Author's Note: The feedback from everyone has been so unbelievably gratifying, I can't even begin to tell you. Thank you to everyone who has reviewed, everyone who has favorite'ed the story and to everyone following this. It means so much to know people are enjoying the story! I love reviews, so feel free to keep sending them. :)
And good news! Chapter six is finished, and I'll be onto seven once I am off deadline at work on Wednesday. We're getting there!
Clint leaned back in the passenger seat of the Humvee Agent Coulson had commandeered from the motor pool, grateful to have his wrists free from the cuffs yet again. It had been close to 5 a.m. by the time they'd gotten out of the camp, only to have Coulson tell them they still needed to drive back into the city to what he termed a "secondary safe house."
Right now, Clint didn't care if it was accommodations in West Hell. He just wanted to shut his eyes and somehow get to sleep before the sun actually slipped back over the horizon. Coulson had promised him at least a short nap once they'd gotten where they were going.
After the last 24 hours, he was beyond overjoyed at the chance to simply be horizontal for a little while. It was more than just exhaustion. He felt like the entire fabric of his universe had begun to unravel – in spite of the vibes of confidence coming from Coulson.
As they'd walked out of the tent, Maxwell had recovered enough to come running around from the side of the tent.
"Just where the hell do you think you're going with my soldier?" Maxwell's face looked downright comical. The man had flushed bright red, and looked angrier than Clint had ever seen him. Coulson's hand tightened around Clint's bicep, and he turned to see the warning glare from the man.
Like that would stop him.
"Sir!" Clint pulled himself up to a rough sketch of attention, giving Maxwell his biggest, goofiest grin, making a mockery of the salute that followed. "Wonderful news, huh? I'm no longer your problem. Has to feel good, huh?"
Maxwell's jaw dropped, and then, with no warning, the man swung at Clint's jaw, taking the punch Clint knew the man had probably wanted to throw within an hour of meeting him. Just as he moved to duck, though, Coulson stepped between them and swung his arm upward in a block. The man didn't even wince when Maxwell's punch – all the frustration of four weeks of Barton's bullshit toward the man behind it, no doubt – ricocheted off his arm.
"Calm down, Lieutenant." Clint managed to mostly swallow back the laugh that threatened to escape from his throat. What he didn't, Coulson glared into silence. The man had super-secret agent coolness in everything he did. He'd have to remember to point that out later, once he and Clint were outside of Maxwell's firing range – verbally and otherwise.
Coulson made sure Maxwell didn't have any more punches in him, then reached into his pocket. He pulled out a business card, looked it over quickly, and then handed it to the Lieutenant.
"That says I have the authority to do what I want with Corporal Barton. If you have any questions, call that number. You should have an answer within a few hours, at most." The agent then leveled a glare at the Lieutenant that almost made Barton wince.
"And he's not your soldier anymore. He's been released to my custody." He nodded over at the motor pool. "We'll be needing a driver to take us back to Kandahar proper. Any complaints, please take it up with whoever you speak to at that number."
With that, Coulson turned neatly on the heel of his shoe, secured his grip around Barton's arm and stalked off.
Barton resisted the urge to look back over his shoulder at Maxwell, then snickered. As he opened his mouth to say something about Coulson's antics, the man stopped short. With no warning, he pulled Clint's arms up behind him, and then retrieved the cuffs from his pocket.
When they snapped closed around his wrists, Barton noted with annoyance that they were tighter than before – almost cutting off the circulation to his hands. He glared at the smaller man.
"That really necessary?"
Coulson rolled his eyes, then propelled Clint forward.
"Show me where you bunk. And consider yourself lucky if I let you pack your own bag after that stunt."
Contrary to the irritation in the agent's voice, he had popped the cuffs as soon as they'd entered the bunk area. Not wanting to push his luck, Barton had thrown everything he could technically take with him – which amounted to a handful of personal belongings and two changes of civilian clothes, plus the bow and quiver he hadn't used since the explosion a month ago – and hightailed it out of there.
