Chapter Seven: See What You Can Do

"I used to believe that people are only born once, but now I feel I have been reborn, like I was given a new life. I see myself as a child, full of energy and hope." - Bahman Ghobadi

Clint walked into Gym Delta at exactly 0400 hours, dressed in the same shirt he had worn last night and a fresh pair of athletic shorts. Phil Coulson was already standing on the large mat in the center of the room, stretching out his muscles. Clint was relieved to see the gym was empty except for him.

"Morning, Barton," Coulson greeted as Clint kicked off his shoes and joined him on the mat. Clint did not return the sentiment. He hadn't slept at all, and had crawled off the roof all of ten minutes ago. He hadn't once stopped thinking about how angry he was at the man standing in front of him, and even now the anger flowed through him.

Coulson seemed to pick up on this. "Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bunk."

Clint's glare would have been enough to shut anyone else up, but just to spite him, Coulson rolled his eyes.

"Lighten up," he insisted, throwing a pair of black sparring gloves at Clint's head. He caught them without thinking, scowling.

"You wake me up at the ass crack of dawn to spar?" he asked, in disbelief. None of his other handlers had put in the effort, and Clint had gotten used to the simple luxury of sleeping in.

"You have somewhere better to be?" Coulson asked, matching Clint's tone. He kept the scowl painted on his face as he slid the gloves on and raised his hands to signal he was ready.

Coulson didn't give him much more time to prepare.

He was on Clint in a breath and he barely had time to get his hands up before Coulson's foot was flying towards his face. Pissed off, Clint lunged, grabbing onto Coulson's limb and twisting sharply, in hope to put him face first on the mat. Coulson wasn't going to let him. He spun with it, bringing his other foot towards Clint's temple. He was forced to let go of Coulson's leg to push himself backward. He felt the shift of air inches from his face, and let out a quick breath.

Not willing to let himself be blindsided again, Clint advanced as Coulson was completing his wasted rotation. He struck out towards Coulson's kidney, but he somehow saw it coming. He was able to grab Clint's wrist and twist sharply. In order to prevent his wrist from being snapped, Clint was forced to spin with it. He couldn't get his footing fast enough and landed hard on his back. Coulson kept his wrist held tight, braced against his chest as he put a foot on Clint's chest.

All he would have to do was apply a fraction of pressure and Clint's arm would snap.

"Jack was right," Coulson said with the nod of his head. Clint glared up at him, seeing as it was the only thing he could do. "You're impatient."

Clint didn't have a response, so he settled for hardening his glare. Coulson held him there for a moment longer, almost as if he was trying to make a point, before he let Clint go. He was on his feet in the next breath, putting good distance between him and Coulson.

"You let your anger cloud your judgment, which makes you unstable in a fight," Coulson continued to explain, with nearly clinical detachment that was starting to get on his nerves.

"So what?" Clint blurted, instantly wishing he could take it back. He had been satisfied with the silent treatment he was giving Coulson.

"So," Coulson started, adjusting his gloves, "You're talented. You have natural skill when it comes to fighting. If we want to play to those strengths, we're going to have to work on your patience."

Clint frowned. "We?" he echoed. All of his other handlers had never called them 'we'. It was always 'you' and 'me'. Never 'we'.

Coulson shot him a look that clearly told Clint exactly how much of an idiot he sounded like. "Yes, Barton. We. If we're going to do this, we are going to have to work together, not against each other. If that's not too much to ask."

Except it was. It was too much to ask, because Clint didn't want to be part of a team that he didn't belong on. He wanted to be alone, to suffer alone. The look Coulson was giving him told Clint that he simply wasn't going to take that as an answer. It didn't take a genius to see Coulson wasn't one of those handlers that was going to leave within the day.

Something deep inside Clint told him that he was stuck with him. So he nodded.

"Then let's go again. Be patient," Coulson said, settling back into his stance. Clint took a breath before dropping into his own stance. No sooner than he did, Coulson was advancing on him again, feigning a left hook and cutting up with his right fist. On instinct, Clint ducked the fist and swung his fist up towards his chest. Coulson used his left hand to grab Clint's wrist and pull him closer. He was already bringing his knee up as Clint slammed against him. The knee hit his kidney a moment after. Clint winced as Coulson pushed him away sharply.

