Finkle

So. The ball was now in my court, and I had no idea how to deal with it. I mean let's face facts; Fury was not the sort of guy you ask out on a date . . . at least not to the usual places. I just couldn't imagine him at a bar downtown. And please, in some fancy restaurant he'd be glaring at the other patrons and intimidating the hell out of the waiter, right?

He didn't look like he was a big fan of ESPN, and trying to picture him at some art museum or the zoo only gave me headaches. I suppose I could have asked for more instruction with guns, but I was more interested in learning about him, you know?

Finally I asked my mother. Before you jump to conclusions, you have to know that my mother is pretty impressive. She grew up in Israel and served in the army there before coming to the US and marrying my dad. The two of them had consulting business for civil engineers, so I grew up learning a lot about rebar and concrete and stress tests and infrastructure. Hint: do not ask my mother about the Pulaski Skyway unless you want a three-hour rant.

Anyway she's pretty sharp even now in retirement and I knew she'd have at least one good suggestion since she's been pushing me to start dating again. When I called her up she was pretty quick with a suggestion.

"Go take him to that little artsy movie place near the Snug Harbor Sailor's Home. They're showing a documentary on the Champawat Tiger."

"The Champawat Tiger?"

"Man-eater from the turn of the century; fascinating stuff. Men love historic violence, you know that, bubbala. So, is he nice?"

"Ah, yeah," I admitted. "But he's, um . . ."

"Married?"

"No! No, it's just that he's black, mom."

"Oh! And?"

"Annnnd that's it." I didn't try to explain that the colonel was probably the most dangerous man in the five boroughs, or that I had no idea if we were even going to have a relationship.

"Well all right then. As long as he makes you happy, sweetheart."

That remained to be seen, but I wasn't going to tell her that.

I managed to text the invitation without dropping my phone—a major accomplishment, considering how nervous I was—and slipped the thing into my lab coat pocket while I checked up on Cynara via Skype. She was doing pretty well, eating right and walking a lot. All good in the course of a pregnancy.

Went through the rest of my day getting more and more depressed the longer my phone stayed silent. Hell, even a simple 'no' would at least have been polite, but I hadn't gotten any response, positive or negative. By the time the helicarrier was hovering three miles off of Manhattan on stand-by I was seriously down in the dumps.

I was debating on curling up and downloading some Monty Python when I got a knock at my door and a young agent handed me a sealed envelope.

Yes. We have forty minutes to make the first showing.

Panics-ville. I looked at the agent.

"I was told to escort you to the transport, ma'am."

"Shit, okay, I need a minute . . ." I yelped, and ran to my bedroom, slamming the door behind me. Five minutes. I can pull myself together in five minutes. All good doctors can, but this was really putting the pressure on. Quick chignon, mascara, fancy flats and my tartan wool wrap and clutch . . . I was back in three minutes. The agent blinked and didn't say anything but I could tell he was impressed.

In the transport I expected to find the colonel but he wasn't there, only the pilot, who took off the minute the door closed behind me. I strapped in and reached for my phone.

What the HELL, colonel?

Of course I didn't get a response, and by the time the transport landed on the roof of the Snug Harbor Sailor's Home I was damned near fuming. It's one thing to be mysterious and hard to get, but it's another to be downright infuriating. I made my way through the building and out the door without anyone stopping me—I guess they're used to being a S.H.I.E.L.D. drop-off—and out to the Cinéma-tastique.

It was chilly outside, but I was plenty warm let me tell you. I marched up to the ticket window and glared at the skinny goth on the stool there. "Excuse me; have you seen a big scary man with an attitude and an eye-patch?"

She pointed over my shoulder.

And yes, there he was in the arc of the streetlight, decked out in his leather duster and fingerless gloves, imposing as hell. I took a moment to appreciate how nice he looked, and then I sauntered over, still on the boil. "O-kay you've got some chutzpah! Do you know how-"

I didn't get to finish. Fury caught my wrist, pulled me close and spun us out of the light, slipping his arm around my shoulders and leaning over me, whispering low. "All electronic communications aboard the helicarrier are monitored, Doctor, so unless you want the entire crew to know our business I suggest we find an alternative."

Then he kissed me.

Oy!

Big strong mouth on that man, and hot! Whatever else I can say about Colonel Nick Fury, I have to point out that The. Man. Can. Kiss. About all I could do was give a little muffled squeal and right before I could kiss him back he pulled away, licked his lower lip and held out a pair of tickets.

Tickets?

Oh yeah, tickets.

The movie.

"Like the hair," he said as he steered me into the dark depths of the theater.

Fury

The last time I went on an actual date was about twelve presidents back when the Olympics were in Australia and Larsen threw a perfect game in the fifth of the series that year. You could say I'm a little rusty on the protocol.

