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Beneath the world of national and international relations, in a shadowy place where there are no permanent friends, no permanent enemies, but only permanent interests, there exists a variety of agencies and organizations designated mostly by acronyms, and dedicated to a variety of ideologies and causes, many of which are inimical to one another. These agencies are necessarily peopled by shadowy individuals, most of whom move among us without ever coming to our attention, except when something extraordinary happens. Something extraordinary happened a few weeks ago, when New York was attacked by forces beyond our ken, and defended by an extraordinary group of individuals, some of high profile, and some of whom would never have emerged from the shadows, had not their abilities been necessary to defend the city.
I was fortunate to be able to interview one such individual, a young agent of the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division, more simply known as SHIELD. His name is Clinton Barton, and his codename is Hawkeye. For the past twelve years, he has worked with SHIELD as a covert operative. After the recent events in New York, it is likely his undercover days are over.
Barton is a little under six feet tall, compact, dressed elegantly in a reserved grey suit, wearing a discreet dark blue tie. The drape of the expensive fabric almost, but not quite, masks the heavily-muscled body beneath, and he moves gracefully, silently into the room, instantly assessing it. His handshake is firm, but not punishing, his hands calloused, but well-groomed. He is flanked by an older man, dressed in black, who nods a greeting but does not speak. Barton chooses a seat that allows him a clear view of the door and every other access point in the room; his companion, introduced as Agent Coulson, sits slightly behind and to his left.
Barton is an attractive man, clean-shaven, with neatly-trimmed thick, medium-brown hair and eyes of a curious blue-green colour, thickly fringed with dark, straight lashes. His mouth is expressive, his jaw firm. But for his uncomfortably direct gaze, I might have taken him for a young executive attending a business meeting in the company of his lawyer. He sits at ease in the leather chair, hands folded, legs crossed, elbows on the arms of the chair. I thank him for agreeing to be interviewed.
“Thank you for having me,” he replies, his voice a quiet, husky baritone.
“Before we get into it, I have to ask: why Hawkeye?”
“I see very well at a distance,” he says with a self-deprecating shrug.
“What does ‘very well’ constitute?”
“An average person with very good visual acuity would test out around 20/15 or 20/10. I test out at 20/3.”
“That’s pretty far outside the normal range,” I remark. “Is that a mutation?”
“Not according to Hank McCoy,” he answers, referring to Dr. Henry McCoy, whose groundbreaking research into human mutations has made headlines recently. “I’m just a guy with good eyesight.”
“But that’s not your only skill-set, is it, Agent Barton?” He produces that self-deprecating shrug again, and it’s becoming clear to me that, calm as he appears to be, he is not completely comfortable sharing this much information. “How many languages do you speak?”
“Six,” he admits. “And I can get my face slapped in a couple more.”
“That happens to you a lot, does it?” I ask, and he smiles suddenly. It’s a little like the sun coming out.
“More often than you might think,” he replies.
“Are you in a relationship?” I ask, and he raises an eyebrow.
“Boy, you cut right to the chase,” he says. “Yeah, yes, I’m in a relationship.”
“It must be difficult for someone in your profession to maintain a relationship.”
“Yes. And so people in my profession tend to date other people in my profession.”
“So your significant other is also an operative?”
“Yes. But we’re not going to discuss that,” he says firmly.
“I understand,” I say. And I do. If his significant other is identified, that person becomes a target and a vulnerability. “So what does a typical day look like for you, Agent Barton?”
“When I’m not in the field? Well – it’s not very exciting, really. I get up around five and spend an hour or so in the gym. I come back and shower and make breakfast, and then usually I have paperwork or classes or briefings, or something like that. Usually after lunch I spend a couple of hours on the range, and then I either spar with someone, or spend some time with the armourers, or work with some of the analysts and the handlers reviewing mission parameters.”
“What’s a handler?” I ask.
“Operatives work with a mission coordinator called a handler. A handler might be overseeing a single operative or a team, depending on the op.”
“Do you always work with the same handler?” I ask. He smiles a little.
“I usually work with the same one, yes. Not always, but most of the time.”
“And what is the handler’s role?”
“He watches my six,” he answers simply, then shakes his head, realizing that might not be clear. “Sorry; he makes sure my position is secure, that the intel is good, that there’s nobody coming up behind me with a knife or a garrote. He arranges for extraction, sometimes provides first aid. If things go for sh – uh, um, if things go badly, he makes sure the mission objective is met. And if possible, he gets me out afterward.”