"You deaf, Barton? I said-"

"Patience, yeah," Clint muttered. "I heard you."

"So listen to me, and focus."

Clint rolled his eyes and readied his stance again. Coulson was on him again in that breath. Clint grit his teeth and fought all natural instinct that was telling him to hit back and ducked Coulson's punch instead. He was tired of getting his ass beat by agents he couldn't bring himself to care about.

So he ducked.

Clint huffed a breath as he came to a stop. He wiped his brow as he looked down at his watch, smirking to himself. Over his shoulder, Jack Bryant waved him over to the side of SHIELD's indoor, mile wide track. Clint obliged, jogging over to him.

"35 minutes and sixteen seconds," Bryant said, scribbling the number down on his clipboard. "That's five seconds faster than yesterday."

Clint nodded as he tried to ignore the pride behind Bryant's voice. He had been counting the seconds as he ran, and knew his time before Bryant told him.

"Surprised?" he shot back, pulling the hem of his shirt up and wiping his face with it.

"Something tells me I shouldn't be," Bryant mused, waving Clint off with his clipboard as he turned to watch the other recruits finish their fifteen mile run. Clint had been faster than the rest of them since day one and was silently grateful Bryant didn't make him wait.

Clint made a beeline for the men's locker room, and the shower he knew was waiting for him. He had trained with Coulson for five hours this morning, doing nothing but dodging and ducking and praying to whatever gods there were that he didn't lose his mind. Then he was in gen pop with Bryant from 0900 hours to - he looked at his watch - 1600 hours. Coulson had made it clear that this was going to be his new permanent schedule. Clint's immediate disdain prompted Coulson to ask Clint if he had even bothered reading his permanent duty file.

Clint had not.

A lengthy lecture later, Clint was forced to grab breakfast on the run so he wasn't late for another session of showing off and taking down every opponent Bryant had put him up against.

It had been rewarding but exhausting. The lack of sleep he had gotten last night was creeping over his shoulders and trying to pull him back into nothingness.

Clint refused as he pushed into the locker room, pulling his shirt over his shoulder blades, mind set on the warm shower he had been dying for.

It was his quick reflexes that stopped him from slamming directly into Phil Coulson, who appeared to be leaving.

Coulson stopped short, looking up from the phone in his hand. "You're done early, good," he said, as if he had known Clint was going to be here.

Clint frowned, still sore from their endless sparring match this morning. "What are you doing down here?" he asked, settling a glare on Coulson. In the near five months Clint had been here, he'd never seen Coulson in this gym, much less the locker room. Coulson didn't bother answering his question, and instead handed Clint the file in his hand.

Clint stared at it, making no move to take it.

Coulson rolled his eyes, pushing the file out further. "Your new schedule. I suggest you look it over."

Clint took it, ready to fire back some snarky remark about how he had just finished his schedule, but was cut off by Coulson pushing past him to the door, eyes back on his phone.

"Report to Conference Room Bravo in fifteen minutes," he said, then disappeared through the door.

Clint stared after him, file in hand, confused and disappointed that he wasn't going to get the shower he really wanted.

Ten minutes later, Clint was in the elevator that would take him to Conference Room Bravo, reading over the file in his hand. 0400-0800 hours, Specialized Training. 0900-1200 hours, General Population training Block One. 1300-1700 hours, General Population Training Block Two. 1730-2000 hours, Mission Preparation Training. Rince, repeat.

Clint didn't have to hide his disdain alone in the elevator, so he didn't. He swore under his breath and practically ripped the file in half as he shoved it in his back pocket. The brief tantrum was over, and all anger had been washed from Clint's face as the elevator doors opened to the sixth floor.

He made quick work of the walk from the elevator to the large steel door marked 'CR: Bravo' and stopped in front of it. He looked down at his watch and made sure to wait until exactly fifteen minutes had passed before pushing into the conference room.

Coulson was already sitting there, a stack of booklets on the table in front of him, typing furiously on his laptop. He didn't bother looking up as Clint walked into the room.

"Sit," he said, eyes pinned on his computer.

Clint hesitated, eying the seat across from him, before blowing out whatever smoke he had in him and dropping into the chair. He refused to speak until Coulson had closed his laptop, and fixed a pointed look on him.

"Mission preparation?" he asked, echoing the title from his file. Coulson nodded, sliding the stack of booklets to Clint.

