Author's Note:

After some consideration and a suggestion by human28, I've decided to expand the former one-shot into a chapter fic. Of course. Because it's not like I don't have tons of other stories to be working on already. It's just too fun of an idea to pass up.

So, this will be - I'm guessing - a six chapter collection of one-shots, each going over how the various members of the Avengers (and Coulson) finds out about Clint's eye 'problems'. I honestly don't know how they'll turn out. Tony's was part humor and part almost-angst. Coulson's is somewhat humor and a lot of Clint brooding. The others...I have no idea yet. There are very few plans here, so we'll see how it goes.

As with the first chapter, headcanon all over the place, but hopefully not too confusing. Hope you enjoy!

Coulson: set 1 month after Clint's start with SHIELD

Clint had decided very quickly to hate SHIELD. He hated that they caught him, that they gave him an ultimatum, their terrible cafeteria food, that persistent beeping noise that seemed impossible to get away from and that had him suspicious for a while that they had planted some tracking device on him... He had a very lengthy list reasons and, after spending the better part of a day in the medical wing to go through physicals, tests, and immunizations, it had grown substantially.

He had not decided yet whether or not to hate a certain Agent Coulson that, apparently, the Director had decided would oversee his training. There were definitely things to complain about; his love for protocol, his habit of badly whistling some old song when he did paperwork, and his eerie ability to discern Clint's current mood before Clint even knew what it was himself were just a few. Coulson had been the one to officially bring the archer in and had, apparently, been the one to request that a nineteen-year-old ex-carnie-turned-assassin be given a shot as an agent. Even so, there was something about the older man that made him strangely hard to hold a grudge against. Clint hated being indecisive about anything.

Today he was hovering more toward the 'blistering hate' side of the argument due to Coulson's latest infraction of making him get all those damn tests to begin with. His shoulders were sore from the shots and his pride was a bit bruised from having to sit around in that damn robe for hours. The doctors had, for the most part, been polite enough, but there had been one who had asked Clint if he wanted a sticker on his way out and gotten an iodine swab between his teeth in response That and his instinctive distrust of people in lab coats hadn't made the process pleasant. The immediate goal of holing up in his room - possibly an air duct if any of his roommates happened to be in - was quelled when an aide had informed him that Coulson wanted to go over the test results. Instead he was holed up in their usual conference room, feet propped up on the table and eyes locked on the far corner of the room. He was actually a little surprised he had gotten there first; it was rare to come in to an empty room when Coulson set a meeting.

It didn't take long, of course, for his handler to show up with a file tucked under one arm and his usual expression that gave away absolutely nothing. Clint saw all of this in his peripheral and there was the now-common silence in which some might wonder if either man even knew the other was there. Coulson sat in his usual chair - damn, that man had his habits - and spent a few minutes simply glancing over the pages in the folder.

There were many different kinds of silences between them, Clint had discovered. He could never explain exactly what made them different, but he had gotten good at distinguishing between them. There were the times that simply didn't have anyone talking, whether it be during breakfast or walking down the hall. He didn't mind those; they weren't exactly comfortable, but there was no expectation for either to say anything, which was always a plus. There were also the various strained silences - the ones when Coulson was waiting for some kind of interaction and would wait as long as he needed to or, as seemed to happen fairly often, when both men seemed to be challenging the other to speak first. Clint didn't always win those, but he was getting pretty good at holding out.

This time it seemed Coulson wasn't too worried about starting the conversation or getting Clint to speak up first. It was oddly frustrating, actually; he knew there would be some kind of conversation - otherwise the older man wouldn't have bothered calling him in. Hell if he was going to be the one to bring it up, though. Clint couldn't really be called patient, but he knew how to wait. He was very good at waiting, and he had out-stubborned Coulson before. ...Not often, of course, but it had happened.

They spent at least another five minutes like that - Clint staring at the wall and Coulson reading through the file. It was oddly satisfying when Coulson leaned forward a little and shifted enough in his chair to look at the younger man. After a moment Clint vaguely realized he had been satisfied to start a discussion about a bunch of medical reports and wondered if that had been some sort of subtle plan or something.

"I explained to Agent Wilson why I pulled you today," Coulson began, apparently not put off in the slightest by the fact that his charge had yet to actually acknowledge his presence in the room. "He said you're doing well enough that there won't anything to make up, but you're right back in tomorrow morning."

Wilson was another one he was indecisive about. The man oversaw the physical training for the new recruits and had been known to strike terror into some of them. He was good at his job and, though Clint would never admit as much out loud, was definitely not what he'd come to expect of SHIELD agents. Wilson had been skeptical of throwing a last-minute addition into the newest group to begin with. When he found out said addition was nineteen and still in the process of getting his record expunged, apparently there had been a good half-hour debate between him and the Director. If there were any animosities remaining now, beyond the usual lectures and shouting that all of the recruits got, he didn't show it. Clint had actually heard the man once informing one of the other rookies that if a kid four years younger than them could manage a drill in near-record time, they sure as hell could shave off a few seconds.

