Summary: If there was one word Phil Coulson would pick to describe himself, it would be loyal. If Clint Barton had to pick a word to describe Phil Coulson, that wasn't profanity, it would be tenacious. Rated for language.

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Lessons in Tenacity

Lesson Two: Orientation

Phil waited patiently in the hallway outside the training range, ignoring the whispers that drifted down the hall. A few brave, young agents peeked around the corner at him as he stood perfectly straight in front of the door. Hill shot him an exasperated smile as she passed that he returned with slight amusement. Word about the newly minted Agent Barton, and his colorful arrival at headquarters two days prior, had already spread like wildfire among the other agents, giving both Phil and Barton a sheen of grandeur that Phil secretly found hilarious.

His attention was pulled to the sound of movement behind the door, and Agent Barton finally emerged from the range, throwing a careless wave to the instructor behind him. Fixing his grey gaze on Phil, he narrowed his eyes as the range instructor followed him out of the room and handed Barton's scores to Phil with thinly veiled annoyance.

"I really am stuck with you, aren't I?"

"I'm afraid so," Phil murmured in response to Barton's question, flicking through the pages he'd been given. He glanced back up at Barton, taking note of his regained color. "Looks like you've finally gotten over your hangover."

Barton shrugged nonchalantly, eyeing a pack of eavesdropping agents curiously. "It's a process."

"A two day process?"

Barton drew himself up and glared at Phil. "Sometimes, two days are necessary."

"I'm sure they are," Phil replied lightly, trying not to allow his lips to twitch into a smile as he continued paging through Barton's scores. "Let's not repeat the experience any time soon, shall we?"

Barton bristled, pointing an accusing finger in Phil's face and obscuring the record high marks written on the eval sheet. "You were the one that suggested the drinking contest."

"True," Phil agreed, closing the folder with a decisive snap. "But I wasn't the one that decided to chug a good fourth of a bottle of Jack to prove that I was the better man."

Pivoting on his heel, Phil walked down the hall. Mildly abashed, Barton trotted after him. "So." Barton rubbed at the hair standing wildly on the back of his head. "Where are we going?"

"You've seen nothing but the training facility for the last two days," Phil told him, pushing through a set of doors and nodding at Agent Sitwell as he passed. "We're going on a tour before I take you back to your room. You'll be reporting for duty tomorrow at oh seven hundred, so you'll need some rest."

It took most of the morning to show Barton the extent of the ground base, pointing out the briefing rooms, the many levels of research and design, and the common areas for the agents. They stopped off in the mess for a late lunch and Phil was immediately cornered by Director Fury. Motioning for Barton to find a seat in the emptying hall, Phil gave his attention to his director.

Never one to mince words, Fury jumped right to the heart of the matter. "How did he do?"

"Unbelievably, sir," Phil responded, reluctantly surprised. "Colonel James neglected to inform me of his basic qualifications beyond his ability as a marksman."

Fury nodded, and Phil flicked his eyes over to where Barton was avidly watching their conversation. His gaze was so focused that Phil had the sudden, distressing though that Barton could read lips. "Why was he available, then, if he is so qualified?"

Phil shifted imperceptibly, bringing his attention back to the conversation. "He was dishonorably discharged, sir."

Fury stilled for one heart stopping moment. "Why?"

"Failing to obey a direct order on multiple occasions."

Fury's eye narrowed and Phil bit back the urge to swallow heavily, knowing that the director would take it as a sign of weakness and not the completely innocent, suddenly dry throat that it was. "Then why is he here?"

"Because he's the best," Phil replied honestly, hazarding a glance at Barton. The expression on the new agent's face hadn't changed, but there was an air of resignation about his person that set Phil's teeth on edge. Fury leaned back on his heels and eyed Phil with interest.

"You really believe in this kid, don't you?"

"Yes, sir. I do," Phil answered with as much force as he thought he could get away with. "And if you don't believe my instincts, then check his evals."

Fury arched a brow at Phil's impertinence, but took the offered folder nonetheless. A quick glance through had Fury whistling lowly. "Damn."

