I have no excuse for how late this is. But this chapter is done, AND it is twice as long as normal (YAY!), so enjoy. Kudos to anyone who catches the reference to a certain show!

I make no promises as to when the next chapter will be out, but I will write more, so don't worry.

To Meet An Agent

Chapter 4

In Which Gutierrez is Mildly Important And Wherein We Learn That Clint is a BAMF

When he stepped out of the tent after hearing Barton's report, Coulson could only rub wearily at his eyes. It was only the early evening, yet he was exhausted and, to be frank, a little disbelieving of what he had just heard. The walls of the tent flapped and rustled in the breeze as he methodically rolled his neck, popping every aching vertebra. Soldiers in dusty fatigues bustled past, lugging large metal crates, drinking (the watery, yet somehow sludgy and acidic) coffee out of battered tin mugs. Coulson swept his eyes across the scene and thought longingly of how he was not paid enough to deal with all this.

He had a sniper twenty feet away who was either the brassiest liar who ever dared to lie to Coulson's face, or a man who had executed the impossible in ridiculously improbably conditions.

Coulson wanted so badly to believe his version of the story. Frankly, he wasn't surprised that Barton had pared his paperwork down to the essentials.

(Quite literally, in fact; the single sheet of paper had, in a messy, uncoordinated scrawl, this succinct line dancing through the middle: Saw terrorist with blinky vest, saw kid in danger, talked to McBlankyface Spookton about it, went to higher ground, climbed things, shot things with big gun. Things went splatter.

Then below that, Sheesh, Sarge, I SURE WISH I HAD A BETTER VOCABULARI FOR THESE THINGS. MUST BE MY DAYS SWINGING UPSIDE DOWN THAT DISCOMBUBULATED MY DERN FOOL HEAD.)

(Coulson later found out that the "Sarge" – the same one who suffered the unfortunate broken nose – had been singling Barton out in front of his unit, ridiculing his background, education, previous employment – Coulson wondered what, exactly, that entailed – and his manner of speaking. This, of course, prompted Barton to strike back the best way he knew how: from a distance. Mouthing back over the comlines was the best he could do in a war-time situation without serious repercussions.)

Coulson shook his head, amused despite himself, at the ridiculous childishness of the man he had just spoken with. He finally sighed and started walking toward the bustling tent in the center of the base, reaching out absentmindedly to snag the arm of a passing soldier, who yelped and stumbled at the abrupt about-face.

"You. Guttierez. You were with the unit pinned down, correct?" Coulson inquired crisply. "Also, you have a molar in your hair."

The young man's left eye twitched as he reached up and felt for the fragment.

"This," he moaned, "has been a really stressful day." He glared morosely at the bloody tooth. It had no sympathy for him. He dropped it and continued his moans and groans of complaint as Coulson neatly dragged him into the central command tent. Soldiers at various stations watched in thinly disguised amusement as the strange duo wove their way through the bustling hubbub.

Coulson released Gutierrez's arm as he pushed open the flaps into a dimly-lit room. Half a dozen rows of monitors blinked dully, illuminating a heavy-eyed attendant slouched in front of a monitor showing an empty, trash-lined street. Gutierrez blinked as his eyes adjusted to the dimness, and he chuckled half-heartedly as the bored guard nearly slipped off his chair when he finally noticed the two intruders. His mouth went comically wide and flapped a few times as he stared at the impassive features of the suited man. He glanced at Gutierrez, who just flailed the arm not confined in the surprisingly iron grip of the agent next to him in a "what can one do" sort-of gesture. The guard's mouth opened, closed. His swallow was loud in the room. "Uh, can I, uh, help you? Or, sir, you can—just show a security pass or something, right?"

Coulson internally rolled his eyes so hard that he got an imaginary nosebleed.

(Meanwhile, Gutierrez's instincts screamed DANGER WILL ROBINSON and he watched in horror as the agent's already-stony face morphed into rigid lines. He briefly remembered watching The Incredibles with his five year-old nephew; the lines uttered by the miniature Flash-wanna-be in the movie rattled behind his eyes: "We're dead! We're dead! We survived, but we're dead!")

