Summary: If there was one word Phil Coulson would pick to describe himself, it would be loyal. If Clint Barton had to pick a word to describe Phil Coulson, that wasn't profanity, it would be tenacious. Rated for language.

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Lessons in Tenacity

Lesson One: Recruitment

"Damn it all," Fury swore, staring at the most recent mission report. Phil Coulson stood silently next to the young Agent Maria Hill, thankful that his boss's anger was directed at the now dead assailants and not at him. "This," Fury pointed one callused finger at the offending brief. "Should never have happened."

"No sir," Hill agreed fiercely, her lips drawn tightly into a frown. Phil said nothing, but silently concurred. The mission in South Africa should never have gotten as close to failure as it did, courtesy of a few well trained marksmen that were employed by the terrorists. They'd picked apart the SHIELD ground team, sending three agents home in body bags, and nearly allowing the slave trader to escape.

Fury scowled at the paper again. "Coulson." Phil snapped to attention. "Find me an expert marksman."

Phil's mouth went dry. "Yes, sir." Fury nodded, satisfied, and dismissed the two agents without a second thought. Once in the relative safety of the hallway, with Fury's door shut, Phil let his shoulders slump slightly. Hill glanced at him with something akin to sympathy in her eyes

"Where, exactly," she asked gently, "are you planning on finding this marksman?"

Phil looked at her with his bleakest expression. "I have no idea."

In the end, Phil decided to call up his old friends in the military and simply ask if they knew of anyone. He'd kept in touch with most of them over the intervening years, and more than one owed him a favor. Phil decided that it was time to collect.

He'd made a list of those friends he knew were still on active duty, and had called about a dozen or so on his list before he got to Colonel Marcus James. Marcus had gone to West Point with him, and was one of the nicest guys Phil knew, so long as he was outside of a war zone.

"Well I do have a sniper," James began hesitantly, and Phil sucked in a hopeful breath. "But you won't want him."

Phil frowned at the receiver. "What? Why not?"

James was uncharacteristically solemn on the other end of the phone. "He's DH, buddy."

Phil snorted, leaning back in his chair. "You know we don't really care about that kind of thing," he admonished. "Come on, what's his name?"

"I'm serious, Phil," James insisted. "He's a whole new kind of mess that you won't want.

There was a hint of pleading in James's voice, and Phil sobered, suddenly knowing that there was more to this story than James was telling. He waited a beat before he asked, in his calmest voice, "Why was he dishonorably discharged?"

He could hear James settling more comfortably in his chair. "I was sent with a five man team to take out one of Saddam's higher ups. Our sniper was on a ridge, overlooking the building. The ground team was just a distraction, just there to draw this guy out enough line for sniper fire." James sighed. "His kids were with him, and he was using them as shields. Our sniper backed off and we lost our shot."

Phil was quiet for a moment, processing the information. "So, your sniper decided that the mental stability of a couple of kids was more important than taking out a target?"

"Our sniper," James corrected firmly. "Disobeyed a direct order. And it wasn't the first time. God love that kid, he's got an issue with authority like nothing I've ever seen. Why he joined the Army is beyond me, buddy."

Phil chewed on the end of his pen, thinking. "Where is he now?"

"I should have known you'd take him anyway," James chuckled tiredly. "You always did have that bad habit of picking up strays."

Phil ignored the subtle chastisement, uncapping his pen with restrained excitement. "Address, Marcus. We can discuss my bad habits later."

"Assuming he hasn't drunk himself into an early grave?" Phil waited silently. "He talked about an old family ranch down in Oklahoma. You should find him at the bottom of a bottle there."

Phil nodded, writing down the snippets of information on his notepad. "Name?"

"Clint Barton."

There had been no lights on at the ranch, and no one had answered, so Phil drove back to the strip of buildings the locals called town. He tried desperately not to feel out of place in his suit as he walked into the seediest bar he'd ever seen. The walls were visibly dirty, caked with decades of cigarette smoke and spilled beer, and was populated almost exclusively with middle-aged, plaid-wearing patrons. He glanced around, looking for anyone under the age of forty in the dim lighting, when he caught sight of the lone figure at the end of the bar.

