Chapter Text
“No, the mountains should be over there! It doesn’t make no sense for them to be by the forest!”
“And why’s that?” Barney asked, leaning over the map with a pencil in his hand as they huddled in the back corner of their dad’s butcher shop. They should have been working.
“’Cause all the rain’d wash away all the good dirt so nothin’ could grow!” Clint answered proudly. He always got good scores in science. He liked it, but not as much as he liked gym.
Barney just nodded like he knew all along – he probably did – and quickly erased the mountains, penciling them in closer to the corner where their piggy bank sat – the one that Barney made for his fifth grade art project last year in school – keeping the corner of their make-shift map from curling up and hiding the swirling rivers that led to through their imaginary forest.
“See, we’re gonna need your smarts out on the road. That an’ my fightin’ and no one’ll ever bother us.” Barney said, carefully sketching the mountaintops and valleys, “We would be outta here before dad’d even wake up, once we get enough cash.”
Clint smiled softly to himself, fantasizing about finally leaving, getting to see the world beyond their own four walls and the shitty grade school down the street. They didn’t even teach kids how to fight back; how did they expect those city kids to survive?
“So,” Barney continued, “Mountains here, forest there, lake over near the fishin’ boats . . . what else d’you think is out there?”
Clint thought on that for a second. “Whadd’about a carnival? Or a circus!”
That earned a small chuckle from Barney before he wrapped his arm loosely around his little brother’s neck and dug his fist into Clint’s hair. “’Course there’d be a circus! Real dumb of me not to add it!” Barney let his brother go and picked up his pencil from where he’d dropped it on the cold concrete floor of their father’s shop and got back to work, using the worn-down stub to make a quick sketch of a circus tent next to the forest, complete with a clown and a lion tamer sitting outside, waving towards his little brother.
Clint still didn’t understand how his brother made drawings that looked like they were facing you when all Clint could manage was a stick figure with blocky clothes, and he didn’t think he ever would. Even so, Clint laughed at the clown and the goofy lion Barney added in the background, making the vicious animal seem harmless and fun.
Too bad it couldn’t last.
“Clinton Francis and Charles Bernard Barton, what the hell do you think you little shits are doing on my time?!?”
Both boys shot up and stood stock still facing their father, hanging their heads, Barney clutching his pencil stub in his hand.
“Well?!” Their father shouted, spray that smelled like alcohol and sweat showering Clint’s dirty hair.
“We ain’t doin’ nothing!” Barney shouted right back. Clint knew he would never be able to be that bold in fear of getting a beating – which Barney definitely would – but his brother was always brave enough for the both of them.
Clint took at peek at their father when he was quiet for a moment too long, and all he saw was a red, swollen tomato where their father’s face would be, looking about ready to explode.
Luckily, the front door chimed just then, saving them from a severe tongue-lashing. Their father seemed to turn even redder before huffing and turning away, not without a glare at both his sons, going off to tend to his customer.
As soon as he left, both boys heaved a sigh of relief before scrambling to get back to work, not wanting to waste another second in case their father suddenly came back, looking for someone to give a whooping to.
Clint distracted himself quickly with his work, sharpening the big knives before moving to the meat grinder to fill up the sausage tubes. It was repetitive and tiring sometimes, but every once in a while, if their father was truly, spectacularly drunk, he gave Clint and Barney a cut of the profits. Usually it was only a few dollars, but it was enough.
Most of the money went to clothes, or sometimes food if it’d been more than a few days since they’d had dinner, but the rest of it went straight to their piggy bank, kept safe in their shared room until they found an opportunity for escape.
It was a silly dream, he knew. A fairytale. His dad was most definitely a villain, but there were no heroes in Iowa as far as he knew. They were stuck and they both knew it, but it made him feel better to hope. Maybe, if he never stopped believing they could escape, it might happen one day.
That day wasn’t today, though, Clint realized when he heard the metallic clink of his father’s belt behind him. He hadn’t even noticed he was there.
Maybe this time he would go easy on him, it was his birthday today, but he doubted it. Clint had done something wrong, and he was going to pay.
--
Two years.
It had been a little over two years since the maps were made, and here Clint was, hiding in his neighbor’s rosebush as he watched valiantly for his father’s black truck to pull up with their next shipment of meat.
