The end of April is always lovely. Thanks to Hawk and Zara at TBB, as usual.

Coulson wasn't surprised that Clint was waiting for him. He was surprised that it was in his office. "So, since I know that the door was locked, care to tell me how you got in?" Clint just pulled a battered set of lockpicks out of his pocket and tossed them on the desk. "Ah. Don't do it again, and I'm going to hold onto these for a week. At least. Care to tell me what happened?"

"N-ye…maybe." Clint didn't look up from the notebook in his lap. "Beeks is being…" He scowled. "He threatened to make it so that if I wasn't at school I'd be in his office. Can he do that?"

"That and more." Coulson sat down with a sigh. "You haven't seen all of Medical; they've got a couple rooms that are kept locked from the outside. We do occasionally have people who need them and I wouldn't doubt that he'd just shove you in one if he thinks he can get away with it and survive the experience. After all, he did tell the nurse to drug me and yes, we had words about that. What he's threatening to do is actually pretty mild, and he wouldn't be able to keep you there all day." Leaning forward, he carefully studied Clint, who was looking pale. "Be honest with me. Are you doing okay?"

"I was," Clint muttered and swiped at his eyes, missing Coulson's small frown. "Until Beeks said that I'm not happy and push people away and hide from the world and that I need his help. Meg and Darla haven't said anything but they're probably thinking it." Tossing the notebook onto Coulson's desk, he slouched lower in his chair, wrapping his arms around his chest in a tight hug. "So I don't know. I thought I was, but now I'm all confused." He sighed. "Am I messed up in my head?"

"Yes," Coulson said simply as he leaned back. "But I think Beeks is talking about a different sort of messed up. You need a certain level of being nuts to do your job, Clint, and you've got that, in spades. I know I've told you that in the past. But what I think he was talking about is that even though the phrase mouthy little bastard tends to come into play when I ask people about you, the only people that you willingly talk to are me, Delores, and it seems now those two nurses. And Delores isn't here, even though she still calls to ask about you and wants me to send you to Manhattan to help her out with scaring some of the new recruits. Actually, you don't even talk to her all that much; she's feeling mildly put out about that. But anything that even hints at requiring you to be sociable sees you running the other way."

"Oh." Clint didn't look at Coulson. "That could be fun. Helping Delores, I mean."

"Except I'm not going to." Coulson didn't take his gaze off the archer. "Because I agree with Beeks. There are times that you'll have to be social, outgoing, and the center of attention just by personality alone to get a mission done. You have those abilities, but you are, and I'm not sorry for saying this, but you're scared of using them. I was going to just let you figure it out on your own, so I kept my mouth shut and watched to see what happened. Obviously the decision to say something was taken out of my hands. So I want you to do whatever Beeks tells you to do, to cooperate with him, and to use some of your free time to think more on whatever it is the two of you discuss. I don't expect you to go out and start being all buddy-buddy with people; I'm perfectly fine with the fact that you like to stay on your own. Except for when you are working out, then you really must be able to work with somebody because I know that you haven't been keeping up with your hand-to-hand. In general, though, I do expect you to stop actively avoiding the social elements that you might get caught up in. Okay?"

"Let me go to Manhattan this weekend and I'll work with the trainers there. And I'll try to work with Beeks, too." Clint's head came up and he tilted it to one side. "How about that?"

"Clint," Coulson shook his head, "Even though you've been slacking, you're so far beyond what the Manhattan trainers can offer you that you could probably teach them a few things. No. Find somebody here to work out with."

"You?" Clint dropped his eyes. "I'll see if Radar'll be interested when he's here."

Mentally, Coulson sighed. Damn that shrink; Clint hadn't seemed this insecure in months. "I'll think about it." Picking up the notebook, he quickly scanned what Clint had written. "Good for now. Go get this typed up and e-mail it to me. Which reminds me, you need a computer of your own. I know that the tech guys have been working on something portable; would you like one of those or a desktop?"

"Um, desktop." Clint stood up. "Thanks, sir. I'm gonna go do something physical for a bit."

