A lot happens. Coulson gets mad. There are doctors.

It took Clint four days to decide just where would give him a good place to shoot from, and Coulson prodded him through figuring out how he was going to get there, when he'd try to get there, and how he'd get back to their rooms safely. Early the fifth morning, Coulson handed Clint a hat and watched as Clint went out the window. Shaking his head, Coulson wondered just where Clint had found the space to keep up some of the skills he'd been noticed for, then firmly resolved to follow the younger man around one day to see if he could figure it all out.

"I'm in place, Coulson." Clint was sitting on a roof, in the shadows cast by a chimney. "Can't see anything decent yet. Still too dark."

"To be expected."

Sighing, Clint leaned back against the chimney, staring at the sky, running through just what he was going to do. Find target. Shoot target. On the way back, dump the shell casing someplace if it hadn't gone flying already, and if he needed, all the rest of it, although Coulson had said that replacing those would come out of his paycheck, so only get rid of them if he was going to be stopped by the cops, or whatever the police were called around here. "Hate the damned scope," he muttered, looking at the building where the target lived, then back up at the sky.

"What was that, Barton?" Coulson shook his head at Clint's lack of response. "What do you see?"

"Stars. Lots and lots of pretty stars. Be awesome if we could go there." Clint shifted position, looking down at the street. "Nothing, sir. Same as last night and the night before. Hey, after this, can I finally go back to Manhattan?"

"Why." Clint had to grin at the "why me," tone of voice Coulson was using. It was a nice change from the usual, that was for sure.

"Left some stuff, and," Clint broke off, spotting a change in the patterns he'd observed. "Sir?"

"What."

"Light came on in guy's window." Clint narrowed his eyes slightly. "He's...not in sight. Wait, he's getting dressed, and can I say ew, old people."

"Commentary noted, if you tell me your definition of old."

"You." Clint watched as the lights went out. "Is there any way to get something like super-good hearing, too? 'Cause lights are out now."

"Commentary ignored, Barton, be happy for that." Coulson closed his eyes, holding back a sigh. "He comes out, take the shot."

Clint shifted, raising the rifle and focusing on the door, as a car pulled up. "Car arrived."

"Then shoot the target first." Coulson shook his head, hoping that Clint would actually make the shot. He wanted to leave just as much as Clint.

"No, really?" Clint bit his lip, shoving back his nervousness.

"Smart ass. Order is, shoot the target first. Need me to say it again?"

Clint kept on watching the door. "No." The door started to open, and Clint took a deep breath. Letting it out slowly, he watched as his target – he couldn't think of this guy as a human, or else he'd freak out and freaking out wasn't allowed on rooftops – came into view. As Clint let out a second deep breath, he focused on the target's head, and gently squeezed the trigger.

The recoil and the softened sound of the bullet leaving the suppressed gun almost surprised him, and he let out a small grunt as he quickly lowered the rifle and pressed back against the chimney. Turning his head, he watched as the car drove off, leaving the man on the ground, unmoving. The amount of blood and brain matter Clint could see in the dim light made him feel sick.

"Done. Car left, nobody even got out to look around." Clint felt like crying. "Can we go home now?"

"Get back here first, then we'll talk." Coulson stared out the window, a small frown on his face at how Clint sounded. "Clint. You're doing good."

Clint didn't respond, focusing on getting down to the street. Breaking down the rifle as much as he could, it got shoved into a backpack. The route back that he was supposed to take brought him down to the street about half a mile away from the apartment, and he spent the entire time it took for him to walk through the streets feeling like there was a gigantic neon sign over his head, shouting out that he just shot a man in the head, in cold blood, and left the body in the street. It gave him a faint prickling between his shoulder blades, and it was hard to resist the urge to hunch over and start running.

Reaching the building, Clint walked completely by it, heading for the building next door, and the fire escape that was easily reached from the ground. "Coulson, open the window, would you?" He asked, as he climbed the ladder as high as he could go, then did what was probably the most difficult part of this whole thing. He jumped from the ladder to the fire escape on the apartment, climbing down and using the ledges under the windows to carefully make his way back inside. Placing the bag on the floor, Clint ignored Coulson and flopped down on the bed, turning his radio off. "Now can we go home?"

"I called in for pickup tomorrow. Why do you think I'm making us stay another day?" Coulson felt a little concerned about how pale Clint looked. "You doing okay?"

"I'm fine. I just want to go home." Clint buried his head under the pillow, which muffled the rest of his response. Coulson just walked over and pulled it away. "And I need a nap, so give it back."

"Didn't catch what you said, there. Why are we staying an extra day?"

