Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The familiar smell of too-sweet cotton candy mixes with the stench of the crowd as the Avengers thread their way to the seats purchased with the largess of Stark Industries. ‘Team Bonding’ Cap had suggested and there was no way for Clint to deny the idea without revealing far more than he’d ever wanted. All he could do was exchange a wary glance with Natasha and resign himself.

The archer can pick out the carnies in a single moment, even those watching the crowd and dressed as spectators. There’s a loose-limbed comfort, a relaxed set to their shoulders even when breathing fire or making jokes for a crowd as the big top slowly fills. It’s nearly unconscious, the way Clint mimics it- the rolling gait of a man for whom the entire world is performing and he the only audience, even if the truth is very nearly opposite. The crunch of peanut shells underfoot brings back memories, not all good. In fact, mostly not good and he realizes he’s been quiet for too long and the team is looking at him strangely. There’s a second’s worth of hesitation before he grins and shrugs.

“What? I’m trying not to disturb the delicate balance of shells, clearly. It’s impolite,” he replies.

The disgruntled look on Thor’s face shows distress and he turns to the nearest circus member with an apology on his lips.

“Oh Most Excellent of Entertainers! Please forgive us our trespasses upon your sacred carpet and hold this not against us!” His voice is a booming distraction from Clint’s relative silence and the interaction with the startled carnie is just amusing enough to divert the group’s attention.

Hawkeye is just beginning to wish he’d called in sick, or dead, or temporarily brain-altered when the Sousa march plays; the music filters down from speakers in a tinny call to arms and the show begins as it always has and always will- with an unseen announcer and a giant smile from the ringleader.

The experience is so familiar it’s nearly disorienting, and Clint feels vaguely anxious until he realizes what he’d be doing right this moment ten years ago. Once identified, the nervous energy passes from anxiety to a tension in his jaw that doesn’t loosen for the first several acts.

‘The best markswoman in the world’ is announced and he can feel Tony snickering, the snarky retort lying dormant on his tongue as she takes the first few shots at her assistant, whose hair is a ridiculous amount of mussed and floppy, even for a performer. What catches his eye, though, is not the hair or the painted face or even the horrible, awful costume they’ve put him in. What catches Clint’s attention is the stillness of the assistant, the perfectly poised calm- he seems nearly bored and that’s the look Clint recognizes from his own experience.

There is something about this boy that rings true, that resonates. The look in his eyes- it’s the look of a man who has been given the choice of kill or die and chosen to survive and now nothing else matters. Hawkeye slips away from the seated heroes unnoticed, a noiseless shadow among the gathered and diverted crowd. Years of training, decades of tiptoeing around big tops and tight ropes serves him well as he wends his way through the mess of tents in front of the trailers that make up the majority of the living quarters.

He’s hit with a wave he recognizes, the smell of too many people who know far too much about each other, and he can’t help the tiny grin that tugs at the corners of his mouth.

Trowa is done for the afternoon show, his habit of having dangerous things thrown at him while in front of an audience fully fulfilled. Out of costume, he feels smaller, lighter, as if he’s removed some heavy armour that would have protected him but also left his reflexes hamstrung. It’s just as well too, because he barely notices the disturbances before its too late, marks in the dust in front of the trailer he shares. He’s got the door half-open when he’s yanked inside roughly, a strong calloused hand wrapped around his mouth.

Adrenaline- no fear- pumps through him. His throwing knives are out before he can register that he’s being dumped on the couch without harm, and then he’s disarmed between that thought and the next. His attacker is good, better than good- better than Trowa for the moment, but all the man seems to want to do it look at him.

“Name. Now. And then I want the story-” Clint cuts himself off, because that’s really not the best way to begin a friendly investigation but he can’t help it. He’s gone off-book, diving headfirst into the past and coming up gasping.

“The story of how you got here. The real one.”

The pilot thinks for a moment, the hidden threats barely registering on his face. He takes the time to consider the man, now seated directly in front of the door, catching his eye only once.

“Name’s Trowa Barton.” His eyes flick dispassionately over the interrogator, noting the oddly familiar bruising where the sleeves of his shirt have ridden up. Archer, then, and the calloused hands speak of warrior; the quick, efficient abduction speaks of training.

“Ain’t it clear? I ran away from home t’join the circus. Every child’s dream. Why, y’wanna run away with us too archerboy?” The drawl is overdone and forced and Trowa notices the slight quirk of his lips at that.

“Your accent is horrendous. The next time someone tries to get you to talk, I suggest going for the ‘I’m-just-a-mute-in-a-costume’ schtick. Seems to work for the mimes pretty damn well,” Clint snips, intent on the kid in front of him, who can’t be older than sixteen.

“BARTON!” The shout is loud and undeniably Cap’s voice but they both start, both looking at the door. Trowa raises his eyebrows, just a hint of expression, and Clint inclines his head a fraction to the side, as if saying- so?

