Fic: The Man With the Plan, Avengers (2012), PG13
Title:The Man With the Plan
Author: rubygirl29
Fandom: Avengers (2012)
Rating: PG13
Characters: Phil Coulson, Clint Barton
Disclaimer: Marvel owns them I just play with them
Author's Note: Totally my own wee brain thinking about how they met.
The Man With the Plan
He wasn't supposed to be here. It wasn't the plan. He should have been in the American Consulate in Kandahar checking up on the warlord who had taken and held Tony Stark for ransom. He wasn't supposed to be lying here in the dust, his face smeared with blood and grit, his ears ringing from the missile strike that had disabled the truck he was riding in and killed his escorts. God, he was supposed to get intel on Stark and here he was caught in the same bloody mess. He felt suddenly sick and retched up the coffee he'd drunk before getting in the truck. He crawled away from the foulness, wiped his mouth on his sleeve and heard the crunch of boots on soil. He lay still, waiting.
Voices, speaking Pashtun, harsh and angry. A booted foot nudging him to his back. He decided playing 'possum was the best thing. He was hauled to his feet, his hands tied and slung into the back of a truck. He waiting until the truck was in motion before he slitted his eyes open. He was alone. Good. He had a plan.
Phil Coulson was always a man with a plan.
^*^*^*^*^*^*^
He wasn't so sure his plan included being blindfolded, bound and thrown into a cave. The stones beneath him were cold; he was below ground, but the air was good. It smelled dusty, not dank. The side of his face was sticky with blood. Maybe his, maybe the poor Marine who had been riding with him when the rocket hit. His head throbbed and his stomach hurt. In general, he felt like shit. He rolled to his back and inched his way up the wall until he was sitting upright. He wondered if his captors would get around to giving him water. He called out as loudly as his dry throat allowed.
Footsteps again. The blindfold was yanked off and Coulson blinked in the unexpected light of a bare bulb. If his hearing hadn't been so out of whack by the explosion, he would have noticed the hum of a generator in the near distance. So, some sort of Taliban rebel camp ... fairly well established.
He asked again for water, this time in Dari. His captor, a dark-bearded man whose only features left exposed were his eyes, held a canteen to his mouth. The water was tinny and warm, but he drank deeply.
"Better?" The man spoke in accented English.
"Thank you."
The man's eyes narrowed but he untied Coulson's hands. He marched him over to a bucket and held him at gunpoint as he urinated, then bound his hands once more. "You are hungry?"
"Yes."
He was left alone for a few minutes. When the man returned, he had a tin plate of flatbread and some sort of meat. Coulson figured it was goat, given the ubiquitous presence of the beasts in Afghanistan. His hands were untied, then bound loosely in front of him so he could eat.
The meat was tough and gamey, but not entirely inedible. He had to eat. He had to have water. He finished his food, then looked at the plate. He found a rock and began honing the rim to a sharp edge. It was flimsy, but he only needed to cut the rope around his hands. When he judged the edge to be as sharp as he could make it without making it too thin, he held it between his knees and worked the rope against it until it was frayed and ready to break. He gripped a rock in his hands and waited.
When his captor returned, Coulson held out the plate. "Good," he whispered, and the man bent closer to hear him. Coulson's linked hands shot up, the rock adding heft to the blow. He impacted the man's jaw, breaking bone and knocking him back. Coulson swung again, striking the man on the temple, knocking him unconscious. He ripped the last shreds of rope from his wrists, then cut the binding on his ankles. He was wearing digitized desert camouflage and hated to leave the sturdy clothing behind, but he stripped the long coat off the unconscious Talib, wrapped the long turban around his head, hiding his face. He tied the man up with his sash, stuffed more cloth in his mouth as a gag, and ran down the passage to the front of the cave.
The camp was bigger than he had expected; good in one way, since the scrutiny would be light, bad in that he had farther to go to get out of the place. He started walking purposefully towards the perimeter as if he were on an errand. He was nearly at the barbed-wire enclosure when he was stopped cold in his tracks.