“But that’s not always possible,” I prompt. He shakes his head slowly. I feel suddenly that he’s looking at something that’s not actually in the room.
“No.” I expect him to say more, but he’s silent.
“So what happens then?” I ask finally. He raises that eyebrow again.
“Ba-a-ad things,” he says softly. “That’s why we spend a lot of time before an op, reviewing and planning.” He shifts in his seat slightly. “My usual handler has never left me behind. But it has happened. With others.” He shifts again. “You have to expect it.”
“You have a military background, don’t you, Agent Barton?”
“Yes. I was a Marine.”
“Do most of your colleagues come from that environment?”
“Quite a few are ex-military. Some come from other agencies. Some are recruited from universities. Or elsewhere.”
“You have an unusual background, Agent Barton. You were part of a circus troupe for about ten years, is that right?”
“Yes.”
“How did that come about?”
He pushes a hand through his hair.
“I ran away from foster care – my brother and I did. We hooked up with Carson’s Circus. Mr. Carson was pretty good to us, all things considered. We had to work hard, but everybody in the circus works hard.”
“You discovered a unique talent there, didn’t you, Agent Barton?”
“Yes. I’m a good natural marksman.”
“With --?” I prompt. He shrugs.
“Anything, really. But I prefer to work with a bow.”
“Define good.”
He shrugs again. “I never miss.”
“Never.” It’s not a question. He shakes his head.
“Never.” He’s silent for a moment, then flashes that sudden smile again. “Which may or may not be why my handler puts up with me.”
Agent Coulson makes a barely-audible sound for the first time since he entered the room, but when I look at him, he is wearing the same blandly pleasant expression he’s had since we met. When I look back at Barton, he’s still smiling.
“That’s – the circus is where I developed my fondness for the bow,” he says, perhaps to forestall a different question. I decide to go with it.
“Why do you like the bow? It seems like a very low-tech weapon.” I’ve seen photographs of Barton with his bow, a composite recurve made specifically for him by Stark Industries’ research labs. In fact, his bow is probably more high-tech than some of the firearms his fellow agents carry. Still, it’s a weapon out of time.
“It’s light. It’s quiet. A lot of the time, it goes through airport scanners without comment, or if it doesn’t, you’re a sportsman or an athlete, not a sniper. It leaves no residue. And it has a certain – uh, creep factor that shouldn’t be discounted.”
“Creep factor?”
“Yeah – say you’re lying next to your cohort on the top of a building, and next thing you know, you look over and he’s nailed to the roof with just the fletching visible at the back of his head. And you heard nothing, felt nothing. You want to make a guy crap bricks, that’s the way to go.”
I look at Coulson again, but his expression hasn’t altered. I take a moment to regroup.
“There’s a purpose to causing that kind of terror, isn’t there?” I ask.
“Frightened people don’t think clearly,” he says simply. “The more chaos in the ranks, the easier it usually is to achieve a mission objective.”
I pause a moment before asking my next question. He can see it coming; I can tell by his stillness.
“You’ve killed people, haven’t you, Agent Barton?”
His gaze is direct; he doesn’t dissemble. “Yes.”
“Does that trouble you?”
He doesn’t answer immediately. I glance at Agent Coulson, who is watching Barton. Barton takes a deep breath.
“It’s a complicated question to answer,” he says. “You know, there are some jobs in the world that nobody really wants to know about – guys who augur out clogged drains, guys who dispose of medical waste, stuff like that. Nobody wants to do that stuff. But somebody has to. Nobody in their right mind wants to be the guy who takes out terrorists or mad scientists or would-be world conquerors. But somebody has to. Like they say in the movies, somebody has to stand on the wall and keep bad things at bay so everybody else can sleep peacefully.” He shakes his head. “Am I troubled? Yeah, I’m deeply troubled by some of the things I’ve seen these guys do. I would be happier if they didn’t exist, and my job became obsolete. I’ve seen a lot of things – a lot of things – I wish I could just un-see. But I’m rarely troubled by what I’ve had to do to stop them.”
“How does SHIELD identify these targets? Are they, what, dictators, generals?”
He is shaking his head before I’ve stopped speaking.
