Disclaimer: I don't own Marvel. If I did, than Clintasha would totally be canon. And they would be in every movie and have their own tv series.

A/N

Disappointingly, last chapter didn't seem to be that popular as it only got one review. If you are reading this story and enjoying it, but didn't leave a review, I have no way of knowing you enjoyed it. And the more interest this story gets, the quicker I will post it.

So an extra special shout-out to Freeranger, my only reviewer of chapter 2!

This chapter was beta-ed by jaguarspot, so thanks also goes out to her. Any mistakes that remain are mine.

I hope that people are enjoying what I've written, and if anyone recognises that song that the chapter titles are from let me know! It is a really great song, and very fitting for Clint.

You may be deceived if you trust too much, but you will live in torment if you don't trust enough. Frank Crane

Chapter 3: All colours seem to fade away

Mid-January, 1999; SHIELD's New York Base.

Phil entered the gym area. The first thing he heard was Shelley's voice.

"Barton, you can't always wait for the other person to make the first hit! I agree that it is a good strategy, but in certain situations can get you killed. You have to learn how to fight offensively if you are ever to get anywhere in SHIELD, you can't always rely on defence."

Shelley didn't even stop for breath, instead ploughing on.

"Kelly, you have the opposite problem. You don't think before you attack, and are thrown off guard after your first attack for a few seconds. This gives your opponent ample opportunity to turn the tables on you, just like Barton did. Your stance is also sloppy."

"I'm beginning to seriously wonder what they taught you at the Academy. New graduates didn't use to be this hopeless."

Phil sighed upon hearing that. He was concerned about Barton himself. Over the last couple of weeks, it had become increasingly clear that Barton needed to learn some basic techniques before he was ready to go into more advanced training. He had a number of bad habits that they had to break if he was to be able to advance in his training.

Happily, Phil had actually been given the all-clear by medical that morning, and was now allowed to do strenuous exercise again. They hadn't cleared him for missions yet, but Phil was in no hurry for it to happen. Right now, he was just glad that he could finally start to train Barton in hand-to-hand.

In spite of his carefully cultivated paper-pusher appearance, Phil did know a thing or two about physical combat. He was fairly confident that he would be able to help Barton advance his training much faster than he would learn if he stayed in the main pool of agents.

Phil walked up to where Shelley was standing with her hands resting on her hips. She was watching the pair who were currently sparring in the ring (Barton wasn't one of them, he was standing off to one side taking sips from a bottle of water) and calling out advice and comments about their fighting, even as she smiled at Phil.

"Here to see how your boy is going?"

Phil shrugged.

"Partially. I have nothing else to do right now, so thought I'd come down and see how things are going. Also, I've heard that you are leaving SHIELD at the end of the month. Is that true? I have to admit that I was surprised to hear that."

Shelley shook her head in exasperation.

"I'm not leaving SHIELD; I'm transferring to another base. I honestly don't know how people got the idea that I am leaving SHIELD. I'm not. Rather, I'm moving to a SHIELD base down in Wisconsin to be closer to my mom. She is very sick, and I am all she has in the way of family, since my dad passed away two years ago. So, once the twenty-ninth of this month comes around, I am gone."

Phil nodded.

"Okay, so you are transferring, not leaving. Things make a lot more sense now. What's going to happen when you're gone? Are we getting a new trainer in?"

Shelley shrugged her shoulders.

"I honestly don't know. I hope so; we need a proper trainer on this base. The huge influx of new graduates from the Academy need more than just a supervisor, they need a proper trainer. I've put in all the correct forms to request one be assigned here, but I have no say in the matter once I leave. They might send an Academy trainer here even; I honestly don't know what will happen. And to be honest, I don't really care at this point in time."

Just then Barton wandered over towards Phil. Shelley muttered something about one of the other agents and went over to the pair who had just finished sparring, leaving the two of them alone. Barton was obviously tired, but there was a determination in him that was very familiar to Phil by this stage.

"How's the training going Barton?"

The kid shrugged as they watched Shelley ream out one of the younger agents for doing something stupid. They couldn't hear what she said from where they were standing, but from the way the agent cowered it wasn't nice.

"I'm constantly getting yelled at, no matter what I do. If I don't hit I get yelled at, and I get yelled at if I do hit."