Coulson had eyed the bow with curiosity, but hadn't said a word. He'd just started walking toward the motor pool, expecting Clint to follow. Coulson had recognized someone there immediately and summoned him over to drive them, then had climbed in the back seat and closed his eyes. He'd been silent ever since.
So had Clint, who'd never wanted anything more than a life in the Army since about the age of 10. He'd worked his ass off in high school in spite of what others called "an unfortunate home situation" – what he simply called life as a runaway with the added side bonus of performing in a circus. But he'd made it through, with flying colors, and hadn't looked back. Basic training, Ranger training … it was nothing compared to the shit he'd dealt with as a teen. He'd gotten his chance – and he'd excelled at every challenge he'd been set.
And then McDermid and Collins both died and Maxwell had turned life as he knew it into a living, breathing hell. He'd just about lost all hope before Coulson had marched into the MP tent this morning.
And just what the hell was up with that man, anyhow?
The Humvee bounced to a rough stop in a deserted street on the outskirts of the city, jarring Clint out of his reflections. Clint looked up to find them in front of a small, one-story building – one with no windows and just a single, dead-bolted metal door on the front.
"This where you wanted to be, sir?" The driver – Private Riley, Clint had noted, thankful Coulson had managed to find someone that didn't want to kick his ass – sounded doubtful.
"Yes. Barton, let's go." Pulling his pack from the back seat, Coulson had moved several steps toward the building before Clint's brain caught up to the fact that they were, in fact, where they belonged. He quickly snagged his bag and his bow and quiver from the floor of the vehicle, and opened the door.
Riley caught his arm as he exited.
"Barton – is he," and Riley angled a thumb toward Coulson, who'd already reached the door, "good people?" Riley looked at him like he could actually stop this from happening if Barton answered 'no.' It was damned hard not to like Riley – even if his heart got ahead of his brain half the time. He'd earned the 18-year-old's loyalty by saving his ass three months ago, and Riley seemed determined to return the favor.
Barton cracked a smile, feeling his body relax a little as he realized the answer.
"Yeah, Riley. I think he's OK." Barton shouldered his duffle, then gave Riley the most authoritative look he could manage. "You watch your ass back there, OK? I'm hoping it'll get better now."
"Yes, sir." Riley's face broke out in an easy smile, something that happened more often than not. "You be careful, too."
"Will do." Barton cleared the door and slammed it shut, then hauled his ass over to the door, where Coulson had been watching him with an impatient eye. Shaking his head, the man held up the padlock.
"Let's head in."
Clint paused, making sure the man saw his skepticism as he looked the building up and down.
"Doesn't look like much." In response, the agent reached inside and flipped a switch. As overhead fluorescent lights kicked slowly to life, Barton got his first real glimpse at what the agent had termed the "secondary safe house." He knew his jaw had dropped open, but right then, he really didn't care.
Beside him, Coulson let out a brief, low chuckle.
"That's the point, actually."
If there was one thing SHIELD's secondary safe house in Kandahar was designed to do, it would be to underwhelm a person.
From the outside, it looked nothing more than a deserted storehouse, padlocked against intruders with no roof access, no windows and no readily-apparent second entrance. That there actually was one – located in the floor of the building, leading to an underground tunnel that spilled out a half-mile away in a weather-beaten garage – seemed to shock the hell out of the few agents that ever found out about its existence.
As for the security, well … dead men told no tales, especially in the middle of a war zone where there seemed to be a body a day with no explanation. Video surveillance kept the need for body disposal at a minimum, though, and Phil had been glad to see no one had appeared to trigger any of the hidden measures as he approached the one-story building.
One less thing to take care of once they got inside. Deciding he'd given Barton enough time to get over the initial shock, Phil shouldered his pack with a sigh and walked inside, gesturing for Barton to follow. As soon as they were both inside, Coulson closed the door and threw the deadbolt. Once it slammed home, he keyed in a passcode on the pad next to the door and verified the code with a thumb scan.
Barton watched the whole rigmarole, his jaw still hanging slightly. He then gestured first at the door, and then widened the sweep of his hand to apply to the whole room.
