Work Text:
“Please?” Phil Coulson is sixteen, and much too old to be begging like this, but the circus coming to town is the most exciting thing that’s ever happened to his tiny corner of Oregon and like hell Phil is going to miss it.
“We’ll see.” Mrs. Coulson relents with a sigh. She still means ‘no’, but it’s a step up from the emphatic “Not in a million years, Phillip!” he has been getting for the last week and a half.
According to their brightly coloured posters, the circus doesn’t arrive for another two weeks. That’s plenty of time for Phil to change his mother’s mind.
Phil joins the throng of people filtering into the giant red-and-blue striped tent set up in an accommodating farmer’s recently harvested field. There’s a chill in the air, late August bringing with it cooler weather, but Phil is warm with excitement. The tent is brightly lit from within, and full of bodies and excited chatter. A handful of men and women in deep blue jumpsuits scuttle about in the three large open circles in the middle of the tent, clambering up the posts supporting the canvas ceiling and fiddling with electrics and ropes in a last-minute effort to get everything ready for the start of the show. Phil is already enthralled, and the actual show hasn’t even started yet.
Phil pushes to the edge of his seat as the lights dim and a spotlight begins a slow swing around the three rings before settling on a tall, lanky man in a worn coat and patchwork top hat. The man walks to the middle of the centre ring where two of the individuals in jumpsuits have placed a small round pedestal. The man steps up, and holds both his arms wide, waiting a moment for the noise level to die down before he speaks.
“I,” he says imperiously, “Am Ringmaster Carson! Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to my carnival of traveling wonders!”
At this cue, half a dozen acrobats twirl and flip their way into the main ring, working their way seamlessly and easily through an impressive array of tricks. Phil watches with baited breath as the acrobats are followed by silk dancers, spinning down from the ceiling in death-defying drops; lion tamers, who have the terrifying beasts trained to perform all kinds of tricks; a group of clowns who Phil pretends to find childish; and a beautiful young woman with a plethora of venomous snakes. The tightrope walkers have just given their finals bows and trooped out of the ring when the lights dim again.
“A very special treat for you all” Carson’s voice enters the ring, but Phil can’t see where he’s standing, “This young man has never performed for anyone else before this night. You are uniquely privileged to be the first audience for The Amazing Hawkeye!”
The crowd is still and silent as Carson finishes his introduction and the lights turn out completely, raising back up with a purple tinge to reveal a lone teenaged boy, standing beside a pure white horse. The boy is wearing purple leggings and slippers, with two matching purple armbands wrapped tightly around his biceps. His bare chest is broad, especially considering his age, and sparkles in the low light. The boy’s blond hair is spiked up off of his head, and there’s more purple glitter trailing down his cheeks from his eyes. There’s a strap across the boy’s chest and as he turns, Phil sees that it’s attached to a quiver full of arrows and the boy has a bow slung over one shoulder. Hawkeye climbs carefully onto his saddle-less horse, taking a moment to situate himself properly, before giving a curt nod to someone in the shadows. Another young man steps out, holding a small wooden target. This boy, red haired and wearing one of the blue jumpsuits, stands at the far end of the ring and holds the target up above his head. Hawkeye kicks the horse into a quick trot, slipping the bow off his shoulder and nocking an arrow in a move so quick Phil almost doesn’t see it happen. As Hawkeye completes his circuit of the ring, and hits the furthest point from his target, he quickly lets go of the bowstring and the arrow thuds home into the exact centre of the target. There’s a smattering of applause, but hitting a target from a moving horse is hardly in line with the rest of the amazing feats the audience has been shown that night.
Hawkeye grins, waves at the audience, and slowly stands on the back of his horse, nocking another arrow. He just as slowly pulls one foot up to rest against the knee of his other leg, balancing carefully on his remaining foot. He draws back and looses his second arrow. Phil watches in amazement as the second arrow cleanly slices the first all the way down the shaft, and sinks into the target dead centre.
“Shit.” Phil breathes, gripping the edge of his seat tightly.
The red haired boy sets the target down on the ground, and pulls an apple out of his pocket. He holds the apple up, making sure the audience gets a good look at it before setting it carefully on top of his head. Hawkeye nocks another arrow, and Phil thinks for a moment that he’s just going to do another shot standing on one foot, but Hawkeye grins at the audience again before gripping the bowstring in his teeth and slowly, surely, flips over and stands himself on one hand on the back of his still-moving horse. Hawkeye spreads his legs wide, almost into a perfect split, and aims the nocked arrow between his legs. He draws back by tilting his head and extending the arm holding onto the bow, and finally looses his last arrow. It hits the apple dead on, knocking it off of the other boy’s head, and the crowd goes wild. Hawkeye flips easily off the back of his horse, landing on both feet and waving to the audience again before leading his horse out of the ring.
