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 Seven: Following It Through

There wasn't much to the picture. It was obviously taken when the subject was in motion, the delicate lines of a clearly feminine body blurred with movement. Long crimson hair whipped around her face as she turned, eyes searching over her shoulder while she ran towards the edge of the frame. The innocuous photograph was slammed into the center of Fury's desk with surprising force.

"Who is she?"

Fury slowly raised his head and met Clint's blazing gaze. The director leaned back in his chair, flicking his eye behind the archer to where Phil and Maria were both hovering in the doorway. Clint resisted the urge to tap the picture for emphasis.

"I know that you know," he murmured lowly.

That seemed enough to finally jar the director. "And what makes you say that, Barton?"

"Because you know everything," Clint hissed. "It's your fucking job. So who is she?"

Fury glanced down at the photograph, brows raised casually. "She looks like a prostitute, Barton. It's not that hard to figure out."

"If that's a hooker, then I'm the fucking Queen of England," Clint replied flatly.

Fury sighed, finally accepting that the conversation was not going to end. "What makes you think she is anything other than what she appears?"

"Hold on," Clint murmured into his comm and Phil fell silent. Dropping his bow for a moment, Clint raised a pair of binoculars to his eyes and examined the woman walking into the back alley.

'Woman' might have been a strong term for the waif of a girl that was currently stumbling along the pavement on heels that were half a size too large. Her young face was caked with makeup and she was clothed in a dress that was probably bought from the lingerie section at a department store. Clint cursed softly as she tottered to the man who was standing menacingly outside the door. She spoke to him for a moment and he nodded, slipping inside. Clint tracked the path he'd have to take in the building and set his sights on the door in his mark's room, one Viktor Kochenko.

"Don't open," he murmured. "Don't open."

Kochenko turned at a noise that Clint couldn't hear and stood, walking over to the apartment's entrance.

"Dammit," he cursed as his mark cracked open the door and the guard from outside stepped in, murmuring something lowly in Kochenko's ear. "Mother, we may have a situation."

"Report," Phil returned immediately.

Clint exhaled heavily. "Target is about to get some company."

"We were expecting that, Hawkeye," Phil reminded him. "The target's appetites are well documented."

"Yeah, well, none of these documents noted that the target was a fucking pedophile," Clint shot back, anger bleeding into his voice. Phil simply waited until Clint composed himself. "She can't be more than fifteen."

Phil was silent for a long moment as Clint watched the two men speak in the apartment. The guard stepped further in and stood behind Kochenko as he sat in a chair, speaking to an unseen party.

"Do what you think is right," the older agent finally murmured.

"Thanks."

Clint set the binoculars down and ignored his bow, instead choosing his rifle, some custom made thing that Ben had been so proud of. It was featherlight and durable enough to survive even a mission with Hawkeye, Ben had teased, with a silencer so well-made that a shot fired from the barrel was no louder than his boot heel on pavement. Clint had brought it on the scientist's insistence, suddenly grateful for this nudge. Readjusting his position, he peered through the scope and found the young girl's face, half hidden behind a curtain of bright red hair.

"Sorry," he muttered to the oblivious girl. Taking a deep breath, he centered himself and aimed at the bricked building to her right, just above her eye level. He gently squeezed the trigger , firing off his shot, and dropped below the decorative railing to keep out of sight. He breathed in and out for a beat, giving her time to bolt away before he chanced peeking at the damage. Glancing down at the alleyway, he was surprised to find her in the same place she'd been, standing next to the building as loosened brick dust drifted over her head.

Feeling around at his side for his binoculars, he brought them to his eye and peered through the rail supports at the girl. A quick glance at the apartment confirmed that the silencer had performed admirably and that the occupants of the room were at ease and unaware of what was happening in the alley, so Clint swung his gaze back downwards.

The vulnerability that she had displayed earlier and put Clint on guard was no longer visible in the straightness of her spine and the turn of her head. She was perfectly still, her head cocked slightly to the side as she inspected the puncture in the brick.

"Hawkeye?"

"Hold on," he murmured distractedly to Phil. "Just, wait."

Phil fell quiet again as Clint leaned forward as far as he could, pressing the eyepiece of the binoculars deeper into his skin. Raising one lithe hand, she pressed a finger into the hole, picking at the bullet imbedded there. He could see her jaw moving, the slight motion barely visible, and he cursed as he realized what was happening.

