The Greatest Marksman in the World

The heat wakes him.

Thick, black smoke catches in his throat as he struggles to his feet, coating his mouth with ash that scorches whatever it touches. More surges in when he screams, pushing down into his lungs, and he can feel it burning inside him as it trickles through the maze of airways that keep his body supplied with oxygen.

His fingers claw at his neck, drawing blood, and the smoke stings the raw skin too, until it feels like his throat is on fire inside and out. Blinking his eyes to clear his sight, he stumbles to the closest wall and sags against it, still clutching his neck with one hand. The pain won't stop, eating at his muscles and tendons, a new wave breaking whenever he takes a breath.

He needs to get out, to escape. The flames are starting to lick through his boots, he can feel them reaching for his feet, and it won't be long before they catch his skin. Using his free hand as a guide, he follows the wall until he reaches a corner. Fifteen corners later, he accepts the glaring truth; he's trapped in the fire, no way to get out, to get away from the flames.

But he can't stop walking. His boots are almost gone now, thick leather melting onto his skin, and if he stays still for too long his feet threaten to collapse beneath him. Each breath brings tears to his eyes, he can't see through the sweat, the room's filling with the stench of burning flesh.

The harsh spotlights black out the audience but don't do anything to muffle their chants and catcalls. Clint's used to fighting with distractions, but his opponent is new to the sport, and his eyes keep shifting to the sides of the arena and beyond, out at the mob huddled around the cage. He's shaking, not badly, not enough that the punters can see it, but Clint's been trained to pick up on cues like that.

He drags the back of his hand over his forehead to mop up some of the sweat gathering there, grinning as the boy's eyes follow the movement carefully. Here in the ring, Clint's anonymous - he's not Hawkeye, he's not an Avenger, he's just another fighter - but he's got a reputation. In the shadowy world of illegal back-street fights, he's made a name for himself.

The boy has heard of him, then. That's good. They're always more fun when they're scared.

Clint surges forward smoothly, ignoring the shouts that rise up in the crowd. He knows how he looks when he fights, because all SHIELD agents look the same. Elegant and powerful and wild, like some kind of wild animal, let out if its cage for the first time. The boy's eyes widen slightly, but he's got the sense to get out of Clint's way, twisting to one side with surprising speed. Clint turns to him with a feral grin, blood singing with a familiar rush of adrenaline.

He only gets it, this buzzing, dizzying high, from fighting. Shooting is his love, his passion, but combat is his escape, a fierce mistress that he falls into when he can't deal with the itching in his muscles. The cage breaks him down and builds him back up, makes him nameless and wipes out his past. Wipes out his debts.

It's hard to make out through the driving rain, but Clint's certain he can see a flash of black leather, blue jeans, dirty blonde bangs falling into familiar dark eyes. Not exactly an unusual sight in the street of New York, but it's enough to send his blood pounding through his head regardless.

He tells himself it's nothing, it's just another guy with a wild, dangerous smile and wild, dangerous eyes, but that doesn't stop his stomach from knotting with anticipation or his gaze following the figure like the hunter he named himself after.

It won't be Barney, can't be Barney. Clint was called to identify his body in the SHIELD morgue, he knows better than any how impossible it is for that man to be his brother. But he can picture the stranger turning to him with Barney's face, Barney's eyes widening, Barney's voice raising in shock and melting into joy at the sight of his little brother.

The image is clear enough that he's got his hand on the man's shoulder before he even realises what he's doing, but the face that greets him isn't familiar at all. The nose is too straight, the lips too full, the eyes too far apart. It doesn't light up when the man sees Clint, and there's no affectionate greeting, no surprised questions, just an abrupt, "What the fuck, man?"

Clint shakes his head numbly, swallowing his brother's name. "Nothing, just- I thought you were someone I knew. Sorry."