Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Snapshots on the Long Road Home

The First Year

It was Clint's fourth op with SHIELD, and his first with the legendary Agent Coulson. Clint refused to admit to himself that he was a tiny bit nervous. The things he'd heard in the mess hall about Coulson ranged from obvious exaggeration to outright fantasy. But no matter how many stupid jokes about the man being a robot were told behind his back, Clint had noticed that everyone seemed to prepare a little more carefully and stand a little straighter when they were heading out on an op led by Coulson.

'Anyway,' Clint thought, 'it's not like this mission is going to be any different from the last three. Agent Robot will stick me somewhere stupid, and I'll watch the action go down through my scope, and then I'll come back and write a dumb report as if I was actually involved in the damn op.'

Clint's suspicions were confirmed when he learned that he was the third sniper (that is to say, the second backup) on the team. They were standing around in a small hotel conference room. The techies were fiddling with radio and surveillance equipment in one corner, and the rest of them gathered around the big aerial maps that Coulson had spread out on the table. Clint paid the minimum necessary attention while Coulson explained the mission background, i.e. who the bad guy was, and why they were taking him out.

"I want one clean shot with absolutely no chance of collateral damage. Is that clear? This guy's important, but not important enough to risk civilian casualties. We'll get him some other time if necessary," Coulson said.

"Yeah, sure, some other time after he's imported another ton of heroin into the country, and killed a few more fourteen-year-old Albanian sex-slaves," said one of the other agents quietly. But not quietly enough, because Coulson turned on him.

"You will follow my orders to the letter or you're off this mission as of right now. Is that understood, Agent Evans?" Coulson's tone was perfectly calm, which made him sound even more threatening, somehow.

"Understood, sir," said Evans, standing up straighter. Clint didn't bother hiding his smirk, and Evans shot him a murderous look.

"Agent Diaz, you're on top of this building." Coulson pointed to the map, and Clint instantly focused one-hundred-percent of his attention on the briefing. "Evans, you're here: sixth story fire escape. And Barton, you're here: on top of this warehouse."

Diaz and Evans both said "Yes, sir," but Clint just kept staring at the map, annoyed, as usual, about the stupid spot that he had been assigned. So much for Super-Agent Coulson being any different.

"Barton?"

"Yeah?" Clint looked up to find Coulson's eyes on his. They were steel blue, Clint noticed, with little flecks of brown.

"If you have a comment, Specialist, I'd like to hear it," Coulson said evenly.

Clint held Coulson's gaze and tried to decide what to do. Despite (or maybe because of) Coulson's reputation, his words actually sounded genuine to Clint. He could see three ways in which the other two snipers could potentially be blocked - and the guy they were meant to be taking down was a sex-slave trafficker, after all. Clint had some sympathy for Evans' earlier outburst. It was better to get this fucker now if they could. 'What the hell, it's not like Coulson's going to remember I exist anyway; I might as well make a fool of myself,' Clint thought.

"I think there's a better spot. Here." Clint pointed to a building one block back from Coulson's original choice.

"That would put you almost 30 meters further from the target's location." But Coulson's tone sounded like a comment rather than a criticism, so Clint soldiered on.

"Closer to 50, actually, because I'd be 12 meters higher up, on this ledge, but that would allow me to clear this building here, and give me a viewable angle of 75 degrees, rather than the 60 degrees I'd get from the other spot."

"And could you still make the shot from there, if necessary?" Coulson's voice held no doubt; it was just a request for information.

"Yes," Clint said simply, thinking 'I wouldn't have suggested it otherwise, dumbass. Jesus fuck, it's only 700 meters. Who the fuck does this guy think I am? But hey, he looks like he's actually considering what I said...' And sure enough, Coulson nodded.

"Okay, Barton, use your chosen spot. Anyone else have anything to contribute? No? Alright then, move out. Check in on the comms when you're set."

As they moved out, Clint overheard a muttered comment from Evans to Diaz: "It's not like he's going to be needed anyway, so Coulson may as well let him perch wherever he wants." But Clint noticed that Diaz turned away from Evans as if she wasn't all that interested in being a part of the conversation.

Clint ignored the other two snipers. He turned to jog out to his chosen spot and climb up to his perch.

"Diaz, do you have the shot?"

"No, sir. Sorry, sir."

"Evans do you have the shot?"

"No, fuck. I'm blocked by one of the bodyguards. I could take him out first, and then get the target, or Diaz could..."

"Stand down, Evans." Coulson's voice was clipped and he sounded annoyed. "Barton, do you have the shot?"

"Yes." There was a pause, and Clint wondered if there was something else he was supposed to say.

"Take the shot, Barton."

Clint breathed in and out once, slowly, then squeezed the trigger. The man dropped.

"Target confirmed down," came Coulson's voice over the comms a moment later. "Ground team go in. Good work, Barton. Rendezvous for debrief in five, everyone."

Back in the conference room, Clint very carefully kept his face completely neutral. He had already pissed off enough people here that he knew any comment he made would probably be construed, by Evans at least, as gloating. Besides, Clint didn't actually like shooting people, even people who deserved it. And he really hated having to talk about it afterwards. Mercifully, Coulson's idea of a debrief was short and amounted to: "I want to know exactly what went wrong and exactly what went right and I want to read it in your very accurate and detailed mission reports. Which will be on my desk by oh-nine-hundred tomorrow. Dismissed."

As he stood in the showers back on base, Clint replayed it in his head, just once.

"Good work, Barton."

Later that evening, Phil was in the cafeteria picking up a coffee and a couple of left-over Danishes to see him through the next few hours of post-mission paperwork. He noticed Barton at a table in the far corner. The remains of a meal were scattered around him, and he was hunched over some papers. Phil was struck by how tense his posture was. In the keyed up aftermath of the op, Barton had been relaxed to the point of lounging against a wall during debrief, but now Phil could see the tension in his body from across the room. Some flash of intuition told Phil that Barton was writing his mission report longhand.

Phil spoke quietly to the server behind the counter as he paid for his snack. "Any idea how long he's been there?"

"I served him just after the dinner rush at, around quarter-to-six maybe? He's been there ever since."

Three hours. Phil silently moved to a spot where he could see Barton more clearly. He watched the painfully slow progress of Barton's pencil across the page for a couple of minutes before leaving just as quietly.

Barton's mission report was sitting on the floor of his office when Phil got in the next morning, having obviously been slipped under the door. Out of abject curiosity, Phil picked it up and started reading, even before he had put his coffee down on his desk or turned on his computer. Ten minutes later, Phil was reading Barton's past mission reports, then his previous handler's assessments, then his IQ test results and his background file.

In another stroke of intuition, instead of sending Barton a meeting request using SHIELD's email calendaring system, Phil picked up his phone and spoke to Greg Mitchell, the administrative assistant he shared with Sitwell and two other senior handlers. "Please have Agent Barton report to my office as soon as possible. You have my authorization to use the security monitors to locate him if necessary."

Ten minutes later there was a knock on his office door.

"Come in," Phil called. Specialist Third Grade Clinton Francis Barton came into his office, and stood halfway between the desk and the door, looking around with detached curiosity, and definitely not in any semblance of the 'at attention' stance that Phil Coulson usually got from junior agents, no matter their background.

"Agent Barton, I appreciate the effort you put into your very complete mission report," Phil said, making a conscious effort to put some warmth into his tone so that Barton would know he wasn't being facetious.

"Thanks." Barton's attention focused on Phil, and it seemed like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"However, I require you to submit your mission reports electronically from now on. That way you can't get ketchup on them." Phil kept his face perfectly straight and his voice neutral. He wasn't in any way teasing or belittling Barton, just stating a fact.

"I'm, uh, not very good with computers."

"That's not a problem. I'll walk you through the process." Again, Phil tried for a warm, easy, reassuring tone.

"Um, you've probably got, uh, more important things to do." Barton's eyes darted around, looking for an escape.

"Barton, I want you to submit your mission reports electronically, which makes it my responsibility to show you how to do that. You have a SHIELD-issued laptop?"

"Yeah. It's in my quarters."

"Go get it."

"Uh..."

"Now, Barton." Phil turned back to his computer, making it very clear that he expected the order to be followed without further discussion. Barton was still for a moment, then shrugged and left Phil's office.

Six minutes later, Barton was back, carrying his laptop. Phil set him up on the sofa that sat to one side of his office with his laptop on the small coffee table to the right of Phil's desk.

"Log in."

Phil watched as Barton hunted-and-pecked his way through the sign-in screens with his username, SHIELD ID number and password. Because he was watching carefully, Phil realized that Barton was actually having to look for the letters on the keyboard.

'He's never actually typed before. That's the first problem to solve,' Phil thought. What he said was, "Give me a minute here, Barton."

On his own terminal, Phil did a quick search of SHIELD's extensive educational materials for 'Typing tutorial software.' He scanned through a few before selecting the one he thought would suit Barton best. He also noticed that during the five minutes it took him to do that, Barton just sat, waiting. Not asking questions, or looking nervous, or fidgeting. Just waiting for the next thing to happen.

"First things first, let's get your typing up to speed," Phil said. He showed Barton how to access the program on the network drive, being careful to explain each step clearly.

The software (which was aimed at middle-schoolers and had optional spelling and vocabulary modules) started to explain hand position in a cheery voice, and Phil went back to his desk. He opened a bottom drawer and searched through it. By the time Phil was back at Barton's side, he was already typing 'add' 'lad' 'fad' and 'had' to blow up little alien spaceships that drifted down the screen with words in them. Phil handed Barton a pair of earbuds, and watched as Barton took his hearing aid out and slipped it into the cargo pocket of his uniform pants. He plugged the earbud in its place, leaving the other to dangle on its cord.

Coulson went back to his desk and emailed Jasper Sitwell: "In ten minutes, come to my office with something urgent that will take about an hour, please."

Sure enough, ten minutes later, Jasper poked his head into Phil's office, and Barton looked up from his typing.

"Phil, I need to talk to you about a situation. It may take a while," Sitwell said, carefully not betraying anything with his face or voice.

"I can go do this in my room." Barton moved to stand up, but Phil waved a hand at him.

"No, you stay here. I still need to work on the mission reports with you when I'm through with Jasper's situation. In fact, come sit here at my desk while I'm out."

"No, that's okay. Really, I'm fine here."

"You're absolutely not fine there. Typing hunched over the coffee table like that is terrible for your hand position and there's no way I'm letting one of SHIELD's best snipers get RSI on my watch. Move your laptop over here," Phil said, clearing space on his desk and logging out of his own computer. Barton shrugged, paused the program, and picked up his laptop.

"Right, I'll be back when this situation is resolved." Phil glanced around his office once, nodded, and left with Sitwell.

"Thanks, Jasper," he said as they headed down the corridor.

"Any time, you know that. You gonna tell me what that was about?"

"Have you ever read one of Barton's mission reports?"

"Barton's weather reports, you mean? Yeah, a couple. Why?"

Phil couldn't help but smile at Jasper's description of Barton's after-actions as 'weather reports.' Barton always noted not only the height above ground that he was perched at and the distance to target, but also the temperature, wind direction and speed, ceiling, and visibility.

"Ever wondered how he knows the wind speed twelve stories up the side of an apartment building in Manhattan?"

"No. Can't say that I have. How?"

"I don't know. I haven't asked him yet. Neither has anyone else, I bet. He's good, Jasper. He's really very good, and the attitude... I think there's more to it than meets the eye. He handed in, on time I might add, a ketchup-stained mission report handwritten in pencil."

Sitwell chuckled. "Yeah, that's Barton all right."

"The ketchup was because he wrote it in the mess hall. He's living in temp quarters, and the desks there are about twenty inches wide. Enough room for a laptop, but damned cramped to write an after-mission report on by hand."

"Well, why wasn't he doing them on his laptop?"

"Why," Phil said, stopping in the corridor and turning to his friend. "Do we assume that SHIELD recruits don't know how to pick a lock, or shake a tail, but we do assume they know how to type and what a network share is?"

"Ah."

"His IQ tests high, but he's barely got a middle-school education. On the op I just led, he could extrapolate his angle-of-view from an overhead satellite photo. On the range, he's the best shot in SHIELD history, but in the four months since he made full Agent, no one has given him the chance to use his skills. I had him as second back-up on that op, but only because I always plan for every possible contingency, so I just requested whoever had the highest marksmanship scores. And it's damn lucky I did."

