On Friday evening, Coulson has to call Barton’s name three times before the man hears him. Even then, a grunt is all the response he gets.
“Still looking at that file, huh?” he asks carefully.
Barton ignores the question and doesn’t look up from the file when he speaks.
“None of the stuff I really need to know is in here.”
“You’ve been giving me the highlights of that file for a week Barton, you know plenty.”
“There’s plenty I don’t: where she grew up, how old she is...”
Coulson eyes Barton warily, but says nothing.
“Fury did finally hand over some photos, though. Only three, all hard copies, and they’re... strange. This one,” he hands a photo to Coulson, “seems too old to be the right girl.”
The picture is a faded square the size of a beer coaster. The image isn’t quite in focus and seems to have been taken through a golden filter, making the girl’s auburn hair shine, the whole retro feel compounded by her vintage 60s miniskirt and turtleneck sweater. Large, heavy-framed sunglasses obscure her face.
“Well, if Fury added it to the file...” Coulson says, squinting at it.
“Yeah, but how old would you say that girl is? Twenty-five? Twenty-eight, maybe? Now, look at this one...”
It shows a very similar-looking girl, blonde this time, in a nondescript European street glancing warily over her shoulder; the only label, a simple ‘West Berlin’.
“She looks exactly the same. Which is... whatever, but also ‘West’ Berlin? And I checked, that cafe behind her closed down seven years ago.”
“What are you saying, Barton?
Barton doesn’t answer, just keeps staring at the photograph. Eventually, he shakes his head. “Nothing that makes any sense,” he says finally, picking up the third photograph and handing it to Coulson. “This one was taken a week ago by the source for this job.”
It’s labelled ‘Intercontinental Hotel, Bucharest’ and shows the same pretty, 20-something redhead holding a martini and laughing with a fat and balding mustachioed man, her hand on his arm.
“Doin’ a real number on that guy, huh? Yeah buddy, she thinks you’re hilarious,” he snorts. “What an idiot...” Barton is craning his neck to look at the photo in Coulson’s hand, a smug smile on his lips.
When he chuckles softly to himself, Coulson decides it’s time to intervene.
FIC: Agent Barton's Strictly Professional Interest (Part 3/4)
“Still looking at that file, huh?” he asks carefully.
Barton ignores the question and doesn’t look up from the file when he speaks.
“None of the stuff I really need to know is in here.”
“You’ve been giving me the highlights of that file for a week Barton, you know plenty.”
“There’s plenty I don’t: where she grew up, how old she is...”
Coulson eyes Barton warily, but says nothing.
“Fury did finally hand over some photos, though. Only three, all hard copies, and they’re... strange. This one,” he hands a photo to Coulson, “seems too old to be the right girl.”
The picture is a faded square the size of a beer coaster. The image isn’t quite in focus and seems to have been taken through a golden filter, making the girl’s auburn hair shine, the whole retro feel compounded by her vintage 60s miniskirt and turtleneck sweater. Large, heavy-framed sunglasses obscure her face.
“Well, if Fury added it to the file...” Coulson says, squinting at it.
“Yeah, but how old would you say that girl is? Twenty-five? Twenty-eight, maybe? Now, look at this one...”
It shows a very similar-looking girl, blonde this time, in a nondescript European street glancing warily over her shoulder; the only label, a simple ‘West Berlin’.
“She looks exactly the same. Which is... whatever, but also ‘West’ Berlin? And I checked, that cafe behind her closed down seven years ago.”
“What are you saying, Barton?
Barton doesn’t answer, just keeps staring at the photograph. Eventually, he shakes his head. “Nothing that makes any sense,” he says finally, picking up the third photograph and handing it to Coulson. “This one was taken a week ago by the source for this job.”
It’s labelled ‘Intercontinental Hotel, Bucharest’ and shows the same pretty, 20-something redhead holding a martini and laughing with a fat and balding mustachioed man, her hand on his arm.
“Doin’ a real number on that guy, huh? Yeah buddy, she thinks you’re hilarious,” he snorts. “What an idiot...” Barton is craning his neck to look at the photo in Coulson’s hand, a smug smile on his lips.
When he chuckles softly to himself, Coulson decides it’s time to intervene.