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Nick Fury dealt with a lot of crazy shit. It came with the whole “director of a super-secret world organization” gig.
He’d seen men die in more bloodying and horrifying ways than should be possible. He’d encountered science so advanced it might as well be fucking magic. He’d experienced wonders and horrors that no one else on the planet was even qualified to think about.
And yet, the fucking chart on Phil fucking Coulson’s wall was probably the most fucking insane thing he’d ever fucking seen.
“What the fuck?” Nick said by way of greeting.
Phil Coulson did not look up from his computer, instead taking his time to close down whatever fucking form he was probably working on. Not that Nick would begrudge him that. Someone at SHIELD had to do paperwork and they both knew it wasn’t going to be Nick.
“Seriously, Phil,” Nick said, staring at the poster on the wall. “What the fuck?”
It was an innocent enough thing, out of context. It was a cheap piece of poster board. Across the top Phil had written “COULSON’S CREW” in his even hand but with purple marker, which was an unusual color for him, and then below that listed all twelve of the agents that answered to Phil Coulson, in alphabetical order by last name, from Clint Barton to Wade fucking Wilson.
Next to each name were stickers: a mix of red dots and gold stars.
“It’s a behavior chart,” Phil leaned back in his chair, his attention finally on Nick, “commonly used by elementary school teachers and nan…”
“I know what it fucking is,” Nick said. “What I mean how the hell did you get Barton, Romanoff, and not to mention Wilson agree to be treated like motherfucking kindergartners? And how the hell is it working? I saw Barton about to prank Sitwell just to have Romanoff stop him by reminding him such an action would earn him a red dot. So let me repeat: What the fuck?”
“This is why you pay me, is it not?” Phil asked, lifting an eyebrow. “To tame the untamable?”
“Cheese, if you were any other agent, I would suspect you of mind control.”
Phil laughed at that. “No, not mind control,” he said. “Just psychology. It was actually Barton who gave me the idea.”
“Barton?”
“Yes, it started with that undercover milk run. I was leaning…”
#
I was leaning against the outside of the van, watching Romanoff and Barton approach. The two agents walked arm-in-arm, Romanoff carrying her red stilettos in one hand and Barton with his suit jacket tossed lazily over his shoulder.
Romanoff was beautiful in a black sheath dress, her hair coiffed in perfect curls leaving her elegant neck bare—a perfect match for her partner in his well-tailored suit. At some point Barton had lost his tie. The top of his shirt was unbuttoned to reveal the hollow of his throat and just a hint of his chest.
Beautiful and deadly were my two newest assets. A lethal combination, as they had demonstrated in tonight’s op.
“Coulson!” Barton said with a grin. “Fancy meeting you out here.”
I allowed myself an amused smirk. “In the van,” I said, stepping away from the vehicle. “We’ll debrief once we’re back at SHIELD but…good job, you two.”
Barton stumbled, the smile disappearing from his face. His blue eyes were wide as he said, “What?”
I frowned just slightly. “Good job, Barton,” I repeated. “You did a very good job tonight. I was impressed.”
For a moment the archer just stared at me, as if incapable of comprehending my words. Then the man plastered on a smile—one that was somehow sharper, frailer than his earlier grin.
“Of course, you were,” Barton said with fake cheer. “I’m the amazing Hawkeye. I’m fucking impressive.”
But I noticed the gleam in the archer’s eyes and the way Romanoff used a laugh as an excuse to tuck herself under his arm.
Something was going on here. Something I was clearly missing.
And if there is one thing I hate, it’s missing something.
#
“A gleam in his eye? You’re fucking kidding me.”
“Do you want to hear the story or not?”
Nick Fury grumbled but fell silent.
#
I noticed it again during the debrief. When I pointed out things Barton had done wrong or could do better, he accepted it with a grunt and a nod. But when I pointed out things the archer had done right—especially if I worded it as a form of praise—the man grew uncomfortable, shifting in his seat, laughing it off, and not meeting my gaze.
Romanoff accepted both praise and criticism with the same nonchalant air she accepted everything, which frankly was what I’m used to from assets—with the exception of Mary Stewart, who tends to cry if criticism isn’t worded just so. But I’ve never had an asset grow so clearly uncomfortable with compliments.
