Author's notes: First of all, my apologies to everyone who reviewed the prologue and never got credit. I acknowledged the favorites and followers and forgot about the reviewers. By the time I realized it Sunday, FF . net was playing holy heck with its servers, and I decided to just thank everyone here – and put up a bonus chapter tonight to boot. I hope you enjoy!
Thanks to the reviewers: Aggie2011, AlphaFlyer and Nonyvole – my normal first ones up. And to the others who have been so supportive – Csurvivor, Galynsolo, Elysynn, Dahlia, angelofjoy, Harm Marie, R1dDL3M37h15, Thephoenix1996, JRBarton, lunarweather, blackdog-lz, shanynde, Elcee, Maxiekat, Hawksicle, FrostonMaples, Zarannya, Hawaiichick and CyanB (and if I missed someone, I'm really sorry!). Like most writers, I live on reviewers, and I'm sorry you all didn't get thanked the first time! Thank you – and, uh, keep it up?
And now, on with the show…
Somewhere over the Middle East
"Dammit!"
Coulson resisted the urge to take the satellite phone he was holding and pitch it into the wall of the Quinjet. He clenched it tight in his hand, though, trying to bring him emotions under control.
He didn't know what he'd expected when he'd handed the file over to Fury. Maybe a part of him had wanted the miracle – Callahan and Barrett waiting for him when he landed. Or maybe he'd just hoped for word that they were alive and relatively safe, if not free.
He hadn't expected to still be in the air, mid-flight, and finding out about a failed rescue attempt. SHIELD jets were fast, but even they couldn't do more than cut a few hours off a twelve-and-a-half hour plane flight.
Roughly 10 hours had passed since Phil had boarded the jet, most of which he'd spent cooped up in the back of the jet – unable to do anything but coordinate the distribution of the intelligence, get the first reports back from those actions and attempt to get a few hours' sleep. Two hours ago, Fury had called to tell him an Army Ranger unit had been given the green light in the area.
Hope. That's what he'd felt. It had calmed him enough that he'd finally managed to doze off, his brain at rest after too many hours of trying to do everything and accomplishing nothing.
And then Fury had called back. His anger and frustration now coming back under control, Phil realized the Director's voice had been echoing out of the phone for the last 30 seconds.
Sighing deeply, he put the phone back to his ear.
"Sorry, sir. I needed a minute."
"Like hell." Even over the sat phone connection, Phil could pick up on the man's grim tone. "I'm just grateful you didn't break the phone."
"It crossed my mind." Phil leaned back against the headrest of the seat. "Do we know any details?"
"The Rangers spotted the group leaving a facility in the middle of the city – where we'd tracked Callahan's GPS to, by the way." Fury sounded almost triumphant at that. "Wherever he stowed that phone, it's still transmitting. They followed it out of town under strict orders to observe and report until they had a clear shot. Fifteen minutes later, everyone's emptying clips at these guys. About the only person in the unit not firing, apparently, was the unit's sniper."
Coulson sat up sharply at that.
"The sniper didn't fire?" That just didn't make any sense. If anyone would've had a clean shot – and a clear view – in that situation, it would be the sniper and his spotter.
"No, and trust me, I want to know why just as much as you do." Coulson could hear as much curiosity as frustration in the Director's voice. "I'm sending the kid's service file to your cell phone. You'll want to give it a read before you get on the ground and head out to the unit."
"Sir?" Coulson wasn't sure he'd heard that right, not after a mostly sleepless night and having to fight just to get permission to get on the ground in the country.
"You heard right. Someone from the unit will meet your plane and take you out to the base." Fury sounded as tired as Phil felt. "There's something going on out there, outside of this failed op. An IED took out four members of the unit a month ago, and all hell's broken loose. Your sniper's got a new spotter and a new lieutenant and now a folder full of complaints in the last three weeks."
Coulson heard a beep on his cell, signaling the arrival of the Director's file. Tucking the satellite phone between his head and his shoulder, and started digging for the phone in his backpack.
"And before that?"
"Two citations for meritorious service and a nomination for a distinguished service medal. Since being put in the field six months ago."
