Chapter Text
Clint Barton hated being injured. He hated a lot of things in his life at the moment, but he especially hated being injured. Having cracked or broken ribs—he didn’t have the money for a trip to the ER, so he didn’t know which—was extra fucking awful because he couldn’t use his bow. And sure, he was almost as good with a rifle or handgun, but with his bow in hand, he was unstoppable. Except, you know, for how some asshole had shot him in the thigh on his last job, making him miss his jump between roofs and break his ribs when he hit the ground.
And some other asshole—he’d killed the one who shot him, thank you very fucking much—was stalking him. He hadn’t caught more than a glimpse of a dark suit and sunglasses (Who wore fucking aviators at night? Seriously, dude. Learn a little subtlety.) but he’d seen that shadow a couple of times, enough to know time had run out and he needed to get the fuck out of Dodge and find somewhere else to lay low until his ribs and thigh healed and he could take another job.
A knock at the door broke him out of his angry thoughts, but it did nothing for his temper. He reached for the pistol on the concrete floor next to the cot and hoped if he didn’t make any noise, the bastard on the other side of the thin barrier would think no one was there and leave.
He’d never been that lucky in his life.
The doorknob rattled, and Clint lifted the pistol with a grimace at the pain in his ribs. If he couldn’t even hold up his pistol, he was even worse off than he’d thought. The door didn’t open, but the lock wouldn’t hold up if the person on the other side applied any force to it.
Which, of course, he did.
The door slammed against the wall hard enough to take out a chunk of plaster—lucky it wasn’t the kind of place to demand a security deposit or he’d never get that back—and sure enough, the Suit strolled in, as calmly as if he owned the place. His expression never changed as he glanced around the cramped, dingy room, but Clint could practically feel the disdain. He slipped off his sunglasses, his gaze settling on the gun in Clint’s hand, the one Clint was doing his damnedest to keep from shaking. When his hand moved toward his jacket, Clint was sure he was going to pull his own piece, but he only slid the glasses into his breast pocket.
“Clint Barton,” he said in a calm voice. It wasn’t a question. “I don’t think that’s necessary. Why don’t you give your ribs a break”—the bastard’s lips twitched in a barely repressed smile—“and we can have a talk.”
“How about not?” Clint retorted, although he braced the arm holding the pistol since the man already knew about his ribs. It only helped a little, but anything was better than nothing. He ignored the part where the Suit knew his name. Half the time, Clint wasn’t sure he remembered his name himself. Having someone else use it now set his teeth on edge. “Give me one reason I shouldn’t shoot you right now. You broke into my apartment. It’s self-defense against a home invader.”
“I’m sure the police would appreciate receiving a call from the Amazing Hawkeye. They’d clear quite a few of their unsolved cases.” Of fucking course the Suit knew that too. Who the hell was this guy? Not part of the gang Clint had taken down in his last job, or he wouldn’t be wasting time talking. He’d have pulled the weapon his finely tailored jacket almost concealed and taken Clint out as soon as he came through the door. “I’d like to offer you an alternative.”
If there were any alternatives, Clint would have found them when he left the circus, but he kept that thought to himself. The Suit seemed more interested in talking than shooting, and since Clint was currently down one leg and several ribs, talking sounded good to him. He lowered the gun, although he kept it in his hand. If the guy made any aggressive moves, Clint would have it aimed and fired before the man could even get his jacket open. “I’m listening.”
The Suit ambled over to the small table that, besides the bed, was the only furniture in the place and nudged the single chair out with his foot. Instead of claiming it as Clint expected, he gestured like Vanna White displaying an array of prizes. “Sit down before you fall down, Mr. Barton. I’d rather only go over this once.”
Clint considered refusing, but his leg hurt even worse than his ribs. He wasn’t about to sit in the chair, though, not with the Suit hovering over it. He sank down onto the creaky cot instead, keeping the gun ready in his lap. The Suit didn’t look impressed. Clint didn’t bother hiding his shit-eating grin. “I’m sitting. Now talk before I get bored with this and start shooting.”
Unfazed by the threat, the Suit lowered himself into the rickety chair. “My name is Phil Coulson. I represent the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division. We’d like to extend an offer of employment.”