“Overall, I’m very pleased,” I was saying, “especially with you, Barton. For your first high society undercover op, you did a seamless job. Everyone there seemed to accept you were who you claimed to be, and you managed to fill the role assigned to you perfectly. This bodes well for you and Romanoff as a team. I see many more similar ops in our future. Good jo…”
“Well, if that’s all, sir.” Barton stood up suddenly. “It’s late. And I’d like to head back to my quarters.”
It was late. Or rather early. These sorts of ops do tend to be all-nighters. But Barton had never been the sort of agent who worried about sleep schedules.
“Of course,” I said. “I expect your report within 24 hours, as usual.”
“Got it,” Barton said, and then the man disappeared out of the office.
Neither I nor Romanoff moved for a moment. Then the superspy rose gracefully to her feet. “Do you need anything else from me, Coulson?”
For a moment I was tempted to ask her about Barton’s behavior, but I’d only been working with the two for a few months. They didn’t fully trust me yet, and Romanoff might take me inquiring about Barton poorly.
“No, Agent Romanoff,” I said.
Romanoff nodded and then followed after Barton.
I knew I should go back to my apartment, get at least a few hours of sleep before my first meeting at 10:00 am, but Barton’s behavior worried at me.
So I pulled out my files on the man and began to re-read them.
#
“Hah! I knew there was something off with you that day. You never wear the same tie two days in a row. Bet it was the same suit too, but I’ll be damned if I can tell your suits apart.” Nick paused. “I was hoping you’d gotten laid. Not spent the night up to your fucking eyeballs in files.”
Phil didn’t deign to respond to that. He just leveled one of his infamous stern looks on the director.
“Fine, fine. I’ll shut up. Tell me what happened next.”
#
Barton’s file gave me little insight. Little is known about Barton’s life before SHIELD, other than it involved a circus and more than little abuse. Barton’s first file from Medical came with a report listing scar after scar, not just scars on his skin but his tissues and bone. Some of them were very old and could not be attributed to the mercenary jobs he had taken between the circus and SHIELD.
A background like that would be more than enough to make anyone neurotic.
The reports from his past handlers didn’t offer much insight. They were lists of Barton’s deficiencies and problems.
It was Jasper’s report on Barton that clicked things into place in my mind. Jasper is usually a fair handler who can be trusted to judge an asset’s strengths and weaknesses with little bias. But in the case of Barton, the archer had pushed all of his buttons. Jasper’s report was a scathing account of all of Barton’s weaknesses, with only passing remarks that he accomplished the task. Not a single good mark or note.
Not a single one of Barton’s files expressed a note of praise beyond a rather analytical discussion of his superior marksmanship.
In the three years Barton had been at SHIELD, not a single person had praised him. Until me.
#
“No one? In three years?”
“Not that I could find.”
“Not a single…”
“Think about it, Marcus. Barton was a pain in everyone’s ass. They spent all their time complaining about him and then when he finally did what they wanted—it was what they expected him to do in the first place. They weren’t going to praise him for doing his job.”
“Fuck.”
“Indeed.”
Nick sat down on Phil’s couch. “God, this is Psych 101. Even crazy-ass assets need an occasional pat on the back. We need to arrange a handler-wide…”
“You never read the emails I send you, do you?” Phil said.
Nick scowled at him. “What?”
“I took care of that a month ago. We had a ‘handler refresher course.’”
“This is why I pay you the big bucks, Cheese.”
“Not big enough.”
#
I didn’t track down Barton until I had a reason to. I didn’t want to scare the man away. So after 28 hours, when Barton’s report still had not arrived on my desk, I went to the range.
It was early, barely eight in the morning, but the archer was there with an arrow notched.
#
“What was he wearing?”
“Purple hoodie. Basketball shorts. Purple Chucks…I don’t see how this is related to the story.”
Fury snickered.
#
Barton let the arrow go. It cut through the air faster than my eyes could follow and hit the wall just to the left of the target.
I couldn’t help the gasp that escaped. Barton lowered his bow and turned, his eyebrows raised.
“You missed,” I said. “I thought you never missed.”
