here,” he says, digging in the pocket of an oversized leather jacket folded in his lap. He tosses a handheld gaming device at Clint, aiming for his chest. Clint’s hands come up, lightning fast, and he catches it in one hand. He turns it over, frowning. “You can play with it,” Tony says. “It’s a bit of a drive. Games are stored in the back.”

Clint frowns a little harder. “I-“ he says, looking lost. “How does it work?” Tony gapes at him. “I’ve never had,” Clint says, stilted, and Tony is unbuckling his seatbelt before he can finish his sentence. He slithers through the space between the seats, feet kicking at the glove compartment.

Steve sighs. “Oh my god,” he complains, and shoves at Tony’s lower back with one hand. “Improper road safety etiquette,” he snaps.

“For the good of Nintendo,” Tony crows, and lands in the middle seat in an ungainly pile of limbs. He straightens up like a jack-in-the-box, leaning hard into Clint’s personal space. “You turn it on here,” he says, flipping a small switch with a flick of his fingernail. “Then the menu comes up… let’s start you with pong. We can build up from there.” Clint has pressed himself into the door, shoulders stiff.

Natasha reaches over without looking up from her phone, closes her fingers around the back of Tony’s shirt and jerks him back. He comes easily, not expecting her to yank at him, and he lands half in her lap. “Oh my,” he says, voice pitched high. He flutters his eyelashes at her. Natasha ignores him. “This is so sudden,” he simpers, trying to get her to play along. Natasha continues to ignore him.

“Fuck,” Clint says suddenly, and they both look up at him. He’s frowning at the game, arms twisted up like that will make him win faster. He glares at the console. “Worthless piece of…” he trails off, muttering, completely absorbed, and Tony adjusts himself in the seat, lounging back against Natasha. He leans his head on her shoulder.

“Off,” she says, and he grins.

“Yes darling,” he says. Steve catches his look in the rearview mirror.

“No-“ he tries, but Tony is already climbing back into the front, making kissy faces at Steve on his way. “I hate you,” Steve says. “America hates you.”

“Don’t lie,” Tony says, and starts to fiddle with the radio.

//

They pull up to the drive through window at a McDonalds, and Steve orders enough food for a small army before craning around at Clint.

“What do you want?”

“I-“ Clint says. “Hamburger?” It’s tentative, like a question, unsure, nervous. “I don’t need anything,” he says quickly. His fingers clench around the game and he looks down. His teeth worry at his lip.

“Hamburger,” Steve confirms. Tony shoves his shoulder belt aside to crane around at Natasha.

“Salad, Ms. Romanov?”

“Bacon,” she says to Steve and he waves a hand dismissively at her.

“I know. Tony, hand me your wallet.”

“No way,” Tony says, “I paid yesterday, Steve, and it wasn’t even all you can eat. Do you have any idea how much it costs when Thor is actually there to order for himself?”

“You’re a multi-billionaire,” Steve says, making impatient grabby hands. “Give it.”

Tony makes a grumbling noise, but he digs in his pocket and comes up with a handful of crumpled bills. Steve smoothes them, looking long-suffering. “Would it kill you to use a real wallet.”

“Would you let me drive if I carried my license?”

“No,” Steve says, exchanging the bills with the cashier for cheap white bags stained translucent with grease. Tony rifles through them.

“Hamburger plain,” he says, “bacon burger no onion.” He passes them back, and Natasha takes them both. She offers one to Clint and he reaches out slowly, watching her hands. When he gets his bag he cants himself away from Natasha, keeps the bag between his body and the door.

Steve dumps the change into the tray to the left of the steering wheel. “Hey!” Tony says through a mouthful of food.

“Stop eating Bruce’s fries,” Steve replies. Tony shoves six fries in his mouth and lets the ends hang out.

“They’re yours,” he says, muffled. Steve shoves him away with one hand.

“You’re disgusting,” he says, and then directs his gaze to Clint, who freezes mid-bite.

“Ketchup?” he asks.

“No,” Clint says, and goes back to eating.

“Me,” Tony says, snatching at the little packets. “Are we close?”

“Fifteen minutes,” Steve says.

//

Clint climbs out of the car and looks up at the cheap motel. “Here until the trial?” he asks. It’s painted candy-floss pink, faded down to dull flamingo, with chipped white trim and chunks of rusted out railing missing.

“No,” Steve says, flanking him with Natasha. Tony leads the way, spinning keys around an index finger and whistling. “We’ll change places a few times before settling in.”

“Your castle,” Tony says, and stops Clint with a hand on his chest.

“Me first,” Natasha explains, and ducks in. “Clear,” she calls back.

Clint shuffles in, his duffel bag slung across his back. He looks around the room uninterestedly before moving to drop his stuff on one of the beds. “Nope,” Steve says quickly, and reaches out for Clint’s arm.