Clint had learned a lot in those two years, even matured a bit. Already seven and a quarter years old, he was just getting big enough to help out with the whole pigs and the rest of the meat in the shop, he even had time now that his dad had pulled him out of school to help. Barney had been teaching him how to throw rocks and things with precision on the side, and how use anything around him as a weapon. Along with the fighting, Barney taught him strategy and how to wait, making him sit on top of the shed for hours some days to see if he could catch them a bird because he was always much better at staying still than his big brother could ever be.
So that was how he ended up here, sort of. He wasn’t too sure why he was in the rosebushes. If he were to have the choice, he would be up on the rooftop, high above the glares of strangers and his father’s swinging fists, watching as the world ambled on before him, unaffected in his own little bubble of contentness.
It was a little poetic, he knew, and Barney would probably punch him and call him a nerd if he ever found out, but nothing could compare to the feeling of being high above all your troubles, where nothing could touch you. It was like his own little paradise.
But, sadly, that wasn’t where he was now. No, he was crouched on achy legs in the beginning of winter, thorns digging into his neck and sides and face that was still aching warmly from where his father had hit him with a book that morning. At least Clint had had the sense to put on the sweater Barney got him for Christmas this year – purple with black reindeer – before dad left and Barney shoved him outside to wait for his return.
And where was Barney? Probably inside making some cocoa if Clint were to take a guess. He didn’t really blame him, though. If he had his own younger brother, Clint would probably make him do all the grunt work, too. Anything to avoid being stuck on the ground one minute longer.
Clint saw the car before he heard it, perched where he was at the corner junction of his street. His hearing had always been a little off ever since his dad threw him into the TV – then blamed him when it broke – so he learned to rely on his eyes a long time ago.
He was supposed to be looking for black cars, for the truck, but it wasn’t often a cop car rolled down their street, not slow but not fast either. They weren’t cruising, or chasing nobody, but still something about it set Clint on edge. Something was wrong.
He stood, quick and quiet – too far away for the driver to see him – and dove off towards the backyard, the neighbor’s yappy dog at his heels. Despite his overwhelming urge to pet the poor thing, he kept running, thin soles pounding against the newly frozen ground as he jumped the low fences between adjoining yards, almost ripping his pants once or twice and getting close to ruining his new sweater when he tripped over some kid’s kiddy pool now full of ice because of the sudden chill.
Once he finally reached the house, his clothes were cold and dirty, but luckily none of them ripped. They had enough problems not to worry about buying new jeans.
He threw open the heavy steel back door to the butcher shop and sprinted up the steps, taking them two at a time before he burst into the door of their third floor home to see Barney in the kitchen, reading a worn book about aliens and spaceships. He calmly looked up when the door slammed open, gesturing a hello with the mug in his hand – full of cocoa, Clint knew - before dog-earing the old book and carefully placing it on the table. It had been Clint’s birthday present from him this year, swiped from a church rummage sale, and he knew Barney appreciated it by the number of sticky notes and folded corners there were.
“’S’it dad?” Barney asked as he approached his younger brother, not worried in the slightest. It had been just the two of them for so long that they could read even the subtlest of clues off each other, and he knew it was a little too early for their dad to be back.
Clint ran a hand through his mussed up hair, a habit that he could never figure out where he picked up, and shook his head. Now that he thought about it, he had no idea what caused his to race home so quickly. It was just a cop car, nothing special, yet every fiber in his being shouted at him to go be with Barney, so he did. His instincts had never failed him before.
“No,” Clint mumbled, suddenly ashamed to have ruined his brother’s nice worry free day, “There was this cop-mobile and it looked kinda off, like they were headed somewhere special, so I came racin’ back. It’s nothin’ to worry ‘bout.”
Barney gave him that pained look he always got whenever Clint did something stupid, which was always in his opinion. “Clint, there wasn’t anythin’ wrong with that pig, promise.” Barney said, a hand on his little brother’s shoulder as he spoke. “Now why dontcha come siddown and have a drink with me? I can getcha some eggnog if dad didn’t drink it all.”
Clint just nodded. He knew Barney was disappointed, but didn’t want to say it in fear of ruining his day. He just wished that his older brother would tell him the truth instead of burying him with empty gestures and stale compliments.
