After the briefing is over there's an obligatory milling around period.

Technically it should be 'everyone is striding put purposefully and with a great focus' period but the op suddenly (i.e. inevitably) gets pushed back by an hour and half.

The most immediate consequence of this is that Stiles gets to vigorously sit around with his thumb up his ass and partake of the wondrous spectacle that is SHIELD trash-talking.

It's scintillating.

And by 'scintillating' he, of course, means 'retarded.'

His canny tactical instincts lead him to hide safely behind the safely massive… er, mass of Stan. It's a plan of strategeristic genuiosity. Besides the sheer physical presence that is currently hiding him from all the excitement, there's also Stan's personality that can be best described as volatile.

It's not that he is crazy or anything. Just a little unpredictable. Which Stiles totally gets. For all he knows Stan may have been the only half-native, half-Jewish guy on Samoa. And having to leave the tropical paradise for the friendliest place of nowhere, would piss him off to.

Although Stan is actually quite fond of New York.

Anyway, as far as Stiles can tell his coping mechanism consists of creating a bi-polar response methodology. Sometimes he'll go weeks placidly putting up with bullshit being piled on his plate. Sometimes he'll deck a Praetorian sergeant and sit on his head, leaving his fellow interns in a huge pile of crap because apparently SHIELD has found a lot of value in the Gestapo's ideas on collective responsibility and mass repression.

Fallon, at one point, advances the idea the reactions correspond to a specific part of Stan's genetic cocktail. But Stand calls him an anti-Semite and stares at him for a while. It is really hard to say when Stan is joking, sometimes, so that discussion doesn't really come up anymore.

Whatever. The pertinent fact is that so far today seems to be one of the quiet days. Stan calmly chewing his way through yet horrifically smelling attempt at a healthy lunch, while the Suits filling the room are building up their morale at the expense of the little people.

"Fucking interns."

"I know, right? Making the simplest shit complicated."

"It's a damn hide-and-seek. They can't follow her to the destination once?"

"So now we gotta spend the night, showing these geniuses the goddamn basics."

"Fucking fieldcraft 101."

"The remedial class."

"Niiiiice. Ahahaha!"

Ironically, Stiles notices Cam first. Which doesn't really mean anything. The dude may have been standing there for the last hour. Of all the interns he's the clearly the star. Slim and dark, quietly competent, he pretty much sets the curve when it comes to all the shooting, burning, stalking and looting stuff.

Fallon is the uber-geek, and his place among the Nerd Herd is guaranteed, everyone knows that (including himself, which is 50% of what makes him an unbearable pain), but deadly fucking scary Cam is the trajectory of his own. He's definitely being groomed for a Costumedom. Which is something else that everyone knows – everyone except Cam.

Or maybe he does and just doesn't give a shit. It's hard to tell with Cam. Not a talker.

Once he places Cam, Stiles barely even has to look. Wherever he is, there's … yep. Shannon's red hair is somehow managing to project enough aggressive feeling that Stiles actually sniffs the air experimentally, already rehearsing his excuse for Coulson.

And then I smelt ozone and kind of blacked out, Your Majesty. They were already dead when I woke, up, honest!

One of the Suits picks up on the ever-so-subtle fact that Shannon may be the easiest target for a reaction and begins to zero in on her. She steps forward, chin up and teeth bared, clearly on the verge of one of her lectures about the genealogical irregularities of someone's family history.

Stiles lick his lips nervously and elbows Stan, hissing for him to fix it. The big man sighs heavily and without looking up from his lunch snags Shannon's shoulder. Shannon immediately curses him out, of course.

The agent snickers. Of course.

At which point Cam, Stan and Stiles all look at him. Stiles with the slightly amazed disbelief usually reserved for someone volunteering to disarm a mine. Cameron and Stanley with a Purpose. And Shannon with a sudden and deeply unsettling calm,

They are staring like they are planning to remember him.

The other Suits are crowding behind their clearly brain-damaged comrade in a show either of moral support or the fact that mental deficiency and assholetitude is contagi—

A slim tail of a vague idea that might be a thought skims across the surface of Stiles's mind and he looks too. Cataloguing faces, names, remembering as much as he can about them.

"Fallon…."

