Just In a Week

A Word: Day 1: First meetings. Separating this from my Unmade Men drabble series because these were created specifically for the Winterhawk week over on Tumblr.

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Clint's in Germany waiting for a hookup on a job. It's a simple one. The standard here's your target shoot him from this distance type deal. The kind of work that's not really exciting but fills his bank account anyway.

He's in a warehouse with two other men. Partners who hadn't shown the least bit of interest in talking to him when he showed up, and Clint's fine with that. He doubts they'll be working closely together. They've both got the build and toys of men who get up close and personal with their hits. Clint's assessed them and holed himself up in a neat little perch just above a shipping container that's so rusty he doubts it's ever been used.

Not at all like the shipping container he's directly facing now. That one is rusted and dented to hell and back, but the hinges on it are perfectly clean and well oiled. The ground around it is clear of any debris and there isn't even any of the gritty dirt that's just about everywhere else in the place.

The partners are eying the container too, and that speaks pretty well for their attention but only to a point. They're both focused intently on that one single container and Clint too now. They're not really paying as much attention to the dozen or more other entrances Clint can see from his perch.

This whole warehouse is lousy with hidden doors and blind corners. It's almost set up like a training ground. Like one of the hundred or so shoot houses he used to get run through in the Army. Clint doesn't bother fixing his attention on one particular area. He just leans back in his perch and waits for the first sign of movement from anywhere.

Clint doesn't have a partner to rely on to watch his back so he's better practiced at it than the men on the ground. He catches the first hint of movement long before they do.

A man is moving through the warehouse. Circling them and not trying too hard to stay hidden. Just enough to test them, and Clint'd be pissed at it if it didn't mean he's got front row seats to seeing a couple of on edge mercs fail the test spectacularly.

The shipping container opens up as expected and a few men step out. Well dressed and not armed at all, but even that doesn't tip of the partners who stupidly decide to leave their backs open to the man ghosting around them to confront the group.

Clint snorts and the sound gets him a roomful of eyes. It's also all the distraction the man needs to ease up right behind the two mercs.

The man isn't very tall but he's built a lot more solidly than either of the men he's nearly breathing on. He's armed and armored like a tank and that alone should be enough to impress anyone, but it's the way he carries himself that lets Clint know this man is not someone to be messed with.

His eyes are a pale blue that look gray in the shadows created by his long brown hair. Messy and going a little stringy from sweat that Clint wonders about. He ignores the looks he's getting from everyone else and stares back unashamedly at this man.

He's not calling the shots on this job. That's obviously the work of the assholes who are now smirking smugly at the two mercs who still don't know they got someone close enough to their backs to touch if any of them so much as breathed out of synch. This man isn't in charge but Clint knows a major player when he sees one.

There's nothing in the eyes that look right back at him. No emotion or hint of the thoughts going on there as he raises both of his hands. Just enough to ghost a few fingers over the exposed necks of the mercs.

Their reaction is fast and predictable, and Clint doesn't bother hiding his laughter as he slides back down to the floor. The sound of his boots on the floor interrupting the tense silence of two men looking down the sites of their guns at the stranger.

"Nice trick," he says in English even though the two men sound French and the suits are definitely German. "You got a hat to pull rabbits out of too?"

He doesn't get an answer, but there's a twitch in the straight line of lips that stills as the man turns his eyes to the suits. And now he's completely blank. An attentive but empty soldier standing at attention —and it is attention, Clint recognizes a military stance from the tension in his body— and waiting for orders.

Clint's intrigued despite himself. Which is a bad thing from a job that's supposed to be all about getting paid and then getting the fuck away. He schools his face to his own version of blankness —a slight smirk and a bit of arrogance that's expected from him— and turns back to face the people who've hired him. This job has already become a lot more interesting and Clint doesn't want to do anything to get him kicked off it before he gets a chance to find out more.

Being a merc isn't always the most exciting of jobs all the time, but there's some jobs that make it all worth it and Clint's pretty sure this is going to be one of those jobs.

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