The thundering of mayhem is louder now, and close and it only takes a single look to pass between the two men and they’re flying out the door. Clint knows he’s lost the kid- if it were him in that situation, facing down a pursuer of any brand or stripe, Clint would be gone in moments. The sight that greets them both is as ridiculous as it is impossible- Thor’s arms are wrapped around the giant head of what looks to be a huge autonomous suit of armor while Tony flies around it, looking for weak points. He can’t see Widow, presumably she’s gone looking for the kill switch and Clint is jerked out of his stunned reverie by Captain America’s bellow of “HAWKEYE WHERE THE HELL HAVE YOU BEEN- EMPS. NOW-” before he’s cut of by a swing of the thing’s arms.

Clint is in motion before Cap’s shout ends, drawing the compact bow and quiver from the backpack and firing a round of electromagnetic pulse arrows into what seem to be key points of entry- joints, main circuitry and the like. It stops the machine for a brief moment, but Clint can’t follow through. His legs are swept from under him, and god he feels like an idiot when he sees the boy- Trowa- standing above him, his own bow pointed at his throat.

“Call them off. Now.” The brunette’s voice is soft and calm, nearly as commanding as Hawkeye’s own and this is when Clint know they’re in trouble.

“Figures. The perfect place to hide a killer robot would be the circus,” Clint replies.

Chapter Text

Figures. The perfect place to hide a killer robot would be the circus,” Clint replies. He’s not sure, but the archer thinks he sees a flicker of amusement in those dark eyes before the bow is brandished again.

“Call them off,” Trowa repeats and Clint’s eyes narrow. He telegraphs -left- with his hips, and when his attacker leans to block him, flips around to sweep right and knock the man down into the dirt campground with him. Disarmed but never helpless, Clint’s knee presses to the pilot’s throat with just enough pressure to threaten but not enough to choke him into the blackness of loss of consciousness.

“No, you call him off,” he replies with a jerk of his head to the giant killer robot (and really, his life has become so much stranger than it was the last time he was kneeling in the dirt of a campground with the chorus of a circus behind him). Trowa makes a strangled sound and the knee pressuring his throat lessens ever so slightly so he can speak.

“Heavyarms- TRITON DROWSY AS THE GOD OF SLEEP-” Trowa shouts the self-destruct sequence in a single breath and waits for the inevitable blast. The entire campground-turned-battleground seems to hold its breath as the light flickers behind the gundam’s eyes.

And then it continues to move.

Clint’s eyes snap to Trowa’s face, taking in the slightly open mouth, the wide eyes, the sliver of holy fuck that didn’t work.

“Not what you expected? Sleep tight, Barton,” he mutters before clocking him over the head with the but of his bow- not a blow to kill, a blow to incapacitate. They’ll be having words later, but for now Hawkeye has hero-ing to do. He lets the kids head drop to the ground slowly, and half-carries, half-drags him into the shelter of the trailer, still close enough to keep an eye on possible retribution, but far enough away from the action to keep him safe- well as safe as he’s going to be.

“WE’VE GOT A CIV OUT HERE, HAWKEYE COMING IN-” he shouts, wishing for a comm link and knowing his voice is going to be shit by the end of this clusterfuck. Clint climbs the trailer and leaps to the next, trying to get a good position from which to fire. He hits the giant robot of doom in the knee-like joints with two more EMPs before spotting Natasha, red hair flashing as she jams the gas pedal of one of the trailers and tumbles away with a smirk.

It crashes spectacularly into the enemy, and then disappears with a flash of bright blue; the smell of ozone and magic fills the air.

“Fuck,” Clint curses. He’d recognize that effect anywhere. Goddamn trickster god probably thought it would be funny- or there’s another situation that needs their attention and Loki’s just distracting them. If that’s the case, then they need to wrap this up quickly.

The gleam off the robot’s head piece flashes across the battle field as it writhes against the hold Thor has around it’s…neck? For lack of a better term, Clint is just gonna call it a neck in his report. The god of thunder chuckles merrily and Clint notices a slight gap in the…armour. Yeah, armour.

“HOLD HIM, THOR,” he shouts, and springs across the open space with a speed that’s only hampered by his haphazard patterning to avoid any incoming projectiles. The way up is clear, handholds and footholds appearing effortlessly, worked into the design of the massive tech; Clint has a good feeling about his hunch now and he works faster, climbing as far as he can until the holds run out.

The jerking motion of the giant robot of doom makes it difficult to hang on, but Clint has bested the Midnight Stallion and climbed more than his fair share of collapsing buildings for this to be a real challenge. Casting his gaze around, he spots a tiny concealed panel and pops off the cover. A handprint, blue and glowing and practically crackling with magic, superimposes itself over what seems to be a biological recognition lock of some sort.

“Fuck.”