Phil nodded.

"I know. You need more intense training than what you are getting here. The good news is that I am finally fully cleared by medical. So, starting next Monday; I will be training you in advance hand-to-hand combat in the mornings before breakfast. It should be fun."

Barton looked horrified.

"Before breakfast? That's cruel. How long before breakfast?"

Phil smiled.

"No later than five am, seven days a week. I will release you at seven so you can grab some breakfast before general training starts at eight."

Barton looked even more horrified.

"You're cruel."

"Do you or do you not want to be an agent Barton? If your answer to that is yes, then the extra training shouldn't bother you. If you don't want to be an agent all you have to do is say so, and we'll send you back."

Barton just grumbled and stalked off with his head in the air. Phil let him go. He didn't want to make a scene in public, but something told him that sparring with Barton was going to be an experience; one that neither of them would forget in a hurry.

Thursday morning, almost a week later.

Beep, beep, beep.

Phil groaned as his alarm informed him it was time to wake up. Fumbling around on his bedside table, Phil eventually found the off button and pushed it. Blessed silence descended on him. Phil wanted nothing more than to roll over and go back to sleep. But he knew he couldn't do that.

Phil groaned again as he sat up and stretched. Phil knew that he didn't have much time before he was due to meet Barton for his advanced hand-to-hand combat training. It was with another long groan that Phil heaved himself out of bed. Being vertical did nothing to help him wake up properly, but at least now he was in less danger of falling asleep again.

Phil dressed in athletic pants and a t-shirt. He did possess a few casual items of clothing, no matter what the rumour mill would have you believe. Contrary to popular belief, he didn't completely live in a suit. It just happened to best fit his needs most of the time.

As he got dressed, Phil thought about Barton. This was to be their fourth day of intensive training, and Phil did not know what to expect from his young charge. Barton was completely unpredictable in what he said or did at any given time.

For example, on Monday he'd listened to Phil and done everything he'd been told. On Tuesday, he had ignored Phil completely and literally ran circles around him. On Wednesday, he'd attempted to take Phil down repetitively in spite of having been told not to multiple times.

Phil knew that Barton was testing him; everything to do with Barton was a test it seemed. What he was being tested for this time, Phil honestly did not know. But he was determined not to let Barton's behaviour get to him. No matter what happened. He had to keep his cool if he was to have a chance of building any sort of a relationship with Barton.

Still, the fact that they seemed to be taking one step forward, only for something to happen that would seem to take them two steps back, was somewhat discouraging. It could be worse; Phil reasoned to himself as he exited his apartment and heading towards the training room, it could be three steps back.

But nonetheless, it was still very frustrating.

Late January.

Clint was beating up a punching bag in one of the smaller gyms.

He didn't know how long he'd been there for; but, as Coulson had cancelled their protocol lesson for today, he'd needed to do something to distract himself. In spite of (or possibly because of) everything that was happening, Clint was finding it harder and harder to keep his mask in place, and his emotions locked down. Physical exertion was one of the only things that was keeping him grounded at the moment, and so Clint was pushing himself, hard. It was virtually the only way that he could forget about his current problems.

And there were a lot of them. However, the biggest problem was his handler, Agent Coulson.

The reason Clint was so edgy and uptight was because his handler was just too damn kind.

No one was ever kind to Clint Barton. Not unless they wanted something very specific from him in return, something that he more than likely wasn't willing to give them. He'd learnt that a long time ago, and he'd learnt it the hard way. He still had the scars from that lesson.

Coulson, however, was the exception to every single rule life had taught him about people.

Clint had been at SHIELD for about four months now, and almost three of those had been spent with Coulson solely responsible for him. During that whole time, Clint couldn't remember one incident where the agent had been anything but kind. Clint had purposefully done everything in his power to piss the agent off, and make him show his true colours.

However, in spite of Clint's best efforts, Coulson had remained unchanged.

It was getting to the point where Clint couldn't handle the kindness and understanding that Coulson was constantly inflicting on him. Clint didn't understand why someone would be so kind to him, and didn't know how to react.

He was a murderer with a dark past, who definitely didn't deserve all that they were doing for him. He was broken beyond repair, so why would Coulson go to all this trouble to make Clint feel like he was worth something?