“The what?” Clint blurted. Then the rest of the sentence came into focus. “What kind of employment?”
“SHIELD,” the man—Coulson—said.
Clint had heard vague whispers of SHIELD, but the combination of awe and disbelief that accompanied those whispers had convinced him SHIELD was about as real as the Loch Ness monster or the yeti. “SHIELD is the underworld bogeyman. It’s a nice story, but it ain’t real.”
“We work very hard to keep it that way,” Coulson said. “The threats we protect against are easier to take down if they don’t believe we’re targeting them. As for the employment we’re offering, we believe your skills could make you a valuable asset in those efforts.”
Clint frowned. “You want me to shoot people.” Granted, that was what he was currently doing, but as a freelancer, he could decide whether he took a job. If he went with SHIELD, would he lose that? “How is that different from what I’m already doing?”
“You’ve proven quite adept at shooting people,” Coulson agreed. “But we believe you have more to offer than that. Based on the jobs you've agreed to take, and those you’ve turned down, you’re selective about whom you target. Your success rate and ability to avoid retribution—until now,” the bastard almost smiled again, “demonstrate strong strategic skills. We can offer you quarters at SHIELD headquarters, three meals a day, training, state-of-the-art equipment, a uniform allowance, and the promise that someone will always have your back. And first-rate medical facilities,” he added, and this time the prick really did smile.
Clint was tempted to shoot him just for that. “I have the final say in whether I take on a mission. Always. You can provide all the reasons you want, but if I don’t agree with the reasons, I don’t take the shot.”
“Agreed.” The answer came too quickly for Clint to believe it. “I understand you have little reason to accept what I’m saying, but I assure you, we’re the good guys.” Coulson’s blue eyes met his with such conviction that despite all his better instincts, Clint found himself trusting the man. “You’ll never be forced to accept a mission, and you’ll never be left on your own.”
“And I can leave if I change my mind.” He was pushing his luck. If they hired him and gave him a security clearance of any kind, leaving would be hell, but if he didn’t roll the dice, he’d have no chance of scoring big.
“Then we’ll have to do our best to make sure you have no reason to leave.” Coulson stood and offered his hand. After staring at it for a moment, Clint extended his, and Coulson took it in a firm grip. “Welcome to SHIELD, Mr. Barton.”
Clint looked around the flophouse that currently constituted his home and grinned. He didn’t know what quarters at SHIELD headquarters would look like, but they had to be better than this, and that combined with the promise of meals and medical care made his future brighter than his past had ever been. “Let’s hope you don’t regret it.”
“As your performance will reflect upon me as your recruiter, it will be my job to ensure neither of us regret it.”
Clint studied the man whose job he had just become. It was easy to see him as just a Suit, an anonymous man in black, no different than any other mid-level government lackey, but Clint had always seen deeper than most. Coulson’s suit might be black, but it wasn’t off the rack. It couldn’t be and still fit his broad shoulders and trim waist as well as it did. And while he might have what most would consider average features with blue eyes and light brown hair with a slightly receding hairline, his eyes sparkled with intelligence and the smile that played around the corners of his mouth hinted at a real personality, not simply government-issue, by-the-book rule following. But most of all, it was the way he moved. He’d walked into Clint’s apartment, knowing who he was and what he was capable of, had stared down the barrel of Clint’s pistol, and hadn’t flinched once. He was too obviously intelligent not to know the risk he was taking, which meant he had a fucking huge pair of brass balls.
Clint could respect that in a man.
Phil waited patiently as Barton gathered his pathetically few belongings from the dump of an apartment he’d tracked him to. Despite having studied the dossier SHIELD had compiled on the mercenary, he was unprepared for how young Barton appeared. They hadn’t been able to locate a birth certificate, but given how long he’d been on SHIELD’s radar and the number of hits attributed to him, he’d expected someone significantly older. Barton was clearly undernourished as well as wounded, but Phil was willing to bet he couldn’t be more than twenty. Which made his accomplishments, if they could be called that, all the more impressive. His frame was thin but solid, with broad shoulders and arms corded with muscle. His dirty-blond hair needed a trim, and his sharp eyes—Phil couldn’t decide if they were green or blue or somewhere in between—caught him looking and dared him to make a comment, any comment.
