Epilogue – Right to the Top
Author's notes: Yep. It's finished. Finally. After all that time. God, I hope people still are up to leaving reviews since this last chapter took forever. Hint. Hint. As always, thank you to Aggie2011 for her incredible friendship and drive that helped me get this done.
More at the end.
Two weeks later, somewhere over the Atlantic
Phil Coulson looked over his shoulder, and smiled as he flicked off the power switches to the engines of the Quinjet. The engine noise, negligible to begin with, dropped to a dull whine and then nothing at all. Phil looked out across the tarmac of the runway of the Helicarrier, and relaxed ever so slightly in his suit.
God, it felt good to be home. Back on familiar ground – and with nothing but intelligence to cultivate and operations to supervise.
Well, and walk a new recruit through training. He shut the folder he'd been perusing and grimaced as he contemplated the gauntlet he had to run Barton through before sending him on to the Manhattan base. He had absolutely no doubt SHIELD's newest agent was about to make his life – along with that of a few others – a living hell for a few weeks.
With a sigh, he shoved the file into his duffel bag and turned around.
"We're here, Barton."
"I'd noticed." The now-ex Army sniper stretched dramatically in his seat, and then snorted softly in derision. "You call that a landing?"
Coulson fought the urge to roll his eyes. Clearly, fighting a potentially fatal infection had done little to affect Barton's sarcasm – something he'd had plenty of time to gain appreciation of over the last two weeks.
But experience also had given him a little bit of an idea how to respond.
"Tell me you got to fly in anything even half that nice in the Army."
To his surprise, Phil didn't get any sarcasm in reply. Instead, Barton's face tempered into an almost wistful smile.
"No … but I think I'd like a shot at learning how to fly one of these."
Phil fought back a bit of a grin himself, remembering the first time he'd seen the new Quinjets. Fury had accused him of having a man-crush on the new equipment bigger than Phil's obsession with Captain America. Phil's response had been a cold, emotionless stare – but Fury had just snorted, shook his head … and made sure his second in command had gotten near the front of the line for training on them.
Phil shook his head slightly, returning to the present – and to the need to put SHIELD's newest agent ever so slightly back in his place.
"What if it's not in your skill set, Barton?"
"Everything's in my skill set." Barton sounded cocky, and added the smirk, and soft, "sir" to emphasize his point. Phil rolled his eyes. Barton had been mocking him with the "sir" routine at every opportunity over the last two weeks. No doubt, he'd overheard Fury scolding Phil for the same thing at some point.
Or…
Don't get mad, don't get even – get ahead. Fury's personal motto in life. Maybe it had even be Fury who'd told Barton about Phil's propensity to use the word, 'Sir.' It would, in fact, be just the kind of thing Fury would consider funny. Phil shook his head as he stared dispassionately at Barton. More of the mysteries that would undoubtably surround Fury – all the way to the grave.
But Barton was another matter.
"Keep that up, and someone's going to make it their mission to find something you can't do." Phil wondered, though, just what that something would be. Diplomacy, perhaps. Barton seemed to have perfected the art of not giving a damn about what he said or how he said it.
It was one of the things he liked about the kid.
Barton shrugged, seemingly unconcerned.
"Then I'll learn how to do it."
As they headed to the back of the Quinjet, and waited for the ramp to lower, Phil Coulson had absolutely no doubt that would be the case.
Barton eyed the two people standing near the end of the ramp suspiciously. One he recognized right away, his hackles rising up a little in response to the black eye patch and the long leather trench coat. After a nine-hour flight, he had no desire to deal with anyone in an authority position. All he wanted was the soft bed Coulson had promised him – and a nap.
By the looks of Director Fury – and the unknown woman beside him – that might be a long time in coming. He looked over at Coulson, pleading with him silently to cut through the bullshit, but all Coulson did was shoot him a warning look and shook his head slightly, warning Clint to keep his mouth shut for the moment.
"Director, Agent Hill, may I present SHIELD Probationary Agent Barton." Clint straightened slightly at the no-nonsense tone in Coulson's voice, wishing he could reel off a few of the witty one-liners that came to mind at the tight-ass look on the woman's face. Instead, he smiled and nodded – then whipped a slightly sloppy, more-than-a-little sarcastic salute.
Fury's lips twitched slightly. Clearly, Coulson had informed him of Clint's propensity for attitude. Even more promising, the woman raised an eyebrow – and subtly extend her middle finger outward along the leather binder she was carrying. When she was sure Clint had seen it, she folded the finger back in – and extended him a predatory smile that promised swift punishment if he didn't keep himself in check.
Oh, a challenge. Clint smirked in return, but kept his mouth to himself. The woman clearly knew how to handle herself among the Alpha males he was sure frequented this place. For now, he could bide his time … and figure out how to best irritate her later.
Fury stood there and watched the wordless exchange for a few seconds, and then cleared his throat.
"Hill, give our probationary agent that folder, please." Hill extended the binder, which Clint took, his fingers caressing the soft leather and the SHIELD logo that embossed the front, feeling the quality of the workmanship. When he opened it, though, he read the cover page of the thick document inside in disbelief.
"An employee handbook? Are you kidding me?" Clint snorted, and turned to look at Coulson. "Let me guess: this outlines how many super-spy suits I need to keep in my closet, and exactly how to iron them?"
All Coulson did was roll his eyes.
"Not to mention the importance of starching the dress shirts, Barton." He nodded at the folder. "Amongst other things, all of which I'm sure you'll be able to figure out in your own time." Coulson then turned back toward Fury. "Director, if you don't mind? Agent Barton has an appointment in medical with Dr. Wilson. We can handle the paperwork later."
Across from him, Clint heard a huff from Agent Hill that sounded suspiciously like "probationary agent," but before he could retort, Fury nodded.