Clint stabs him with the penknife, barely an inch long, in the thick webbing between his forefinger and thumb, and Steve grunts, recoiling. Natasha grabs Clint and shoves him. Clint clenches his knuckles around the tiny handle and keeps a hold of it. Blood slips down the stainless steel and smears on his fingers.

“Ow,” Steve says, sounding surprised. Tony grabs his hand and twists it around.

“Bruce’ll fix you up. You’ll be healed by tomorrow.” Clint stumbles backwards, breath coming fast.

“I didn’t,” he stammers, “I-” His heels hit the door, and the knob jabs into the small of his back. Steve’s eyes widen.

“It’s okay-” he starts, and Natasha lunges at Clint, her hand catching the sleeve of his zip hoodie, but Clint shrugs it off, throwing it at her face and turning the knob, tripping through the door. He makes it nearly to the next room over before the door flies open and a hand yanks him over the threshold.

Clint goes limp, and feels himself being carried across the room and deposited on a cheap mattress.

“Got him,” someone says, and he looks up to see the door that conjoins the two rooms open and Steve and Tony awkwardly shuffle in, bumping against the frame and grumbling as Tony tries to bandage Steve’s hand and Steve tries to shove him off. Natasha comes in after them, holding Clint’s jacket and rolling her eyes.

Clint tucks his legs against his body and scratches his nails on the duvet, pulling at the threads. “This is Bruce,” Natasha says, and the slim brown-haired man standing against the wall waves awkwardly. “And that’s Thor.”

The man who’d yanked him into the room beams widely and offers him a bottle. “Have some ale!”

Clint stares at him, and Tony snorts, finally leaving Steve alone and snatching the bottle out of Thor’s hand. “He’s underaged.”

“In my country drinking makes a man,” Thor says. Behind him, Steve tries to pull tape around his hand with his teeth and fails spectacularly. Bruce sighs and goes to him, waves away his complaints and drags him over to the tall lamp in the corner for better lighting. Tony flops on the mattress beside Clint, bouncing him. Clint curls up a little tighter.

“I didn’t mean,” he says and Steve waves dismissively at him.

“Forget it,” he says, and then stops. “I didn’t mean to grab for you like that,” he apologizes. Clint stares at him. “It won’t happen again,” Steve says. Tony sticks his tongue into the neck of the bottle and tries to balance it. It tips jerkily and splashes brown liquid down his shirt, and he pokes at the wet splotches, looking put out. Thor throws him a towel and leans down to peer in Clint’s face.

“Hello,” he says cheerfully.

“Hi,” Clint says faintly, and Natasha pokes at Thor’s shoulder until he backs up.

“He’s harmless,” Natasha says, and then looks considering. “to you,” she amends. “You’ll stay here for six hours,” she says, “seven at the most. You should sleep.”

“Your food’s in the other room,” Steve says, and Thor and Bruce disappear through the door. Through the wall Clint hears something about the earthly wonders of ketchup.

Clint twists his fingers in his shirt. “Where---uh, where should I sleep?”

“Not there,” Tony says, and Clint shoots off the bed before he finishes the last syllable. “Because of the beer,” Tony explains after a pause. “Take the other bed.” Clint shuffles to the mattress and sits gingerly.

Clint lies down carefully, shoes still on, and closes his eyes.

Clint wakes up to an explosion. He rolls off the bed and presses against the wall. Something in his left ear pops, and he clutches at it, his head ringing with a high pitched noise that wails without pause. His fingers come away wet and red, and he smells burnt insulation, melted plaster. Someone grabs him and lifts him away from the carpet that smells like cigarettes, and when he opens his eyes again he sees the cracked white lights of the bathroom. His fingers touch cold ceramic, and he sees Steve with blood on smeared over his temple, pushing him into the tub.

“Don’t come out,” Steve says, breathing harshly. “Stay down.” He gives Clint a reassuring smile and yanks the curtain closed.

Clint keeps his head below the rim of the tub and clutches his little knife, still with a rust coloured mark from Steve’s hand at the base of the tiny blade.

//

There’s a cacophony of crashing and shouting and the high pitched snap-booms of guns fitted with silencers, and eventually it settles into the creaking of the floors and walls, rustle of debris, muted rumble of voices. Clint hears the door open and he takes a deep breath, rests his thumb on the butt of the handle.

The curtain whistles on its rod and Thor peers down at him. “Are you hale?” he asks, and Clint blinks.

“Um,” he says, but lets Thor pull him to his feet. He slips a little on the white porcelain and Thor steadies him before lifting him bodily off his feet and setting him down on cracked plastic tile. “Thanks,” Clint says, and walks into the other room. He picks his way in a few feet, stepping over splintered bits of furniture and avoiding sticky smears of bright red and almost congealed puddles of blood. Natasha is crouched over one body, her fingers at his pulsepoint. Steve turns from where he’s wiping at a cut high on Tony’s shoulder. Tony grins at Clint.

