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 Three: Training

Clint held his breath as he gently eased the door open, thankful that the hinges were well oiled. He carefully placed one booted foot inside the room, making sure to step toe to heel in order to minimize the noise from his footfalls. His weapon was out and at the ready, the barrel aimed menacingly before him as he slipped silently into the room.

It was empty at first glance, unnaturally so, and then the hairs on Clint's neck slowly rose, tingling. There was movement in the corner of his eye and he whipped his gun on that direction. Two soft pops took out the man stationed in the kitchen, and he fell with a quiet grunt.

One.

The noise seemed to be a signal, as three rose from behind various pieces of furniture in the living room. Vaulting the kitchen counter, Clint took cover behind the cabinets and fired off three quick rounds. They landed a bit messily, but hit their marks.

Two. Three. Four.

Someone burst from the walk-in pantry and Clint was caught off guard for a split second. As the mark rushed him, he used the butt of his gun to take a swing at the approaching enemy. The hit dazed his opponent, but not enough to stop him, and Clint slung his weapon over his shoulder in favor of hand to hand combat.

He blocked the incoming fist with his forearm and winded the other with two quick jabs to the solar plexus. The uppercut aiming to knock out his opponent missed as the attacker threw himself forward and use the momentum to knock Clint into the wall. He grunted with the impact, thoroughly annoyed, and brought his knee into the other's abdomen. The third hit finally had an effect and the foreign grip on Clint slackened. As he went down, Clint dropped him to the floor and pulled his weapon from his shoulder, firing one shot into his back.

Five.

The house was silent for a few moments, and Clint closed his eyes to sharpen his hearing. A faint creaking had him inching into the back hallway. He caught sight of a dark flash in the window to his right, and Clint zeroed in on a sixth man advancing on the house. He began to sprint when he saw Clint staring at him, trying to reach cover.

He wasn't fast enough.

Clint picked up a picture frame, ignoring the happy family smiling up at him and hurled it through the window. The glass shattered loudly, alerting anyone who wasn't already aware of his presence. Swiveling, he aimed the barrel of his weapon out of the newly created hole and fired twice, sending the approaching target sprawling onto the ground.

Six.

The next mark was clearly new at the game and got his pants caught trying to sneak attack Clint from the space beneath the bed and his friend burst from the closet a minute too soon.

Seven. Eight.

Two more snuck into the bedroom from the door to the back, prompting another hand to hand session that ended with Clint the victor and at least four bruised ribs between his attackers.

Nine. Ten.

The four in the bathroom were laughably easy to eradicate, jammed into the tiny space like sardines. He first hit the one seated on the back of the toilet seat, caught rather more unaware than Clint would have thought.

Eleven.

Down came the shower curtain and two pops of his weapon had taken care of the pair standing in the tub.

Twelve. Thirteen.

"I feel like Norman Bates," he muttered beneath his breath and swiftly turned to nail the target hidden just out of view in the linen cupboard.

Fourteen.

Clint stood quietly for a second, mentally tallying the marks, and froze at both the number he arrived at and the barest hint of movement above him. Forcing his muscles to relax, Clint shifted, giving the impression that he was turning back towards the hallway. At the last second, he brought his gun around and leveled at the face that was peeking out of the attic entrance.

Fifteen.

Clint grinned, satisfied, relishing his victory, when the impact to the back of his head sent him stumbling forward. Whirling on his feet, his weapon at the ready, he stared in shock at Coulson's face as the paintball paint dripped steadily down his skull and below his jacket collar.

"But there were only supposed to be fifteen," he protested, his mouth spilling out the first thing that came to mind as the other agents began to pick themselves up and clean the paint from their skin and clothes.

Coulson tutted beneath his breath and Clint discovered the most annoying sound on the planet. "Rule number four is to trust your intel, but to never take it face value. If this had been anything other than a simulation, you'd be dead."

Clint muttered something beneath his breath that Phil was certain was meant to be unflattering as he waited patiently for the younger man to collect his thoughts. Phil almost knew what Clint was going to say before the younger man finally turned to him.

"How did you stay hidden that long?" Clint asked, his eyes narrowed in thought. "There's no way you could have stayed in the same place the whole time without me seeing you."

"I did," Phil replied, with a solemn nod and a small smile that threatened to overtake his face at Barton's incredulity.

The younger man's face degenerated into a scowl. "How?"

Phil held up one finger. "You don't check your corners when you enter a room." His grin widened as he lifted a second digit. "And, I'm persistent."

"That is crap," Barton exclaimed, pointing a finger at his handler. "I blame you."

Phil sighed softly and the conversation degenerated into a something that was more suited to a pair of five year olds, each side claiming that they were undeniably the victor.

"You saw them too, didn't you?"

Fury turned from the video feed to eye his young first lieutenant. She didn't falter under his scrutinizing gaze, reminding Fury just why he'd chosen her as his second in command, despite her lack of age and experience.

"I did."

He felt Hill move to stand beside him, her eyes on the monitor that showed the agents exiting the training facility. Barton was still arguing somewhat with Coulson, although it seemed less heated than it had moments before. There was a flash on the screen, the light catching on a pair of dogtags that glinted every time Barton moved.

"He's going to have to take those off, isn't he?"

Fury didn't turn from the screen, watching Coulson finally prod Barton towards the hall with the barrel of his paintball gun. "They are a liability," he murmured in response. "So, yes, Agent Hill. He'll have to take them off."

She was quiet for a long moment. "Have fun telling him that."

Her sarcastic tone was nearly as surprising as her insubordination. Fury hadn't thought that she'd had the capability to be comical. Turning, he raised one eyebrow in her direction.

She smirked lightly back at him, pointing one lithe finger at the empty screen. "Barton has been discharged for what, a year now?"

"Almost," Fury replied, shifting to face her and crossing his arms. "Your point?

"He's been a civilian for that long and he still wears his dogtags?" She raised both of her brows in slight incredulity. "Beneath his shirt, where no one can see them? He's hiding them, on purpose, because he doesn't want to be asked about them, but neither can he let them go. They are a safety net for him, and I don't want to be the one to tell him he's got to take them off."

Fury blinked at her, staggered by her insight. He turned away from her searching gaze for a moment, returning his attention to the screen where Barton had doubled back and was now prowling the empty mock-house to find Coulson's hiding spot.

"I'm not so sure I want to tell him that either," Fury admitted, watching Barton inspect the space behind the front door. Very slowly, a grin overtook his face. "It's a good thing he has a handler for these things, don't you agree?"

Fin.