#bishopsbows

→ " There are people shooting guns at us. We’re stuck under a table at a pizzeria. What part of this looks OK?” The question was rhetorical, but Clint was venting. He didn’t have his bow. He didn’t have a damn weapon on him. Today was SUPPOSED to be a ‘normal’ day. No action, no adventure. Today was SUPPOSED to be mundane.

The stack of papers on his desk is absurd, a sin against his personality. If he’d known being a sheriff’s deputy would require this much of his brain, he’d have stayed in the army till someone put a bullet in his head. Not that the military actually wanted him anymore. So, yeah, he was stuck writing up reports that a teenager could probably do better than him. He rested a hand on the pile, tapping fingers against the paper while weighing his options. The papers could be procrastinated, meaning an early night and extra sleep (if he’s lucky). 

A female voice asking for the sheriff catches his attention and he turns to look in the direction. Intends to shout across the bullpen that the boss had gone out for an interview, but snaps his jaw shut before anything can come out. The officer talking to her points in his direction and long thin legs are traveling in his direction before he remembers that it’s rude to stare. “Ah...” Very elegant, Deputy Barton, that’s why the girls are always throwing themselves at you. “Can I help you, missus?” Daaamn.

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