“Nice knife,” he says, and Clint slips it up his sleeve, flushing. Steve moves towards him.

“Don’t look-“ he starts and Clint shrugs.

“I’ve seen worse,” he says, and casts a quick glance across some of the bodies lying prone across the floor. He recognizes a few of them, and when Natasha moves away he catches a glimpse of the face of the man she’d been checking. Clint flinches back, and Natasha looks from him to the body, frowning very slightly. Bruce tosses the comforter over his face and grabs a dark bag.

“We should go,” he says, and Thor slings an arm over Clint’s shoulders. Clint stiffens, but Thor is warm and pleasantly heavy and cheerful and built like a tank and Clint feels safer in the crook of his arm than he did in the bathtub, so he skip-walks, tries to keep up with Thor’s stride.

They pile quickly into a dark van, Tony absorbed in tapping messages out on his phone, and Bruce takes the wheel. Clint is smashed between Steve and Thor on the back row of seats, with Natasha napping in front of them, stretched out on the bench. Clint leans over into Steve, wincing, and Steve politely presses himself into the side of the car to give him as much space as possible. Clint pulls out the little game system Tony had lent him and runs a finger down the crack in the screen. Something drops hard in his stomach and he swallows audibly. He presses on it until the plastic pricks at his skin uncomfortably.

“It’s okay,” Steve murmurs. “Actually, it’s fantastic. He deserves it.”

Clint presses harder on the screen and bites his lip. “I’ll make it up to him,” he mumbles. “I-I can work, pay to get it fixed.” His knuckles go white around the grips.

Thor reaches over, plucks it out of his hands and crushes it in one hand like a tin soda can. “The matter is settled,” he says, and unwraps something in a crinkly silvery wrapper. “Toaster strudel?”

“Thanks,” Steve says, breaking a piece away. Little crumbs fall on his lap and he flicks at them, smirking when a few make it into Natasha’s curls. Natasha slits one eye open and makes life-threatening eye contact, Steve fixes his gaze at the floor and concentrates on taking tiny bites of fake-fruit pastry.

Clint gapes at the mess of circuits and coloured plastic tossed aside on the seat and makes a choking noise in his throat.

//

They stop at gas stations, fast food truck stops and a very strange overnight stay in a cramped lounge at an international airport, during which Steve disappears for ten minutes and comes back with a sack of sandwiches and a new game console he slips to Clint with a wink.

“Last stop,” Bruce promises, sitting next to Clint for the first time since they’ve started driving. Clint nods. “I’d like to do a medical exam when we’ve settled,” he continues. Clint wipes his palms on the sides of his jeans.

“Okay,” he says, and bites at a fingernail.

“I am a doctor,” Bruce assures him, smiling, and peers out the window. “Fifteen minutes.”

Natasha speaks up from the front seat, loud enough that Clint doesn’t have to lean forward to hear. “What colour shirts you like?”

“What?”

“Shirts,” Natasha repeats. “You’re gonna need more than one change of clothes and those three pairs of underwear you’ve got in that bag.”

“Shoes,” Tony says, ticking items on his finger, “coat, thick socks.”

“Knit neckwear,” Thor says seriously, “that which are adorned with the poofy fringes.”

“Hat,” Steve advises.

“Thermal underwear,” Bruce says, squinting his eyes at Clint, who shrinks back in on himself from all the attention. “his BMI looks low.”

“I’ll shoot you a list,” Tony says, digging his phone out again.

“We’re here,” Steve reports, and Clint unfolds from himself a little to peer out the window. The van’s tires crunch over gravel and they pull up to a decently sized house, one story with a high protective fence around the yard. Tony leans over Steve, grinning at Steve’s grumbles, and hangs out the window to punch something complicated into a small metal box held up by a thick post outside the main gates. His phone vibrates in his pocket and the gates swing open.

“Welcome home, Mr. Stark,” his phone says through the speakerphone. Clint all but presses his face against the glass of the window, hanging over the back of the first row of seats to get a decent view.

“Thanks Jarvis,” Tony says. “Any activity?”

“The normal native wildlife, sir,” the voice reports. Steve snorts.

Tony sighs a sigh of the longsuffering. “What have I told you about singing Disney songs to the woodland creatures, Jarvis.”

“My apologies, sir.”

“Electric fence,” Clint says suddenly, and then flushes when all heads turn towards him. “I recognize it,” he mutters, “Loki had one.” He perks up. “Do you have dogs too?”

“No,” Tony says, “we have Thor.”

//

Clint has his own room, a little one, but clean and neat without windows but with a bed he can stretch out on and his own bathroom. Clint pads around it, poking his head in the closet, wetting his hands under the faucet and splashing water on his face.

Bruce knocks twice and waits patiently the whole five minutes it takes for Clint to work up the nerve to flip the locks over and open the door. “Hey,” he says, like he hasn’t been standing in the hallway waiting for Clint to get over his varied issues. “You up for having a little blood drawn?”

