Author's notes: First of all, a huge shout-out to all of the reviewers and followers and favorites. The response for this story continues to grow, and it's both gratifying and humbling. I do want to warn people that once chapter six is posted, I may be a little sporadic in posting, as the story isn't finished. But I'm working hard, six is almost done, seven, eight and nine are started and the whole thing is plotted, sooooo…
And as a writer, I'm working with the fact Barton is left-handed, since everything I've seen indicates such. Oh, and to all the people who like Riley – he will be appearing more in this story. And, can anyone tell me the song I'm using for this story? Hint: check the chapter titles. :)
It took Coulson all of three questions – and the corresponding off-the-cuff, smartass non-answers from Barton – to realize he would get absolutely nothing accomplished with Maxwell in the tent.
Behind him, Maxwell snarled.
"Barton, so help me God, unless you start cooperating…" The Lieutenant let the threat trail off, which Coulson suspected meant Maxwell had nothing effective to threaten the sniper with as opposed to any desire to play mind games with the other man.
Barton reached the same conclusion about the same time, and smirked.
"What, L.T.?" Barton's tone was at once sarcastic and playful. "Send me to bed without dinner? Take away my toys? Put me in a corner for a timeout? Because something tells me – and feel free to correct me if I'm wrong, but I don't think I am – you aren't really in charge anymore. Or else you'd be asking the questions and not," Barton flicked a thumb at Coulson, "HIM."
Coulson stared back impassively, and bit back a sigh. Just how, exactly, had he lost control of this situation? The simple answer was: he hadn't. Maxwell had allowed Barton to manipulate the situation until it fell to his advantage.
That meant Maxwell needed to leave, now. Coulson crossed his arms, and glared at Maxwell, who, after a long second, finally took his eyes off Barton and looked up at him.
"Lieutenant, I'd like to speak to the Corporal alone, please." Maxwell just looked at him, his jaw slack with a 'Are you shitting me?' look. By way of answer, Coulson simply leaned his head toward the tent flap.
"Now, if you don't mind. If I recall, I was promised your full cooperation." Coulson normally would've tried a more tactful route, but the Lieutenant had reached past the limits of the agent's patience before they'd even stepped into the tent.
No wonder Barton's got a folder full of reprimands. The Corporal had the ability to wind up his superior like a cheap toy – and knew it. Now Coulson needed to find out if there was anything left worth salvaging under that heavy layer of sarcasm, something that could help him find his agents and get the hell out of here.
Maxwell opened his mouth to protest, then seemed to think better of it. He stalked out the door, muttering at Coulson that he'd be in his office if the agent needed anything else. He gestured for the guard to follow him, and after a moment's hesitation – and glance of concern toward Barton – followed his commanding officer out.
For a long moment, silence reigned. Then Barton chuckled.
"Nice trick, sir. Can we keep you around?"
Coulson ignored the jibe. Instead, he stepped closer, inside what he hoped was Barton's personal space. He wanted the kid on edge – and off balance. Barton's smirk gradually faded as Coulson edged closer, and disappeared completely when Coulson walked a slow circle around him.
Throughout that walk, Barton's eyes never left him. Coulson made sure the sniper saw his face as he pulled over a crate and sat down. Coulson leaned over, bracing his elbows on his knees – and then resting his chin on his hands. He never once broke eye contact, and he could see the confusion boiling in the kid's eyes.
So when Phil finally spoke, he made sure every word counted.
"You know, I can't quite figure you out, Corporal." Coulson's voice was pitched low, calm and emotionless. He may not be CID, but he had years of practice in getting beyond the masks most people wore. All it took was the right motivation – and right now, Coulson was damned well motivated. He had to be.
So show me what you've got, Barton. Show me you can fire off more than your mouth.
"You're talented." Coulson waited until he saw the small spark of pride in the youngster's eyes, then pushed forward. "Your evaluations, up until the last month anyhow, make you sound like the next coming of Christ. You're good at what you do – at least, you were until a few weeks ago."
A flash of anger sparked in Barton's eyes as they narrowed, and Coulson resisted the urge to smile. He wanted the anger. It might be the only way he got past this current façade – the bullshit Barton had clearly adopted to deal with the chaos around him.