"Nice resources." Coulson let a small smile cross his face at the compliment. He was damned proud of these secondary sites. Each of their major intelligence areas had a cache like this – a 10-meter-by-six-meter storehouse, divided into sections, with backup computers and weapons, supplies and a living area. Barton hadn't taken his eyes off the weapons' quarter yet, and Phil could understand why. There were enough firearms and ammunition in that one corner to supply a small army – or at least, a handful of agents fighting a small army.
He'd have to let Barton loose over there later. But for now, there were more pressing issues.
"You can only see half of it. Please don't try opening that door again without my help." Coulson sighed, then headed toward the back right corner – the place the two would be calling home for now. It held a pair of bunk beds, a small kitchen area, a work table and, best of all, a bathroom and shower with running water. Barton followed without saying a word, and the agent couldn't help but feel a little relief at the trust the kid was showing – or, perhaps, the willingness to trust, at least for the moment. After the last month Barton had endured in his unit, anything would probably seem like an improvement.
When they reached the back wall, Barton took in the crates – which served as a wall between the bunk bed and the table and chairs – then turned back toward Coulson. Rather than say a word, he just raised an eyebrow, waiting for direction.
The bruises on Barton's face, which he'd first noticed in the tent, stood out starkly in the fluorescent lighting, and he could see the exhaustion lines on the kid's face. Not for the first time, he realized he needed to get more answers from Barton – ones that addressed more than just the incident the previous night, ones that he hoped would shed light on what had happened since Maxwell had taken over. He'd taken Barton out of the unit because he needed the help in getting his agent back, but he had hopes for more – MUCH more.
Nothing that couldn't wait until Barton had a few hours of sleep, though. Coulson knew, more than anything, that they both needed some shuteye, some food and fluids and a good plan before they acted on any of Barton's intelligence.
Phil gestured toward the bunks, even as he turned toward the table and dropped the backpack onto it.
"Grab a shower, then get some sleep. We'll talk once you get some rest behind you." With his back to the kid, he heard – rather than felt – the hesitation.
"Uh, Coulson…" Phil turned at the sound of his name, seeing the confusion on the kid's face. "I thought you had two agents to rescue."
Coulson nodded.
"I do. But neither of us is any good to them dead on our feet, storming the fort in broad daylight." Barton still looked doubtful, but he finally nodded at the reasoning. Coulson looked down at his watch, registering the time. "It's about 5:30, sun's coming up. How much sleep you normally get on base?"
"If we're lucky, six hours. But I can run on two."
Coulson thought for a moment, weighing the options. He'd need to sketch out a plan on approaching the base, plus get a shower and some sleep of his own, and brief the Director. With sunset falling about quarter after six, he could spare Barton more than two hours.
"Split the difference. I'll wake you up in four hours." Coulson waved a hand in the direction of the bathroom. "Take a shower first, though. There should be enough water in the tanks for a real one."
Barton nodded, and disappeared around the corner. A second later, he heard Barton's gear drop onto the bunk, the sound of the soldier digging through his duffle, and footsteps moving toward the bathroom. The door closed, and a few moments later, Coulson heard the sound of running water.
He smiled, angling over to the shelving unit, where he retrieved two bottles of water. He walked over and tossed one on the lower bunk, then went back to the table and dropped into the chair. Pulling the notebook and map out of his pants pocket, he let out a long, ragged sigh, and reached into the backpack and pulled out a laptop. He got it booting, and flipped open the notebook, taking in not just his notes, but the added notations Barton had made in the margins. The pieces of information started to coalesce into the start of an operational plan, and Phil nodded to himself.
He could do this. He had to do this.
There just wasn't any other way.
Less than a week into boot camp, Clint had learned one inescapable truth of being in the Army – if you didn't sleep when you could, perverse little men called "drill sergeants" would make sure you lived to regret it. He'd sworn they could smell exhaustion, homing in on it like a hungry vulture tracking a dying animal in the desert.
So he'd done what he could to create a barrier against the outside world. The blanket over him – and the pillow under his head – gave him the illusion of privacy, the chance to tune out everything around him. Normally, from there it was just a few short minutes until he drifted off.