One of the biggest men he had ever seen was blocking his path. He started a rapid-fire interrogation of Coulson. His Pashtun was serviceable, not fluent. He kept pointing to his ears, hoping that the man would get the idea that he was deaf. Judging from his expression, Coulson's ruse wasn't working very well.
He didn't want to kill the man, but he could, and would, if forced to it. He began to slowly pull the knife from the belt at the small of his back.
He didn't know how it happened, or how a man that big could move so fast, but Phil was on the ground, the Taliban's huge hand crushing his larynx; he was unable to move, unable to breathe. Dying was not a part of this plan, he thought dimly as black spots clouded his vision.
Phil heard a sound -- a soft whistle and a thud -- then the Afghani fell limply across his body. with the shaft of an arrow improbably protruding from his back. Nearly three hundred pounds of dead weight was impossible for him to move. Phil was wiry, stronger than he looked, but he couldn't budge the corpse.
Then the weight lifted from his body, and a man in dark camouflage knelt over him. "You okay?"
Phil nodded. "I think so, now that I can breathe." He took a deep breath to prove it. "Who are you?"
"Lucky for you, the world's greatest marksman. But right now, we need to blow this pop stand." He tugged Phil upright easily. "Let's go."
"Where?"
"Anywhere but here. How fast can you run?"
Phil considered. Headache. Nausea. Vertigo. It all added up to a concussion; a mild one, but he didn't know how much he could push his body before it gave out. "I'm pretty sure I have a concussion."
"No broken bones?"
"No."
"Good. We need to get up to that ridge. I can send a satellite signal from there."
Coulson looked where the self-proclaimed 'Greatest Marksman in the World,' had pointed. It looked like the Alps. "I can do it," he said, his fingers crossed in his pockets.
"First, a diversion." The marksman took an arrow from his quiver. Quiver? Seriously? The arrow had what looked like a small bullet attached to the shaft just above the arrowhead. The archer nocked the arrow, raised a bow that looked more like something out of Star Trek than Robin Hood and loosed the arrow unerringly towards a pile of metal drums covered by camouflage netting. The night exploded in a brilliant flash of fire. "Run!" He grabbed Coulson's sleeve and tugged him away from the camp. Coulson wasn't as young as he had been, but he had been a marine and his workouts were legend. He kept up.
By the time they reached the summit of the ridge, the fire was a red smudge below them on the valley floor. Phil's head was pounding in earnest. He sat down on a rock. "I don't suppose you have any ibuprofen?" he asked.
The archer's teeth glittered in the moonlight. He rummaged through a backpack he must have left earlier and tossed a foil of ibuprofen and a canteen over to Phil. He took out a palm-sized GPS device, keyed in a code and waited. "Help should be here in a few."
"A few? As in minutes? Hours?"
"Something like that. It depends on the SAM activity in the area." He tossed a thicker jacket over to Phil. "Warm up and get some sleep."
"Who are you -- besides the World's Greatest Marksman?"
"Barton."
"I'm --"
"Agent Phil Coulson. I know."
Coulson's eyes narrowed. "What are you? CIA? NSA?"
"Neither. Any more than that and I'd have to kill you."
Phil didn't think he was joking. Black Ops or Delta Force, those were the immediate options. Either one meant that Barton was a force to be reckoned with. He pulled the coat closer around his shoulders. The night was bitter after the heat of the day. The ibuprofen was dulling his headache. The jacket was warm and smelled comfortingly like soap, sweat and smoke. He was just about to doze off,when he heard Barton curse softly and shake his shoulder. "We've got company."
"Gun?" Phil asked.
Barton raised a brow. "Way too noisy." He grinned wickedly. "This is better." He nocked an arrow and fired. The arrows were deadly, and silent. One after another, the enemy forces making their way up the slope fell. "Who are you? Robin Hood?" Coulson muttered.
Barton muffled a laugh. "I'm better." Another shot, another Al Qaeda fighter down. Then somebody got smart and started firing shells at the ridge. Barton shoved Coulson down with a hiss. "This is so not good," he muttered. "There's another fuel dump about five hundred yards east." He pressed a 9mm into Phil's hand. "Noise won't matter. Give me time to shoot. If I'm not back in five minutes, grab the Sat nav and run like hell." He turned to leave.