“SHIELD isn’t as political as some of the other agencies. I mean – I’ve been lent to other agencies from time to time, and that, the generals and the dictators, that’s their way of looking at things. With SHIELD, it’s mostly things like drug cartels or human trafficking, or whack jobs who think it’s a great idea to hold a city hostage with a tactical nuke. Or aliens. Aliens are always a good time.” His expression turns sardonic. “It’s a lot easier to feel okay about taking out a target like that, than maybe some guy whose politics are offensive to some administration or other.”
“SHIELD orders you to take the shots, right?”
“Yeah, but I don’t put it on them. I assess the intel, boots on the ground, when I’m in place. If I commit, I'm not gonna miss, so I want to be sure before I commit. If it doesn’t look right to me, I don’t take the shot.”
“Really? What would make you not take the shot?”
He shifts his weight in the chair.
“You know, we – SHIELD – we do pretty extensive research on these guys before we make that call. It’s not the first option, usually. And the brass doesn’t point me like a weapon and pull the trigger – they show me what the research says. I can ask questions, find out for myself. Lots of times, I work with the team gathering the intel to explore other options, or try to get information from different sources. Sometimes we get a hint that there’s a bigger picture we should be looking at. If I don’t think it’s solid, I don’t take the shot.”
“How many times has that happened in your career with the agency?” I ask.
“Eleven times.”
“Eleven?”
“Yeah. Five of those times, the situation developed a little farther and it was clear we’d have to take out the mark after all. And a few times, I didn’t like the setup, and I went back later and took out the mark in a different spot. Once, I figured we could negotiate a different outcome, so I did that instead.”
“How does that go down with your superiors?” I ask. He laughs suddenly, soft and husky.
“Well, it depends,” he says. “Occasionally, handlers who don’t know me well are disinclined to trust my judgment. Which is a big reason why I usually work with the same handler.” He glances down at his folded hands, then back up at me through his lashes. “You develop a level of trust and respect.”
“How long have you and your handler worked together?”
“He recruited me to SHIELD, so – twelve years, basically.”
“Do you socialize with people outside your profession, Agent Barton?”
“No, not very much.”
“Why is that?”
He looks down at his hands again and pauses a moment before he speaks.
“You have to understand – doing this kind of thing changes you. It resets your reality in ways you don’t even realize until you come up against a civilian’s reality. You can’t come back from a mission where you had to shoot somebody who’s running a human trafficking ring and then find it in you to get real indignant because the dishwasher’s not working. One guy I know just about put his ten-year-old kid in the hospital because the kid shook him awake one Sunday morning, and the guy’s reflexes kicked in. And then there’s the black humour – something an operative finds funny might scare the crap out of a civilian.” He shrugs. “Soldiers who’ve spent a long time in combat zones have the same issues, and homicide cops, too, sometimes. You live for weeks at a time in circumstances where everyone around you – maybe even people you figure are on your side -- could be just waiting for the right opportunity to kill you. It gets to be hard to relax. You see things civilians don’t see, don’t want to see, and that’s your reality. There’s a disconnect.”
“That must be very isolating.”
I get that very direct stare again.
“Yeah,” he says. “It can be.”
Coulson shifts slightly, and I realize it’s time to move on.
“You’ve acquired some other skills in your career, I understand.”
“Um, yes. I’m a pilot, fixed-wing and rotary, pretty much anything you need to get in the air. I’m a decent field medic. I have some explosives training.” He smiles a little. “I have a few leftover things from the circus, too – acrobatics, mostly.”
“Your life has changed recently in some pretty big ways,” I say. He nods. “What do you think will be the long-term impacts of that?” I ask.
“Long-term? I’m not sure. In the short term, it means I can’t be as private now as I have been. Undercover work might be out for quite awhile.”
“Is this derailing your career path?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe it’s changing the direction to something I’m more likely to survive.” He picks up on my slightly shocked expression, and shrugs. “It’s a fact of life. People in my line of work don’t live to a ripe old age. We don’t expect to.”
“How do you adjust to that?” I ask. He shakes his head.
“That’s just reality. It’s not a matter of adjusting. It’s just a matter of accepting.”
“But you could do something else with your life.”
He smiles sadly, ducks his head, brushes nonexistent lint from his sleeve.
“But then someone else would have to stand on the wall,” he says. “And they might not be as good at it as I am.” He looks up at me, still with that wistful smile. “See, you just came up against my reality there.”
“Are there compensations to doing this work?”