Barton had foregone the glass and was sitting alone with a diminishing pitcher of beer and a bottle of Jack. He still wore military clothing, as if he couldn't quite let go of it yet, but his crew cut was starting to grow out. Smoke curled lazily around his head as he exhaled a drag from his cigarette, the lines around his eyes deepening. The kid was barely twenty years old, but war and shame had hardened him. Phil had seen that look before, on broken soldiers that knew their only place in the world was on a battlefield. This kid was going to be one tough nut to crack, all anger at the world and self-loathing. Steeling himself for the imminent battle, Phil walked purposefully over and took the barstool next to him.

"I'll have a Budweiser." He nodded at the bartender, clasping his hands on the counter. He glanced over at Barton, watched him take another drag from the cigarette and wash the smoke down with a swallow of whiskey. "Looks like you're having a worse day than me," he said conversationally, thanking the bartender when his beer was placed in front of him.

Barton made no acknowledgement that Phil had even spoken, taking a long draught from his bottle instead. Shrugging out of his jacket, Phil laid it on the bar and loosened his tie. He spied the dogtags resting on Barton's sternum as he was rolling his sleeves up to his elbows and suddenly cocked his head, contemplative. Bringing up the service would be a gamble, but it might jar the sniper into talking. Being yelled at would be a step up from being ignored, Phil reasoned.

"You in the Army?"

Barton froze, the bottle of Jack halfway to his lips. Turning slowly, he fitted Phil with an icy glare that would pierce most men with fear. Phil smiled.

"I was too, once," he continued, pretending to be oblivious to the deepening scowl on the sniper's face. "I left though, when there was better offer."

Barton finally moved and Phil tensed, ready for the swing that he was sure was heading for his jaw. Instead of slugging him, Barton leaned swiftly over the bar and snatched a handful of darts from beneath the counter. The bartender glared at him, but Barton merely flipped him off. Picking up his Jack, he walked over to the dartboards and lined himself up.

The first round was disgustingly accurate for the amount of alcohol that Barton had to have consumed, but Phil could see the coiled anger in his movements. Picking up his warming beer, he joined Barton to watch.

"It's a great job, really," he announced genially, picking right up where he left off. Barton's eye twitched with irritation at the sound of his voice. "I'm with the Strategic Homeland -,"

Barton whirled, one dart held menacingly before Phil's eye. "I could kill you twelve ways to Sunday with this," he snarled, pointing the dart at Phil for emphasis.

Phil's deeply seated, inner smartass emerged, and he let his lips curl in a satisfying smirk. "I'd love to see you try, Barton."

Despite his buzz, the shift in the sniper's demeanor was instantaneous. His muscles bunched beneath the worn jacket, the grip on the dart in his hand becoming more suited for attack than play. Phil forced himself to relax.

"At ease, Clint," he murmured reassuringly over the din of the other inhabitants of the bar. "I'm here to offer you a job."

There was a long series of heartbeats where Phil was certain that he'd soon have a dart-shaped hole in his new suit, but Barton surprised him again by suddenly relaxing. The transformation smoothed the angry lines from his face, making him look much more like the lost kid he was. He took a long swig from his bottle, wiping his mouth on his coat sleeve.

"Not looking, pal," he muttered, turning back to the dartboard. "You wouldn't want me anyway."

Phil let his breath out in a relieved sigh, pleased with the progress he was making. "Why not?"

Barton snorted. "The Army wouldn't even have me. I got dishonorably discharged a while back." Three darts sank into the red cork of the bullseye. "All for having a decent set of morals. No room for that shit under Uncle Sam."

"We're not the Army," Phil replied gently, carefully keeping his voice level and unsympathetic. When Barton made no move to end his game, Phil's hand shot out and gripped his wrist with just enough force to garner attention. "We're not the Army, Barton," he reiterated as the sniper finally made eye contact. "And you're going to want this job."

Barton looked pointedly at the hold Phil had on his wrist. Phil simply raised his brows in silent question. Barton huffed, rolling his eyes. "If I listen to your damned spiel, will you go the fuck away?"