"Barton?"
"Yeah?"
"You know I'll come to find you. 'No man left behind' and all that."
Barton's eyes widened then narrowed as a smile warmed the corners. "Nah, don't do that. Just get yourself out of here safely. That's my mission." He turned and ran in a low lope, dodging through the shadows.
Phil heard the helicopter before he saw it ... a deep thrum in the night sky. The enemy was still lobbing shells, but their mortars were aimed too low. That could change, Coulson thought. Then the second fuel dump exploded, shooting flames into the sky. Coulson could see the crews manning the mortars, could see death flying through the night on silent wings as Barton's bow took its lethal toll. Then the flight of arrows stopped, Phil's heart nearly did as well.
The chopper was close. The rotors were stirring up dust and wind. He held his arm over his mouth and nose. A rope dropped down. There was a radio attached. Coulson snagged it. The airman gave him a thumbs up. Coulson shook his head and spoke into the radio. "Not without my archer."
"What?"
"Barton. The archer. I think he's down." He pointed east. "That way!"
"Get in the chopper, sir."
"Not until we get Barton." Phil clicked off and headed east along the ridge. The burning fuel drums shed enough light for him to see. He found Barton sitting against a boulder, his face white. His hand was pressed to his side and there was blood seeping through his fingers.
He looked up at Phil. "Told you to get out of here."
"We'll talk about that later." Phil had grabbed the knapsack and rifled through it until he found a pressure bandage. He held it to the wound, hoping the clotting agent would work fast. "Chopper's here. Can you stand?"
"Maybe." Phil didn't hesitate. He pulled Barton upright, supported him with his shoulder and headed him towards the level area behind the ridge. The chopper dropped a rope and harness. Phil helped Barton fasten the harness and rope. He was about to give a thumbs-up to the corpsman at the bay door, when Barton grabbed him. "My bow. Get my bow!"
"Got it." He did, slung on his shoulder. Barton sighed and his head drooped on Phil's shoulder. He held Barton tight, feeling the throb of his pulse, the hitch of his breath, the weight of his head.
They were inside the chopper and on the way west, leaving chaos in their wake. Score another one for the good guys, Phil though as he watched the medic work on Barton.
"Is he going to be all right?"
"It looks like he took some shrapnel. One piece did most of the damage. It looks like a lot of blood, but I don't think anything vital was damaged. You did good getting that bandage on him."
"It wasn't the first field dressing I've done," Phil said wryly. "Two hitches in the Marines will do that for you." He blinked and grabbed at a piece of netting.
"Sir, are you all right?"
Phil shrugged. "Concussion. Not my first for that, either."
The medic shone a light into his eyes and took his pulse. "Dizzy? Headache?"
"Nausea ... Yes."
"You'd better get checked out, too."
Phil nodded and sank to the floor. He watched as the medic inserted an IV in Barton's arm. He wanted to sleep, but he wanted to watch over Barton more. He was beginning to get an idea ... He had a plan ...
^*^*^*^*^*^*^
He was sitting next to the hospital bed at Bagram when Barton's eyes opened. IVs were piggy-backed on a pole; antibiotics, blood, hydration, morphine. He watched the haze in Barton's eyes clear as he took it all in, moaned, and wet his lips. "How bad is it?" he asked.
"Not as bad as you feel. You'll be airlifted to Germany in the morning, spend a few days at Ramstein, and then fly to New York to recover."
"New York?"
Phil cleared his throat. "Do you like working for the DoD?"
"I never told you I worked for the DoD."
Phil shrugged. "It was a guess."
"Right." He looked down at the IV in his arm. "It's not the worst job I ever had."
The way he said it made Phil wonder what sort of past Barton had. The background check was still being processed. "What if I offered you the chance to do something different? A job like you've never had before. Working with the most incredible people and technology in the world?"
Barton snorted. "That's what they told me when I joined the Army."