Barton pulled a duffel from under the bed, threw in a few toiletries from the tiny bathroom, and tossed it carelessly toward the door. Then, with considerably more care, he drew out a scarred and battered case that he hugged to his chest. “Okay, bossman, take me to your leader.”
Phil didn’t snort, although he wanted to. That body, those eyes, and an irreverent sense of humor? He couldn’t wait to see Barton try that shit on Fury. That would be worth the price of admission alone.
“How about we start with Medical?” He kept his voice at its driest, most deadpan tone. He might think Barton’s response was hilarious, but he couldn’t ruin his robot image before they’d even started. “We’ll worry about my leader when you aren’t limping and hugging your ribs.”
Barton scowled, but Phil ignored him. He turned back toward the door, and although he’d cleared the building before he came in, he drew his weapon now because Barton was laden down and injured. Phil had promised Barton he’d always have someone to watch his back. While that might not always be Phil, it was Phil now and he took his responsibilities seriously.
Though he did his best to hide it, Barton was wincing as they made their way down five flights of stairs (“What? I like being up high, okay? Harder for people to sneak up on you.” “But not impossible,” Phil answered, ignoring Barton’s glare.) to Phil’s car. His eyes slid closed while Phil maneuvered through New York traffic to SHIELD headquarters, but snapped open the instant he killed the engine in the parking garage. He let Phil retrieve his duffel from the trunk but clutched the case to his chest as if daring Phil to try to wrest it from him. “Medical,” Phil repeated, badging his way into the elevator and again to access the clinic floor. “I’ll arrange quarters while you’re having your intake physical. Do you want me to drop your effects there for you?”
“If you want.” Barton shrugged like it was no big deal, but the way his gaze stayed fixed on the duffel, Phil suspected it was more of an issue than he was willing to admit. “My bow stays with me.”
“Just don’t shoot anyone,” Phil advised. “Fury doesn’t take well to people attacking the medical staff.”
“No promises,” Barton muttered.
The elevator doors opened and Barton froze. Phil didn’t know what prompted the mercenary’s obvious anxiety, but unless he was never injured on a mission—and given his current condition, that seemed unlikely—he was going to have to get used to dealing with Medical. “There isn’t much that helps broken ribs except time, but they can at least check the wound on your leg to be sure it isn’t infected.” He spotted Martina Tsiakis, one of the sharpest and most considerate medics on staff, and gestured her over. “Dr. Tsiakis, this is Clint Barton. He has some injuries that need attention and also requires an intake physical.”
Dr. Tsiakis picked up on Barton’s nervousness and smiled. “Welcome to SHIELD Medical, Mr. Barton. Let’s see what we can do to make you feel better, shall we?”
“A beautiful doctor like you taking care of me?” Barton practically purred. “I feel better already.”
Dr. Tsiakis pursed her lips and ushered him into one of the private rooms. “Let me be the judge of that. We’ll need at least an hour, Agent Coulson, if you have other business you need to attend to.”
Apparently Barton’s injuries hadn’t affected his libido. Though he wouldn’t get far with Martina, who had an FDNY husband and two toddlers in SHIELD’s preschool. He nodded and took the elevator up to his office, where he printed out the enlistment forms Barton would need to complete and arranged for quarters and an entry-level access badge. After inspecting the rooms—basic new recruit quarters, but a definite step up from Barton’s previous hole—he set the duffel at the foot of the bed and took the folder of paperwork back to the clinic floor.
The expression on Barton’s face when he arrived was too furious to be due to Martina shooting down his attempt at flirting. “She wants to keep me here!” he growled.
“You’re dehydrated and undernourished and the bullet wound in your leg needs to be debrided and stitched before the infection starting up in it turns into septicemia.” Another reason Martina was one of Phil’s favorite staff doctors was that she didn’t take any shit from her patients. “I suppose you could function with only one leg, the advances in protheses are considerable, but I think we’d all prefer to avoid that possibility.”
Barton continued to grumble, but he didn’t try to get out of the bed, so Phil took that as a win. “Blame Coulson. He’s the one who shot me.”
Phil managed not to roll his eyes. He wasn’t going to start his relationship with Barton by calling him a liar. Martina winked at him from over Barton’s shoulder. “That’s why he has the best recruitment record in SHIELD. Now go change into this gown so I can get an IV in and we can give you some fluids. Unless you need help with that?”