"You've got a new pet project, then." Jasper said, and they both started walking again.

"Yes, well, I just hate to see a potentially superb asset get wasted through poor personnel management," Phil said.

"Yeah. Sure. Everyone else sees a ketchup-stained report and assumes carelessness and disrespect for procedures and authority, but not Agent Coulson. No, he figures out what's really going on, and has a five-point plan to fix it in place by," Sitwell glanced at his watch, "oh-nine-forty." Sitwell's wide grin let Phil know just how much he was enjoying the teasing he was dishing out. "And the fact that he's kind of cute in a bad-boy-slash-lost-puppy sort of way doesn't have anything to do with it either, I suppose."

"Jasper." Phil's voice went cold and hard.

"Sorry, Phil. I just thought... never mind. Forget I said anything. Sorry, buddy." Jasper bumped Phil's shoulder with his, and they kept on walking.

To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: test email
Attachment: Certificate.jpg

Hi Coulson. I just wanted to check that I remembered how to do the attachment thing you showed me so please tell me if this works OK. I finished the typing program and at the end it made this thing. Clint Barton.

To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: test email

Barton,

Your email attachment worked just fine. Congratulations on finishing the typing program. 48 words-per-minute is excellent.

Phil Coulson,
Agent, Strategic Planning and Response
S.H.I.E.L.D.

"Foster - any sign of the target?"

"No, sir."

"Diaz - what do you see?"

"Nothing yet, sir."

"Barton - anything?"

"I still can't see shit, because I've still got a fucking awning blocking me."

Clint sat perfectly still and kept his face completely blank as the tape of the mission played. It didn't look anything like the courtrooms he'd been hauled into as an eleven-year-old juvenile delinquent, but Clint was pretty damn sure that that's what it was. Fury, Coulson, and two other people he didn't know were sitting on one side of a big conference table with folders, notepads, and computers in front of them. And he was sitting on the other side of the table along with Diaz, Foster, and Henderson. There was a tech guy at the end of the table running the audio and video, which projected on a big screen behind him. But it sure felt like a courtroom.

'That's because I'm up on charges of Disobeying a Direct Order in the Field, I guess,' Clint thought, and wondered if they'd let him keep the clothes he was wearing when they kicked him out.

"I've got movement." Foster's voice sounded even more edgy on the recording than Clint remembered.

"Wait until my order, Foster. We need to be sure he's the right guy."

"I see him now too, sir. He's coming out with two - no, make that three bodyguards. They're covering him pretty good, sir, I don't know if I'm going to get a shot from my location." That was Diaz.

"Foster, what do you see?"

"I got him, and it looks like our guy."

"Barton, can you confirm?"

"No, because I can't see a goddamn thing."

"Okay, Foster, get ready to take the shot. Diaz and Barton, be ready to back him up."

"I don't have the shot, sir. He's blocked by one of the bodyguards. They're moving towards the car - we're going to lose them." Foster's voice was high and tight.

"Diaz, do you have the shot?"

"No, sir. I'm blocked."

"Barton, do you have the shot?"

"No."

"I thought you were supposed to be good, Barton."

"I am good. I'm the best. But I can't see through a fucking awning. Fuck it, I'm outta here."

"They're moving. I think I can get a shot." Foster again, sounding much more agitated than a sniper ever should.

"Take the shot if you can get it, Foster. Don't wait for my‑"

"We've got civilians coming into range." Clint wondered, as he listened to his own voice cut in, if there was anything—anything at all—he could have said that would have actually gotten through to the idiot that was handling the op.

"Foster, take the shot if you can get it."

"Dammit - there's a big group of people - tourists it looks like, they're just about to come around the corner. Fuck, Henderson, it's some sort of school group. They're teenagers - kids!"

"I've got the shot, what do I do?"

"Take the shot, Foster."

"Foster, no!"

Clint remembered the sinking feeling in his gut as he heard Foster's shot ring out, just as the group of Japanese teenagers turned the corner onto the street that suddenly erupted in a firefight.

"I'm taking fire!" The panic was clear in Foster's tone, and for a second, Clint felt sorry for him.

"Pause." Director Fury's voice cut through, and the recording stopped.

"Specialist Foster, would you please tell us in your own words what happened after you took the shot, as ordered by Agent Henderson."

"I... I took the shot, and then I could see through my scope that one of the bodyguards was swinging around and pointing his gun at me, so I ducked."

"What type of gun was he pointing at you, Specialist?"

"Um, a handgun. I don't know... I don't remember what kind." Foster fidgeted in his seat and glanced at Diaz for help. "It all happened pretty fast, sir, I just saw the gun and then ducked behind the parapet of the building, and then I heard shots."

"I see." Fury's voice was flat. "Thank you. Specialist Diaz, please tell me everything you saw from the moment you heard Agent Henderson give Specialist Foster the order to take the shot."

"Sir, I saw the target go down. And then the bodyguards raised their weapons and engaged. One was aiming at Specialist Foster's location, and so I tried to line up a shot on him, but before I could line up my shot, he was shot in the head and went down. I assumed Specialist Barton was responsible for that, sir. So I looked for the other two bodyguards. One was firing at Specialist Foster's location and the other was firing, well, at random. Then I saw a third man climbing out of the back of the vehicle with an automatic weapon, which I believe was an M16. I heard another shot and another one of the bodyguards went down. The man with the automatic weapon started to fire, and he was moving very erratically. I... I wasn't sure I could get him. The other remaining bodyguard had taken cover behind the vehicle, and he appeared to be firing on Specialist Foster's location. I had a shot on him, so I took it and was successful. After which, I heard another shot and saw that the man with the automatic weapon was down."

"Thank you, Specialist Diaz." Fury nodded and turned to Clint. "Specialist Barton, could you please confirm that you neutralized three of the bodyguards with three shots, as described by Agent Diaz."

"Um... Yeah."

"Thank you, Specialist Barton." And that was it. Fury turned away from Clint and back to the tech. "Please resume the recording."

"Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Get the ground team in. Someone contain those civilians. Fuck, Barton, we were supposed to detain one of the bodyguards for questioning, and you've fucked that up by shooting them all. I'm gonna have your ass for this. Get back here, now. All of you - get your asses back here now. Foster, you okay?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine."

"Good. Get back here. What a fucking mess. Ground teams, report."

"Pause please." It was Coulson who stopped the recording this time. His face was completely neutral when he turned to Clint, "Specialist Barton, when did you become aware that the mission objectives included detaining one of the target's bodyguards for questioning?"

"When Agent Henderson said it on the radio after all the shooting."

"It wasn't part of the pre-mission briefing?"

"Um... I don't think so. I mean, if it was, I don't remember." Clint couldn't swear that Henderson hadn't mentioned it, but he was pretty sure he'd have remembered something like that.

"Specialists Diaz and Foster, was the fact that the mission objectives included detaining one of the target's bodyguards for questioning part of the pre-mission briefing?" Fury was asking now.

"Umm. I don't know." Foster shot a glance at Henderson. "I don't remember."

"Specialist Diaz?"

"As far as I remember, there was no mention of it, sir." Diaz's voice was quiet, but strong.

"Thank you," Fury said. "Do any other members of the tribunal have any other questions?"

"I have one more." Clint looked at Coulson, who had addressed Director Fury, but who was now looking directly at him. "Specialist Barton, would you please tell me: If you had been aware that mission objectives included detaining one of the target's bodyguards for questioning, would you have done anything differently?"

Clint looked at Coulson, considering the question and wondering what Coulson was digging for. After a couple of seconds, Clint let his eyes slip closed. After a few more, he heard Coulson's voice, "Specialist Barton?"

"Sorry. I was trying to remember exactly where the guy with the Kalashnikov was, which direction he was firing in, and the range to where the kids were, at the time I took the shot. I..." Clint figured that the right answer was to say, 'Of course, if I had known I would have shot him in the shoulder or the kneecap rather than the head.' But Coulson had asked the question, and Coulson had been straight with him so far, so Clint couldn't bring himself to lie, not even to save his own skin.

"I don't know. I might have risked a non-lethal shot. But he had a Kalashnikov, and there were kids in range... So probably not." Clint shrugged but held Coulson's gaze.

Coulson seemed oddly satisfied with the answer. "Thank you, Specialist Barton."

"Specialists Foster, Diaz, and Barton, you are dismissed for now," Fury said. "Remain on base; you'll be recalled for the results of this hearing before the end of the day." Fury gave a nod that was obviously meant to encompass the three of them and turned his attention to Henderson as they got up and left.

Outside the conference room, Foster started to babble. "I think that went okay, don't you guys? I think it's Henderson that they're after. I mean he obviously fucked up. I think we did fine. They can't blame us."

Diaz rolled her eyes at Foster, and Clint gave her a crooked grin, then shrugged and headed for the cafeteria. If he was going to be kicked out of SHIELD, at least he could get one last free meal while he was still wearing the uniform.

Three hours later Coulson's admin assistant found Clint in the lounge, playing Space Invaders on the retro console.

"They want you back in Conference Room 3," said Mitchell, his expression unreadable.

"Okay, thanks." Clint headed towards the conference rooms, and Diaz joined him he rounded a corner.

"Don't worry. You didn't do anything wrong," she said, punching him lightly on the shoulder and giving him what he assumed was meant to be a reassuring smile.

"Since when does that make any difference to anything?" Clint said, not bothering to keep the bitterness out of his tone.

Once they were back in their seats, Fury addressed them. "Specialists Foster and Diaz, this hearing finds that neither of you acted improperly in carrying out your duties during this mission. Thank you for your testimony. Dismissed."

Diaz looked like she wanted to say something, but people didn't tend to hang around after Director Fury had dismissed them, so she followed Foster out of the room.

"Specialist Barton. You are commended for your excellent work in neutralizing the threat to civilians—civilian children—during this mission. The charge of disobeying an order in the field has been found to be baseless, and your record will reflect that. However in future, use more precise language when signaling a change in your position during an operation." Fury stopped talking.

Clint blinked. He didn't understand. They were siding with him? And what was that about language? Surely there was something else. "Um... sorry? I'm not sure I understand," he said.

"In the future, if you are changing position during an operation, you announce it as 'Specialist Barton relocating to the north-west corner of the roof' and not 'Fuck it, I'm outta here.' Is that understood?" Fury's face held not a trace of emotion, so Clint still couldn't tell what the hell was going on.

"Um... yeah."

"Good. Dismissed, Barton."

Clint glanced at Coulson, who gave him the tiniest of nods, so he stood up and walked out, still not really understanding what had just happened. He found Diaz waiting for him in the hall outside the conference room.

"You okay?" she asked.

"Yeah. Fine. I... They believed us I guess, about the mission objective, I mean. That Henderson didn't tell us. 'Commended' is good, right?"

"Yeah, it's good. It's like a gold star for good work. Fury said you were commended?"

"For taking out the bodyguards before they managed to shoot any of the kids, I guess. Then he chewed me out for my language on the comms and dismissed me." Clint wasn't sure why he was telling Diaz all of this, except that maybe he couldn't quite believe he wasn't fired, and saying it out loud to someone else made it more real. Besides Diaz had been nice to him.

"I'm going out for a beer with Foster. He's still pretty freaked out. You want to come?"

"No thanks. I'm gonna go to the range and shoot for a bit. Thanks for inviting me, though." If he was going to be sticking around, maybe he should try making friends with some of his fellow snipers. The nice ones, at least.

"Sure. See you later, Barton."

"Yeah. Later."

"Some people just aren't cut out for handling operations," Phil said, shaking his head and squaring up a stack of papers in front of him.

"True. I had hopes for Henderson, though. He was a good field agent," Fury said as he snapped his laptop closed. He and Phil were the only ones left in the conference room, Henderson having been dismissed and Hill and the others leaving soon after.

Fury moved a pile of files and picked a folder off the bottom of a stack.

"You wrote this before the hearing even started. You must have been pretty sure what the results were going to be." Fury was looking straight at Phil, daring him to disagree.

"I listened to the recording of the mission communications."

"Of course you did. It's not standard procedure to assign a permanent handler to a Junior Specialist." Fury didn't give a fuck about standard procedure, and Phil knew it.

"I think he would benefit from the stability. His life's been... chaotic up until now." Phil was playing it as low-key as he could. He didn't want this turning into a big thing.

"That's one way of putting it. You seem quite sure that he's going to be worth your time and effort." One of Fury's fingers tapped the file with Barton's name and service number on it.