Phil smiled. "Standard recruiting line, I know." He held out a manila envelope with a wax seal on it. "When you're feeling better, read this. My contact information is in there. Don't lose it."
"I'll guard it with my life," Barton said, and Coulson wasn't so sure he was joking. There was something about the way he looked at him.
"How did you become 'The World's Greatest Marksman'?" Phil asked.
Barton gave him an oddly piercing look. "Get my pack." Phil handed it to him and waited while Barton opened up a zippered compartment. He took out a laminated photo and handed it to Phil.
The picture showed two young men, looking enough alike to be brothers, with their arms slung around each other's shoulders. One was obviously Barton, a quiver of arrows over his shoulders and a bow in his hand. Next to him was a circus poster, also obviously Barton, with the words, The World's Greatest Marksman.
Phil raised a brow but didn't say anything. He handed the photo back. "Most kids run off to join the circus."
"Well, I ran off to get away from it," Barton said, his eyes terribly sad and wearily.
There was a story there, but Coulson didn't want to hear it, and he doubted Barton was ready to tell it. "Just read what's in that envelope and give me a call when you feel up to it. I have to return to New York tonight, concussion not withstanding." He took a breath. "I want to thank you for coming to my rescue. I'm afraid my chances for survival were pretty dim."
"It was fun until this happened." He looked down at his bandaged torso. "I should thank you for the rescue."
"Leave no man behind, and all that."
"That's what you said." Barton's hand brushed over the envelope. "I didn't think you meant it."
"I rarely say things I don't mean," Phil said evenly. "There aren't strings attached, Barton. No matter what you decide, it's your choice, not an obligation."
"My name is Clint," Barton said.
Phil's lips quirked. "I know. Though it ought to be Hawkeye."
Barton laughed, then winced. "Have a good trip home, Agent Coulson."
"And you, to Germany. Get well, Barton. I expect to hear from you when you're fit." He held out his hand to Barton. They shook, warm palms pressed together. They both knew, in that instant, that their futures were as linked as their hands.
After all, Phil was a man whose plans had a way of working out.
The End
Author: rubygirl29
Fandom: Avengers (2012)
Rating: PG13
Characters: Phil Coulson, Clint Barton
Disclaimer: Marvel owns them I just play with them
Author's Note: Totally my own wee brain thinking about how they met.
The Man With the Plan
He wasn't supposed to be here. It wasn't the plan. He should have been in the American Consulate in Kandahar checking up on the warlord who had taken and held Tony Stark for ransom. He wasn't supposed to be lying here in the dust, his face smeared with blood and grit, his ears ringing from the missile strike that had disabled the truck he was riding in and killed his escorts. God, he was supposed to get intel on Stark and here he was caught in the same bloody mess. He felt suddenly sick and retched up the coffee he'd drunk before getting in the truck. He crawled away from the foulness, wiped his mouth on his sleeve and heard the crunch of boots on soil. He lay still, waiting.
Voices, speaking Pashtun, harsh and angry. A booted foot nudging him to his back. He decided playing 'possum was the best thing. He was hauled to his feet, his hands tied and slung into the back of a truck. He waiting until the truck was in motion before he slitted his eyes open. He was alone. Good. He had a plan.
Phil Coulson was always a man with a plan.
^*^*^*^*^*^*^
He wasn't so sure his plan included being blindfolded, bound and thrown into a cave. The stones beneath him were cold; he was below ground, but the air was good. It smelled dusty, not dank. The side of his face was sticky with blood. Maybe his, maybe the poor Marine who had been riding with him when the rocket hit. His head throbbed and his stomach hurt. In general, he felt like shit. He rolled to his back and inched his way up the wall until he was sitting upright. He wondered if his captors would get around to giving him water. He called out as loudly as his dry throat allowed.
Footsteps again. The blindfold was yanked off and Coulson blinked in the unexpected light of a bare bulb. If his hearing hadn't been so out of whack by the explosion, he would have noticed the hum of a generator in the near distance. So, some sort of Taliban rebel camp ... fairly well established.