"Yeah?" Rigby is here too, of course. He might be a creepy reason that's keeping the Japanese pornographic industry in business, but he's still one of them so when they circled the wagon (around Stile's nice and safe hiding place, for some fucking reason!) of course he was going to end up here too.

Safety in numbers. Or a perfect bunched-up target for an artillery shell. Stiles guesses it's all about one's view of life.

"What'd you get when you did the b-check on these paragons of cloak-and-dagger arts?"

Stiles can practically feel Fallon puff himself up in righteous indignation behind him and squints in tired irritation. He's missing Craig for this shit…

"Save it, dude, all right. Come on. I know you backgrounded every damn one of them. You wouldn't be able to help your little rat self."

Fallon deflates. "So? What of it?"

"So, is it me or is this a group that is statistically unlikely to occur, given the unnatural concentration and combination of raging mediocrity and unfounded self-regard?"

Stiles is not an idiot. Only an idiot whispers in the middle of an office feud. That's the way to draw attention to yourself. Only an idiot draws attention to himself during an office feud. (Only a very special kind of idiot draws attention to himself during an office feud by picking on the only girl among the interns. The interns being the people with no sense of mortality, little thought of their career prospects, subsisting on coffer, malice and vague dreams of sleep.)

Stiles is not an idiot. Stiles is the kind of guy who says the most offensive thing possible in a calmly conversational tone just as the growing din of the feud suddenly hits one of those extremely inconvenient lulls.

Just in time for everyone to hear what he said.

The agents Look at him now. With a Purpose. Like they are planning to Remember him.

Stiles stares back and realizes that he's actually pretty much totally fucked. So he shrugs and smiles back at them. Widely and toothily.

It's like Mom used to say. If you are going to fail anyway - might as well fail gloriously, and with enthusiasm.

The Luck of the Stilinskis. If it weren't for bad, they'd have none at all.

The night is still young and warm when Coulson herds them all outside. The Suits have gone into the pre-mission semi-relaxed zone. They are still pissed but they've pushed it to the back of their minds. The only outward sign of the previous confrontation is the crooked, acid grin from the leader of the Able group. "Watch and learn, kiddies. This is how it's done in the varsity."

The interns' eyes meet silently and they let it go. Stiles has had the time to float his theory by them as they make their way from the room to the street.

Every single agent on the op is a neer-do-well with a bad attitude.

"It's a test." Stiles tells them.

"But not for us," Shannon adds, suddenly understanding.

And Cam smiles.

And so they let it go. Hell, Stiles thinks as he clambers up into the surveillance van (aka the Death Star. Because nobody felt like wasting ten hours of their life arguing with Fallon over the fucking name nobody except him was ever going to use anyway)

Worst comes to worst they will, in fact, pick some cool tricks up, Stiles thinks. And if they can keep up with the Widow – hey, maybe we are the assholes. Something occurs to him and he glances at Stanley. Dreyfus nods back at him and turns, to encompass the rest of the crew with a heavy, lidded look.

"We ain't throwing this. Let them eat it on their own."

Cam nods. Shannon just reddens and glares, pissed at the very suggestion.

Stiles's eyes flicker toward Fallon, but Rigby is deep into tinkering with the bird. The game is too fun for him to fuck with, just to screw the Suits.

"The target is moving."

Here we go again.

"How are you eating again?"

Fallon looks back at Shannon with an injured expression, his (5th) sandwich half-way to his mouth.

"You know the only thing I had for dinner today?"

"You say a burrito again and I cut you." Cam promises him softly.

Rigby blanches and edges slightly away. "Carrots, dude! Chill. Jesus."

Stiles tries for a lack of bias for a few seconds but decides not to bother. It's a very small van. And the smells that come out of a burrito-digesting Fallon defy all description and most of the Geneva Convention. Also how the guy can put that much food away and still weigh less than a deflated balloon, is just baffling.

The receivers in everybody's ears crackled and the dully annoyed voice of the Baker team leader assured everyone that they still had the target.

Superheroes will always disappoint you in the end.

Stiles privately thinks that this is, in fact the actual lesson that Coulson wants them to learn. Case in point being today.

Everyone is unhappy.

The van is pissed because there was no immediate drama exposing the Suits for the blowhard dickwads in some sort of flashy chase through the city, or an amazing sleight of hand that made them look like complete morons.

