Being in the carnival means I live a life on the road; dusty clouds kicking up behind rickety wagons, a broth of black vehicular fumes chugging from exhausts, the metal rides clanking as they're transported down uneven tracks. Crammed in beside the crates and the sacks and the rest of the carnies, we'd play rounds of poker to make the time pass.
Watching the scenery of North America glide by with a fan of cards in my hand was leisurely, even if the wind stunk of diesel and the space was cramped. I was among friends and family; teaching the young 'uns - the second generation of carnies - how to gamble and jesting with the older ones. Between stacking chips and raking in bets of jewellery and wallets, I'd watch the world go by; towns and countryside.
Even if I did spend my life in transit, the caravans in tow, I got to see states and cities I thought I'd never see; I would've had no hope of seeing if it weren't for ditching my cynical brother and everything I knew. Sometimes days or weeks could go by and I wouldn't spare a thought to my old life, my old home. When I did think of home, it wasn't fondly, apart from the small light in my life called Kate Bishop. I owed her. An apology. An explanation. A debt.
Upon arriving at a new location, I was always sent away, with a can of spray paint, to an inconspicuous wall, in the centre of the town, where I was to paint a glyph on the wall. It was ritualistic, and it wasn't until a month into my service that I questioned what the circles and the arrows mean.
"What they're for?" Jacques - my circus encyclopedia - responded. "Vagabond code, my lad!" He said expressively, guiding me towards the camp that was just being assembled again: the big-top pegs were being hammered into the ground to support the metal skeleton.
"What does that mean?" I asked naively, a waver of uncertainty in my voice.
"Surely someone has explained it to you, non?" He raised a menacing eyebrow.
I shook my head.
His arm coddling me close, keeping the conversation quiet, he explained. "When a carnival comes to town, we have to make it clear to other competing carnivals that this is our patch and they need to move on. This is our base of operations!" He hissed. "They'd be stealing our business. Stealing from our customers, ironically!" Jacques chortled.
I slithered out of his grasp. "What do you mean stealing?" My words rattled off into a nervous laugh.
"Oh, Hawkeye!" Jacques chuckled. "Surely you figured out where your pay came from? Why it was in objects, not money?" Jacques shook his head.
"You..?" I was taken aback. "You steal from the carnival goers?" It didn't bode well with me. Desperate as some may have been, I didn't condone thieving from innocent people - even if I had fallen into that trap once myself. "You think that's okay?"
For once, Jacques didn't parade around with his exuberant persona. "Look here," he gritted, eyes narrowing. "The Carsons don't pay us a pretty penny, they never have, so we have to take initiative, mon garçon! That's our livelihood... Do you think we have any other choice?" His mood turned and frown lines deepened around his face. "If you want to survive only on the money that Carson gives, I'll happily take your cut of wealth back?"
"No, no!" I held my hands up in a surrender. "I do want it! I just didn't realise-"
Grabbing me by the ribbon at the neck of the costume. "Then don't complain, you fool! I won't tolerate ignorance for what I do for you! I gave you a job, a home, a friend! Some of us here can't get an ordinary job, don't have any family left or any home to go to! Show some respect and gratitude!" And then he shoved me away, storming off with his fingers flexing angrily on the hilt of his sheathed sword.
It was later on that day, helping set up the struts of the stalls an the fabric canopies that I was approached by the carnival owner, I could see him ambling over out of the corner of my eye.
Lanky, skinny with a disordered tuft of light brow hair. He clothed himself in patchy and faded jeans and plain tops; rudimentary, but it was better than most of us could afford. He had a flash watch just to augment his otherwise bland wardrobe; the glass dial twinkled in the sunlight.
"You Hawkeye?" He drawled with a Southern twang, blowing a puff of cigar smoke into my face.
"Yes, sir! Mister Carson right?" Smudges of black oil were smeared across my face and with beads of sweat trickling down my face, I turned to shake his hand.
He clapped our hands together, gave it a pragmatic shake and leant away as he did. The moments our hands were unclasped, he wiped it off on his trousers and blew another lungful of smoke in my face.
"You the one who's been making me a fortune lately?" He questioned, leaning unhelpfully against the stall being constructed.
"I sure hope so," I agreed, giving him a crowd pleasing grin.
"Mister Duquesne has an eye for talent! Seems he found a rough diamond and polished it until it was the shiniest in the window!" He gave a jaunty grin. "Where'd he find you, boy?" He popped a hip and pursed his lips.
