Finkle

By the time we arrived at Outpost Nord it was snowing, which was probably a good thing since I figured it might cool down my blushes. I couldn't believe I'd fallen asleep on the director of S.H.I.E.L.D. and what's more, apparently survived the incident. Either the colonel was a lot more tolerant of human weaknesses than I'd originally thought, or he hadn't actually noticed.

I wasn't sure which train of thought I wanted to be true, so I busied myself packing up what I would need to see Cynara, and then went to hit up the quartermaster for a parka and mittens. By the time I made it out to the rotor transport, I found myself sitting next to the huge blonde guy they called Thor. I couldn't believe he had bare arms in this weather.

"Hail, midwife to my brother's bride!" he beamed at me.

"Juuust call me Josie," I told him, grinning. "Aren't you cold?"

"This?" he waved an arm out at the snow and shook his head. "This reminds me of home!"

I was about to ask more when the colonel climbed in. Thor beamed at him too and there I was, sandwiched between the pair of them and feeling small for the first time in years. Honestly, I'm a big woman. I've always been big and I decided early on that I wasn't going to ruin my life trying to be something else. My health is good and I can clean anyone's clock on the rink, but sitting there between Thor and the colonel made me feel like chipmunk between lions.

And I was plenty warm, you bet.

Cynara was glad to see me, and we chatted for a bit before getting down to business. I took blood and urine, palpitated her belly and made some notes all while hearing about her diet, her sleep and exercise. She was doing great so far; nothing out of place from what I could tell. The quick analysis showed she was taking her pre-natals like a good little mommy-to-be, but I'd run a more extensive one on the samples once I was back in the labs. I let her talk and answered her questions, feeling good that I was back in my professional groove here.

I asked about baby daddy, and got an earful; apparently Loki Laufeyson was Thor's adopted brother and yet another form of humanoid alien known as an Ice Giant. Cynara told me what she knew which wasn't much; mostly that he was impervious to cold, had phenomenal strength and held a serious grudge against his stepfather. Interesting, but not exactly helpful for biological purposes. Still, it was pretty clear she was in love with him and determined to deal with having this baby.

I urged her to take a nap and went out to talk to Thor. He was tossing his hammer up in the air—not a euphemism here—and catching it, looking like a big kid. When I mentioned Loki, he gave me a little more information. "The Jotunn have ice within them, and can work with the elements. Loki has also learned much dark magic, which may have stained his soul."

Not much more help in terms of genetics, but I nodded and scooped up some snow, packing it into a good snowball. Managed to hit the side of the rotor transport, which was probably childish of me, but hey, snow.

Thor was amused and made a snowball too, but I stopped him from aiming at our ride, figuring he'd probably punch a hole through it with his strenght and urged him to pick a more distant target. So he managed to nail the guard patrolling the perimeter about a half mile away.

Oops.

I hurried towards the fallen man, but Thor was quicker and retrieved him so I could check the rising bruise on the back of his head and try not to snicker. Thor of course was completely remorseful, offering to carry the guard the rest of the way to the outpost, but Jeff Sandoval—that was his name—declined sheepishly.

In the fuss over Jeff I hadn't realized that the rotor transport had left. I was about to freak a little over being left behind when Fury came down the steps, looking first at Thor then at Jeff then at me. Don't know about the other two but I immediately felt guilty.

"Helicarrier's been called it for an emergency rescue operation in the North Sea," he told us, standing there with his wrists folded behind his back. How that man could wear leather in the snow I'll never know. "We're going to sit tight here until they get back." He gave the guard a disapproving look and waved him into the building, then glared at Thor and me.

"Let's try not to put any more people out of commission," Fury grunted at us. That left Thor looking like a scolded Golden Retriever, so I patted his arm and promised to cook him something nice to make up for it.

Cynara gave me a tour through the kitchen and that's when I realized that despite the remote locale, the place was pretty well stocked.

Time to work some magic with brisket, I figured. That, I could do.

Cooking with Thor was fun. He was eager to help, and had a ton of stories about food. Since we were stuck at the outpost for a while I thought it would be helpful to keep him busy and maybe pick up a few more details about his adopted brother. Plus it gave me something to do with my hands.

My mother would have been proud.