Barney nodded back and headed to the fridge, taking a half second pause in his steps once he got about half way. Clint knew enough about his brother’s behavior by now to know that that meant he heard someone ring the bell.
“I’ll get it!” Clint shouted, racing his brother to the door - slamming his head against the corner on the way – reaching the call button a second faster. “Who is it?”
A light crackling came over the receiver before a man with a husky voice answered, saying something Clint couldn’t quite decipher.
Police, Barney signed, well aware of Clint’s hearing problems.
Clint frowned slightly before moving away from the door, giving Barney the freedom to decide whether or not to let them in. Barney just sighed as he reached past his little brother to press the button that unlocked the main door. He looked at Clint for a moment, then left for the kitchen, leaving Clint alone at the door.
Luckily, he came back just as someone on the other side knocked on the front door, and gestured to Clint to open it as his hands were full with both mugs of cocoa. Clint took a deep breath, puffing his chest out before opening the door confidently, looking at the adults cautiously, knowing full well the dangers of the police “sniffing around”, as Barney called it, when he lived like he did, with little regard for the law.
Clint could see that the older – clearly senior – one had a head of greying hair on top of his square-ish head, his skin a shade that Clint had come to associate with the mob on TV and his eyes a fading black. His partner, a tall, lean woman with straw colored hair pulled back into a loose bun behind her head and skin the color of snow stood next to him, rocking back on her heels.
The woman smiled pitifully at him and before he could respond, Barney was right behind him, speaking in that voice he only used on customers or other adults. “Hello sir, miss. How can I help ya?”
“Are you boys related to Edith and Henry Barton by any chance?” The woman spoke with a lilt to her voice not usually heard in their tiny little town. She must have just moved there.
“Yeah, is there a problem?” Barney asked before Clint could get a word out, again.
The man looked to his companion before speaking, as if his words held the weight of the world. “I’m truly sorry to have to say this.” He said, taking a pause before tilting his head down slightly and clasping his hands in front of him. “Your parents were in an accident this morning. We suspect your father was drunk and- and they hit a tree. Both of them were killed on impact. I’m so sorry.”
Clint felt numb. His father, that piece of drunken shit who raised him, was gone, and he took his loving mother with him. Distantly, Clint knew he should be feeling something, but really, he was just plain numb.
More words were said, but Clint didn’t listen to any of them, too busy sorting through the pros and cons of this event in his head, just like Barney taught him. On one hand, they were his parents and they were gone. But on the other hand, he couldn’t think of a single time they had ever done anything truly nice for him. Ever.
They fed him and clothed him, but so did Barney, plus now they get the shop and all the money.
They raised him, but it was actually Barney that did all of the heavy lifting.
If he were to be honest with himself, Barney was more of a parent to him than his real ones ever were. As long as Barney didn’t pass out drunk and crash into a tree, Clint’s life wasn’t too much different than it was before.
Well, until he tuned back in to the conversation, that is.
“-And the both of you will be sent to a home in the city for orphans like you. You can grow up, meet some people, and maybe even get yourself into a foster family for a little bit. You’ll like it, promise.” The woman said before she turned to make her exit. “We’ll be back here tomorrow to pick you up to bring you out there. And I really am sorry what happened and I’m glad you two have each other.” Her final words before departing along with her partner down the hallway to the elevator.
Clint looked over to Barney to see him looking almost empty inside - Was father really that much better to him than he was to Clint? – just until he shut the front door on its heavy hinges, signaling their guests departure. Then Barney practically jumped for joy, twirling around, careful of his mug of cocoa, chanting loudly “We’re free!”
Clint, on the other hand, wasn’t so sure of their freedom. “But, Barney? Didn’t they say we were going to a group home? Isn’t that bad?”
Barney ceased in his spinning just long enough to look at his brother with a face splitting grin. “Yeah, sure, but we can get outta there now! We got enough money to run away now and live our lives on the road! We can be cowboys like in the old days or mercs or- or- anything!”
Clint didn’t really get it, but the thought of being a cowboy sent him into a frenzy of excitement. A cowboy, like on TV and those old movies their mom rented with them when she wasn’t too bruised and broken to stand. Maybe this was the miracle they needed to finally be able to escape.