So, he leaned in a little closer, and tilted his head slightly to the side.
"Or maybe you aren't. Good at your job, that is." Barton recoiled just a fraction of an inch, closed his eyes – and proceeded to stun the hell out of Coulson by not responding. Instead, the kid just drew several breaths in and out, all ragged with emotion and clearly executed as a measure of self-control.
Dammit, he didn't have time for this. He had two agents whose lives fucking depended on whatever this kid could tell him, and he needed answers. Now.
Coulson tapped his fingers lightly on his knee and waited until Barton opened his eyes again. Then the agent took a deep breath, and went in hard for the kill, saying a silent prayer that this wouldn't blow up in his face.
"How else do you explain a sniper who doesn't fire a single shot in the middle of a search and rescue operation?"
Coulson had been prepared for more anger. He'd been prepared to see Barton lose control, to react instead of act, to be rash and out of control. Given the opportunity, Coulson could turn that back at the sniper and use it to his advantage.
What floored him instead was the look of intense look of shame that flitted across the sniper's face, only to disappear behind a snarl as the kid pulled angrily at his restraints. The words that followed were so harsh – so unexpectedly bitter – that it was Coulson who pulled away.
"You haven't got CLUE. FUCKING. ONE. How to explain me."
"Or maybe you aren't. Good at your job, that is."
Clint Barton couldn't help it when he flinched away. This guy – with his civilian cargo pants, a flak jacket over a t-shirt, his semi-receding hairline and his small, almost imperceptible grin – seemed determined to push every button he had, like he wanted Clint to push back. Like all he wanted was to see how Clint reacted, and dammit, Clint didn't operate that way. He needed to step back, see things from a distance – and then figure out how to react.
Instead, he was handcuffed to a damned tent pole, being questioned by God only knew who, with absolutely no one and nothing left to trust. He closed his eyes, and tried to just breathe, tried to focus on that and force out everything else that had turned his life into a living hell.
It didn't work.
"Barton, report." Barton's earpiece crackled to life with the sound of Maxwell's voice. The bastard had been monitoring all their radio traffic for the past hour, micromanaging from the rear guard. "Confirm all terrorists, no captives."
Barton shook his head. They'd tracked the cell all the way to the foothills of the mountain range, but when they shifted from vehicles to foot power through a narrow gap, reports came back of 32 terrorists and no obvious prisoners. Barton had even done his own head count, and confirmed it.
Intelligence had sworn the captives were with this group, going so far as to cite a GPS tracking beacon and giving Maxwell its frequency. Something in the equation just didn't add up. Had the terrorists killed the captives and left their bodies somewhere in the city? Had the terrorists divided their manpower and gone in separate directions, taking the GPS the Rangers were supposedly tracking in one direction and the two hostages in another? Was the damned GPS still even tracking?
What the hell didn't add up?
Clint hauled in a shuddery breath, and then opened his eyes. The other man just sat there, regarding him with a look of curiosity.
"How else do you explain a sniper who doesn't fire a single shot in the middle of a search and rescue operation?"
Clint felt his stomach drop through his feet, and his heart take off. Fuck. He knew his emotions were now clear to see – clear to this man who'd been prodding him for that very purpose – and he just didn't care anymore. He'd spent the last several hours trying to reconcile what he'd seen with his orders, and he'd spent the last month trying to watch his own back because every other person seemingly wanted to put a knife in it.
Nothing added up anymore, least of all last night or this asshole sitting in front of him. He went to jab a single-finger gesture, not trusting his voice– and belatedly remembered the handcuffs as his right wrist jammed painfully into the restraints.
To hell with it.
"You haven't got CLUE. FUCKING. ONE. How to explain me." Barton jerked hard against the cuff as he spat out each word, almost welcoming the pain. The physical pain he could deal with. The frustration, the confusion – hell, the fear that had become almost second nature to him over the last month – boiled over as he surged to his feet.
"To hell with you, Mr. …" And suddenly it dawned on Clint he didn't even know the man's name. He hissed a breath out through his teeth. "Whoever the fuck you are. And to hell with – "
In the space of a second, the man surged up from the crate he had parked himself on, and took hold of Clint's free hand. A millisecond later, his left shoulder screamed in protest as the man jammed Clint's arm up and behind him, turning Barton and planting his face against the tent pole.