“Sure, of course” he says. “I’d be lying if I said it’s not satisfying to put a stop to some of the shi – uh, stuff these people do. Sometimes all the reward you get is when you stand in the shower after it’s all done and think at least this puke isn’t going to hurt any more kids, or that bastard won’t torture another person, or that group won’t be running around with a tactical nuke. But you take what you can get.” He gestures a little helplessly. “It makes it sound worse, maybe, than it is. Living like this, you – you form bonds with people that just don’t happen under other circumstances. You look out for each other. You help each other keep going.” He takes a deep breath. “And once in awhile, something happens that makes you remember why it’s important to keep going. Or that totally cracks you up.” He grins suddenly. “One time, I rescued a nun from this jerk who’d taken her hostage while he was robbing a bank. Not even a mission, really; I just happened to be there. Little tiny lady, maybe four foot six, looked like a granny out of a kid’s picture book, except with the wimple and coif. I had the guy down on his knees with his hands behind his head, waiting for the local law, and damn if she didn’t haul off and give him a vicious kick right in the junk.” He shakes his head, the grin still in place. “Good times.”
“Tell me about your present team,” I say. “It’s a little different, isn’t it?”
“You could say that,” he says. “They’re – not exactly what I thought they would be. We work together pretty well, though. I have a lot of respect for all of them. And they all bring something a little different to the table.”
“Two of them are civilians, as you would put it, isn’t that right?”
“Yes.”
“Has that caused issues?”
He glances at Coulson, who smiles. Barton ducks his head.
“Well,” he says, “it reminded me not to discuss technical details of past operations with my colleagues at the dinner table.” He quirks a sly grin. “And it clued me in that even billionaire geniuses sometimes have very weak stomachs.”
“I interviewed Tony Stark a couple of years ago,” I say. “He likes to give the impression that his life is one long party.”
“He does like to give that impression,” Barton agrees. “You have to think, though, about the motivation that drives a guy who never needs to do anything he doesn’t want to do, to choose to put himself in harm’s way to protect others.”
“Some people say he’s motivated by guilt,” I comment. Barton frowns.
“I’m not a psychologist, and I can’t speak to Tony’s inner demons,” he says. “We’ve all got some. I can tell you, though, that I wouldn’t hesitate to walk into Hell with Tony on my six. Or with any of the others.”
“He does know how to party, though,” I remark. Barton smiles.
“You want to party? I’ll introduce you to Thor. There’s a guy who knows how to have a good time.”
“Is there a lot of drinking among your colleagues?” I ask. He shakes his head.
“Some, but less than you’d think. None of us likes to be out of control.”
“What do you do for relaxation, Agent Barton?”
“Relaxation?” He seems surprised. “Uh, well – I like to cook, actually.” I see the hint of a blush rising in his cheeks; it’s surprisingly charming. “I read a lot. And I like music.”
“Is he a good cook?” I ask Agent Coulson, who smiles.
“He’s a remarkably good cook,” Coulson replies in a quiet tenor. It’s almost the first thing he’s said. “His goulash once saved me from pneumonia.” I look back at Barton, who is now definitely blushing.
“Yeah, that safehouse had no frickin’ heat,” he says reminiscently. “That’s another thing,” he adds. “We’re not touring the world and staying in five-star hotels. A lot of the time, we’re lucky to have heat and running water. Never mind hot running water.” He casts a cheeky grin at his companion. “Hey, Coulson? Life is hard. Can I have a raise?”
“No, but if you play nicely, I’ll buy you a latte on the way home,” Coulson replies with the hint of a smile. Barton laughs aloud.
“See, that’s what I get,” he says. I grin back at him – it would be hard not to.
“So, given the hardships you face on missions, what luxuries do you indulge in?”
Barton seems nonplussed for the first time, and looks to Coulson, who clearly has no input.
“Uh, well – Jeez. I bought some really good boots a couple of months ago. And, uh, R&D got me some really cool new arrows. And – oh, I bought a piano in May!” He’s clearly pleased to have thought of something that’s not work-related.
“That’s right, you said you enjoy music. You play, obviously?”
“Some,” he admits, smiling. “I’m not very good, but I enjoy it.”
“Does his piano playing stink?” I ask Coulson, who laughs.
“No, he’s actually pretty good. And he has very eclectic taste – everything from jazz to classical.”
Barton is staring at him in surprise.
“When did you hear me play?” he asks. Coulson smiles a little wider.
