![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
aa_natasha 8/30/2012
=NYC= Upper Floors - SHIELD HQ - Midtown
Sleek hallways
Natasha is less present at SHIELD than she has been in the past (not that she has ever spent a great deal of time at SHIELD /headquarters/). She hasn't quite moved into the Avengers Mansion, but she spends far more time there now under the excuse of keeping an eye on the kids. Today, though, she's been drifting through the hallways of SHIELD since early morning, catching up on this and that. She's dressed in a neat pantsuit of pale grey, with a bright purple blouse to set it off. She's got a clipboard tucked up under her arm on her way to what serves as her office when she's here.
There is ruckus. Fft ffft ffft-type ruckus, the descent of a helicopter onto the roof of the headquarters. Then the thudding of feet as people sprint up stairs to greet it.
Then the overlapping threads of voices sprinting through updates, reports, answers, questions, and assurances, all wrapped around the black basso thrum of a certain voice. A commanding voice. A Directorial voice.
Motherfucking Director /Fury's/ voice.
"--gimme ten," he says, rounding the corner on a long-legged stalk that waits for no man or woman. Agents and officers form a neatly-suited contrail behind him, fanning out wide as they take their turns delivering news and receiving orders. "Then call back and tell him I'm going to have to call him tomorrow. And get the last study of that rock. Like hell do I believe they collected it for nothing. We need the financials on IYS Insurance, because something stinks in that return. Get a background on Ford? Where's Romanov?"
Natasha has stopped in the middle of the hall, her brows raised in what might be mild surprise or extreme annoyance, according to how well one knows her. "Director Fury," she says, stepping forward to fall in beside him. "I didn't know you were returning today." There is the very faintest hint of pique in her voice; she is accustomed to /knowing/ things.
"Last minute flight plan change," Fury says, unsurprised at discovering Natasha ready to hand -- satisfied, rather; thus do black ops assassins gain their reputations for scary-ass omniscience -- and looping her into the conversation by the simple expedient of stopping dead. Highly trained bodies manage not to run into him from behind, though it's a close thing. "How's the shoulder?"
Natasha gives Fury a quirk of her brows and rolls her shoulder just slightly in indication. The thin outline of a bandage is barely visible beneath the clean lines of her blouse. "Second degree in places," she says. "Nothing to be concerned with."
"Fucking Nazis," Fury says conversationally, planting his hands on his hips to look her over in frowning, professional appraisal. "I miss the days when the bad guys didn't glow in the dark. Or if they did, they did because we'd nuked them. How's Barton? I've been getting the reports," he adds with disparaging contempt for paperwork.
"This one wasn't a Nazi," Natasha answers dryly. "We seem to be having a rash of mindfucks." Her eyes sweep up to meet Fury's (singular), and there is the slightest of pauses before she states firmly, "He's doing well. Latveria may have been a clusterfuck if he hadn't been along. Getting him back into the field was the right call."
Satisfaction gleams darkling and sharp in that one eye. "Good," Fury says, high praise coming from him. He jerks his head, scalp reflecting the white of the overhead lights: walk with him? He strikes out again, down the hall towards the distant video conference room. "Anything you need to add to the goddamn stack of reports I'm supposed to be reading in the next two days?"
"We've got as many new folks living in Stark's new mansion as old," Natasha says, turning to step into accustomed pace at his side. "I've vetted them as well as I could, but the whole thing went a bit quickly. I don't think we made any mistakes, but I wish we could have brought them in a bit more slowly. Parker in particular is having some issues adjusting." Her heels click and clack against the floor as she speaks. "I'm working on him."
"You'll get him whipped into shape," Fury says, his high brow furrowing in a swift frown. They have only gone a few feet, but he stops anyway, waving the people following him to stop. The door nearby is not his office; it belongs to someone in accounting, according to the sign. He walks into it anyway, the door hastily sliding open at recognition of his authorized approach.
The small man sitting behind the desk glances up, startled at this intrusion, and bolts to his feet. Then, out the door. Fury waves Natasha in. "Christ," he says irritably. "When was the last time we actually talked? If it isn't alien invasions, it's -- other alien invasions. Get in here. /You/ lot, stay out. I want a word with Romanov."
Natasha lifts her brows again, but the query is mild - surprising behavior is not particularly surprising from Nick Fury. She gives the accountant a thin smile before stepping into his office and turning to secure the door with brisk efficiency. "We do seem to have an overabudance of aliens of late," she murmurs in agreement. "Three in the mansion at last count, and that doesn't include the Asgardian flashing mind control across Manhattan."