Interestingly, Barton turned bright scarlet before taking the gown and hobbling into the bathroom with a quick “no thank you” thrown over his shoulder, and when he came back out, he held the gown tightly closed behind him and kept his back away from Martina. Maybe the flirtatiousness was more of a defense mechanism than actual interest? It wouldn’t be the first time he’d seen someone go on a charm offensive.
Martina set up the IV quickly. “We’ll let that run for an hour or so, then I’ll debride and stitch up your leg. The fluids will help you feel better, and that will make the rest easier. Coulson, I trust you’ll keep him in line?”
“I don’t need him here to babysit me.”
Phil pulled over one of the rolling bedside tables and dropped the folder onto it. “Believe it or not, you’re not the only claim on my time, Barton. You can get started filling out your enlistment forms so I can pick up your access badge and get you into your quarters when you’re released tomorrow.”
Barton stared at the inch-thick folder. “You didn’t tell me there’d be paperwork. I shoulda taken my chances on the street.”
“Get used to it, Barton. SHIELD may be a covert agency, but it loves its paperwork. And don’t give Dr. Tsiakis any trouble or I’ll give her permission to taser you before she starts stitching you up.”
“I’m sure that won’t be necessary.” Martina smiled at Barton. “I can slip an anesthetic in his IV line much more easily.”
Phil ignored the betrayed look Barton threw at Martina and headed back to his car. He might as well grab some dinner and let Fury know he’d been successful while Barton was being patched up.
Or maybe he’d start with Fury and bring dinner back for Barton. He could read the writing on the wall. Fury wouldn’t have sent him after Barton if he hadn’t intended for Phil to work with him, and that would be easier if he could break through some of Barton’s distrust.
He drove to his favorite diner and placed a to-go order for two burgers, an extra-large order of fries, and a chocolate milkshake. Barton needed to bulk up, and while he’d be offered a meal in Medical, they were focused on healthy nutrition, not weight gain. He didn’t know Barton’s preferences yet, but he doubted he’d turn down a burger and shake.
While he waited for the food, he dialed Nick’s number. “Acquisition was successful. Barton’s in Medical for his intake exam.”
“And?” Fury sounded distracted, but Phil was used to him dealing with a dozen things at once. “How big of a pain in my ass is he going to be?”
“About as big as you’d expect. And my best guess is he’s barely out of his teens, so you’ll have plenty of time to appreciate it.”
“Motherfucker. You’re sure he’s Hawkeye? If you’re right about his age, that means he started when he was, what? Fifteen? Sixteen? What the hell have you gotten me into?”
“You’re the one who insisted on recruiting him.” Phil handed the server some bills in exchange for several bags. “Don’t bitch at getting what you wished for. You can join us in Medical if you’d like to try your intimidation act on him.”
“Nope, he’s your problem now, Cheese. I expect my people to have the sense God gave little green apples and not recruit kids. Since you didn’t, you deal with him.”
Barton might be young, but no one who’d compiled the record he had could be described as a kid. But it was probably best to give him a few days to acclimate at SHIELD before exposing him to the force of nature that was Nick Fury. “Understood.” He ended the call before he was tempted to call Nick out on the lack of intel on Barton’s background and headed back to HQ.
Clint stared down at the pile of paperwork on the rolling table across his lap and debated whether it was too late to make a break for it. He didn’t know what half the questions were asking, and even the ones he understood, he didn’t know the answers for. He was an off-the-books mercenary, for fuck’s sake! He didn’t have a bank account. He got paid via dead drops. If he’d ever had a social security number, no one had ever given it to him. He didn’t even know his birthdate for sure because his dad had always been too drunk to celebrate it, and even when his mother tried to do something for him, it was never on the same day twice. They hadn’t done anything to recognize birthdays at the orphanage—they were lucky if they got a stocking at Christmas. And nobody in the circus celebrated birthdays. It just wasn’t a thing, much less for two runaway kids who were only barely tolerated until Barney got big enough to help the roundabouts and Clint learned how to shoot.
He flopped back on the pillows and closed his eyes. He could bide his time until his ribs healed and his leg wasn’t in danger of rotting off and then he could get the hell out of here. They might try to stick him with a bill for the treatment, but they’d have to find him again to do it.