“It’s not missing if you’re not aiming at the target,” Barton answered with a shrug. I gave him a questioning look and the man clarified. “Hitting the target is too easy. I can hit it dead center every time. There’s not challenge or art to it. So I had Nat mark up the back wall with purple marker. I’m aiming at her dots.”
I came up beside him and squinted at the back wall. “I don’t see anything.”
“They’re there. Little fucking purple freckles,” Barton said. He pulled another arrow out of his quiver and then took aim, inhaling as he pulled the string taut. He released a breath with the arrow. It hit the wall just above his original one.
Maintenance wasn’t going to be too happy about the holes in the wall, but I couldn’t bring myself to tell the man to stop. I did make a mental note to bake them some scones and then have a long discussion with weapons R&D about making the Range more challenging.
#
“So that’s what all those forms that came across my desk the other week were about.”
“We should be seeing improvements to the Range within the month.”
“Good, maybe a challenge will keep Barton out of the fucking vents.”
“I seriously doubt that.”
“A man can dream.”
#
“So what brings you to the Range?” Barton asked. “Other than basking in my manly awesomeness?”
#
“Now you’re just fucking with me. He did not say that.”
Phil lifted his eyebrows. “Why would I claim he said that if he didn’t?”
Nick had no response to that.
“Now do you want to hear the rest of the story or not? Because if you keep interrupting…”
“Fine. Fine. I’ll shut up.”
#
“Your report is late,” I answered.
Barton lowered his bow and looked at me with amusement on his face. “Coulson, you’ve read my file. Have I ever been known to turn in a report on time?”
“This is important. We’ll be using this op to evaluate whether or not to send you on any more infiltration missions. We need your report to make that evaluation.”
Barton sighed heavily and rolled his eyes. “Okay. Okay. I’ll do it today.”
“You’ll do it now,” I said firmly. “Come back with me to my office.”
And just like that all of the nonchalance left Barton’s pose, his face closing off and his body stiffening. I knew I had made a mistake.
It’s always hard with new assets, trying to figure out what makes them tick, what lines I can’t even toe and which I can cross. All of the good ones—the really good ones—have their own idiosyncrasies and triggers, and very rarely will a file actually tell me what those are.
And Barton and Romanoff were a minefield of issues.
“I can write my own fucking reports,” Barton said. “You’ll have it from me by noon, Coulson.”
He pulled another arrow from his quiver and aimed at a target I couldn’t see. I turned and left him to his practice.
This wasn’t how I’d intended the conversation to go. I’d wanted him to come back to my office, where I’d offer him coffee and scones. Then while he worked on his report and ate a chocolate-chip scone, I’d carefully broach the subject of what a highly valued and good asset he was. Instead I’d lost whatever goodwill he had extended to me by crossing some line I didn’t know existed.
I needed to fix this. And I needed to fix this soon, but…
#
“…I had no idea what to do.”
“The great Phil Coulson? Without an idea? I don’t believe it.”
Phil snorted. “You should know better than anyone that it does happen.”
“But I thought you said Barton gave you the idea for this chart.”
“No, Barton gave me the idea that I needed something. Something to balance praise and criticism.”
“So the chart came from…?”
“Robbie.”
“An engineer gave you an idea for a behavior chart?”
“An engineer with two toddlers.”
#
Barton did turn his report in at noon. I thanked him, and he told me not to thank him for doing his job. Neither of us mentioned that the report was, in fact, late. Though to be fair it was probably the earliest the asset had ever turned in a report.
For the rest of the day, the Barton situation was in the back of my mind. Barton still didn’t know me well enough to realize that I never give unearned praise, and he’d probably interpret any praise from me as mere flattery, trying to butter him up. I had to think of a system I could enact across the board—with all of my assets—so he wouldn’t feel singled out.
I got back to my apartment at 11:00 pm, and the phone started ringing almost as soon as I walked through the door. I pulled it off the hook and gave my usual, “This is Phil.”
“I can’t decide if I like Seven of Nine or hate her.” Robbie sounded tired, like this might be the first time he’d gotten to sit down all day.
“Oh, yeah?” I tucked the phone between my cheek and my shoulder and began to rummage through my fridge.
