Jack/Clint.
“Who doesn’t like pastrami,” the other man scoffed back, pulling up a chair with an audible squeak on the worn wood, before squinting at the wrinkled deli paper. “Is it from Meizer’s? Good thing, they’d probably trust you with the good stuff.” He knew the weasels at the shop would comply: Jack’s captain was an imposing fellow, all granite and sharp angles, and Beauvais tended to loom.
Jack stared a little longingly at the food, before snapping his attention back upwards. It was like a shield had flickered back down behind his eyes: the door was closed, the sound of the gym had faded off into the muffled distance, and it was time for work.
“So, an update,” he said. “How’s business been the last month?”
(Business, of course, that touchstone, that dry codeword.)