Just a fun crack!fic. :) I own nothing!
"And for a dressing?"
"Pickle relish."
"And lettuce?"
Piotr nodded. He stared at the man carelessly putting together the sandwich, who then promptly wrapped up said sandwich and slid it across the small counter. He pushed a few buttons and repeated the amount, which was paid for in cash.
Piotr froze when a familiar voice came from next to him. "Mustard."
The Russian's eyes widened and he grabbed his sandwich, starting for the door. The same voice followed him even then. "No, that's good, thank you. My apologize. Wesley – tomatoes or onions?"
"Tomatoes, Sir."
Piotr exited the building and rifled through his pocket for his phone – it rang once before a voice on the other line answered "Da?"
"Wesley and his employer are in Subway."
A reply in his native tongue came through the receiver, and then the other line ended. Piotr was already moving for the outside tables when the door opened once more, this time Fisk and Wesley exiting.
Piotr sat down in one of the white chairs, leaning over and resting his arms on the marble table.
"Did you get a knife?"
Wesley's hands un-clasped from in front of his self as he handed over the plastic knife. "Thank you, James."
Piotr swallowed, suddenly finding his lunch very interesting. He unwrapped it, glancing over at the two. They'd been off the radar for weeks, and his boss(es) had started to wonder why. And there he was; wrong sandwich, wrong time.
When Wesley looked in his direction, he snapped his head back to the food, trying to look as if he'd been about to take a bite – which was ruined when his teeth clacked together on thin air. He coughed and aimed for the bread the second time.
He had a feeling it was going to be a long day.