A/N: Thanks so much for the comments and encouragement - we'll definitely carry on. This short came a little out of left field, trigged by one of the comments on the previous chapter. I ran with it anyway, because it gave me a chance to play with my Clint head canon, which I like.

Coulson had always known that Clint Barton was a badass, even when Barton himself failed to believe it. But Clint like this... had to be the sexiest thing he'd ever seen.

Phil Coulson, Senior Agent of SHIELD, spent a great deal of his time co-ordinating cleanup. Not because he particularly enjoyed it, but rather because SHIELD assignments often ended in the sort of messes nobody wanted to leave to the local emergency services. Four dead bodies, even if there was no accompanying property damage, fit right into that category. So once they were sure the site was secure Coulson got on the phone, while Clint located the drop point and checked if it held anything of value or if their detour had been an elaborate ruse.

"A secret lab? And you didn't think it worth your while to mention that?"

Arguing with AD Hill could at times be entertaining. Coulson leaned against the rough brick, grateful for the support it provided. His breathing had settled after his close brush with death, along with his heart rate, but he still felt a little unsteady. It might have had something to do with his mind returning over and over to the images of Clint, balanced on a steel beam high in the roof, and an arrow speeding straight towards his face.

"Even if you don't believe your informant, a little warning would have been appreciated."

He knew he was wasting his breath, but since he and Clint had walked into a trap making his discontent known had become a matter of principle. Maria Hill knew it, too, so after a long pause she finally read him into the mission that wasn't and Coulson listened, attentive as was his wont.

"Hill thinks there's a secret lab here," Coulson said into comms once Hill had signed off and he had peeled his back from the supportive but uncomfortable column.

"Not all that secret," Clint's voice came back immediately. "I'm already on it."

"Where are you?"

"Cellar. Entrance is beside the drop point."

There was a strange note to Clint's voice, but Coulson ignored it in favour of searching their assailants. They carried the obvious – brass knuckles, knives, car keys – but no ID and little else that could be used to tie them to anyone or anything specific. And whether they knew to expect Clint and Coulson or had acted on impulse... that one was anyone's guess.

Coulson went to check on Clint and found him huddled over his tablet beside a locked steel door. His fingers were swift and sure and he seemed to know exactly what he was doing.

"Almost there," he huffed, just as the door wooshed open.

"Ta-da!"

Clint was on his feet in an instant and through the door a moment later.

"You can come in, sir," he stated. "There's nobody here."

"How can you tell?"

"Occupancy sensors in the security system."

And then Coulson got it. That strange note in Clint's voice, so rarely heard, was anger. He caught up to the archer in a few long strides, grabbed his bicep and pulled him to a stop.

"Why are you mad?"

Clint opened his mouth, then took a breath and closed it again, hiding behind his scowl instead. This was just as untypical a reaction as the anger and Coulson took a moment to study the younger man closely. A flush bloomed across the archer's cheekbones, his eyes were narrowed and his lower lip was caught between his teeth. Add the rigid stance and half averted face and... Coulson still had no idea. Individually, he'd seen all of those reactions before. Collectively though...

"I can't fix it if I don't know what's broken."

"I didn't ask you to fix anything."

"Barton, it's my job to keep you fully operational." Phil was dead serious. "If you're pissed you're distracted. If you're distracted, you're not at your best."

"Yeah well," Clint glared. "Then Hill can just deal with it!"

"This is about Hill?"

"It's about her little detours. You could have died in here! If she has to send us into these messes, she should at least provide decent intel."

He slipped out of Coulson's grasp and headed deeper into the lab, leaving Coulson to stare after him in astonishment.

ooO xXx Ooo

The underground lab was a lot larger than Hill's explanation had led them to expect. And there was enough angry energy fuelling Clint to keep him occupied with exploring every nook and cranny. Coulson made him stop for sandwiches and coffee, but Clint barely sat down.

When the science team Hill had sent put in an appearance, Clint wasted no time dragging them into the hidden courtyard, where rows upon rows of large-leafed green plants grew under artificial light.

"They're growing pot?"

"For starters," Clint agreed, voice tight. "It's what they're doing with it that worries me."

He led the way into the adjoining lab and soon all Coulson could hear was an agitated rumble of voices over Clint's steady tenor explaining and demonstrating. And for some reason that just took him right back to his office and an afternoon during Clint's early days with SHIELD...