Nick Fury does not seat himself behind the desk. The office is small, the desk sized to match. By comparison, his sheer bulk makes it into a broom closet. He shoves aside the piles of paperwork stacked in orderly towers on the desk, making room for himself, and settles his hip on the battered lip. "Looks like the fuckers have laid out the welcome mat to the galaxy. Earth is open and ready for business," he drags out. The single eye considers Natasha. "How're you doing?"
Natasha folds her arms across her chest, tucking the clipboard to it, and levels her gaze on Fury. "Survived an alien invasion and Latveria," she says. "At least one of those is familiar, so there's a bonus."
"Same shit, different players?" Fury asks with a sardonic dip of voice. His arms fold, crossing in a more meditative than antagonistic knot, while the frown lines deepen on his brow. "More or less different, anyway. We should've paid more attention to Latveria. Fuck. In our free time, I guess that would've been."
"We have depressingly little information on them," Natasha acknowledges. She tips her head slightly, frowning even as she compliments, "Van Dyne did better than I'd feared. Has a good head on her." Her frown lingers and shifts in tone slightly as she says, "You saw the photographs, sir? The farm?" Full color detail of dismembered and mutilated bodies - and pieces of bodies - outside a bunker hidden on a farm in Latveria. Why dead, dismembered, missing? Good question.
By way of reply, Fury notes, "We got in some specialists from the FBI and NCIS. Dr. Hunter from Quantico. Agent Ramsey. They're looking them over to see what they can make of them." His broad shoulders roll in a shrug, skeptical, if not entirely dismissive. "Don't think it's anything as simple as a torture and kill, or serial murder, but we might as well cover all bases. Banner have any ideas? Or Vision, maybe, with that computer he's got subbing as a brain?"
Natasha shakes her haed just slightly. "Stark said he wants to chat about them, but I haven't pinned him down yet. He's been squirrely lately." Her expression twists just slightly with a moment's displeasure before it smooths again. "I suppose we'll hear if they pinpoint something. I'm not sure what it was, but the whole thing just felt intensely /off/."
"You mean besides all the dead people?" Fury asks dryly. It is a rhetorical question, though somewhat humorous. Less amused is the flat, "Stark. --He giving you as much trouble as he's giving Phil?"
Natasha allows a very faint snort to escape her. "Stark's like a boy in a candy shop. He likes being part of the team but he won't admit it. There's some jockeying for control, I think, but under it all he's being very free with his resources." And his booze. "They're not a team yet, though. Not by a long shot." Probably because Phil's alive.
Speaking of. "We could kill Phil again," Fury says.
"Please don't. Sir." That might almost be a flicker of emotion in Natasha's eyes.
"Might be hard to bring him back again," Fury says a bit regretfully. Unspoken is the almost audible word, /unless/--
Fury doesn't say it. Who knows if he's joking. "If fighting an alien invasion force didn't bring them together, there's no quick fix for it. It'll take time. I've got my chips on the Captain. Stark's a narcissistic twit, but he's got enough of a hero streak in him to make this work. Half the time I want to shove his head so far down his throat, every time he burps he'll pass gas. I got faith in the fucker, though. He'll get it together."
"The aliens are part of the problem," Natasha answers, tipping her chin upward. "Thor jaunting across the planet to declare war. Makes us feel an awful lot like his pet planet." She levels her chin again, then dips it in a nod. "I think you're right, though we may end up regretting all the rope we have to give him before he manages to be a team player. But yes. Rogers is pulling together. He's smarter than I expected."
"Just because he's old, don't mean he's stupid," Fury says, parsing the obvious with pedantic care. That eye gleams again. "As one old motherfucker to another, I gotta believe that. I got no problem being Thor's pet planet, so long as he keeps the shit off our lawn."
Natasha gives Fury a sardonic look and does not make any comments about age. Or muscle-bound superheroes. Her voice draws dry as she says, "Not sure he isn't inviting more than he's keeping away. We'll see."
Asgardians. Fury draws a large hand across his face, scrubbing at it in a rare betrayal of fatigue. "Is he making New York into his personal kegger?"
"He's had a few visitors," Natasha says blandly. There is a brief pause before she says, "Amora is the one I'm concerned about. She seems to be working her way through the team mining information on Thor." Her hand rubs at her opposite wrist in an unconscious tell that indicates just how disturbed the memory leaves her. "They don't seem to view mind control in the same way. Valkyrie was affected, but seemed entirely undisturbed."
