Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/7382641.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Fandom:
      Marvel_Cinematic_Universe, Hawkeye_(Comics)
  Character:
      Clint_Barton
  Additional Tags:
      early_years, The_Circus_-_Freeform, The_Amazing_Hawkeye, Transphobia,
      Childhood_Sexual_Abuse, Child_Abuse, not_glorified, Homelessness,
      Depression, Self-Harm, Miscarriage, Suicide_Threats, steroid_use, Trans
      Male_Character, Trans_Clint_Barton
  Series:
      Part 2 of Clint_'verse
  Collections:
      Finished_faves
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-07-04 Words: 2822
****** Leviticus ******
by appalachian_fireflies
Summary
     Clint runs away at 13 and joins the circus. It changes his life.
Notes
     this is a heavy and potentially very triggering story. please mind
     the tags.
     clint doesn't necessarily see the things that happen to him as abuse
     or rape, but he's too young to actually give consent
See the end of the work for more notes
The first night, it doesn’t rain so much as pours. Clint shelters at a bus stop
and cries himself to sleep. He hates the way his voice goes high-pitched when
he gasps in air.
The second night, it’s hot, which he figures is better than cold, except
there're about a million skeeters at this bus stop a town over. He cries
himself to sleep again.
Gets up, does it over. He’s 13. It’s not like he can get work and pay for
things like an apartment or food. Legally.
There’s a point at which the physical discomfort becomes a background buzzing,
white noise. It puts him on edge, but he can keep moving through it. The loss
of a home he never really had hits him less often, less sharp.
Barney’s face, going hard. "I think you’d better go."
"I don’t know how you think I can protect you when you pull shit like this."
You never protected me a day in my life, Clint thinks bitterly, and eats yet
another orange.
Life also got easier when he learned to pick the locks on trucks. He likes the
produce ones.
‘If you rat, you’ll get us put in the system,’ Barney says. ‘Better the devil
you know than the devil you don’t.’
From what Clint’s seen of friends that got put in the system, he figures that’s
pretty much always true. He’d learned to handle his dad’s tempers early on, his
mom’s- I swear, Joanne, when you do that you make me want to put your daddy’s
gun in my mouth.
*
That first day before the first night ain’t bad. He goes in a gas station with
bathrooms in the back, blocks the door shut and pulls a pair of scissors out of
his pocket.
“For if the woman be not covered, let her also be shorn,” he says to the
mirror, taking great big clumps of his long hair- Such pretty hair Joanne,
you’re so lucky to be young and pretty, you got a chance at being loved for a
while yet- and hacking away, the sharp sound of the scissors dividing thick
strands cruel in the small space. He looks bare when he’s finished, feels more
vulnerable than when he started, shaking a bit.
“For a man indeed ought not to cover his head, forasmuch as he is the image and
glory of God: but the woman is the glory of the man.” Clint says to the mirror,
and kicks the rock away from the doorjamb. “Corinthians. New Testament.”
Here’s the thing people forget when they’re making fun of fundamentalist Holy
Rollers and their accents and their foodstamps: baptized by the Holy Spirit,
dunked in the river revivalists are probably the most literate individuals in
the US. It takes comprehension to get through the King James Bible on your own,
and every kid is expected to know the Word.
*
The first time a shopkeeper yells, “Boy, you git your ass on over here!” Clint
doesn’t realize he’s talking to him. The glow lasts for hours.
*
He gets arrested exactly once.
The cops aren’t looking at lists of lost little girls, and they don’t get any
hits right away.
They don’t lock him in the back because he acts compliant and tearful. They sit
him by the desk instead and pat him on the head. He’s given them the slip
before the hour’s up.
*
One morning after a rainstorm when the cicadas start whirring in the fields and
the sun hasn’t yet washed out the blue sky, he gets one of his feelings.
Something big is about to happen. Sea change.
This is a time of signs and wonders! God said that the fruits of the spirit
would be the gifts of his disciples, and truly I can feel a miracle coming on
today. Can I get an amen!
