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Clint Barton's flight from Ramstein to JFK was long and difficult with his still-healing side nagging like a sore tooth. He had sent his weapons ahead to avoid difficulties in Customs, and his passport issued through the DoD meant that there were no delays. Even with that, his energy was flagging and he felt like he hadn't slept in three weeks despite having spent a ridiculous amount of time sleeping while he was in the hospital. He was gritty, jet-lagged, run down. He had been in the field for nearly three months before he had been sent in to rescue Agent Coulson. He knew he was walking a knife-edge of tension and exhaustion. His two choices were to find a hotel, shower, make himself presentable, or go right to the address Coulson had given him. He decided on the latter, thinking that once he was clean and in a quiet room he'd crash and lose his nerve.
Outside the terminal, the air was thick and muggy. It made him feel slow, and that was something he could never afford to be. He waved down a taxi and gave the driver an address in Manhattan. The AC in the taxi wheezed fitfully, but it was better than the air outside. It was long, slow trip through traffic and skyscrapers. The mid-rise building on the corner was modern, but not ostentatious. It looked like it had been designed by the government -- which it probably had been. S.H.I.E.L.D. was just another government agency, after all. Maybe.
He pushed against the revolving door and stepped from the heat and crowd of the street into a surprisingly sleek lobby with terrazzo floors inlaid with the S.H.I.E.L.D. logo. Taxpayer dollars at work, he thought bitterly. They should have spent the money on better body armor for the military. That, however, was hardly Coulson's fault.
"Can I help you, sir?" A large man wearing a black uniform with the logo emblazoned on the front pocket stepped in front of Clint. "You're not allowed beyond this point without a security badge."
Great. Clint slowly pulled Coulson's letter from his jacket pocket and handed it to the guard. He examined it, even held it up to the light. "One minute, sir. I need to verify this."
Of course he did. Then Clint caught a reflection of himself in the shiny black granite wall behind the security desk. No wonder the guard was cautious. He looked rough, unkempt, as tired as if he had spent the night on the streets. He imagined S.H.I.E.L.D. wasn't the sort of place vagrants freqented.
Clint's side twinged. He looked around for someplace to rest his bones. Sadly, true to most government facilities since 9/11, there were no benches around to encourage loitering. He leaned against the wall and waited, his eyes half-closed. He heard the heavy paces of the security guard followed by a second, lighter set of footsteps. He pushed his spine away from the wall, hoping he wouldn't topple over without the support.
The guard stepped aside to let Coulson approach Clint. The agent's hair was shorter, but he still had a remnant of his desert tan. He was wearing a charcoal gray suit, a white shirt and a black tie with thin gray threads woven through it. He looked expensive and important. He held out his hand. "Mr. Barton, welcome to S.H.I.E.L.D."
Phil shook Coulson's hand. "Thank you, sir." He knew Coulson was taking in his exhaustion, his slightly hunched posture, his well-worn and wrinkled clothes. Two vertical lines appeared between Coulson's brows.
"Get Mr. Barton a visitor's badge, Hodgkins."
"Yes, sir." He returned with a clip-on badge which he handed to Clint.
He fastened it on his jacket and followed Coulson to the elevators. They didn't go up, they went down ... and down. "Taking me to the dungeon, sir?"
"To my office. The vital workings of the group are below-ground for security reasons. The upper floors are for the executive directors and bean counters."
"Too bad for them when the world blows up?" Clint knew it was insensitive by the set of Coulson's mouth. "Sorry. I've been around. It's made me kind of bitter."
Coulson stopped in front of a steel door and set his thumb on a glass scanner to unlock it. The panel whispered open. The office was flooded with artificial light that made Clint blink. Coulson dimmed it slightly as they went inside. The furniture was an L-shaped steel office desk, an old-fashioned metal filing cabinet and two computers; one on the primary desk surface, the other on the smaller extension. They both had huge monitors displaying the S.H.I.E.L.D logo as a screensaver. It was impersonal, cold, and if it hadn't been for a few framed citations on the wall and an antique wooden coat rack with a suit hanging on it, it would have been a alarming in its sterility. As it was, it spoke of too many hours of paperwork and nights spent on duty.
"I love what you've done to the place," Clint said with a wry twist to his mouth.
"It's an office, not my home. Have a seat. Can I get you anything?"
Clint sat. "Water?"
Coulson opened one of his desk drawers and handed a bottle to Clint. "Sorry it's not very cold."
Clint shook his head. "It's fine. It's water, that's all that counts."
Coulson sat behind his desk. "So, you read the files?"
"I'm here."
"The Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division --" Coulson began and Clint held up his hand.
"I'm about to fall asleep here in the chair, Coulson. Can we use the acronym to spare me that embarrassment? And what exactly do you want me to do?"