“I guess,” Clint says reluctantly, and Bruce smiles. Clint shifts on his feet.

“We can do it in the medical room,” Bruce says after a minute. “I’ve got it all set up.”

“Oh,” Clint says, releasing a breath. “okay, yeah.”

//

“You look pretty good,” Bruce says, snapping off his gloves and dumping them in a stainless steel disposal can. “Little underweight, maybe less muscle tone than the young ladies might like.”

Clint grins. “I like to run,” he volunteers abruptly. He scratches his nails across the thin wax paper covering the table he’s perched on. “I just didn’t have a lot of time for it.”

“There’s a gym,” Bruce says, sitting down and making a note on a clipboard. Clint perks up. “Treadmills, stationary bikes, weights. Steve and Thor can show you how to use the equipment.”

“Yeah,” Clint says, “cool. Um-Can I ask?” Bruce looks at him.

“Yes, of course?” Clint fiddles with his nails.

“I’m not sure-do you know how old I am?” Bruce blinks.

“Your birth certificate is in your file-were you not told?”

“No,” Clint says, “so you know?”

“Yeah,” Bruce says, flipping through a sheaf of papers. “Ah. You are sixteen. Your birthday is-here, why don’t you just take this. It’s a copy, you can have it.” Clint takes it from him, and Bruce is nice enough to pretend not to notice his fingers shaking.

“I was born in Iowa,” Clint says, his breath catching. “My mother’s name was Mary.”

Bruce sits very still, until Clint has stopped trembling and has started breathing smoother. “Lunch, I think,” he says, standing. “Care to join us?”

“Okay,” Clint says, and Bruce holds out a trash basket for Clint to drop the little ball of cotton he’d been pressing against the needle prick in his inner elbow. He folds up his birth certificate and puts it in his back pocket. My birthday is in May, he thinks, my mother’s name was Mary.

Tony is standing above a pot on the stove, staring down into the steam and poking at the contents with a long stemmed wooden spoon. He frowns.

Clint takes a deep breath, and then another. His stomach rumbles.

“Stew,” Thor says, entering from behind them and sounding overly joyful at the prospect. The door that leads to the garage beeps twice and Steve steps through, holding a few plastic grocery bags.

“Bread,” he reports, and Natasha comes through behind him, laden down with several more bags. She catches sight of Clint.

“For you,” she says, and unburdens herself into his arms. Clint fumbles, juggling the parcels.

“Um,” he says. Tony pokes the into the pot again.

“You should be doing this,” he says to Bruce. “Cooking, chemistry.”

“Physics,” Bruce says pointedly.

“Um,” Clint says again.

Natasha starts pulling bowls out of a cabinet. “Dump it in your room and come eat.”

“Okay,” Clint says, and takes off at a trot.

He dumps each bag out on his bed and smoothes his hands across the fabric; dark and light wash jeans, soft cotton tees, long sleeved polo shirts, athletic shoes and running socks, winter boots and a dark forest green heavy jacket with a big soft hood and black leather patches at the wrists and inner elbows. He shrugs it on, wraps himself in its reassuring weight. He pulls the hood up and looks at himself in the mirror hanging on the closet door. The hood drapes in a way that casts his face in shadow, and only the tips of his fingers poke out from the cuffs on the sleeves. He leaves it on and goes back to the kitchen.

“I cooked,” Tony is arguing, trying to push past Steve to get at the stove. “This is unfair. This is un-American.”

Steve stands strong with his arms folded across his chest. “Guests eat first.” Tony makes a squawking noise before taking a bowl from Thor. Bruce is slicing bread on a wooden board balanced on the table, and Clint can smell it, warm and yeasty and crunching with every motion of the knife. Clint takes a bowl from the counter and goes to sidle forward.

“Hey,” Natasha says from his right elbow, and Clint jumps, drops the bowl and watches it crash against the laminate flooring. His breath catches in his chest.

“Party foul,” Tony says immediately.

“I’m sorry,” Clint blurts, falling to his knees and trying to gather up the shards with slightly shaking hands. He stands with cupped palms full of jagged clayware and stares at the floor. “Sorry,” he says again.

“It’s fine,” Natasha says, and pushes him at the trashcan. Clint dumps the pieces in the container and bites at his lip. “Hey,” she says, and he looks up at her past the edge of his hood. “it’s fine,” she repeats, and waits until he nods.

“I’ll go to my room,” he says.

Thor blinks. “Are you not hungry?”

“I’m okay,” Clint says, taking a step backwards. When Steve comes towards him he flinches. Steve stops, eases back slow enough that Clint can watch him.

“Don’t be stupid,” Natasha says, and tugs him forward by the sleeve. “Let’s eat.” Clint shuffles to the table, sitting carefully.