"Listen to me, Corporal. Out in that desert out there are two men I am charged with protecting. It's a job I take seriously, and in order to do that job right now, I need to know what you saw last night." Amazingly, the man's volume and tone had remained infuriating calm, even as he ratcheted Clint's arm further. "I need the information you have, and frankly, I'm tired of listening to you wind up your Lieutenant like a cheap toy mouse and then attempt to do the same with me. Do you understand?"
The man's grip kept him pressed tight up against the pole, his cheek close enough to catch slivers from the wood as he nodded. The answer seemed to placate his captor, though, as the grip on his arm loosened. Clint pulled his arm free and turned to throw a punch – and the next thing he knew, he was pinned back up against the pole, Mr. 'I'm not CID''s arm tight under his chin, his still-neutral expression an inch from Clint's.
"I'd advise against trying that again, unless you want me to get Maxwell back in here." Something flashed in the man's eyes, and Clint felt the urge to shy away. Instead, the grip under his throat tightened enough that his vision started going grey as the man spoke again.
"I hear waterboarding isn't nearly as much fun as Ranger training makes it out to be."
If this guy thought Ranger training made it fun, he had another thing coming. But the point was made, and Clint just nodded as he tried to pull in a breath and calm the hell down. It didn't come easily, not with the man's arm jacked up against his windpipe, putting oxygen at a premium.
Calm. Just calm the fuck down.
Apparently, his acquiescence was enough for now. The arm under his throat dropped, and then, amazingly, Mr. Secret Agent guy was guiding him back to his chair, making sure he didn't fall flat on his face.
When it was clear Clint wasn't about to collapse – the consideration all but blowing Clint away, especially given he'd been about 10 seconds from blacking out – the man sat back down on the crate, looked at him for a long moment – and nodded. The corners of the guy's mouth quirked upward, and Clint could only gape as the man actually extended a hand – his right so Clint could shake it without pulling at the cuffs again – in greeting.
"Agent Phil Coulson. Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division."
Clint raised an eyebrow, then smirked. There was definitely a working, processing brain under this guy's slick exterior, something professional that had him sitting up a little straighter and looking at him with a little different view. When he caught a good look into Coulson's eyes, that was when it struck him. There was a challenge there, a glint of humor and goodwill and perhaps some good-old fashioned decency to boot. Maybe – he wasn't sure, but just maybe – this Coulson deserved a little bit better than the smartass shit he'd been dishing out so far.
Especially if those two civilians were still caught out in the dark. That was the reason they'd been out there – going after two guys who would otherwise be tortured or killed. If they were still alive … making up his mind, Clint leveled his gaze with the agent, then nodded and took the offered hand.
"Quite a mouthful you've got there, sir. How do you fit it on a business card?
Across from him, Coulson leaned back in the chair, and sighed.
"We're working on it. Now, if you wouldn't mind cutting the bullshit and explaining what happened last night?"
An hour and a half later, Phil Coulson had answers.
Not just answers, but detailed responses to a succinct set of questions – all given with a minimum of snark from Barton. He'd pulled out a small notebook and pen from his cargo pants and started to sketch out notes. Barton had muttered something darkly under his breath when that happened – Coulson thought it sounded suspiciously like, "Not CID, my ass…" – but had continued to answer the questions he'd been posed.
What was more – Barton actually took the time to make sure what Coulson had written down actually made sense. A few times, Barton had actually asked for the notebook and pen, crossed out what Coulson had written – then given clarifying remarks in the margin. He'd even asked Coulson for a map and shown him just how far the Ranger unit had followed the terrorists, where they'd engaged the enemy, and where the Rangers suspected was the group's base of operations.
He'd asked questions, and Barton had answered. If he hadn't known better – with several psych reviews to the contrary in the sniper's file, the usual for a soldier taking trips through different Army specialties – he would've started to suspect some sort of split personality. He suspected that the cooperation came from a far simpler source. Given what was on the line – and Coulson had no doubt the kid had read him correctly when he'd made it clear whose job it was to protect the missing agents – Barton legitimately wanted to help.