Wilson never questioned how Clint knew the skills he did or why he hadn't known a six-minute mile wasn't normal for most on their first day of training. He let the archer push himself, claiming they were both learning something when Clint wanted to see just how long he could hang from one arm. He didn't, however, let him 'punish himself', and Clint suspected it was Coulson that had requested that. Essentially, he was complicated. Apparently that was a running trend in this place.

"Are you even the slightest bit with me here, Barton?" Clint kept from blinking and kept his face blank, letting it go silent for a few seconds before responding.

"You have my full attention. Sir." Coulson made a soft and rather disbelieving noise before he continued.

"Only on reported incident in the infirmary today; I'm impressed." There was a soft rustling of papers and Clint wondered if he could get away with just falling asleep in the chair. "What did Davies say, exactly?"

"Asked if I wanted a sticker for 'being such a good boy'," the younger man repeated, rather proud of himself for keeping his voice flat. "I'd give him a sticker if they hadn't taken my knives when I went in..."

"I think he got the message just fine, and you've hit your limit for disciplinary reports this week; I'd like to keep you out of the Director's office for as long as possible." That didn't seem to be looking for any sort of answer so it went quiet again. Something beeped a few times in the hallway and Clint had to keep himself from flinching at the sound. Damn he hated this place...

Coulson seemed to be taking his time with the entire thing. He had to know just how frustrating it was, really. Maybe this 'discussion' was doubling as a lesson in patience or something. Nothing but the rustling of pages, an occasional dim beep, and Clint's determination to watch the same corner for as long as he could.

"You're a bit of a paradox, Barton; you know that?" Clint ignored the obviously rhetorical question, vaguely wondering what kind of detonation would blow a hole in the roof large enough to escape from. "Seem to be one of the healthiest and most fit recruits we have, especially considering your age...but it's astounding that you're still alive."

"Yeah, well, I'm good at that," Clint muttered. He could tell Coulson was holding back a smirk but knew that the usual poker face wouldn't waver in the slightest.

"Apparently. Any broken bones have healed correctly, no limitations in movement - quite the opposite, actually - and they should have you up-to-date on your immunizations within the month." There was a short silence in which Clint ran through several schemes to avoid those next shots and Coulson turned a few more pages. "You didn't explain all of your scars."

"That's because it's none of their damn business." He felt the older man look at him and shot a scowl in his direction, resisting the automatic impulse to rub one of the more prominent marks on his right shoulder. "Their scars. They've healed. It doesn't matter."

"They used to be injures," Coulson told him, still with that damn air of endless patience. "Injuries that might have caused further damage, considering you apparent aversion to real medical treatment."

"I'm fine." He seemed to be using those two words a lot recently. "I can move, right? No internal bleeding or anything. They're just scars." They were his timeline. He could map out all nineteen years on those scars, from the one he got the first time his dad had thrown a bottle at him to the knife wound from the last job before the one that got him caught. SHIELD knew a hell of a lot, but they didn't need details like that.

"What's the one on your jaw?" And it figured Coulson didn't care about such things. Clint glared over at him, his hand lifting to trace the mark before he could stop it.

"It's a scar."

"Where did it come from?"

"Regenerating cells or some crap like that, hell if I know." Coulson simply lifted an eyebrow, a look that Clint recognized as the 'I can wait as long as you can' expression. After a short staring contest the younger man cursed under his breath and looked away again. "Rebar, okay? A wall came down and the corner hit me."

"See, that is literally all I need to know. I don't suppose you got a tetanus shot after that."

"Yeah, I walked into a hospital and explained to them why exactly I was in the middle of a collapsing wall in the middle of the night, not to mention that the wall had been part of a drug lord's mansion." He gave an exaggerated eye roll. "No, I did not get a tetanus shot."

The older man was silent for a moment, his gaze never wavering as he considered Clint carefully. It was always impossible to tell exactly what he was looking for with those looks, but this time he seemed satisfied after long enough and turned back to the papers.

"I don't expect every detail from you. If I ask about a scar you can leave it at just what caused it. What you were doing at the time is your business, as you said, and it's not medically relevant. Can you at least give me that much?" Dammit, he always made it sound so reasonable. Clint let himself scowl even as he sighed in resignation.

"I'll see. For some of them." Coulson seemed satisfied, nodding once briskly.

"I'll hold you to that. Overall, it seems you check out - exceptionally, in some areas."

"Great, then we're done -"

"But there's one thing I'm curious about."

Clint let out an overly-dramatic groan, tipping his chair back and letting one arm fall over his face. "Dammit, Coulson, I just want a nap..."

"It seems Hawkeye is a bit of a misnomer." Blue eyes blinked open again quickly at that and the archer tilted his head enough to frown at Coulson, brow furrowing a little.

"The hell is that supposed to mean?" A paper from the file was held up by way of explanation, but it was too close for him to make out the words clearly. Damn eyes...

"Your eye exam." Oh hell, he can read minds. "Do you know exactly how farsighted you are?" Clint blinked again before letting his chair fall back on all four legs again and snatching the paper from Coulson's hand. He had to resist the automatic urge to hold it away from himself to try and actually read the thing and instead just peered at the blur critically.

"I'm not - must've put in the results wrong; my eyes are fine." His handler scoffed lightly, grabbing the page back - it was always so easy to forget how fast he was sometimes - and stuck it back in the file.