"Um," Clint took his time in trying to work it out. "Look, I know breaking and entering, theft, teeny bit of embezzlement, that sort of stuff. Not murder."

"Using what you do know, why aren't we stealing away like thieves in the night?"

Clint scowled at Coulson. "I usually went out during the day, because there were actually less people around to see me, random people walking or driving down the street don't make anybody wonder, and I wouldn't run the risk of waking people up. Doing night work is tricky, unless you know that there aren't dogs, alarm systems, nosy neighbors, and the house is going to be empty for a couple days. That saying is crap. But okay. I can figure this out. So, Coulson, why are we waiting around another day?"

"I asked you that, Clint. Stop stalling." Coulson gave Clint a look, one that had been effective in the past. "Now. Why?"

"I'm not stalling, I'm thinking, and you were the one who said that I had to learn to ask for help when I needed it, because you didn't want me to run off and do something stupid. So, I guess it's because there isn't anybody who can come and get us?"

"Not really. It's because leaving right now would look extremely suspicious. We stay around and there's a big fuss raised today because of a dead body in the street, we can say that we changed our plans because of safety, but the first flight we could catch was tomorrow. That's why we're staying another day." Coulson dropped the pillow back on Clint's head. "Take your nap."

Clint raised up the pillow, staring at Coulson. "Before I do, can I ask you something?"

"You just did, but yes."

"How do you know all this stuff? I mean, you said that the last solo operative ended up getting himself and his handler killed, so he obviously wasn't you, but yeah. You get what I mean?"

Coulson shook his head. "Not for you to know." He turned away from Clint and went to pick up his book, ignoring the younger man. Clint, for his part, just stared at Coulson questioningly and then rolled over, curling up in a ball and trying to fall asleep.

Clint slunk out of the psychiatrist's office, seeing Coulson waiting. "Have I said before that I hate you?" He grumbled, heading for the hall.

"Hold it, Clint." Coulson had a suspicion that this would be routine for Clint and made the mental note to bring something to do while he dragged Clint through all the routine post-mission requirements. "Medical too, remember?"

"Why? I didn't fall off a roof. I didn't even get a papercut." Clint knew he was sulking and didn't care.

"You agreed. I'm curious about your eyes. It's the rules. Take your pick."

"My eyes are fine, Coulson. I don't care about why I can see what I can and what I can't. I'm used to it." Clint kept edging towards the door.

"Fine, then," Coulson was rapidly losing his patience, and reached out, grabbing the back of Clint's collar. "Let's just call it me wanting to know what sort of smart-assed comments I'm going to have to put up with in the future because you can see things that the rest of us requires a damned spotting scope for."

Clint, surprised, didn't resist as Coulson pushed him into an exam room, practically slamming the door shut and leaning against it. "Um, sir?"

"New rules, Barton." Coulson spoke quickly, hoping to get through it all before the doctor walked in or Clint got over his shock. "One. After each and every mission, you will visit psych and medical within 24 hours of returning. Sooner if you're injured, and that does include papercuts. Two. Do not push me about this. I even go through it." He pulled his jacket off, showing Clint the bright bandage around his elbow through his shirt. "See? Three. I will follow you when you do drag your resisting ass in here, so that I know that you're actually cooperating with the doctors. I won't go into your meetings with psych, but I will be waiting outside. Less than five minutes, I know you're blowing smoke, I want you in there a minimum of thirty, unless Beeks and only Beeks tells me otherwise. Four. When I say to do something, it's for a damn good reason, so you'd better damn well do it. I'll take your bitching and moaning, but the minute you start acting like you're three, all bets are off." Shrugging his jacket back on, Coulson stared at the archer. "Five. I will attempt to explain the reasons behind things, but if I can't, you just need to deal. Six. Do not piss me off. Seven. Break any of these rules, there will be consequences. Do you understand me."

Clint was staring, wide-eyed. Not trusting his voice, he just nodded. Coulson was scary when he started talking in that tone, and a funny feeling started burning in his chest. Clint stored it away to worry over later, hearing a knock on the door.

"Good." Coulson moved away from the door and sat down in the chair, still watching Clint, as the doctor entered. "Doctor. He just got to climb on some roofs, but I want you to look at his eyes. Need some testing done to figure out just how colorblind he is, as well as his visual acuity. The intake testing he was given was all wrong." He chose to give Clint the benefit of the doubt; that first day had been designed to keep him off balance, so Coulson didn't think that Clint was able to do anything but be honest.

"He'll need to go and see a specialist for that. We don't have any of those here, so we'll get you in someplace. Can probably make it tomorrow, day after at the latest." The doctor nodded at Coulson. "You staying?"