"She's speaking into a set of comms," he announced flatly, dropping the binoculars in his surprise.

"Are you sure?" Phil asked. "We've got no intel on anyone else being interested in our target."

Clint sighed, replacing the binoculars to his face again. "Pretty sure."

He resisted a flinch as she turned with narrowed eyes and glanced his way. Hunkering down beneath the rail, he let only his head show. Pulling her finger partially from the bullet hole, she used the line of her digit to form a trajectory.

"Fuck me," Clint whispered. When Phil questioned him, Clint answered his distractedly. "She found me."

"Are you compromised?" Phil asked immediately, his normally calm tone sounding frayed.

Clint remained silent as she zeroed in her gaze on his nest. She stared for a few moments and Clint kept the binoculars to his eyes to conceal his features, but he continued to watch her. He had no idea how long they actually stayed there, Phil needling him relentlessly through the comms, until she moved.

She nodded once in his direction, perfectly deliberate, and bent down to remove her too-large shoes. Fumbling, Clint threw the binoculars onto his gear bag and swiftly replaced them with his surveillance camera. Shoes in hand, she took off for the main street as Clint's shutter clicked away, only glancing back over her shoulder once.

"Are you compromised?" Phil repeated, his voice nearly a shout.

"Don't think so." Clint let out a long sigh, dropping the camera. "She's gone."

"That's great, but she is not your mission, Hawkeye. Where is the target?"

Clint zoomed the lens on the apartment. "Where he was. Do we have clearance?"

"Mission is go," Phil confirmed.

"Roger that."

Clint secured the camera in its compartment and quickly disassembled the rifle, readying himself for a quick getaway. He exhaled swiftly and shook his head to clear his mind. Wrapping his fingers around his bow, he relished the familiar weight of it and rose from his crouched position.

Kochenko had stood and moved towards the door, the secondary target of Nikolas Yemelin at his side. He inhaled deeply and let it out slowly as he drew the bowstring to his chin, taking the time to aim between Kochenko's ribs at his heart.

Narrowing his world to the space between the fourth and fifth ribs, Clint inhaled again and loosened his grip. After compensating for breaking the window glass and the arrow's naturally arcing path, Clint didn't bother to check to see if it sank home. He nocked a second arrow immediately, aiming for Yemelin's right lung, and let the projectile fly through the newly made hole. The guard knelt immediately at Kochenko's side, hands fluttering above the protruding arrow shaft. For good measure, Clint sank a third arrow into the guard's torso and took stock for a moment.

Kochenko was dead, eyes staring up at the ceiling and his limbs strewn around him. Yemelin was wheezing his last breaths, and the guard gave one last shudder.

"Target eliminated," he murmured into his comm as he packed the last of his things and stuffed it into his duffel. "Secondary target eliminated. Target's guard eliminated. Hawkeye out."

"Roger that," Phil answered, sounding relieved. "We'll see you when you get here."

"That is why I don't think she's a fucking hooker," Clint growled. "She is an operative. She has to be."

"It's possible," Fury acknowledged, studiously not looking at the photograph on his desk. He inspected Clint over his steeled fingers. "You're awfully hung up on this girl, Barton. Something I need to be concerned with?"

"Of course not, Director," Phil answered, finally stepping forward. "Whatever it is, we'll handle it."

"Good." Fury pressed two fingers to the edge of the picture and pushed it lightly towards Clint. The archer glared openly at the director as he snatched the image up and turned on his heel. Maria remained silent in the doorway, her eyes wide. Clint was nearly out of the office, Phil at his heels, when Fury spoke again.

"However, if I were really interested in who that girl was, I'd take that picture down to Doctor Morrison." Clint froze, twisting his torso to glance back at the director with one eyebrow arched curiously. Fury waved his hand vaguely towards the photograph. "I think he's working on a new facial matching program and database."

"Thank you, sir," Phil offered, when it seemed that Clint wasn't going to say anything. He shoved at Clint's back, sending the archer stumbling out into the hallway. "We'll keep that in mind."

"See that you do."

Clint heard Phil click Fury's door shut and mutter something to Maria before hurrying to catch up with him. "Barton."

Clint kept walking, stubbornly refusing to look over his shoulder. Phil sighed, speeding up slightly. "Barton!"

He heard Phil sigh again and then felt the older agent's hand on his arm. "Clint."

