(no subject)

His head jerks in rhythm with the bus. When it’s smooth, it lowers gently, a slow arc towards sleep. And then the wheels hit a pothole and he’s upright again, blinking painfully in the light reflected off miles of endless sand. He stays alert long enough to register how awful it feels to be sticky all over, his clothes twisted and damp, and glued to his skin. Then the heat takes over, and he drifts. Until the next bump, and he’s awake, and it starts all over again.

He lost count of the hours somewhere in Tunisia. He has been on buses forever, and will never be able to get off. Cairo seems like a mirage he’ll always be reaching for. People talk incessantly here, and chant, and shout, and there are animals in cages everywhere. It’s what he expected, but it’s been days, and he hadn’t realised how frayed he was. Every elbow he catches in the ribs makes him grit his teeth, every shout too close to his ear makes him want to put his arms over his head, and scream at it all to go away. His pulse monitor flashes steadily. He tries to ignore it.

Just when he thinks he can take no more: Cairo.

It’s good. He’d been about to leave the bus, and start walking. Not that the city is much better, but at least he can find a cheap room, and close the door on it all for a night. Which he does, with relief so strong it nearly knocks him down.

The next morning, he starts scouting. There’s a Starbucks on the outskirts of the city, set in a tiny piazza that has a few alleys running off it. He checks them out. Most of them end up in open space, away from houses and shops. It’s probably the best he’s going to get, so he finds a café, and sends the email.

He tries not to think about it too much the night before. The man’s on his way, there’s nothing he can do. And it should be routine enough, if he can make himself accept that they’re not about to turn up with gunships and smoke bombs. Surely they wouldn’t dare with this many people around. That’s why he chose it.

The morning of: he almost doesn’t go. But, to hell with it. If it’ll get SHIELD off his back, it’ll be worth it. So he climbs to the spot he found yesterday, and waits. He’s willing to bet, this far out from the tourist traps, the guy will stick out like a sore thumb.

He’s not wrong.