He asked again for water, this time in Dari. His captor, a dark-bearded man whose only features left exposed were his eyes, held a canteen to his mouth. The water was tinny and warm, but he drank deeply.
"Better?" The man spoke in accented English.
"Thank you."
The man's eyes narrowed but he untied Coulson's hands. He marched him over to a bucket and held him at gunpoint as he urinated, then bound his hands once more. "You are hungry?"
"Yes."
He was left alone for a few minutes. When the man returned, he had a tin plate of flatbread and some sort of meat. Coulson figured it was goat, given the ubiquitous presence of the beasts in Afghanistan. His hands were untied, then bound loosely in front of him so he could eat.
The meat was tough and gamey, but not entirely inedible. He had to eat. He had to have water. He finished his food, then looked at the plate. He found a rock and began honing the rim to a sharp edge. It was flimsy, but he only needed to cut the rope around his hands. When he judged the edge to be as sharp as he could make it without making it too thin, he held it between his knees and worked the rope against it until it was frayed and ready to break. He gripped a rock in his hands and waited.
When his captor returned, Coulson held out the plate. "Good," he whispered, and the man bent closer to hear him. Coulson's linked hands shot up, the rock adding heft to the blow. He impacted the man's jaw, breaking bone and knocking him back. Coulson swung again, striking the man on the temple, knocking him unconscious. He ripped the last shreds of rope from his wrists, then cut the binding on his ankles. He was wearing digitized desert camouflage and hated to leave the sturdy clothing behind, but he stripped the long coat off the unconscious Talib, wrapped the long turban around his head, hiding his face. He tied the man up with his sash, stuffed more cloth in his mouth as a gag, and ran down the passage to the front of the cave.
The camp was bigger than he had expected; good in one way, since the scrutiny would be light, bad in that he had farther to go to get out of the place. He started walking purposefully towards the perimeter as if he were on an errand. He was nearly at the barbed-wire enclosure when he was stopped cold in his tracks.
One of the biggest men he had ever seen was blocking his path. He started a rapid-fire interrogation of Coulson. His Pashtun was serviceable, not fluent. He kept pointing to his ears, hoping that the man would get the idea that he was deaf. Judging from his expression, Coulson's ruse wasn't working very well.
He didn't want to kill the man, but he could, and would, if forced to it. He began to slowly pull the knife from the belt at the small of his back.
He didn't know how it happened, or how a man that big could move so fast, but Phil was on the ground, the Taliban's huge hand crushing his larynx; he was unable to move, unable to breathe. Dying was not a part of this plan, he thought dimly as black spots clouded his vision.
Phil heard a sound -- a soft whistle and a thud -- then the Afghani fell limply across his body. with the shaft of an arrow improbably protruding from his back. Nearly three hundred pounds of dead weight was impossible for him to move. Phil was wiry, stronger than he looked, but he couldn't budge the corpse.
Then the weight lifted from his body, and a man in dark camouflage knelt over him. "You okay?"
Phil nodded. "I think so, now that I can breathe." He took a deep breath to prove it. "Who are you?"
"Lucky for you, the world's greatest marksman. But right now, we need to blow this pop stand." He tugged Phil upright easily. "Let's go."
"Where?"
"Anywhere but here. How fast can you run?"
Phil considered. Headache. Nausea. Vertigo. It all added up to a concussion; a mild one, but he didn't know how much he could push his body before it gave out. "I'm pretty sure I have a concussion."
"No broken bones?"
"No."
"Good. We need to get up to that ridge. I can send a satellite signal from there."
Coulson looked where the self-proclaimed 'Greatest Marksman in the World,' had pointed. It looked like the Alps. "I can do it," he said, his fingers crossed in his pockets.
"First, a diversion." The marksman took an arrow from his quiver. Quiver? Seriously? The arrow had what looked like a small bullet attached to the shaft just above the arrowhead. The archer nocked the arrow, raised a bow that looked more like something out of Star Trek than Robin Hood and loosed the arrow unerringly towards a pile of metal drums covered by camouflage netting. The night exploded in a brilliant flash of fire. "Run!" He grabbed Coulson's sleeve and tugged him away from the camp. Coulson wasn't as young as he had been, but he had been a marine and his workouts were legend. He kept up.