“On the one hand, she’s an interesting dilemma—a Borg disconnected from the collective—a thing I’ve been curious about since Hugh—you remember…”
“Yeah, Geordi’s pet Borg.”
“He wasn’t a pet Borg, Philly. But yes.”
“Okay, so why do we hate her?”
“Because not only is she an obvious and over-the-top sex object that makes me feel like the Star Trek franchise has little faith in straight men, but she’s an obvious analog to Spock and Data.” Passion erased fatigue from his voice. “What is it with Star Trek that it thinks it needs a character who isn’t human but for some reason wants to be? That’s what I like about Deep Space Nine. All these non-humans, just being non-human. That’s how it’d really be you know. Oh, and let’s not forget…”
I made myself a sandwich as he ranted, and honestly, I didn’t have the heart to tell him I’d yet to watch most of this last season—despite the fact that he taped them and dutifully sent them in care packages to my apartment. Robbie has never taken missions as an excuse for me to miss Star Trek.
#
A burst of laughter escaped Nick Fury. “I don’t know if I’ve said this recently, Phil, but I love your brother.”
Phil smiled. “I’m fond of him myself.”
#
Eventually Robbie took a breath in his Star Trek diatribe, and I said, “How is everyone?”
“Lisa is eight months pregnant, how do you think she is?” Fatigue once again laced his voice. “Remind me why I thought having a third child was a good idea, Philly?”
“Temporary insanity,” I said.
Robbie huffed. “Well next time, please remind me that babies are not fun. And that four-year-olds and two-year-olds are terrors put on this planet to punish the wicked.”
“What did they do now?”
“Becky thinks she needs to climb everything and to do the most death defying things. She climbed Jim’s dresser and was going to jump off, Phil. JUMP OFF. She’s going to give me a heart attack.”
I chuckled, but honestly that story reminded me of a recent op with Barton where he climbed the outside of the building, stood on the edge, and nearly jumped off despite the fact he was nine stories up.
“And then Jim—God that kid, Philly. He’s discovered eye-rolling. Everything we ask him to do, it’s a heavy sigh and an eye-roll. He’s four! What’s he going to be like when he’s a teen?”
Probably like Romanoff, who could show her disdain for a request with a flick of her eyes.
“Things have calmed down a bit recently though, what with the chart.”
“Chart?”
“Yeah. One of Lisa’s friends introduced her to the concept. She uses it with her kids and it’s a miracle worker. It’s just a chart with their names and when they do things that are good, you give them a gold star, and when they’re bad, we put a red sticker.”
“And that works?”
“Like you wouldn’t believe. Especially since we told that for every ten gold stars they get ice-cream.”
“Huh.”
“Huh what?”
“What?”
“You just got an idea. Spill.” Robbie’s always been able to read me like an open book, something the top spies of the world hadn’t been able to manage. But the top spies of the world hadn’t known me since their birth.
“I was just thinking, your kids sound a lot like my two newest co-workers, who have both been giving me trouble.”
“Hmm, we talking about Mr. Too-Tight-Shirts and Ms. Kill-You-With-a-Look?”
#
Nick snorted, his hand covering his face as he broke down in laughter.
“I don’t know why I tell you anything when you react like this,” Phil said.
“Because I’m your best friend, Cheese,” Nick laughed. “God, his shirts are too tight, aren’t they?”
“I think he has some sort of deal with Requisitions,” Phil said with a frown. “I submit his paperwork for new clothes in sizes based on measurements I watched the tailor take—“ Nick snickered. Of course Phil watched. Barton probably had to remove his shirt. “—and yet somehow his clothes and uniforms always come in tighter than requested.”
“I’m sure you could get to the bottom of it. If you wanted to,” Nick said with a wink.
“I don’t know what you’re insinuating,” Phil responded in his usual unflappable way.
“Uh-huh,” Nick said. “So what did Robbie think about you using the chart on full grown assassins.”
“He doesn’t know they’re assass…”
“Your brother is not stupid, Phil,” Nick said. “He knows they’re at least special ops.”
Phil was still for a moment and then inclined his head in agreement.
#
I explained the situation as best as I could to Robbie, without giving away details.