"I don't want to see us waste a good asset," Phil said, keeping his face neutral, even though he knew Fury could probably see right through him.

"Come on, Cheese, don't try to tell me this is just about operational efficiency. You see something in him."

"Okay, yes. He... he's never gotten a break. Ever. He's smart and he works hard and takes direction well if it's presented in the right way; a way that doesn't make him feel like you're talking down to him. And even if he wasn't the best marksman in history, he'd still be worth the effort. I honestly think he's got the potential to be one of SHIELD's top assets." Phil stopped himself from crossing his arms over his chest as he spoke.

"And the fact that he's just your type doesn't have anything to do with it, I suppose." Fury's expression was still blank, but there was a sparkle in his eye that Phil recognized.

"Nothing has changed since my last psych eval, Nick."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"It is what it is." Phil said, relaxing now that he knew Fury wasn't going to press him any further. "I guess it's just what you said. I see something in him."

"Okay, I'm going to approve your assignment as his handler. I want to see some results though - no more crap like today."

"I'm not sure I'll be able to do much about his language on the comms, but I'll try to keep him away from fucking awnings from now on." Coulson cracked a small smile, and Fury laughed out loud.

"Go. And good luck."

"Thanks."

To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Meeting with P. Coulson

Barton,

Please report to my office at 9:00 a.m. tomorrow.

Phil Coulson,
Agent, Strategic Planning and Response
S.H.I.E.L.D.

"Come in," Coulson called when Clint knocked a 'rat-a-tat-tat' on his door at 9:03 a.m.

"Sit down please," he said when Clint walked in. He sat in one of the two visitor chairs that faced Coulson's desk. "Director Fury has assigned me as your permanent handler."

'Of course,' thought Clint, 'I knew yesterday couldn't be the end of it. So what does that mean?' He said the last part aloud. "What does that mean?"

"It means that all of your assignments will come through me from now on. Instead of being in the general pool, and being pulled in for any operation being run by anyone, requests will come to me and I will approve or deny them. I'll be making sure that we're using your skills effectively."

"Okay. I guess." Clint wasn't exactly sure what that meant, except that maybe he'd be doing fewer ops, if Coulson was going to deny the ones that he didn't think Clint could handle.

"You will be working on my operations as often as is practical, and I will be reviewing the results of all the operations that you're on that I'm not leading."

Clint suddenly got it. Coulson had been assigned as his babysitter. After that last op, no matter what Fury had said at the hearing, it was obvious they didn't trust him in the field. So Coulson's job was to watch him and make sure he didn't screw up again. He was glad it was Coulson, because the guy seemed pretty straight up. He thought maybe Coulson would at least give him the benefit of the doubt. Sucked for Coulson, though, getting a crappy babysitting assignment.

"I'm sorry," Clint said, and he genuinely was.

"What for?"

"That you got stuck babysitting me. I'll try not to fuck up again."

"Barton, that's not what this is about. You didn't do anything wrong on your last assignment. You made the best out of a bad situation, and your actions probably saved civilian lives. My being your permanent handler is so that we can best use your particular skills..." But maybe Coulson could see the skepticism in his eyes because he changed the subject.

"I will also be overseeing your training from now on, deciding what courses and training exercises you should be on. I get the impression that you haven't had much to do in the last few months."

"Um, no. A couple of big exercises, but that's about it." Clint was sitting with his hands loose on his knees, still trying to work out what all this meant.

"Well I'm going to start keeping you busier than that."

"Good." The word was out of Clint's mouth before he could bite it back.

"Have you been bored, Specialist Barton?"

"I don't have a whole lot to do between missions and exercises," Clint said with a shrug. "I work out in the gym, I spend a couple of hours a day on the range, but aside from that. I... uh... I was actually thinking about maybe asking you if there was anything else like the typing program that I could do during my downtime." Clint had in fact been gearing himself up to request a meeting with Coulson to ask about that. And as an excuse to see him again.

"I'm sure we can find a few things. Why don't you email me a list?"

"A list of what?"

"Things you'd like to learn. I don't know what you don't know, so I don't want to insult you by suggesting, for instance, that you should learn how to swim, or speak Spanish, for instance." Coulson sounded perfectly serious, like he actually cared about not hurting Clint's feelings.

"Mi aerodeslizador está lleno de anguilas," said Clint with a cocky grin.

"And swimming?" asked Coulson.

"Just well enough not to drown in a hot-tub." Clint delivered that line with an eyebrow waggle.

"Right, swimming lessons it is. I'll sign you up at the SHIELD pool. Send me a list by email. Do you have any questions?"

"No. I guess not."

"If you have any problems, you bring them to me. If you have trouble with procedures, or equipment, or people, or anything at all, you come and tell me and I'll deal with it. Okay, Barton?" Coulson said earnestly. He seemed to really mean it.

"Um, yeah. Okay, boss."

"I'm not your boss, I'm your handler."

"Right."

"Dismissed, Barton."

"Sure thing, boss." Clint threw Coulson a mock salute as he left.

To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: List

Hi boss. Here's the list of stuff I'd like to learn that you wanted me to make:

More computer stuff
Spy stuff (like how to follow someone and not get caught)
Safecracking (I'm pretty good at picking locks already)
Codes and things (do we still use those?)
Other languages (french? German? Russian? chinese?)
How to make a bomb
High school stuff (like geography and history and stuff, I guess)
Swimming (we already talked about it but just in case you forgot except I guess you don't forget much huh?)

Clint Barton.

"How good is your Spanish, really?" Coulson had called Clint into his office late on a Monday afternoon, ten days after officially becoming his handler.

"It's okay. I can buy food and order drinks and get directions and understand most of what people say to me, if they talk slow and it's not complicated or technical. My accent marks me for a gringo, though."

"Yes, mine too. Here." Coulson tossed him a CD-ROM in a jewel case. "Brush up as much as you can for the next five days. If nothing critical comes up, we've got a mission in Mexico at the end of this week. Here's the preliminary briefing packet. Read everything carefully. Take notes on any questions you have. We'll meet tomorrow afternoon to go over everything. Got it?"

"Yes, boss." Clint picked up the thick file and resisted the urge to open it right away.

"That's all, Barton."

"Okay, boss."

The next day Clint spent two hours working on Rosetta Stone's Spanish language course CD, two hours reading the briefing file for the mission in Mexico, two hours in the gym, and only one at the range. Tap Harris, the Range Master, looked surprised when he turned his guns back in early.

"Got a mission to prep for," Clint said with a shrug, but he felt a small swell of pride as he said it. And then a surge of what he realized was gratitude toward Coulson for making him feel like that.

He got to Coulson's office a few minutes early for the meeting, possibly the first time he'd ever been early for anything in his life. He stopped at Mitchell's desk uncertainly.

"I... uh... I have a meeting with Coulson."

"About the Mexico operation, yes, Specialist. He's not busy, go ahead and knock," said Mitchell, giving Clint a little nod.

Clint clutched the file folder under his arm, and checked (for the third time) that he had his notepad and a pen, and knocked on Coulson's office door.

"Come in, Barton," Coulson called.

"Hi, boss. I'm ready for our meeting."

"Good. Sit. You have something to take notes with?" Coulson asked, and Clint held up his notepad and pen.

"We leave on Friday. We're on the same flight to Mexico City, but we're traveling separately due to our covers. I'll be in Business Class and you'll be in Coach. Sorry about that."

"That's okay."

"The details of both our covers were in the file. Do you have any questions about them?"

"Um... not exactly about the covers."

"Ask anyway."

"Sort of? Um... how many other people are on this mission?" Clint hadn't been able to figure out, from the information he'd been given, if there was anyone else involved. It didn't seem like there was, but...

"None. This one is just you and me."

"Oh." Clint had no idea what to make of that.

"Is that a problem?"

"No. No, of course not. I just... All the missions I've been on so far have had a whole bunch of people." Now he felt stupid. Maybe most missions were handled by just a couple of agents? How the hell was he supposed to know?

"This is a covert intelligence-gathering mission, so the fewer people we have crashing around the better," Coulson explained.

"Yeah. Sure. Um..."

"What is it, Barton?"

"Is this mission... important?"

"Why do you ask?" Coulson's eyebrows went up, but at least he didn't look annoyed.

"Just something I overheard in the gym. I guess I said I was going on a mission and someone said something about it being a milk-run." Clint managed not to mumble his answer at the floor.

"SHIELD doesn't do milk runs. We are not the FBI, investigating high-school students for Googling "semtex" or checking The Anarchist Cookbook out of the library. Did you read the mission briefing?"

"Yeah, of course I read it." Clint had read it three times. Not that he thought Coulson was going to test him on it or anything, but...

"Why are we going to Mexico?"

"To investigate this drug lord guy."

"And why is SHIELD interested in a Mexican drug lord?" Apparently he was being tested after all, but Coulson's voice was mild and patient.

"Because there's..." Clint closed his eyes for a minute and thought about everything he'd read in the folder. "There's something else going on with him. There are a bunch of rumors and whispers and people have disappeared for asking questions. The local authorities can't or won't do anything. No one knows what he's really up to, but he's got a compound and a huge amount of security, even for a drug lord, and the rumor is that he's hiding something there. Something other than drugs."

"Exactly," Coulson said with an approving nod, and Clint felt a combination of relief and pride at having got the right answer. "And it might be nothing — or nothing that concerns us, anyway. But it might be something, and we won't know until we go and find out. So you tell me, is this mission important?"

"I guess so."

"I need you to take this seriously, Barton. I need to know that you're going to follow my orders and have my back and trust that I know what I'm doing." Coulson was giving him a hard look now.

"Sorry, I didn't mean... It's just that I know I don't have a great reputation around here, and I just wondered if this was..." 'a real mission,' Clint thought, but didn't dare say. "Important," he finished lamely instead.

"Believe me, Barton, I have much, much better things to do than drag both our asses to Mexico for missions that aren't important. Got it?"

"Yes, boss."

"Good. Let's go over the rest of the plans..."

Coulson spent two hours going through the details of the mission step by step. Everything from checking in at the airport, to getting a cab to the hotel, to how they would meet once they were both in Mexico, to the travel arrangements out to the target location and the rough timeline for the intelligence gathering. Coulson explained the contingency plans, the safe-house, and made Clint memorize the phone number of the emergency dead-drop line.

"Jeez, this is real spy stuff," Clint said at one point, admiringly.

"Wasn't spy stuff on your list of things you wanted to learn?" Coulson asked.

"Yeah. But I guess I didn't think I'd be learning it in the field. I thought there'd be classes, or something."

"Oh, don't worry, there are lots of classes, and you'll go to some of them - after we get back from Mexico."

"Sure thing, boss."

The briefing continued as Coulson explained every detail of the operation, pausing regularly to make sure that Clint understood. He was careful to do it in such a way that Clint never felt dumb or talked down to, which was a first for him at SHIELD. Coulson also made it very clear that there was no such thing as a stupid question when it came to mission planning. By the end of the two-hour session, all Clint had to do was raise his eyebrows at Coulson to get a point re-explained to him.

Briefing finally over, Coulson sent Clint to the audio-visual department to collect the long-lensed camera he'd be carrying for his cover as a film location scout, and also using to spy on the target.

An hour later and loaded down with a very large camera bag and a tripod, Clint stood at the intersection of two corridors, trying to decide what to do.

He really didn't want to fuck this mission up. Either Coulson had been putting on a great act, or he actually believed that it was important, and that Clint could do it. 'If I fuck this up,' Clint thought, 'there's no way I'm getting a second chance, not even from him.' Decision made, he headed for Coulson's office.

He was spared having to ask Mitchell if Coulson was available, because the man himself was standing next to his admin's desk, talking to Sitwell. Coulson looked up when Clint came over.

"Got all the equipment okay?"

"Got it, yeah," Clint said, trying to figure out how to explain. He wasn't comfortable ratting on someone, a guy who'd probably been with SHIELD for ages, especially in front of Mitchell and Sitwell.

"Problem?" asked Coulson with a raised eyebrow.

"Um..." 'Fuck it,' Clint thought, 'I've decided which side I'm on.' "Yeah," he said, "problem. The guy who was supposed to be showing me how all this stuff works... well he seemed a lot more interested in telling me how expensive it all was, and how fragile, and how careful I needed to be not to break anything."

"He didn't show you how to use it?"