"Iowa, sir..." I repspoded, twirling a wrench between my fingers.
"Corn country, huh?" He snorted. "How you findin' the carnival?" His eyes narrowed at the question. I was in dangerous territory and I knew my answer was going to be scrutinised.
"Loving it! The people are great! The place is great! It's great, really!" I scratched the back of my neck, knowing my answer was full of stumbling and repetition.
"Glad to hear it..." he gave an unpleasant snarling smile. "Welcome aboard, partner," he offered me one final handshake. Once he had my hand, he snared me close, his hold fingerbreaking. "If you value your job, you'll stay the fuck away from my daughter." He gritted. "Got that, hombre?"
I nodded nervously, and he grinned again, patting me on the back and breaking away. "See y'around, Hawkeye!"
The thing is about being told not to do something, is it becomes like a big red button. And it took the maturer half of my brain to admonish the childish half to stop myself from running straight to Marcella's trailer and socialise.
Thing is, I didn't have to. Pre-show, applying makeup and adjusting my hair, there was a rapping at my door.
"Yuh-huh?!" I called over my shoulder, concurring that they could come in.
True to form, with a flurry of flaming red curls, Marcella strode into my caravan and posed in the doorway.
"Hiya, Marcy..." I chuckled nervously. "Didn't realise it was you!" I applied the last of the eyeliner to my lower lid and capped it.
"Is that a problem?" She chirped, tracing her red lips with her red nails. "You're the only decent company in this friggin' carnival..." She huffed. "The rest of them are prehistorically old or practically a foetus," she sneered. "A girl gets bored... Especially confined to that damn stuffy trailer." She sounded genuinely bereft, and she had a downcast expression to match. And as tempting as if was to pander to her mind games, I was reminded of the job I had to do.
I tried to shake her off like a flea. "What about the Carnival stalls? They're entertaining, right?" I tied my mask onto my face, winged like a hawk.
"I've played them all a million times. And I can win the top prize on most with my eyes shut!" She declared, slumping in the doorframe. "Besides, that's not the kind of entertainment I'm after..." She said, sashaying from the doorway and placing a hand on my chest.
She blocked the door. But her hand was running down my chest. "I've gotta go, Marcy," I hissed, using up all of my self control by swatting away her lewd hands. I managed to bustle past her, by my ordeal hadn't finished.
She snagged my wrist. "You'll see me after the show, right my little hero?" She teased.
"Uh, yeah, sure..." I garbled dumbly, trying to sneak away.
"See you soon!" She said cheerfully and squeezed my hand.
Exiting the trailer, I was quick to leave the scene before Carson had my head.
The show was different that night, instead of focusing purer on my act, I noticed my surroundings. Noticed my fellow cast members pick-pocketing the crowds who had so willingly come for a performance, only to be unwittingly robbed.
Crafty hands unbuckled watches, lithe fingers pilfered purses and artful digits swiped jewellery. But I carried on my charade, the financial situation of my partners in crime in my hands. I felt a shadow of guilt, but what would be worse was letting the crew down.
After I'd performed the same routine that I had for months, I took a few low and sweeping bows - the ribbons and ruffles of my costume jostled in the windy big-top - and hot-footed it back into the wings, only to come back on with the entire troop. Bows, more bows and blowing a few kisses, the entire cast trailed off.
I dumped my bow and arrows as I exited the tent and tore off my sweaty gloves.
"Glad you came to your senses, Hawkeye..." Jacques mumbled, shouldering me out the way, dropping my cut at my feet and stropping off to his trailer.
Scooping up the jangling pouch of loot, I was greeted by a familiar face once I came off, unpresentable as I was with my ruffled hair, sweat-glistening skin wrinkled clothing.
"It's true you know..." Marcella drawled, pushing away from one of the stalls of trinkets galore.
My hair in disarray, I quickly combed my gloved fingers through my sweat-soaked strands. "What is?" I questioned, tucking the pouch in my pocket; Marcella didn't need to find out about the crime ring that the circus was a facade for - she was far too close to Mister Carson
"That you're the new crowd favourite!" She chorused, strutting over the muddy green grass, her stiletto heels sinking into the boggy ground. "They were practically hypnotised by you..." She straightened my lapels and smiled sweetly at me. "I can understand why..."
"Thank you, Marcella," I chuckled, grinning modestly at the floor.