“Nice jacket,” Bruce says, handing him a couple slices of bread. Clint drops them in a new bowl and wraps the coat a little tighter around himself.

“Yes,” he says.

//

Clint is prepared for his door to be locked, his movements to be watched and ordered out before him, and so when he’s completely ignored and left alone he’s at a bit of a loss. He wanders, up and down the hallways and into the kitchen and out again. He passes the gym and lingers at the door, but Thor and Steve are inside, spotting each other and chatting quietly, and he decides to wait until the room is empty to try out one of the slick machines.

Bruce is buried in the fridge, frowning at the contents, and folders and papers are lined up neatly on the table, pen lying casually tossed aside. Clint skirts the edges of the room, ducks out into the garage before Bruce can draw him into conversation.

“Hey,” Tony says, and Clint draws up short, his fingers on the knob to the door that leads to the little side alley that connects to the yard.

“Hey,” he mutters, cursing himself. Tony must have been hidden behind the big SUV, obscured from Clint’s line of vision. He hovers at the edge of the hood, and Tony waves at him. He’s sitting at a table, with bits and pieces of wires and metal spread out before him.

“Going out?”

“Dunno,” Clint says reluctantly, shuffling a little closer.

“Come here,” Tony says, beckoning, and Clint goes, obedient. “Hold this,” Tony says, and waits for Clint’s hands to come up. “Like this,” Tony says, and moves carefully, slowly, so Clint can watch him, positions Clint’s fingers around the wires. “Don’t move,” he says, and picks up something else, like a bulky pen with a sharp tip connected to a battery. It smells like hot metal and chemicals.

Clint leans in despite himself. “What’s that?”

“Soldering iron,” Tony says, dabbing it at a rag. Clint comes closer, peering down at the little lines of liquid silver. “Hold still,” Tony says, grinning, and Clint jerks back, flushing. He concentrates on holding the wiring just so, and Tony hums as he moves the iron around and back again. He puts it down and holds up a finger. “Don’t move. It has to set.” He moves around the back of Clint and then stops. He walks around the table the other way, so Clint can watch him, and some of the tension bleeds out of Clint’s spine. He comes back with a stool.

“Thanks,” Clint says, and perches on it awkwardly.

“Wanna see something cool?” Tony goes to a closet and struggles with the doorknob, cursing, before wrenching it open and rolling something out. “Tadaa!”

Clint blinks. “What is it?”

Tony frowns at him. “It’s a robot. He’s not done yet, that’s all. Look.” He fiddles with something and the robot abruptly whirs, straightening. It clicks at Clint like it’s trying to talk to him.

“Hi,” Clint says, and the robot opens and closes its claw at him in a friendly fashion. Clint smiles. “He looks done,” Clint says. Tony heaves a sigh.

“He’s supposed to help me,” he complains. “All he does is set shit on fire.”

“I like him,” Clint says, and the robot rolls to his side and makes another series of clicks. It reaches up to hold the wires and Clint beams. “He helps,” he says.

“Suck up,” Tony says to the robot.

“What’s his name?” Clint asks, relinquishing the wires to the robot’s claw.

“Useless,” Tony says, “Scrap Metal, Bane of My Existance, Technical Frankensolder.” The robot makes a dejected noise and Clint glares. Tony raises his hands up in appeasement. The robot chooses this moment to accidently drop his claw almost two feet in less than second. The wires break apart with a light snap and something on the table smashes in two. ”Moron,” Tony curses, jumping for the table, and Clint bites his lip. “Dummy,” Tony says with visible effort. “His name is Dummy.” Clint smiles, and Dummy rolls behind him, hiding from Tony. Tony glares at him.

“Go do something useful,” he says, “and take that deathtrap with you.”

//

“I have something for you,” Natasha says, and then pauses. “We have something for you,” she corrects. Clint lays down a four of hearts and Dummy’s claw twists before spearing a six of diamonds and holding it out. Clint jerks it from the claw and puts it on the pile before laying his hand down. He stands, cracking his spine, and shrugs on his jacket. Natasha leads him to the kitchen, Dummy trailing behind, and Clint perks up at the smell of food.

“Present first,” Natasha says, “dinner later.”

“Spoilsport,” Tony says, but slips a box from underneath the table. Thor makes sad eyes at the meatloaf, and Bruce and Steve both grin at Clint. Clint slides into his space at the table, his elbows banging the plate against the utensils, and rips the box open. There’s a black rectangle nestled in tissue paper, and when Clint picks it up it’s heavy in his palm.

“There’s a button,” Tony says, “on the side, there. Keep your hands clear of the top and bottom.” Clint presses the button, mindful of where his fingers are, and the rectangle snaps apart into an elegant black bow, strung with a strong length of some kind of string. Clint tests his finger against it, and it bites firmly into the pad of his finger.

“You’re not allowed guns,” Natasha says, “not until you’re eighteen, and we thought this might be a good alternative.”