It didn't make sense, and unsettled Clint like nothing had in years.

And Clint Barton had a very well developed way of dealing with things that unsettled him, or that he didn't understand.

Ignore the problem for as long as possible, and hope it goes away.

It wasn't the best strategy, but it was the only way that Clint could cope.

It was the only way he knew how to cope.

Early February.

Phil glanced at the clock and frowned. Barton was three minutes late to their afternoon session.

That was unusual.

Since Phil had gotten him the extra range time back in December, Barton had always made sure to be on time to their lessons. It was part of the deal they had made, and up to now had worked pretty well.

Phil didn't even look up when the door opened.

"You're late."

Receiving no answer, Phil looked up. He was just in time to see Barton stagger into the briefing room, and all but collapsed into his chair.

Phil looked in surprise at his young charge.

"What on earth has happened to you?"

Barton was too tired to even muster the energy to glare at Phil. That didn't stop him trying to, but he wasn't very successful.

"Training. That new trainer is a slave-driver."

Phil raised an eyebrow.

"Is that so? Did you think that maybe you just need to be fitter?"

Barton didn't respond, instead he pouted and moaned dramatically as he moved to sit up a bit straighter in his chair.

"Ow. Everything hurts. This is abuse to agents. I should report him."

"I doubt anyone will listen. He's good then is he?"

Barton had managed to muster enough energy by this point to glare at Phil.

"I told you already, he is a slave-driver. They never worked us this hard at the Academy."

Phil hummed.

"Well, they should have. In the middle of a mission, if you are tired and fatigued, you won't get a break. You will have to push on regardless of your physical condition or health. It seems the Academy has lowered its standards in recent years. I might have to see about remediating that."

Barton eyed the stack of books Phil had sitting next to him on the table with clear distaste.

"Do we really have to do this today? My body has just been put through the wringer, and now I have to put my brain through it as well? Surely there is some rule somewhere that forbids overworking of assets?"

Phil looked at Barton with a deadpan expression.

"Depends on your definition of overworking. It wouldn't be such a chore if you'd just do it properly the first time, and not argue with me over every single protocol."

"Where's the fun in that?"

Phil raised both his eyebrows at that.

"This is your idea of fun? Arguing with me about everything, and prolonging our sessions as a result? You have a twisted idea of fun Barton, that's for sure."

The kid just glared at him.

Phil didn't let it affect him. Rather, he was genuinely concerned for his asset. He did look beat and like he was about to collapse.

"You've had plenty of water and something to eat I hope Barton? I don't want a sudden collapse on my hands due to you neglecting to look after yourself properly."

Barton looked away at Phil's question.

"Yes, I have. Honestly, all you do is fuss. You'd think I was incapable of taking care of myself, listening to the way you go on and on about this and that."

"As your handler, it is my job to make sure that you are looking after yourself properly. I am responsible for your well-being, and for making sure that you can function at the peak of perfection at all times. I take that responsibility seriously, Barton."

"I can look after myself just fine. I don't need you to do it for me. I've looked after myself for years. It hasn't killed me yet."

Phil felt a headache forming, even as his heart ached for his confused asset. It was like he was completely incapable of comprehending why another person would care about him.

"I know that you can look after yourself Barton, but those days are over now. You aren't alone anymore. Part of my job as your handler is to see that you aren't ever alone again. Let me do my job Barton. Please."

The kid (and he was just a kid, in spite of being twenty) huffed before rubbing his eyes and slumping down in his seat with a sigh.

"Fine. Whatever. Handler. Are we going to do this now or not?"

Phil handed him the right booklet without a word. When Barton had found the right page Phil started to read out the next scenario in the book.

"Protocol for dealing with the local inhabitants of an area when you don't speak their language..."

Later that evening, Phil was working late in his office. He was just starting to think about going up to his quarters to get some sleep, when there was a knock on the door. Frowning, Phil checked the time.

10:10 pm.

Who on earth would want to see him at this time of night?

"Come in."

The door opened to reveal Agent Vince Ardern, the new trainer. He nodded at Phil as he entered the room and carefully closed the door behind him.

"Agent Coulson. Do you have a moment? I need to see you about Barton."