"I'm surprised you read this one," Coulson said, sliding his laptop into the bag at his feet.

Clint looked down at the top booklet, frowning at the title. SHIELD Protocol Reference, Volume 1'. He already knew he wasn't going to enjoy this.

It had been one week since Clint started training with Coulson, and he couldn't remember a time when he had been more exhausted. His two years on the run had been tiring, but he had been on his own time table. He had been able to take jobs at his own leisure and was able to take on as much or as little at a time as he pleased.

The circus had been harder. Clint was reminded of that time, something he hadn't thought about in years, in the short week of working under Coulson. Swordsman and Trickshot had run him ragged every day, pushing him to exhaustion with no breaks in between. But he had been younger then, and had more optimism. It had made an apparent difference.

But Phil Coulson was the toughest drill sergeant to date.

He ran Clint hard, but did so with such a fine touch, and just the right amount of empathy and care mixed in, that it made it almost impossible to be angry with him. That only worked to make Clint angrier.

He hadn't had someone genuinely want him succeed in years, and the small comfort wasn't what Clint had been looking for. He didn't want Coulson to want him to get better, when it would have been so much easier to get worse.

It took a week for Clint to realize his energy was wasted, and there was little he could do about it. Day after day, he fought Coulson at every turn, pushing back as hard as Coulson was pushing him, but the man never let up. If anything, he pushed back harder, and not only anticipated Clint's disdain, but expected it. He knew how to push Clint's buttons in the exact right order to make him want to push back harder and more eager each time. He made Clint want to be better, if for no other reason than to prove him wrong.

It had been annoying when Clint not only realized what he was doing, but realized it had been working.

The archer walked into Gym Delta at 0400 hours on day eight, and a pair of black sparring gloves were being thrown at his head. He caught them and rolled his eyes as he slid them on. The same as he did every other morning. Coulson answered with the same smirk he always threw at Clint, which only made him want to roll his eyes harder.

It was a poor excuse for normalcy, but the exchange had become routine.

Clint kicked off his shoes, stepping opposite Coulson on the other side of the mat, rolling his shoulders to loosen the muscles.

"Good morning," Coulson said, and like always, Clint didn't answer. Instead, he shifted his feet, bending his legs at the knees slightly, signalling to Phil he was ready. The older man nodded, raising his hands in front of his face.

The only warning Clint was given before Phil opened with a high roundhouse kick was a half step of his anchoring foot. Clint had learned that he always stepped before he kicked, so he was able to easily duck under it. Coulson had expected it, as his first attack was never to actually try to hit Clint. The second wouldn't be as merciful. Coulson wasted no time after his foot landed, using the rotation to his benefit. His off hand swung around, headed for Clint's head fast. He had always been fast, but Coulson was an expert boxer and the man could keep up with Clint fairly easily.

Deciding it would waste too much energy to duck, Clint raised his forearm to block Coulson's fist, his legs jumping over the foot that came to sweep his legs on instinct alone. Coulson didn't let up, and was swinging his fist at Clint's briefly exposed side. He let it land, expecting to have an opening on Coulson in the next breath. But he never got one. Coulson used his free hand to grab Clint's ankle that was still in the air, and twisted sharply. Clint rolled with it, spinning over Coulson's arm. He planted his foot on Coulson's shoulder and pushed back.

The force caused Coulson to let go, and Clint was in free fall. He twisted in the air, planting both hands flat on the ground. He coiled his body like a spring and exploded upward before Coulson could get an opening. He flew a few feet away to the edge of the mat, landing with grace.

For a moment, Coulson could only look at him in shock. Clint used that as his opportunity to close the distance between them, and to drop back onto his hands. He swung his leg and swept Coulson's feet out from under him. The older man hit the mat hard, and Clint was well out of his way by the time he managed to get back onto his feet.

"I thought we were practicing your patience?" Coulson asked, with a slight frown.

Clint raised a brow, "You left it open. I was just 'taking advantage of the opportunity put in front of me," he said, quoting a line from one of SHIELD's many, many, protocol handbooks.

Coulson scoffed, rolling his eyes. "And here I thought you didn't listen to protocol."

"Just because I remember them doesn't mean I don't think they're stupid."