Then there was the matter of surveillance.

When Finkle's invitation first showed up, I had to ignore it and focus on business. I knew someone on-duty would read it and assume it was a mistake, especially when I didn't respond. Hated doing that, but I wasn't about to have the communications room and eventually the whole helicarrier in on my private life.

The only good thing was that because I am the boss, I can issue orders and not have anybody ask me stupid questions, like 'Why are you going to Staten Island?' and 'Why are you sending a doctor to one of our landing spots?' I try not to abuse the privilege but it is damned nice to be able to play the Alpha Dog card once in a while.

Anyway, I took the first transport down and gave the theater the once over, checking the security. Run-down but acceptable; a little like myself. Picked up the tickets and looked at my watch. Not nervous.

Have to admit that when she finally showed up though I relaxed a little. Had her hair up, which was definitely nice. I knew Finkle would be pissed, but once I explained things I hoped she'd understand the need for discretion. Discretion that I promptly put in jeopardy by laying one on her right there on the sidewalk.

I'm chalking that one up to unreasonable temptation and a window of opportunity. Man's gotta take chances when they present themselves.

No guts, no glory, right?

I didn't want to draw any more attention to us, though, so I walked her into the place, doing my damnedest to keep cool. Found us seats up under the projector and asked her if she wanted any popcorn. She didn't.

Turns out the Tiger of Champawat was a four-footed serial killer in a fur coat, racking up over four hundred victims before being hunted down by a big game hunter. Not quite a documentary, but worth watching, particularly with Finkle next to me. Seats were too damned high to try putting an arm around her shoulders, but I thought about it.

Thought too, about what I needed to say, which was a bitch because it meant some serious negotiation in the immediate future. I'm not good at anything that doesn't involve me getting my own way, and delectable as Finkle is, she's got enough backbone to make it tough on me.

Short version, I wanted her, but I didn't know if we could have anything more serious than fling.

Mine isn't exactly a safe profession, and recent calamitous events haven't helped matters a whole lot. I've got a rolodex of enemies, and most of my work is in the line of fire. I'm bad-tempered, unsociable, and to be honest, downright old. And those are my good points.

And on top of that, well . . . I can't say I actually know how to have a relationship. Motherfucking shocker there, I know, but it's the truth. I maybe a ruthless son of a bitch, but I'm an honest one too, and Finkle deserved to know what was on my mind.

When the movie ended we headed out to the lobby, not saying much. I steered her past the posters for the Kate Sullivan retrospective and out to the sidewalk. Had my sights on a neon sign about two blocks down.

"Latch on," I told her and offered my arm. She took it and we set off.

"Where are we going?"

"Waffle World," I told her.

A waitress with rhinestone cat's eye glasses led us to a nice booth in the back and gave us our laminated menus. Knew what I was gonna get so I looked at Finkle. She sighed.

"Silver dollar stack, with toast."

"Lumberjack special with bacon and hash browns."

The waitress left, and the two of us just stared at each other.

This was not good. I opened my mouth to say something when Finkle started to laugh.

"Sorry, sorry," she spluttered. "I am nervous as hell, and your big bad wolf look isn't helping, Nick. You look like you want to order an airstrike on the building."

"That depends on if they mess up the orders."

She smiled, and it was a hell of a lot easier after that. I leaned back, kept my eye on her. "Jo-seph-ine Finkle. You know I'm exactly the wrong man for you, right?"

"Yep," she agreed, but she was still smiling. "You are. You're ruthless, dedicated to your job and have all the interpersonal skills of a Desert Eagle, and yet I still want to kiss you again, and find out your middle name."

"I'm old, Josie. Old enough to be your damned grandfather."

"Maybe," she murmured. "But you can still get it up."

I blushed. That has not fucking happened in twenty years.

"Not the point," I muttered. "I don't know if I can give you what you want. What you deserve."

That's when I saw that gleam again, that twist to her mouth. I'd be lying if I didn't admit some serious lust right then.

"What I deserve? You're not allowed to go all noble on me after only one kiss, buster. Look, we're both grown-ups here. I'm not asking for hearts and flowers, or some sort of long-term commitment, Nick. I'm only here through Cynara's pregnancy and after that, who knows? I know you're attracted to me, and I am to you too. Why can't we just go with that for now?"

There it was, everything I'd planned to say to her, in a nutshell.

Sensible. Practical. A workable solution.

"Just . . . go with the attraction," I replied, to make sure I had it right.

She nodded. "Why not? That's six months you know. Nothing formal, nothing to worry about, nu? Our business, nobody else's."

It took me a long time to finally nod.