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 Four: Mission Prep

Clint raised one eyebrow at him and Phil bit back on a sigh at the display of insubordination. "So it's a standard assassination," the new agent said flatly, and Phil really did sigh.

"There's nothing standard about this, Barton," he explained patiently.

Clint snorted, reclining in his chair and lacing his fingers behind his head. "To you. I've done a dozen of these kinds of ops. Standard. Assassination."

"Xanax," Phil muttered beneath his breath as he dragged a hand across his brow. "Xanax would help this."

Barton had the audacity to chuckle, tipping his head back and staring at the ceiling.

"I get that you're worried," the younger man offered, suddenly turning a serious eye to his handler. "It's my first mission since you brought me in. I'm an unknown quantity and you're going to take the flak if I fuck up like I did in the Gulf. So I get it."

Phil blinked in muted surprise at Barton's astute assessment of the situation. Clint shrugged lightly, offering a small smile. Phil was about to say something when there was a discreet tap on the door and the moment was broken.

"Come in," he called, and Clint leaned back to reach a hand out and turn the handle. One of the laboratory assistants from Research and Development was standing restlessly outside Phil's tiny office, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot. Phil gentled his features and smiled at the tech, who, honestly, looked just shy of eighteen. "Is there something I can help you with?"

Barton shot him a sardonic look that clearly displayed his distaste at Phil's congenial attitude. Ignoring him, Phil raised his brows at the assistant's silence.

"Oh, uh," the young man stuttered. "I'm here for Agent Barton. Sir."

Clint turned slowly to face the kid, eyeing him lazily. "Yeah?"

Nervously, the tech held up a gray, oval cylinder. "I'm here to retrieve your palm print, Agent Barton. For your weapon."

Dismissing the boy, Clint raised a brow at Phil in question.

"Each agent is given a personalized weapon before their first mission, tailored to their tastes. We've found that agents have better completion rates with custom weaponry than pulling randomly from the armory." He pointed at the cylinder the tech was clutching. "That's a clay grip to take your palm print, so that your gun barrel will be molded correctly."

Phil suppressed a grin at Clint's carefully blank face, knowing the young agent was more impressed than he was letting on. The tech shifted again, holding the mold out to Barton. The movement caught Clint's eye and he faced the assistant.

"Any weapon I want?"

The young man looked for Phil's affirmation before he confirmed. "Yes, sir. Any weapon."

Clint remained motionless, mulling the information over. After a moment's pause, he reached out suddenly and curled his right hand around the mold, startling the tech. When he released the cylinder and settled back into his chair, Phil cleared his throat.

"You're left handed."

Clint fidgeted in his seat, almost embarrassed. Phil watched him for a moment, unreasonably curious, while the lab assistant remained awkwardly in the doorway. Finally, Clint raised blazing eyes to the flustered tech.

"I want a bow."

The young man blinked rapidly in bemusement, both at the subject of Barton's impulsive request and the declaration itself.

"A what?"

Somewhat more at ease, now that he was in control of the situation, Clint snarked back his answer. "A bow. For arrows. Think Robin Hood, only way more cool."

The tech met Phil's amused gaze over Clint's head, acquiescing when Phil nodded. "Of course, Agent Barton," he said, inching out of the doorway. "We'll have something ready in the morning."

The young man reached back inside and pulled the door shut, the click sounding abnormally loud in the small room. Clint gave Phil a guileless smile. Phil raised his brows questioningly.

"A bow?"

Barton's face shuttered. "That a problem for you?"

"Not a bit," Phil replied easily, undeterred by his agent's abrupt mood change. "Just curiosity."

Clint shifted in his chair for a moment, picking at an imaginary spot on his jeans. He was silent for a few long minutes, but Phil was as patient as any sniper, and he really was interested as to why this military trained man wanted a weapon that predated ancient Egyptian civilization.

"Grew up on a farm," Clint finally murmured, his gaze firmly fixed on an innocuous point on the opposite wall. "My dad had a bow when I was little, some crap ass longbow he won at a fair when he was a kid."

Clint's eyes grew distant and the slightest smile touched his lips. "But when he took that thing out, it was beautiful. The man could hit anything, at any distance. And he taught me."

"Do you still have it?" The question broke another growing silence, if only to tell Barton that he was listening. Clint nodded slowly.