"Not really. He explained it, sort of. But he talked really fast, and I tried to ask questions, but..." Clint trailed off, feeling dumb.

"Right. 'Scuse me a minute, Jasper. Mitchell, get me the AV department head please."

Mitchell dialed, spoke quietly, and then handed Coulson the phone.

"Gilbert, Coulson here. Look, one of my agents was just down there picking up his equipment for the Mexico op, and I'm not happy with the instruction he was given on it. This is an important surveillance mission, and he hasn't worked with this type of equipment before. I don't want to tell you how to run your shop, but have you got someone down there who could explain things clearly and patiently, so that my agent can actually learn how to use the gear properly?

"Yes, I understand. Well, he needs to be told again, obviously. Or put him in the back room and get someone who can teach out front instead. Yes. Thanks, I'll send him back down now. My best to Diane." Coulson handed the phone back to Mitchell and turned to Clint.

"Back downstairs you go. Gilbert will either find someone who can teach you how to use that stuff properly, or he'll show you himself. And Barton," Coulson said as Clint turned away, "you made the right call. The AV technician fucked up, and you needed to tell me that so I could fix it."

"Right, boss." Feeling reassured, Clint nodded and left.

Clint looked through the long lens of the camera, focusing on each building in turn to commit the compound's layout to memory before zooming in on the more likely targets. The mission had been a blast so far, and he was having more fun than he'd had in a long, long time. The flight to Guadalajara had been cool, with okay food and a couple of good movies. Clint had made friends with a pair of ten-year-old twins sitting in the row behind him ("We're fraternal twins, everybody always asks. If we were identical we'd both be girls or both be boys," the little girl had explained), and he had regaled them with tales of his circus days.

Checking into the hotel behind Coulson, pretending not to know him, and all the other spy stuff had been fun, too. Coulson had had to tell him repeatedly to keep the comms for mission-related communication only, because Clint had started chattering to him nonstop as soon as the door of his hotel room was closed.

"Okay, so, for the mission then, what do I do tonight?"

"Go out and walk around if you want to. Get something to eat, or order room service if you prefer; though it would be more in character for you to go get something on the street. Just don't stay out too late, we've got a long day tomorrow."

"Don't worry, Mom, I'll be home by curfew," Clint snarked.

When he climbed into the rental car the next morning with his photography gear, Clint's chatter had started up again, and continued as he went through the motions of stopping and shooting pictures of quaint villages, scenic vistas, and interesting-looking rock formations, all in the guise of his cover as a location scout for an independent film. Coulson got a 20-minute reprieve when Clint stopped for lunch at a roadside cafe/gas station, making fast friends with two boys playing soccer in the parking lot and giving them "Revenge of the Mutants" ball caps from his cover stock of movie advertising paraphernalia in the trunk.

An hour later, however, all was quiet. Clint had climbed up one particular rock formation, wedged himself invisibly behind a clump of cholla cactus, and started to survey the drug lord's compound.

"Barton, report." Coulson's voice came through his earpiece with a faint crackle.

"I'm in position, boss, checking out the compound now. The satellite pictures were pretty accurate, as far as I can tell. I'm trying to figure out what each of the buildings is, so I can focus in on the more important ones."

"How many people do you see?"

"I've seen five so far, three obvious sentries on the outer walls and two in the compound, a woman carrying food and a guy wearing bandoliers. I tell you, boss, it's like something out of a Sergio Leone movie down there."

"Give me a status update every fifteen or twenty minutes, just so I know you haven't passed out from heatstroke." Coulson's voice was businesslike, and Clint couldn't tell if the man was serious or not.

"Will do, boss."

Clint went back to his careful examination of the compound. Satisfied that he had the layout committed to memory, he started with a large building on the far right, finding windows, gaps between boards, ventilation holes, and other cracks that would let him get a glimpse of the building's interior via the camera's telephoto lens. Five minutes later he had decided it was a dormitory of some sort, taken a few pictures to back that up, and moved on to the next building. Office. Next. Cafeteria/canteen. Next...

"Barton, report."

"Sorry, boss. I was concentrating."

"Anything so far?"

"Nope. I've found the dorms, the cafeteria, and the laundry. There's a small building that seems to be some sort of office, but there's nothing suspicious-looking in there that I can see, just a couple of desks and computers - not even a safe; unless it's under the floor. I've still got three big buildings and a couple of smaller ones to check out though."

"Fine. Just keep me informed." There was a very mild reprimand in Coulson's tone, and Clint figured he deserved it. He was determined to keep better track of the time and check in properly from now on.

"Yes, boss."

Clint focused on the next building. It seemed to be some sort of garage or motor pool. There were three jeeps, a Lincoln Town Car, a bright yellow Humvee and one of those military-style transport trucks in it, as well as gas cans, a tool bench, extra tires, the usual. Next building. Jackpot!

Clint snapped pictures of the bricks of cocaine on the tables, the lab equipment in the corner, the piñatas they were using to smuggle the dope in (how original). Then he remembered that the drug stuff wasn't the point of the mission. They already knew the guy was a drug lord; they were looking for something else. Clint was about to move on to the next building when something caught his eye. He stopped, took a minute's rest from staring through the lens, blinked, drank some water, then put his eye back to the viewfinder and began to systematically search every corner of the drug warehouse. He was about to give up when he spotted something at the base of the back wall that made him stop breathing for a moment.

Clint refocused the lens and snapped a picture. Then refocused the lens again. He shifted his position slowly, carefully, silently, trying to get a better angle through the missing tile in the adobe roof. He snapped more pictures, then touched his earpiece and said, "Hey, boss?"

"Yes, Barton?"

"I think I found something."

"You think."

"Well, I can't get a real clear look at it, but I think it might be what this guy is supposed to be hiding that isn't drugs. I found those too, by the way."

"What is it?" Coulson sounded a little exasperated now, but Clint wasn't sure how to explain what he was seeing.

"Well, I'm not sure exactly what it is, but it looks like a long metal tube with that yellow symbol for radiation on it."

"The symbol for radiation. Are you sure?" Coulson's voice had gone serious and quiet.

"Pretty sure, yeah."

"Are there any other markings on it?"

"There's lettering, but I can't read it. It's not English. Or Spanish." Clint was peering through the long lens, trying to make out a word, or even just the first letter of one. "In fact the letters don't look quite... Boss, it might be Russian."

"Can you get a better look from your current position?"

"I can try. Do you want me to move closer if I can't?"

"Is there any decent cover closer?"

"No, not really."

"In that case stay where you are, take as long as you need, and get the best pictures you can. Then get out of there, and come back to the hotel. Understood?"

"Yes, boss."

Two hours later Clint was back in the hotel buying a magazine, a bottle of Gatorade, and a chocolate bar from the stand in the lobby. Juggling his purchases and his camera equipment, he waited for the elevators. When a man in a business suit with steel-blue eyes came out of the elevator along with the other guests, Clint's elbow got jostled and his purchases tumbled to the floor along with the loud clatter of his camera tripod.

"Sorry, so sorry. My fault, here, let me help you," said the businessman.

"That's okay, no harm done. I've got it, thanks. Thanks." Clint carefully kept his grin concealed as Coulson expertly palmed the memory chip from the camera.

Clint had just climbed out of the shower when he heard the beeping from the comms unit that he had left on the bedside table.

"Sorry, boss. I was in the shower," he said, wrapping a towel around his waist.

"I'm sending the pictures you took for analysis. If they are what they look like, we might be asked to go back and try to get a better look. You need to call down to the front desk and extend your room for three more days."

"Sure thing. So, what do you think it is?"

"Not something I want to discuss on the comms, Barton. Go get yourself some food, but stay close to the hotel. I'll be in touch as soon as I hear anything."

"Yeah, okay."

"Good work, Barton."

"Thanks, boss."

Phil could hear the pleasure in Barton's voice as he said 'Thanks,' and marveled again at how he reacted to the smallest amount of genuine praise.

'The kind of life he must have led, to still be so surprised every time someone tells him he did well...' Phil thought as he went back to doing what work he could remotely over the half-secure cellphone link. Everything was triple-encrypted on both his laptop and the SHIELD servers, of course, but the wireless traffic was vulnerable to interception, and if someone wanted to spend enough time splicing data packets back together and decrypting them... Phil kept his work to housekeeping tasks; setting up training schedules for junior agents and reviewing equipment requests from senior ones. He called down for room service and half an hour later was picking unhappily at an overpriced pasta salad when his email alert sounded.

He clicked to see a message flagged "Urgent" and opened it to find two words: Go Black.

Clint was just stepping back into his hotel room, stomach pleasantly full of authentic burritos, refritos, rice, and ginger beer when his phone rang.

"Hello?"

"Steve?" asked a voice that was definitely Coulson's. Barton thought fast.

"Um... no. I think you might have the wrong number?"

"This isn't Steve Black?"

"No, it's not. You must have the wrong number."

"So sorry to bother you."

"No sweat."

Barton's heart was pounding. Coulson wouldn't call him for nothing. It was obviously some sort of code.

'Code for what, though?' he wondered, looking at his phone for any other clue. The incoming number was unfamiliar. Steve Black. Black... Shit!

'Black' was code for an op that was blown. Was their cover blown? Had someone followed him to or from the desert? Had someone spotted him with Coulson in the lobby of the hotel? Clint spent a few seconds trying to remember anything that looked out of place, but he couldn't think of anything. He took a deep breath and told himself to think clearly and remember Coulson's briefing instructions.

'Safe-house. I have to get to the safe-house.'

Being on the run was something Clint had experience with, so it didn't take him long to decide what to do next. Following the procedure he'd been taught as part of his SHIELD basic training, he bricked his cell phone. He quickly packed the camera and comms equipment into the spacious camera bag and stuffed some spare socks, underwear and t-shirts into the corners. He pulled a light blue long-sleeved shirt on over his black t-shirt, and slapped one of the bright red "Mutants" baseball caps on his head. He left the rest of his luggage and his cover's passport where it was. Glancing around the room, he was satisfied that it looked like he was planning to come back. He shouldered the camera bag and left the hotel.

Clint strolled casually down the street, pausing every so often to admire the view. A couple of times he even fished out the camera and took a couple of shots of buildings or 'local color'. He didn't wander for too long, though, because he wanted to get back to the market while it was still open. The big street market was quieter than it had been earlier when he had bought his dinner, but it was still bustling. He wandered from stall to stall, looking at the merchandise, and stopped at a hat vendor. Perusing the options, Clint chose tan leather herder's hat, haggling with the vendor in his basic Spanish for a discount if he offered his red "Mutants" ball cap in trade.

"It's going to be a very famous movie - we're going to be filming near here!" Clint felt bad about lying, but he figured his cover was more important right now. The vendor took the trade and Clint's money, and Clint strolled off wearing his new hat. At another stall he bought a cheap disposable phone and a prepaid SIM card. At a third he bought a large colorful woven basket and a doll dressed in traditional costume.

He spent the next ten minutes wandering around the market, pausing and negotiating with the vendors to let him take pictures of their stalls and wares. All the while keeping a very careful eye out for anyone who might be watching or following him.

Mostly satisfied that he didn't have a tail, he stopped at a cantina on the edge of the market. He chose a table that couldn't be seen from the door and ordered a beer. Taking out his camera, he fiddled with it for a bit, then took off the long-sleeved shirt and stuffed it, along with the doll, his new hat, and packaging from the cell phone into the basket. He shoved the basket into the corner under the table.

He sat back and drank his beer, carefully watching the door and what he could see of the street. When he didn't see anything suspicious, and was sure he wasn't being watched or followed, he made one call on the new phone to the dead drop number that Coulson had made him memorize. He left the number for the disposable phone he was using after the beep.

Ten minute later he went to the bathroom, taking his camera bag and new phone but leaving the basket behind. Sure enough, there was a back way out of the cantina, and he slipped out. Twenty minutes of working his way through the streets while making sure he wasn't being followed later, it was just starting to get dark. Taking advantage of the shadows, he made his way to the safe-house.

Coulson must have seen him coming because the door opened as he stepped up to it, intending to knock softly.

"Were you followed?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"Good. Well done with the disposable phone, by the way."

"Thanks. It seemed like the thing to do." Clint wondered if he should explain the steps he had taken to avoid being followed, but he figured that Coulson would ask if he wanted to know.

