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“How do you do it?” Tony asks, one day.
They’re down at the shooting range - or, more aptly, Clint’s down at the shooting range and Tony’s migrated down in order to bother him. He’s been banned from the lab for another week more thanks to last Saturday, when he’d set the entire thing on fire. How that happened, Clint has no idea, but he can hazard some guesses. It still amazes him that Tony hasn’t yet found a way to sneak into the lab; he probably has some projects squirreled away somewhere anyway. Whatever they are, they aren’t enough to keep Tony satisfied, so. He’s down here, bugging Clint.
“What do you mean?” Clint asks, nocking another arrow. He pulls it back, knuckles skimming his cheek, and breathes in. As he releases the air in his lungs, the arrow shunks! right and true into the bullseye of the target in front of him. “How do I do what?”
Tony rolls his eyes. Clint can see the movement in his peripherals, but even if he couldn’t, he can hear it in Tony’s voice.
“Now, now,” says Tony. “Don’t play dumb with me, tweety-bird. How do you manage to never miss? Like - I’ve seen you nock this bow back almost a hundred times alone today and each one keeps landing right here.” To punctuate his point, Tony taps his heart, drawing Clint’s full attention.
Clint drops his bow to his side, ignoring the way the end of the range whirls as it replaces the target, and shrugs. “Practice, I guess.” He gives his bow a long look. “I mean, I’ve been doing this since I was fourteen.”
“That’s it?” Tony sounds skeptical; most people are, when they find out that Clint doesn’t have a single advantage to his name. “Practice? So, what, I train for fifteen years and I’ll be just as spiffy as you? Please. There’s got to be something more to it. What’s your vision like?”
Questions, questions. That’s Tony for you. This time, it’s Clint’s turn to roll his eyes. He draws another arrow from the quiver on his hip and nocks the next arrow, flexing his shoulders as he pulls the string back. “I’ve just been doing it for a while,” he says, releasing the shot. “That’s all there is to it. Nothing special here, promise.”
If Nat were down here, she’d give him a look, but it’s not like Clint’s trying to be self-depreciating. It’s just the truth: he’s been holding a bow in his hands for, like Tony said, over fifteen years. When you spend that much time pouring yourself into a weapon, it’s hard to come out the other side less than a pro. Besides, Bucky’s the exact same - just with a gun. Not that Clint misses with guns either, it’s just - he just means that it’s normal. Clint’s still normal.
Normal, in this tower, feels like a curse.
“I don’t believe it,” Tony brashly replies. “How often did you train?” His words take on a ribbing tone, a smirk creeping into his voice. “What was training like, for little Hawkeye? Daddy ask you to come on outside to shoot at some soda cans?”
Beer cans would be more apt, Clint thinks sardonically. It was Barney who used to take him out with Dad’s old shotgun, sometimes - back then, Clint couldn’t hit the broadside of a barn. While Barney would land a bullet in every single one of Dad’s discarded bottles, Clint was stuck on the sidelines, wondering how in the world he did it. It wasn’t like Dad could shoot for shit. Barney just had a knack for it, and that knack eventually became Clint’s. When Barney had taught him how to snap a coin to use it as a projectile, he’d joked that ‘good aim’ was a Barton family secret.
That was a trick he’d shown Tony during one of his fancy ass parties: bored out of his mind, Clint had asked around for as many quarters as he could find, and spent a good half-hour shooting at random beer bottles and wine glasses people had left around. Tony, upon catching him in the act, gleefully started following him around. He’d shown the same trick to Grills too, once upon a time. In the end, though, neither Grills, Clint’s tenants, or Tony’s brilliant mind could replicate the technique.
I could just make a robot that does this, Tony had sourly remarked, when he failed to snap the coin yet again. God, Legolas, how in the hell do you do these things?
Yeah. Barton family secret, Clint’s ass. It was all experience. Barney taught him the trick and Clint, in turn, spent hours perfecting it. Buck Chisholm and Jacques Duquesne put a bow in his hands and Clint put as much time as he could into making every shot he could.
