Chapter Text
Clint was eleven the first time he helped Barney with a GTA. Barney showed him how to hot wire it, park it in an abandoned warehouse, strip the expensive parts and box them up to store in the back of a rented van. Trickshot had been the one who rented the van for them, so Clint knew whose idea it was even though Barney and Clint were the only ones getting their hands dirty. They drove the van to where Trickshot was waiting, and he paid them both in cash (Clint got $25 whole dollars to himself, he nearly fainted on the spot) before driving off with the goods to do who knew what. Clint didn't care. He had cold, hard cash to spend on anything he wanted and that was as close to a God-given miracle as anything that had happened in his short life up to that point.
Barney grinned at him, slapped him on the shoulder with "Good job, kid," and it was officially Clint's best day ever.
Clint was the best archer anyone in the circus had seen, but he wasn't an idiot. Being good with a bow and arrow was not exactly a job skill that was in demand outside of the circus, so he knew his choices were to: 1) somehow track down his birth certificate, somehow get a GED and then somehow join the Army; or 2) anything else.
Option 2 was easier, and with Barney's help, became pretty lucrative. It also revealed Clint's natural affinity for cars -- their engines, their wiring, their bodies, their life blood. Clint quickly became the circus's official mechanic as well as sharp shooter. For a few years, everything seemed perfect for Clint, shooting arrows and working on (or stripping) cars and making good (if illegal) money. His brother was proud of him and Trickshot let them do what they wanted and Clint figured he'd die a gear-head, car-thieving carny. He even developed a reputation among the car thieves and low-life they hung with for bringing any car they brought him to life. He had talent and passion and sometimes toyed with the idea of going legit with cars by getting a job with a garage, although Barney always talked him down from the ledge.
Then when Clint was 23, Trickshot landed in hot water with a Russian mob boss named Grigory in some fly-over mid-western city that never expected the Russian mafia. Trickshot tried to finger Barney for the deal gone wrong and Barney barely escaped with his skin (literally -- the Russians did not fuck around). Clint solved everyone's problems by burying an arrow in Trickshot's empty, traitorous heart. The mob boss, (who had been a regular of Clint's car-customizing work when the circus came through town) took Clint's actions as a personal favor after it was revealed that Trickshot had been short-changing the guy for years. Grigory hired Barney as an enforcer and offered Clint his own garage, full deed, as long as he personally worked on the mob boss's own collection of cars pro grata.
Hawkeye's Auto Body Shop was born.