"We need to keep watch for anything suspicious for the next couple of hours. We have to know if we're secure here. We should be, but we need to be sure." Coulson seemed intent on convincing Clint that the situation was serious.

"How did the op get blown?" Clint had to ask, even though he was afraid of finding out that it was his fault.

"It didn't. At least, not as far as I know."

"So why..."

"The thing you found, it might be an old Soviet nuclear torpedo."

"Shit."

"Exactly. So we're operating completely covert from now on. I need you to take watch for the next half-hour or so, while I check the supplies and equipment," Coulson said.

"Yeah, of course."

"Use all the windows, but try not to be seen from outside. If you see anything that doesn't look right—anything at all—call me."

"Sure, boss." And for the first time, Clint wished he could bring himself to say 'Yes, sir,' instead, to reassure Coulson that he was taking this seriously.

Coulson gave the curt little nod that Clint had already learned meant he was satisfied that his instructions were understood and were going to be carried out. Clint stepped to the side of the house's front window and started to quarter the street, memorizing the surrounding area and searching for anything out of place at the same time.

Clint could hear Coulson moving around the house, opening and closing drawers and cupboards. He was curious of course, but he kept his eyes on the window and scanned the street. Once the clock in his head told him it had been ten minutes, he moved to the window beside the front door, and scanned a different slice of the street. He heard a new set of noises from the dining room and risked a quick glance. Coulson was taking a laptop out of a large metal case. Another case, still closed, sat next to it on the table. Coulson's regular laptop case, the one he'd had on the plane, was on a chair. Clint turned his attention back to the street, looking very carefully for people loitering on corners, shadowy figures in doorways, or the brief flash of color that would indicate someone watching from a window the way he was.

"I'm making coffee. Do you want some? Or soda, or water?" Coulson called from the kitchen.

"Yeah, water would be good," Clint said. Then, thinking that if there was coffee and soda, there might be something other than water, "or Gatorade, or juice."

A minute later, Coulson handed him a bottle of orange juice.

"Great, thanks."

"All clear?"

"As far as I can see. If there's anyone out there watching us, they're better at hiding than I am at spotting them."

"How likely is that?" Coulson wasn't doubting him; he was asking for information. Clint liked that he could tell that.

"Not very, unless they're really, really good."

"Give it another twenty minutes or so."

"Sure thing, boss."

Twenty minutes later, Clint abandoned his post by the window and walked over to the table where Coulson had set up a laptop and some other equipment.

"As soon as it's full dark, I'm going to need you to go up on the roof and set this up in the most inconspicuous spot you can find," Coulson said, gesturing to something that looked like a very small satellite dish.

"No problem."

"Good. In the meantime, help yourself to whatever you want from the fridge. There's bread and cold cuts for sandwiches and some bean salad and plenty of water and juice."

"Yeah, okay. A sandwich sounds good." Dinner felt like hours ago. Clint looked at his watch. It was almost ten, so dinner had in fact been hours ago. He realized that Coulson might be hungry, too. "Uh, do you want me to make you a sandwich?"

"That would be very nice. Thank you, Barton."

Clint went into the kitchen and spent a few minutes locating plates and cutlery, investigating the contents of the fridge, and putting together a plate of sandwiches for both of them. He put the plate near Coulson's elbow, along with a fresh cup of coffee and a napkin.

Coulson smiled his thanks.

"I won't know for sure until you set up the satellite dish," Coulson said after a couple of bites of sandwich and a sip of coffee, "and we get secure communications established, but the usual procedure in a case like this would be to have us go back in and make a positive identification of the package, and do a thorough tactical assessment of the compound. If it is a nuclear missile, SHIELD will likely mount an op to retrieve it."

"Um, okay. This kind of thing happen often?" Clint was actually reassured by the fact that there was a 'usual procedure'.

"Not this exactly. But finding something very dangerous in the hands of someone who shouldn't have it, yes, that happens fairly often." Coulson glanced out the window, and then stood up and picked up the small satellite dish. He plugged one end of a reel of wire into it and handed it to Clint.

"You should be able to get up onto the roof from the back bedroom window. It needs to point northeast at an angle of about 60 degrees. Do you need to take a compass with you?"

"No. You showed me the safe-house on the map during the briefing. I know where north is."

"Good. If you can try to position it so that it isn't obvious from the street, that would be best."

"No problem."

Clint climbed out the window with the satellite dish in one hand and shimmied up onto the roof. Once he'd set up the dish and climbed back into the house, he found Coulson at the dining room table, typing.

"Nicely done, Barton. Comms are up. I'll be working here for a while, so take a break. Pick a bedroom and unpack, and there's a DVD player and some movies." Coulson waved his hand towards the sofa and TV in the living room, his eyes not leaving his computer screen.

Clint wandered over to the living room and perused DVD titles, then glanced back at where Coulson was typing rapidly on his laptop, brow furrowed in concentration. There was a bookshelf next to the rack of DVDs and Clint examined the selection. It was an odd combination of reasonably recent bestsellers and old paperbacks, as if someone had spent half the book budget at Barnes & Noble and the other half at a church rummage sale. Clint found a Louis L'Amour he hadn't read and settled down on the sofa with it. A couple of hours later he got up and made another pot of coffee. He poured a cup for himself and put a second one down next to Coulson's elbow.

"Thanks." Coulson picked up his cup and took a sip, then paused as if he was surprised, and took another, longer drink. "You make good coffee, Barton," he said, looking and sounding sincere.

Clint didn't know how to react to that, but thankfully he didn't have to , because Coulson put his cup down and spoke. "No news from Headquarters yet. They're still analyzing the photos you took. I'll take first watch. I'll wake you in about four hours when I'm done here."

Barton glanced at the clock. It was just after 11 p.m., which meant he would get the 3 a.m. to 7 a.m. shift. Fair enough.

"Sure thing, boss. G'night." Clint took his coffee and his book into the bedroom he'd used to access the roof earlier. He stretched out on top of the covers fully dressed and read for another few minutes, then switched off the light and fell into a light sleep. He woke immediately when Coulson softly called his name from the doorway, sitting up and switching on the light.

"Your watch," Coulson said. "We should be secure here, but there's a Beretta and a shotgun on the table, just in case. Wake me if anything happens — and I do mean anything, Barton."

"I will boss," Clint said earnestly, catching Coulson's gaze and holding it until Coulson nodded "Sleep well."

Clint prowled around a little while Coulson went to the bathroom and made bathroom noises. When he heard the door open, Clint turned just in time to see Coulson, now wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt, shut the door to the second bedroom behind himself. Clint settled himself back down on the sofa with his novel and a cup of coffee. Every half-hour or so he got up and walked as silently as he could around the dark house, stopping at each window to look out at the streets and yards, checking for anything out of place. Then he sat back down with his book. By the time he was six chapters in, he had a sneaking suspicion he'd already read this particular story about Juble Sackett. But if he had it was 15 years ago and he barely remembered it, so he didn't mind reading it again.

Just as it was starting to get light, Clint put on a fresh pot of coffee and investigated the contents of the fridge with intent. He came up with eggs, ham, onions and mushrooms. There was half a loaf of bread left from last night's sandwiches. He wondered how re-supply was supposed to work. They had enough fresh food for a couple more days, based on what he could see. He checked the cupboards and found them fully stocked with canned goods. They might be eating mostly canned beans if they were here for very long, but they wouldn't go hungry at least.

Clint found a frying pan and started to make breakfast as quietly as he could. He fried the ham in a little butter, then the eggs. While the eggs cooked he sliced the onions and mushrooms. He slid the ham and eggs onto plates and put them on the corner of the stove to stay warm. He put the onions and mushrooms into the pan and checked the time. It was just going 7 a.m. He turned the heat under the pan down all the way, stepped over to Coulson's door, and knocked softly.

"Yes?"

"It's oh-seven-hundred, boss. Coffee's made and breakfast will be ready in five minutes."

"Thank you, Barton, I'll be right there."

Clint went back to the kitchen and put toast on while Coulson used the bathroom. He emerged immaculately dressed in a suit and tie, although his jacket was a little rumpled. Clint was about to make a joke about his boss' wardrobe, but he decided that he really didn't want Coulson to think he was an asshole. So instead he dished up the food and put the plates on the table.

"Thank you very much for making breakfast," Coulson said.

"No problem, seeing as how I was up anyway. I figured we should use up the stuff in the fridge first, in case we're stuck here for a while."

"Well, hopefully it won't be too long, but we have plenty of supplies," Coulson said after he finished chewing his mouthful.

"Yeah, I saw the canned stuff in the cupboards."

"There's also a couple of cases of MREs in the hall closet if it comes to that," Coulson said around a bite of ham and egg and toast crumbs. "Don't worry though, we won't be here very long without some sort of backup. I expect to hear from Headquarters today regarding the photos you took."

Sure enough it was around noon when Coulson got the email he'd been waiting for. Clint was alternately lounging on the sofa reading his novel and regularly making a tour of all the windows, checking for any sign of suspicious activity nearby.

"Confirmation that we should go in for a closer look. Headquarters wants us to wait until tomorrow night, though. They're going to get us some better resolution satellite photos of the compound in the meantime, and also track the movements of the sentries to give us an idea of the guard patterns."

"How're they going to track the sentries?" Clint wanted to know.

"Infrared satellite imaging, like they use to track storm clouds, except on a smaller scale. They'll analyze the heat patterns and figure out where the bodies are. With any luck, we'll get a map of the sentry patrol patterns."

Clint was impressed that SHIELD was willing to use a spy satellite to figure out the guards' movement patterns, but he also detected a flaw in that plan. "Yeah, but that's only for one night, right? Tonight? They might use a different pattern tomorrow when we're there?"

"That's right. So we'll need to be very careful and ready for anything." One corner of Coulson's mouth quirked up a little bit, and Clint realized that Coulson had just smiled at him.

Coulson spent most of the rest of the day at his laptop, and Clint spent most of his reading. At 5 p.m., he got up and said, "I was thinking I could rustle up some dinner, if you like?"

"That would be very nice, Barton, thank you." Coulson gave him another small quirk of a smile.

"No problem."

Clint opened the fridge and started pulling things out and forming a plan. Half an hour later he called over his shoulder, "Dinner in ten minutes, boss."

"Thank you, Barton." Five minutes later Coulson snapped his laptop closed and moved it to the side of the table. He came into the kitchen and asked, "Is there anything I can do?"

"Um, you could put out the plates and stuff, I guess."

Coulson moved easily around him in the kitchen, gathering plates, cutlery, napkins, glasses, juice, and condiments.

Clint put a bowl of broccoli with cheese sauce on the table, along with a tray of seasoned sweet potato wedges. He slid two pepper steaks out onto the two plates, and then disappeared back into the kitchen with the pan. He came back in to find that Coulson had served out the vegetables for both of them.

"Thank you very much for cooking, Barton."

"Uh, sure. I mean there was all this stuff in the fridge, so I figured we should eat it."

Coulson had a bite of potato wedge in his mouth and was chewing while making appreciative noises. Clint tucked into his own food. A minute later, after Coulson had washed down a piece of steak with a swallow of juice, he said, "This is very good. Where did you learn to cook like this?"

"Uh..." Clint felt the tops of his ears flushing and he looked down at his plate. "Just... you know... around."

Coulson didn't press him. "Well, it's excellent. Thank you," he said again. After dinner he insisted on doing the dishes.

Clint thought about settling back down with his novel, but instead he picked up a dishtowel and dried and put away the dishes while Coulson washed. Coulson had rolled his shirt sleeves up to his elbows to keep them dry, and Clint saw a small patch of ink high on Coulson's left forearm, just below his elbow. It took him a few minutes and a couple of very carefully discreet glances to see that it was the Army Ranger shoulder flash in black ink. He didn't ask about it.

Once the dishes were done, Phil fired up his laptop again, and Barton went over to where he'd left his novel on the sofa. But Phil thought maybe he could provide a break in the tedium for the evening, so he took the disc he'd burned out of the computer's drive, and walked across the room to where Barton was just flipping his book open to the place he'd marked.

"Have you seen Enemy at the Gates?" Phil asked, waggling the disc.

"Um, no?"

"It's about a World War Two Russian sniper. I thought you might like it, so I downloaded it from the SHIELD library."

"Vasily Zaytsev?"

"Sorry?" Phil wasn't sure he'd heard correctly.

"The Russian sniper, is it Vasily Zaytsev?"