“I’m building arrows that blow shit up,” Tony says cheerfully.

Clint runs a nail over the grip. “I don’t know how to use it,” he says unhappily, and tries to hand it back.

“Thor does,” Bruce says, pushing it back at him. Thor rips his longing gaze away from the meatloaf and grunts.

“I am most skilled in the ways of the bow,” he says, and then looks wheedling. “Let us now dine?”

“Yes,” Bruce says firmly, and Clint rests the bow in his lap for the entirety of the meal.

//

The first time Clint tries to shoot the bow he misses the target by almost fifty years and smacks the inside of his forearm so severely with the recoil snap he has to sit down for a second. Thor laughs so hard he has to support himself on a nearby tree. Clint struggles up to try again and Thor stops him.

“Your bow does not suit you,” he says, taking it from Clint’s hands. “Stark can fix it.”

Clint frowns. “I’m left handed,” he argues.

“You are right-eyed,” Thor says simply, striding for the house, and Clint has to half-jog to keep up. He’d argue more, but when Tony gives him the new bow he only misses the target by twenty feet and Thor declares him naturally gifted.

The leaves are turning yellow gold by the time Clint manages to hit inside the target for the first time, and his whoop is echoed by Dummy’s whistle. He’s just barely managed to get it in the outer ring of the circle, and Dummy trundles down to yank it out and bring it back. Clint runs a finger over the head of the arrow, fingers bruised and cracked and calloused over, and smiles.

Thor fits him for a little piece of leather that goes between his fingers to pad the weight of the draw, tells him when he’s got a break in his wrist form, rolls his elbow over into the right position so he doesn’t have to wear an arm guard. Clint starts hitting the bullseye without fail, over and over again, from beyond the range of the bow, from convoluted positions, with either eye and either hand.
This, he thinks, This I am good at.

//

Clint tries to button his jeans and can’t. He changes back into his pajama pants and goes to find Bruce.

“My clothes don’t fit,” he says from the hallway, and Bruce turns.

“I was wondering when that would happen,” he says, and then, “come in, stop lurking about the doorway.” Clint shuffles in, and Bruce smiles.

“You look better,” he says, “this place agrees with you?”

“I like it,” Clint says, and Bruce shrugs.

“Natasha was going to go get you new things next week, I’ll tell her to move it up.”

“Thanks,” Clint says, and then stops. He chews on his lips, and takes a deep breath. He sidles closer to Bruce, until their shoulders are touching, and then leans deliberately into Bruce’s space. Bruce goes very still, and then puts a hand on Clint’s shoulder. He squeezes once, hard enough that Clint’s eyes jerk to his face, and then lets go.

“Let’s get lunch,” he says, and Clint swallows, steps back.

“Yeah,” he says.

//

Clint’s frame fills out the jacket now, and there are signs of wear in the elbows and cuffs. His new boots crunch in the first snow of the year, and he stops, breath held in his chest. The wind whistles through the trees, and when Clint exhales a little puff of white slides from his lips and joins the thin sheets of snow being thrown up from the ground. He steps again, slower slide of his foot that slithers through the thin snow on the ground and exposes the bedding of old pine needles and leaves stained brown with the beginnings of frost rot. He crouches by a tree to cut the wind and goes to take out his map when he sees her.

She’s a doe, head bowed to nose through the snow, and the dappled brown of her coat breaks up her shape against the trees, Her tail moves, a tiny flicker, and Clint sees the white of it, there and gone and there again. Clint slides his bow from his shoulder, without moving any other part of his body, and half expects her to run before he manages to get ready. She doesn’t, not even when Clint, slowly, so slowly, slips an arrow from the quiver and fits it to the string. He notches it and brings his arms up to bear, pulling the draw past his ear. He takes a deep breath and she turns to look at him.

He freezes, and stares. The doe doesn’t move except for the twist of one of her ears, and she looks at him. Clint is close enough to see the stillness of her dark pupils. He raises the bow, heart pounding in his temples, to her heart, and then to above it. He waits, waiting for her to run, until his vision starts to go spotty and he releases on an exhale. She doesn’t run, doesn’t take a single step, doesn’t move until Clint’s arrow punches into her. She staggers, and then crumples almost in place, and Clint waits almost five seconds, looking at the dark lump of her shape before he stands. He walks to her, ignoring the noise he’s making, and casts off the camouflaged poncho he’d been wearing, leaving him in fur lined jeans and his green jacket.

The doe’s tawny neck is stretched out, and her eyes are open still. Clint kneels, reaching for his knife, but she puffs out twin streams of white from her nose and no more. He runs a hand over her soft head, behind to where her ears are like silk, and then back down to close her eyes. The snow around her is seeping slowly, darker and darker red, and Clint can smell the blood on her. He sits with her, his fingers in her ruff, and feels the warmth leave her, colder and colder by the minute and the wind numbing his ears.