Coulson found you once, his traitorous mind reminded him. But Clint hadn’t known anyone was looking then. If he ran now, he’d know and he’d do a better job of covering his tracks. Forewarned was forearmed, or however that went. The door to his room opened, and he looked up, expecting the doctor or maybe an orderly with his dinner, but as if summoned by his thoughts, Coulson walked in, two greasy paper bags in hand.
“It occurred to me that neither of us have eaten today.” Coulson glanced down at the papers before sweeping them back into the folder and dropping the bags on the table. “I didn’t know what you like on your burger, so I got everything.” He pulled one of the burgers from the bag and settled into a chair at Clint’s bedside. “Dig in before it gets cold.”
Clint grabbed at the bag, trying not to look desperate, but the delicious smells that assaulted his nose reminded him just how hungry he was. He pulled the burger out and took a giant bite, barely silencing a moan at the juicy, salty flavor. He could barely remember his last meal, much less the last time he’d had a burger this good.
Had he ever had a burger this good?
He wolfed down the rest of it before he could get self-conscious about it, then pulled out an extra-large container of fries. He ate those a little more slowly, the burger having taken the edge off his hunger. “Now all I need is a beer.”
“Not something allowed in Medical, and until we know you’re of legal age, you’ll have to settle for the milkshake.” Coulson folded his burger wrapper neatly—he’d managed to eat it without dropping even a crumb on his suit—and tossed it into a wastebasket.
Clint rolled his eyes. “I’m not a kid, Coulson. I have had beer before. I’ve even—gasp—had sex. Don’t treat me like I’m ten.” Clint wadded up his trash and banked it off the wall and into the basket. “Also, I never miss,” he told Coulson before stabbing the straw into his shake and taking a long suck.
Coulson reclaimed the folder and flipped through the pages. He glanced at Clint, his expression bland, and pulled a pen from his jacket pocket. “Let’s get this paperwork done, shall we? Full name?”
“At a guess, I'd say it’s Clinton Francis Barton.” At least that’s what his dad had yelled at him when he did something the old man hadn’t liked.
Coulson jotted on the form. “Date of birth?”
“Don’t know. Some time in February?” That was usually when his mother had tried to do something to celebrate. Maybe. He remembered lots of hearts and flowers on things, probably bought on clearance after Valentine’s Day. He did a quick calculation and provided a year that would make him twenty-one, because he wasn’t going to argue over whether he could have beer.
Coulson raised an eyebrow but didn’t challenge him. “Place of birth?”
“Iowa, I assume. We lived in Waverly when my parents died.” He didn’t remember ever living anywhere other than the falling apart double-wide in the trashy trailer park, but he didn’t have all that many memories of living even there. Most of his memories were from the circus and later.
“I’m sorry.” Coulson’s voice was soft, his eyes warm. “How old were you when you lost them?”
“Six.” According to Barney anyway, not that his dad had been any loss. He’d missed his ma when he had time to think about it, but those times had been few and far between.
“Did you have relatives to take you in?”
“No, the local orphanage took us for a bit, but it wasn’t for us. We joined the circus pretty quickly.” It had been a couple of years too long as far as Clint was concerned, but he wasn’t going to share that. He met and held Coulson’s gaze, daring him to make something of Clint’s unusual upbringing.
“We?” Shit, Coulson would latch onto that slip of the tongue rather than caring that he’d grown up in a circus.
“My brother,” Clint replied, keeping his voice as neutral as possible. “We lost touch a few years back.”
“When you started working as a mercenary?” Coulson’s tone held no judgment, but Clint wasn’t about to relive the reason he’d “lost touch” with Barney and left the circus.
“A few months before.” That ought to be noncommittal enough. And if Coulson pushed, he’d tell him it was none of his fucking business and didn’t have anything to do with the paperwork that needed filling out. “What else is on that damn form?”
“I suppose it’s too much to expect that the circus required a social security number and made payroll deductions?”
Clint shrugged. “They paid cash.” When they paid at all.
“Bank account? Even if your… jobs since then paid cash, SHIELD pays by direct deposit.”