He walks into town, feeling how strong his legs have gotten, how they carry
him. He’s tired and dirty and he’s sure he smells bad. It’s hard to find
anywhere to wash up more than his face.
He sees signs pointing to the carnival, brightly colored, promising funnel cake
and elephants. He follows them, but he isn’t thinking about half-eaten plates
of funnel cake. He’s more likely to get excited by an abandoned farmer’s stand
these days.
“Good shot, baby!” his mama beams, giving him a quick squeeze. He feels the
pride flush down to his toes. He likes it when he can make her happy.
"Do you think you can win me one of those?" Barney asks, pointing.
Even his dad was proud of him, sometimes. It’s one of the few times he can
remember them all being together and not being scared. Christmas was like that
sometimes, but only because it was a sin to fight on a day of peace. Shooting
games were what really kept everyone happy.
His dad puts a heavy hand on his shoulder. “You’re real good at that, Joanna,
huh?” A line of bottles lays scattered on the ground. “Maybe for your birthday
I’ll take you to shoot skeet.”
“I wanna have a bow and arrow, Sir. Like an elf.
He laughs. “We’ll see.”
Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition!
Clint’s hand on the man’s wallet is grabbed and yanked back by large, strong
hands. It takes him a few long moments to panic; he always did have a problem
with going away in his head.
“Come on, kid,” the man lifts him by his shirt.
“Hey!” He squawks, voice going high in surprise. People start staring, and he
decides not to make a fuss.
He’s tossed through the door of the trailer and onto the floor.
“Pickpocket," the man reports to the men at the desk in a funny red bowler hat
sitting at an angle.
The man at the desk sighs. “I respect your hustle, kid, but I can’t have you
doing that.” He leans forward over the desk, getting on Clint’s level and
towering at the same time. “When wallets go missing at my place of business,
they think my people are the grifters, you understand?”
“Yes sir,” Clint does his best to look contrite.
The man laughs. “That’s not gonna get you off. Let me ask you something. You
want a job?”
“Yes please,” Clint says quickly.
“Of course you do. Everyone does. But what can you do?”
Clint looks around, for a moment trying to think fast. All he can think about
is the bright red bowler hat, so jaunty it's rearin' to fall off. He plucks a
rubber band from the man’s desk, and launches it at his hat. The hat tips just
the rest of the way to fall to the floor.
“Cute. But why don’t you hit,” he looks around. “That, over there?” He points
to a hula girl just visible from behind a glass vase across the room. “Don’t
hit the vase.”
Clint swallows. He picks his rubber band and takes aim, taking a deep breath
study himself. He lets it fly, and the hula girl topples to the floor. The vase
doesn’t budge.
The man smiles broadly and claps, and Clint feels warm. “How old are you, son?”
“18, Sir,” he straightens his spine.
The man laughs. “Good lad," he extends his hand. “Malachi."
“Clint,” he grasps his hand firmly, deepening his voice.
*
It’s a month of hauling garbage to the dumpsters before Malachi stops him one
day with a hand on his shoulder.
“You’re off probation, lad. Go talk to Annabeth about your shooting, she’ll get
you sorted."
“Yessir.”
“And a tomboy transsexual ain’t the weirdest thing we’ve seen by a long shot,
alright? Take your showers.”
Clint freezes, heart pounding.
Malachi scrubs his tufts of hair. “Calm down, kid. And go ask John for a real
haircut, why don’t you? Thought for a while there you had lice or somethin’.”
*
“How’d you get to growing a beard?” Clint asks the Bearded Lady.
“I was born like this, sweetie.” She gives him one of the larger pieces of pie.
“You know who you should talk to, though? Joe Strong Man."
"Thanks, mom,” he says, and she kisses him on the cheek.
*
He’s 14 when he shoots out every target with sniper precision. While riding on
the back of an elephant.
“That was perfect, kid! Did you see it? Every eye in that place was on you,
even with Julie on the tightrope." He gives Clint a big hug that lifts him off
his feet. “Well done.”