“You don’t think they’ll feel patronized?” Robbie asked. “Or singled out?”
“Not if I don’t just apply it to them,” I said. “I’ll apply it to everyone who answers to me. I think they’re all so competitive, that they’ll take it seriously despite themselves because none of them will want to lose.”
“Except for What’s-His-Face.”
“Yeah, except for him.”
#
“What’s-His-Face?” Nick asked, lifting an eyebrow.
“Wade.”
That actually made a lot of fucking sense for a nickname so Nick didn’t say anything more.
#
“Well I suppose it doesn’t hurt to try,” Robbie said. “Worst case scenario they all think you’re patronizing them, you lose what little respect you’ve earned with them, and they kill you in your sleep.”
I sighed. “Someday, they really are going to kill me in my sleep, and you’re going to regret making jokes like this.”
Robbie snorted. “Philly, you are the most badass motherfucker to ever walk the earth. Don’t deny it. You and I both know even Marcus is scared of you—“
#
“Not true!” Nick protested, because he fucking had to on principle. And he very carefully did not think about the Mac’N’Cheese Incident of 1987.
In all honesty, Nick hadn’t been able to eat macaroni and cheese since then.
But Phil didn’t need to know that.
#
“—so there is no way in hell you are going to let these two probies get to you.”
“They’re not exactly probies…”
“I don’t care,” Robbie cut me off. “You go in there, you put up that fucking chart, and tell them whose boss. And then you hand out gold stars to Mr. Too-Tight and make him feel good about himself. Because that’s what you do. You heal the broken and you make them better than they are.”
I was silent. I don’t know why, but I’m always stunned by the level of belief my little brother has in me. Sometimes I think he thinks I could part the Red Sea if I wanted to.
And sometimes, his belief in me makes me feel like I actually could.
“Thanks, Robbie.”
“Anytime,” he responded. “That’s what I’m here for. Giving you the kick in the pants you need on occasion.” He paused. “You haven’t watched a single episode of Voyager this season, have you?”
“It’s getting late,” I said, glancing at the clock. And it was, even if it was a shameless change of subject. “I should get to bed.”
Robbie snorted. “You get your sleep. And don’t make me call Marcus and have him make your next mission be a Star Trek marathon.”
#
“Did you catch up on Voyager?” Nick asked, his eyes narrowing. Robbie and Nick had a pact, which Robbie made Nick swear the first time he met the younger man. Phil not being caught up on Star Trek was a sign he was being overworked, and if it got too bad, Nick made him take a fucking day off.
Phil would work himself to fucking death if Nick let him.
“You know Robbie would have called you if I hadn’t,” Phil answered.
Nick grunted in assent.
#
The next morning on my way into the office, I picked up poster board, two packs of stickers, and a set of markers. I then made the chart you see now on my wall. I sent out a memo to most of my assets, but I’m fairly certain Barton doesn’t know what email is. I knew he and Romanoff would come by my office at some point just to bother me.
As per my memo, all my assets who were in the facility came by that day to see the chart.
Melinda arrived in my office, stared at the chart for a long moment, and said, “Just tell me this isn’t about me.”
“It’s not about you,” I said.
She nodded, still staring at the chart. “So successfully pulling three junior agents out of a firefight where we should have all died is worthy of a gold star, right?”
“As I said in the memo, I’m not awarding stars or dots retroactively. You start earning them today.”
She turned her icy gaze on me and then said, “I just emailed you my report from yesterday’s op—a full five hours early.”
I handed her the sheet of gold stars. The agent carefully peeled one off and placed it next to her name. She smiled tightly. “This officially makes me the first one to earn a gold star, correct?”
“Yes,” I said, doing my very best to suppress my mirth.
If Melinda cared about it, then it was probably going to work.
#
Nick grinned. “So Melinda likes gold stars…”
“Don’t think I’ll protect you if she comes after you.”
Nick Fury simply widened his grin.
#
By the time Barton and Romanoff showed up at my office, half of my assets already had a gold star. Barton immediately zeroed in on the chart, his eyes narrowing when he saw it. “What’s this?”
“And more importantly,” Romanoff added, sitting down on the couch, “why don’t we have any gold stars next to our names?”