Coulson didn't wait for the door to shut before he picked up his phone. "Jim? Phil. You've got a lot more to answer for now…and fix. If you've fucked Barton up, you do not want to know what I can do. Not seeing your wife would be the least of your problems."

Wandering out of the locker room, Clint started heading for the treadmills. "Barton!" The sound of his name being called out had him looking around. "Perfect timing. I need a partner. C'mon." He didn't remember the guy's name, but vaguely recognized him from one of the afternoons he'd spent working with Security over the summer.

With a shrug, Clint changed direction. "Hey." He wondered if the phone call Coulson had been making was to somebody about this, but quickly decided that Coulson wasn't that involved in his life.

"Rules are, you and me against those two." The other man spoke quickly. "Keep it clean, Medical doesn't like to see us show up. Try to pull your punches and kicks if you can. Tap out if you give up or think that you're hurt. Cool? Cool."

Nodding, Clint stepped onto the mats and immediately had to dodge a punch. Grabbing the outstretched arm, he tried to flip his opponent and found himself on the floor. He grinned as he reached out for the first ankle he could see. "Nice."

He didn't get a chance to say anything more. The realization that once again, Coulson was right annoyed him slightly, but an elbow in his back forced his focus back on the purely physical. He didn't know just how long it took, but eventually Clint's muscles warmed up and he started to remember combinations of moves.

"Nice." Clint grinned over at his partner. Crowden. That was the guy's name. Resting his hands on his knees, he tried to catch his breath. A tap on his shoulder had him looking up.

"Sloppy." Coulson looked at him calmly. "Too sloppy. I'm surprised you only split your knuckles in the last fight you were in, if you were that sloppy there. Let's go."

Clint realized that Coulson was dressed in sweatpants and a t-shirt. "Huh?"

"Hearing test, too, I'm thinking," Coulson muttered. "What did you think I said? You're too sloppy, so I'm going to fix that and make sure that you don't fall back into bad habits."

"Lemme get a drink first," Clint said as he straightened up. "You say no, I'll tell Meg that you want me back in Medical on another IV."

Coulson snorted. "The horror, that I should be afraid of a nurse old enough to be my mother. Here." He held out a cup of water and watched as Clint chugged it. "Now. Do you know what you were doing wrong?"

"Everything?" Clint was aware of people starting to stare and shifted nervously.

Coulson lowered his voice. "Focus on me, Clint. You weren't doing everything wrong; you weren't keeping full control. You were fighting because you could, not with a purpose. Every time you go into a fight, you need that purpose."

Clint turned as Coulson started to circle him. "Like what?"

"Getting out in one piece. Taking your target down. Protecting somebody. If you go looking for fights," Coulson kept circling Clint. "They'll find you. That happens, I'll be very upset. No, you don't fight to simply fight, you fight to win. Don't ever forget that."

What followed ended up being whispered about for the next week. Clint was flat on his back more often than not, and the one time he was able to put Coulson down, Coulson just nodded and made everything that much harder. "Uncle. Mercy. I give up," Clint finally panted. "Can't move."

"Think you've learned something?" Coulson helped Clint up. "Good job. Next time you'll do better."

"Couldn't do worse," Clint carefully worked on regulating his breathing. "But yeah. Don't fight you. I'll lose. And keep my shoulders down and elbows in." He started heading for the locker room. "And don't spend an hour fighting when I still have homework to finish for tomorrow." He eyed Coulson balefully as the other man started walking next to him. "Next time?"

"It's still early, you've time to finish things." Coulson nodded as they entered the locker room. "And I'm thinking a few times a week will get you to where you need to be. Incidentally," he paused just inside the door. "We were clearly the center of attention. How do you feel about that?"

"Too tired to care." Clint leaned against the closest bank of lockers and closed his eyes. "'Cause I feel like I just ran three marathons. Beeks. Those security guys. You." His eyes shot open as Coulson laughed. "Not cool, sir."

"Tough. It'll get easier; tomorrow do something light and then Thursday we can see if anything stuck."

"I know that it'll get easier. I don't have to like it until it does, though." Clint irritably waved at Coulson. "Now go away, I wanna shower and go to the range. And hey, do you know anything about vectors? I can see them all in my head but I can't make the numbers work out on paper."