He practiced every day, every minute he had.
“Sir," Clint dares, “do you think I can have a bow and arrow?"
“Sure, kid, as long as you take care of it. What color you want it?”
“Purple.”
*
Joe Strong Man sees a hormone doctor for a tiny bottle and needles that make
him strong. He won’t give Clint any of it.
“Kid, this stuff could kill you if you don’t have a doctor to watch your levels
properly," he says firmly. He keeps a little vials locked away, and he always
carries the key.
It’s a few more good shows with Clint on the poster before he goes to Malachi.
“I want to go to the doctor the next time Joe goes," he says. “I’ll-“
“I’ll take you,” Malachi says easily. “If anyone asks, I adopted you.”
Clint almost cries with relief, and promises to make it up to him. His arrows
trail fire, sparkle, explode, shoot zip lines that he swings down to thunderous
applause.
*
The doctor look sideways at Clint, but talks to Malachi.
“I can’t give this to a healthy girl,” he argues. “It’s unethical."
Malachi leans forward, hands on his knees. “It’s mighty interesting to me that
you’re interested in ethics after all these years of supplying Joe. Which we’ve
got records of."
The doctor extends a hand toward Malachi, palm open. “On your head, then.”
Malachi slaps a few bills into the doctor’s palm. They’re not small bills. The
doctor returns with a couple vials and a bag of syringes.
“The nurse will show you how to inject it properly," the doctor says to Clint.
“You have a testosterone deficiency. Repeat that.”
“I have a testosterone deficiency,” Clint repeats dutifully.
“Do not take more than I tell you to. It won’t make changes happen faster. The
excess testosterone will simply aromatize into estrogen. That will cause the
opposite of the changes you’re looking for. You understand?"
Clint hates it when people talk to him like he’s stupid. He shuts up and nods
his head anyway.
“This will make you nulliparous, of course,” the doctor says before he leaves.
“What’s that mean?” Clint asks Malachi.
“Means you can’t have kids,” Malachi clarifies.
“Oh. Good.”
*
Clint’s boobs stop growing. Over the course of a few months, they shrink ‘till
they’re barely noticeable. His biggest obstacle to passing is gone.
His voice cracks like he’s got the worst cold of his life, then deepens past
anything that would have strangers believe he’s a girl.
He starts to fill out and feel strong, confident. He can’t remember ever being
this happy. He has a family, and they’re stuck with each other. He thinks they
love him. He gets forehead kisses from the bearded lady and shoulder and head
pats from Malachi.
Malachi thinks he’s smart, and talented, and never, ever says Clint makes him
want to put a gun in his mouth.
Everything is going right. He sometimes panics when he’s too happy now, because
he knows how stupid it is to believe in something like that. When the hurt
comes, he’s going to deserve it.
This is the Real World, Joanna. We’re down here on Earth. Our reward is in
heaven.
*
The constant hard-ons are kind of awkward, though. He accidentally shrieks when
he has his first orgasm. He shares a trailer with four other people.
*
"The One-Shot Kid is a child’s name,” Malachi declares to the gathered group,
his hand on Clint’s shoulder. “Everyone, meet The Amazing Hawkeye!"
Clint glows from inside as bright as the candles on the cake mom baked him.
*
"Malachi!" Clint bounces into his trailer at dusk. “I did the arrow through the
hoop trick while I somersaulted off the elephant! Were you there?"
Malachi laughs, standing from his desk, and Clint backs away.
”Joanna, how many goddamn times to I have to tell you to shut up?” his dad
roars, breath sour as he comes for him with the belt.
“It’s okay, Clint, I’m not gonna hurt ‘cha. Come here,” Malachi reaches for
him.
Clint takes a deep breath and relaxes, because this is Malachi. Malachi hasn’t
even hit him once. He lets Malachi pull him in for a hug. He gets touchy when
he’s drunk, not angry.