Phil's worry spiked at that, but he remained calm faced.

"Of course Ardern, please sit down. What's wrong?"

Ardern sat down and looked at Phil.

"Maybe you could tell me?"

Phil's confusion must have shown on his face, because after a moment, Ardern sighed.

"That kid of yours is a mess, Coulson. He came to my class this morning looking like he hadn't slept in days, and yet worked harder than anyone else did."

Both Phil's eyebrows went up at hearing that.

"He was certainly exhausted this afternoon. However, when I asked him, he said that you were a hard task master. No offense. Are you saying that he pushed himself that hard?"

"Well, I certainly didn't let anyone slack off. But Barton did push himself beyond what I would have demanded of him. What's the story behind that boy, Coulson? It's obvious he's a victim of child abuse, but there is something else going on there, something big. You don't get that sort of darkness in you from abuse alone."

Phil blinked.

"How do you know about the child abuse? Even we don't know much about it, except that it happened."

Ardern sighed as his dark brown eyes met Phil's across the table. For a moment, there was a deep sadness in them that shocked Phil. But then it disappeared as fast as it had come when the part Indian man spoke.

"I know about the abuse because, well; let's just say that I've seen it many times before. All the signs are there if you know what to look for. It's so bad in Barton that I'm not sure if that kid has ever had a time in his life where he wasn't the victim. Am I correct so far?"

Phil's mouth had dropped further and further as Ardern had been speaking. For that reason, it took him a few moments to collect his thoughts enough to answer Ardern.

"Yes, you've pretty much summed it up."

Ardern nodded, not seeming the least surprised that he was right.

"Also, how long has he been out of the military?"

After everything that Ardern had just said, Phil wasn't that surprised that the trainer had picked up on the fact that Barton was ex-military.

"About two years now. How do you know that?"

"He's obviously had basic military combat training, but it has slipped. Hints of it are still there, but he has clearly been in situations since where he has had to fight for his life."

Phil nodded immediately.

"Yes, he has been. In answer to your question, he was in the army for almost eighteen months and worked as a sniper. He left them in less than stellar circumstances."

Ardern pursed his lips in thought.

"What happened to him then?"

Phil decided that it wouldn't hurt to tell Ardern the basic details surrounding Barton and his recruitment.

"He went to ground, and wasn't heard from for almost ten months. After that time, he re-emerged as an assassin for hire."

Ardern didn't look surprised at hearing that. Phil was starting to wonder if anything would surprise the man.

"How long was he out there for?"

"As far as we can tell, it was almost eighteen months."

Ardern actually looked stunned at hearing that.

"Man, my respect for that kid grows. He is a survivor all right. What caused him to come in?"

"I offered him job. I had reasons to believe that he was a better person than he thought he was, and that he didn't enjoy what he was doing. I offered him a chance to do something good for a change, and he took it. I haven't had reason to regret that decision yet."

Ardern now looked very thoughtful.

"How long has he been with SHIELD?"

"He arrived in early September last year, so about five months now, I think. I've been his sole handler since early December. He was at the Academy before that."

Ardern winced.

"That actually explains a lot. Whose bright idea was it to send him there?"

Phil was surprised.

"You think it was the wrong thing to do?"

Ardern sighed.

"Probably. I just know that I don't like it there, but that doesn't mean anything."

He didn't elaborate on what he meant, and Phil didn't like to push. He didn't know Ardern well enough for that. Though they had met before, and even gone on missions together a few times when Phil was younger, they'd never really interacted on a personal level. Phil supposed that, with Barton around, that was going to change.

"Is there anything else you can tell me about that kid that might help me understand him better?"

Phil gave the question considerable thought. Finally reaching a decision, he moved to unlock his office safe and handed a SHIELD file to Ardern. The agent took it with a look of confusion.

"What's this?"

Phil sighed.

"The little information that we have on Barton's past. Since you are going to be training him, I think that it's better that you are read in so you know what you are up against. Believe me, trying to understand that kid, knowing what is in his file, is hard enough. I couldn't, with a clear consciousness, send you in completely blind. Barton is stuck in general training for who knows how long, so you are going to see a fair bit of him. Knowing some of his past will help you not to go insane."