"Ah. Might I suggest doing your math homework in the mess hall?" At Clint's snort, Coulson rolled his eyes and moved to stand in front of the younger man. "People will help you out. There are a few people who you won't even need to ask, because the minute that they see you with a calculator and a textbook, they'll be walking over to find out what you're doing. Try it."

"No," Clint yawned. "Can't you find somebody who can help me out? Without me sitting in the middle of the mess hall hoping that somebody comes over and hoping that I don't end up embarrassed?"

Coulson groaned, wanting nothing more than to shower and get back to the pile of work he'd left sitting on his desk. "Dammit, Clint…will you trust me on this one? With the notable exception of the pilots, whose unofficial job title is 'busybody,' people generally don't care about what's going on outside of their own social circles. I do know that there are a few people around here that will see that you're reading a textbook and want to know what it is; if they can't help you then they'll either go away or find somebody who can, and as soon as they walk away they'll forget about you. Now will you stop looking for excuses?"

"'M not," Clint muttered as he turned to head for his locker. "Go away before I end up pissing you off more."

"There's a difference between mad, frustrated, and completely lost, Clint. I'm not mad. I'm frustrated and I don't know what to say to you right now, because no, I don't know what you're looking for and I'm having annoying flashbacks to you not asking for help with the GED. Spell it out and maybe I'll have an answer." Coulson squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose. "And I'm not going to hold your hand and do all this stuff for you, because frankly, you don't need me to. You have the resources here and you know it."

Coulson had to strain his ears to hear what Clint said next. "I'm scared," the archer mumbled as he slid down along the lockers to sit on the floor and dropped his head into his hands. "I'm scared and confused and I don't know what to do because you told me to not pretend and I'm trying not to but it's just getting harder and harder because the minute I think I've figured it out something happens or somebody says something and then Beeks said I was about to screw up big." Shaking his head, he finished, "And yeah, I know I'm not thinking straight right now. Thought that working out would help me feel better but it just made me even more tired and frustrated with myself. And it's my birthday next week and feeling like this is not how I wanted to spend it and I know that Beeks is gonna keep on making me feel crappy for as long as he can."

Coulson groaned as he sat down next to Clint. He'd forgotten, and obviously Clint was still able to look forward to the fact that he was getting older. "Clint," he started, then paused. "I'm going to shoot that shrink," he muttered and felt Clint perk up slightly. "Forget I said that. I've been told that I'm not allowed to make physical threats to SHIELD employees or allies after what happened the last time." He relaxed slightly as Clint chuckled. "I told you that, what, not long after you started? I'm going to amend it now. Me, Fury, Medical, and Psych. No hiding with that list, but anybody else here, whatever. Go ahead and use those masks that the circus – life – taught you to develop."

"Oh." Clint stretched his legs out in front of him.

"It's good training. Just don't go to extremes – figure out how you want to come across and work towards that," Coulson warned as he lightly slapped Clint's knee and stood up. "You don't want people getting close, and I understand that. I don't like having too many close connections either; it needlessly complicates things. Any more problems or concerns and I want you to tell me, not shove it down until it ends up with you feeling like this. Although," he lightly tapped one finger against his thigh, "I think that everything else that happened over the past day hasn't helped much, either. You were fine until you didn't say that you needed more water, which we would have gladly brought you. Just because crossing the border wasn't encouraged doesn't mean that I couldn't. Something frivolous like you finishing your book I would've told you to suck it up, an essential means that the rules get broken. Then you had to spend the night in Medical and Beeks did whatever."

"He talked. And yelled, and threatened. I yelled back. I'm still trying to figure out what to think, because part of me wants to just avoid everything but another part of me sees, kinda, what he's getting at and that he's right, damn him." Clint shoved himself up. "And Darla and Meg said that I might still feel a little off until I get a real night's sleep in my own bed. But I'll try bringing my math with me to dinner. If anything happens I'm blaming you."

"Fine." Coulson nodded and turned for the door. "And as a warning, tomorrow we're going to discuss just why you felt like getting dehydrated enough to spend the night in Medical." He vanished before Clint had a chance to open his mouth.