Looking up, I distantly spotted the light of a cigar piercing the dark, the disembodied light hovering in our direction. "Shit!" I hissed and grabbed Marcella by the hand, trailing her back past the flaps of the deserted tent and into the pocket of secluded space beneath the bleachers.
"What?! What?!" She spluttered, staggering in her heels and I pressed a finger to her lips which seemed to shut her up instantly, her startled leaf-green eyes blooming wide in her face.
Her father's voice was echoing around the carnival as he yelled at the celebrating carnival workers to pipe down.
"Your dad..." I hissed, removing my finger from her lips and lacing our hands together with sincerity. "Look, Marcella, I want to be friends with you, I really do..." I whispered, my voice a gravelly husk from dehydration. "But your dad..." I squeezed her hands apologetically. "He told me to stay away from you..." I shook my head with discontent.
Comprehension blossomed across her face and she rolled her eyes begrudgingly. She shook my hands away. "He puts me on some fucking ridiculous pedestal... Locks me away like a possession then he wonders why I hate him..." She ran a fretful hand through her tousled tresses. "It's only got worse since my mom died..." She crossed her arms across her chest, her eyes becoming glossy, and she turned her back to me.
I saw a sliver of myself in her, in the self-conscious mannerisms, her tearfully strained voice, her internalised battle to remain composed. "Your mom's dead?" I placed a hand on her shoulder, trying to coax her to look at me.
She nodded solemnly and peered over her shoulder; I was thankful I could read her lips. "Two years ago. Stabbed. Multiple times. Right here, at the carnival..." She croaked in a grieved voice, thumbing away her tears. "Post-mortem said she was stabbed directly through the heart, in the liver and jugular... Almost surgically... With precision..." She looked away, paling.
Immediately my suspicions rose, but I masked my contemptuous thoughts.
Marcella finally turned to face me properly, her appearance having frayed. "Sorry you ave to see me like this... It's just-" she shrugged. "I don't talk about it often. I don't get out often!" She sobbed, muffling her mewls with her palm. "My pops thinks keeping me cooped up is keeping me safe, but it drives me insane..."
Her anguish almost infectious, and resounding so closely with me, I captured her in a bear hug and welcomed her head onto my shoulder. "You have no need to apologise... My ma' died, and I know what it's like to feel alone... My dad fucking sucked too... But not in the same way..." I soothed her like you might a small child, tracing her spine with my hand and rocking from side to side like a slow dance.
"Dads," she scoffed, like the very word was a joke. "Who needs them?" I felt her smile against the junction of my neck, the last of her tears dripping onto the fabric of my costume.
"What a bunch of assholes," I sputtered, smiling through my own tears.
Withdrawing her face from where it was nuzzled into the junction between my neck and shoulder, she smiled brokenly up at me; her cheeks flushed and her eyes somewhat brighter with the lustrousness of tears. "Do you know what my dad would really hate?" She suggested, face ghosting inches from mine.
"What?" My breathing caught in my throat as her eyes didn't meet with mine, but with my lips.
"This..." She whispered, connecting her lips to mine.
Her lips were warm, though the tang of tears resided on them, and I could feel her lipstick rubbing off on me. Her arms wound around my neck and began carding through my hair, the drag of her false nails on my scalp sensuous, making me gasp against her lips. My mouth agape, her tongue slithered in and the kiss deepened.
I cupped one of her rosy cheeks and my other hand settled on her neck, where I felt her pulse race beneath my fingertips, stroking her heated skin, she smell of her floral perfume strong in my nostrils.
My head tilting one direction, hers tilted the other and our mouths interlocked at a beautiful angle, lips catching and tongues tangoing.
That was my first kiss. And I still cite that as one of the happiest times in my life. Because, just for a second, another person's lips on mine seemed to erase the world around me and dissolve all of my cares with it.
A/N - Yup, Clint's first ever love! Isn't that adorable? And our dearest Clint had his first kiss at sixteen years old; but you can hardly blame him for taking that long with having to hide an abusive home life, deafness impacting his social life and having to leave home in a hurry.
And it seems Clint has a type! Red heads.
So, Mister Carson and Marcella are both characters in the Marvel Comics Universe, but the mother isn't present in the source material at all. You can assume one of few things with that, but I opted for the 'mother is dead' trope. Or murdered, specifically. Make what you will of that. Any suspicions?
Fancast for Mister Carson is Matthew McConoughey!
Dedication goes to hobby-horse! x