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 Six: Captain America

"What are you doing in my office?"

Clint ignored Phil's question and dropped heavily into the chair, resting his boot heels on the corner of the desk. Phil frowned at the flecks of dried mud that flaked off onto a stack of forms, to Clint's amusement. Wiggling in his seat, the archer rolled his head towards Phil. "I'm bored."

The older agent blinked at him. "I'm sorry?"

"That's sweet of you, but don't be. It's not your fault."

Phil's eyes narrowed at Clint's teasing tone, but his retort was cut short by a solid knock on the door. Phil scowled at Clint for emphasis and called out, "Come in."

A young agent stepped inside, carrying a stack of manila envelopes and a small parcel. Holding it out, he announced, "Here's your mail, Agent Coulson."

Clint watched Phil's eyes light up with a fervent satisfaction as his hand closed around the package. He quickly checked the return address and nodded to the mail carrier. "Thank you very much."

The young agent murmured goodbye to the two men and quietly closed the door behind him as he left. Clint's gaze narrowed on the innocent, brown-wrapped package that disappeared into the depths of Phil's desk drawer, and his brows shot into his hairline when Phil turned the key in the lock and removed it. Leaning back in his chair, Clint let an easy grin develop on his face.

"Worried about mail theft?"

"It is a Class A felony," Phil replied smoothly, his face shuttering in the way that Clint knew meant he was about to change the subject. "And really, you were just bored? If you don't have enough work I can come up with something for you to occupy yourself with. Paperwork, for example."

"What's so great about that package?" Clint wondered out loud, directing his question towards the ceiling. "And who would think to steal it from you here? I mean, we are in SHIELD's secret headquarters."

Phil's lips twitched of their own accord. "As opposed to our public headquarters in Times Square?"

"I'm just curious," Clint stated, holding his arms out in a gesture of peace.

"Well, don't be." Phil's voice was surprisingly firm. Clint knew, logically, that he was treading on thin ice, so he let the matter drop.

For the moment.

The men left the tiny office simultaneously after a few more minutes of light banter. Phil headed down a few halls to a meeting with Director Fury and Agent Hill. Clint started towards his bunk, but detoured at the last minute and doubled back. Ducking casually into the restroom at the end of the hall, he cleared the stalls and corners, having sufficiently learned his lesson on that score, and climbed onto the seat of the far toilet. Punching the vent cover open, he shoved it aside, hoisting himself through the loose grating and into the air vent.

The ventilation system throughout headquarters was comfortably wide and appallingly unprotected, giving Clint ample space to maneuver through the ducts towards Phil's office. Easing the grate up, he shimmied through the opening and landed gracefully on the balls of his feet behind the desk. He eyed his prize for a moment, then dipped his hand into his back pocket and pulled his lockpicks from his wallet.

The drawer's lock clicked open in less than five seconds and Clint eased it open. The unassuming package was directly on top and Clint pulled it out, tucking one leg beneath him and dropping to sit cross-legged on the floor. Carefully, he peeled back the seal and dumped the contents out, staring with some amount of confusion at what dropped into his lap. Biting back on vocalizing his confusion, he gingerly picked the card up, raising an eyebrow at the faded image printed on the front.

It was an old picture of Captain America, clearly shrunk from a larger poster. The Captain stood on a battlefield, barbed wire curling menacingly at his feet. His circular shield was held aloft, bullets deflecting effortlessly from the painted surface. He gripped a pistol in his other hand and he seemed to be calling to the troops over his shoulder.

Voices drifted suddenly towards the door, alerting Clint to movement in his direction. Abruptly, Clint returned the card to the package and resealed it, placing it back into the drawer and picking the lock closed again.

He had just pulled the vent grating back into position when Phil unlocked his office door and entered. The agent dropped a folder on the corner of his desk and sat heavily with a sigh. Clint held his breath as his friend ran his hands through his thinning hair and abruptly froze. Phil blinked twice, his hand hovering over his desk, before the tension in his body shifted from wariness to outright anger.

"Barton." The venom in his handler's voice stopped him cold and Clint gulped. "Get down out of that air vent, or I will pull you down."