"Exactly." Phil tamped down on the relief and vindication swelling in his chest.

Handing the folder back to Phil, Fury held his gaze. "Agent Barton is your responsibility, Agent Coulson. Remember that."

"Of course, sir," Phil agreed solemnly, watching Fury stalk off with a sense of release. Turning back to the table, he found Barton inexplicably interested in his meal. Sliding into his seat, Phil had no sooner picked up his silverware when Barton spoke.

"So when am I leaving?"

Casually, Phil sliced through his piece of meatloaf with deliberation. "You leave, Agent Barton, when I allow you to," he replied carefully. When he felt Barton's surprised gaze, he met the kid's eyes and quirked his lips in a grin. "And don't pretend you weren't reading our lips."

Barton leaned back in his chair. "How could you tell?"

"I'm a trained agent," Phil reminded him dryly, reaching for the salt. "And the last time someone stared at my face that intently was right before they kissed me. So, given the options, I'd prefer it if you were reading my lips rather than daydreaming about them."

Barton paused as Phil continued to casually eat his lunch and finally he burst into low chuckles. "Sorry to disappoint you, buddy, but you're not really my type."

"Well, that's a comfort."

Barton's lips twitched. "I'm impressed though," he continued, dousing his own slice of meatloaf in ketchup. "I didn't think you had a sense of humor beneath that suit."

"I have a sense of humor," Phil countered, thinking of what he'd been up to in R&D the last couple of days. "You might not always like it, but I have one."

Barton grinned, forking a piece of meatloaf. "Well, that's a comfort."

The final leg of the tour followed lunch, including the main ops center and a few of the smaller intel and computer labs. Finally looping their way back to the living quarters, Phil glanced back at his agent.

"Need a map?"

Barton shook his head thoughtfully. "I think I can manage," he murmured, his eyes darting around that hallway. They'd come to know each other a little better, and were on somewhat better terms than they'd been when they started. Barton wasn't openly staring at him with disdain or annoyance, which Phil took as a plus. Turning the final corner, Phil took out a key and opened one of the doors, walking in.

"Your things have been brought in, so you should have some time to unpack. Dinner service begins at seventeen hundred and lasts until twenty one hundred. I'll collect you at oh seven hundred tomorrow morning." Glancing back over his shoulder as he set the key on the dresser, Phil frowned. Barton was standing stock still in the doorway, his eyes fixed on something across the room. "Is the room not to your liking? Because there's nothing you can to about that. It's better than a barracks, at any rate. You don't have to share."

Ignoring Phil's subtle tease, Barton pointed at the suit hanging on the closet door. "What the fuck is that?"

Turning, Phil's eyes lit on what was so distressing to the new agent and bit back a smirk as he remembered. "That's your uniform," he replied, working to keep the amusement out of his voice. Barton continued staring at the garment hanging innocently on the door.

"It's purple," he said flatly.

Phil cocked his head at the uniform. The top was sleeveless, at Barton's request, and a deep violet color that was overlaid with black reinforcements at the shoulders and sides. "Not all of it," he hedged.

Barton glanced at him with slitted eyes. "Why?"

"All black uniforms are too visible," Phil explained with restrained glee, ignoring Barton's indignant snort of protest. "All an enemy has to do is look for the absence of color or light. This will blend into the shadows much better, without the added risk of discovery."

Barton made a strangled noise in the back of his throat. "It is fucking purple!"

"Do you want the truth about why it's purple, or do you want me to lie to you?" Barton whirled on Phil, glaring. Phil capitulated.

"Keep in mind that you were happy to discover my sense of humor," he warned. "Navy blue would work just as well, but I convinced R&D to use purple after you irritated me the other night when you were drunk. This is payback."

"How?" Barton snarled, clearly torn between frustration at Coulson's nonchalance and curiosity.

Phil smirked. "You puked on my shoes."

Barton blinked at him, clearly taken aback and just the slightest bit embarrassed at the revelation. He shifted, and his face took on another expression of protest, so Phil crossed his arms.

"Twice."

Barton froze for a beat, looking desperately at the uniform, and finally slumped in resignation.

"Fine.

Fin.