Coulson just jerked his head. First at the hapless guard, then at the door.

Gutierrez sighed in relief as the guard stumbled past them and disappeared through the flap, leaving them in the cool glow of the – now unguarded – monitors. He cleared his throat.

"Sir, Norm's a little, uh, careless, but his heart's in the right place. So…please don't kill him?"

Coulson actually rolled his eyes this time. He abruptly released Gutierrez's arm and briefly rubbed the top of his nose. "Just help me find the angle that I am looking for, and I'll consider only persuading your superiors to honorably discharge him."

The soldier just stared at him.

Coulson continued, "He allowed an unidentified man with a hostage into a secure area. A secure area, mind you, adjacent to the conference room in use by—" He glanced at a screen to his left, "—Two generals, one rather important politician, one rather unique and valuable weapons designer (Gutierrez craned his neck and glimpsed a very distinctive goatee and impressively suave smile), and the current leader of your operation. If I had a mind to, I could cause massive destruction in five minutes. And this 'Norm,' as you say, allowed a potential terrorist in after one paltry stare."

(In Norm's defense, dear reader, Philip James Coulson had once reduced a man to hysterics with that stare. Frankly, it was an embarrassing situation for nearly everyone involved, since the man had had Coulson tied up, in just his boxers, and strung upside down at the time. Never let it be said that Phil Coulson couldn't take control of a situation.)

"Now, since you are more familiar with U.S. occupied ground in this city than I am, help me find a security camera covering the area from which Barton assisted us this afternoon. It was roughly 2000 meters to our north and approximately 20 meters above the ground."

Gutierrez could only nod. He wandered over to a group of several monitors and squinted at the blurry buildings. Coulson strode silently up behind him and looked at the picture on the monitor. It was of two thin buildings, one five stories high and the other seven. He could barely make out a line in front of the taller building – a telephone pole or flag-pole, perhaps? Whatever it was, it was swaying slightly in the wind. He sighed and thought for a moment.

"Please rewind the tape to 0700 hours." Gutierrez jumped a little but complied quickly. The two men stood, silently watching the tape rewind until the numbers reached 0655. Coulson darted forward and peered at the video as a shadow strolled into the building. He immediately recognized the confident, jaunty walk, and, sure enough, the figure turned just long enough to throw a glance at the street, allowing the camera one clear shot of his face.

It was Barton, toting a large duffle bag and sporting a toothy grin that made Coulson's headache multiply by ten.

Barton disappeared into the shorter building, only to reappear on the roof a minute later with a fully assembled sniper rifle slung easily on one arm and the much-diminished duffle bag in the other. Gutierrez gaped. "He assembled that monster while running up the stairs? How?"

"Barton has previously unknown talent at becoming an octopus skilled at wind-sprints."

Gutierrez blinked and looked up at the agent's unchanged face. "Uh…yes, sir?"

Coulson rolled his eyes, "That was a joke, Lieutenant."

"Oh."

"Yes. Ah, now here's where he begins commenting."

They leaned forward and watched closely as Barton wiggled his whole body into a more comfortable position on the dusty, flat roof. His mouth moved as he began his conversation with the then-pinned-down-in-a-firefight Coulson. Barton's smile was wide and sharp as he "bantered" with the sergeant. Watching the sniper like this, Coulson could see why he drove his superiors mad; before his conversation with Coulson, Barton chattered at nothing, moved constantly, and mimed shooting the flower-pots across the street (the ridiculous "Ka-BLOOM!" hand motions made Gutierrez giggle, then glance guiltily at the agent looming over his shoulder). It was when Barton lost his smile that the agent leaned forward again.

Barton's body became utterly still. Coulson's mind flashed to a photograph he had once seen of a kestrel, wings outstretched in one seamless, sharp sweep; the photo had captured that perfect moment before the dive, the tense anticipation before the plunge. Barton was a hawk, Coulson abruptly decided.

A hawk with very good eyesight.