Coulson resisted the urge to let out a low whistle. Whoever this kid was, he had talent – and more than a little courage. Even in the middle of a war, that kind of recognition fell under only one label. It was called "conspicuous gallantry" and tended to result in one hell of a soldier, something Coulson remembered from experience – personal and otherwise. The Army didn't let just anyone become a Ranger, which made the sudden change in reports even more baffling. Coulson wanted to be on the ground, meeting this kid.
The silence must have dragged a second too long, because Fury suddenly cleared his throat.
"Tell me what's on your mind, Phil."
Coulson thought for a moment, thinking how to phrase what was going through his head.
"Not exactly sure, sir. Maybe … like calling to like." It was more than that, but Fury would figure it out. The Director knew Phil's service record better than his own, had personal experience on just how well Coulson could handle a sniper rifle. One well-placed bullet had kept the Director from losing his other eye, and from there … well, very few people knew all of Agent Phil Coulson's long and winding road through the organization. Not that kept new recruits from speculating, though.
Guess this is more than a "recruiting" trip now. Like it had ever been just that. Fury knew that putting his "one good eye" in country would result in some sort of action – preferably the return of his missing agents. He'd left the "what" and the "how" and the "when" up to better people than him, like Coulson.
Gotta love plausible deniability.
"So, someone's going to meet me." Coulson couldn't help but let a genuine smile crease his face at the implications. "I take it that means the mission parameters have changed?"
He could clearly hear the snort of derision from Fury on the other end.
"Mission parameters, my ass. If the Council catches wind of this, there's gonna be hell to pay, but right now, I don't give a rat's ass. I'm not leaving good men hanging in the wind."
Fury never did. And never would. With that one sentence, Coulson could feel some of the tension leave his body. Coulson had pulled Fury's ass out of the fire more than once, and the man continued to return the favor in more ways than Coulson could count. The man bled loyalty – and got it back in return.
Coulson let out a ragged sigh. He'd never doubted Fury would back whatever play he made, but it felt good to hear it anyhow.
"Any new orders…sir?"
"Yeah. Quit calling me sir." Coulson let out a tired chuckle, but the Director went on. "And try not to get yourself shot, stabbed, maimed or otherwise mutilated this time?"
Coulson let a full-fledged smirk spread across his face.
"Is that concern I hear, Director?"
"Hell, no." Fury fired back as good as he got. "If you wind up in the infirmary, it's just more paperwork I'll need to shred later."
Phil chuckled, and leaned back in the seat. God, he needed some sleep. Now, after listening to everything his friend had said, he might actually get some. He actually felt almost hopeful – and his sense of humor was back.
"I'm sure Agent Hill will appreciate the work." He paused, then added, "Sir."
Fury's laughter rang loud and true. When it stopped, there was a moment of silence.
"Godspeed, Phil. Bring our boys home. And while you're at it, see what the hell's going on with that sniper. Maybe he'll want to hitch a ride." Then the Director disconnected the call, leaving his right-hand agent with a smile on his face.
Coulson shook his head, then opened the file on his cell. He'd take a nap – after he read the service file. After punching a few buttons, it appeared on the screen of his phone, and he found himself gazing at a name, rank, and service photo.
The photo was what made Coulson sit up and take notice. No one ever looked good in a service photo. No surprise, really. Military haircuts, uniforms and the expected seriousness could make anyone look severe. But what struck Coulson, after taking in the buzzed blonde hair and the blank face, were Barton's eyes. They were the color of a thunderstorm – caught between blue, gray and a stormy green.
Coulson stared at the photo, trying to wrap his mind around the intensity conveyed in that single photograph – trying to get a grasp on the mind behind those eyes. There's something there waiting to get out. The thought rattled through his head, and Phil filed it away for later. Then, after a long moment, he clicked past the photo and into the man's evaluations.
So, Clint Barton, let's see what you've got to offer…
When Phil Coulson stepped off the Quinjet onto the tarmac in Kandahar Air Field, he immediately noticed three things.
One: while two hours sleep wasn't enough and would never BE enough, the short nap had left him remarkably refreshed.
