Let me tell you about Kate Bishop. She's five foot 'could-probably-fit-under-your-thumb', but she has an attitude the size of the Empire State. She's rowdy, cocky and cloistered.

Physically; she has these big dark eyes capable of decimating you if you offend her. She has a waterfall of unruly dark hair that always seems to be in disarray, in her eyes or catching in her mouth. And she's surprisingly sculpted for a slender girl. Do not underestimate her on basis of height or weight; stature is not everything and she will prove that with a lightning-fast punch to the nose if you doubt her.

I learnt that the hard way, and still have the scar to point to with bragging rights and as proof of the tall tale.

As great as she is, Kate is spoilt rotten. She's the kind of spoilt where at times she doesn't realise how privileged she is: turning up in designer clothes, owning the latest in technology and always being chauffeured in a flash car.

The kind of spoilt where she doesn't see her parents all the time because her dad has some high profile job that has him flying all over the globe at any given time. He's CEO of an international publishing corporation based in New York City. Her mum is the cliché dismissive trophy wife; always busy doing anything but paying attention to her kid and looking prim and presidential; which means Kate was practically raised by a nanny. Her older sister is that much older that she'd always been moved out, living it up in the towering heights of New York City, and was the heir to the Bishop family fortune - their father practically groomed her, as the oldest child, for taking on the role as CEO.

But because both of her parents grew up in the Big Apple, they decided they wanted her raised in the country, so that's how she ended up in the back of beyond, lumped with me.

You might wonder why an affluent daughter of a multi-millionaire hangs around with a ragtag farmer's son.

You'd be right to wonder.

I'm still wondering.

It's probably because I made her look good; in the sense that if she arrived at school with the latest designer handbag and I turned up with tatty sneakers, it made her look even richer than she was. Or perhaps it was more of a charity stitch. Like how celebrities go out to third world countries and pose with starving children to make themselves look charitable and knowledgeable.

Our friendship started on accident from a very young age.

I remember it vividly.

A bunch of boys had rallied around me, pushing and pulling me in a dispute to snatch my football off me - a birthday present from my day in a rare state of sobriety. Country runts from this town weren't used to coming across luxuries even as simple as a football, and they would do rotten things to obtain them. Bullies, the lot of them.

One guy had taken to pulling my straggly uncut hair, whilst another tried to yank the ball from my hands. There had been nasty trampling feet and childish name calling until out of nowhere my foes were struck down.

It was simple as a handful aerodynamically shaped stones being slingshot out of thin air, into painful places, to leave the kids bothering me with bruises and a renewed sense of self-preservation. And as they'd dispersed, the dark haired kid had hopped down from the tree she'd been perched in and pulled me to my feet.

It's safe to say that girls have been saving my ass since I learned what an ass was. That's why when boys in my year called me a "big girl" I'd always laugh and agree.

"Kate Bishop," she'd announced aloofly, munching on gum at one corner of her mouth.

She had offered a handshake to me, and I remember I had no idea what to do with a handshake at five years old. Being the idiot I was, I invented a kind of street handshake, slapping her hand back and forth like I'd seen the kids with friends do in my grade; before she finally informed me all I had to do was shake it.

Blushing like a strawberry, I then informed her of my name and we wandered over to another part of the playground. I remember thinking she was some kind of guardian angel. Sure, perhaps she's not an angel, but the fact she's always been such a crack shot is nothing short of a miracle.

So, to try and rectify the crime that was me not knowing how to construct a slingshot, she took me to one side and took me through all the stages. She found a stick conveniently shaped like a 'Y', produced the elastic band she'd looted from our teacher's drawer a ripped off the piece of duct tape stuck on the toe of my shoe to plug up the hole and constructed it. I had watched in wonder as she'd turned raw materials into a weapon to be reckoned with.

And in that weapon I found a friend. Seconds after I had armed myself and loaded it with a pebble, I managed to smash a window. That's when Kate and I became partners in crime. Officially. Technically. Legally.

But that was only the first of plenty questionable things we did together.

Growing up, I really didn't question the life I had at home; I just accepted it for what it was. I didn't think I was too unusual in the fact that my dad beat my mother and me, but I was far too scared to discuss such a thing. Kate was too young to understand where the bruises on my body came from; she suspected it was just from causing a ruckus in the school yard. And because she lived like a princess and the biggest hardship she had in her life was not getting the latest gaming device, she wasn't even aware of domestic abuse.

The first time I became aware that my circumstances were unusual was when she first invited me to her house for dinner.

Now, the ranch that our family lived on was by no means small; we had a vast expanse of bountiful fields, a sizeable barn crammed with animals and a cosy home - rickety as it may be.

But Kate's home was nothing short of monolithic. A small palace of red brick, with a full face of windows, a jutting balcony, and a roved porch. The garage was but an extension of the building and about half the size of our whole house.

Her lawn was pristine, with fine-cut topiary displayed out front and sprinklers nurturing the rich green pasture. Plots of vibrant flowers bordered the grass with gardeners knelt down attending to them. A vine of ivy wound up one wall of the house, well trained and trimmed.

I scarcely wanted to tread on the driveway for fear of messing up the pristinely sprinkled gravel, with its garden lamps bordering it like a landing strip.

The building was the gem of the neighbourhood and made all of the other houses pale in comparison.