"Gotta learn how to do that," Clint muttered as he finally made it into the showers. "He's got all the good tricks."

Dropping into a seat, Clint stared at his meal tray and dubiously poked what he was told was beef stroganoff with his fork. "This looks like dog food," he mumbled and carefully took a bite. "Least it doesn't taste like dog food. Now," he pulled out his textbook. "Coulson'd better be right, or else I'm gonna steal his Captain America doll and stick it up someplace weird."

Absentmindedly eating as he tried to – again – figure out just how the numbers added up, Clint was suddenly aware of somebody sitting down across from him. "Hi, Barton," the person said.

"Hey." Clint glanced up, startled to realize that he recognized the man sitting there. That gave him the confidence to keep going. "Sitwell. You know math?"

Sitwell grinned. "Do I know math? Minored in it in college, did some private tutoring. Yes, I know math."

"Make the numbers work."

With a glance at Clint, Sitwell slid the book around. "Pre-calculus? Why are you reading this?"

"They're making me go to school." Clint shrugged and shoved another forkful of food in his mouth. "Get a college degree and all that crap." While he chewed, he thought through how he wanted to come across.

"Oof. Vectors. Hate those things," Sitwell muttered, flipping through the book. "Could never really figure out what they were asking. Just shoved my way through these sections and always cheered when it was over."

Swallowing, Clint shrugged. "I can see it in my head, that's not the problem. The problem is that I can't get what's in my head out in numbers that make sense." Casual, that was the key, and keep it on the math as much as possible. He could figure everything out later when he wasn't so damn tired. He surreptitiously glanced around the Mess Hall, feeling some of the tension leave his shoulders when nobody was obviously watching.

"I'd've loved to have had that problem…" Sitwell muttered, flipping through the textbook. "Did you try any of these? Sometimes it's something simple." When Clint curiously held out his papers, Sitwell took a look and whistled. "Damn, Barton, you write messy."

"Rough draft. I rewrite it all neatly for what I turn in."

"And that lets you practice the math more…smart move." Sitwell grinned. "Wish I had thought of that."

Clint just blinked, startled at the approval in Sitwell's voice. He'd started doing it this way because it was faster and less frustrating for him to work everything out, then make sure it was completely legible. It worked for his mission reports, and it had been working for his homework.

"Okay." Sitwell's voice brought Clint's attention back to the present. "If this number is actually a three, it shouldn't be." Pulling out a pen, he flipped the paper over and started scribbling. "Because look at these numbers here. This is just addition – 25 plus 42, 10 plus 48. Some conversion stuff, too. Why are you already working on this stuff? Normally pre-calculus and trigonometry classes don't make it to this sort of thing until later on."

"This was the class that I was told to take." Clint shrugged. "And the stuff that the teacher says to do."

Sitwell was frowning at more of Clint's handwriting. "Whatever. What math did you take in high school? Any trigonometry?"

Shoving his meal tray to the side – the beef stroganoff had tasted much, much better than it had looked – Clint leaned forward over the table to see what Sitwell was doing. "Nope. My story is that I got a GED after dropping out to help take care of my sick mom. I ended up having to teach myself some of this stuff, too."

"Ah." Sitwell looked shrewdly at Clint. "I want to offer a trade, then. I help you out with this stuff, you tell me how to best become a field agent."

Clint took a second to think, unsure it was a fair trade. "Gotta know how to shoot better'n what they train the geeks to in Manhattan. Fighting skills. Need to be able to work with knuckleheads like me and assholes that judge you based on what military branch you came out of. Try asking Coulson – he's probably one of the biggest badasses on this entire boat. Right up there with Fury."

Sitwell winced. "Him? Coulson came down hard on my group the other day and we're all a little wary about speaking with him."

Shrugging, Clint glanced down at his textbook. "Yeah, he can be like that sometimes. He has gotten better about stuff, though. But still, ask anyways. Least, that's what he'd tell me, and he's cool about answering even stupid questions. Don't think your question would be classified as stupid. Right, sir?"