Tonight, well, not so much. The sand whipped around outside the tent, a late-day sandstorm having rolled in and not let up since. All evening operations had been cancelled, and Maxwell had sent everyone to their bunks like an insane parody of a housemother, telling them all to "rest up, because tomorrow'll be a bitch." Three hours later, some of the guys were still playing cards on the back-most bunk, though their voices had dropped out of consideration for the guys who were trying to sleep.
Clint let out a soft sigh. He really, really wished he was one of them. Right now, sleep had fled along with any semblance of sanity within the unit. His back had been up for the last three weeks, and after the shit last night with that kid and the supposed IED, he felt like no one had his back.
God, the eyes on that kid…it was like –
A hand ripped the blanket off of Barton, then grabbed Clint's right arm, and jacked it up behind him, just as another set of hands grabbed him and flipped him over on the bunk. Before he could even shout a curse, a soft wad of fabric got shoved in his mouth – so far back he almost gagged on the material.
What the FUCK?
He bucked against the weight on his back, trying to get a foothold, a handhold – hell, any kind of hold. All he got for his efforts was a fist to his face, stunning him back into submission when his right eye exploded with pain. As he dropped back down to the bunk, someone's knee ground into the small of his back – then an arm snaked up around his throat.
"Take a deep breath, asshole. Might be your last."
He couldn't – there wasn't any AIR, and he couldn't breathe – a hand tightened around his shoulder.
"Barton…" No air, dammit, and then hands yanked a bag over his damned head, he couldn't –
"BARTON!" Jolting upright, Barton would have smacked his head into the bottom of the bunk above him if not for an arm coming across his chest. Instinctively, he grabbed the arm and pulled – HARD. Even as he pulled, he scrambled backward with his feet, getting leverage enough to put the attacker onto his chest and Barton in control.
Then his brain caught up with his body. Instinct had told him to protect himself. His brain now informed him he had Agent Coulson pinned to the bed, knee in the man's back, the agent's right arm pinned behind him in a submission hold.
Shit.
Confused and embarrassed, Clint let go of the agent's arm, and climbed quickly to his feet, backing away from the bunk and putting the wall behind him, trying to let the chill of the concrete block seep into his overheated skin.
Coulson rolled off his stomach and into a seated position. The agent rotated his shoulder around in its socket, then pulled it across his body to stretch it. It finally released with an audible pop, and Coulson stretched his neck for a second before finally looking up at Barton.
"I need to know if that's going to be a daily occurrence."
"The nightmare – or the takedown?" The retort was off Barton's tongue before he even had a chance to think about it. He winced, and opened his mouth to apologize, but Coulson raised an eyebrow, and then waved him off.
"Either. Both." Then the agent just sat there and waited. Clint was shocked to see no accusation, no anger, no judgment – just a calm acceptance of what had happened and the searching look of someone wanting an honest answer.
Coulson kept surprising him, throwing him off balance, keeping the landscape shifting underneath his feet. Clint couldn't tell if it was a conscious effort – if the agent took pleasure in screwing with him – or if he honestly cared enough to ask. Frustrated, Clint leaned his head back against the wall, and closed his eyes.
"Take a deep breath, asshole." How the hell could he tell someone – a person he barely knew and definitely wasn't sure he could trust – just how well and truly screwed he would've been if those two agents hadn't gone missing, if Coulson hadn't shown up with a dire need for the information Clint could offer.
"Might be your last." Clint shivered.
"Barton." Coulson's quietly insistent voice pulled him back to the present, and Clint opened his eyes to find the agent had gotten to his feet and moved a step toward him. When it became clear Clint was paying attention again, the agent nodded once in his direction.
"I'm not asking what they're about." A definite note of wry humor crept into Coulson's voice. "I just need to know if my personal safety is at risk every time I come to wake you up."
That Barton could deal with. He shook his head.
"If I'm having a nightmare, don't bother trying. I'll be awake in a few minutes anyhow." Clint sighed, then smirked. "Well, not unless you like being put on the ground before your first cup of coffee."
One side of Coulson's mouth quirked upward.
