“Talk to me Barton,” Coulson said quietly as he put on his blinker and turned onto a side street lined with small, cottage-like houses with neatly kept lawns.
Cul-de-sacs, Clint thought they were called, but how would he really know?
This wasn’t his area, these postcard little communities with their matching SUV’s and their American flags waving happily from the front yard.
Coulson had assured him that this was ok, that holing up in his childhood home with his parents for a few days was safe,
but Clint was more nervous than he’d been facing down a roomful of drawn pistols and it showed.
The sniper, who could maintain his position with a deadly stillness for hours while waiting for his mark, was shifting constantly in the passenger seat,
his left knee bouncing like a piston and his hands curling and uncurling insistently, twitching for a bow.
It wasn’t the
that made him anxious - the cookie-cutter, picture-perfect little houses - it was what they held, what they
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