The casual back and forth had become natural between them, and Clint rarely thought about it anymore. Coulson did what he did to get a reaction from Clint, that much was clear. He gave up the fight on their second day together.

"I've never seen it done like that before," Coulson mused, flashing Clint a poorly concealed smile.

Clint shrugged as if it was nothing. He was just grateful for the change in subject.

"Impressive. You learn that cat burgling?" he asked sarcastically.

Clint shot him a look, as if to say 'Are you serious', and Coulson just laughed. "Right. At least you're listening to me."

"You're not always wrong," Clint admitted, as if it should have been obvious. Coulson raised a brow at the almost compliment, but didn't comment on it.

"Patience is your greatest weapon. Your enemies won't know how to respond outside of anger, and they'll spend all their energy trying to hit you," Coulson said, his voice taking on the tone it got when he really wanted Clint to listen. It was firm and unwavering, but Clint knew he could interject and ask whatever questions came to mind if he felt like it.

This time, he just nodded.

"If you let them come to you, and never hit first, it gives you the clear advantage. You let them waste all their time scrambling to keep up, and when the opening presents itself, you hit fast and hard. You put them down before they realize their mistake."

"Is that permission to put you down?" Clint asked hopefully.

"Only if you see an opening," Coulson reminded. "And remember patience."

Clint nodded noticeably impatiently, already falling back into his stance. "Let's go again."

"Patience, Barton."

"Yeah, yeah. Try to hit me, Agent Coulson. I dare you," Clint taunted, his lips settling into a twisted smirk. Coulson dropped into his own stance, a frown on his face and clear humor in his eyes.

"How you can have this much energy this early, I'll never understand."

Then he lunged forward, and Clint ducked, the motions of this dance becoming all the more familiar. As their four hours together passed like seconds, the two of them stepped off the mat covered in sweat. Coulson had proven to be quite the work out for Clint and he had learned to enjoy their time together.

He loved a challenge.

As he picked up a water bottle from his gym bag off to the side, Coulson joined him as he always did. But instead of standing in comfortable silence, today Coulson decided to speak.

"You did good today, Barton. I'm proud of you and your progress," he said, grabbing his own bag off the floor. Clint didn't trust himself to look at Coulson, so he kept his eyes down as he zipped his bag shut. Coulson gave him a single nod, moving to leave.

"I'll see you at 1700," he said, then was gone, his words still hanging in the space he had once occupied.

I'm proud of you.

Clint couldn't help it. He smiled.

When he had taken over as his handler, Phil had been told that Clint wasn't sleeping in his assigned bunkroom. No one could figure out exactly where he had been sleeping, but Phil had made it a priority to find out.

No one could figure out where he was sleeping, but when he wasn't sleeping, Clint was always in the same place. Phil had a feeling he might find him there tonight.

When Phil pushed open the door to the range, he very much believed he had been wrong. It looked empty at first glance. Phil frowned, turning to leave, when he heard the tell tale sign of an arrow piercing a target. He spun around and looked to the far corner of the range.

There Clint was, firing arrows at a pace Phil almost couldn't keep up with. For a moment, he just watched as Clint took shot after impossible shot. He was almost impressed, but he couldn't ignore the state his charge was in. His arms were shaking and Phil realized he wasn't wearing his guards. His eyes were clouded with tension and even though Phil knew he had felt his presence, Clint hadn't acknowledged him.

"Barton," he said, and Clint didn't hesitate. The arrow flew true, but he was already moving before it hit its target, drawing another arrow.

"What the hell are you doing, Barton?" Phil muttered, mostly to himself, but he knew Clint had heard him. The kid had killer hearing. Still nothing. "Stop and look at me, kid."

"Get lost," Clint hissed, eyes never breaking contact with the targets in front of him. Phil was familiar with Clint's vindictive tone. Most everyone was. He never yelled, his voice only took on a low, grumbling quality that was somehow so much worse than yelling. It had never been directed at Phil though, and he almost faltered at the venom.

"I said stop."

Phil had closed the distance between them and put a hand on Clint's bow to stop him from firing again. The murder in Clint's eyes led Phil to believe that was a fatal mistake. But Clint didn't raise a hand against him, so Phil pushed on.

"What are you doing?"

"The hell does it look like?" Clint hissed, tugging his bow. Phil tightened his grip on the weapon, not letting him pull it away.

