A/N: Alrighty so... Next chapter. Again, if you like, please review. Thanks to OkieDokieLoki, chills10124, and lederra for reviewing, thanks to those who added it to their respective lists. This chapter has some more feels to it (and I apologize for the distressing lack of feels in the first chapter, but hey... it can't all be non-stop hurt/comfort). Anyways, I hope you enjoy, and thanks for reading.
"So how's it feel to be a free man again, Barton?" Phil asked conversationally, putting the black SUV into 'drive' and pulling away from the Attica pick-up point.
Barton shrugged, but Phil didn't miss the way his hands rubbed almost absently at his wrists. "Wouldn't have taken me much longer and I wouldda been a free man anyways. So… What do I call you? Very Special Agent Coulson?"
"Phil. You can call me Phil."
"Alright… Phil. Where we headed?"
"S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters. The Triskelion in D.C."
Barton glanced at the clock on the dash, which read 9:36 PM. "So we got… what, a six hour drive?"
"There abouts. On another subject, I've requested to be your field handler. Any issues with that?"
Barton shrugged again, stretching out in the seat, wrapping his arms behind the headrest. "Doesn't much matter."
"Good. That means we can start your psych eval while we're driving."
Barton groaned, closing his eyes as he put his feet up on the dash. "If I promise not to kill any agents, can that qualify as the eval?"
"No. Where'd you grow up? And no lying, please. I have to verify everything that you tell me."
Barton sighed. "A little town in Iowa. Waverly. Shitty little town."
"So are you actually Clint Barton?"
"Clinton James Barton. Born January 7th, 1971 at Saint Agnes Regional Hospital to Harold and Edith Barton."
"Your parents still around?"
"No." The answer was short, and terse.
"My sympathies. How'd they pass?"
"Drunk driving accident. And you can keep your sympathies."
"Any siblings?" Phil asked quickly, trying to move on from what was clearly a touchy subject.
"One. He's dead too."
"Oh. Was he in the car with them?"
"No. He died. The incursion into the Gulf before the war."
"Older then?"
"Yeah. Three years."
"How old were you when your parents passed?" Phil asked, careful to keep his face tilted towards the passenger seat.
"Six. Find something else to ask about."
Phil decided to honor the man's demand, given the slight twitching of his hands. "Alright. How'd you get involved in this type of work?"
"I lived with carneys for a while. The guy who… mentored me… He worked for a criminal organization."
"Hmm hm."
" 'Hmm hm' what?"
"What organization? How'd you get involved with it? What happened to your mentor? What was his name?"
Barton grunted a bit, putting his feet down. "It was an off shoot of the Italian Mob. His name was Trick Shot. We uh… I… He… made… me –"He grunted out the words "-help him for a few years."
"And what happened to him?"
"I killed him. Took his contacts."
"How old were you?" Phil asked softly.
"Fourteen. I committed a few jobs before I let people know it was me. They didn't care how old I was as long as I could do the job."
"Clint… Can I call you Clint?" At the man's small nod, Phil smiled. "Clint, I want you to know that I'm not doing this to torment you. But with this kind of work… Well, probably ninety percent of our field agents have triggers. We need to know what they are so we can avoid putting you in potentially damaging situations. I want you to trust me."
"Trust S.H.I.E.L.D. you mean," Clint muttered.
"I could give a damn if you trust S.H.I.E.L.D.," Phil said forcefully. At the surprised look in the young man's eyes, Phil continued, "You trusting S.H.I.E.L.D. doesn't matter. I need you to trust me. I'm your handler. I need you to know that everything I do is for your benefit. That I won't send you into a situation you can't handle. If we can't grow to trust each other, this will never work. So if to trust me, you have to distrust S.H.I.E.L.D., I can deal with that. I can work with you hating S.H.I.E.L.D. if need be."
He expected some attitude. Maybe a sarcastic comment. He wasn't prepared for the silence that followed, as Clint stared out the window morosely.
"I don't know if I can do that."
"Well, we've got eight weeks to try. But for right now, let's talk about some of your triggers. Are there any undercover roles you won't do?" At the dismissive look in Clint's eyes, Phil turned his head to look directly at the young man for a moment. "I understand that you can 'do anything', but is there anything that will make you significantly uncomfortable?"
Clint hesitated for a moment, shrugging almost unsurely. "I uh… I don't particularly like… Roles where I have to be… be like the priest."
Phil smiled gently. "Alright. That's a good start. Any environments you're not comfortable with?"
"I'm not overly fond of the cold but I can handle it. I just uh… I have to keep bundled up or…" He glanced at his hands. "My fingers ache if they get too cold. And you don't want me anywhere in public without a long-sleeve shirt and jeans."
"Can I ask why?"
After a few moments of hesitation, Clint pulled up one sleeve, revealing an arm covered in more scars than Phil had ever seen on a human arm. There was a long ropey scare that seemed to begin from somewhere under his elbow, and ran down stopping just short of his wrist, short ones scattered all over, with an assortment of various sized round burns.
"This arm's the worst, but uh… I got a lot of those pretty much everywhere," Clint said quietly, a bit of shame in his voice.
"Those look pretty old," Phil said conversationally, careful to keep his voice neutral.
"Yeah."
Phil waited for more, but when none was forthcoming, he nodded. "Why don't you get some sleep? We got a long ride, and I think we've made a good start."
"Clint? Clint, we're here," Phil said quietly, as he shut the car off in the S.H.I.E.L.D. parking lot. The young man didn't respond, and Phil silently cursed himself for not having planned ahead to have hearing aids for the young man. He reached over, and gently shook Clint's shoulder.
Instantly, the young man's eyes flew open, his hand coming up in a fist, throwing a punch that nearly caught Phil in the jaw.
"Hey, hey. Easy! It's just me," Phil said, keeping his voice soft, but commanding.
Breathing heavily, Clint's eyes slowly came into focus, and he nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, sorry."
"We're here. C'mon. I'll show you to your room, and in the morning we'll take you down to get your physical exam, and microchip."
Still looking half-asleep, Clint nodded, getting out of the car on unsteady legs, and following Clint.
After taking him through the various checkpoints, down the elevator, a few more sets of stairs, and down a few hallways to the bunk areas.
He glanced down at his PDA, checking the room number again, before stopping in front of C223. Pointing to the small keypad, he looked back at Clint.
"You need to come up with a six digit number. Put it in, and it'll be your passcode to access this room. You, and only you, will be able to access it. We can only access it in cases of emergency. Put it in, and hit enter."
Nodding unsurely, Clint stepped up to the pad, and –shielding Phil's view with his body –inserted a code. The door popped open, and the two men stepped inside.
"It's not much… After your year is up, you're allowed to get a home off site. But you are allowed to change things around. This room is yours; as long as you don't break through anyone's walls, you can do with it as you will. If you make me a list, I can get you anything you want for furnishing, or if you want, after your exam tomorrow, you and I can head out and you can pick some things up," Phil said as Clint glanced around the room.
Clint turned to face him again, looking at him quizzically. Inwardly cussing again, Phil repeated himself, and Clint shrugged. "It's got a bed, a bathroom, a desk, and a shelf. Don't need much more than that."
"You sure? I can pick something up. Not a problem."
"Uh… Nah. I'm good."
"Well… alright then. I'll be back at oh eight hundred. Alright?"
"Yeah. That works."
"Good. And we'll get you fitted with some hearing aids tomorrow as well. Good night, Clint."
"G'night, sir."