"What?"

Phil rolled his eyes. "Did you really expect Director Fury to just tell you everything that you wanted to know?"

Clint glowered at his friend, thinking that the answer was 'yes,' but knowing that it wasn't the answer that he should give. "No."

"Liar," Phil muttered, grinning in fond exasperation. "I understand that she bothers you, that the whole situation bothered you, but you have to remember that Director Fury is, first and foremost, a spy. He's not great at giving out information. And some things you have to find for yourself."

"That's bullshit." Clint spun around and headed down to the labs. "I can't operate properly without intel. Keeping it from me because that's what he's used to is not fucking okay."

"Did it ever occur to you that he honestly doesn't know who she is?"

Clint paused, turning back around to stare at Phil. The older agent was standing in the middle of the hallway, arms crossed sternly over his chest. At Clint's blank look, he sighed and rolled his eyes again.

"Contrary to popular belief, Barton, SHIELD doesn't actually know everything. Your girl was young, right?"

"She's not my girl," Clint snapped immediately. "But yeah, she was young."

"So it's entirely possible that she's a brand new agent, isn't it?" Phil asked leadingly. Clint chewed the thought for a moment.

"I'd say you're right, but there was something about her," he muttered. "She wasn't scared. I saw her face after the bullet hit the brick, and she wasn't scared. She was thinking."

He met Phil's eyes. "I don't give a shit who you are. Someone shoots at you for the first time, there's panic there, somewhere."

When Phil remained silent, contemplating Clint's information, the archer finished his trek to the labs. Doctor Ben Morrison was seated at a lab bench, delicately manipulating a rifle prototype.

"Wait," Ben commanded softly, and Clint stopped just inside the door, to Phil's amusement.

"Shut up," Clint whispered when Phil snorted a laugh.

"I think it's cute," the older agent murmured in response. "It's called a man crush, right?"

"It's not called a damned thing," Clint retorted lowly. "I just respect his space, that's all."

"His and only his," Phil muttered. "I still haven't forgiven you for that, by the way."

Clint grinned, watching Ben work. "I thought they were nice pajamas. Very patriotic."

"You could learn to knock," Phil answered wryly.

"Blasphemy," Ben announced, setting the prototype on a stand and smiling at them in greeting. "How dare you suggest it."

"He's my favorite," Clint informed Phil.

Ben chuckled. "Until the next young thing with a set of boobs walks past. What's on your mind?"

"A young thing with boobs, actually," Phil answered for him. "The director said that you had facial recognition software and accompanying database in the works?"

Ben sobered immediately. "Yes, I do. Would you rather describe her or should I work from a picture?"

"Both," Clint said grimly, handing the photograph over. "I want to know who this girl is."

"I'll find her, if I can," Ben assured him. "Let's get started."

The scientist led the two agents into another room filled with computers and placed the photo on a scanner. Sending the picture to the nearest desktop, the program extrapolated a full frontal view of her face that Clint thought looked slightly distorted, and began comparing it to other images.

"It'll take a while," Ben told him, leaning over to pick up a sketchpad and a pencil. "Days, maybe. It pulls from every database in the world, so there are a lot of images to search from. In the meantime, tell me what she looked like."

Ben sketched out Clint's descriptions, the archer leaning over his shoulder to point out where the nose was too wide and or the eyes too close together. Phil sat quietly in the corner, waiting. When Ben was finished, he tore the page carefully from the binding and handed it to Clint.

"There's your girl."

Phil snorted a laugh as Clint muttered absently, "Not my fucking girl."

"Well, not if she doesn't show back up." Ben eyed him, the expression somewhat sympathetic. "You may never see her again, you know."

"She'll be back," Clint muttered confidently. "She's too useful to get rid of and too good to die."

"You can't possibly know that," Ben said, glancing at Phil. "Can he?"

Phil shrugged. "I've learned to take what Clint says as gold, most of the time. Especially about things like this. If he thinks she's that good, just based on what little he saw, she probably is."

Ben looked worriedly at Clint, who hadn't glanced away from the drawing. "You're not going to go looking for her, are you?"

"Not out of my way, no," Clint murmured. "But I'll find her. Somewhere."

"You're being stubborn," Phil informed him lightly.

Clint finally tore his gaze from the drawing, flashing his friend a quick grin. "I learned from the best."

Fin.