So, braised brisket, new potatoes and a salad—enough for myself, Cynara, Thor, the colonel and the two guards left with us. Instead of any formal sit-down I set it up buffet style and made Cynara go first. The colonel looked like he was going to decline, but I gave him a stern look and pushed a plate into his hands.

"Nothing doing; I cooked it, you eat it," I told him. "Nu?"

He looked at the plate and then at me. "Fine, fine, no need to plotz, Finkle."

For a minute I could only blink. Yiddish?

Fury knew Yiddish?

He must have realized he'd startled me because he leaned in and added, "Never figured you for a baleboste on top of everything else," and grinned.

God in heaven, Fury grinned at me. I had no idea the man could even do that.

It was quick, but definitely, definitely a grin.

Fury

Living in a city like New York, things rub off on a person. Habits. Attitudes. Languages. I'd picked up some Yiddish over the decades along with Italian, German, and bits of Dutch, and I won't deny that it was fun to see Finkle react to it. The food brought it out in me; haven't tasted a good brisket in years, and this one was damned good.

Food isn't something I think about too often, much less home-made meals, because back in my day food meant companionship. Your compatriots, your brothers in arms, sometimes if you lucky enough to have one, your family. S.H.I.E.L.D. isn't big on families or sit-down dinners. I try to make sure my people have enough time off to share in dinners with their own loved ones regularly—they need that. They need to remember what needs to be defended.

Damned good brisket. Thor loaded up and looked like he'd arm-wrestle anyone going for seconds before him.

I considered it, but before anything happened, Sigyn-Laufeyson divided the rest into portions and served them up. "No bloodshed at the table," she told us, giving everyone a glare.

I could live with that.

Afterwards I checked in and found out the North Sea situation was taking a little longer due to weather, but things were under control. No hot spots flaring up anywhere, no urgent messages for the moment and no operatives checking in. Usually when this happens I head to the gym, but having just eaten, I opted to check out the range instead.

Shot a few rounds with the .45, grouping them pretty damned well inside the ten ring if I do say so myself when Finkle showed up to watch. I pointed to the posted rules and ear protection rack, then got back to firing.

When the targets rolled up, Finkle came closer and looked at them. Couldn't tell if she was impressed or appalled, but she stared at me and asked, "Can I try?"

There were a thousand reasons I should have said 'no,' not the least being the fact that it was damned clear Finkle had never even held a gun in her life. But I didn't have anything else to do, and she'd cooked dinner, so it seemed only fair to return the favor.

Besides, it might come in handy. Not that I was planning on trouble, but it's been my experience that it generally shows its ugly face when you don't expect it. So I nodded and after a ten minute technical lecture, I found myself coaching Finkle into the correct stance and moving behind her to help brace for the recoil.

The woman smelled good; hell of a lot better than the smokeless propellant around us. I encouraged her to focus and fire; just as I predicted the recoil had Finkle bouncing back against me. Wasn't supposed to feel nice, but it did.

Her first shot clipped the edge of the ninth ring.

"That was good, right?"

"Do it again," I told her, mostly to keep Finkle from getting too cocky.

She fired again, planting one just inside the seventh ring, and I reached to help steady her arms, which turned out to be one big damned mistake.

I should have been bracing Finkle's arms and telling her to focus on the target. Instead I was wrapped around the back of the woman and trying not to respond to the big round temptation grinding against the lower part of me.

Yeah I like'em big. I'm also head of one of the biggest covert military operations on the planet, and as such not supposed to let something like booty put me off my focus.

The fact that Finkle wasn't even doing it on purpose made it that much more difficult. I backed up a little and she fired again, getting the hang of the recoil, concentrating on the target and not paying attention to me. Small blessing there until she turned her head, whispering to my blind side. "It's pretty hard."

It took me a moment to realize she was talking about the whole process of shooting, and not, say, making a personal observation.

"Practice helps."

"Mmm," Finkle murmured. She didn't pull the trigger again so we stood there for a few seconds, not moving. It's been my experience that in dangerous situations it's best to stay still, and this clearly fit into that category.

Getting more dangerous by the minute, in fact.

Doesn't mean I moved away though. For all I knew Finkle could start firing again any minute.

She didn't. Woman just stood there damned near snuggling back against me.

And that was the precise moment when I realized I might have a sweet, big-assed problem with objectivity.