"Yes. Barton has to prove to me that he'll behave. Make it Tuesday, I'm not letting him go anywhere until then, and he's going to be in debriefings for a bit tomorrow." Coulson ignored Clint's hurt look. "Thank you, doctor."

"Works for me." The doctor shrugged, turning to Clint. "Agent Barton, hurt anywhere?"

"Just my idea that I was actually an adult." Clint mumbled, still staring at Coulson. Coulson, for his part, just gazed steadily back, warning clear in his eyes.

"Can't fix that, so just going to give you a once-over, draw some blood. Up on the table, please."

Clint hadn't taken his eyes off Coulson during his exam, and kept on watching his handler out of the corner of his eye as they walked out of medical. "Um, sir?"

"What, Clint." Coulson only had part of his attention on the younger man, instead thinking about the piles of work he had to catch up on and if he still had that bottle of painkillers in his desk.

"It's Friday?" Clint took a deep breath and rushed through the rest of the words, hoping that Coulson wasn't as mad as he'd sounded and wouldn't interrupt. "And we kinda missed last Friday because you were gone and I know that I haven't had the time to mess up my room but I did keep it clean before we went off and I kept my room in Manhattan clean until we left there and I didn't bring any movies or my books with me which is mostly why I wanted to go back to Manhattan but maybe we can still see if there's anything on TV tonight?" He took a careful look at Coulson, before continuing. "I know that this might sound kinda weird but I like those movie nights although I don't know how we'd get takeout here. Don't think the bike guy from the Italian place could handle the water."

When Coulson didn't respond, and his expression didn't change, Clint shoved down his disappointment. "No worries, then." He figured that he'd go to the range or something.

Coulson, for his part, was trying to keep moving, surprised that this topic had even come up; he'd expected Clint to run off as soon as he could. Barton. Right. "I think we can figure something out, Clint. I need to do a couple things first, but seven work for you?"

"Yeah." Clint nodded with a big smile. "Cool."

Coulson watched as Clint moved off. Heading for his office, he tried to figure out what had just happened, as he sorted through the piles on his desk. Jotting himself a note to sit down and talk with Delores the next time he was in Manhattan, he glanced at the clock, then got to work.

"Agent Barton, I can say, without a doubt, that you have the most interesting eye structure that I've ever seen before." The ophthalmologist sat back, looking between Clint and Coulson. "Did you know that you can actually change the focal length of your eye? The motor control that you've got over your ocular muscles...astounding. Not to mention, the sheer number of rod cells you've got in there. I've yet to hear of any human with those particular changes; there's a paper in there someplace."

"So I'm a freak?" Clint shrugged. "Could've told you that." His tone was flippant, but Coulson could hear the underlying hurt.

"Doctor," Coulson tried to keep everything moving. "What exactly does that mean?"

"It means, that for whatever reason, your Agent Barton's eyes more resemble a bird of prey's eyes than yours or mine. I actually had to call in a friend of mine from the zoo to take a look, just for confirmation you see, and he said that with the way that his eyes are, he might be even better off than your average raptor. One thing that you'll want to be careful about, however, is try to remember to wear sunglasses; you've probably noticed that you are more comfortable going out on a cloudy day, yes?" At Clint's nod, he continued, "but that's really the biggest problem with that."

"So I shouldn't stare directly into the sun. Gotcha." Clint nodded. "And I've got freaky eyes." Shifting restlessly, he glanced at Coulson. "Can we go now?"

"Not yet. Doctor. Colorblindness?" What Clint couldn't see was what worried Coulson the most. While Clint had freely admitted to some problems, Coulson doubted that he was being completely truthful.

"Yes. Agent Barton, do you remember getting hit in the head at any time in your life? What about chemical exposures? Alcohol?"

Clint shrugged. "Can't remember much from before all this started. There was always a lotta booze around when I was a little."

"Okay." The doctor leaned forward, flipping through a pile of paper. "Because you don't have the typical form of colorblindness, which is red-green; that's a trait that pops up in males much more than females; it's genetic. But blue-yellow, which is what you have, is much more rare, occurs equally between men and women, and not much is known about it. Few cases of drunks getting it, same with people who've had head trauma. It can also be genetic. But it's so rare, and people are usually able to compensate so well, that really, not much research is being done just yet. Maybe one day. And maybe one day we'll have a cure for it, too."

"That's all very nice, how bad is it?" Coulson was starting to agree with the signals that Clint was sending off. It was time for all this to be finished; what was supposed to have been a two-hour appointment had turned into five. He didn't know if he should be amused or annoyed by the fact that the "consult" was a zookeeper.

"Could be better, could be worse. It could get better, it could get worse, it all depends on what the cause is. Agent Barton, you've said that you've had this for sixteen years?"