“Remember that hotel in Rome last spring? The one near the Spanish Steps?” He turns to me. “We were stuck there for three days, waiting for extraction. Barton is a notoriously bad sleeper, and when I woke up in the middle of the night and found him gone, I went up toward the roof, looking for him. I found him in a party room on the top floor – a deserted party room – playing piano in the dark. I sat outside the door for awhile, listening. He played some Rachmaninoff, and Clair De Lune, and quite a lot of Rhapsody in Blue, and Cry Me A River, and – oh, quite a few things. It was nice.”
Barton is shaking his head. “I didn’t even know you woke up. Ninja skills, Coulson.”
“I thought if I came in, you’d stop,” Coulson says simply. Barton shakes his head and makes a can-you-believe-that gesture toward Coulson. I smile and move on.
“So, cooking, music – what are you reading these days, Agent Barton?”
“The Grapes of Wrath, for about the sixth time,” he replies. “And Brother Odd. I almost always have a couple of different books on the go.”
“Mostly novels?”
“Mostly.” He smiles. “I generally have more than enough reality to satisfy me.”
We’re getting to the part of the interview now where I ask a series of stock questions. He’s been told there will be a series of questions, but not what they are – I want his unguarded responses.
“What would your fantasy career be?”
“My fantasy career? Jeez, I don’t know. Celebrity chef,” he replies.
“What job would you not ever do?”
“Accounting. I’d have to throw myself off a building if that was my life.”
“What qualities do you find attractive in a person?”
“Honesty. Intelligence. Ethics. A sense of humour.”
“Physical qualities?”
“Uh – well, no, not really. “ It seems to surprise him. “I don’t like screechy voices.”
“What’s your favourite sound?”
“Little kids laughing.”
“What’s your least favourite sound?”
“Screaming.”
“What’s your best quality?”
“Adaptability.”
“What’s your worst quality?”
“My bad temper.”
“What do you do when you’re angry?”
“Shoot things. Targets, mostly,” he adds, as I raise an eyebrow.
“What makes you angry?”
“Cruelty. And stupidity.”
“What’s your greatest vice?”
“Obsessive behaviour.”
“Cats or dogs?”
“Animals,” he says with that sudden smile. “Animals, birds, anything. When I was with the circus, one of my jobs was cleaning the tiger cage. I loved that tiger.”
“But you don’t have a pet?”
“Couldn’t look after one,” he says. “I had a cactus once, but it died. I’m just not home enough.”
“Do you believe in a higher power?”
“Yes. His name is Nick Fury. I talked to him a couple of hours ago,” he says, deadpan. Coulson chokes an almost-laugh. “Um – a higher power. Yeah. Yes, I do.”
“You look troubled by the question,” I comment, and he smiles a little.
“I believe in God,” he says. “I don’t always like Him. But I believe in Him.”
“What’s the first thing you want to hear when you get to heaven?”
“’Come on in; we have your room ready.’”
“What would you like to say to God?”
“’How come You keep letting me get shot?’”
My double-take almost makes Coulson laugh again, but Barton is still wearing a calmly pleasant expression. I realize he’s bumping me with his reality again.
“What advice would you give to young people starting out in your profession?”
His expression is suddenly very serious.
“There is no glamour or romance to this, no matter what the movies might have you believe. The reality of this work is thirty-eight hours without sleep, motionless on a rooftop in the middle of winter. It’s staring at satellite photos for hours on end, trying to pick out the outline of one building, one vehicle, in the middle of a city. It’s migraines from dehydration and too many hours in the sun. It’s scars you can’t explain to your mother or your lover. It’s never being able to sleep through the night. Very occasionally, it’s bleeding out in a cell with no cot and a bucket of urine in the corner, hoping your handler isn’t dead and has the resources to come get you.” He shakes his head. “Don’t do this unless your passions, your abilities or your circumstances have left you literally no other options.”
I am silent for a moment, pondering the depth of conviction that men like Clint Barton must have to do the work they do.
“If someone had said that to you twelve years ago, would you have followed a different path?” I ask. He shakes his head, with the ghost of a smile.
“Twelve years ago, I had already been doing this work, or work very much like it, for five years. SHIELD was a step up for me. But would I want, say, a child of mine to become an operative? Absolutely not.”
“Do you have children, Agent Barton?”
“No.” He chuffs a small laugh. “Remember the cactus?”
“But some of your colleagues have families.”
“They’re bigger risk-takers than I am.”
“Are you a happy person, Agent Barton?”