The Suits are pissed because there was no immediate drama allowing them to showcase the l33t skillz and put the Coulson's upstart petting zoo in its place.

Instead there is (going on second hour) the drudgery of a rolling stakeout. Romanoff was painting the town beige. (Red is exciting, beige is… beige)

She did the standard counter-surveillance stuff a few times. Hopped the subway, changed a few taxis, but everybody could tell that it was mostly pro forma. She knew they were there, they knew she knew, she knew that they knew that she knew…

Stiles badly wants somebody to stab him in the neck.

The only person having fun is Fallon. Widow has decided to check out some Broadway thing, so Rigby has been utilizing the lack of need for the resources at his command by using the Sentinel drone to expand his horizons. His horizons, inevitably, consist primarily of bedroom and bathroom windows of (occasionally) attractive women.

The moral of this story, Stiles decides, is that he's definably stopping to buy curtains on the way home. He strongly suspects Shannon is right there with him on that logic train.

But neither of them can even muster up the motivation to bark at Fallon. The lethargic apathy has claimed the throne and rules the van with an iron fist.

The biggest excitement of the night comes when there's a knock on the door, as Bissett returns from his donut run.

Stiles reaches to slide open the door and blinks curiously. The barrel of a .40 Sig Sauer is apparently freakishly huge when it's in your face like that. Cam shrugs at him apologetically from beneath the choke-hold. Stiles shrugs back, understandingly. 'cos, really…

He looks back into the gun. "Hi, Ms. Romanoff."

Behind him Stan falls on Shannon, and Rigby chokes on his sandwich, and almost flies the drone into the window of an St. Raymond Academy for Girls.

Stiles sighs. "Uh. We surrender?"

The Widow looks at him blandly and gives him Cam, motioning with the Sig. "You're in the way. Move."

He moves. Behind him Shannon squeaks.

That girl has a truly unhealthy crash on the Widow. And the Stiles remembers Rigby and suddenly feel very, very tired.

Cam's thoughts seem to follow a similar path as he looks speculatively at Romanoff's gun and Fallon's slack-jawed expression, and then at the gun again.

That's an excellent point, actually. Stiles hasn't considered the very high potential for Rigby getting shot in this scenario. The evening is suddenly looking up.

He isn't sure exactly how it happens but a few minutes later all five of them are huddling in the far corner and the Widow is fiddling with the controls of the drone. Irritably.

"Who is in charge of the bird?"

"Uh, I am. Rigby Agent. I mean Agent Fallon. I mean Intern Fallon, sir. I mean, ma'am."

Romanoff turns around and stared for a long second. "You are one of Coulson's?"

"He's really good with computers!" Shannon interjects defensively. The worship in her eyes dies down a bit at the skepticism in Widow's voice. Even a fellow redhead who is a super-assassin and an Avenger isn't allowed to rag on the Boss. There are lines in the sand.

"And the Sentinel is in Bronx, although my last position is fixed in Manhattan because…?"

Shannon pales, her freckles suddenly prominent, and glances somewhat desperately at Stan. The Samoan Jew passes the look to Stiles. Stiles gladly unburdens himself on Bissett.

Cam takes like a man. "He's a peeping tom."

Shannon closes her eyes and appears to be rediscovering God and the power of prayer. Cam plows on stolidly. "He's very good with computers."

Widow nods, as if it all makes perfect sense to her, and turns back to the controls.

Shannon mouths something intricately vile at Cam. Cam looks hurt. Stanley appears to be asleep with his eyes open. Fallon may actually be drooling a little.

Stiles badly wants somebody to stab him in the neck.

People often accuse life (and universe) of being unfair. Or a bitch.

But, as the poet says. Life is not a bitch. Life is a beautiful woman.

Stiles finds proof of this truth a number of time in his various adventures. But none are as sweet as the moment when the comm gear in the van goes completely and entirely nuts.

"It's not her!"

"What?"

"We lost the target. I repeat we don't have the subject!"

"What are you talking about, I have the visual!"

"You don't have shit! It's not her. It's just another redhead."

"She pulled a damn switch on us?"

"There's no way. We were eyes-on the whole time!"

"Fuck! Fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck!"

"Where's the bird? Control – do you have her? Control?"

