There it was, between us.
I mean, I saw it right away—damned hard to miss, even for a guy my age. She on the other hand, was too busy with some 'save the world' business to spot it, but I figured she'd catch on the minute she turned around and saw me.
I was gonna regret that, because bent over that keyboard, she had one fine booty, too.
Hey, I'm a guy, and she changed her clothes in the back of my car not less than an hour ago. Okay, it's not my car, legally, but it falls under the Stark umbrella so I've earned a little patronage there.
Changed her clothes—where the hell did they come from? Did she do this sort of shit often? This, this, Mata Hari outta the back seat thing?
Honest to God, working for Tony ages me ten years every damned incident, and if you don't believe that, you need to check the glove box for the collection of antacids I'm carrying now.
Anyway, back to the moment at hand. Tony and Pepper were sniping again—nothing new there—but I sensed there was some oomph in it now. The dying news was not good, but given that just after that the Boss said he wasn't anymore, I was relaxing a bit. It was clear to me that he was back to being the Boss too. Something about that damned Suit brings it out big time. New agers can all it Alpha male if they wanna. I know it's machismo, and it saves the world.
So she turns around and there it is, big and kinda evil-looking to the uninitiated. Luckily I am not one of those, so I know what's what.
She, on the other hand, suddenly looks nervous, which is almost freaking hil-AR-ious given the body count out in the hallway behind us. She freezes and stares with those big green peepers of hers.
"Happy," she says.
I nod.
"Happy . . . that thing . . ."
Yeah she's nervous. Clearly she hasn't been around ones this big before, and I'm too much of a gentleman to snicker about it.
That, and I know just how badly she could kick my ass if I did, not that I would.
"You want me to . . ?" I offer, just to give her an out.
I can't believe how fast she nods. She's breathing hard, and I'm trying not to grin because wonder of wonders, I finally can do something better than Miss Natalie Rushman. Carefully, I move and reach out, just like I used to do years ago at my Uncle Max's place and cup my hands quickly, lightly around the wings, pinning carefully.
The trick is to grab high up enough so that the damned bird can't hook that bottom jaw under any fingers. Do that, and you've gott'em. Don't do that, and you'll probably lose a finger.
It squawks loud enough to deafen, and I can see Natalie wince and cringe at the sound, but that's outta the corner of my eye. The feathers are smooth, and even though it's struggling, I've got just the right grip. Not too hard, not too loose. Big hands come in handy sometimes.
Nice sulphur crested; probably cost a couple of grand, to my way of thinking. Not that I'm any bigwig with birds, but Uncle Max had a few, and this one looks to be in primo condition. I know the thing's terrified though, and I don't want to stress it out, so I nod with my chin towards the cage in the corner. "Cage."
Natalie is on it before I can finish saying the word. She holds it out in front of her like a shield, eyes locked on my package.
Well, the bird, that is. Anyway, I step forward, and here's the second hilarious thing; she steps back.
"I can't put him in the cage if you back up," I tell her. She nods, trying to get back her badass mojo, and holds the cage up again.
We do the same damned dance step again; I go forward, she moves back. "Natalie!"
"Sorry, sorry; I . . . I just don't like . . . birds," she mutters.
"Look, set it down on something and I'll just . . . pop it in, okay?"
"Okay," she agrees. She set the cage down on the cot and scoots around me while I stand there patiently.
"Natalie."
"Why aren't you . . . oh," she mutters again, and reaches around me to open the door of the cage.
Can I just say for the record that having her pressed up behind me and reaching alongside me is one hell of a nice sensation? Generally the only person who gets behind me is the boss, and never that close. Natalie is a nice damned change of pace in that department.
I stick my hands into the doorway, open then, and then pull back quick so I can latch the door. Good thing, too; the bird is fighting mad now, and squawking again, climbing up the bars and giving me that 'oh I could take you anytime I LIKE, you asshole!' eye.
He probably could. I've seen some vicious bites from birds, and while I've got tough calluses, I'm not real anxious to test them against that wicked hook of beak.
I look around again, but Natalie's on it, and brings the cover for the cage. I slip it on and instantly the room's quiet again, except for the chatter from the computer, and Natalie breathing hard.
Staring's outta the question, even though I want to, so I keep my eyes on the cage. "Whatta we do with it?"
"Leave it!" she tells me, with a little hint of hysteria in her voice.
I shoot her a look. An 'are you nuts?' look. "If we leave it, do you have any idea what the hell's gonna happen to it?"