Two: Even though it was midnight in Afghanistan, he was wide awake.
And three: Even though the hour was very late – or depending on your viewpoint, very, very early – apparently it wasn't too late to offer a superior a cup of coffee.
A respectable distance away from the Quinjet, a young private stood next to a camouflage Humvee. He obviously expected the area to be secure and stay secure, because Coulson had seen him climb out of the vehicle while taxiing to a stop, and then reach back in to pull out not one, but two cups of coffee.
But even in the dark, Coulson could see the sturdy Kevlar the young man had on, and the matching helmet. Secured or not, they were still in the middle of a war zone. His own SHIELD-issued vest was secure over his t-shirt, and he slipped the helmet on before warily stepping down out of the jet with his backpack and duffle.
The young man yawned, then held out one of the two cups.
"Sure as hell hope you're Agent Coulson, sir." The teenager – who looked the young side of 18, if that – cracked a small grin. "Hate to be sitting here for an hour waiting for the wrong plane."
Coulson took the proffered cup, and wondered if the Army could manage a decent cup of coffee. He sniffed at it cautiously, then smiled as he picked up the wonderful scent of a healthy brew. He quickly took a sip, and raised an eyebrow.
"Pretty good coffee for there being a war on around here."
The private chuckled.
"Captain Stilling's personal stash, sir. Said if I had to be stuck waiting around all night for a government agent, then I should have some decent coffee." The private, whose tag on the fatigues read "Riley," then gestured to the Humvee and held out a hand. "I have a thermos of the stuff in there, sir, and some homemade cookies, if you'd like to get going?"
Coulson nodded, and handed the youngster his duffel. The backpack would stay safely in his lap for the drive and likely in his immediate presence the entire trip. He could live without the change of clothes and personal items in the go-bag, but the backpack … not so much.
He then nodded at the private.
"Let's go. You're driving."
It took a few minutes to clear the security at the airport, the private showing proper identification and prompting Coulson to dig out his passport and ID. The guards waved them through, warning both of them to keep their helmets on and to duck at any sign of trouble. Riley then took off at a less-than-prudent speed, pushing the transmission of the Humvee as hard as it would go.
"Expecting problems, Private?"
Riley shrugged.
"Around here, sir, better safe than sorry." Coulson slid down a little further in his seat as the private took a corner at a higher speed than Coulson expected, dumping him hard against the door. "Some people see us, they decide we make good target practice. And yes, they should be asleep right now, but let's just say it wouldn't be the first time. Besides, I'd like to get back in my bunk at some point tonight."
Phil smirked. It all sounded eerily familiar, and he wondered just how the hell 15-plus years had passed since he'd been in a uniform and hauling a sniper rifle around the Middle East. Once upon a time, he'd actually been this young, reduced to driving around visiting VIPs when the brass sent someone calling.
Riley dug out a cardboard box and handed it to Coulson, who opened it and found an assortment of sugar, chocolate chip and oatmeal and raisin cookies.
At least, he thought that's what the lumpy ones were. As he looked at them warily and tried to decide if anything actually appealed, the private reached over and snagged one of them from the box.
"My mom's granola and fudge cookies, sir. With macadamia nuts." He took a bit of the cookie, and then grinned around the mouthful. "Beats a Powerbar any day."
Coulson returned the smile, and pulled another of the cookies out of the box.
"I would hope so." He then set the box back on the floor, took a sip of the coffee, and leaned back into seat. Munching at the cookie, he realized just how long it had been since he'd eaten. Coulson finished the cookie in three bites, then reached forward and took another.
While he ate, Riley just drove, keeping his eyes mostly on the road, but occasionally glancing over at his passenger. They drove for about five minutes, the private shooting more and more glances before Phil bit back a smile.
"Why don't you just ask, Private?" The curiosity had to be killing the kid.
Riley shook his head emphatically, looking guilty.
"Not supposed to, sir." The private swallowed, and if possible, blushed redder than he already was. "I know it's not my place, sir."
Coulson took pity on the poor kid.
"Just ask. No ranks, I'm the civilian here."