He grabs the red haired boy on his way past, slinging an arm around his shoulders companionably. The red haired boy scrubs a hand through Hawkeye’s hair, messing it up, and the boys get into a shoving fight as they leave the lit area of the tent and disappear. Phil finds it hard to concentrate on the rest of the show, mind continuously wandering back to that expanse of broad chest, dark eyes, and cocky grin.
Phil knows this is a terrible idea. His curfew is rapidly approaching, and there’s a large sign reading “Employees Only” that he’s bypassing with very little thought to the consequences. But for some unknown reason, Phil feels that it’s very important that he meets The Amazing Hawkeye. Important enough to risk being grounded for the rest of his life, at least.
A large hand claps down on Phil’s shoulder, almost buckling his knees with the force of it.
“Are you lost?” asks a deep voice, with a heavy Russian accent.
Phil turns carefully to come face-to-chest with the largest man he has ever seen.
“I just-“ Phil starts, trying to come up with something, anything, to say to get him out of this.
“He’s with me, Serge.” A voice says from behind Phil.
“Huh.” Serge scoffs, but he lets Phil go, “Of course he is, Barton.”
Phil turns in time to see the red haired boy from the show shrug and grin in a very familiar way.
“You have half an hour.” Serge adds, turning to leave.
“Thanks.” Phil says, once Serge is out of hearing range.
“No problem” Barton replied, shrugging again, “What’s the use of working for a circus if I can’t help guys like you score after the show?”
“Uh…” Phil says, blinking.
“I’m Barney, by the way.” Barney says, holding out a hand to Phil.
“Phil.” Phil replies, taking the offered hand in a firm shake.
“So who are you looking for, Phil?” Barney asks, “Princess Python? She’s pretty bitchy, but you’re in with me so I can probably get her to keep her snakes to herself. Unless you’re into that. Or was it one of the acrobats?”
“Uh…” Phil says again, “Actually… Uh… I was looking for Hawkeye?”
Barney barks out a laugh, “Really?”
Phil nods awkwardly, feeling distinctly knocked off balance by this whole interaction.
“Hey Clint!” Barney calls, “You got yourself your first fan!”
“Fuck off, Barney!” comes the response from the other side of a trailer, “I got six horses to muck out now some jackass went and got himself in with electrical. I ain’t got time for your shit.”
“I’m serious, Clint.” Barney calls back, “There’s some preppy fucker here says he wants to meet you!”
Phil bristles at the description, but then Clint is coming around the side of the trailer and Phil’s brain stutters to a halt. Clint has taken the time to change out of his costume into a pair of worn, ripped jeans and sneakers, though he’s still not wearing a shirt, and his eyes are still heavily lined in black and purple. The glitter catches the light from the trailer the three boys are standing beside. This close, Phil can tell that Clint is no older than himself, maybe even a year or so younger.
“What do you want?” Clint asks, tucking a rag into the waistband of his jeans.
“Uh…” Phil is certainly not usually this ineloquent.
“He wants your autograph, stupid.” Barney says, rolling his eyes, “And probably your body.”
“What?” Phil chokes, “No!”
“What’s wrong with my body?” Clint asks, suddenly affronted.
“Nothing!” Phil says. He has no idea how this conversation got here, or where it’s going now. It’s a distinctly uncomfortable feeling.
“What do you want?” Clint huffs, hooking his thumbs into his pockets and slouching.
Phil honestly has no idea, so he says the first thing that comes to mind, “Your autograph. Like Barney said.”
“Fuck, man.” Clint says, rolling his eyes, “Alright, but you gotta earn it. You know how to muck out a horse?”
As it happens, Phil does. He says as much, and Clint shrugs, leading him back behind the trailer, with Barney cat-calling behind them.
“Phil and Clint, sitting in a tree!”
“Fuck off, Barney!”
Clint isn’t bad company, once Phil has proven his ability to take care of a horse unmonitored. The two of them make it through the six horses in just over an hour (and Phil tries very hard not to think about how that’s just over an hour past his curfew).
“You like beer?” Clint asks as he leads the last horse into its makeshift stall.
“What?” Phil asks, shocked, “No, of course not!”
“Should have known.” Clint says with a snort, “You’re a good kid, aren’t you.”
“I’m older than you are.” Phil argues, “And I’ll have you know that I’m out past my curfew right now.”
“Whoa, sorry man.” Clint says, holding his hands up in mock fear, “Didn’t realize I was dealing with a hardened criminal. Come on, one beer won’t kill you.”