Thor finds him, finally, not trying to be quiet, and Clint hears him coming five minutes before Thor comes into view. Clint wipes at his eyes. “I wanted to-“ he says, and runs out of words. He runs a hand down her untouched flank, back to her rump. Thor reaches for the arrow and Clint makes a hard movement, aborted before he reaches halfway to Thor’s wrist, but Thor sees it and stops.

“Verily,” he murmurs, almost to himself, and steps back. Clint cuts it out, as gently as he can, and leaves it lying in the snow.

“You should give thanks,” Thor says, and Clint’s lip twists up in a sneer.

“To god?” he snarls, and then ducks his head again.

“To her,” Thor says, and Clint frowns. The doe is very cold under his fingers, and starting to stiffen. Clint leans low to speak in her ear and stops, searching for words.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers finally, and straightens again. Thor kneels beside him and pulls out a large knife.

“You’ve left her lying cold too long,” he says. “the meat is spoiled.” He stands. “Come, we leave her to the creatures of these woods.”

“I killed her for nothing,” Clint says, clenching his hands in her fur.

“Will you hunt again?”

“No,” Clint says. His hands drop to his lap, and he looks at his fingers. Thor offers him a hand.

“There are other predators here,” he says. “It is not for nothing.”

Clint slings his bow back over his shoulder and lets Thor pull him to his feet.

//

Clint is woken up by the squeak of the door and Natasha’s boot nudging his shoulder. He rubs at his eyes and Dummy whirs slowly, booting up. Clint sits up.

“What?” he asks.

Natasha raises an eyebrow at him. “Sleeping in the closet?” Clint leans against the wall, yawning a little, and smoothes the piles of blankets around him. Dummy trundles forward, out of his corner and past Natasha into the room.

“It’s warm,” Clint mutters, and shoves himself to his feet. Dummy waves a shirt at him from behind Natasha and Clint stalks past her to get it.

“You don’t feel safe here,” Natasha says, lines between her eyebrows. Clint shrugs, and takes the jeans Dummy is hitting him in the hip with.

“I’ll be down in a minute,” he says.

“Fine,” Natasha says. “We’re going in to meet with the prosecutor handling your case today.”

“Fine,” Clint says.

//

The lawyer is tall and blond with slick hair and a gun-metal suit, and he eyes Clint with regret. “Was better when you looked like a refugee,” he says offhandedly, and Natasha’s eyes narrow very slightly.

“Sorry,” Clint says drily, and the lawyer snorts.

“Try to look downtrodden during your testimony,” he says, and gestures for Clint to sit down at the conference table. “Let’s get started.”

They’re walking back to elevator when two men in dark clothes and ski masks come around the corner of the hallway at a dead run. Clint feels something hit his chest with a punching thump, and he spins with the force of it, hitting the wall and fighting to breathe. Natasha twists in the air, something coming out of her boot with a hiss-a whipthin cord of some kind, and she uses it to loop around the first man’s neck, kicking herself off the wall to flip over his head and land behind him.

Clint finally manages to inhale, and he lurches to his feet before flinging himself at the second man in a full body tackle. The man had turned to aim at Natasha, and didn’t even manage to brace himself before Clint hits him. They go down in a tangle of limbs, and Clint breaks three of his fingers mostly by accident, knocking the gun across the floor. He throws an elbow that makes Clint’s nose crunch painfully, but Clint lands a knee in the man’s genitals and that buys him more than enough to time to get to his feet. Natasha is checking the other man, lying prone and unmoving, for weapons.

“You got him?” she asks. Clint takes a step back to kick him, a full swing, and then another, a harder, shorter kick. He stomps his heel down in the small of the man’s back. He drops hard to the floor and doesn’t move.

“Yes,” he says, and the marshalls who’d been guarding the lawyer spill into the hallway.

Natasha shoots Clint a pleased look as she steps back to let the marshalls take over. “Nice.”

Clint takes another pained breath, pokes at his nose gingerly. “Thanks,” he says, his voice unnaturally high. Natasha pushes him back against the wall and pats him down. Clint winces as she presses against the bulletproof vest he was wearing under his jacket.

“Bruised ribs,” she says, sliding her fingers under the vest, “maybe cracked, not floating. Lucky they used a small caliber.”

“Nose is broken,” Clint tells her and then shrugs when she arches an inquiring eyebrow. “not the first time.”

“I’ll set it,” Natasha says. “Bruce can handle your ribs when we move.” Clint feels a little fall in his chest. He likes the house, his room, the patch of woods that he knows better than anyone else.

“Okay,” he says.

“We’re not going back,” Natasha says once they’ve changed cars twice. “Two guys with small weapons? They were on the lawyer, and took the chance to try and get us. They’ll be expecting us to move now, staying put is a good option.”