That got the kid's attention.
"So you're not CID?"
"I'm … from an independent investigative agency." Which was true, as far as it went. It generally got the question answered and enough of the curiosity satisfied to move forward.
Riley just shrugged, then jerked the wheel hard to the right as a thin, black shape skittered into the road. As it vanished out of the headlights, Coulson realized it was a cat. Riley quickly pulled the Humvee back on course, and started talking again.
"You're here about Barton, aren't you?"
"That's part of it, yes." Coulson kept his eye on Riley the entire time, gauging his reactions. When the youngster sat there for a long minute, chewing on his lip continuously, Phil decided to take pity on him.
"Tell me what's on your mind, Riley." The private shot him a sudden, panicked look, as if he'd been caught out doing something he shouldn't have. Then, as his face blushed red, Riley shook his head.
"Barton always tells me I wear my emotions on my sleeve. Guess he's right. He usually is." Riley glanced over at Coulson again, and then put his eyes back on the road. "He's good like that, sir. He reads people pretty damned well."
Coulson nodded. It jived with the personnel evaluations he'd seen in Barton's file. But he wasn't quite sure where Riley's thoughts were. He decided to prod the private and see what he got as a reaction.
"Sounds like a friend – or maybe someone you just don't want to piss off." When Riley didn't say anything, Phil added, "Want to tell me which he is to you?"
Riley swallowed, his gaze flitting over to Phil, then back to the road.
"Depends, sir."
"On?"
"Well, whether anything I say will land me in the same court-martial Barton's headed for."
Phil quirked a grin. He could identify with the paranoia, especially after prior experience as a non-com. The old joke had been paranoia ran inversely with rank – the lower you were ranked, the more convinced you were that the officers were out to get you.
All things be equal, he'd probably be more suspicious if Riley weren't a little paranoid.
"Not why I'm here, Riley." Coulson shrugged a little, then took a long draw out of the cup of coffee. "Why don't you just tell me about Barton? I'll even try to keep questions to a minimum."
Riley hesitated for just a fraction of the second more, then started talking at a rapid-fire pace that convinced Coulson that the kid had just been waiting for an opportunity to convince anyone.
"Sir, you gotta help him. Barton, I mean. I haven't got clue-fucking-one what happened out there last night, but something did – and now it's all over the camp." Riley came up for air, and then plunged forward. "I'm not saying Barton's some damned saint. He can be a real pain in the ass, and more than a little bit scary. He doesn't have a whole lotta friends, but everyone respects him – or did, anyhow. Then that damned IED went off … you know about that, right, sir?"
Coulson nodded. Barton had been out on a night surveillance op, and had missed a scheduled radio check. The unit had rolled out a Humvee to check his position – and somehow discovered an IED planted on the main road in the region. Barton had turned out to be within shouting distance with a dead radio, and had gotten on the scene to find two people already dead and another two dying. Without a radio, the sniper couldn't even call for a med evac, though the report had gone so far as to say both were beyond saving. Among the dead were Barton's C.O. and his spotter.
Coulson watched as Riley's knuckles tightened around the steering wheel.
"Collins … he knew how to handle Barton. Spotter/sniper pairs are normally pretty tight, sir, but Collins somehow … got Barton. Like I said, he's a little scary sometimes, but Collins could manage to make him laugh – or at least shrug off his sniper 'tude when they got back to camp. And McDermid gave them both some leeway, y'know, some room to operate within orders, so long as shit got done and no one got hurt. The two of them were freaky-good, and McDermid knew it. So he just let them do their jobs, y'know?
Coulson DID know. That kind of leeway was what made a good officer.
"When that IED went off …" Riley sucked hard on his lower lip for a second, then hauled in a deep breath. When he started talking again, he ran off at the mouth like Coulson would dare interrupt him.
"It knocked the shit out of the unit." Riley shrugged. "You know how the rumor mill goes, sir – someone said something about Barton not being with the unit, then the next person twisted it, and then it got twisted a little more. Next thing you know, Barton knew the IED was in the road, or set them up, or pulled the surveillance op cuz he was feeling lazy – shit like that. Like Barton would do any of that." Riley shook his head. "Guy doesn't operate that way."