"Not especially. But so we are clear, I didn't fight you." Coulson got his feet, his face still irritatingly calm as he shed his jacket – revealing a Glock in a shoulder harness, and a knife in a hand-stitched leather sheathe. Clint felt his jaw drop slightly as he realized how easily the situation could have escalated if he'd gotten a hand on one of Coulson's weapons – and shivered at the thought of what could have happened.
"Situational awareness." Clint knew he was still staring when Coulson shook his head, and then rolled his eyes slightly. "You weren't aware, and I didn't want a situation. Sometimes it's better not to fight, Barton."
Coulson let the works sink in for a minute, then shrugged the jacket back onto his shoulders.
"Though, it does answer my question on whether your hand-to-hand skills are up for what I've got planned." Coulson turned and walked out of the bunk area, gesturing over his hand for Clint to follow him.
"Follow me. You and I need to talk."
A half hour later, Coulson could only watch with amusement as Barton started in on his third MRE. Barton's jaw had dropped open when Coulson had told him to help himself to whatever appealed in the box of pre-prepared meals – and again when Coulson had provided a sterno heater and a mess kit to heat whatever he chose. Barton stared for a long moment, then muttered something that sounded suspiciously like "unbelievable" and began pulling items out of the box.
Five minutes later, he'd had beef teriyaki warmed. Ten minutes after that, it was chicken tetrazzini. This time, it was beef ravioli – dug into with a kind of relish that had Coulson wondering how long it had been since Barton had enjoyed a hot meal. He pushed himself to his feet to refill his coffee mug, and frowned at the near-empty pot. Between himself and Barton, they'd done a pretty good job of demolishing it. With a sigh, he dumped what was left into his mug, then pulled a gallon jug of water over to start another pot.
When he could hear the drip machine start gurgling, he turned around to find Barton watching him – finally finished eating. The 21-year-old had started building a small house out of the sugar and creamer packets, smirking over the top of the design when he realized Coulson was watching.
Coulson raised an eyebrow, then moved back to his chair. When he sat down at the table, he made sure to set the mug down hard enough to topple the six-inch-high tower. So help him God, Barton actually stuck out his lower lip in a pout – then started to move the creamer packets back to rebuild the base of his initial design.
Phil picked up a spoon, reached out and rapped Barton's knuckles with it. The sniper hissed as he pulled his hand away from his building supplies, and then shook his head.
"You could've just asked me to stop, you know."
"Would you have listened?"
"Eh." Barton shrugged. "Maybe?"
Rather than answer, Coulson simply leaned back in his chair and stared at Barton. For about a minute, the kid returned the stare with a smartass grin on his face. Then Barton bit his lip in frustration.
"Anyone ever tell you staring like that is kind of creepy, Coulson?" When Phil's only answer was to cross his arms and continue staring, Barton rolled his eyes toward the ceiling.
"Fine. What did you want to talk about?"
Phil reached over and turned the laptop around so Barton could see the operational notes he'd typed out. He knew when Barton started reading them, because the kid's eyes flickered from his face to the screen, and then narrowed as he began scanning the document. Idly, Phil wondered how long it would take for Barton to recognize what was missing – and to call him on it.
It took the better part of five minutes, as Barton appeared to read through the whole document. He frowned, then scrolled back up to the top and read it through a second time. When he seemed convinced he hadn't missed something, he turned his attention from the screen to Phil – and glared.
"What the hell is this?"
"An operational plan to get my agents back." Phil kept his voice calm, and let his face betray nothing. "I take it you don't approve?"
Again, Barton rolled his eyes.
"No, I 'don't approve,'" Barton said, making air quotes as he spoke. "You used all of the information I gave you, but you're not going to use ME. What the hell did you bring me along for if you weren't going to let me help?"
Coulson's deadpan reply spilled off his tongue before he could stop it.
"I need a porter for the trip in and out." Barton's eyes widened, and he went slightly slack-jawed. A moment later, he pushed the laptop away from him in disgust, and moved to get up from the table.
"Barton! Sit down." The kid stood anyhow, but made no effort to move away. Instead, he glared – the frustration clear on his face.