"It is actually one of the better questions I've heard in a while. Agent Sitwell, come see me tomorrow at ten. New lesson for you, Clint," Coulson's voice had the two men looking up, Sitwell's mouth dropping open and Clint just smirking. "Prioritizing. We've tracked down the heads of a smuggling ring, and they all need to be taken out. Come find me tomorrow when you get back from school. Tonight, finish your math homework and actually get some damn sleep." Bending down, he smirked. "Incidentally, Clint? I told you so." With a light chuckle Coulson straightened up and walked over to the meal line.

"New offer." Sitwell looked confused. "You help me with my shooting, I'll help you with any of your schoolwork. And you tell me why Coulson said that."

Clint shrugged, not seeing anything strange in what Coulson had said. "That's just Coulson? I don't know, since he's always like that. It's like he's got some sort of weird sixth sense, or is tied into the surveillance system here. He just knows." He smiled slightly. "Trying to keep up with him is good training." With a shake of his head, he grabbed at his homework. "Math."

"Status?" Coulson carefully looked at Clint the next evening.

Clint shot Coulson a lazy grin. "Loads better'n yesterday. School was good, and professors were okay with me missing yesterday since I got everything turned in and managed to look a little sick. Thought more on that stuff that you were talking about yesterday, too. I want more time to think about it before I tell you, because I still don't know."

"Okay." Coulson pointed at a pile of folders on his desk. "I want you to tell me which one you'd go after first, and why." He waited until Clint was halfway through the pile. "And thank you for telling Agent Sitwell to talk to me. He seemed nervous; do you know why?"

"You yell at people. Folks don't know that you're really just a big teddy bear." Clint glanced up mischievously. "Used those words, too. Don't think he believed me."

Coulson snorted. "The horror. You do realize, Clint, if you use this sort of attitude as a base personality to show to the world, everybody will be happier and less likely to wonder when you're going to snap?" He shook his head. "Even if it is at the expense of some people's hard-earned reputations."

"Sir, you walked in your first day here and started scaring people. I can't touch your reputation, no matter what I say."

"I was in a wheelchair at the time, actually, with two broken ankles. Honorably discharged from the Air Force, with them thinking that I'd never be able to walk without pain again, but SHIELD has medical treatments not available anywhere else and I didn't take no for an answer. Like you, SHIELD was my last, best option, especially after I had to cut a rather important family vacation short and refused to say why. I was kicked out of the house and told to never return until I 'stopped with my secret agent and warmongering ways,' although I will admit that I did not help matters any because I could be very hot-headed when I was younger. My siblings' attitudes didn't help, either. And that, Clint, is why I'm a very firm proponent of the idea that family is what you make." Coulson blinked, startled. He had never meant to say any of that and took a fast glance at his coffee, wondering if somebody had slipped drugs into the communal pot in the mess hall.

"Oh." Clint felt torn between how to respond, so he kept it simple. He'd've never expected Coulson to have been in the Air Force. He'd expected Army. "Warmongering? SHIELD doesn't start wars, we try to keep them from happening…right?"

"You go into a sovereign country and kill somebody in cold blood with the tacit backing of other governments. Your target could range from a sheepherder to the head of a state. Yes, some of SHIELD's actions could start wars if done incorrectly. And on that note," Coulson desperately wanted to get Clint out of his office so that he could have a chance to think. "Those three targets. Who do you want to go after first, and why?"

"Oh. Yeah. This guy." Clint held up a folder. "He's the most paranoid, it looks like, with all his security setups. Go after the other two first, he'll just retreat into someplace safe and I don't know how I'd be able to get to him after that."

"How do you want to take him out?"

"Rifle. Give me, say, a week to see how far out I can stay accurate and if I can push it any further, then find a good spot that'll be way far away from his bodyguards." Clint frowned slightly. "I think. I know that I don't have the same range with my bow, which really sucks. What other options do I have?"

"Poison, walking up to him in the street and shooting him that way, planting a bomb…" Coulson trailed off. "Nothing that would guarantee that you'd still be alive at the end."