Coulson could see the emotion rising on Riley's face. Easy enough to understand why – scuttlebutt gained momentum even without a crap situation like what had gone down here. Inevitably, someone would get caught in the middle, and it sounded like it had been Barton's turn.
Riley plowed on.
"Then Maxwell got here. The guys split right down the middle on whether Maxwell was the next coming of Christ or an asswipe disguised as a second Lieutenant. The first group hated Barton to begin with. The second is still neutral, but it's hell in the camp right now."
"Where do you fall, Private?"
"We off the record still, sir?"
"Completely." Phil made a point of catching Riley's eye when the youngster looked over, so Riley could see that he meant it. After a moment, Riley swallowed, and continued.
"I'm in the asswipe camp, sir."
Before he could stop it, Phil barked out a laugh, then quickly tried to turn it into a cough. If Riley looked over, though, he'd be able to see the grin threatening to get out of hand on the agent's face. He remembered – especially in times like this – how easy it had been to hate Army life.
Riley cracked a small grin himself, apparently encouraged.
"Well, he is. And how the fuck West Point graduated a little pissant like him is completely beyond any comprehension." Riley sighed, then tapped the brake again as something blew into the road. This time, it looked like nothing more than trash, and Riley tapped the gas to get the Humvee back up to speed.
"Look, whatever Maxwell says, sir … Barton's good people." Riley stopped for a moment, then blushed. He went from an Army private to an embarrassed teenager in less than a second, and Coulson knew whatever was coming, the private really didn't want to be telling this story – but felt the older man needed to hear it.
"Some of the Ranger guys … they take a lot of pride in how badass they can be, sir." Riley's words spilled out with little to no control. "One of them, his name's Harris, decided I flinched a little too much when they went walking around the base, and thought I needed a lesson in toughening up."
Phil frowned. He definitely didn't like where this was going.
"So, Harris got a few of the other Rangers to grab me one night as I was leaving the mess. They dropped a hood over my head, drug me into a supply tent – and proceeded to play Russian roulette with my head and their sniper rifles." Riley's hands tightened around the wheel again. "I nearly pissed my pants before Barton came storming in. Three punches and a mouthful of words I gotta make sure I never say around my mama EVER, and they went running."
Riley sniffled slightly, then finished.
"Barton took the hood off – then grabbed the rifles, checked the chambers, and then showed me they'd been empty all along. Then he untied me and walked me back to my quarters, and told me to stay there for the night." Riley cracked a grin. "Harris, Sanchez and Nelson all showed up for breakfast the next morning walking like they'd been riding my Uncle Sam's broncos all night. Barton walked in a few moments later, and told me to keep a friend around for a few nights, but there shouldn't be any more issues. Then Collins walked in. His eyes went right to those three, and then they went to Barton. Then he ordered Barton the hell out of the mess.
"Next I heard, Barton was on restriction for 24 hours – and Harris, Sanchez and Nelson were getting write-ups in their permanent files."
The edges of Coulson's lips quirked upward, even though he tried to keep his face as placid as he could. Sometimes, the spirit of the law needed to prevail instead of the letter of it – even in the military. He thought back to commendations and citations in Barton's file, and his photographic memory settled on a paragraph Lieutenant McDermid had written.
"Corporal Barton would have the makings of an officer if he could accept certain methods of approaching a problem are better than others. I'm just as glad that he can't, because I know, if given an objective, he WILL find a way to complete it – no questions asked."
It seemed like officer speak for Barton taking the shortest solution to the problem – and to hell with appearances and propriety and whatever was politically expedient at the time. Coulson understood it all too well, having written it more than once in a SHIELD evaluation and having resorted to it once upon a time himself.
It also puzzled the crap out of him. Just what the hell had happened in the last month? Had the deaths of his Lieutenant and his spotter hit Barton so hard that he couldn't cope, or was Maxwell so much of an idiot that the sniper just didn't have room to function? All of the above? None of the above?
I really, really need to meet this kid.