“Something like that,” Clint replies. He figures that the longer he avoids giving Tony a straight answer, the more likely he’ll be to get bored and drop it. It’s not like he’s lying when he says it’s all practice: it is. Weeks were spent outside, just Clint, his bow, and some hay, in order to make his skills what they were now.
Of course, there was more to it. There was the circus and the threat of losing all he had if he fucked up the act; then, later, there was Buck, standing over his shoulder through night and day.
Clint practiced. He fucked up and he learned to do better, so he practiced some more. Back when it was him and Barney, back when Carson’s Circus was still a bright future, Clint would go outside and shoot until his fingers bled. His target, back then, was a little wooden circle nailed into whatever tree he had nearby at the time. As he got better, the target moved to the side of his trailer. Day in, day out, sun and rain. Nock the arrow, release the shot. Over and over, until his hands cramped and his fingers slipped on the string.
Duquesne used to spend afternoons with him, watching as he improved. He’d lay out promises and compliments like they were worth something; like Clint was worth something. He’d tell Clint that he’d be a star, that he was going to bring home the crowds, that he was going to be the star act one of these days. Barney would sit outside with him too, in the beginning. As Clint’s aim got better and the two got older, Barney’s gaze started to harden. He stopped watching so much - stopped caring if Clint snapped himself in two for them both.
Barney got bitter. Clint got harder in return, calluses building up on his fingertips. He’d stay out and practice for longer. Barney would go out with Duquesne in the dead of the night. When they settled into bed next to each other, in their too-small trailer, they’d pretend like they were still doing it for the other.
Part of him misses it. Part of him knows that those days, where Barney sat in the grass and cheered him on, are over. At least he’s got Tony, who laughs when Clint hits the bullseye yet again.
“See,” Tony says, still going on, “I’m trying to picture you as a kid, holding this big-ass bow that’s almost twice your size. I bet you had chubby cheeks. Did you have chubby cheeks, Barton?” He wiggles his fingers and laughs harder, this time at his own self. “Stubby little hands?"
Quite the contrary, but Clint knows better than to point that out.
He nocks an arrow. Breathes in. The quiver’s almost empty; its lessened weight reminds him that after a few more shots, he’ll have to go and gather his arrows. Maybe he’ll call it quits after this round, ask Tony if he wants to ditch and grab pizza - maybe he’ll do another and listen to Tony blabber on. It’s only a matter of time before Tony gets truly bored and heads off to find Thor or Steve.
Buck never used to wander away - not like Barney did. He’d just stand there, watching for all of the hours that he forced Clint to stand there, nocking and nocking and nocking again. Fingers bleeding, face bruised, shoulders aching. In the circus, he couldn’t miss for risk of causing a bad show for the audience. After the circus, he couldn’t miss because Buck wouldn’t allow it. He supposes he has Buck to thank for all of this; for the spot in SHIELD for those ten years and, now, his place on the Avengers.
If it weren’t for all the time Buck spent, watching and punishing and teaching, Clint might not be so adept - so unable to miss.
The truth of it is, Clint can’t miss because he’s never been allowed the chance to.
He coughs, cutting Tony off mid-sentence. “My first bow was pink - Mama got it at my baby shower.”
It’s a weak joke. Tony still slaps a hand against the other stall’s counter, laughing full-bellied, and Clint flashes him an even weaker smile.
As Tony chuckles away, Clint steps into the range to collect his arrows. Sometimes it’s hard to think about the fact that everyone else thinks he’s just good at what he does - that there’s something predestined there that makes him predisposed to shooting so well. There’s no way to tell them that there isn’t anything but grueling work. The only thing that makes Clint so seemingly special is the long nights and the bleeding fingers. It’s the memory of Buck and his rage that molded Clint into something better.
“Or maybe,” Clint says, faintly, “I just have a knack for it.”