Clint has Phil play look-out as he quietly and efficiently breaks into a trailer. He comes out half a moment later carrying two beers, a pack of cigarettes shoved haphazardly into his pocket.
Clint leads Phil back to the tent, still standing, but empty for the night. Clint hands Phil one of the beers, and pops his own into his mouth by the neck, using his now free hands to start climbing up to the tightrope platform. Phil follows suit awkwardly, making it up the ladder significantly more slowly than Clint had, but making it all the same. Clint pops the top off of his beer against the platform they’re sitting on, then hands it to Phil, taking the unopened beer and repeating his action before taking a long swig.
“Go on.” Clint says after a moment, gesturing towards Phil with his bottle, “It won’t bite.”
Phil hesitantly takes a sip, then promptly chokes.
“That is awful.” Phil says, coughing.
“You get used to it.” Clint says with a shrug.
Phil isn’t sure he wants to get used to it, but he continues to drink it anyway. He doesn’t want Clint to think he’s a square.
“God no.” Clint says, “I want to do something meaningful with my life. I’m not going to be a carny all my life.”
“It seems so exciting, though.” Phil replies. They’re both lying on their backs on their platform, staring up at the red-and-blue canvas ceiling above them. Clint is slowly smoking one of the cigarettes he’d stolen. Phil had refused the one he was offered. Beer was alright, but cigarettes were a whole other level, “I’ve never even been outside Pendleton.”
“The traveling is nice,” Clint agrees, “We even went to Canada once. There wasn’t even any snow, though. Total rip-off.”
“Was it summer?” Phil asks, “You know Canada gets summer too, right?”
“Well sure, I know that now,” Clint says, “I don’t got your fancy education or nothin’ though so I gotta learn by doing.”
Phil snorts. A Grade ten education from Pendleton High School is hardly fancy as far as Phil is concerned. Still, as Clint explained, Clint and Barney’s education came mostly from what the circus’ psychic could teach them on the road.
“Bet there’s lots of stuff I know that you don’t.” Clint says defensively, stubbing out the butt of his cigarette against the wood beneath him and flicking it over the edge of the platform to the sandy circle twenty feet below.
Phil has to agree.
“Archery, for one.” Phil offers.
Clint laughs, “Yeah. I’m real good at that.”
“You are.” Even Phil is surprised by the sincerity with which the words come out.
Clint leans up on his elbow, turning to face Phil, who props himself up to face Clint. They’re close, close enough that Phil can see the freckles dusting Clint’s nose. The way Clint’s eyelashes brush against his cheeks when he blinks. Phil can feel Clint’s breath against his face, and his own heart thumping, suddenly frantic in his chest.
“Can I…?” Clint asks, eyes flicking quickly down to Phil’s lips, then back up.
Phil doesn’t trust his voice, nods instead, and then there are lips on his own. Clint’s lips press against his softly, insistently, and Phil can’t help the sharp gasp as Clint tilts his head just so, and places a hand on Phil’s cheek. Clint moves his hand to Phil’s shoulder, pushing gently until Phil rolls onto his back. Clint follows, climbing awkwardly on top of Phil and holding himself up with a hand on either side of Phil’s head. Clint rolls his hips experimentally and Phil bites out a curse in response.
“Holy shit.” Phil gasps, “Do that again.”
Clint is about to, Phil is sure, when a voice rings out from underneath their platform.
“Hey Clint!” Barney calls, “The police are here looking for your boyfriend!”
“Shit!” Phil cries, spurred by a very different emotion than the last time he said it.
“Shit.” Clint agrees, climbing off of him and sticking his head over the edge of the platform.
“Where are they?” Clint calls.
“In with Carson. You got maybe five minutes before they figure out he’s with you.”
“Shit.” Clint repeats, pushing Phil upright and shooing him towards the ladder, “You gotta run, man.”
“What?” Phil asks, though he does as he’s bid and starts down the ladder.
“You can’t be found here!” Clint explains, “Shit, I’m going to be in so much trouble. You’re going to be in so much trouble. Just go home, man. Pretend you were somewhere else. Anywhere else.”
Phil jumps the last four rungs, landing with a thump in front of Barney, Clint following closely behind.
“Give us a minute, Barney?” Clint asks. Barney shrugs in acquiescence and leaves the tent.
“When can I see you again?” Phil asks, “Can I see you again?”
“We’re in town for the rest of the week.” Clint says, shoving Phil towards the doorway.
“I’ll come back for you.” Phil promises.
Clint grabs Phil by the collar of his t-shirt and pulls him in for another searing kiss, then pulls away just as quickly and shoves Phil out of the tent and into the cold August night. Phil takes a moment to regain his bearings, and by the time he looks back towards the tent, Clint is gone.