By the time they reached the summit of the ridge, the fire was a red smudge below them on the valley floor. Phil's head was pounding in earnest. He sat down on a rock. "I don't suppose you have any ibuprofen?" he asked.
The archer's teeth glittered in the moonlight. He rummaged through a backpack he must have left earlier and tossed a foil of ibuprofen and a canteen over to Phil. He took out a palm-sized GPS device, keyed in a code and waited. "Help should be here in a few."
"A few? As in minutes? Hours?"
"Something like that. It depends on the SAM activity in the area." He tossed a thicker jacket over to Phil. "Warm up and get some sleep."
"Who are you -- besides the World's Greatest Marksman?"
"Barton."
"I'm --"
"Agent Phil Coulson. I know."
Coulson's eyes narrowed. "What are you? CIA? NSA?"
"Neither. Any more than that and I'd have to kill you."
Phil didn't think he was joking. Black Ops or Delta Force, those were the immediate options. Either one meant that Barton was a force to be reckoned with. He pulled the coat closer around his shoulders. The night was bitter after the heat of the day. The ibuprofen was dulling his headache. The jacket was warm and smelled comfortingly like soap, sweat and smoke. He was just about to doze off,when he heard Barton curse softly and shake his shoulder. "We've got company."
"Gun?" Phil asked.
Barton raised a brow. "Way too noisy." He grinned wickedly. "This is better." He nocked an arrow and fired. The arrows were deadly, and silent. One after another, the enemy forces making their way up the slope fell. "Who are you? Robin Hood?" Coulson muttered.
Barton muffled a laugh. "I'm better." Another shot, another Al Qaeda fighter down. Then somebody got smart and started firing shells at the ridge. Barton shoved Coulson down with a hiss. "This is so not good," he muttered. "There's another fuel dump about five hundred yards east." He pressed a 9mm into Phil's hand. "Noise won't matter. Give me time to shoot. If I'm not back in five minutes, grab the Sat nav and run like hell." He turned to leave.
"Barton?"
"Yeah?"
"You know I'll come to find you. 'No man left behind' and all that."
Barton's eyes widened then narrowed as a smile warmed the corners. "Nah, don't do that. Just get yourself out of here safely. That's my mission." He turned and ran in a low lope, dodging through the shadows.
Phil heard the helicopter before he saw it ... a deep thrum in the night sky. The enemy was still lobbing shells, but their mortars were aimed too low. That could change, Coulson thought. Then the second fuel dump exploded, shooting flames into the sky. Coulson could see the crews manning the mortars, could see death flying through the night on silent wings as Barton's bow took its lethal toll. Then the flight of arrows stopped, Phil's heart nearly did as well.
The chopper was close. The rotors were stirring up dust and wind. He held his arm over his mouth and nose. A rope dropped down. There was a radio attached. Coulson snagged it. The airman gave him a thumbs up. Coulson shook his head and spoke into the radio. "Not without my archer."
"What?"
"Barton. The archer. I think he's down." He pointed east. "That way!"
"Get in the chopper, sir."
"Not until we get Barton." Phil clicked off and headed east along the ridge. The burning fuel drums shed enough light for him to see. He found Barton sitting against a boulder, his face white. His hand was pressed to his side and there was blood seeping through his fingers.
He looked up at Phil. "Told you to get out of here."
"We'll talk about that later." Phil had grabbed the knapsack and rifled through it until he found a pressure bandage. He held it to the wound, hoping the clotting agent would work fast. "Chopper's here. Can you stand?"
"Maybe." Phil didn't hesitate. He pulled Barton upright, supported him with his shoulder and headed him towards the level area behind the ridge. The chopper dropped a rope and harness. Phil helped Barton fasten the harness and rope. He was about to give a thumbs-up to the corpsman at the bay door, when Barton grabbed him. "My bow. Get my bow!"
