Coulson looked from the unconscious man strapped to a gurney that they were unloading from the helicopter to Fury and then back again. This wasn't the first time the Director had found a pet and brought it home without permission. A trip to Russia had recently resulted in having to find English lessons for one very, very scary redhead who enjoyed pulling sharp objects from seemingly nowhere in a way that made it impossible to determine if she was trying to stab you or offering to help you cut your chicken (the cafeteria tended to overcook their food until it was more paperweight than edible). Most agents made a tactical retreat (fled) before they could find out.

"Sir, not again. You can't possibly mean to –

"Take a look at his file, Agent. And then try and tell me I made the wrong call."

The manic look on the Director's face was one that haunted Phil's nightmares and stared out at him from darkened back alleys because nothing good had ever come of it. Well, maybe good in the Utilitarian sense of the word, but certainly not good for him. Greatest good for the greatest number be damned. He put up with enough shit as it was.

Phil barely managed to catch hold of the file that was suddenly thrust into his arms and he had to almost scramble to stop the pages from getting torn away by the wind coming from the rotating blades of the helicopter. The doctors from Medical were already wheeling away SHIELD's newest acquisition so he followed after his boss, skimming the information as he did.

"Sir, this man has suffered severe brain trauma. To be frank, he's obviously—

"Keep reading," Fury said simply as they ducked through the nearest door into the warmth of Headquarters. "If he was of no use to us, I wouldn't have taken him off the IMF's hands. Take a look at his test scores and tell me he's broken. His scores are—

"Off the charts," Phil breathed in disbelief as he reread them for a third time. "I've never seen scores like this in marksmanship. They're—

"Unprecedented," Fury laughed as they walked through the halls, his black trench swishing along behind him as lower level agents dashed out of their way. "I know. The IMF doesn't know what they'll be missing. They've always been blinded by theatrics over there. But we don't need another goddamn Ethan Golden Boy Hunt strutting around the world calling attention to us. We need someone understated, someone who can stick to the shadows but get the job done. We need –

"Him," Phil finished, shaking his head as he tucked the pages back into the brown folder. "We need Clint Barton."

Fury smiled as he took a seat behind his desk, looking extremely pleased with himself as he laughed. "Exactly. Make it happen Coulson."

"Yes sir."

At least this one spoke English.

When Fury said: make it happen, the even if you have to move heaven and earth, raise the dead, or almost kill yourself was left unsaid. But it was rather heavily implied. So with file in hand Coulson set about to doing just that. He strode down to Medical like a man on a mission and when he arrived tried to ignore how pale and drawn their newest agent looked against the white of the sheets as the doctors worked on unstrapping him and transferring him to a new bed.

"What's his status?"

One of the doctors, Alison if he recalled correctly, looked away from hooking Barton up to an EKG. "He's heavily sedated, but give us the word and we can have him up in virtually no time. He was in a medically induced coma for a few days because of the trauma." She grabbed a clipboard that was settled by the foot of the bed. "Records say that he was alert and responsive when they brought him back but it was decided to sedate him to keep him under wraps and allow some time for recovery. He's basically been under for three weeks, so getting him up sooner rather than later would be best."

Coulson nodded, jotting this down in the margins of the file. "How bad is the damage?"

Dr. Alison consulted the clipboard again. "Rather severe, but I've seen guys come back from worse than this. Short term memories are shot, but long term ones seem basically intact. The more recent tests are more promising though. Reflexes all check out, tests to determine his cognitive function came back almost the same as his entrance results. His IQ test results took a hit, but with all the drugs they had him that's hardly surprising. He had a bit of aphasia but that tapered off while they were testing, so I suppose he'd be fine by now. He's a bit of a fixer upper," she smiled, setting the board aside. "But Fury's got himself a good guy here. Easy on the eyes too," she added with a wink.

Phil decided to ignore that comment because otherwise he'd have to give a lecture on sexual harassment in the workplace and he really didn't have the time. Barton's fitness levels were definitely above average judging by his build, his former line of work, and the records the IMF kept. But, they weren't up to SHEILD's Special Agent requirements, which was surely what Fury had in mind for him just like the Russian he'd snapped up from the KGB last month. Depending on how they spun it to Barton...the coma could work as a good cover story.

"What's the likelihood of him regaining his memories?"

"Well," she started, considering it for a moment as she glanced at her patient. "With this type of trauma and going by the MRI and CT scans? I'd say the information that the IMF wanted is long gone. Flashes are likely, but I doubt he'll ever entirely be able to put together what his life has been like unless someone deliberately helps him bridge the gaps, and even then it'd be incomplete at best. Chances are he'll never fully recover them, but with the proper therapy he'd be able to get some semblance of what it is he's missing. But, if the IMF's rid of him, I don't suppose they want him remembering classified information, do they?" she asked sceptically.

"No, at this point...its best that he doesn't remember. If not for his own sake, then for the sake of the security of the IMF and interagency cooperation. They'd most likely demand his return if he began to remember the information they need."

"And Fury won't want to let go of his newest pet," Alison laughed. "Right. I get it. I'll tell the therapists to cancel their plans then, shall I?"

"That would be best. I'd like him up and running by next week. Romanov is set to start her training then. I think—

"Pairing them off could be good," she nodded. "He'll need some support and competition will do wonders for their training. They'll both be new- whether or not they know it. I'll have him ready to go, sir."

Coulson nodded before slipping out of the room, an idea forming in his head. Whether or not they know it... Well, it had potential, he'd give it that.

While for Fury it'd started in an office that few people were supposed to know existed, and for Phil it had started on the landing pad outside of SHIELD headquarters, for Ethan, The Barton Situation as people would eventually begin referring to it as, capitalization included, began in London when a wall had exploded and showered them with rubble ranging from the size of pebbles to Terriers. For him it began with watching as Will passed out in a pool of his own blood, half of his head obscured in a wash of red.

It had begun with Will's blood slicked hand clutched in his. With panic and worry as their backup arrived and whisked Will off to somewhere he couldn't follow. For him it began with the heartbreak that was the IMF raiding their apartment and incinerating all of Will's possessions and in the process, the life they'd built together. For Ethan Hunt, The Situation began with the dirty word that was disavowed. For Ethan Hunt, it began with the gut wrenching pain- the utter devastation of knowing Will- his other half- his better half- had died surrounded by agents who were there out of duty and not of love. Who knew his ID number and blood type, but not the way he sounded when he laughed or the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled. It'd begun with knowing that he wouldn't get a chance to say goodbye, a chance to hold his hand one last time.

So while Clint Barton opened his eyes to the white ceiling of a SHEILD infirmary, Ethan Hunt closed his to the sight of the empty half of the bed that William Brandt had once occupied and the shambles that had once been their life.