"Yes," Phil was surprised and a little impressed. "I don't think the film is historically accurate, though. It's a drama, not a documentary. So if you already know all about it..."

"No, no. I just... he's just the most famous World War Two Russian sniper, so I guessed it was about him. I'd... I'd like to see the movie, thanks. Thanks a lot." Barton looked surprised and even a little shy as Phil nodded and walked over to the DVD player to slide the disc into the machine. He also seemed surprised when Phil sat down on the other end of the sofa.

"Haven't you already seen it?"

"Yes, back when it originally came out. I was still a field agent then. I know a bit more about snipers now, so I'd like to watch it again. I won't mind if you want to pause now and then to add color commentary," Phil said, handing over the remote.

"Okay," Barton thumbed the remote. Since it was a library download there weren't a bunch of boring previews, just the standard FBI and Interpol warnings, then the menu.

Barton's mouth set in a hard line at the scene of Russian soldiers spilling off the back of a truck, and his eyebrows went up in disbelief at the words of the commanding officer:

"The one with the rifle shoots.
The one without follows him.
When the one with the rifle gets killed,
The one who is following
picks up the rifle and shoots."

"Why didn't they give everyone a gun?" Barton asked, over the sounds of shells exploding on screen.

"They didn't have enough guns for everyone," Phil explained. "The factories could only churn out so many, and supplies—the materials they needed to manufacture more—were scarce all over. The Germans were cutting supply lines by bombing them whenever they could. In 1942 one-and-a-half million people starved to death during the siege of Leningrad." Phil spoke quietly, timing his phrases so that they fell between the on-screen dialog.

Barton was silent for a bit, then winced at the scene of the Russian officers firing on their own retreating troops.

"Did that really happen?" he asked, his eyes flicking sideways and then going back to the screen.

Phil nodded. "Most countries' armies have a death penalty for desertion in time of war. Technically, you can still be executed for deserting from the US Army in wartime, but the last time they actually killed anyone for deserting was 1945. They send you to Leavenworth for twenty years instead, these days."

"Jesus."

"Should I add 'World History' to that list of things you want to learn?" Phil was careful to keep his voice even and not sound like he was teasing or mocking in any way.

"Yeah. Good idea." Barton's eyes were riveted to the screen while Vasily Zaytsev shot at German officers from the cover of a disused fountain. He nodded in approval as the sniper timed his shots to coincide with exploding ordnance, and let out a quiet 'Yes' as Vasily took out the fifth German officer with his fifth bullet.

Barton was quiet for a while, intently watching the film, but then he asked, "Did the Russians have a shortage of men, too? Is that why there were women on the front lines?"

"No, the Russians were just more pragmatic about it than most other countries. They didn't see any good reason that women shouldn't fight if they wanted to, so they let them volunteer. The Russian Army, Navy, and Air Force all had female soldiers, sailors, engineers, pilots, and so on."

"Huh," was Barton's only reaction.

Phil noticed that Barton didn't flinch at any of the scenes of bombardment or the graphic shots of bullets ripping into flesh. He did, however stiffen up at a flashback of a young Vasily missing a shot. Phil felt bad, cataloguing Barton's reactions to the film this way, using them to evaluate his mental state. But he'd be trusting Barton to have his back in the field tomorrow, on an op that had suddenly become a lot more dangerous than anyone expected.

They both sat quietly, absorbed in their own thoughts and reactions through most of the rest of the film. Barton sighed quietly during a scene between the young Sacha and the German sniper. Phil glanced over.

"He's dead." Barton said with a frown. Phil didn't confirm or deny, but noticed that Barton didn't flinch at all when Sacha's body was later revealed, hanging from a lamp-post.

Barton did swallow heavily during the scene where Vasily put the German sniper's gun into his friend Danilov's dead hands. That was when Phil decided that he could trust the man sitting next to him to watch his back.

The credits rolled and Phil yawned. "You okay to take first watch?" he asked.

"Yeah, fine. No problem."

"Thanks. Wake me at two, please," Phil said, and headed to the bathroom.

Clint was very, very glad that Coulson didn't want to talk about the movie. He wanted to think about it. Maybe even see it again before his thoughts would be organized enough to share them with anyone. Especially his boss. Who seemed to be a good enough guy, but...

While Coulson used the bathroom, Clint headed for the kitchen to put a pot of coffee on.

The next morning Clint made breakfast again from the supplies in the fridge. They were almost out of bread, so Clint chopped up the rest of the sandwich meat and mixed it into scrambled eggs along with a hot pepper, some onion, and a couple of chopped tomatoes.

Coulson made no comment on the food until he'd finished eating at which point he said, "Thank you for cooking, Barton. That was excellent."

Coulson seemed to think it was only fair for him to do the dishes, so like the night before he rolled up his sleeves (he was still doing the full shirt-and-tie thing, and Clint wondered if Coulson had even brought casual clothes with him) and filled the sink with soapy water. Clint picked up a dishtowel and stood next to him.

"When my brother Barney and I joined the circus, I was too scrawny to help set up the tents and equipment and stuff, so they sent me to work in the kitchen tent." Clint spoke quietly, looking at the plates in his hands as he dried them. "I hated that I wasn't big enough to help with the real work, but I didn't mind working in the cook tent so much when Irina—she was the cook—when she realized how thin I was and started giving me extra 'tastes' of whatever she was making. She, um, explained stuff about what flavors went together and why she'd put the vegetables into the stew in a certain order so everything would come out cooked properly... Anyway, later I worked as a short order cook sometimes when I needed a job. So uh... I don't mind doing it while we're here."

"Thank you," Coulson said. Clint didn't know if he was being thanked for the story or for cooking, but he supposed it didn't matter.

Coulson was sitting down at the table with his laptop again and Clint looked over at where his novel (he'd finished Jubal Sackett and was on to The Tango Briefing) was open face down on the coffee table.

"There's a weight bench and a chin-up bar in the basement, if you're bored. We should get a recommendation from Headquarters this morning, though, so be ready to move out, just in case."

"Yeah, sure. Um, Coulson? Can I ask about something?"

"Of course."

"What do you mean by a 'recommendation from Headquarters'?"

"The Senior Agent in the field is always in charge of an operation, because he or she has more information, local knowledge, and often just a gut instinct for what's happening on the ground. Headquarters will make a recommendation based on all the information we've sent them, but ultimately the final decision on how to proceed will be up to me."

"Huh. Okay, well, I'll be downstairs if you need me." While Clint made full use of the weight bench and pull-up bar in the safe-house basement, he thought about what Coulson had just told him.

It meant that Coulson had a huge amount of responsibility, Clint realized. He had to decide if it was safe to go in and check out the damn nuclear torpedoes or whatever they were. Clint guessed that Coulson could refuse, and SHIELD would send in another team, but he didn't suppose you stayed a Senior Agent very long if you pulled that sort of thing. It made Coulson's meticulousness make sense, though, if the buck stopped with him. If he couldn't blame a mission gone wrong on orders from above. It made a lot of sense, Clint thought, giving the responsibility to the guy whose ass was actually on the line.

Meanwhile, Phil was reading the emails he had been expecting. The experts at SHIELD were 70% sure that Barton's photos were of a nuclear torpedo from a Soviet submarine. How it had ended up in the possession of a drug lord in Mexico was a matter for another team entirely, but for now, Phil's job was to confirm that that's what it was. Which meant him and Barton sneaking into the compound to get a much closer look.

Phil was glad Barton was down in the basement as he got out of his chair and stretched his back, and then paced back and forth across the ground floor of the safe-house a couple of times. It wouldn't do to look nervous or uncertain in front of a brand new agent. And that was what had Coulson a little nervous and uncertain. He wasn't entirely sure Barton was up to the task. He trusted Barton's aim, sure, but the junior agent had never been on this kind of operation before. Phil had no idea how Barton would react to orders in the field, under pressure.

'If he wasn't capable, he would have never passed his training missions. If I didn't think he was capable, I shouldn't have brought him out here in the first place, even though it was supposed to be a cakewalk of a mission. Hell, if I didn't think he was capable, then I had no business asking to be his handler in the first place,' Phil told himself.

Phil knew Barton was capable. That wasn't what was worrying him. What was worrying him, he thought as he sat back down and got to work on drafting personnel and equipment requests, was that he was about to go into hostile territory with a man he didn't really know, and didn't yet trust.

Phil knew he had options. He could tell Headquarters that Barton wasn't suitable for the new mission parameters, and he could wait until a more experienced agent was sent out. But if he did that, he knew his relationship with Barton would be irreparably damaged, not to mention the blow it would be to Barton's self-confidence. 'His self-confidence shouldn't be an issue if the mission's at stake,' Phil thought. But it wasn't about the mission. He was sure Barton could do the mission.

Phil thought back to Barton sitting on the sofa next to him the previous evening, watching Enemy at the Gates. 'He'll have my back. I don't know how he'll react under pressure, or whether he'll follow orders if all hell breaks loose, but he'll have my back. That's enough. For now, anyway.'

When Barton came up from the basement half an hour later, covered in a thin sheen of sweat, Phil sent him to shower. "And once you're done, I'll brief you on what we're going to be doing tonight."

Clint was impressed. It took a lot to impress him, and he was fucking impressed. Coulson might look like an accountant, but dressed in a field suit and creeping through a drug lord's store room at two in the morning, the man did actually move like a goddamn ninja. Clint was good at moving quietly, really good, but as they had crept into the building, Clint had realized that he wasn't even in Coulson's league.

They were crouched by the back wall, over the metal tube with Russian writing on it. Coulson had a tiny re-lensed flashlight and was carefully searching the tube and taking photos of every marking he found. For the first thirty seconds, Clint watched him, then he scanned the interior of the building instead, alert for anything.

Which was how he spotted the end of what looked like a second metal tube, poking out from under a tarp, just to his left. He didn't move for a second. He stared at the thing, then turned his eyes back to the one Coulson was examining. They looked the same. He put a hand on Coulson's arm. Coulson shook him off and shot him an annoyed look. Clint got a little pissed. 'How else was I supposed to get your attention?' he wondered as he gave the hand signal for 'look' pointing at his own eyes, and then pointed at the tarp, and what was under it.

He carefully didn't smile when Coulson silently but clearly mouthed 'fuck'. Coulson leaned in close and put his lips next to Clint's ear. Clint held up his hand signaling 'wait' and turned his hearing aid up to maximum. Then he nodded.

"Uncover that one, and look for more," Coulson whispered.

Clint nodded again, then moved silently over to the tarp. Sure enough, the second metal tube looked pretty much exactly like the first. Clint found a third one behind it. He uncovered that one, then searched the rest of the corner of the building without finding anything else. He sat back on his heels, keeping a look-out, while Coulson moved over to take more pictures.

He felt a light touch on his knee and leaned in so that Coulson could speak into his ear. "Try to lift one end of this one. Slowly. Carefully."

Clint nodded. Coulson had explained on their way out to the site that the tubes might not still contain actual nuclear material, that the inner workings may have been removed recently, or years ago. Since the safe-house hadn't come equipped with a geiger counter, one way to tell would be by the weight of the tubes: a real missile would weigh upwards of 600 pounds. Clint got into position at the tail end of the torpedo in a wide stance and a weightlifter's crouch. He used the fins for handholds, tested his grip then nodded 'ready' to Coulson. Coulson held up a hand, and sat motionless, listening for a few seconds, before signalling 'up'. Clint tried to ease the end of the tube up. It barely budged. He strained harder and lifted it two inches above the ground, muscles bulging. Coulson nodded and motioned, 'down slow'.

Clint eased the torpedo back to the dirt floor as gently as he could. It was very unlikely to be unstable, but Clint figured it couldn't hurt to be extra careful.

Coulson regarded the thing for a minute, then motioned Clint to cover the three tubes up, leaving them exactly as they had found them. Then he gave the signal to move out. They crept back out of the compound, keeping to the shadows even in the dark of a moonless night and avoiding the sentries. They stopped, silent and still every time Coulson heard a noise. Once they were half-a-mile away, they broke into an easy jog back to where they'd parked the battered jeep that had been in the safe-house garage.

Phil spent the next two days working very, very hard. He'd unexpectedly landed himself a major operation; an operation that needed a large number of personnel and specialized equipment to be clandestinely transported into the country. The plan was to sneak into the compound with enough personnel to carry the tubes out. Which meant three four-man teams, plus at least one nuclear expert, and someone from explosives/bomb disposal, as well as personnel to cover their exit and engage the drug lord's caballeros if they didn't manage to get out undetected. Which meant also having a couple of medics, and transport...