"Happy, S.H.I.E.L.D. will be swarming this place in ten minutes, and as far as I'm concerned they can put Vanko's pet on a plane back for Moscow in eleven minutes, got it?"
"Natalie, it's a bird." I point out. "You just took out a squadron of professional goons back there and you're getting all tweaked up over a damned cockatoo?"
"I don't see a correlation," she snaps, and I get it. She's embarrassed about being scared, and that little insight cracks me up but because I don't want to end up tasered or hogtied on the floor, I put on my best poker face and shrug.
"Fine. I'm gonna take him, then. Maybe you and Tony can save all of humanity out there; me, I can give a damned bird a good home."
"Are you out of your *mind* Hogan?" she says, looking at me and then at the cage. "For one thing, that's private property."
"What? Is S. H. I. E. L. D. gonna give him a good home?"
"No," She blurts out honestly.
That pisses me off. Not the honesty, but the fact. I'm not crazy about birds myself, but this one didn't deserve being manhandled or shuffled off or terminated just for being an inconvenient accessory. And cute ass or not, Natalie is letting her personal dislike show.
"Exactly. So as of now, I'm taking him to a . . . place of haven and safety."
Where the hell that came from I'll never know. It's not like I can have a pet; working for Tony has me jumping 24/7 as it is, and I don't want to relive the notorious Guppy incident of six years ago.
But I'm not gonna stand by and see some ultra secret spy unit waste an innocent bird. That ain't the American way, and I don't care if Natalie has to Rochambeau me to get the thing back. Hell, I know damned well she won't, because she hasn't moved an inch closer since I've picked up the cage.
"You're claiming political asylum for a bird?" Natalie hoots, cocking her head and looking perplexed.
She's got hot hair, she really does. I've always been partial to redheads.
"If that's what it takes," I nod firmly. I am SO talking out my ass at this moment. Do animals qualify? What if the damned bird only understands Russian?
"Hogan," Natalie begins, looking like she's about to laugh, but right then sirens start wailing and under his cover, Bird is going a little nuts thrashing in his cage.
"I'm getting him outta here," I tell her, and do.
My uncle Max stands about five feet tall, but nobody ever realizes that because he's loud.
Tony uses the same strategy, I swear.
Anyway, I show up at my uncle's doorstep a few days later with the bird, grateful that I've got a couple of days to spare since Tony's not exactly needing my services at the moment, what with cleaning up the Expo and hashing out some sort of new . . . relationship thing with Pepper.
Oh boy, that's going to be interesting.
Anyway, I had the time, and a jet was heading back to California anyway, so I took the bird to Uncle Max, who is now giving it the once over through some very thick glasses.
"Young male, about tree, I tink," Uncle Max says. I can't get over how bug-eyed those specs make him.
The bird is sort of . . . well, droopy. I'm not an expert, the way Uncle Max is, but even I can see that he's a little on the depressed side.
Frankly, that I don't get. Given what Ivan Vanko looked like, if I was a bird, I'd be thrilled to get away from that murdering graffiti-covered maniac.
"What's wrong with him?" I ask. "He's not eating much."
Uncle Max gives me one of his patented 'don't be stupid' looks. "De boid is depressed, Harry. He lost his pipple."
"His people? You mean he liked the guy taking care of him?"
This is crazy, but it's a bird, and hey, what do I know, right? Uncle Max is the expert, and given the number of cages around the house, I know I'm at the right place for an informed diagnosis.
"Yeah," Max assures me. "Cockatoos, dey luf dere pipples. Make good comrades, very loyal. Dis boid needs a new poison to love."
I paste on my best shit-eating grin, and Uncle Max sighs. "Harry---"
"Look, it can't be me, Max, you *know* that," I plead. "I work for Stark!"
"Yah," Uncle Max agrees. "You already gotta pushy needy poison in yer life."
"No shit," I agree, but I don't feel any annoyance. It's the boss and life isn't always easy, but it's sure as hell never boring, that's a fact.
"Fine, fine. I can hank onto him for a vile," Uncle Max harrumphs. It's a good thing I can see how secretly pleased he is though, and I'm not feeling too damned guilty about it. If anything, the bird will be in good hands that aren't afraid of him, and I can sleep a little better, knowing I've done the right thing. It's not on par with say, cleaning up most of Flushing, New York, but it's my little contribution.
"Take da cage, okay?—not big enough for dis boy," Max tells me with a wave of his free hand.