Barton's arms moved with rapid efficiency as he readied his weapon and brought it to his eye. He swept the barrel's scope in minute increments, looking, Coulson guessed, for a shot. He remembered, though, how the buildings in that area were tangled and cluttered, blocking sightlines for the sniper. He must have caught a brief glimpse of the bomb-wrapped, would-be child-killer. He wondered why Barton hadn't chosen the taller building.

(He found out later that the sergeant had, in a perilously close step to the edge of the cliff of utter stupidity, ordered Barton to go to – and remain on – the shorter building. If there had been an insurgent on that taller building, Barton would have been dead within moments of exiting the interior stairwell. Coulson wonders sometimes, much later down the road, if the sergeant had known that.)

As the clock on the video hit 0817, Barton had fully loaded the clip in his sniper rifle and had slung it onto his back. In standing up, he glanced down at the street five stories below. Then he turned his gaze out toward where Coulson knew the firefight had been. His eyes flickered (Coulson didn't know but he was calculating angles wind trajectoryricochet interference angles angles angles and) and finally jerked to a halt on the flag-pole. The flag-pole higher than his current perch.

With one last all-seeing glance, Barton turned and ran straight at the five meter gap between the buildings.

And, as he hit the lip of the edge at a dead sprint, his body surged and coiled, almost seeming to explode forward into the air.

There was no moment of hesitation, no mind's instinctual reaction to gonna drop gonna die stop stop retreat and Barton threw himself into the gap as if he had wings. Heavy, boot-clad feet led and his whole body curled forward. Coulson's jaw dropped as Barton's toes hit the four-inch wide ledge of a window five feet down from the ledge he had jumped from.

As his body hurtled forward, he ducked his head, tucked in his arms, and used all of the momentum of his sixteen-foot jump to hurl his body up and backward in a backflip, landing back on the original building's edge, only to use the added momentum to explode forward and up to grab the bars of a balcony on the seventh floor of the taller building.

"Jaaaaysus," Gutierrez breathed. "Santa María y de Cristo…"

Coulson could only nod dumbly as he watched the grainy, gray image of Barton clamber up the balcony bars and pull himself over onto safe ground. His breath of relief froze in his chest as the reckless young soldier then proceeded to hop feet-first onto the balcony railing and, from that precarious perch, pull himself onto the roof.

Coulson glanced down at Gutierrez, who was crossing himself frantically and muttering prayers in Spanish. He was just opening his mouth to reassure the younger man that it was over when Barton then proceeded to throw himself off the roof of the seven-story building.

Gutierrez blanched, whitened, then let loose a torrent of profanities as Barton thudded into the pole, sliding down a foot or two before managing to grab the rope of the Iraqi flag fluttering above him.

And, as Coulson watched an insane Army sniper make seven perfect headshots from 2000 meters while wrapped around a pole seventy feet above the ground, it came to him, in one moment of perfect understanding, that he needed Clinton Francis Barton on his team.

Thank you to my lovely reviewers! Whovian42, stop it, you're making me blush! Baow, I shall name my first-born child "fugly beard guy" in honor of you. I'm sure my son or daughter will thank you if they ever meet you in person. MsD, to answer your question, Clint was keeping his center of gravity low and centered enough to offset both the chair's upset and his subsequent nose-breaking kick. He then regained his normal balance. Amanda, thank YOU! Reviews are awesome, just like you! Shazrolane, I hope to keep exceeding your expectations. Jewls, *Whispers lovingly* I wrote this one for you. Susan M. M, I actually like writing Fury; who woulda thunk it? LikeIdTellU, Ignoring the obvious joke with your username was hard. That's why I wrote you a new chapter. The mysterious L. F. I shall call you Lord Foldemort and we shall be friends. Immortal-Pain, it would cause me pain to disappoint you. SPT, I bet you tell all the girls that! You coy thing, you! Hieiko, Here is more. S'more! Mercuryfire, I already addressed the Arabic thing, but here's a translation for the Spanish: "Holy Mary and the Christ."

Thanks again, you guys, and I'll hopefully see you soon!