"Trust me; you are going to need all the help that you can get. Barton isn't an easy case."

Ardern took the offered file, but didn't attempt to open it. He just looked at it, and then at Phil.

"I know he has the look about him of someone who is on his last chance, but is it really that bad?"

Phil grimaced.

"Yes. Read the file, it will help to explain a lot. That information is classified, so you can't take it out of my office. However, take your time reading it. It's a lot to take in."

Three weeks later, late February, 1999, 4:55 am.

Phil arrived at the gym that he was training Barton in at five minutes to five. Phil was unsurprised to find his young charge was already there. Not only was he already there, but he was beating up a punching bag with a ferocity that Phil hadn't seen present in his asset before, but was now impossible to miss. Ignoring it for the moment, Phil greeted Barton cheerfully. Just like he had every morning since they had started training together almost a month ago.

"Morning Barton. You're very industrious this morning; you've already started warming up."

He got no response, verbal or otherwise, from the young assassin. Phil frowned internally. This wasn't right.

Even if the archer wasn't feeling social, Phil normally got some sort of response from him. Even if it was just a shoulder shrug or glance.

This morning there was nothing. Barton continued to punch the bag as if his life depended on it. Phil had a moment to wonder if the archer was wearing his hearing aids, but then Barton stopped punching and turned around to face Phil.

When he got a good look at Barton's face, Phil's worry spiked.

The kid looked absolutely beat.

He had dark circles under his eyes, eyes which looked like they'd seen a ghost. There was a mixture of resignation and deep seated fear in them that was almost enough to make Phil falter for a moment.

In all the time he'd spent with Barton since recruiting him, Phil had never seen that expression in his eyes. On top of that, the kid looked like he was about to collapse, and was likely staying vertical by sheer force of will.

Phil was actually considering postponing their lesson, and forcibly sending Barton to bed to get some rest, when the archer spoke.

"You gonna spar with me or are we gonna stand here all day?"

That snapped Phil out of the mild shock he'd gone into at seeing the state Barton was in.

"We can spar, but are you okay Barton? You don't look so great."

"I'm fine."

The venom in the kids answer didn't surprise Phil. The archer never did take concern about his well-being as anything other than an insult. In the whole time that Phil had been responsible for the archer, that was one thing that hadn't changed.

Still...

"Are you sure about that? You look beat already, and we haven't even started our daily two-hour session yet. Don't think that I will be easy on you because you are tired. I won't be, so I need to know that you are up to this."

"I already said that I am fine. I just had a bad night. Now are we doing this or are we going to stand here gossiping all day?"

Phil wasn't happy about going on, but couldn't think of any other good reasons to postpone their training that wouldn't upset Barton.

And while Phil had no reservation about saying 'no' if he thought it was for the greater good he sensed that, in this instance, it would be better to go along with it.

However, in spite of his earlier words, Phil didn't intend to push the archer too hard. He still thought this was a bad idea. But Phil knew he didn't have a hope of convincing Barton of that at this point.

Besides, the only way the kid would learn was to make mistakes. Phil just hoped he wasn't making a mistake right now by carrying through with this.

Pushing those thoughts aside, Phil focused on the job at hand.

"Okay then. Now, I want you to put into effect all that we've practiced over the last month about fighting offensively. So, today I want you to come at me hard and concentrate on making a plan to take me down. Don't worry about hurting me, I can look after myself. But I want you to stay focused."

Barton glared daggers at him as they faced each other on the training mat.

"What made you think that I was going to take it easy? You're going down Agent."

Phil allowed himself a brief smirk, and saw Barton's eyes narrow fractionally.

"We'll see about that. Now, let's see what you've got Barton."

The third time Clint hit the mat he didn't bother getting up straight away. Coulson just stood there with not one hair out of place, watching him with a small frown on his face.

"I don't know what you are playing at here Barton, but we both know that you are better than this. Defence might be your best strategy, but you aren't completely clueless when it comes to landing punches. That has become increasingly obvious over the last few weeks, so what is the matter today Barton? What has happened to you? It seems that you aren't even making an effort to take me down."

Clint just glared as he stood up and faced Coulson again, readying his stance as he did so.

Clint didn't miss the way his handler sighed before adopting a similar stance.