Which was what made the whole situation so damned bizarre – and the next question he had to ask so hard. He'd gotten the kid to tell him the where, when and who, but hadn't asked about the "why" of the situation – and frankly, he didn't really know how to phrase the question. He'd pushed Barton earlier on the issue, wanting him pissed off and angry so they could get past the sarcasm. It had worked – to a degree. But he'd hit a sensitive spot, one that told him there was more to this than the sniper just disobeying orders to piss off his superior.
It wasn't just about his agents now. He had enough information to go after them. The real question was, with no assets in country, who the hell was going to help him.
Barton looked at him for a long moment, then rolled his eyes.
"If you don't mind, sir," and damned if the kid didn't make that last word sound like a mockery of every form of authority on the planet, "just ask already. It's got to be at least 3 a.m., and no offense, but I haven't slept in close to 24 hours."
Coulson raised an eyebrow slowly, not at all surprised that Barton had grown impatient enough to finally push the issue. Coulson glanced at his watch. 3:32 a.m. That didn't surprise him either. The coffee had long since worn thin. Barton was right – he had to get to the point.
"You're a sniper, Barton. You're trained to be in the best position to make a difference, and from what you told me, I'm not seeing a problem there." Coulson waited for Barton to nod in confirmation. For a long moment, he watched emotions flit across the kid's face – again, that flash of shame – before the kid finally nodded, schooling his face back into a dispassionate mask.
What the hell? Coulson sighed, then finally just asked what he'd wanted to know since Fury had called him 10 hours ago.
"You were cleared to fire. So why the hell were you the only one NOT firing a weapon?
Barton's reply was immediate, and any pretense of calm was again gone.
"Because I don't miss!" Barton surged to his feet, his eyes stormy with emotion, already opening his mouth to continue making his case. But as he brought his hands up to gesture – Phil thought he saw him start to close them together to measure a distance – his right hand jerked hard against the handcuff binding the sniper to the tent pole.
"Goddamnit!" Barton's right arm dropped back down as his face flushed with pain. Then he reared back and clenched his left fist, preparing to take aim at the pole.
By then, Coulson had found his feet as well. In a second, he was at Barton's side, grabbing the kid's hand before he could do any permanent damage.
"Stop." Barton looked about ready to mutiny and punch him instead of the pole, but after a long moment, he dropped his head, nodding once without looking at Coulson as his shoulders sagged. Barton leaned against the pole with his free hand, heaving air in and out of his lungs as he clearly tried to regain control of his emotions.
Watching Barton working so damned hard to rein in the exhaustion and frustration, it didn't take Coulson long to reach an easy decision. A little trust could go a long way right now, and something in the back of his head hollered that the kid needed a break – from someone, maybe anyone. He reached into his cargo pants and pulled out a set of lock picks he always kept handy. A few seconds later, the cuff binding Barton's right wrist popped free.
His hand falling out of the cuff, Barton's head snapped up in surprise, even as Coulson took to the cuff around the pole and popped that one just as quickly. Pocketing the cuffs, he looked up to find the kid staring at him, pained disbelief in his eyes.
"I didn't ask you to do that." Barton rubbed at his now-bruised wrist, wincing. "Why?"
"I don't expect you to take off, and I'm tired of watching you jam your wrist around." Coulson kept his eyes level and his face blank as he reached into his hip pocket, and pulled the cuffs back out, even as he sat back down on the crate. "I can put them back on if you'd like."
Barton glowered at him and rolled his eyes. After a long moment, though, Barton dropped back down in the chair with a muttered, "I'd like to see you try." Still rubbing his wrist, he looked back over at Coulson, who was stunned by what he now saw in the kid's face.
Gratitude.
"Thank you." Barton sighed loudly, and leaned back in the chair. "And like I said, I don't miss."
Coulson blinked at the non-sequitur, then frowned slightly at the explanation as it sunk in.
"Everyone misses at some point."
"I don't." Barton was insistent. "I'm pretty sure you've seen my service file, so you know I can back that statement up. I've missed exactly two shots in the last six months. One was the first week I was here, when a goddamned bird managed to fly into the line of fire. I put the guy down with the next shot. And one at long distance in a fucking sandstorm we never should've been out in two weeks ago. I don't miss, and definitely not at the distance we were at last night. So I wasn't about to fire and hit a civilian."