"The doctors know what they're doing, Barton. They know how to give eye exams. And you, apparently, have never had one before today."

"They rigged the tests or something," he insisted, frown growing and arms crossing stubbornly. "I'm fine. You see me running into walls or anything out there?" Coulson shook his head as he closed the folder and leaned back in the way that meant there was something to talk about, and dammit they would talk about it.

"That's what has me curious. You're one of the best shots we've seen in a long time and you obviously have no problems handling things, even when they're in your bad range, and yet I'd guess everything's blurred up to what - four or five feet out?" Dammit, they did know how to do eye exams... He hadn't even known what half those questions had been for, but they seemed to be good at pegging the problem.

"Four feet, seven inches," Clint muttered after a moment, and Coulson nodded as if it wasn't strange at all that he'd have an exact measurement for it. Of course, knowing Coulson, he'd probably seen stranger.

"I thought as much. The fact that no one's noticed it before now is, honestly a little baffling." The young man snorted, turning away again and resuming his glare at the wall.

"I grew up with people who were content with a shower every three weeks. We didn't exactly do regular check-ups." It wasn't like they hadn't cared, really. Circus life jut didn't really allow for things like doctor visits or money to buy glasses. Not that he'd have wanted them then any more than he did now. No one there noticed, perhaps partly because he never needed to decipher much that he couldn't put at a further distance. He'd never been great at reading anyway - most likely due to his eyes, now that he thought about it - and compensated well enough with everything else.

"Still," Coulson continued, "it's...impressive, at the least. No one's figured it out before now?" Clint shook his head.

"No one." Except Natasha. She had picked up that particular detail after a while. Coulson didn't need to know about that, though. His handler hummed quietly, his hands folding neatly.

"When did you?" He had to consider that question for a minute and debated a minute more whether or not to answer it.

"Probably seven or eight, hell if I know. There's nothing wrong with me, okay? I had to learn to deal with it, so I dealt with it."

"Is that why you avoid having to read as much as possible?" Dammit... Clint didn't bother responding to that one, working his expression back into the blank uncaring one he wore so often around this place. Apparently the silence was answer enough, however, and Coulson nodded to himself, then leaned forward to rest his arm on the table. "We will have to get you some kind of corrective lenses; you know that, right?"

"No way in hell."

"Barton -"

"No, Coulson." The glare was back again, though he managed to keep his voice steady. "I told you, there's nothing wrong with me. I'm not...hell if I'm wearing glasses just because I see different from everyone." His handler hesitated a little while before sighing.

"You don't read because it gives you headaches," he said. "And because hell, what good is learning that stuff going to do if you're job is just shooting things, right?" Damn him...Clint fought to keep his face as blank as possible, praying Coulson couldn't see just how close to home he'd hit.

"I get enough headaches with this place as it is," he muttered a little sullenly. The older man smirked a little, though it didn't quite reach his eyes as he shook his head.

"You are a smart kid, Clint." Blue eyes darted over quickly at his name before he could stop them and he had to force them back. "Some of those shots involve some extremely complicated math, even if it isn't conscious, and you pick up languages faster than almost anyone I've seen. If you're this much of an asset to us with a third-grade education...imagine what you'd be if you started reading."

Damn you, Coulson...He always managed to make things sound so reasonable, managed to hit sore spots with the air of someone discussing the weather, and then suggest some reason and method for fixing those spots. He suggested they were worth fixing in the first place. Clint hesitated and then let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, turning a little to level a rather mild glare at the other man.

"I am not wearing glasses," he repeated. Coulson shrugged, leaning back again.

"We can get contacts. Won't look any different from how you do now, and they'll help with the headaches." He ran the idea over a few times, weighing various pros and cons before he twisted in his chair to face Coulson fully.

"I don't shoot with them," Clint stated firmly. "I'll wear the damn things around here, but I use my own eyes when I shoot."

"I can arrange that." The young man nodded sharply, hesitating again as another thought struck him. Part of him wondered if it even needed to be mentioned, but the distrustful part won out after a moment.

"I don't..." He swallowed once, cursing the sudden inexplicable wariness that had struck him. "I don't ever...tell people. Reputation, y'know." Coulson nodded a little too knowingly and tucked the file under one arm again as he pushed himself to his feet.

"Need-to-know only," he said, "and at this point the only other person that needs to know is the one filling your prescription." Clint stood automatically, a hand running through his hair unconsciously as they moved toward the door.

"I'm..." He trailed off and cursed under his breath as Coulson turned again with a raised brow. "Thank you, sir." There was the briefest flash of what might have been surprise across his handler's face before it vanished and he nodded again.

"You've got the rest of the day off. Go get some dinner, and don't be late for training tomorrow."

Clint found himself stopping outside the doorway as Coulson strode off down the hall, once again struck by that damn indecisiveness that he still hated. There was a lot to complain about when it came to Agent Coulson...but he kept building up points in his favor at least as quickly as he did those against him. After a few moments the archer shook his head, heading off toward the cafeteria with a muttered compromise that would work, at least for now.

"Damn you, Coulson..."