Sensing my trepidation she had took my hand with an encouraging smile and ran me up to the porch. She'd hammered on the door insensitively until an old woman unlocked the door.

The woman, her nanny, had a sunny smile and twinkling eyes and for someone of an old age, had a lot of life still in her. And as scrawny as I was with my busted shoes, untrimmed hair and mud splattered shorts, she still let me into the opulent environment that was their family home.

Prompted to take off my shoes, I removed them and entered the space.

Instead of the rickety floorboards lacking in varnish that made up the floor of my home, she had spongy and fluffy carpet, crystal white – and it had maintained pure whiteness. On the walls were miserable family photos in exotic locations: waterfalls and palm trees and beaches with sunsets. In between those cringe-worthy framed photos was genuine portraiture, abstract art that looked worth a fortune.

The place was open plan, and furnished with white leather sofas – again, crystal white – with crammed bookshelves dotted about and the biggest plasma television I'd ever seen accompanied by a top of the range VCR player.

Her mother was beyond the sliding window which lead to the patio and pool. She was reclined on a sun lounger reading Vanity Fair, not a hint of attention directed at her daughter, who had been absent for the entirety of the school day.

After merely trailing me through the house like it wasn't anything big, she took me up to her room to show me the David Bowie album and Rolling Stones album she had got for her birthday and her slingshot collection.

But when I truly began to feel out of place was dinner. I was an urchin fidgeting on a leather chair, barely managing to sit upright. Swinging my feet back and forth, I was presented with more cutlery than my tiny brain could process and more food than I'd ever seen on one table, with Kate's mom staring on with condescension.

I was introduced by Kate, at a loss of words with my mouth watering like a starved pup. "Mother, this is Clint Barton. Clint goes to school with me. He's in my class."

I smiled in her mother's direction. The woman was an aged version of Kate essentially; the same dark hair and dark eyes. But she had far more grace than the scruffy, tree-climbing girl who'd invited me 'round.

"So... Clinton-" She had begun, sawing through the banquet she had on her plate.

"Clint, Mom," Kate had interjected, food still packing out her mouth.

Her mom dropped the cutlery she was holding and glared at her daughter. "Don't talk with your mouth full, Katherine!" She rebuked. "And put your napkin on your lap!"

And 'Katherine' resolved with a pout.

"Clinton-" her attention turned back to me. "What do your parents do?" The woman asked, touching a napkin to the corners of her flawlessly lipsticked lips to dab up the gravy.

After chewing up all of my food before I swallowed, just in case, I replied. "They work on our farm."

She looked somewhat taken aback and sipped with discontent at the bubbling Moët in her champagne flute. "Even your mother?"

"My ma' too, yes, ma'am." I nodded with a weak smile.

She wrinkled her nose at the rough tones of my unrefined accent and gave a snort. "That's not very becoming of a woman."

"Mom!" Kate roared, knocking over her drink.

Snapping her fingers and waving over one of her many house staff, she scolded her daughter. "Katherine, please?! Where are your manners?!" Swiftly, three staff soared in to save the day, mopping up the juice Kate had spilled.

Fussing and making flustered noises, she tried to divert attention away from the kafuffle afoot. "How come your mother works?" The woman asked, like it was completely unusual. "Shouldn't she stay at home raising you?"

There was a comment due about the woman before me sitting at home and still paying absolutely no attention to her neglected daughter. But I opted for my better judgement. "My father spends a lot of time not at home..." I said ambiguously.

One finely plucked and drawn on eyebrow was raised to me. "And where does he go when he's not at home?"

Kate saved me just in time by pushing away her mother's lackeys and grabbing me by the hand. "Mom, Clint and I are going to play in the yard because he hasn't tried the swingset yet," she instructed, dragging me from my seat away from the first appetising and filling meal I was offered in my life.

"But little Clinton hasn't finished his dinner!" The woman crowed, rolling her eyes at her daughter.

With me straggling behind, hanging onto her arm like a disobedient dog on a leash, she shouted over her shoulder. "Clint has better things to do than eat!"And I was hauled out into her acre of garden where the sun was setting over the row of trees.

Stomping, she made her way over to the swings and plopped down on the seat with a sour face. Cautiously, I took the swing next to her and gave her a soft smile, kicking my feet into the dirt beneath the swing where feet had undoubtedly scraped away the turf.

"Sorry about my family, they suck..." Kate sniffed, crossing her arms over her chest.

I picked a daisy from the ground and presented it to her, perhaps a way of curing the tears welling in her eyes, holding all the colours of the red and orange sunset.

"It's fine..." I replied with a shy laugh. "Mine kind of suck too..."

A/N - I really wanted this chapter to capture Clint's personality when I'm not focusing on the tragedy side of his life; so his sense of humour, his chattiness and his perception as a child. I also wanted to focus on the socioeconomic divide between the Bishops and the Bartons. As well as tackling themes of communism vs capitalism, gender roles, nationality and sexuality, I also wanted to make a point about classism. 

Just to be clear, I have in fact aged up Kate Bishop so she's the same age as Clint and I've fancasted her as Aubrey Plaza. 

Dedication goes to myalias, my massive nerd cousin (much love)! x

P.S - I'm sure the gigantic loser would appreciate it if you followed him!