“Nope.” Clint popped the p to cover his unease. He’d known going straight wasn’t going to be easy, but he hadn’t expected it to be quite this hard. “Look, Coulson. I get you’re trying to help, but there’s not a single damn question in that whole stack of papers I have the answer to, okay? I slipped through—or ran through—every crack in the system as hard and as often as I could. And given how fucked up my parents were before they died, I don’t even know for sure if I was in the system to begin with. Thanks for the medical care, but I’m never going to fit in here, not if I need all that shit just to get in the door. I’ll be out of your hair as soon as someone takes out this fucking IV.”
Coulson closed the folder and set it back on the table. “All these things are necessary eventually, but they aren’t a prerequisite for you to get started. As your recruiter, I can help you work through them.”
Why would Coulson go to the trouble? Yeah, maybe it was part of his job, but no one had offered Clint “help” in the past without expecting something in return. Was it possible the Suit was genuinely as decent as he seemed?
Before Clint could decide, the good-looking doctor came in carrying a tray of food and wrinkled her nose at the smell of the burgers. “Smuggling in contraband, Agent Coulson?”
“I’m sure Mr. Barton can manage to eat that too.” Coulson stood and picked up the folder. “Get a good night’s sleep. We can readdress these tomorrow.” He glanced back before heading out the door. “And, Mr. Barton, you aren’t going to ‘fit in’ at SHIELD. You’re going to excel.”
What the fuck was he supposed to do with that?
Clint didn’t know, but he swore right then and there he’d do everything he could to never let Coulson down.
Phil left Medical and headed back to his office. Given the few clues Barton had given him, he ought to be able to do a better job of intel gathering than whatever incompetent had put together his original file.
It didn’t take long searching the Iowa birth records database to find a certificate for Clinton Francis Barton, parents Harold and Edith Barton. As he suspected, the kid had only just turned twenty. A check of newspapers six years later found a record in the Bremer County Independent of a single-car auto wreck that took his parents’ lives, with DUI suspected as the contributing factor. In the same month, the Evangelical Lutheran Orphans Home in Waverly admitted Clinton Francis Barton and his older brother, Charles Bernard Barton. The two disappeared from the orphanage records three years later. Another newspaper search around the same time produced an ad for Carson’s Carnival of Traveling Wonders, performing two shows daily in Waverly. That had to be the circus Barton had mentioned, and sure enough, a few years afterward Carson’s ads began touting the Amazing Hawkeye, the World’s Greatest Marksman. Three years later, any mention of Hawkeye disappeared.
Phil shook his head. Orphaned at six, runaway at nine, circus performer at thirteen, mercenary at sixteen. No wonder Barton was frustrated at SHIELD’s paperwork. He’d probably had a few years of formal education at most. It made his survival, let alone his record as a mercenary, all the more impressive.
It also made filling out that paperwork a challenge. Phil had an actual date of birth now, but from what he could tell, no social security number had ever been issued, so they’d have to take care of that. He also found no legal documents of any kind other than the birth certificate. No driver’s license, no passport, no bank account or credit card, no permanent address, nothing. If he didn’t have Barton in Medical downstairs, he’d swear the man didn’t exist. Yet kills credited to Hawkeye had occurred all over the world, so he’d managed international travel somehow. If he’d obtained fake IDs, why had he never gotten a real one?
Well, it didn’t matter now. Phil had his birth certificate, and with that he could begin the process of establishing an identity for one Clint Barton, agent of SHIELD.
He collected a still-grumpy Barton from Medical the next morning—though not grumpy enough to refrain from blowing a kiss to Dr. Tsiakis with a cheery “Nice to meet you, hope I never have to see you again!” Somehow Phil doubted they could be so lucky.
More of Barton’s grumpiness disappeared when Phil seated him on the couch in his office and set a loaded bagel sandwich and large coffee in front of him. Though he side-eyed the even thicker folder on Phil’s desk, which Phil had added a number of additional forms to the night before, he didn’t say anything beyond a muttered “thanks” until he’d doctored the coffee to his liking (two creams, three sugars, Phil noted for future reference) and downed the sandwich in half a dozen large bites.
“I’m pretty sure those damn forms multiplied on me overnight,” Barton said finally. “I don’t have any more answers than I did yesterday.”