He blinks in surprise at the question, and is silent for a long moment, thinking it over.
“On balance, yes,” he says finally. “I’m in a loving relationship with someone who understands and accepts me for who I am. I have colleagues and friends I care about, and who care about me. And I have work that matters, and which I take pride in doing well. Yes, I’m happy.”
“This may or may not add to your happiness, Agent Barton,” I say, flipping through my notes, “but when we proposed this interview, yours was the name most mentioned by your colleagues at SHIELD as representing the best the agency has to offer. Nick Fury described you as his most valuable asset. He said that although you were sometimes careless of your own safety, he could always count on you to get the job done.” I glance at Barton; he’s looking down at his folded hands, his cheeks flushed.
“Well, that’s – very nice to hear,” he says quietly. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”
We rise and shake hands. As we step out the door into the reception area, Mark Masters, the photographer assigned to this article, steps up suddenly on Barton’s right, slightly behind him, with a light meter extended. Before I can register the movement, Barton’s right hand has caught Mark’s wrist and is holding it motionless, light meter now pointed at the ceiling. Startled by that and by Barton’s sudden, predatory stare, Masters drops the meter. Barton catches it before it hits the floor and extends it to him with an apologetic shake of his head.
“Sorry, man,” he says pleasantly. “You startled me.”
Coulson moves unobtrusively up between Barton and the now-shaken Masters, a hand on Barton’s back as he blandly asks the photographer where he’d like to place Barton for the pictures.
Learning from what I’ve seen, I stay in the background as Masters, careful now to telegraph his movements, arranges Barton in a variety of poses, allowing his assistant, a young woman who keeps talking to Barton much as one might talk to a skittish horse, to see to the details of arranging the lights, correcting the drape of Barton’s jacket, once reaching up to smooth a lock of hair into place. Barton seems to appreciate her low-key approach, and is smiling at her as they work. I glance at Coulson, watching the proceedings with his bland smile in place.
“That was close,” I say.
“Closer than you think,” he says. “He hasn’t quite leveled out from his last field mission. He’s only been in for four hours.” He smiles at me. “We should probably have deferred this, but I understand you have a deadline.”
“We do,” I say. “I appreciate it. He must be exhausted.”
“It’s the blood loss, more than anything,” he says. “He’ll be all right with a few hours’ sleep and some fluids and decent food.”
Shocked as I realize the implications of what he’s just said, I wait for further explanation, but there is none. I debate asking the obvious question, but instead, I join Coulson in watching Barton interacting with the photo crew, even coaxing a laugh from the assistant as she gives him a sheaf of paper to hold as a prop. He’s clearly working at putting Masters and his crew at ease, and I try to imagine how I would feel in his place: injured and hurting, sleep-deprived, hungry. I don’t think I’d have it in me to flirt with the assistant, as Barton is evidently doing. We glimpsed the predator a few moments ago. Now he’s working, pretty successfully, to obliterate that memory.
But that’s part of what makes Barton, and the others like him, extraordinary. For a few moments today, we’ve been granted a look into their reality, and I, for one, am happy to step away from it. And yet, I’m glad to have seen it. Their reality, and their dedication to their calling, makes it possible for our day-to-day lives and work to carry on serenely, unknowing that, just around the corner, someone like this personable young man may be putting his or her life on the line.
When the photographs are done, we shake hands all around – even Masters, to whom Barton says something with a contrite expression, examining Masters’ already-bruising wrist. It must be all right, though; they exchange a fist-bump, and Barton turns to me.
“Agent Barton, it’s been a privilege to meet you,” I say. “Thank you for giving us this time.”
“Thank you,” he says, his grip still warm and firm. “You’ve made it a very pleasant experience.” He nods in Masters’ direction. “I hope I didn’t break your buddy.”
“Oh, he’s only a photographer; that’s okay,” I say dismissively, and I’m rewarded with another husky laugh – and a soft chuckle from Coulson, gathering up Barton with a hand at his shoulder and herding him gently to the door.
I watch them get into the elevator, and I think about how to reconcile the stone-cold eyes and iron grip of the professional assassin with the shy smile and the sweet notes of Clair De Lune in the dark. I think about the horrors I saw in Manhattan the day of the Chitauri attack. I hope Barton gets his sleep, his food, and his fluids. And his latte. Because I want him, and Coulson, and all their colleagues, to be in fighting trim to stand on that wall.