"Um, yeah. Dying is not cool, sir. Same with getting hurt." Clint shook his head and stood up. "You wanna be left alone and angst some, I've got stuff to do, so I'm going to take this and work out more ideas." With a quirk of his lips as he opened the door, he added, "Becoming open book, you are to me. Oh yeah. Watching Star Wars Friday. Bring beer and dinner, 'cause I don't have the time after class and you know where to get all the good stuff." Tilting his head to one side, he finished, "and there's new coffee in the Mess Hall, too. Heard one of the kitchen workers saying that they needed to switch where they got it from because whoever was getting too expensive, what with the gallons of it getting drunk every day. You may have gotten the first batch made."

"Explain, Clint." Coulson kicked Clint's door shut with his foot. "Because I've been trying to figure it out for the past two days and I'm still missing something."

Clint looked at Coulson blankly. "Explain what?"

"Wednesday – and that reminds me, I still have to yell at you – when you said that the coffee had been changed."

"Used my eyes. You said some stuff that you'd never say and then looked kinda shocked and upset at the same time. Then you looked at your mug really suspiciously." Clint shrugged. "I spend a lot of time lurking, too, just trying to be observant and learn things. Heard one of the Mess Hall people talking…last week, I think, about how much was being spent on coffee. Figured out when resupply was, and just guessed from there." With a sly grin, he flopped onto his bed. "Gotta know what gets restocked when, because how else do I get the good stuff before most everybody else?"

"Clint," Coulson shook his head, "You are one of the most complex people I've ever known, I'm coming to realize. While I do have some issues with the plan that you sent me about how you're going to take out these three, you went from needing to be talked through every step of the process to planning it all out on your own in less than a year. And yet, you need to be threatened in order for you to actually do things that are good for you."

"Good p-role model." Clint hoped that Coulson hadn't caught that little slip. "And work brain and me brain. And right now my me brain is saying that it's dinner time, that box you're still holding smells really good, and I've already gotten the movie ready to go and my work brain is saying that I'm still a growing boy so feed me."

"Work brain and you brain?" Coulson responded to Clint's request by putting the food down. "Do I need to contact Psych about you having multiple personalities?" He dodged the pillow Clint threw at him. "World's greatest marksman, indeed." The second one hit him.

"Shut up and gimme food. Work brain to be totally serious about everything. Me brain 'cause it's…me. I'm not you, I can't work all the time. So my work brain doesn't think about if my latest music order is going to get to me in two months or three because the mail room here sucks or if that one food server is going to be giggling and winking in the breakfast line as soon as she sees me, and my me brain doesn't think about the fact that I'm going to go blow somebody's head off soon and spent an hour today talking about sniper rifles and the best way to accommodate for potential issues in a city with the guys in the armory."

"Ah." Coulson nodded as he handed Clint a hamburger. "I've never heard it described that way before, but you're compartmentalizing. Good. And on a different note, do you want your present now or later?"

"Present?" Coulson smothered his grin at the tone of Clint's voice. "Now. You sing, I sing to the world about your love for Captain America."

"The horror, you actually being sociable." Coulson tossed an envelope at Clint. "Congratulations. Now you can stop breaking into Intel as much."

"Good practice," Clint said absentmindedly as he ripped the envelope open and pulled out a new ID badge and a few papers. "Cool." He kept reading. "Not cool. Sir, aren't I kinda, yanno, young to be put in charge of something?"

"It's just helping with the new trainees a couple weekends a month when they're there. You're not going to be in a true leadership situation for another few years, so don't worry about that. Besides," Coulson handed Clint a bottle of beer. "It's good training and good for getting you out in some sort of public situation. It's orders from Fury, so no bitching. Incidentally, promotions won't be coming as quickly after this one."

"Meh," Clint shrugged. "Don't think about rank and security clearances much, except for when people get out of my way in the corridors and even then it's probably because I'm running. Least this isn't the military, 'cause I don't think that I could deal with people saluting. This is good, too, thanks."

"And at the rate that you're going to drink that one bottle, it also tastes good warm and flat." Coulson sat down in the desk chair, kicking his feet up on Clint's bed. "Now, were you planning on running your mouth all night or watching a movie?"