Slowly, and with great reluctance, Clint opened the vent and slipped back into the office, aware that he looked every inch a recalcitrant puppy. Phil rose, glaring menacingly at Clint.

"Explain yourself," he demanded through clenched teeth. Clint adopted a mien of innocence, which did not fool his handler in the slightest. "Why did you open my package?"

Clint resisted the urge to fidget, desperately trying to figure out how Phil had known. "I just wanted to see what it was."

"And that gave you the right to break into my private office and go through my private mail?"

Clint felt the hairs on his arms rise and he spoke unthinkingly. "You were deliberately hiding something that might have been important."

"For the record, Agent Barton" Phil interjected coldly. "I will tell you everything that you need to know, when you need to know it. Anything that you are not apprised of is probably my personal information.

Clint shifted, suitably chastened. "Why were you hiding it anyway? It's nothing that important."

"To you."

The archer felt his head cock curiously. "And it is to you?"

Phil's voice was flat, his eyes icy. "That's none of your business."

"Then make it my business," Clint fired back, his previous repentance evaporated. "This partnership is still new and we need to trust each other if we're going to make this work. You told me that. So, what's the big deal about that fucking card?"

Clint knew that his argument was flimsy at best, but he stood his ground, hoping that Phil would give in based on his stubbornness, if not his logic. Phil stared at him for long moments, the time stretching endlessly on as they stayed locked in a stalemate. Clint had no idea how long they stood there before Phil finally relaxed, releasing the tension in his body with a heavy sigh.

"What do you know about Steve Rogers?" Clint blinked at him, stymied. Phil eased himself into his chair, motioning for Clint to do the same. When they were settled, Phil leveled a piercing stare at Clint.

"Nothing," Clint finally said. "I don't think I've ever heard of him."

Phil nodded, looking down at his desk blotter, and it seemed to Clint that he'd expected the answer. After a moment, Phil glanced back up at Clint. "How about Captain America?"

"No more than most, I suppose," the younger man admitted. His eyes narrowed after a split second of thought. "What does Steve Rogers have to do with it?"

Phil laced his fingers on his desktop and lowered his gaze. His right thumb traced absently over his left index finger and Clint was struck by the odd thought that Phil was nervous. The older man took a deep breath and spoke slowly. "Steve Rogers has been my hero since I was a little boy. He is the bravest man I've ever heard of."

Clint made a face, ignoring Phil's twitchiness. "Then what's with the Captain America trading card? Why the hell are you telling me about this kid?"

Phil's lips kicked up in a half smile and his hands stilled. "Because they're the same person."

"What?"

Phil flashed a grin at the blank look on Clint's face and began to explain. Over the course of a few hours, he told the story of how Steve Rogers of Brooklyn became Captain America, War Hero. At some point, Clint had leaned towards the bookcase and pulled a few books out, uncovering Phil's secret stash of whiskey. The bottle was rather less full by the time the story was finished, and Clint let out a long sigh.

"So why didn't you want to tell me?" Phil coughed lightly, his cheeks coloring.

"I was often," he hesitated, and Clint found himself leaning forward. Phil left out his breath in a swift whoosh. "People made fun of me, for looking up to a hero that was so outdated. They still do, sometimes. When they find out."

The immediate reply of "I wouldn't" was on the tip of his tongue, but Clint held back. Had he been anyone else, the archer probably would have delivered the obvious platitude, but Clint knew Phil well enough to know that the older agent would see it for what it was: an appeasement. So, he bit his tongue. The small smile Phil sent his way assured him that he'd been right to do so.

Phil reached into his drawer and placed the package on his desk, eyeing Clint with a raised brow as he slid a letter opener beneath the flap and opened it. Reverently, he slid the card out, fingering the edges lightly.

Clint watched him quietly for a moment. "None of that really explained the card."

"No, it really didn't," Phil murmured, keeping his eyes on the image in front of him. He chewed absently on his lip. "Most kids collected baseball cards. I collected these."