"Got it." He did, slung on his shoulder. Barton sighed and his head drooped on Phil's shoulder. He held Barton tight, feeling the throb of his pulse, the hitch of his breath, the weight of his head.
They were inside the chopper and on the way west, leaving chaos in their wake. Score another one for the good guys, Phil though as he watched the medic work on Barton.
"Is he going to be all right?"
"It looks like he took some shrapnel. One piece did most of the damage. It looks like a lot of blood, but I don't think anything vital was damaged. You did good getting that bandage on him."
"It wasn't the first field dressing I've done," Phil said wryly. "Two hitches in the Marines will do that for you." He blinked and grabbed at a piece of netting.
"Sir, are you all right?"
Phil shrugged. "Concussion. Not my first for that, either."
The medic shone a light into his eyes and took his pulse. "Dizzy? Headache?"
"Nausea ... Yes."
"You'd better get checked out, too."
Phil nodded and sank to the floor. He watched as the medic inserted an IV in Barton's arm. He wanted to sleep, but he wanted to watch over Barton more. He was beginning to get an idea ... He had a plan ...
^*^*^*^*^*^*^
He was sitting next to the hospital bed at Bagram when Barton's eyes opened. IVs were piggy-backed on a pole; antibiotics, blood, hydration, morphine. He watched the haze in Barton's eyes clear as he took it all in, moaned, and wet his lips. "How bad is it?" he asked.
"Not as bad as you feel. You'll be airlifted to Germany in the morning, spend a few days at Ramstein, and then fly to New York to recover."
"New York?"
Phil cleared his throat. "Do you like working for the DoD?"
"I never told you I worked for the DoD."
Phil shrugged. "It was a guess."
"Right." He looked down at the IV in his arm. "It's not the worst job I ever had."
The way he said it made Phil wonder what sort of past Barton had. The background check was still being processed. "What if I offered you the chance to do something different? A job like you've never had before. Working with the most incredible people and technology in the world?"
Barton snorted. "That's what they told me when I joined the Army."
Phil smiled. "Standard recruiting line, I know." He held out a manila envelope with a wax seal on it. "When you're feeling better, read this. My contact information is in there. Don't lose it."
"I'll guard it with my life," Barton said, and Coulson wasn't so sure he was joking. There was something about the way he looked at him.
"How did you become 'The World's Greatest Marksman'?" Phil asked.
Barton gave him an oddly piercing look. "Get my pack." Phil handed it to him and waited while Barton opened up a zippered compartment. He took out a laminated photo and handed it to Phil.
The picture showed two young men, looking enough alike to be brothers, with their arms slung around each other's shoulders. One was obviously Barton, a quiver of arrows over his shoulders and a bow in his hand. Next to him was a circus poster, also obviously Barton, with the words, The World's Greatest Marksman.
Phil raised a brow but didn't say anything. He handed the photo back. "Most kids run off to join the circus."
"Well, I ran off to get away from it," Barton said, his eyes terribly sad and wearily.
There was a story there, but Coulson didn't want to hear it, and he doubted Barton was ready to tell it. "Just read what's in that envelope and give me a call when you feel up to it. I have to return to New York tonight, concussion not withstanding." He took a breath. "I want to thank you for coming to my rescue. I'm afraid my chances for survival were pretty dim."
"It was fun until this happened." He looked down at his bandaged torso. "I should thank you for the rescue."
"Leave no man behind, and all that."
"That's what you said." Barton's hand brushed over the envelope. "I didn't think you meant it."
"I rarely say things I don't mean," Phil said evenly. "There aren't strings attached, Barton. No matter what you decide, it's your choice, not an obligation."
"My name is Clint," Barton said.
Phil's lips quirked. "I know. Though it ought to be Hawkeye."
Barton laughed, then winced. "Have a good trip home, Agent Coulson."
"And you, to Germany. Get well, Barton. I expect to hear from you when you're fit." He held out his hand to Barton. They shook, warm palms pressed together. They both knew, in that instant, that their futures were as linked as their hands.
After all, Phil was a man whose plans had a way of working out.
The End