"Okay Barton. This time I want you to watch for an opening and then press that advantage by planning out each move so that it seamlessly melds together. I don't want you to just fight in the moment. If you are ever to improve than you can't leave things to luck and trust that you can get out of any hole you fall into. The point is not to fall into a trap in the first place. That's what I'm trying to teach you here."

Clint was already exhausted from spending all night in the shooting range, trying to escape from the nightmares that haunted his sleep. The lack of sleep over the last couple of weeks was also starting to catch up; but he forced himself to keep going regardless. He waited for an opening in Coulson's defences and took it, only to have to dodge Coulson's fist. He was finding it harder and harder to focus, but by sheer force of will managed to get three more hits in before he blinked and found himself on his back on the sparring mat again. Coulson just stood there and sighed.

"This isn't getting us anywhere. Go and get some rest Barton. You are clearly exhausted. You are also not allowed in the range or any of the gyms until you've at least attempted to sleep. I will escort you back to your room myself to make sure that you don't run off. In spite of what you may think, sleep is essential Barton. Something tells me that you aren't getting enough of it lately."

Clint glared even harder as he forced himself to get up and turn around to face Coulson. He ignored the slight wobble in his stance as he tried to attack the agent, only to have Coulson calmly disable him with no more than a flick of his wrist. Before Clint could blink again he was back on his back on the mat, only this time Coulson was holding him there. The agents grip on his wrists was light, but firm, as he pinned Clint to the ground. Even so, Clint had a moment of panic, and started struggling, before Coulson's voice penetrated his exhausted brain.

"Barton, STOP FIGHTING ME. I do not want to hurt you, but if you keep going like you are you will injure yourself. You are exhausted Barton, actually, you are past exhausted. How you are even managing to stand right now is beyond me."

Phil calmly held Barton down, even as he was still feeling shaky from the events of the last few minutes. The kid tried to struggle, but he was obviously exhausted and didn't have a hope of breaking away. Once the archer stopped struggling, Phil loosened his grip a fraction. Not enough to allow Barton to wriggle out, but enough that he was simply holding the archer down, not pinning him to the mat.

"Barton, look at me."

Predictably, Barton refused. Phil tightened his grip on the archer's wrists a fraction as he projected authority into his voice.

"Barton. I said look at me."

That got the kid's attention and he glared at Coulson.

Coulson had to remind himself that being angry with Barton wouldn't get them anywhere. For that reason, Phil was careful to keep his voice calm and controlled and when he spoke, his tone was neutral.

"What was that about Barton? Did you really think that you had a hope of taking me down with the state you are currently in?"

Phil suspected the problem was that Barton hadn't thought. That he'd been running purely on adrenaline and sheer stubbornness, and that those two things had, unsurprisingly, failed him.

In answer to Phil's question, Barton averted his eyes from Phil's again and refused to say anything. After a few moments, when it became obvious Barton wasn't going to answer him, Phil decided that enough was enough.

"You need rest Barton. As you obviously can't be trusted to look after yourself, I have no choice but to go with you to make sure that you get what you need."

Barton glared at him, exhaustion evident in every line of his body. In spite of that, he obviously wasn't going to give in without a fight. Phil didn't know whether to be annoyed or impressed with his agent's inherent stubbornness and stupidity.

Sensing that Barton wasn't about to cooperate with him, Phil played his trump card. He knew that this was the only way to make Barton listen to him.

"And, if you don't come with me now and cooperate fully, you will find yourself handcuffed to a bed in medical and dosed up on sleeping medication before you can blink. Yes, as your handler I do have the authority to do that if I think that it is in your best interest. So, will you cooperate with me if I let you get up?"

Barton's glare slipped at hearing that, and he took a shaky breath before he gave one jerky nod. Satisfied that his asset wasn't about to do anything too stupid as he hated medical, Phil moved back and allowed Barton to get up. Once he was standing Phil moved slowly, telegraphing his moves so as not to startle Barton. In his current state, it wouldn't take much to push the assassin over the edge. Phil did not want that to happen.

He just wanted to get Barton to bed so he could get some sleep. Sleep that his body desperately needed, in spite of what his brain appeared to be telling him.

"Okay then, we'll go back to your room now. Can you walk there by yourself?"