Fury's brow knits again. "You talked to Thor about that shit? Goddammit. I have a report about that somewhere in the--" His hand gestures rudely. The air, apparently. "I should have a word with that boy."
"No," Natasha answers shortly. "Not in person. He's warned us to stay away, but we have an awful lot of green faces on the team."
"Stay away from Amora? Or stay away from /him/?" Short pause. Then, curious, Fury asks, "Green faces? That something you white people do a lot? Turn green?"
"Amora," Natasha says before her lips twitch and then press into a thin line as she gives Fury a Look and Does Not Laugh.
"No way he can ship her ass back up to daddy bear?"
"Doesn't seem to be."
Fury sighs. "Remind me to see about setting up some kind of diplomatic relations with Thor's old man. Maybe we can compare eye patches or something and come up with some kind of gating mechanism where earth doesn't get flooded by their deadbeats and dropouts. Pet planet's one thing. Like hell am I on board with us being Sweet Valley High for Asgard."
"Consider it done, sir," Natasha answers, voice dropping into the sort of dryness that indicates a breath of relief.
Fury closes his hand around the ledge of the desk, fingers drumming in an absent-minded accompaniment to the course of thought, then refocuses on Black Widow. Studies her. Uncharacteristically mild then, he says, "Anything else you need me to know about, Natasha? Off the record?"
There is a short silence, the span of a breath or two, before Natasha shakes her head and lowers her arms to her sides, clipboard tucked under one arm. "I'll keep you posted," she promises in leiu of actual reply.
"Door's always open," Fury says: a rare promise. There are only a handful of people in the world who are favored with such access. He stands, leather sighing as his coat drapes itself heavily around his legs. The scars above the eyepatch wrinkle, folding over the upper edge of an invisible eyebrow. "Suppose I better get back to saving the world, one fucked up ledger at a time."
"Good luck," Natasha intones, with a dip of her voice that implies Fury will need all he can get. She stirs as he stands, reaching to pull the door open in front of him.
There are vultures on the other side. Well-dressed ones. SHIELD ones. Fury wades into them with a passing hook of mouth for Natasha -- grin, grimace, whatever -- and stalks off towards the video conference room again, trailing the dapper chaff of directorship behind him. A good man's work and all that.
=NYC= Upper Floors - SHIELD HQ - Midtown
Sleek hallways
Natasha is less present at SHIELD than she has been in the past (not that she has ever spent a great deal of time at SHIELD /headquarters/). She hasn't quite moved into the Avengers Mansion, but she spends far more time there now under the excuse of keeping an eye on the kids. Today, though, she's been drifting through the hallways of SHIELD since early morning, catching up on this and that. She's dressed in a neat pantsuit of pale grey, with a bright purple blouse to set it off. She's got a clipboard tucked up under her arm on her way to what serves as her office when she's here.
There is ruckus. Fft ffft ffft-type ruckus, the descent of a helicopter onto the roof of the headquarters. Then the thudding of feet as people sprint up stairs to greet it.
Then the overlapping threads of voices sprinting through updates, reports, answers, questions, and assurances, all wrapped around the black basso thrum of a certain voice. A commanding voice. A Directorial voice.
Motherfucking Director /Fury's/ voice.
"--gimme ten," he says, rounding the corner on a long-legged stalk that waits for no man or woman. Agents and officers form a neatly-suited contrail behind him, fanning out wide as they take their turns delivering news and receiving orders. "Then call back and tell him I'm going to have to call him tomorrow. And get the last study of that rock. Like hell do I believe they collected it for nothing. We need the financials on IYS Insurance, because something stinks in that return. Get a background on Ford? Where's Romanov?"
Natasha has stopped in the middle of the hall, her brows raised in what might be mild surprise or extreme annoyance, according to how well one knows her. "Director Fury," she says, stepping forward to fall in beside him. "I didn't know you were returning today." There is the very faintest hint of pique in her voice; she is accustomed to /knowing/ things.
"Last minute flight plan change," Fury says, unsurprised at discovering Natasha ready to hand -- satisfied, rather; thus do black ops assassins gain their reputations for scary-ass omniscience -- and looping her into the conversation by the simple expedient of stopping dead. Highly trained bodies manage not to run into him from behind, though it's a close thing. "How's the shoulder?"
Natasha gives Fury a quirk of her brows and rolls her shoulder just slightly in indication. The thin outline of a bandage is barely visible beneath the clean lines of her blouse. "Second degree in places," she says. "Nothing to be concerned with."