"Sir?" Riley had slowed the vehicle slightly, and Coulson looked over to find the private inspecting him with something less than panic, but more than worry on the young man's face.
Coulson smiled apologetically, and shook his head. He really had been woolgathering.
"I needed a moment to process all that." Coulson carefully took a sip of his coffee, grimacing a little at how quickly it had grown lukewarm. "So Barton backs his buddies, and isn't afraid of stepping out of line to do so."
"No, SIR." Riley's answer was immediate and heartfelt. "Shit just doesn't happen on his watch. Which is what makes last night so damned weird."
Coulson clenched his cup a little tighter as the conversation circled back to the point at hand, and the immediate problem: a sniper that wouldn't shoot – had apparently disobeyed a direct order to do so. It made absolutely no damned sense at all.
He frowned as he looked over at Riley, hoping for a straight answer to this last question.
"Do you know what happened out there, Private?"
Riley just watched the road for a long moment, and Coulson figured he'd worn out his welcome. Finally, though, the private shook his head.
"Not really, sir. Just that the group left with orders not to fire, and then came back a few hours later with weapons to clean and Barton in cuffs. Scuttlebutt is he refused the order to fire when Maxwell cleared him to – and that his spotter refused to back him up." Riley slapped the steering wheel with one hand. "They gave him a spotter who, frankly, hates his ass. Maxwell assigned him Nelson – you know, one of those guys I mentioned earlier – and told Barton to 'make it work.' How the hell are you supposed to make something like that work? Barton doesn't trust him."
Given what Coulson had heard so far, he didn't blame Barton for that. A sniper/spotter relationship set its base on trust. But for that to spill over into the field, on a search and rescue mission with lives on the line? It virtually never happened. No wonder Riley was confused.
The private looked over, making sure he'd made his point. He opened his mouth to say something, closed it, then opened it again. Riley's eyes skittered from the road over to Coulson and back, and whatever had gone through his mind, he decided to go ahead and say it.
When he spoke, Coulson could hear the raw confusion. And immediately, the agent knew he needed his mind on this situation first – or else he wouldn't get another shot at Callahan and Barrett.
"We rely on each other, sir. It's like someone decided that Barton wasn't worth the effort anymore, and figured he needed to put up or shut up. Last night was the last straw, and I hope like hell you've got some ideas, because if he stays here, I think someone's gonna end up dead."
Somehow, even though Coulson had yet to meet the 21-year-old face to face, he had the distinct feeling the kid's time here in Afghanistan was almost done. He didn't know if it'd be Barton's choice – or the Army's, or SHIELD's – but it was done. Too much had happened.
In thinking about it, though, Coulson reached one other conclusion. He hoped the kid still had something left to give.
"…no patience left for any of his bullshit. So, if you're CID, he's yours. If you're not CID, he's still yours. Take him, try his ass and stick him somewhere the world will forget him."
Even if Coulson hadn't been prepared, he would've gotten the distinct impression from talking to Maxwell that the L.T. didn't care much for his sniper. Really, there would be no mistaking the disdain Maxwell had for Barton – even if the Lieutenant hadn't started in with his version of the situation almost before Coulson had dropped into the chair he'd been offered.
Coulson had sat there placidly, only raising an eyebrow here and again when Maxwell looked at him for a response. Finally after about 10 minutes – during which Coulson felt he got no closer to the truth of what had happened the night before, and got increasingly uncomfortable in the flak jacket – the Lieutenant sighed and dropped back into the chair.
"Look, command told me you were coming, but they didn't tell me who you were or anything." Maxwell reached for the cup of coffee on the desk, and chugged it down in two swallows. "All I know is that you were coming to follow up on the information that was given us to track down these two civilians, and you'd hoped have them rescued and waiting for you. As you can see, Barton fucked that up royally."
Coulson tried to keep his irritation in check. After handling Washington politicians for a year and a half, Maxwell shouldn't even be half a challenge. He settled into the chair, and shot the Lieutenant a look of complete confidence.