Coulson felt his head snap up at attention at that last sentence.
"What do you mean? Maxwell said –" As soon as those words were out of his mouth, Coulson knew he'd erred. And he knew Barton knew, because the sniper's face settled into a cross between a snarl and an unamused smirk.
"And you consider him a reliable source of information why?" The smirk faded, and Coulson could see the derision on Barton's face. "That man couldn't shoot his shit into the latrine sitting down, and –"
Phil held up a hand.
"I'll concede the point, so move on."
The gesture stopped Barton's rant in his tracks, and he blinked. The sniper just stared at him for a moment, trying to figure out the ruse in Coulson's words. Phil finally rolled his eyes.
"I'm not blind." He tapped the map again. "Move. ON."
"Right." Barton shook his head, then pointed at the map. "Your scale, sir, is in five-mile increments, so understand that when those two marks I made are right on top of each other, that means we were pretty much right on top of them. At least within a half mile, maybe closer. Close enough to see things pretty clear, almost close enough to hear them talk."
Barton chewed on his lower lip for a moment, then continued.
"Maxwell cleared us in, cleared me to fire. Right after he confirmed that there were no civilians. Civilians we were told were THERE, sir, but that we couldn't see, because everyone was dressed the same." Barton shook his head. "I wanted an extra minute to think, to figure it out, but he tried to rush me. Told me to listen to his goddamned order and take the damned shot. I didn't like it, so I held off."
Coulson blinked.
"And he put you in hack for that?"
Barton shook his head.
"No, though the mood he was in, that probably would've been enough. Especially since my spotter had told him we were all clear." The sour look that crossed Barton's face made it clear what he thought of that. "Right about the time he started screaming in my ear, I saw motion on the ground. Happened fast, but it looked like someone stumbled. Next thing I knew, there was a flurry of activity, and then someone shouted."
"Shouted what?"
That look of shame flitted across Barton's face again.
"It kind of got lost in the shuffle down there. But I know I heard the word 'Americans,' and it wasn't an accent from around here." Barton's face grew stony. "That was enough for me. I backed off the shot, and shouted across the mic that there were civies in the middle of that mess. Some guys got a couple of shots off, but most everyone pulled up. I don't think we hit anyone."
Americans. Coulson felt his stomach relax for the first time in hours. Standard hostage procedure in any situation where you felt a rescue was imminent – identify yourself and try to hit the deck. Hell, Coulson had drilled that protocol into Barrett and Callahan himself before they'd left on this assignment. If Barton was right…Coulson shook his head, partly in disbelief, but mostly in relief.
They could still be alive.
"You had confirmed friendlies in the area, with no way of distinguishing them from the enemy."
"Well, no, not if you're listening to my spotter." Barton looked away, disgusted. "When we got back here, Nelson told Maxwell he hadn't heard a damned thing."
Coulson could hear the bitterness in the kid's voice now, and he plowed forward, knowing instinctively that Barton wasn't bullshitting him.
"I'm not asking them, Barton." He made sure the sniper had looked up before he continued, and then made damned sure the kid could see the trust he had in him. "I'm asking you."
Barton hesitated. He looked anguished for a moment, and Phil realized with startling clarity that, whatever the hell else had happened out here in the last month, the kid had been force-fed self-doubt – long enough to be questioning everything that had happened. The kid didn't question his skills, but someone had pushed long enough and hard enough to make him question his judgment.
No matter how you tried to couch it, that was just wrong. Maxwell would be finding a new job before Coulson had even left the country – the agent would make sure of that. Phil didn't say anything, though, just waited for Barton to reach his own conclusion. When he spoke, though, it confirmed his own thought process.
The damned kid was shaken.
"I heard 'Americans.' It sounded like someone yelling for help." Barton's voice had a note of a plea in it. "And then all of a sudden, everyone moved. Started yelling. I could see everything, but I couldn't figure out who'd shouted." Barton shook his head, his face a cross between anger and nausea. "Sir, I don't MISS. What if … if I'd taken the damned shot, I could've hit THEM. I couldn't take that chance."