"Give or take. Probably closer to seventeen now." Clint leaned back in his chair. "Before I turned five, best I can remember." He was outwardly calm, but Coulson was able to spot a couple small signs of tension. "So Agent Coulson can stop annoying me, how bad are you calling it, in small words?"

"Small words. Right. Yellow? Gone forever, you'll see it in your dreams but not in your daily life. Same with blue. Completely blue-yellow colorblind, according to all of our tests, you've just learned to adapt in most situations. Want proof? Here." He held out a card. "Both of you. What do you see? Agent Barton first."

"Pink and purple dots. Really ugly pink and purple dots. I mean, I like purple, but that shade is just, ick." Clint glanced at Coulson. "Sir?"

"Fifty-seven." Coulson just gave a look to the doctor. "And?"

"Normal vision, yeah, fifty-seven. What you've got, Agent Barton, pink and purple dots." The doctor nodded. "No cure if it's genetic; if it's not there's always a chance that things will come back, but I'd say don't hold your breath. Just enjoy your bird-vision, the fact that you saw through a fair few things in the exam room that the rest of us wouldn't, and the fact that this won't destroy your life. But, like I said, you've had a fair amount of time to learn to adapt, which is why you don't see it as a big problem."

"Thank you. If you would be so kind as to write all this up and mail it to this address so that our doctors can take a look at it all, it would be greatly appreciated." Coulson stood up, handing the doctor a business card. "Let's go, Clint."

"What now, Coulson?" Clint tilted his head back as they stepped outside, enjoying the feeling of the rain hitting his face. "Back to the plane?"

"Figured we'd stay in Manhattan tonight." Coulson flagged down a taxi. "Central Park. Wherever's closest," he told the driver, then looked over at Clint. "I need to talk to a couple people, and you had said that you needed some of your stuff that's still here." He fell silent, staring out the window. When the taxi stopped, he paid the driver, then jerked his head at Clint. "Let's go."

Shoving his hands into his pockets, Clint silently followed Coulson through the park. There weren't very many people out, which Clint found nice; it gave the place a feeling of surrealism and isolation. The rain just made everything even better. Shoving back his hair, which was working on dripping into his face, he glanced at Coulson. "Even the rain is scared to touch you. Cool."

"Whatever you want to believe." Coulson's tone was mild. Finding a covered bench, he sat down. "So, Clint. You weren't saying everything in the debriefing on Saturday, were you."

Mentally wincing, Clint shook his head. "I couldn't. They really didn't need to know everything that was going through my head."

"Good thing that I wasn't recording all that radio chatter, then." Coulson looked up at Clint. "Feel free to sit down. Now, what exactly was going through your head? Couple moments that you were sounding pretty upset, and when you got back, almost looked like you were going to pass out. Bit different than after that South America op."

"Guy had a family. Kids. There were pictures in his apartment, you know? Could see a couple of them. Even trying to think of those files that you showed me didn't help much."

Coulson thought for a second. "You can't have hangups about kids and families, Clint. Yes, it would be nice if everybody could have a traditional, happy family, but that just doesn't happen. Did you have a shitty childhood? Yes. But, just because you did, doesn't mean that everybody who has lost a parent will."

"You're too damn smart." Clint shook his head, feeling slightly upset. "I don't know how I can get over it, because every time I think of somebody leaving their kids behind, I get flashes of the orphanage and how shitty it was there, and I don't want to think of anybody else going through that."

"Not very many orphanages like the one you went to out there these days, you know. They've started putting kids in foster care or small group homes. There are a few bad ones out there, yes, but there are even more good ones. You just hear about the bad stuff the most, because it makes for good news." Coulson thought for a moment. "You know, maybe there's an option for you."

"What?"

"Education. You need to make a connection in your mind that just because it happened to you, it's not going to automatically happen to everybody else. Maybe some exposure to a home environment that is stable...let me talk to Delores."

"Huh." Clint shrugged. "Maybe." He thought for a second. "Also had a problem walking back afterwards. Felt like there was a big sign over my head, and that I was going to get stopped. Hard to explain away the rifle. And I was by myself this time, I wasn't trying to keep five other guys from getting killed, and there weren't any zombie-things."

Coulson shook his head. "I'm not surprised, and that'll clear up in time. But you did a damn good job. You figured out when, where, and how all on your own, you got there safely, you got back safely, and you took the shot the minute you had a chance. You'll just have to learn to stop second-guessing yourself and work on knowing when to throttle back on the idealism; blind idealism might work for Captain America, but not for the rest of us." He stood up. "Now, you may enjoy looking like a drowned cat, but I don't. I'm heading back, up to you if you want to come with or keep on playing out here in the rain."