“Wade doesn’t really work for you,” Barton said, pointing to the last name on the list. “Does he?”
I didn’t answer. Instead I leaned back in my chair and gazed at him placidly.
#
“How long are you going to drag that out for?” Nick snickered.
“As long as I can get away with it,” Phil said with a smile.
#
“I thought a little friendly competition could help all of my assets,” I said, and then I explained the chart. “At the end of the quarter, I’ll add up the gold stars, subtract out the red dots, and whoever has the highest points at the end will get a prize.”
Romanoff hummed thoughtfully and said, “I sparred with a junior agent this morning and didn’t put him in the hospital. And Clint did not kill Agent Woo this morning.”
I lifted an eyebrow at that. “Is killing Agent Woo a daily risk for you?”
“He tripped in the cafeteria this morning and got his fucking breakfast all over me.” Barton sighed in a world weary fashion, dragging his hand over his face. “He was having biscuits and gravy for breakfast, sir. Biscuits and gravy. I had to shower.”
And really there was no other way to respond to that other than to give them both a gold star.
#
“Of course, they didn’t need to know I was looking for an excuse to start them both out with a gold star,” Phil said. “Though, honestly I was impressed Barton didn’t kill Woo. I’m not sure I would have had such strength in the circumstances.”
“I should have the man flayed, ruining a perfectly good breakfast,” Nick said. The SHIELD cafeteria made biscuits and gravy almost as good as his mother had.
Phil stared at him for a moment and then said, “Sometimes I forget you’re from Atlanta, and then you do something like remind me you actually like that artery-clogging breakfast.”
“Says the guy who watches Survivor. At least I’m not rotting my brain.”
“Yes, your health is a much better thing to waste.”
They stared at each other for a long moment and then both broke into grins. “So what happened next?” Nick asked.
“Next? That’s it. They accepted the chart. It’s working, as you can see. Believe it or not, things are going well.”
“You didn’t tell Wilson about the chart, did you?”
Phil laughed. “God no. Do I look like I have a death wish? Wilson is doing fine where and how he is. Putting him in a competition with Barton and Romanoff is the last thing we need.”
“It would probably end with them blowing HQ up,” Nick agreed.
“And somehow thinking that was worth a gold star,” Phil said.
Nick laughed, imagining Barton, Romanoff, and Wilson standing in the rubble of SHIELD HQ, cornering Phil and demanding he give them each a gold star.
“Well good luck with this,” Nick said, waving his hand at the chart. “And when they slaughter you for a sheet of gold stars, remember: I told you so.”
“One day you and Robbie both are going to regret saying things like that to me,” Phil said. “You’re going to be standing at my funeral and thinking, ‘I should have been nicer to him.’”
“Please, we all know I’m going to die first.” Nick got to his feet stretching. “What are you doing Friday night?”
“Not being set up on a blind date by you,” Phil answered, turning back to his computer. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got work to do.”
Nick looked once more to the chart—covered with its gold stars and red dots—and shook his head.
Who would have guessed the most lethal people in the world would bend over backwards for a fucking sticker.
#
Phil watched the door swing closed behind his best friend. Then he turned and looked at the chart. Barton’s name was first on the list—as dictated by alphabetical order—and his name by far had the biggest mix of red dots and gold stars.
But the first two stickers by his name were both gold stars.
The first one was for the Woo incident, but the second one…
The second one still pained Phil to think about. And reminded him that even SHIELD’s most lethal sniper had once been a child.
#
I handed the sheet of gold stars to Romanoff. She peeled one off, stuck it next to her name, and handed it to Barton.
The archer took the sheet. For a long moment he stared at the gold stars, and then looked up at me. His expression was blank. “Who told you?”
“Told me what?” I asked.
“I’m not mad,” he said, each word careful and precise. “I mean—I knew what I was signing up for when I signed up with SHIELD, that you guys would dig deep and exploit everything, but…seriously, where did you guys dig this up from?” He looked away from me and up at the vents. “You didn’t….you didn’t find Barney, did you?”
“Your brother?” I asked in surprise.
