Phil looked up sharply when he heard the knocks, then regretted it instantly when a muscle somewhere on his left side twinged in protest. He had his paper, there was no grocery delivery scheduled for today, and there were definitely no neighbors nearby to come asking for a cup of sugar.

He stood and plucked his M9 off the coffee table, walking over to the door as he checked to make sure a round was in the chamber and flicked the safety off. He debated calling out to see who it was, but he didn't want to give his location away. They might be waiting for him to walk in front of the door, whoever it was. He wanted to retain at least a moment's worth of surprise advantage. Steeling himself, he reached out to touch the door knob--there was no peephole in this door, which seemed like an oversight on whoever had rented the house for him, but he wasn't in a position to complain right now--and threw the door open, tense and ready to shoot.

When he saw who it was, for a moment he was too surprised to move. He lowered the gun, staring at him. "...Clint. You look like hell." He tried not to dwell on the irony of him saying that when he himself was dressed in pajamas, a bathrobe, and had at least a week's worth of stubble occupying his face.