"It's in the attic. Couldn't bring myself to get rid of it after he died," he admitted, his gaze flicking back to his lap. Phil sat perfectly still, knowing that he'd never get the answers he wanted if he so much as broke Clint's concentration. "Dad used to say that using a bow isn't about the end result, or about looking neat. It was about the math."

Phil couldn't help himself. "Math?"

"Yeah." Clint glanced up at him, looking oddly vulnerable in his earnestness to explain. "When you aim an arrow, you can't point it directly at your target. The arrow slides past the bow when it's released, and that curves it away from the weapon and sets it in an oscillating pathway. You have to know your bow, your arrows, the distance, the force applied, everything. It's one, big-assed math problem in the split second that it takes you to nock, aim, and release.

"But it's not just math," he continued, his gaze drifting, clearly still lost in a place between childhood memory and actual fact. "It's instinct. You can be the most brilliant mathematician in the world, but without the gut feeling about how your arrow's going to fly before you release it, there's no point.

"Dad always liked that about archery."

Phil, more awed and moved than he cared to admit, leaned forward slightly. "And you?"

Clint faced him and grinned, his eyes shadowed with something unknown. "I always liked it because the girls thought it was turn-on."

Phil laughed despite himself, respecting Clint's decision to change to the subject. Piling the brief papers and sliding them into a folder, he handed it to Clint.

"Read up on this and get some shuteye. We meet back here at oh four hundred and leave within an hour. Make sure you bring that with you."

Clint mock saluted him. "Sir, yes sir."

The young agent slipped nonchalantly from the office, whistling a country tune as he walked down the corridor. Phil waited a few beats before he stepped over to his bookshelf and pulled down the first book of an old and dusty encyclopedia set. Taking a few minutes to find what he was looking for, he committed the passage to memory and ducked into the hallway.

He slipped quietly into R&D, confident that he hadn't been followed, and zeroed in on the lab tech that had taken Clint's palm print. The young man finally looked up and swallowed heavily as Phil stalked over, his eyes sweeping over the tables of materials and weaponry.

"How is Agent Barton's request coming?"

The poor kid looked close to fainting, and his superior stepped in. The man was the quintessential image of a researcher, all balding white hair and horn-rimmed glasses. His lab coat was pristine and embroidered with the name "Dr. Walker."

"Agent Barton," Walker began testily, which immediately set Phil on edge. "Informed us today that he required, of all things, a bow and arrows for his mission tomorrow morning. Considering the late timing of the request and the mountain of other work we have to do, his request has been tabled. We'll give him a standard Glock .45 for his mission and a Bravo-51, if it's required."

Phil's eyes narrowed and he felt his whole body tense. "You'll give him what he asked for, Doctor."

Walker sneered, rolling his eyes. "You agents are all the same. You think we've got nothing going on down here, that you can just drop in whenever you feel like it and order us around and we'll cower like good little scientists. Well, I won't."

"It's quite possible that you misunderstood me," Phil informed him, his hands clenching at his sides. The lab assistant froze and took a step backwards, distancing himself from his oblivious boss. "Agent Barton was asked, today, for his palm print and was unaware of our standard procedures."

"Then that was your fault, wasn't it, Agent Coulson?" Walker smirked, folding his arms across his chest. Their conversation was gathering a small crowd, various other scientists and techs abandoning their projects to watch the scuffle unfold. "It's just too bad that your mistake will cost him his weapon."

"No, actually, it won't," Phil replied.

Walker opened his mouth to retort when he finally stopped and took a long look at Phil's implacable face. The scientist started, visibly shaken by something cold and warning in Phil's eyes, and gulped lightly.

"Even if we were going to put all that aside," he stuttered. "We don't have the equipment necessary for a project of that type."

"You're SHIELD scientists," Phil said dryly, with a deceptively pleasant voice and hard eyes. "Try again."

"I think I can do it."

All eyes in the room turned to the young assistant who was holding tightly to the mold of Clint's palm print. The young man faltered under the scrutiny, though soon straightened with determination. Walker was glaring at him, but Phil stepped forward and blocked the older scientist's line of vision.

"Do you think you can have one ready by the morning?" he asked kindly.

The tech hesitated. "If I worked through the night and dedicated all my time to it, probably."

"Do it," Phil said as Walker protested, "I won't allow it."

Phil turned slowly to face Walker, well aware that he was literally radiating lethality. "Then let's go visit Director Fury and you can explain to him why you won't outfit his brand new sniper with the weapon that he requires for his top secret mission in the morning."

