AN ~ Insanely excited for Tuesday. You guys may or may not be getting several chapters of this between now and then because I can't keep my mind off it and I have a quiet few days in terms of school *touch wood*

Chapter 4

For a few minutes, Clint Hawkeye Barton and Melinda The-Cavalry May were alone in Coulson's office.

"Take a look around," May said. "The others will be here in a while."

After that, the minutes passed in silence. May leant on the Director's desk with her arms crossed in front of her chest, as Barton picked his way around the room, drifting between the old tech Coulson kept around as it highlighted his fancy.

More and more often, he stole a glance at Melinda May. The way she stared looked familiar: intent but distracted; haunted, but trying to solve a problem. It was different to the steel behind her eyes when she had introduced herself. It was very Nat. Though Nat didn't often let herself get caught in these moments. May seemed to be ignoring Barton's presence, staring blindly at her own boots as the mechanics of her mind set about whatever task she had given herself.

He was trusted, then, Barton assessed. He picked up a pen-radio and turned it over in his hands. Trust meant May knew him – or at least, knew of him, and knew enough of him to know about Natasha Romanov, which meant she knew Nat. Knew Nat closely. And that said a lot.

Just as he teetered on the edge of considering potentially opening his mouth, the door opened, and the grim Director Coulson added his presence to the tangible atmosphere. May didn't quite stand straight at his arrival, Barton noticed, but her eyes lost their cloud. She watched Coulson like…well, like a hawk.

"Sorry for the delay," Coulson said. May stood from the desk and circled like a moon, watching the Director take his seat. He gestured for them to sit, but though Barton moved forward, May hovered closer to the back of the room. Instead, the seat next to Barton was taken by a new face: a young woman, dressed much like May, with a face that was used to smiling but that was not, at present. Barton flashed her a smile and got a mimic back before the young woman turned to Coulson with sharp eyes.

"Who's this?"

"Clint Barton," he said.

"Barton?" the woman repeated, turning to face Clint. Her eyes lit up and ah, ther was that smile. "Clint Barton? Hawkeye? Dude, I saw the footage from New York, that was totally wicked like holy crap I'd kill to shoot like that. Skye, by the way."

"I could teach you something, if you like," Barton offered. "No promises, but if we get time…"

He glanced at the Director, who nodded him toward May. Clint twisted in his seat. May gave him a nod: permission. Beside her, a second door opened and a tall, slender black man in army fatigues entered the room. Immediately, he rolled his eyes.

"Guys come on, the mood's dark enough, I don't need to be blind."

He grinned as he turned the lights on – which was actually a mercy, though Barton hadn't really noticed the dark.

"Antoine Triplett," he introduced, offering his hand for Barton to shake. "My friends call me Trip."

"Clint Barton. Either works."

"Tony Stark and Bruce Banner will be here in a few minutes," Coulson added. Skye and Trip's eyes widened, but the Director leaned forward and drew out some papers, suggesting that conversation was to be moved along.

"We'll move to the holotable when Stark gets here."

Skye interrupted. "Simmons could-"

"Stark."

Barton frowned as Skye sat back in her seat, biting her lip. But the Director was speaking.

"As you can see, our hard copy records are somewhat lacking. This room – what we had on the Bus and in the Playground – are all we have left with immediate access. A few other bases 'round the place are still on our side, but a lot of what they had was destroyed or taken. What remains, we don't want to send digitally until we can strengthen our security, and we don't have the resources to get everything here."

"Surely a few plane tickets, sir?" Trip put in. Coulson sighed.

"Currently we're paying out of pocket for our own food," he confessed. "We don't get government funds any more. SHIELD's assets are frozen. This is bad. I didn't wanna tell you guys how bad but it's been weeks and the recruitment drive isn't going as well as I'd thought."

"Recruitment? How many newbies you got?" Barton raised an eyebrow.

"None."

Of course.

"And you want me to do what exactly? Stark, Banner, they've got money and smarts. Unless you've got a target for me, there's not much I can do."

"Oh, we've got targets." Coulson held one of the papers up so they could see it. It was a photograph of a heavy-set, balding man with the gruff expression typical of a mug shot. The Director opened his mouth to explain who it was, when the back door, the one that Trip had entered through, was flung open with a little more force than necessary.

"We can start with whoever hurt those kids," Banner growled, wringing his hands and furiously, frantically pacing the empty space between the Agents and the door.

"Bruce," Barton warned quietly.

"Woah, man." Trip shifted to the edge of his seat.

Coulson waited and watched. Banner's pacing slowed. He drew a deep breath. When his hands stopped shaking, he spoke again.

"How did this happen. How did we let this happen. Did Fury know? Coulson? Did Fury know?"

"Fury saved them," Coulson said. "He's quite possibly the only reason Fitz is even still here. SHIELD stands, Banner, and we stand together. We're good."

"Good," Banner repeated. It was simultaneously, coz that's all there is left, and, you call this good? but it let him calm down enough to take the seat that had just been vacated by one of the junior agents, who was headed for the back door.

"Skye," Coulson warned. Leaving her hand on the door, she turned on her heels so that her bangs whirled around her face.

"I don't need to be here," she said with a nonchalance not matched by her eyes. "I've had the briefing. I'm going to the lab."

"No you're not."

"FitzSimmons might need help."

"You're staying."

"Skye," May growled. Skye glared at Coulson, then at May, then back at Coulson. She released the handle in an exaggerated gesture, and backed one, two, three steps away from the door, to perch against the wall where May had been earlier.

"So," Coulson restarted. "The targets."