"Are you purposely screwing with me, Coulson?" Coulson caught the emotion in Barton's voice, a note of desperation and something else – something that screamed for Coulson to notice it and take heed. "Because I've had about all I can take of being SCREWED with. Something tells me you already know that, so cut the shit and tell me what you're thinking, or I'll take my chances being a fucking street rat in Kandahar!"
"Fine." Coulson knew he had Barton's complete attention now, and he plowed right into the heart of the matter. He'd thought out this speech three hours ago. "I'm not screwing with you, Barton. I'm trying to figure out just what the hell's going through your head." He paused, then reached out and pulled the laptop back over. A few clicks later, Barton's service file appeared on the screen. He then turned the computer back to Barton.
"THAT tells me you've got talent. It tells me you had at least two men in your corner, willing to back your every move. It tells me you're one hell of a sniper, with a record most snipers only dream of having." Coulson dropped the volume a notch, letting an edge creep into his voice.
"And then Collins and McDermid die – and everything goes to hell. You liked them. I get that. You're grieving, and I get that, too. Your new Lieutenant can't stand you, fine. That's on him. But what about the rest of the unit? What happened that everyone polarized into either for you or against you? What the hell am I missing?"
Barton turned away from him, and for a long moment, Coulson thought he'd pushed too hard, and that Barton would shut him out completely. But Barton's hands closed on top of the crate he was facing, and the younger man hunched his shoulders and dropped his head. Ragged, deep breaths followed, and Coulson watched as the kid – still so damned young in so many ways – fought to bring his emotions back under control.
It took a minute, but Barton's breathing slowly evened out. When he finally spoke, Coulson almost missed it – the kid's voice so low and intense, it bordered on a whisper. He definitely couldn't pick up the words, but just as he opened his mouth to ask Barton to repeat it, he turned back around.
The shame and anguish that fought for supremacy on Barton's face tore at Phil's heart.
"I wasn't there. I wasn't there – and I should've been." Slowly, Barton walked back to the chair, and dropped into heavily into it.
"They're dead, and I'm not. And no one could deal with that – least of all me."
As Clint dropped back into the chair, he wondered why he was bothering. He'd spoken the absolute truth. And not only couldn't he deal with the situation at hand, he was tired of trying. Tired of trying to deal with not only his own shit, but whatever else anyone decided to throw at him simply for the hell of it.
He was guilty as hell over this, and he knew it. How the hell were you supposed to live with the fact that other people died and you lived – simply because you were a total fuck-up?
"Barton, I should toss your ass in the brig for that little stunt." McDermid's voice, normally infuriatingly calm and reasonable, rose in frustration. "You're a goddamned Army sniper, not some reject from Robin Hood or William Tell!"
Barton made a point of studying his shoes. He supposed McDermid had a point, even if it had been harmless fun – mostly – and no one had stood a chance in hell of getting hurt.
"You're damned all lucky I need your ass in the field!"
Across from him, Coulson rapped the table with his knuckles, clearly to get Barton's attention. He didn't know how long he'd been lost in thought, but the look on the agent's face made it clear Barton was stretching his patience.
"You were out on a surveillance op. The radio failed. Explain to me how that was your fault." Fuck. Clearly, Coulson had already heard at least part of this, though from who, Barton wasn't sure. It could've been any number of people – from Maxwell to the base captain. He desperately wanted to ask just who the hell had been talking, but he didn't trust himself with the question, or with the possibility of giving up too much information. He needed the out Coulson had offered him by pulling him off the base – not another enemy.
Going for a partial truth, he raised an eyebrow at the man.
"Ever worked on a forward base before? When you're not fighting, people talk. We haven't done a whole hell of a lot of fighting lately, so trust me, they've talked."
Coulson nodded, then seemed to consider something.
"Private Riley didn't seem to blame you."
When the hell had Riley … Clint narrowed his eyes at the man across from him as realization dawned on him. It hadn't been coincidence that Coulson had chosen a driver whom Clint could trust. It was a good 45-minute drive from Kandahar Air Field to the Ranger base. How much of that time had Coulson spent prying answers out of the damned kid?
And just what the hell had he told Coulson?
