PG-13 | 6k words
Summary: Clint Barton, in transition.
Clint doesn’t get to carry a quiver on his first mission as a proper SHIELD agent, nor his second, nor his fifth. Because Fury’s plans for him involve more than sniping.
“We have enough trigger pullers,” Coulson explains to him. Coulson has graduated, too, from personnel management to Clint’s handler. Or maybe that was always the plan and Fury thought they should start the relationship in the cradle. “You are capable of much more. We’re trying to find out how much.”
Clint recognizes the challenge and accepts it. Revels in it, a little. At least until the first time he has to run for his life because maybe he’d gotten a little too cocksure and has to do half a klick on a busted ankle because of a bad jump off of a fourth-story roof followed by sliding awkwardly after stepping into a giant mound of shit because Parisians don’t curb their dogs.
Nonetheless, a childhood of carny tricks, pickpocketing, and light B&E has never been better preparation for paying government work. Clint surprises everyone, even himself, with how good he is at the parts of tradecraft that don’t involve killing people. Everyone already knows how good he is at that.
Story available at my LJ and at AO3.