"Fucking Nazis," Fury says conversationally, planting his hands on his hips to look her over in frowning, professional appraisal. "I miss the days when the bad guys didn't glow in the dark. Or if they did, they did because we'd nuked them. How's Barton? I've been getting the reports," he adds with disparaging contempt for paperwork.
"This one wasn't a Nazi," Natasha answers dryly. "We seem to be having a rash of mindfucks." Her eyes sweep up to meet Fury's (singular), and there is the slightest of pauses before she states firmly, "He's doing well. Latveria may have been a clusterfuck if he hadn't been along. Getting him back into the field was the right call."
Satisfaction gleams darkling and sharp in that one eye. "Good," Fury says, high praise coming from him. He jerks his head, scalp reflecting the white of the overhead lights: walk with him? He strikes out again, down the hall towards the distant video conference room. "Anything you need to add to the goddamn stack of reports I'm supposed to be reading in the next two days?"
"We've got as many new folks living in Stark's new mansion as old," Natasha says, turning to step into accustomed pace at his side. "I've vetted them as well as I could, but the whole thing went a bit quickly. I don't think we made any mistakes, but I wish we could have brought them in a bit more slowly. Parker in particular is having some issues adjusting." Her heels click and clack against the floor as she speaks. "I'm working on him."
"You'll get him whipped into shape," Fury says, his high brow furrowing in a swift frown. They have only gone a few feet, but he stops anyway, waving the people following him to stop. The door nearby is not his office; it belongs to someone in accounting, according to the sign. He walks into it anyway, the door hastily sliding open at recognition of his authorized approach.
The small man sitting behind the desk glances up, startled at this intrusion, and bolts to his feet. Then, out the door. Fury waves Natasha in. "Christ," he says irritably. "When was the last time we actually talked? If it isn't alien invasions, it's -- other alien invasions. Get in here. /You/ lot, stay out. I want a word with Romanov."
Natasha lifts her brows again, but the query is mild - surprising behavior is not particularly surprising from Nick Fury. She gives the accountant a thin smile before stepping into his office and turning to secure the door with brisk efficiency. "We do seem to have an overabudance of aliens of late," she murmurs in agreement. "Three in the mansion at last count, and that doesn't include the Asgardian flashing mind control across Manhattan."
Nick Fury does not seat himself behind the desk. The office is small, the desk sized to match. By comparison, his sheer bulk makes it into a broom closet. He shoves aside the piles of paperwork stacked in orderly towers on the desk, making room for himself, and settles his hip on the battered lip. "Looks like the fuckers have laid out the welcome mat to the galaxy. Earth is open and ready for business," he drags out. The single eye considers Natasha. "How're you doing?"
Natasha folds her arms across her chest, tucking the clipboard to it, and levels her gaze on Fury. "Survived an alien invasion and Latveria," she says. "At least one of those is familiar, so there's a bonus."
"Same shit, different players?" Fury asks with a sardonic dip of voice. His arms fold, crossing in a more meditative than antagonistic knot, while the frown lines deepen on his brow. "More or less different, anyway. We should've paid more attention to Latveria. Fuck. In our free time, I guess that would've been."
"We have depressingly little information on them," Natasha acknowledges. She tips her head slightly, frowning even as she compliments, "Van Dyne did better than I'd feared. Has a good head on her." Her frown lingers and shifts in tone slightly as she says, "You saw the photographs, sir? The farm?" Full color detail of dismembered and mutilated bodies - and pieces of bodies - outside a bunker hidden on a farm in Latveria. Why dead, dismembered, missing? Good question.
By way of reply, Fury notes, "We got in some specialists from the FBI and NCIS. Dr. Hunter from Quantico. Agent Ramsey. They're looking them over to see what they can make of them." His broad shoulders roll in a shrug, skeptical, if not entirely dismissive. "Don't think it's anything as simple as a torture and kill, or serial murder, but we might as well cover all bases. Banner have any ideas? Or Vision, maybe, with that computer he's got subbing as a brain?"
Natasha shakes her haed just slightly. "Stark said he wants to chat about them, but I haven't pinned him down yet. He's been squirrely lately." Her expression twists just slightly with a moment's displeasure before it smooths again. "I suppose we'll hear if they pinpoint something. I'm not sure what it was, but the whole thing just felt intensely /off/."
"You mean besides all the dead people?" Fury asks dryly. It is a rhetorical question, though somewhat humorous. Less amused is the flat, "Stark. --He giving you as much trouble as he's giving Phil?"