"Riley talks too damned much." Clint shook his head. "And he's got a hero-worship thing going on. Not to mention the fact he wants to find the good in just about every damned person on the base. You really gonna listen to what he says?"
Amazingly, Coulson smiled.
"Actually, I have so far. He said you saved his ass, Barton, and he called you … what was it?" Coulson paused a moment, searching for words. "Right. He called you, 'Good people.'"
This time, Clint actually snorted.
"Good people." Clint dropped his head into his hands, feeling the frustration welling up in him. The all-too-familiar guilt and grief he'd been trying to channel into something productive for the last four weeks – to try and balance the scales, to clean out his ledger, so to speak – couldn't, wouldn't allow him to accept that kind of compliment.
Good people. The kid didn't know the meaning of the word.
Suddenly, Coulson smacked the table. The sudden noise made Clint's head snap upward so suddenly, he actually heard the vertebrae in his neck pop off like rice krispies.
Clint's eyes narrowed at the glint in Coulson's eyes. He'd seen it before – first from Collins, and then from McDermid. That glint meant one thing: shut the fuck up and LISTEN.
"Barton, I'm not your counselor, your chaplain or even your boss. I shouldn't have to tell you this, but I guess I do." Coulson heaved a sigh. "Radios fail. IEDs go off. You're in a damned war zone. People die. You may feel responsible, but you are not. So I need you to shelve those issues and move past it."
Clint fought the slight surge of panic in his stomach. Move past it? God. If it were only that simple.
Across from him, Coulson pushed to his feet, and walked over to the coffee machine with his mug in hand. He took a good minute to pour the cup, add creamer and sugar, then precisely stir the mixture.
Finally, he turned back around, and Clint found himself on the receiving end of the man's penetrating stare yet again. After a long moment, Coulson gestured toward the laptop with his coffee mug.
"There's a second plan on there, Barton – one that uses both of our skills." Coulson took a sip of coffee, then grimaced and put it back down next to the coffee pot. He then crossed his arms. "Because, yes, I do intend to use you. I need to use your skills if I want to have any chance of getting my agents back alive."
Coulson paused, maybe to give Clint a chance to digest that, then plowed forward.
"But once we're finished here, I have a decision to make." Coulson gestured again toward the laptop. "That profile tells me I have a chance to recruit an agent into our agency who could very well be one of the best assets we've ever brought in – or the worst, depending on whether or not your head is still screwed on straight after everything that's happened over here. So, Barton, you tell me: is it?"
Clint just blinked at the man. Of all the questions Coulson could've asked him, that was the last one he'd expected to have to answer – and the one he damned well didn't have an answer to right now. After the last month, he really didn't know whether his head was screwed on facing front or facing back. Everyone else seemed to have an opinion the matter, but Clint hadn't stopped to think about it.
Hell, did it even matter anymore what he thought? Clint almost shook his head, then stopped himself. Coulson was watching him too closely, looking for his reactions as much as his answer. Clint closed his eyes, thinking back to a month ago – to the last time he'd been thinking clearly and hadn't been hurting. He thought about Collins' absolute belief in his ability, and about McDermid's acceptance of Barton being Barton. He let himself rewind the clock a little and just exist.
When he did, he knew how to answer Coulson's question.
"I don't know, but I want the chance to find out." Clint pitched his voice low, but steady, injecting every ounce of confidence he could find. "I want to find out what I can do."
Coulson stared back for a long moment, weighing the answer, then nodded once.
"Fine." He walked over, turned the laptop around on the table, and typed a few commands. Then he spun the laptop back around to Barton, tapping the top of the screen with a finger.
"Read that. Familiarize yourself with it. If you have any questions, write them down." Coulson waved a hand in the vague direction of the notebook and pen that were sitting, abandoned, on the table. "I'm going to go grab a nap. I'm setting an alarm, so you shouldn't have to wake me, but if you have to, fine."
The man moved to walk over to the bunk, and Clint looked down at the laptop, ready to start reading. Then Coulson paused, and cleared his throat. Clint looked up to see a small smile on the agent's face.
"And Barton? Welcome aboard."