Fic: The Right Place at the Right Time
Jul. 27th, 2013 10:15 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
thehawkinhisnestTitle: The Right Place at the Right Time
Word Count: 447
What: After a job goes bad, Clint needs to get away before his employer finds him. Someone else gets there first.
The hotel room door has barely closed behind him before he's slamming drawers, throwing his few possessions into the black duffel bag next to the black case on the ratty, probably flea infested bedspread. He knows it won't be long before his employer finds out just how spectacularly he botched the job. If there are any downsides to his favored weapon turned calling card, it's that it makes it that much harder to blame it on someone else. And it's not like he has any regrets about his own call to take out the other sniper instead of the target, but he feels certain his employer won't be nearly so understanding.
He's just shrugged back into his coat and yanked his beanie down over his hair in final preparation to slip anonymously out of the hotel when there's a short, polite knock at his door. It's sooner than he expected them to catch up to him, and he expected them to come through guns blazing instead of knocking, but he still immediately freezes, one hand on the strap of his duffle bag, the other going to the pistol at his back as he shoots a glance toward the door to the room's balcony. As much as the climb down doesn't worry him, he'll be that much more exposed given the busy street just outside.
Silently, he moves his hand from his duffle bag to the handle of the black case and, his hand still on the Glock, moves to the door and squints through the peephole. The face that looks back at him is also not what he was expecting, and he backs up, frowning - and then backs up a few more steps when the man outside speaks. "Mr. Barton, I was hoping to have a few words with you."
There's something in the man's tone that makes it clear that's not entirely a request, and Clint's still thinking he'd probably be better off making for the balcony when the man speaks again. "The balcony probably isn't your best option, considering the number of SUVs already surrounding the hotel." The man's voice is remarkably even considering how Clint's stomach drops.
"Shit," Clint mutters.
"We have a way out of the hotel for you in return for those few words, but that window is closing rapidly."
Clint knows far too well that he might just be stepping out of the frying pan into the soup pot, but right now, whoever the man at the door is, he's Clint's best option out of this. He finally lets go of the Glock, moving instead to grab his duffle bag and swing it onto his shoulder as he moves to pull open the door.
The man's expression is as pleasant in full view as it was through the fish-eye lens in the door. "Mr. Barton," he says again, like they're colleagues meeting for dinner. "I'm Agent Coulson. Right this way."
Word Count: 447
What: After a job goes bad, Clint needs to get away before his employer finds him. Someone else gets there first.
The hotel room door has barely closed behind him before he's slamming drawers, throwing his few possessions into the black duffel bag next to the black case on the ratty, probably flea infested bedspread. He knows it won't be long before his employer finds out just how spectacularly he botched the job. If there are any downsides to his favored weapon turned calling card, it's that it makes it that much harder to blame it on someone else. And it's not like he has any regrets about his own call to take out the other sniper instead of the target, but he feels certain his employer won't be nearly so understanding.
He's just shrugged back into his coat and yanked his beanie down over his hair in final preparation to slip anonymously out of the hotel when there's a short, polite knock at his door. It's sooner than he expected them to catch up to him, and he expected them to come through guns blazing instead of knocking, but he still immediately freezes, one hand on the strap of his duffle bag, the other going to the pistol at his back as he shoots a glance toward the door to the room's balcony. As much as the climb down doesn't worry him, he'll be that much more exposed given the busy street just outside.
Silently, he moves his hand from his duffle bag to the handle of the black case and, his hand still on the Glock, moves to the door and squints through the peephole. The face that looks back at him is also not what he was expecting, and he backs up, frowning - and then backs up a few more steps when the man outside speaks. "Mr. Barton, I was hoping to have a few words with you."
There's something in the man's tone that makes it clear that's not entirely a request, and Clint's still thinking he'd probably be better off making for the balcony when the man speaks again. "The balcony probably isn't your best option, considering the number of SUVs already surrounding the hotel." The man's voice is remarkably even considering how Clint's stomach drops.
"Shit," Clint mutters.
"We have a way out of the hotel for you in return for those few words, but that window is closing rapidly."
Clint knows far too well that he might just be stepping out of the frying pan into the soup pot, but right now, whoever the man at the door is, he's Clint's best option out of this. He finally lets go of the Glock, moving instead to grab his duffle bag and swing it onto his shoulder as he moves to pull open the door.
The man's expression is as pleasant in full view as it was through the fish-eye lens in the door. "Mr. Barton," he says again, like they're colleagues meeting for dinner. "I'm Agent Coulson. Right this way."