The dark blue uniform sat perfectly across Clint Barton's wide shoulders. The sleeves were rolled down and the cuffs done up, as was every single button. His boots were spotless. Even the belt buckle was straight. Specialist Barton was parade perfect – and sprawled on the couch in Coulson's office with a scowl as black as a thundercloud.

"What did you do now?" Coulson's exaggerated sigh hid a lot of sins. Fondness for the archer was just one of them.

"Why do you even bother with me?" Clint asked instead, not moving from his sprawl. "I'm clearly too stupid to be a SHIELD agent. Why didn't you just leave me where you found me?"

Coulson's brows drew together. Barton sounded despondent, but also dangerously resigned. Coulson suppressed the urge to ask for a name and go inflict damage. He could do that later. Right now, Barton was on the verge of resigning from SHIELD. He couldn't let that happen.

"You're the best sniper I've ever met," he said instead, dropping the files he'd brought with him onto his desk. He pulled the water bottle from the bottom drawer and turned on the coffee machine in the corner. "You're a capable tactician. And your scores for infiltration and intelligence gathering are off the charts. Where did you get the idea that you're not cut out to work for SHIELD?"

He took a steaming mug of coffee – strong, black, sweet – to the couch and held it out patiently until Clint gave in and sat up. Coulson returned to the machine for his own mug, then settled on the couch beside the archer.

"Talk to me, Barton."

"I've never read Little Women or the Origin of Species," Clint muttered, face buried in his mug to hide the flush in his cheeks. "I've never heard of Ossetia. Or osmosis. Or regression analysis."

Oh.

Barton wasn't a talker, but Coulson knew that Clint's upbringing had been... unconventional, and that formal education hadn't figured much in the archer's past. Clint was as sharp as a pin, but largely self-taught and that bothered him. The chip on his shoulder was the size of Manhattan. Unless he held a bow he hid his discomfort under an armour of snark and attitude.

Somebody had pierced that armour. And Clint was close to running.

"So you think I've made a mistake."

"Yeah," Clint huffed – and Coulson was relieved that the archer didn't sound happy about it.

"You are definitely not a mistake Barton," he said firmly. "You're an asset. One of the very best we have. Do you trust me?"

He asked the question without consciously thinking about it, and then held his breath. For a moment, Clint's eyes went wide with surprise, then he dropped his lids and schooled his face into a mask while he thought.

"I trust you," he said finally and Coulson almost sagged from relief.

"Clint." He waited until the archer looked up. "There's a difference between education and knowledge. You work out the most complex trajectories and ballistics calculations in your head, mid-battle. You can analyse situations, define options and calculate the probability of their success or failure without going near a computer. Just because you've never been taught what it's called, doesn't mean you don't know how to do it."

Coulson leaned back into the couch cushions and sipped on his coffee. He wanted to ask for a name, but he knew that he couldn't. Not now. "And whether you've read Shakespeare or Little Women does not define Clint Barton the person, or Clint Barton the agent," he said instead. "Trust me on that."

"What does it define, then?"

Coulson had never been so glad to hear the hint of snark in another man's voice than he was right then. "Clint Barton the bookworm, I suppose."

Clint had laughed at that and – at some point after that day – had started to trust Coulson's words and himself a little more. There had been days when Clint – without his bow – had stepped out of the shadows and had shown what he could do. He'd grown into a formidable hacker, could operate almost anything SHIELD had in its hangars, and could spot and classify manufactured drugs better than any trained dog. Right now, he was in his element and it showed.

Phil Coulson, Senior Agent of SHIELD, had a mountain of work to do. He needed to check in with AD Hill. He needed to write up a mission report, hand the site over to the science team, find a hotel for them all to spend the night and organise watch rotas and dinner. Instead he was content to hover in a corner of the lab and watch Clint Barton argue quantitative analysis and isotope... something... with two biochemistry PhDs. And winning by the looks of it.

He allowed himself a wide smile, grateful beyond reason that he had managed to stop Clint's flight from SHIELD on that long ago day. Then he picked up his phone and made his way out of the basement.

"Just so you know," he said softly as he walked. "Confidence looks damned sexy on you, Barton."