Phil did the math in his head and figured they'd need at least three Quinjets for the exfil, and that assumed that their nuclear expert confirmed that the torpedoes weren't 'hot' and could be safely transported out by a jet that also contained people.

Emails flew back and forth. Jasper Sitwell was handling logistics in New York, tasked with getting all the necessary personnel briefed and in-country. They decided to keep the film crew cover that Barton had started the operation with; it was an easy way to get a bunch of big guys with vaguely sinister black uniforms and equipment over the border without causing any fuss. They could have done a clandestine crossing, or an airdrop of course, but this was easier. They already had a bunch of promotional material for "Revenge of the Mutants" printed up, and it meant they could rent a bus or two and openly move the entire team to within striking distance of the target. Which, as Phil knew from experience, was much easier than moving two dozen or so people plus equipment completely clandestinely.

Phil sighed and rubbed his hand across his eyes.

"Can I get you another cup of coffee, boss?" Barton asked, glancing up from his novel. Phil absently noted the cover and realized that Barton was on his third book. He felt a wave of gratitude that his new asset was happy to sit and read quietly for hours, and not pester him with questions about the operation. The fact that Barton made good coffee and was an excellent cook was icing on the proverbial cake. Phil knew how lucky he was. Usually having to do such demanding work under sub-optimal conditions with someone he barely knew in the room would have ratcheted his stress levels up considerably, but Barton had the ability to fade into the background when he wanted to. 'Useful skill for a sniper,' thought Phil.

"Yes please, Barton, I'd appreciate that."

When Barton put the cup of hot, black coffee down by his elbow, Phil gave him a warm, genuine smile of gratitude.

"Sit down here for a minute, would you? There are some things I'd like to go over with you."

Barton took a chair opposite him and wrapped his hands around his own mug.

"From the pictures we got two nights ago and the weight of the tube you tried to lift, the experts at SHIELD are 95% confident that they are exactly what they look like: old Soviet-era nuclear missiles, the kind that were designed to be launched by a submarine."

"Like in Crimson Tide?" Clint asked, not entirely serious.

"Yes, just like in Crimson Tide. Or maybe more accurately The Hunt for Red October."

"I haven't seen that one."

"I'll download it for you to watch tonight if you'd like. Anyway, we won't know for sure until we get in there with the appropriate equipment, so we are proceeding on the assumption that the operation is to retrieve three nuclear missiles. The tech guys are 99% sure that they are stable, and that it would be impossible to set them off accidentally; however it's possible that the casing around the nuclear material is old and corroded. If something goes wrong, we won't have a nuclear explosion on our hands, but we might have a radiation leak, and we're going to avoid that if at all possible. Which means getting the missiles out of there without a firefight erupting." Phil stopped, wanting to know what issue Barton would pick up on first.

"But it's gonna take at least four guys to carry each one of those tubes!"

"Yes." Phil nodded. "Which means we need to infiltrate a team of minimum 16, probably closer to 20 people, and try to get the tubes clear of the compound at least, before the shooting starts. We'll be taking the sentries out this time, rather than going around them," he said evenly. Phil didn't like killing people out of simple expediency, but it this case it was necessary.

Barton nodded his understanding.

Next, Phil asked: "Are you comfortable using the Blaser with a suppressor?"

"Sure. It'll still make a noise, though. And if anyone sees or hears a body go down-"

"Yes, I know. I've been trying to decide whether it's best to take the sentries down from close quarters instead." Phil rubbed a hand across his forehead again, then wished he hadn't made his tiredness quite so obvious to Barton. He picked up his coffee and took another sip.

"Knife in the back, you mean, or a garrote or something like that?"

"Something like that," Phil nodded. "There are a couple of non-lethal options that I've had to discard because they're just not certain enough for an operation this delicate."

"The guys are hired guns for a drug lord, they probably deserve it, somehow." Barton shrugged philosophically.

"True. The difficulty with this particular operation is that we need enough manpower to get out safely if things go badly, but we want to go in with the smallest number of people possible to minimize the risk of it going badly."

"Yeah, I can see that." Barton drank some more of his coffee, but didn't say anything else, so Phil continued.

"Going in is fine, with the dozen people who are going to be carrying the tubes out, I'm confident we can hold our ground if need be. It's heading back out, with those dozen people carrying the tubes that I'm concerned about. They'll have sidearms, of course, but we'll need solid cover. That's where you come in." Phil sat back in his chair and looked at Barton. "I'm figuring you, Diaz, and Park for primary cover. Opinions?"

Barton looked surprised and more than a little confused, but Phil waited. He wanted Barton's honest opinion, and hoped he would give it.

"I don't know Park. I've never worked with him... her?"

"Him. Hansin Park, he defected from the North Korean army with some very useful intel. He didn't... fit in with the other acronym agencies, so SHIELD recruited him. Good with guns, knives, and hand-to-hand."

"I'm... uh, I'm pretty good with knives, too, um, in case that wasn't in my file somewhere. Uh, throwing them, I mean."

Phil nodded thoughtfully, but didn't say anything, and waited for Barton to go on.

"Diaz is good. I've been on a couple of ops with her. She's smart and keeps her head under fire."

"Yes, I agree with that assessment. Park is just as good, more experienced, more versatile. Very deadly. Quiet, keeps to himself. Not that there's anything wrong with that. I don't believe in that 'team player' nonsense. Where would you take position?" Phil leaned forward and pulled the satellite map that had been couriered to the safe-house yesterday clear of the other paperwork.

Barton sat forward and stared at the map for a minute. Then he fixed his eyes on a point over Phil's left shoulder, seemingly trying to remember something.

"The rocks that I took the pictures from are the only cover for miles around, but they're too far away from the compound. The guys carrying the missiles will be out in the open for too long, and we'd have to shoot through them to pick off the bad guys. It's not ideal, but we'll have to go right up to the wall with the team going in, and wait until they come back out so we can cover their exit."

Phil nodded.

"What about mobile cover?"

"Huh?"

"Mobile cover. You used it during training."

"Oh, that weird aluminum-and-kevlar shield thing? Yeah, I guess that could work. We'd need, like, one each, but I guess if you're bringing in that many people and a bunch of equipment and stuff... I prefer to be up high somewhere, but that's obviously not an option here, so, yeah. Okay."

Phil nodded, and continued to explain his plans. Barton asked questions when he didn't understand something, and, eventually, started mentioning when he thought he saw a hole or a flaw in Phil's plan or tactics. Inevitably, it was something Phil had already thought of, and had an answer ready. But he was very impressed with Barton's tactical awareness and attention to detail.

"It still comes down to how long sixteen people can keep perfectly silent while carrying three 600-pound nuclear missiles out of a tin shed." Phil managed to stop himself from sighing and rubbing his hand over his eyes yet again.

"Well, it sounds easy when you put it like that," Barton said with a smirk, but Phil just shook his head.

"I did seriously consider doing it the other way: going in with a full force, subduing everyone in the compound first, and then dealing with the torpedoes. But it's a lot more risky, not only in terms of danger to our agents and loss of life for the bad guys. You saw women in the compound, so we have to assume there could be children as well. Plus we're not exactly here with the permission of the Mexican government, so it's better to keep things as quiet as possible. There's a chance, a small one admittedly, that we'll manage to make it out without waking anybody up."

They talked about the op for another hour, and then Barton looked at the clock on the wall over Phil's shoulder and said, "Um, I should be getting some sleep if you want me to take second watch again."

"Oh, sorry." Phil said, kicking himself for something, no matter how trivial, having slipped his mind. "I should have mentioned. We've got backup outside now, so we don't need to keep watch. We both get a full eight hours sleep tonight and tomorrow, which we'll need before heading out on an overnight op. I'll download that movie for you if you like?"

"Sure, thanks."

Five minutes later Phil handed Barton a disc and he popped it into the player.

"Are you sure the noise won't bother you?" Barton asked, pointing the remote at the TV while Phil headed back to his seat at the table in front of his laptop.

"No, it's fine. I'll be going to bed soon anyway."

Sure enough, half an hour into the film, Phil waved at Barton on his way to the bathroom. Five minutes later shut his bedroom door behind himself before stripping out of his clothes and pulling on sweatpants and a t-shirt to sleep in.

Forty-eight hours later, Clint was again crouching in a corner of the building containing the nuclear missiles. Partly to be out of the way of twelve guys trying to silently load three 600-pound missiles into special slings, and partly so that he could look through a crack and keep an eye on what was going on outside. Park was out there, doing an excellent impersonation of a statue, and Diaz was just inside the door. Coulson had abandoned the idea of the 'mobile cover' and instead decided that having a sharpshooter assigned to cover each team carrying a torpedo made more sense. Park would be going out with the first missile, Diaz was second, and Clint was last, so he was staying out of the way for now.

His eyes flicked from the crack, to the team maneuvering the missiles, to Coulson, who was standing just as still as Park, off to one side, watching everything. Coulson looked like a tightly wound spring, waiting to move into action. The first team finished loading. Coulson moved, silently, like a cat (one of the big deadly ones, a panther or a cougar) and touched the nuclear expert on the shoulder. The man jumped and Clint saw Coulson's hand come up, ready to clamp it over the guy's mouth if he forgot himself and spoke out loud. He didn't. He looked almost too scared to move and then visibly relieved when Coulson leaned in and, Clint assumed, whispered to him to pack up his gear and move out with the first missile.

Clint saw Diaz poke her head out the door and signal Park. He put his eye to the crack again and scanned the compound while the first team moved slowly out of the building. Park was to the left of the four men shuffling (almost) silently along with 600 pounds of nuclear missile in a sling between them, the nuclear expert following behind. Clint watched until they made it to the compound's back gate, which was no longer guarded by a pair of the drug lord's thugs. Then he turned his attention back to the interior of the building. The second team was loaded and ready to go. Clint detached himself from the wall. He figured he'd take Diaz's position as soon as she was out with her team.

Coulson was holding a whispered conversation with the explosives expert. Clint had been introduced to him earlier that day: Tyrone 'call me Ty' Booker. He'd seemed very easygoing at the time, all smiles as if this mission was the most fun he'd had all year. But now he seemed to be arguing with Coulson, or at least disagreeing with him. Coulson was frowning, and Clint concentrated, try to read his lips. It was dark, and he didn't know Coulson well enough yet to be very accurate, so he couldn't pick up very much, but Coulson seemed to be insisting that Booker go out with the next group. Booker finally shrugged, and turned and nodded to Diaz, who was waiting to signal the group carrying the second missile. Diaz scanned the compound from the door one last time, then gave the hand signal for 'move out'.

Clint moved cautiously around the men who were loading the last missile, making sure not to get in anyone's way. He didn't often feel intimidated by guys who were bigger than him, but Coulson seemed to have selected the personnel for this operation based on height and weight. The agents loading and carrying the missiles wouldn't look out of place in the defensive line of an NFL football team. Clint figured it made sense, since their main task was to carry 600 pounds of radioactive explosive across almost a mile of desert, but it did mean he was feeling a little... small.

Clint saw Coulson signaling out of the corner of his eye and looked over. Sure enough, Coulson wanted him to check if the coast was clear for them to move out. Clint poked his head out the door, waited for his eyes to adjust to the slightly brighter light and then carefully quartered the area. He didn't see anything that shouldn't be there, anything that wasn't there last time he checked. He turned back to Coulson and nodded, signaling 'all clear'. Coulson signalled 'move out' and took point. The linebackers heaved the missile off the ground and shuffled, quietly, out the door. Clint followed, his rifle at the ready.

They were 500 yards away from the compound when they heard a noise from the group ahead of them: a muffled curse, then a loud, metallic sound in the still of the night. Clint tried to see what was happening ahead, and then turned his head to try to catch any noises from the compound behind him. Sure enough, he heard a shout and the banging of doors and boots. Then came the first couple of shots. Clint spun around, dropped to one knee, and raised his rifle, all without conscious thought. He regulated his breathing and waited, watching for muzzle flash.

When he saw it, he fired back so quickly that the report of his own gun overlapped the sound of the shot from the compound. He thought he heard a cry, but with the noise that had erupted behind him and the fact that Coulson was now issuing orders over the comms in his ear, he couldn't be sure.