Stiles has to fight back a highly ill-timed giggle, as he notices Shannon's and Widow's eyebrows making an identical climb at the phrase "just another redhead."

Life. She is a wonderful thing of wondrous wonder.

His reverie is rudely broken by Stanley's elbow in his ribs. Before Stiles can express his appraisal of the situation, Dreyfus catches his eyes and stares meaningfully at the monitor. Stiles follows.

The feed doesn't really make sense. Some guy is doing what appears to be a really weird set of calisthenics on the roof. It's kind of hard to make out the specifics from where StiIes sits. It's not weird-weird – not for New York, but the fact that Romanoff seems absolutely riveted by the spectacle…

That is definitely weird-weird. And also odd.

He glances inquiringly at Stan, but the latter just shrugs and shakes his head. "SHIELD, brah. Don't dwell. That way madness lies."

Stan is a lot smarter than most people give him credit for. Wise like an elephant who is friends with a monkey. Stiles has always said that.

The Suits are going mad on Broadway. Which would make a great band name, but currently is just annoying, so Stiles kills his comm. Romanoff nods at him approvingly and taps her own. "Sir? It's done."

She pauses, presumably listening to the instructions from the other end of the line.

Shannon seems to be on the verge of the spontaneous combustion and even Cam appears to be on the verge of exhibiting some sort of vaguely humanoid emotion as the curiosity eats them alive.

Rigby's eyes are firmly fixed on Romanoff's ass.

"Yes. Do you have it on your mainframe? Yes. Yes. Everything? Yes, sir."

The Widow taps the keyboard and the monitors go dark. Which, somewhat surprisingly has the effect of bringing Fallon out of his stupor. "Hey, what are-"

Stiles recognizes the next thing to appear in Romanoff's hand and winces sympathetically. He really hopes that Fallon doesn't have anything particularly dear to him on the van's hard drive.

They all watch him out of the corners of their eyes as he, in turn, observes the brain-death of the Death Star. Rigby blinks rapidly, and swallows dryly, the prominent Adam's apple working under the skin.

His voice is suspiciously thick when he finally speaks. "So. Are you... uhm... seeing anyone?"

After Fallon is gagged and zip-tied, Widow makes another call. "Yes, sir. I'll be there shortly. Don't you want it in writing? Yes, sir. I think they were doing better before you sent in the clowns. I understand, but bad habits have a way of spreading. You asked, sir."

Nobody really needs help interpreting this conversation. Shannon may be, in fact, considering dumping Coulson for Romanoff, after all. Widow throws her keys to the van and looks them over assessingly. "Whose turn is it with Banner next week?"

Stiles can practically feel the traitorous stares and covertly flips off the Judases behind his back, even as he meets Widows eyes.

"Good luck."

Oh, for shit's sake! And the night was actually going well there for a second! Why would she even say that?

Unnecessary.

He is still deep in the detailed contemplation of his misery when Romanoff disappears down some alley. The rest are pretty understanding and demonstrate it practically and tangibly by letting him brood in the corner as they untied and ungag Rigby, and pack up the gear.

"So who is Peter Parker?" Cam asks as Shannon is navigating the van back toward home.

"Who?"

"The guy on the roof. You didn't see the name on the back pack?"

"No. Because we are not freaks like you!"

"That's hurtful."

"Hey - do you think they are going to take the cost of the gear she skragged out of our paychecks?"

"Oh, shit."

"They can't do that! I'm barely making rent as it is! I've got loans!"

"WATCH THE ROAD, SHANNON!"

"AH!"

By and large, Stiles deems the night to be a wash. When you tabulate the entire thing, and throw in the fact that his face is barely even throbbing anymore – really, it broke pretty even.

He walks the last few blocks toward his building, slowly measuring the boardwalk with his steps, the jacket hanging loosely over his shoulder. The night is still warm, and the asphalt is still wet.

And he is in New York. Exactly as he imagined it would happen when he was 14, reading Batman comics with Mom in that dreary hospital room.

Life. Sometimes it is exactly what you expect happening when you expect it least.

Allie smiles at him. When he rounds the corner, sitting on the steps of his building, as if it's the most normal thing in the world for her to be here. In New York, on his steps. She smiles at him and tucks that ever-errant lock hair behind her ear.

Life.