“I didn’t expect that you did,” Phil replied easily. “I, however, do have answers to at least some of them, meaning we can begin to apply for the pieces you don’t have.”
Barton frowned. “What do you mean?”
“I found your birth certificate, so now we can apply for a social security number,” Phil said. “Once we have that, we can open a bank account for you, and apply for a state ID until you can take the test to get a driver’s license. You’ll have to use SHIELD as your permanent address until we can establish enough of a presence for you to be able to rent an apartment legitimately, but it won’t be much trouble to change the address down the road should you decide to move off base.”
Barton’s frown deepened, making Phil wonder if he’d overstepped. “But why? I mean, why would you do all that? Surely you’ve got better things to do with your time.”
Phil paused before responding. He could tell Barton that new asset orientation was part of his job, which was true to a point, though it had never involved this kind of effort before. But that reduced Barton to a commodity, and Phil needed to convince Barton he was more than that. “Because I promised you that someone would always have your back. Not just in the field, because as you’ve proven, you’re adept at taking care of yourself. But you’ve had a, shall we say, unconventional upbringing? You haven’t had the opportunity or the need to obtain these things until now. Consider it part of SHIELD’s training to assist you.”
“I’m not stupid,” Barton snapped. “The circus might have had its issues, but they made sure we got an education. Homeschooling is a thing, you know.”
“You’re far from stupid,” Coulson agreed. That was an obvious sore spot, and he’d have to tread lightly. “You’ve overcome challenges most recruits haven’t had to face. SHIELD training isn’t one-size-fits-all—it’s customized based on each individual’s needs.” He should know; he’d designed most of the curriculum himself. “You won’t need the firearm training we put most rookies through. That doesn’t make them stupid, just inexperienced. This is no different.”
Barton’s expression lost the worst of its mutinous cast, but he still looked far from convinced. “So besides how to navigate government bureaucracy, what will SHIELD try to teach me?” The words carried a hint of a challenge, like Barton didn’t believe SHIELD could teach him anything, and outside of highly technical skills like flying the various aircraft SHIELD had at its disposal, they probably didn’t have a lot to teach him in the field. But there was more to their missions than fighting, and Phil would bet that with enough context to understand current events, Barton could be a first-rate strategist on top of a first-rate marksman.
Time to defuse that challenge, then. “What would you like to learn? I have no doubt you can pass the GED, which will qualify you for college-level classes in addition to SHIELD’s in-house courses. With full tuition reimbursement, of course.”
Barton’s face went through an interesting series of contortions as he processed that statement and all its implications. Phil waited patiently, his expression as neutral as he could make it. He’d already started a list of all the ways SHIELD could use Barton’s skills—as well as the training modules he’d need to take or test out of to qualify—but if Barton had an agenda of his own, Phil could work with that too. As they built trust between them, Phil could guide him later if necessary.
“I probably ought to get my GED just so no one can hold it over my head later,” Barton said slowly. “Not because I think I need it, but because other people will say I’m stupid if I don’t have it. But what always fascinated me the most was languages. A couple of the circus folk spoke different languages and I picked up what I could. They always said I had an ear for it. Course, they coulda just been saying that to get me to leave them alone.”
“Given the jobs you’ve taken outside the US, I expect you’ve picked up a rather specialized vocabulary in several languages.” Barton’s jaw tightened at that observation, as if he hadn’t expected Phil to know his resumé. “Adding to that would be helpful in taking on undercover assignments.”
“Undercover?” Barton scoffed. “I’m a marksman, not a spy. Getting my hick ass to blend in with anyone other than American trailer trash is a feat not even the circus could make believable.”
“Yet you’ve managed to complete assignments in at least six countries where English isn’t the primary language,” Phil countered. “Which argues against being stereotyped as a ‘hick,’ let alone ‘trailer trash’. Neither of which are acceptable terms for you or anyone else to use.”
“You didn’t see where I was born,” Barton muttered, but he didn’t argue beyond that sotto voce comment, so Phil let it drop. “None of that gets this damn paperwork filled out, and SHIELD isn’t going to teach me shit until it’s done. I’d bet your ass on it.”
“Then let’s get to it.” Phil handed Barton a pen. “By the way, your birthday is on February 17th. And it will be another year before you’re legal to drink.”