He dipped a hand into his inner breastpocket and brought out a stack of similar cards, fanning them out on the desk in front of Clint. There were nine total, counting the newest that Phil set carefully at the very end. Clint tentatively reached out one finger, poking lightly through the array to better view the illustrations.

Various images of Captain America in heroic poses looked back at him, some from the comic books that had circulated for a few years and some clearly taken from promotional posters during the war. Captain America walked valiantly towards the viewer in one, decked in a parachutist's coverall and grasping his famous shield. Another two showed him in the same garb on a battlefield, bullets bouncing harmlessly from the shield. A fourth was clearly taken from his travelling stage show as he stood over an unconscious Hitler impersonator, one booted foot keeping the dictator down. The fifth was a promotional poster with the Captain mimicking the famous Uncle Sam pointed pose, asking if the viewer had done their part by purchasing war bonds. The last three were frames from comic books, showing the Captain facing sea horrors and tunnel terrors and infamously punching Hitler.

"I'm just missing one more," Phil said quietly, snapping Clint from his silent perusal.

Clint tore his gaze away from the cards and met Phil's eyes. "Which one?"

"This one," Phil answered, pulling up a picture on his desktop. Captain America saluted the two men with a small smile, his original shield hanging down at his side. "It's the most rare, and therefore, the most expensive." He offered Clint half a smile. "SHIELD pays well, but not that well."

Clint nodded silently, his attention still riveted on the image on the screen. Phil watched him curiously for a few moments, before minimizing the window and clearing his throat.

"Director Fury has another mission for you," he said lightly, steering the conversation away from Captain America. He picked up the folder he'd dropped earlier from the corner of his desk and held it up. "Read over it tonight. And we'll discuss it in the morning."

"Alright." Clint snatched the brief from Phil's hand and moved towards the door. "See you tomorrow."

They departed the next evening for eastern Europe and Phil was quietly grateful that Clint didn't bring up the cards again. In fact, Clint was surprisingly tight-lipped about the entire exchange, which worried Phil more than he cared to admit. The only strange part of the entire mission was the conversation that occurred as Clint was taking his position.

"Hey Mother?"

Phil sat a little straighter in his chair, readjusting his commlink. He rubbed his tired eyes with a fist. "Yes, Hawkeye?"

"If a crime is committed while on a mission, it's not considered punishable, right?"

Phil froze, his mouth hanging slightly open. Closing his eyes in consternation, he balled one fist tightly. There was a short silence and when he spoke again, his voice was quietly strained. "If you get arrested for indecent exposure, I will let you rot in jail."

"Don't be silly," Clint replied immediately, his tone oddly pensive. "Any exposure of mine is not indecent. You didn't answer my question."

Phil sighed, leaning back in his chair. "Any laws broken in the course of a mission are generally ignored, so long as they are small enough offenses."

"Okay, good."

Phil groaned aloud. "I don't want to know. I just don't want to know."

Weeks passed and the subject of Captain America and Phil's trading cards had not been broached since Clint had broken into his office, each man slipping smoothly into their old routine of work and casual banter. Phil was quietly grateful that the matter had dropped in the interim, although some part of him still waited for the other shoe to fall.

He hadn't quite expected this, however.

He'd just needed a new pen to finish the four-one-five for their latest mission, so he'd tugged open his desk drawer and there it was, lying innocently between a box of staples and the packet of pens he needed.

Captain America smiled at him, his right hand brought up in a jaunty salute. Phil gingerly picked up the card by the edges, almost disbelievingly, and rubbed one hand across his mouth, his lips pulling back into a wide grin of their own accord. A small laugh escaped him as he flipped the card over and read the back, tamping down on the emotion welling in his chest.

Setting the card back down, he opened his bottom desk drawer to reveal the small locker he kept there and opened it, pulling out the stack of cards. Placing his newest acquisition on top, he raised his face to the ceiling, staring through the grating of the air vent. There had been no reason to suspect that Clint was even in the vent, no sound of breathing or noise of shifting limbs, but Phil knew with a certainty that the archer was up there.

"Breaking and entering, petty theft," he said with a smile. "I think we can absolve those. Thank you, Clint."

Fin.