Finkle

It's a good thing I've got steady hands because the rest of me wanted to shake. Not only did I have the colonel wrapped around me in all his seriously macho glory, but I was feeling something more back there as well.

And that sort of changed my perspective on matters. I mean it's been a while, but I was feeling definite proof that a certain tall dark and handsome badass liked me, woof! Of course, I wasn't going to say anything, but his body language was loud and clear, and I had to fight against the giggles.

So far I'd done pretty well with the targets, which was a surprise to me, actually. I'm not pro or anti gun; I've seen what they can do and I respect the people who know how to use them. The only reason I had Fury's in my hand was because I'd asked, not expecting him to say yes.

Still, I didn't want to drop the thing, so I lowered my arms and tried to act cool.

Tried.

"Uh, I think that's good," I managed, and then wanted to kick myself because it sounded so lame.

Fury didn't say anything, but he moved around and took the gun, flicking the safety on and not looking at me. He hit the button to bring the targets up and replaced them, handing mine to me wordlessly.

"Thanks," I managed, still trying to keep things light.

"You're pulling to the right," Fury told me. "A forty-five's too heavy for you. Better off with a Glock, probably a twenty-six."

"Uh, yeah." More conversational brilliance by me.

It was clear Fury wasn't going to say anything about our gun-cuddling and for a moment I wondered if I had it wrong, but when I caught him licking his lips . . . that confirmed it.

I smiled, making sure I held his gaze. "Okay then, I'm going to bed. Thanks again for sharing your gun with me . . . Nick."

That was just sassy enough to cap things so I made my way out of the range, trying not to look over my shoulder and fighting down a grin.

Sleeping arrangements were easy; the outpost had plenty of bedrooms—Spartan but comfortable—and I turned in after one last check on Cynara. Slept fine and by morning Thor told me over breakfast that the helicarrier would be back within two hours. He was making pancakes and doing a pretty good job of it, despite the fact they were each the size of a manhole cover.

Apparently Asgardians have the metabolism of cheetahs; something to keep in mind. I watched him plow through a stack of five, made sure he didn't choke, and went to check on Jeff the guard, who assured me he was fine.

Sure enough the helicarrier arrived a while later and we all left Cynara working on some chunk of runestone in the basement.

You might be wondering why S.H.I.E.L.D. didn't just leave me with her full-time, right? Would have been a logical thing, but according to regulations for me to attend her (and get paid for it,) I had to be a member of S.H.I.E.L.D., and that meant I had to serve at least a six months on the helicarrier. Since she and I would be pretty busy in the last three months of her pregnancy, it seemed smart to get the tour of duty done early.

Anyway, that was the powers that be's reasoning for my being up on the flying runway.

For the next three weeks I barely saw the colonel, and I wasn't sure if I was upset about that, or glad. Apparently there were lots of missions and military-type things going on because those of us in the infirmary would get surges of business every few days. I stitched and patched people up, and worked alongside Chief Agrino digging bullets out of the more severely injured.

During the other times I did the lab work on Cynara's samples, dutifully noting everything, wrote up my observations and fretted. Not so much about her, since nearly everything looked completely normal so far, but over the colonel. Had I gone too far? Pushed when I should have played coy? Second-guessing myself was a rotten habit so I tried to stop doing it and concentrate on other things.

But then there was some sort of mission to clear out some lost base down in South America. Phil couldn't tell me much except that the place dated back to the Second World War and some group associated with the Nazis. I had no idea why S.H.I.E.L.D. needed to step in; we were light-years from the weaponry of the Forties, but from the look on Phil's face it was a big deal.

Apparently the colonel himself was leading the team, and up in the infirmary we received notice to stand by.

We stood by.

I tried not to fidget, but it was difficult, especially since I didn't have any idea what sort of injuries we might be dealing with and had visions of everything from bayonet wounds to tank casualties. It seemed like every old war movie I'd ever seen played in my head as I waited, and I realized it was because I was anxious about you-know-who.

Which was probably stupid, because everyone I'd ever talked to assured me that Fury was pretty much bullet-proof. He was nearly as much a legend as Captain Rogers apparently, and given the way he handled his gun I had some faith that he knew what he was doing.