“That’s it,” Malachi says, and pulls Clint’s body flush to his. He presses his
tongue into Clint’s mouth, and Clint freezes. Malachi’s rubbing his body up
against his, and Clint shudders, overwhelmed and confused.
Malachi slips his hand into Clint’s pants, and Clint chokes. He’s not moving
away, for some reason. His thoughts are too slow for that.
“Shh, it feels good, right?” Malachi slips a finger inside him.
It does. He’s so sensitive he’s shivering, wetter and harder than he’s ever
been. Malachi pulls him in even closer, and he goes.
When Malachi fucks him, it’s better than anything. Better than his fingers,
better than the porn he found under Kip’s bed. He doesn’t feel lonely, or self-
conscious. Malachi tells him how much he’s grown into a man. He feels good.
After Malachi’s zipped him back up and told him about privacy and what’s
appropriate, Clint remembers condoms and panics.
Malachi just laughs. “You stopped getting your periods, remember? Doc said you
can’t get pregnant."
Clint feels a little stupid. He kisses Malachi goodnight.
*
Two days later, he feels awful. Depressed, snapping at nothing, clinging to his
pillow harder than he usually does.
Malachi finds him alone in the dressing room. It fixes the problem.
*
It takes just under a year for Clint to get pregnant. It takes him a couple
months to realize, and he runs to Malachi, terrified.
Malachi looks solemn, places a hand on Clint’s shoulder. “Even if we had the
money, you know what the right thing to do here is, don’t you Hawkeye?”
Clint feels himself trickling away. “I don’t want to go to hell,” he whispers.
For the wages of sin is death; but the gift of God is eternal life through
Jesus Christ our Lord.
He kisses Malachi, clinging for all he’s worth. He doesn’t know what he’d do
without him. Who else would love a freak like him?
*
The woman with an ice cream stares at Clint’s belly, t-shirt taught where it
pokes over the clasp of his jeans he keeps together with string.
Malachi wraps an arm around Clint’s shoulders where he’s sitting on the steps.
The woman frowns, and Clint looks away. He knows what she’s thinking. He
flushes with shame and humiliation.
Freak. Tranny. Knocked up trailer trash.
Clint digs his fingernails into his wrists, scratches over the pink lines
there. His mind goes blank.
“Hey, why do you do that?” Malachi stops him.
“Calms me down,” Clint replies.
“That’s a little fucked-up,” Malachi pulls his arm away.
“What are you, a social worker?” Clint snaps.
“Hey, don’t make a scene,” Malachi warns him, and Clint goes quiet.
The doctor doesn’t give him the hormone treatments anymore.
*
Sometimes, in his darker days, Clint thinks Malachi cares more about the baby
than he does Clint.
*
Clint miscarries just after he passes into his second trimester.
There’s so much blood he’s scared he’s dying. He’s on a toilet in the trailer
while everyone’s out rehearsing, and he hopes no one finds him as much as he
hopes someone comes quick.
He sobs and heaves his way through the cramping, throws up on the floor. It
feels like his gut’s being torn open from the inside. He shakes himself to
pieces and still there’s more blood. He’s exhausted by the time the cramping
slows, covered in sweat. He can barely pick his head up by the time the door
opens.
It’s Malachi. He must have noticed Clint was missing and volunteered to check.
He usually does.
Clint looks away.
“Well,” Malachi looks down at him. “These things sometimes happen. ’S a part of
life." He looks outside. "You’re ok, you're a strong young man, aren't you? Go
and clean yourself up, I’ll get you some pills.”
Clint lays out on the floor, shaking. It feels cool to the touch, and he sighs
in relief. As soon as Malachi leaves again, he curls his knees to his chest.
He cries himself to sleep, real full-body sobs.
In the morning, he gets up, puts what he can into his bag, and gets out with
the dawn breaking and the cicadas whirring in the fields. He doesn’t feel much
at all.
Something’s different. Sea change.
End Notes
     if someone tries to tell me there were no trans ppl and they didnt
     get access to hormones when and where clint was I stg I will start
     listing people
     ty for reading!! readers are my life blood
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