Phil smiled, releasing him. "I'll do you one better," he offered. "If you can drink me under the table, I will walk out that door and you'll never see me again." Barton looked grimly pleased with the suggestion. "But," Phil continued. "If I outdrink you, you come into headquarters with me and sign up."

Barton snorted. "Deal."

Phil led an extremely inebriated Barton through the hallways of headquarters, somewhat surprised that his nap in the helicopter hadn't seemed to decrease his drunkenness whatsoever. Growing exasperated with Barton's instability, he finally looped the younger man's arm around his neck and hauled the sniper towards his tiny office. As they passed the main lounge, Director Fury stepped out into the hall.

He raised his brow at the pair, his nose wrinkling as the fumes of alcohol and cigarette smoke reached him. "Coulson, what the fuck is this?"

Phil shifted Barton's weight on his shoulders, his heart hammering. "Your expert marksman, sir."

Clint grinned unabashedly at Fury, and opened his mouth. Unwilling to take any chance that the kid could offend his director, Phil slammed a hand over Barton's lips. Fury waited a beat, simply staring at the tableau in front of him, before he rolled his eye at Phil.

"I do not want to know," he said firmly. "Just sober his ass up and get him to the range for testing. I want a full evaluation of this kid by fifteen hundred tomorrow."

"Yes, sir," Phil replied, dragging Barton away from the director. Shoving him unceremoniously through his office door, Phil sat him in the chair in front of the desk and threw himself down with a heavy sigh. His suit reeked of sketchy bar and his buzz was quickly wearing off from the adrenaline rush that meeting Fury had given him, but he grinned with satisfaction. Barton dropped his head to the desk, groaning.

Phil let him finish sleeping it off for an hour, making arrangements to have a junior agent retrieve the car they'd left behind when the helicopter picked them up. He scheduled Barton's exams, printed off the necessary forms, and set a bottle of water and two pills of Advil next him. When Barton finally cracked one bleary eye at him and scowled, Phil smiled pleasantly.

"Good morning, sunshine."

"Fuck you," Barton replied, his voice hoarse. He grimaced at the light blazing through the window behind Phil, dropping his bloodshot gaze. Barton finally spied the Advil at Phil's elbow and his eyes zeroed in on them like a hawk.

Phil placed his palm over the pills, biting back a smirk when Barton audibly growled. "You can have these once you've signed the admission forms."

Barton stared at him, then sat up, glancing around the office with suspicion. "Did you kidnap me?"

"No," Phil replied calmly. "You were perfectly willing to come a few hours ago when I invited you. You even agreed to join."

Barton glared at him, his mind beginning to clear. "I'm leaving," he said, standing. The sudden shift in equilibrium was not a wise choice, and Phil passed him a waste can. When Barton slumped back into his seat, he glowered petulantly. "You can't keep me here. I have rights."

"We're beyond rights, now," Phil retorted, leaning back comfortably in his chair. Barton rummaged in his jacket, crowing triumphantly when his questing hands emerged with his pack of cigarettes and a lighter. Phil frowned. "Those will kill you, you know."

Barton arched his brow. "What are you, my mother?"

"I'm your handler," Phil corrected, sliding the admission forms closer and setting a pen on top. "You'll have unlimited access to the latest technology, twice the pay you were receiving with the same benefits, and anonymity in all of your actions." Barton met his gaze at Phil's last point. "I told you last night; we're not the Army. What have you got to lose?"

Barton was silent for so long that Phil started getting nervous. The kid finally relaxed, almost imperceptibly, and held out his hand. "Give me the fucking pills."

"Sign the papers."

"Fuck, you're pushy," Barton groused, snatching up the pen and scrawling something illegible at the bottom of the form.

"Forceful," Phil corrected, placing the forms into Barton's file and dropping the tablets in Barton's palm.

"Annoying," Barton countered as he popped the medicine, guzzling half of the proffered water with them.

Phil smirked, just enough to remind Barton who exactly had won their little contest. "In charge," he replied with finality, rising from his seat. "Now, get up," he commanded, slapping the folder against Barton's shoulder. "You've got evals to pass, Sunshine."

Fin.