I'm staring because the bird is sitting on Max's fist. Sitting there, no fuss no squawking.
Part of me feels better already, knowing I've helped here. I don't get to do that too often, but this little bit makes me relax, and I give a nod.
Maybe it's going to work out.
I spend an hour with Uncle Max, looking at all his lorikeets and canaries and parrots, shooting the breeze and relaxing for the first time since Monaco, and when I take off, I collect the empty cage.
Maybe I can use it to hold a fake skull at Halloween or something.
So two days later, and I am cooling my heels, still waiting for the boss—make that THE bosses I guess—to head back to this coast. I've done all my laundry, paid my bills, worked on some of my sideline business and now I'm about to take a long bath to consider exactly how to work a swordfight into a balcony seduction scene when I get an unexpected visitor.
And not at the front door, either.
I step into my bathroom, reach for the hot water handle and suddenly I'm face-first in the fuzzy bathmat with a booted foot on the back of my neck.
"Hel-lo Natalie," I growl into the shag.
"Actually, it's Natasha," she manages, and I feel a lessening of the pressure on my neck. I want to roll, grab that foot and twist, because that's what I should be able to do.
But I'm addicted to living.
"Can I get up?"
"No."
"May I get up?"
"Yes," she agrees and I do, suddenly aware that I'm in my boxers, which is not a great look for me.
Natasha however, is very hot in her black spandex jumpsuit and again, that hair is all over the place, driving me nuts.
"I need something from you," she murmurs, and for a split second, God forgive me, I'm on the Tony Stark level, thinking of spankin' hot sex all over my bathroom sink fixtures.
Then reality kicks in by the second half of that split second. "You couldn't just, say, call? Maybe send an email or something?"
"Hogan," she growls at me, and I can tell she's a little impatient.
A little . . . . embarrassed.
That clues me in, and I put on my Stone Face. "No."
She gives me a look that assures me I'll be in a neck brace before I can close my mouth, but I'm firm on this.
"We need the bird."
"Bull."
"S.H.I.E.L.D. has gone though Hammer's files and factory, we've searched Vanko's body and the bits of his drones, and now we need . . ." she stops and swallows, ". . . the bird."
"For?" I prod. I'm also trying to suck in my gut, which depresses me because it's not going to make a damned bit of difference to a hottie like Natalie/Natasha. She's not meeting my eyes though, and is looking around my bathroom.
God I'm so glad I flushed.
"Look, you don't need to know why we need the bird, Hogan, and I won't like making you tell me, but I follow orders to the letter," she mutters. "Are those . . . monkeys on your shorts?"
"Yes, they are and yes, I do," I tell her, getting a little steamed now. "It's a freaking Cockatoo okay? They don't memorize secret formulas, and they don't swallow capsules with encrypted codes in them. You and your shadow feds are gonna do an avian autopsy only he won't be dead yet and all you're going to find inside him are bird guts."
"We can't find Vanko's schematics," Natasha growls at me and I blink.
Hot? Oh shit yeah, but I can-not let myself get distracted by that. "What?"
"The plans and schematics for his drones," Natasha clarifies. "We have Hammer's original suit designs, but Vanko's diagrams are missing, and we need to find them."
"Yeah, well good luck with that," I tell her with more bravado than I feel. "As you can see, they're not on me."
That is a mistake, because Natasha gives me the once over, and I'm feeling very underdressed now. I get an urge to drop my hands over my crotch; having seen this woman in action, I have no doubt she could turn me into a star in the Vienna choir with one kick.
"Your monkeys are safe," she assures me. "For the time being."
"I liked you better when you weren't, you know, deadly."
"Lots of people say that."
No surprise there. I give the door a meaningful look, but Natasha ignores that and studies me in a way that sends tingles up the back of my neck. "What?"
"Look, if you're serious about this damned bird, Hogan, then let's do it together. We'll take it to a vet, get it examined and X-rayed and that should settle the matter with S. H. I. E. L. D."
I think about it. While I think about it, I look her over, trying to be discreet, because I like both of my kneecaps right where they are.
Natalie arches one of those elegant eyebrows though, and I know I'm busted, so I just nod.
"Okay, but no funny business," I chide her. "I may not have the Hai Karate moves that you do, but I bite pretty hard."
"I do too," she tells me, and ohyeah, suddenly flimsy monkey-covered boxers are not the best attire of the moment.
I hustle out to get some clothes on before I make any more of an idiot of myself.