"Like you're acting recklessly and purposefully injuring yourself. If that were the case, I'd have to bring this to the attention of the Psychological Analyst Division, and they would confiscate your bow until a full investigation could be conducted."

That seemed to blow some of the wind out of the kid's sails. Phil loosened his grip a little and Clint didn't pull away.

"Why are you punishing yourself?" Phil asked, desperately just trying to understand why his agent would put himself in a position to feel needless pain.

Even after everything, Clint's answer still surprised him. "Because I deserve it."

Suddenly, all the pieces clicked into place. The lack of sleep in his bunk room, the midnight range visits, the countless fights he got himself into. Clint Barton thought he deserved to be punished so he was doing it himself.

It was then that Phil saw the guilt.

"Come on," he said, moving away from Clint. "I'm going to show you something."

Clint didn't know why he followed Coulson at all. He would have much rathered not to, but there was just something about the man's tone that demanded obedience. Maybe it was the exhaustion that burnt out Clint's usual fire, and he just followed.

He followed Phil all the way into Conference Room Bravo, and didn't bother arguing when Phil pointed to one of the empty chairs. He dropped into it, setting his bow across his knees. His arms were bruised and shaking, but Clint tried to ignore it. The soft buzz of pain working its way up and down his arms wasn't as comforting anymore.

A file was dropped on the table in front of Clint and for a long while, all he could do was stare at it.

"Open it," Coulson instructed, and Clint did. Staring back at him was the familiar face of Gioanta Monti, the man Clint had been instructed to kill when SHIELD had picked him up.

"What-"

"Read it."

Clint dropped his eyes to the file, obediently reading over the words. And he hated what he found.

"Doctor Gioanta Monti is a renowned Italian cardiologist who lives in Venice, Italy with his wife, Carina, and his two daughters, Aurora and Bianca. He refused to perform surgery on Bernardo Provenzano of the Sicilian Mafia. This put his family under fire, but he didn't budge. Monti volunteered to attend a conference in London where he planned to share his life's work with the world before he was killed. Provenzano hired you to send the people of Italy a message," Coulson said, speaking firmly.

Clint glared at him over his shoulder. "Why are you showing me this?"

"Why didn't you kill Monti in Italy?" Coulson asked pointedly. "Our intelligence shows you were tracking him at least a week before he left for London."

"Never had the shot," Clint lied. He didn't really know why he did, it was just instinct to avoid his weakness.

"I've seen you shoot through a ¼" washer from ten yards away blindfolded. Why did you really?" Coulson asked, folding his arms.

"I didn't want his family to see," Clint admitted, rage bubbling up through his veins. "Okay?"

"And why did you wait so long to kill him in London?" Coulson asked. Before Clint could lie again, he was cutting him off. "Was it because you had doubts about taking a man away from his wife and two young children? Did the thought of them finding out he was dead from a newspaper make you hesitate?"

Clint wouldn't answer. Coulson was right, but he couldn't bring himself to admit it.

"You're such an idiot," Coulson finally said, dropping into the chair next to him. Clint looked over at him with a half hearted glare.

"Excuse me?"

"You think you deserve punishment for what you did? You think you need to pay for whatever sins you committed by hurting yourself? You think you're some sort of monster who needs to be put down, when you fought yourself at every turn. You buried yourself in guilt and yet you somehow convinced yourself that you were a willing participant."

Clint shook his head firmly. "I still killed them."

"But you had doubt, Barton. That doubt is what separates you from the real monsters," Coulson assured him, gesturing down at Monti's file. "Him and his family are alive and well because of that doubt."

Clint sighed heavily, staring down at Monti's picture. He had almost taken his life five months ago, but Coulson was right. He doubted himself and that was the only reason Monti wasn't six feet under right now. It was the only reason his daughters hadn't lost their father.

Because of his doubt.

Clint slid the file back over to Coulson, the message received loud and clear, but he didn't move to take it.

"Keep it. I want you to think about him the next time you think you need to pay penance," Coulson said, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. "I'm exhausted. I'm heading to bed, and I suggest you do the same."

Clint nodded, grabbing the file in both hands. Coulson stood and moved to the door.

"And Barton?" Clint looked up and met his gaze. "If I ever find out you're shooting without your guards again, I'll take the damn thing away myself."