“It’s just…if you found Barney, I want to know, sir,” Barton looked back to me, his face still the same careful mask, his voice firmly controlled. “I’m not saying I need to see him, but I just…I want to know.”
“Agent Barton, everything I know about your brother is in your file—the file I showed you before you agreed to be my asset.”
“Oh.” Barton looked back to the sheet of stars, the mask suddenly falling away from his face to reveal a soft, vulnerable expression.
It took my breath away.
I often forgot just how young the archer was. It was probably because he spent so much time with Romanoff, who looked young but could remember the second World War. But Barton was only twenty-seven, and in that moment of vulnerability—his eyes large and his lips slightly parted—he barely looked that.
“The orphanage used to use one of these charts,” Barton said, his voice small and faraway. “But I was never a kissup and they didn’t believe in giving out stars for doing what was expected. So I kept earning the sad face stickers and never a gold star. Kids who were meaner than shit would earn gold stars because they were charming, brown nosing bastards, but as soon as the adults’ backs were turned they were back to torturing us smaller kids.
“Then one day I went by the chart and I had a gold star. I didn’t know where it came from or what it was for, and when I asked a volunteer she said the previous volunteer must have given it to me. For the next month, gold stars appeared next to my name like that. None of the adults seem to know where they came from, but they assumed another adult had put it up.
“When it came time to hand out the monthly award, I was in the lead, and none of the adults could believe it. That’s when they figured it out. Barney had purchased a whole book of gold stars. They revoked them all, of course, and Barney—God, they punished him for weeks: no dessert, no TV privileges, and twice as many chores. I thought he was going to be furious with me, but he wasn’t. When I asked him about it, he just laughed and said he did it to fuck with the volunteers, but you know it was the nicest thing he had ever done for me—the nicest thing anyone had ever done for me.”
Barton fell silent, his eyes glassy as he stared at the sheet of gold stars.
Sometimes I think my childhood was bad. I look back on my life and I slip into self-pity, thinking “My dad left me” and “I had to work to support my family” and “I never got to be a kid.”
But this broken young man, nearly crying over a sheet of gold stars because it was the fucking happiest memory he had from his childhood—this was what a terrible childhood looked like.
And it broke my heart that someone so young, someone so beautiful, could be so broken.
I stood up and walked over to him. I took the sheet of gold stars from his hand, and he looked up at me with confusion on his face.
I peeled off one gold sticker and put it next to his name. I said, “You earned this for dealing with the Jimmy Woo situation in an adult and mature manner. You earned this.”
I then peeled off another and placed it next to the first, “And you earned this one for opening up to me about your past. You didn’t have to do that. It is above and beyond the call of duty, but I thank you and I appreciate it, because it helps me understand you better and that helps me make the right call in the field.”
His gaze went to the stars, his jaw slightly unhinged. He reached out and touched them, as if he couldn’t believe they were there.
“This is not pity,” I said, so it’s clear. “This is not a mistake. This is not secretly putting up stickers. You will know why you earned every sticker I put up there, Barton—whether a gold star or a red dot. And you will earn them. This isn’t the orphanage. You are not one asset to be lost among the others. You are mine, and I pay attention to what’s mine. Do you understand?”
“No,” he admitted. He didn’t look at me. “But…I think I’m okay with it?”
“Is that a question?”
“No,” he said firmly and he did look at me this time. His expression was resolved, determined. “I’m okay with it.”
“Good,” I said. “Now go do something useful. I have requisitions forms to fill out. Unless you don’t want new arrows?”
The archer smiled at that and then sauntered out. Romanoff followed more slowly after him, pausing in the door and looking back at me. “He never talks about his brother,” she said, probably to make sure I understood the significance of what had just happened. “But I think…”
She hesitated, and I tensed—because the Black Widow never hesitates.
“I think he would like to know where he is,” she said.
And then she walked through the door, without waiting for me to respond.
#
Phil shook his head, pulling himself from the memory. Then he turned his attention back to his computer and the form he’d been working on before Fury interrupted him.
Form IA-1: Inter-Agency Information Request
Requestor: Philip J. Coulson, SHIELD
Requestee: Eric Tai, FBI
Information Requested: Records and whereabouts of Charles Bernard Barton, known aliases: Barney Barton …