@barnesandbarton
Some simple job, just be a bodyguard for some rich asshole politician dealing out secrets to other organizations. Barney could certainly LOOK the part of intimidating and, when push came to shove, he shoved right back. A criminal life wasn't exactly something he had ever PLANNED for himself, not since he was a teenager. And yet, jobs for the dead didn't come easy nor was he interested in declaring himself otherwise. Being dead meant no one was asking questions, let him make moves in the SHADOWS where he wouldn't be disturbed. It was easier that way, easier for the world to think Barney Barton was deceased some time ago.
Watching them go over documents, at some point Barney had become BORED. Mumbling something about scoping out the area was just an excuse to step away and check out the rest of the warehouse they had hidden away in. Let them have their dirty dealings, playing bodyguard when he wasn't NEEDED was one of the most pathetic jobs Barney could think of. No targets, no adrenaline, nothing to push right back at.
It was in another room, he could have sworn he had heard the shuffle of footsteps, a breath taken too sharply. Eyebrows furrowed, blue eyes moving towards the rafters overhead. Now his heart was racing, adrenaline COURSING through him. The promise of ACTION if he had heard right was just around the corner. Military training, FBI training, those fuckers' training, it had every part of him on EDGE. Listening in to the silence, taking in every tiny sound that might indicated the presence of any UNWELCOME guests.
He shifted, moving behind a pillar to take cover as nonchalantly as possible, trying to appear as though he were just leaning against it rather than moving out of sight. One hand reached for the compound bow strapped to his back, the other freeing an arrow to nock. Quiet, the droning of voices echoing from the other room. There was the DOUBT that perhaps he had misheard, that it was that good old paranoia eating away at him. The bow and arrow, after all this time, felt COMFORTABLE in his grip, an extension of himself. Years of training, of having it pushed into his hands time and time again had him reaching for it still rather than a typical gun.
Several moments passed before he finally let out a whistle. Something to call whoever might be there, a clear indicator that he KNEW they weren't alone. Come on out and play.