Walker rapidly paled, his face as white as his lab coat. Satisfied that his threat had been delivered, Phil turned to the young man.

"What's your name, son?"

"Ben Morrison, sir."

Phil smiled slightly. "I have a few ideas for the design, if you've got the time."

Barton was sitting outside his office door when Phil arrived in the morning, head leaned back against the wall. As Phil and Ben approached, they heard a soft snore emanate from the dozing agent. Ben snickered into his hand, and Barton was instantly awake.

He squinted up at Phil and then at his battered watch. "You're late."

"Two minutes," Phil replied, shouldering his way into the office. "Did you bring your brief?"

"S'right here," Clint muttered, shifting to pull the folder from the seat of his pants. He waved off Ben's offered hand and pushed himself off of the ground, rubbing at his eyes. His gaze finally lit on the case in Ben's hands and he focused on it. "What's that?"

"This," Ben announced proudly. "Is your new bow."

The young tech smiled, slightly giddy, and walked into the office. Clint followed dazedly, looking at Phil for confirmation. Phil simply smiled, gesturing to the lone chair. Clint dropped into it with a heavy thud and Ben set the case on the desk, apologizing to Phil for pushing a few papers out of the way. With as much of a flourish as he could manage, Ben opened the case to reveal Clint's new weapon.

"It's a standard recurve, the limbs of carbon fiber layers and the riser of an aluminum alloy and complete with optional stabilizers, a standard clicker, kisser, and plunger to compensate for the archer's paradox." Phil felt Clint look sharply at him, but he kept his focus on Ben's explanation. The young man continued on, oblivious to the undercurrents in the room.

"We'd tried a longbow at first, but the materials just weren't cooperating. Plus, the recurve adds a slight bit of force to the arrow as it leaves the string. We used Dacron for the bowstring, which flexes better. The arrows themselves are carbon wrapped around an aluminum core, very strong and very durable. The arrowheads are fixed blade broadheads, standard steel. Given enough time, I can make mechanical broadheads for you, if you prefer those." Concluding his technical explanation, Ben looked at Clint for approval.

Clint was still staring numbly at the bow, its black curve gleaming beautifully in the office lights. Realizing that he was expected to speak, Clint glanced up at the younger man. Reaching forward, he gingerly picked up the bow, running his hand over it reverently.

"The grip should fit perfectly," Ben offered quietly, his voice sounding oddly wise, and Clint met his eyes for the first time. While Clint was certain that Phil hadn't told the tech anything about why Clint wanted a bow, the kid wasn't completely inept. The knowing and sympathetic glint to his eyes struck a chord in Clint that he didn't particularly want to dwell on. Returning his gaze to the bow, he fitted his right hand into the grip and tugged experimentally on the string, careful not to dry-fire the weapon.

After a few moments, he swallowed thickly. "You did good, kid," Clint muttered gruffly.

Ben gave Phil a blinding grin. "I'll go get back to work then."

"On what?"

"On the next version," Ben answered Clint with slight surprise. "We put this together in twelve hours. Think of what we can do with a couple of weeks."

Clint could only stare at him agape as he closed the door. Phil took pity on his agent and gently pushed the case closer. The noise caught Barton's attention and he turned to Phil.

"He considers himself a proper bowyer now," Phil said lightly, if only to break the tense silence that had settled in the office. Barton made a strangled noise in the back of his throat.

"He's a baby," Clint said flatly.

"He's good at what he does," Phil countered. "This isn't even the first attempt. We ended up making another four before we finally got the alloys and dimensions right."

Clint's eyes narrowed, one brow arching curiously. "We?"

"Yes, we," Phil affirmed, leaning back in his chair. "I had a little help with the design, to begin with, and then it moved from being a longbow to a recurve, and Ben needed a few extra hands. As it was my agent's weapon, I was going to oversee the production, no matter what."

Clint seemed like he wanted to say something, but the tired look on Phil's face stopped him. His features softened. "Thanks."

Phil smiled. "No problem. Now," he announced, slapping his hands on the desk and standing. "We've got a little time before we ship out. Shall we take this thing to the range and get some practice in?"

Clint nodded firmly, still reverently fingering the polished grip, which was contentment enough for Phil. Flicking the young agent's ear as he passed, he grinned at the glare he received.

"Come on, Robin Hood. Let's see what you can do."

Fin.