"Indeed." He gestured toward the entryway, and Agent Hill moved toward the door. Clint stayed rooted next to Coulson, though, pinned under an appraising look by the director. Under the weight of that one-eyed stare, Clint straightened again to attention, and wondered just what the Director of SHIELD was seeing. After the last few weeks – and Coulson's blunt reassurance – few doubts remained that he had made the right choice in coming here.
Those few that remained, though … Clint heard every last one of them yammering in loud, insistent voices that he had absolutely NO idea what the hell he was really stepping into here.
It was then that Fury's face softened with a smile, and the tall man offered a nod of approval.
"Get settled, Agent Barton. And welcome to SHIELD." He turned sharply on his heel, and followed his assistant through the hatchway.
Clint turned back to Coulson, who also wore a smile now.
"What the hell was that, sir?" Clint couldn't help but let a little of the worry he was feeling creep into his voice. "I thought I already had a job."
Coulson nodded.
"You do. That was just the final stamp of approval." Coulson's fingers tightened around his arm again, and Phil steered him in the same direction Fury and Hill had disappeared. "C'mon, there's work to be done. And I thought you wanted me to send that message you wrote on the trip back here."
Clint paused for a moment, weighing the words of his new boss – new lieutenant, as it was. And friend. Clint felt pretty safe assuming that for now. He nodded, and started walking even as he stuffed the leather binder into his own bag and started rooting around for the notebook and the message Coulson had referenced.
The rest he could take on faith.
As the last of the setting sun vanished behind the backdrop of the Hindu Kush mountains, Brandon Riley felt the chill of the late April evening settle in as he kept an eye out around the small patrol group. They were almost back to camp, and like it had for the last few weeks, the activity report would, thankfully, read: "Quiet, nothing to report."
Whatever Barton and his friend had engineered in the mountains, little remained of the terrorist camp the unit had been tracking. After Barton had been medevac'ed to Kandahar, the rest of the unit had been told simply and universally to forget the entire incident. Of course, to re-enforce the point, a man in a suit had shown up and given everyone a lecture on national security and possible trips to Guantanamo Bay, so … yeah, no one had felt much like arguing.
That hadn't stopped the Army from making sure nothing else showed up to fill the charred remains of that camp. To date, every last patrol had found zilch. Nothing. Nada. If there was anyone left alive out there, they were doing a damned good job of hiding themselves.
Riley was grateful for the quiet. Really. It was just all the questions that still needed to be answered. Where Barton had disappeared to. Hell, if Barton had survived. The suit hadn't said a word when Riley had followed him to the edge of camp. All he'd done was turn, look at Riley for a long moment – and hand him a business card with a weird emblem on it that looked like a weird-ass high school's idea of official.
Riley sighed. That business card had a phone number. He wished he had the courage to call it and see if his friend was somewhere on the other end.
It wasn't until the faint outlines of structures turned suddenly into the edge of camp that Riley realized he'd daydreamed his ass all the way home. Barton would've kicked his ass if he'd know Riley had let his focus slip. He really would have. Really, Riley would've paid good money to hear the profanity-laced tirade he knew he would've gotten.
Would've. Riley sighed. When Lt. Pierce dismissed them – a good guy, this new lieutenant, made absolutely none of the mistakes Maxwell had been notorious for – he turned to head for his tent, tired and now more than a little depressed. He was off-duty for the next 24 hours. Maybe he could find a way…
A hand snaked around his arm. He jumped, and then sheepishly looked into the race of Myles Canny – the unit Clerk. Canny extended a envelope his direction.
"That came in while you were out, Riley. Read it and then destroy it."
Riley rolled his eyes.
"What the hell, Canny? This your idea of a practical-"
Canny held up a hand to stop him.
"Not my orders, man. Just follow them, OK? Another one of those crazy suits showed up and dropped that off. And frankly, I have absolutely NO desire to go pissing them off – and neither should you." Canny shook his head, eyed Riley for a long moment, then added, "Just do it," before turning and heading back toward his office.
Riley fingered the envelope with curiosity now, wondering if the suit had any connections to Barton – or if Riley had instead, somehow, managed to violate the security terms that first suit had been babbling about. Either way, Canny had rank on him – and he'd all but ordered Riley to read it. So, ignoring his growling stomach, Riley made his way over to his tent, dumped his ruck on the ground – and ripped the open the envelope with something between excitement and fear fighting for control of his stomach.
As he began reading, the fear dropped off – and a slow smile crept up his face.
Hey, Riley. I know you haven't been told what's happened, and I've definitely heard all about the 'national security' crap that's been spouted at you. Been told it's protocol, and I've also been told I can't tell you much. So … I thought I'd better tell you I'm safe, and healed up and headed in the right direction. The first suit you met? He's offered me a new job, and I'm taking it. First time in a long time, I feel like there's a chance things are going to end up OK.
In the meantime, I'm gonna have to rely on you to watch your own ass out there, since I'm not around to do it. Be safe, Riley, and when you finish your tour, give that number on that business card a call. That first suit you met? He likes you – and your attitude. Frankly, I'm not entirely convinced – you kept calling me 'good people,' apparently, and you know how much I hate that – but it'll be good for you to have some possibilities when you're done there.
Keep your ass safe, man. And burn this letter when you're done. Seriously. They aren't screwing around with that national security bullshit.
-Barton
P.S. Can you send that damned cookie recipe of your grandmother's? Life's just not the same without chocolate macadamia nut granola cookies.
And … that's a wrap! But…the next story will NOT be Belfast. Well, it will, but … well, you'll just have to wait and see. The proposed story has gotten a lot more complicated.
In the meantime, if no one else caught it, take a look at just which doctor Clint will be seeing – and keep an eye out for "Dr. Dan Wilson, MD."