Coulson looked at him over peaked fingers. "S.H.I.E.L.D. is in need of people with unique skills to defend our world against threats."
"The world?" Skeptical, Clint wondered if this was just another recruiting spiel. He wasn't sure he could tell the difference between sincerity and exaggeration at this point.
"We have divisions in other countries, notably Great Britain, Russia, Canada ... we work cooperatively to insure --" Coulson stopped. "Barton, when was the last time you slept?"
Clint scrubbed at his eyes. "Two, three days. I came right from Kennedy."
"Do you have a place to stay?"
"Umm, like a hotel? No."
Coulson stood up and pulled out his car keys. "You might as well come home with me. I have room. You're in no condition to make life-altering decisions at this point."
"Why Agent Coulson, I didn't know you cared."
To his shock, Coulson laughed. "I'm just protecting a potentially valuable asset."
"I have all sorts of assets you don't even know about."
Coulson looked at him like he was off his rocker. "Are you still on drugs?"
"Sadly, only antibiotics," Clint sighed, thinking fondly of the pain medication he'd been given in the hospital.
Coulson's eyes sharpened. "Do you need something?"
"I'm fine. I just need to get off my feet."
"Then we'd better make that happen before you keel over." He closed a file on his desk and turned off his computers.
Clint stood up, aching deeply in every muscle. He followed Coulson to an elevator and stepped out into a parking garage. Coulson's car was your basic black, anonymous, government-issue sedan. He noticed that it had civilian plates. The seats were leather, though, and comfortable enough for him to think he might just stay in there and sleep.
Coulson made his way skillfully through traffic, which in New York was something of a miracle. Clint closed his eyes to shut out the light glaring off the pavement and store windows.
"Don't fall asleep. We're almost there," Coulson said quietly.
Clint nodded, still on the edge of dozing. When the brightness beating on his eyelids went away he sat up. They were in another parking garage. Coulson drove up two ramps and wheeled into a parking space. Clint managed to drag himself out of the car. He followed Coulson from the garage through a spare, elegant lobby and into an elevator to the fourth floor. His knees were shaking with fatigue. He leaned against the wall while Coulson opened his door with a key card.
"Home sweet home," he said.
Clint stepped in and blinked. It wasn't what he had expected. No stainless steel, no cold surfaces, and surprising color. A wall of books, and a very big state-of-the-art TV and sound system on the other. Floor to ceiling glass with a view of the East River. "It's nice," he said.
"I don't spend much time here ... " Coulson pointed to a hallway. "Guest bedroom on the left, bathroom at the end of the hall."
"Thanks. I mean it, man. Thank you." Clint's gratitude was nearly tearful. He just wanted to do a full face-plant on a pillow and sleep for ten hours.
"Go. Get some rest."
"I could be an ax murderer," Clint said, trying for humor.
"I've read your dossier, Mr. Barton."
"Of course you have." Clint saluted and wandered down the hall to the bathroom. The only thing he needed more than sleep was a shower. He wouldn't sully Coulson's sheets with his sweaty self. He showered quickly, washed his hair, wrapped a towel around his hips and was drying his hair with another when he came out of the bathroom.
Coulson was standing in the hall with a bottle of water in his hand. He looked startled. "I thought you might want this."
"Thanks." Clint cracked the cap and drank deeply until the bottle was drained. Coulson was still watching him, one brow slightly raised. "What?"
"Mr. Barton, when your handler gives you an order, you do what he says, whether it is who to shoot, what weapon to use, or when to sleep."
"O-kay. Got it, sir." He grinned crookedly and went into the bedroom. This time, he did fall on the bed face-down, as he had promised.
^*^*^*^*^*^*^
Three months later, the bed is in Medical and Clint is recovering from some fucking virus a Uzbeki terrorist decided to release as a WMD. Clint stopped him, but not before he was hit with a sliver of contaminated glass. He was the only casualty aside from the Uzbek warlord who was dead with an arrow through his throat.
Fortunately, the medical staff had been able to formulate an anti-viral agent that killed the virus before it could become lethal, but that didn't keep him from feeling like death warmed over. He looks at Coulson, who is sitting at his bedside reading the Times. "So, these are the 'interesting' people you promised I'd run into when you recruited me?"
Coulson lowers his newspaper. "Not exactly."
"Good. Because I gotta say I'm not liking them very much."
"How about the job?"
Clint grins. "I like the job just fine."
"Good." Coulson reaches into his pocket and hands over a badge. "Congratulations, Agent Barton. You are now a full-fledged member of S.H.I.E.L.D."
"So what's next?"
"Rest, and lunch. Not necessarily in that order."
"I can go with that plan," Clint replies.
"Good. We'll talk about what comes next later."
"You mean there's another plan in the works?"
Coulson smiles. "Always, Agent Barton. Always."
The End