Phil was on the receiving end of an angry glare and a nod from his asset. The fact that it wasn't accompanied by sarcasm had Phil even more worried for Barton's wellbeing.

"Good. Let's go."

Phil was sitting in the desk chair at the table in Barton's room, catching up on some paperwork that he'd grabbed from his office after forcibly making Barton lay down. That had been a struggle in itself.

Phil had thought that the archer would be more comfortable without his boots or belt on, but said archer had other ideas. Another fight had almost broken out over it before Phil had realised what the problem was and had backed off. Eventually, he'd managed to make the kid stay on his bed, and once Barton had lain down, he was asleep within a minute.

That had been almost three hours ago, and he hadn't so much as twitched since then. That was why, when Phil heard the strange whimpering noise, he couldn't immediately place what it was. It almost sounded like a child, but there were no children anywhere near here. Phil hadn't any idea where the noise had come from.

It wasn't until Barton suddenly let out a strangled cry, and arched off the bed in his sleep, that Phil realised the source of the noise.

"Barton, it's okay. Wake up Barton, everything is fine."

His agent thrashed and whimpered, still caught in the throngs of whatever nightmare had taken hold in just a few short hours. Phil later realised that touching the assassin hadn't been the best idea in the world. At the time he hadn't been thinking straight, and had almost paid for that oversight dearly.

No sooner had Phil touched Barton's arm then he found himself pinned to the floor with a knife held to his throat. In spite of his heart missing several beats, Phil did not panic. Instead, seeing that Barton's eyes were open now, if glazed and unfocussed, Phil continued to speak softly and soothingly. He lay as still as a rock so as not to make Barton feel any more threatened then he did already.

"Hey, it's okay Barton. Everything is okay. You just had a nightmare, it's not real. Breathe Barton, everything will be okay. Just breathe; No one is going to hurt you."

Phil wasn't sure how long he laid there, but he knew the exact moment when Barton's brain caught up with reality. The look in his assets eyes when that happened was something that Phil would never forget.

Barton leaped off Phil like he'd been burnt and with one leap was over the other side of the bed and cowering against the wall on the opposite side of the room. His eyes were still wild but Phil could tell his agent was back with him. Phil slowly sat up, keeping his hands where the assassin could see them and not looking directly at Barton so he wouldn't feel threatened.

"Everything is going to be okay, Barton."

The kid gave a choked laugh.

"Nothing is okay Coulson. Nothing can ever be okay."

Phil stayed calm, in spite of the fact his heart was beating twice as fast as usual and his adrenaline rush was fading, leaving him feeling exhausted.

"What do you mean by that, Barton?"

The broken glare he received in answer to his question literally did break Phil's poor heart.

"Why do you care?"

"I care because I am your handler. It is my job..."

Phil never got any further.

"SHUT UP AND STOP LYING!"

Phil blinked.

"I'm not..."

"I said to SHUT UP!"

"Barton..."

Before Phil could say anything else he found himself flat on his back on the floor again, winded. By the time he sat up, Barton was gone. The only clue as to where he went was the air vent cover that was lying on the ground, a gaping hole in the ceiling where it had been. Phil slowly got up and went over to it, wondering how Barton had removed it so quickly. A closer inspection revealed that the screws had been replaced with magnets at some point. Another inspection of the vent opening revealed that the archer was gone. Phil knew he could be anywhere by now. The vent system within the SHIELD base was very extensive.

Phil sat down on Barton's bed and put his head in his hands as he tried to keep his emotions in check. He'd stuffed up big time here, and he didn't even know exactly what he'd done wrong.

From day one, he'd tried to do whatever he possibly could to help Barton. He'd suffered through the verbal abuse, sarcasm and whatever else the archer had put his way without losing his temper. Phil was determined to prove to Barton that he was worth something.

Phil had initially hoped that, with time and patience, he could break down the barriers that Barton had built around himself.

It was clearly going to take more than that to get Barton to let Phil in and trust him.

For perhaps the first time in his whole life, Phillip James Coulson did not know what to do about a situation.

End of chapter 3

Poor Phil. Poor Clint. I should probably try writing something light and fluffy one day as an apology for the mental anguish and trauma that I put them through.