Natasha allows a very faint snort to escape her. "Stark's like a boy in a candy shop. He likes being part of the team but he won't admit it. There's some jockeying for control, I think, but under it all he's being very free with his resources." And his booze. "They're not a team yet, though. Not by a long shot." Probably because Phil's alive.
Speaking of. "We could kill Phil again," Fury says.
"Please don't. Sir." That might almost be a flicker of emotion in Natasha's eyes.
"Might be hard to bring him back again," Fury says a bit regretfully. Unspoken is the almost audible word, /unless/--
Fury doesn't say it. Who knows if he's joking. "If fighting an alien invasion force didn't bring them together, there's no quick fix for it. It'll take time. I've got my chips on the Captain. Stark's a narcissistic twit, but he's got enough of a hero streak in him to make this work. Half the time I want to shove his head so far down his throat, every time he burps he'll pass gas. I got faith in the fucker, though. He'll get it together."
"The aliens are part of the problem," Natasha answers, tipping her chin upward. "Thor jaunting across the planet to declare war. Makes us feel an awful lot like his pet planet." She levels her chin again, then dips it in a nod. "I think you're right, though we may end up regretting all the rope we have to give him before he manages to be a team player. But yes. Rogers is pulling together. He's smarter than I expected."
"Just because he's old, don't mean he's stupid," Fury says, parsing the obvious with pedantic care. That eye gleams again. "As one old motherfucker to another, I gotta believe that. I got no problem being Thor's pet planet, so long as he keeps the shit off our lawn."
Natasha gives Fury a sardonic look and does not make any comments about age. Or muscle-bound superheroes. Her voice draws dry as she says, "Not sure he isn't inviting more than he's keeping away. We'll see."
Asgardians. Fury draws a large hand across his face, scrubbing at it in a rare betrayal of fatigue. "Is he making New York into his personal kegger?"
"He's had a few visitors," Natasha says blandly. There is a brief pause before she says, "Amora is the one I'm concerned about. She seems to be working her way through the team mining information on Thor." Her hand rubs at her opposite wrist in an unconscious tell that indicates just how disturbed the memory leaves her. "They don't seem to view mind control in the same way. Valkyrie was affected, but seemed entirely undisturbed."
Fury's brow knits again. "You talked to Thor about that shit? Goddammit. I have a report about that somewhere in the--" His hand gestures rudely. The air, apparently. "I should have a word with that boy."
"No," Natasha answers shortly. "Not in person. He's warned us to stay away, but we have an awful lot of green faces on the team."
"Stay away from Amora? Or stay away from /him/?" Short pause. Then, curious, Fury asks, "Green faces? That something you white people do a lot? Turn green?"
"Amora," Natasha says before her lips twitch and then press into a thin line as she gives Fury a Look and Does Not Laugh.
"No way he can ship her ass back up to daddy bear?"
"Doesn't seem to be."
Fury sighs. "Remind me to see about setting up some kind of diplomatic relations with Thor's old man. Maybe we can compare eye patches or something and come up with some kind of gating mechanism where earth doesn't get flooded by their deadbeats and dropouts. Pet planet's one thing. Like hell am I on board with us being Sweet Valley High for Asgard."
"Consider it done, sir," Natasha answers, voice dropping into the sort of dryness that indicates a breath of relief.
Fury closes his hand around the ledge of the desk, fingers drumming in an absent-minded accompaniment to the course of thought, then refocuses on Black Widow. Studies her. Uncharacteristically mild then, he says, "Anything else you need me to know about, Natasha? Off the record?"
There is a short silence, the span of a breath or two, before Natasha shakes her head and lowers her arms to her sides, clipboard tucked under one arm. "I'll keep you posted," she promises in leiu of actual reply.
"Door's always open," Fury says: a rare promise. There are only a handful of people in the world who are favored with such access. He stands, leather sighing as his coat drapes itself heavily around his legs. The scars above the eyepatch wrinkle, folding over the upper edge of an invisible eyebrow. "Suppose I better get back to saving the world, one fucked up ledger at a time."
"Good luck," Natasha intones, with a dip of her voice that implies Fury will need all he can get. She stirs as he stands, reaching to pull the door open in front of him.
There are vultures on the other side. Well-dressed ones. SHIELD ones. Fury wades into them with a passing hook of mouth for Natasha -- grin, grimace, whatever -- and stalks off towards the video conference room again, trailing the dapper chaff of directorship behind him. A good man's work and all that.