Coulson sat back, stunned. He wasn't sure who Barton was trying to convince – himself or the agent. Either way, he didn't need to try. He'd done the right thing.
"Based on your information, and then what the spotter told him, Maxwell still cleared you to shoot." It wasn't a question, and Barton didn't take it as one.
"He listened to Nelson. Not me."
Coulson sighed. They were back to Maxwell again, and Phil had already reached his conclusion about the man. But he still had to ask, had to confirm what he already suspected.
"Other than your attitude, Barton," and damned if the kid didn't roll his eyes at that, "does Maxwell have any good reason to hate you like he obviously does?"
Barton looked down and away, but before he did, he caught that look of shame cross Barton's face again. It made the anger curdle in Phil's stomach.
"Well, I'm not exactly what you'd call part of the in crowd around here, sir – or hadn't you figured that out yet?" Barton tried to hide the question behind his sarcasm, but this time, Phil wasn't ready to let him do it.
"He's a Lieutenant in the U.S. Army, Barton. He's supposed to know how to lead everyone – not just the people he likes." Coulson shook his head, putting the pieces together in his head. Barton had been accepted – even liked – by his former spotter and Lieutenant. Both of them got killed, and into the whole stewpot of emotions had stepped Maxwell.
The man didn't deserve to be commanding a forward unit. Hell, he probably didn't deserve to be running a supply depot. Coulson wondered, half-seriously, if he could effectively disguise a bullet to Maxwell's brain as enemy fire.
"Sir?" Barton's voice drew him out of his thoughts, and Coulson shook his head, reaching a decision as he did and pushing himself to his feet.
"It's Coulson, Barton. Quit calling me sir." In his head, Coulson could almost hear Fury snickering at the line. "And let's go. We're getting out of here."
"We?" Barton's jaw dropped slightly.
"Yes, 'we.'" Coulson quirked a small grin. "Unless you'd like to sit here and test out my waterboarding theory."
To his credit, Barton found his feet almost immediately, a sincere smile crossing the young man's features for the first time.
"I don't think so." But rather than moving toward the tent flap, Barton pulled up suddenly, clearly listening to something. Phil followed his lead, and in the resulting silence, heard a muttered curse.
Maxwell. Coulson wondered irately how long the man had been listening. He raised an eyebrow at Barton, who simply shrugged.
"Whole time, probably." Barton pitched his voice low. "I could hear his feet kicking sand at the tent. It's like a nervous tic with the guy."
Coulson fought the urge to chuckle, unreasonably impressed by Barton's skill at reading the Lieutenant. Glancing at his watch, Phil blamed that giddiness on the hour – and at the prospect of getting his agents back.
He looked over at Barton again, appraising him slowly. This time, the kid stood a little taller, a little more confidence evident in his posture. When Coulson continued watching him, though, the kid finally snapped.
"What?"
Coulson gestured at the tent.
"You heard the sand hitting the tent." Coulson didn't even bother keeping his voice down. The more Maxwell heard of this, the better. A little humility might go a long way with the man, though Phil sincerely doubted it.
Barton just shrugged.
"So?"
Coulson gestured at the wind that had picked up outside. Nothing heavy yet, just an evening breeze to cool the desert ground. It was enough, though, to have kicked up any amount of the small particles and hurl them against the canvas.
"Could've been the wind." In fact, that was what Coulson's mind had identified it – and dismissed it – as within moments of first hearing it.
Barton snorted softly.
"Not that side of the tent, sir. Wind doesn't swirl much here. It's been blowing through the tent."
Coulson stared at Barton for a long moment after that, weighing just how to say what had crossed his mind at the explanation. Barton just stood there and waited, whatever sniper skills he'd developed sitting in his nests clearly at war with the emotions on his face.
Finally, Phil decided to just point out the obvious.
"You heard that – and yet, you're doubting you heard one of my men calling – SHOUTING – for help." He watched as the implication of the statement worked its way through Barton's head, seeing just a little more confusion melt away – a little more self-confidence taking its place.
Coulson let it sink in, then tapped the kid on the shoulder.
"Let's go. We've got work to do."