"Park, take the right flank, Diaz, on the left. I want the jets in here now. Home in on my signal and put them down between me and the compound. Hernandez, what happened up there?"

"Ran into a cactus and dropped the missile on a rock, sir."

"Booker and Maynard, get in there and assess the structural integrity of the missile. Any injuries?"

Clint ignored the answer to Coulson's question because more fire was coming from the compound. There were at least two automatic rifles, probably AK-47s, but Clint ignored those. They didn't have the range to be a problem, and since it probably meant the guys firing them didn't know exactly where they were, Clint relaxed a little. He listened and watched for rifle fire.

Some goatherd with a .22 was much more dangerous to them right now than the idiots making all the noise with the AKs. Sure enough, he spotted rifle muzzle flash from the edge of the compound, and returned fire. Diaz plunked down in the sand near to him and started to pick off the guys firing the AKs. Clint concentrated on looking for the smaller flashes of the rifles. There was a noise overhead and Clint heard the Quinjet pilots on the comms. The next thing he saw was a very bright flash and a distinctive 'whump' sound.

"RPG," he yelled, not remembering or caring about radio protocol. "They've got RPGs and they're firing at the Quinjets!"

Clint heard Coulson ordering the Quinjets pull up and land out of RPG range, which of course meant they wouldn't have the jets as cover. Clint heard a rifle crack from his left. There was a loud 'clank' from the compound as one of the men wielding the RPGs presumably went down and he heard Park make a small, satisfied-sounding grunt. More rifles opened up, and Clint tried to get a bead on them. He heard a yell behind him, almost lost in the noise of the Quinjets landing.

"Everyone fall back to the jets. Now."

Diaz was up and running, and Park was moving too. Clint didn't like turning his back on bad guys with rifles, but he took one more shot then retreated with the others. He tried to check behind him as he ran while also avoiding an unpleasant encounter with a cactus. He'd taken a few dozen steps towards the jets, which were spilling pale blue light onto the desert sand as the missiles were being loaded, when he heard a rifle crack and one of the guys carrying a missile in front of him howled and stumbled. Clint loosed three shots on the run, just to make the shooter keep his head down for a minute. Park was turning around and heading back, but Coulson waved him off.

"No, go cover the teams loading then get on board!"

Coulson was angling toward Team Three and the man who was stumbling, and Clint got there about the same time.

"I'm hit. Leg," the guy on the back left corner of the sling said apologetically.

"I got it, boss," Clint said, shouldering his rifle and taking the handle of the sling. The firing started up again behind them, and they moved as quickly as they could to the bay door of the nearest Quinjet. Clint glanced behind himself as they paused at the bay doors and saw Coulson, sidearm in hand, scanning the desert, seemingly oblivious to the gunfire chattering from the compound. As they loaded the last missile, Coulson was on the comms.

"Team One Leader, report; is everyone accounted for?"

"Yes, sir. The package is secure and Maynard and Park are with us."

"Pilot QuinJet One, you're cleared to take off at your discretion."

There was a roar and a wash of sand as the first jet took off. Coulson was talking to Team Two as Clint heaved his corner of the missile onto the jet and helped strap it down. Clint heard confirmation that Diaz and Booker were on the second jet, and Coulson's okay for it to take off.

"Everyone accounted for?" Coulson asked as his eyes scanned the men crowded into the jet's cargo hold.

"Yes, sir," answered one of the linebackers.

"Pilot, Jet Three you are cleared to take off at your discretion."

"About fucking time!" came the answer from the cockpit and Clint grinned. He grabbed a handhold as the jet gave a jolt.

"Medic!" called Coulson. A woman in fatigues, carrying a large pack emblazoned with a red cross, knelt down next to the agent who'd taken a bullet and attacked his pants with a pair of bandage scissors.

The rest of the team began making the kinds of jokes that got made after you've spent four hours under radio silence and then been shot at. McCoy, the agent who'd taken a bullet, was being told how lucky he was that the sniper had aimed low and hit him in the calf, when someone looked up at Clint and said, "Hey, Barton, you're bleeding all over our nice clean floor!"

"It's just a scratch," Clint threw back. "It can wait until Florence Nightingale is finished making sure that McCoy will still be able to play the trombone."

But the next thing Clint knew, Coulson was standing next to him and pressing a folded handkerchief (what the fuck, an actual cotton handkerchief?) to the graze on his bicep. Clint felt weird about it, like he didn't deserve the attention, but he didn't pull away.

"It's nothing, boss, just got nicked by a chip of rock or something."

Coulson inspected the handkerchief and then pressed it back to the wound.

"Parker, when you're done with McCoy's leg, Barton could use a couple of butterfly closures on his arm." Coulson said to the medic, then quietly, so that only Clint could hear, "Good work, Barton."

Clint felt a warmth bloom in his gut. He stamped down on it immediately. He didn't need Coulson's approval. He didn't need the swell of pride that came from being told he'd done a good job by a man that he was starting to respect... and like.

But he didn't shrug off the press of Coulson's handkerchief from his arm, either.

Barton was in Phil's office, one hip propped on the corner of his desk, as Phil went through the corrections and additions to his mission report for the Mexico operation. They could have done this by email, of course, but Phil had wanted to somehow acknowledge Barton's work both during the mission and in compiling what was in fact a very good report, the minor corrections they were now making notwithstanding.

He was just working out how to phrase his praise when Barton said, "So, uh, Coulson, would you, uh, be interested in having a cup of coffee with me sometime?"

Phil was blindsided enough by the unexpected question that it took him a second before he asked for clarification. "Are you asking me to socialize with you outside the office, or are you asking me out on a date?"

"Um, whichever you'll say yes to, but I was hoping for a date."

"I'm very flattered, Barton," Phil said trying to put every ounce of sincerity he could into his voice, "but I'm afraid it's out of the question."

"There's no rule against it, I checked!" Barton sounded like a petulant teenager.

"No, there's no regulation, but it's a personal principle of mine. I don't date my co-workers," Phil said, lying to Clint Barton for the very first time, and fervently hoping it would be the last.

"Yeah, whatever." Barton unstuck his hip from the corner of Phil's desk and moved towards the door.

"Barton," Phil put just enough command into his voice to make Barton stop and turn halfway. He picked a folder up off his desk and held it out. "You're booked for paratrooper training starting the day after tomorrow. All the details are in here." Phil waited, but Barton didn't move to take the folder from him.

"Paratrooper training?" Barton's eyebrows had disappeared up into his hairline. "As in jumping out of an airplane?"

"With a parachute, yes. It's a two-week course. The first week is practice, learning how to pack a chute, how to leave the plane, how to land without breaking anything. The second you'll spend jumping at various altitudes, day and night, and learn how to handle cargo chutes and do a water landing." Phil realized that he was trying to sell the idea, make it sound exciting, or at least fun.

Barton stared at him for a moment more, then stepped forward and took the folder out of his hand. "You're sending me to learn how to jump out of airplanes. With a parachute."

"Is that a problem, Barton?"

"No, boss, no problem at all." The incredulous look on Barton's face slowly turned into a smile. "Guess I'd better go start packing, then, huh?" Barton waved at him with the folder, and sauntered out of Phil's office.

'That could have gone better,' Phil thought, realizing that he had no idea whatsoever what Barton's reaction meant.

Nine days later, Clint and the rest of his training group spilled through the door of their bunkhouse. They'd just finished the first week of jump school and had gone out to celebrate. Clint had even had a couple of beers. But only a couple, because there was no way he wanted to be hungover the first time he actually jumped for real.

The rest of the group had been similarly restrained, even the guys who were doing the course as a refresher, and were jumping for the 50th time, rather than the first, tomorrow. Clint was excited about tomorrow's jump. He couldn't wait to find out what it felt like to be free falling through the air. The whole week had been great; their instructor was a good guy, hard but fair, and most of the rest of the group were okay, too. He honestly couldn't remember last time he'd had this much fun.

"Hey, Barton, you coming? We're gonna play a Grand Theft Auto tournament," called one of his classmates.

"Nah, go ahead. I'm gonna check in with my boss."

Video games weren't really Clint's thing. He didn't see the point in pretending to shoot things when he could just, you know, go out and shoot things for real if he wanted to. He'd see if anyone wanted to give the air hockey table a go, later. For now, he folded himself into the chair in front of the shared computer in the corner of the rec room, signed in, and opened his email.

To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Jump school
Attachment: tower_jump.vid

Hi boss,

Things are going good here at jump school. I had a bit of a hard time at first getting used to the weird fall on your ass landing they taught us, but I got the hang of it after a bit. We finished Week 1 today and so we do our first real jump tomorrow. Should be fun. The instructor here is a good guy. He let me play around a bit on the tower after we finished practicing yesterday. Someone took a video, if I can get this to work right its' attached.

Clint Barton

Phil opened his email the next morning, read the message, and clicked on the attachment Barton had sent him. The grainy, shaky phone footage nonetheless clearly showed one Clint Barton in bare feet, fatigue pants, and a tight black t-shirt, doing a two-and-a-half revolution somersault in the pike position worthy of an Olympic diver off the 30-foot jump practice tower. He landed in the sandpit with a shock-absorbing deep knee bend, then stood tall, arms spread, and did a showman's bow, to the applause and whistles of his fellow trainees. Phil saved the video file to a folder labeled "Barton - Personal" on his hard drive.

Eight days later, Barton sauntered into his office looking happier, more relaxed, and more confident than Phil had ever seen him. Phil kept his pleased smile to himself. He had been hoping that a training course that not only pushed Barton's physical limits, but also allowed him to excel among his peers, would have precisely that effect.

"Hey, boss. Just wanted to let you know that I'm back." Barton's trademark cocky grin was firmly in place.

"Thank you, Barton. Did you enjoy your training course?"

"Yeah! It was... uh, pretty cool." Phil could see Barton clamping down on his enthusiasm out of long habit. "It's a good thing you made me do those swimming lessons, though. The water landing in full gear would have been kinda freaky if I hadn't practiced swimming in my clothes."

"Good. You'll need to re-certify every twelve months, unless we happen to have a mission that includes a jump in the meantime."

"Yeah, they explained that to us on the last day of training. It's like the CPR course, we need to re-cert every year."

Phil nodded. "I'll keep track of your training schedule for you, but feel free to remind me if I forget to schedule your refresher when it comes due."

"Sure. Uh, boss?"

"Yes?" Barton looked unusually hesitant all of a sudden, and Phil noticed how tightly his left fist was clasped as Barton held it out to him.

"They, uh... on the last day they gave me... us, I mean, everyone who was doing the course for the first time got one. What... Is there something I'm supposed to do with it?" Barton unclasped his fist to reveal a small gold paratrooper's jump pin.

Phil could see the swell of remembered pride in Barton's face. "You can wear it on your dress uniform if you want to. You're not required to, SHIELD leaves the wearing of decorations up to the individual. If you do choose to wear it, over the left breast pocket is traditional."

"Do you wear yours?" Barton asked. "Uh... I mean, I assume you have one."

"Yes, Barton, I have one. And yes, I wear it on the rare occasion that I'm in dress uniform."

Barton nodded, as if that had decided him. He closed his fist back around the gold pin.

"Right, well, I guess I'll head over to the range. I've got two weeks worth of practicing to catch up on."

Phil watched him head out, a spring in his step and his head held high. Not that Barton had ever seemed to lack confidence, but Phil was becoming more and more sure that the cocky self-assurance Barton usually displayed was a front. But not this - this was real pride. Phil thought back over Barton's file, which he had practically memorized. There were no Boy Scout merit badges in his childhood. No triumphs at Little League games. Probably no gold stars for school work either, what with his erratic attendance records. And the one skill he did have, the one thing he had trained hard to earn, the one thing he had that he could be proud of... had been given to him by a man who had then turned around and betrayed him. Who had left him to die in an alley.

'I'm going to do what I can to change that,' Phil thought, remembering the downcast eyes and sudden tension when Phil had asked Barton where he had learned to cook so well. 'I'm going to do my damnedest to help him accomplish things he can be proud of. Starting with...' Phil jostled his computer mouse to bring the screen to life and looked up the GED requirements for a High School equivalency certificate. He copied the list to a file in his 'Barton - Personal' folder and began researching looking up educational software. 'World History first,' Phil thought, 'because we talked about it during the mission. Then...' Phil cross-referenced the list Barton had sent him of things he wanted to learn and started to build a plan around it.