"I'm here on behalf an independent agency to look into the events of last night." Phil took his hands and folded them placidly into a tent on his chest. "I've spoken with Captain Stilling, and he's assured me your full cooperation. And if you're done, I think it's about time I spoke with your Corporal."
To Coulson's immediate delight, Maxwell's jaw half-dropped, and he stood gaping at the agent for a long moment. It really was too easy sometimes to intimidate others – especially when it came to young, insecure, first-time-in-command West Point grads. This particular one clearly needed some direction he hadn't been getting.
"Fine. Let's go." Maxwell stormed to his feet and then to the door. Coulson shook his head slightly as the Lieutenant had his back turned. Definitely too easy. When the Lieutenant stopped at the door and gave him a slight glare, Coulson took his time getting out of the chair, and made a point of straightening his jacket before he followed the man out the door.
About 30 seconds later, Maxwell stopped outside a standard Army-issue tent. Before he entered, though, Maxwell paused, and shot Coulson a look filled with exhaustion and confusion. Given it was about two in the morning, Coulson wanted to cut him a little slack. But when the guy opened his mouth, Coulson went the opposite direction.
"I haven't got clue one how to deal with him." That much had been obvious to Coulson before he'd even stepped foot in country, but Maxwell went on. "West Point doesn't teach you this shit."
Coulson fought to keep his voice even. Riley was right: how the hell West Point had graduated this idiot and sent him into a war zone was beyond him. The man clearly didn't lead; he just followed the book and expected people to drop in behind him.
"That's why West Point is supposed to teach you to think for yourselves." Not content to see Maxwell's jaw drop, he added, "At least, I assume you have a functioning brain."
Coulson then grabbed the tent flap and ducked inside before Maxwell could even think about framing an answer. It took his eyes a few seconds to adjust from the dark to the bright light in the tent, but when they did, what he saw shocked the hell out of him.
He'd expected to see Barton seated on a chair or a cot, under an armed guard. Instead, he found the kid with one arm handcuffed to the tent's center pole. The way he was cuffed didn't give him much room to shift, but somehow, the soldier had maneuvered himself so he was straddling the chair, leaning comfortably into the back of the seat. Even in the dim light, Coulson could see bruises and cuts on the Barton's face – eerily offset by the smirk he wore. The expected armed guard stood a few feet away, his arms crossed and gun holstered.
Barton gave a finger wave as Maxwell ducked in behind the agent.
"Hey, L.T. Thanks for allowing me a visitor." Coulson watched as the youngster – his face belying his 21 years – shifted his glance from the Lieutenant to Phil, then sized him up from top to bottom and then back again. Barton tipped his head to the side and glared at Coulson, but the agent didn't flinch.
If Barton wanted to try and intimidate him – or size him up, or whatever was going through his head – Coulson could deal with it. He squared his shoulders, locked eyes with Barton, and let the kid see the small grin that Coulson summoned every time he needed control of a situation.
By way of greeting, all he said was, "Corporal Barton."
Barton had clearly expected a different reaction. His head snapped back a little, and Coulson heard an audible, "Huh." Then Barton looked beyond him.
"So, SIR," and Coulson picked up immediately on the level of sarcasm being leveled on the young Lieutenant, "decided to get CID involved? Didn't know they cared that much about bad conduct discharges."
Maxwell started to say something, but Coulson cut him off. He wanted to handle this conversation.
"I'm not CID."
So help him, the kid actually rolled his eyes.
"Oh. My. GOD. " With his one free hand, the teenager managed a credible facepalm. "Seriously, that's what you're going with? 'I'm not CID'? Is that your FINAL answer?" The voice slid into a mock British accent in a split second. "You ARE the weakest link. Goodbye!"
For a long moment, Coulson found himself completely, totally at a loss. Maxwell barked at the Corporal to "show some goddamned respect," but Barton only leaned into the chair and smirked.
Coulson watched the whole exchange play out, and then the only thing he could think of flew out of his mouth before he could stop it.
"Well, I'm not."
And the bitch of the matter was, it was the absolute truth, no matter what the damned kid believed.
Author's note: No actual recipe for Riley's cookies exists yet. Yes, I've been asked.