“Okay,” Clint says again, and Natasha leans across him to open up the glove compartment.

“Here,” she says, and hands him a chemical icepack. Clint punches it twice and shakes it before settling it carefully around the bridge of his nose. Natasha drums her fingers on the steering wheel. “I could stay in your room tonight,” she says suddenly. “Just for the night. If you wanted.”

Clint thinks about the way she’d snapped that man’s neck after nearly garroting him, how she’d trusted he could handle the other guy, left him for Clint to subdue even after he’d taken a hit in the vest.

“I’m okay,” he says, and Natasha nods once. “Thanks, though,” he adds, and she smiles.

“I like you,” she says, and it sounds like a secret. Clint smiles.

“I know,” he says.

//

“What happens to me after the trial?” Clint asks Steve, and Steve jumps, his mug shattering to pieces in the sink.

“Sorry,” Steve says, “I didn’t hear you.” Clint comes further into the kitchen, peers at the small saucepan heating on the stovetop.

“What are you making?”

“Hot chocolate,” Steve says, and then leans around to check the hallway. “don’t say it too loud, Tony will eat everything you love.” Clint laughs, quietly, and gets two mugs down from the cupboard.

“Give me some too,” he demands, and Steve smiles suddenly, wide and exhilarated. Clint pauses.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Steve says, taking the mugs from him. “what were you saying?”

“What happens to me after the trial?”

Steve starts pouring liquid from the pan to the cups, and Clint can smell the chocolate and milk and cream. “You’ll go into the program properly, new identity, new city.” He hands Clint his mug and Clint frowns.

“Bruce makes it with the tiny marshmallows.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Then get Bruce to make it for you, I don’t know where he keeps them.” Clint frowns into his cup harder. “You’re young,” Steve says, “you can go to school, live a real life. Do whatever you want.”

“I want to stay with you,” Clint admits, and Steve sighs. They drink in silence for a few moments.

“They’ll let you pick what city you want.” Steve offers, “whatever name you want. And there’ll be a fund for your school, too. We’ll make sure of it.”

Clint finishes his hot chocolate at the same time Steve does, and they rinse their mugs at the sink, side by side. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” Steve says on the way to his room.

“Goodnight,” Clint says, and sleeps curled around Dummy, his fingers twisted in the sheets.

//

The day before the trial they throw him a party. There’s a cake with his picture on it and the hand frosted words Hope Loki doesn’t kill you! written in Bruce’s neat hand and a new jacket from Thor, leather and hooded and the same colour green as his old one. Tony gives him a high tech quiver and a pair of exquisite archery gloves; Steve gifts him a knife with braced knucklegrips.

Clint eats a piece of cake with a chunk of his face on it and Tony pokes little holes into the rest of the cake, muttering about voodoo.

“You’ll take care of Dummy,” Clint asks, playing with a layer of jelly filling, and Tony stops from sticking toothpicks into Clint’s cake nose.

“I will,” he says, “I promise.” Clint smiles.

Natasha gives him a card, and Clint has to push himself up against the wall to prevent Tony from reading it.

He reads it three times the day she gives it to him slips it into the inner pocket of his new jacket, reads it every night before he goes to bed.

//

Clint keeps his spine very straight, his steps very measured. His hands don’t shake when he rests them on the bible, and his voice doesn’t falter when he calmly and methodically details everything he’s seen Loki do and order done. He looks Loki in the eye when he identifies him for the record, and Loki smiles at him, that same sharp tipped shark grin he’d given Clint nearly every day for as much of his life as he can remember. Clint looks at him now and thinks I win.

Clint sits in the front row until the jury comes out of deliberation, and smiles once, very quickly, when they announce him to be guilty.

“I want to live in Ohio,” he tells the marshalls, “Zaynesville. I want to attend Maynesville High School.” The marshall looks amused. “They have an excellent Archery Club,” Clint says calmly. “And the age to legally wield a firearm is sixteen.”

“Your life,” the marshall says, and does the paperwork.

//

Richard Brimsway turns eighteen in Zaynesville, Ohio and packs a duffel bag. He pulls on his jacket and slings his bag across his back. He walks out of his apartment without looking back and stands at a bustop, slips sunglasses across his face. He rubs a thumb across the bow calluses against his first two fingers and the gun calluses on the pad of his trigger finger. There’s almost eight hundred dollars in cash in his pocket. He takes a card out of his inner pocket and opens it. It smells like Thor’s shampoo and latex, Steve’s cologne, gun oil and engine grease.

My name is Clint, he thinks, I was born in Iowa. My birthday is in May, my mother’s name was Mary. He sloughs Richard Brimsway from himself like a snake shedding its skin, steps on the bus and leans against the wall of the bus, his head against the glass window. He can feel the weight of the knife in his sleeve, the bow folding up at his hip. He runs a finger across the heavy ink soaked into the cardstock and smiles.

Turn eighteen, come find us.