When the injured started coming in I waited for the chief to triage them around; he took one poor stranger with a fractured skull and waved me to one of the curtained bays to deal with a through and through bullet wound to the bicep. I moved around the curtain, gearing myself to deal with the injury and found myself looking at none other than Colonel Fury himself.

With no shirt on.

Ohhhhh.

Fury

As many people will attest, I am not blessed with much of a sense of humor, and generally the things that bring a little light to my day consist of seeing Stark screw up. It's also been a long damn time since I paid much attention to the opposite sex in terms of being women. Don't get me wrong; I appreciate what Agent Romanov can do in the category of feminine wiles, but only because of what she gets accomplished with them.

So imagine my surprise when I found myself thinking about Finkle during my rare moments of down-time. About the way she'd been standing up to me. And standing against me, particularly at the range. Despite what anyone thinks, I am flesh and blood, just as prone to a surge of hormones now and again. Finkle had qualities that appealed to me, both in personality and physicality, and damned if my body hadn't picked up on that from the start.

Yeah I'm talking about sex. Hard to avoid the subject on a ship carrying a mixed crew in the prime of their reproductive years. I know perfectly well the majority of them are knocking boots with someone in their free time and I don't blame them. Job's stressful, and they're good people; they deserve that human connection. Me, though, I'm a different story.

I'm not permitted any sort of relationship, at least not in public. The general perception is that leaders stand alone, and I haven't exactly discouraged that concept. Haven't had much of a reason to, up to now.

On the other hand there's a lot about me most of my people don't know. Like the fact that Cap and I share more than just military rank and an interest in boxing. There are aspects about me that even Coulson and Hilldon't know, like my appreciation for the jazz of Mongo Santamaria. Or the fact that I like Kirschwasser, neat. I'm a complicated man under the leather and turtleneck sweaters.

I'm also human, despite the rumors. Human enough to know that if I was going to consider any sort of private interaction with Finkle, I'd need her to understand the necessity of discretion. No point in going anywhere if that doesn't get established first.

Not to mention the fact that I don't do personal conversations well. My main form of communication is the direct order, followed by the heavy-duty suggestion. I don't ask opinions, or share anecdotes and I damned well don't use pick-up lines. My few ships-passing-in-the-night encounters over the years have been clandestine and extremely temporary by mutual agreement.

I'm a dangerous man; dangerous to other people and dangerous for other people.

But something about Doctor Josephine Finkle's sass on a stick appealed to me. I like people who look beyond the eye patch and the attitude, particularly when they come with a lotta promising upholstery as well. Just because I'm old doesn't mean I'm immune to the lure of a zaftig woman.

Unfortunately serious business picked up shortly after we left outpost Nord, putting everything else on the back burner. I had my hands full with reports about incursions, sightings, retaliatory strikes and eventually, a newly-discovered Hydra base in Tia Carumba South America.

That last is what ended up putting me in the infirmary by the way. Cap and I knew we couldn't risk freedom fighters or terrorists or any other fanatics getting a hold of any of the Red Skull's technology, so that meant taking the lead in clearing out the place. We managed to do it with minor injuries on our side and a handful of involuntary detainees to question later. Personally I found it embarrassing to be among the wounded; ruined a good coat on top of everything.

Once the job was done I went in to get patched up and wonder of wonders Finkle was the one coming around the curtain and giving me the eye. Would have been a terrific opportunity to socialize if I wasn't half-naked and leaking blood. To the woman's credit she knew her job and got right to work cleaning it out. I did notice the little glances she kept taking at my torso.

Yeah, everything I don't have on my head is on my chest. Not common knowledge. Finkle didn't seem put off by it, which I counted in my favor. She looked like she wanted to say something so I gave her one of my milder glares to get her going.

"You've got some muscle damage but I haven't found any bone, artery, or vein injury. I want you to keep this arm immobilized in a sling for a few days. Right now I have it packed and wrapped; I'm going to give you something for the pain."

"Not too much," I told her, and added, "I won't need much. Trust me on this."

Finkle nodded, prepped the shot and while she administered it, she laid her hand in the middle of my chest.

Exhibit A: the woman was copping a feel.

By rights I could have called Finkle on harassment right there, especially since her fingers were stroking some of the curls. However, I wasn't feeling particularly harassed. If pressed on the point I could make the case that I didn't mind a damned bit, especially since her palm was warm.

A minute later she realized what she was doing and squeaked. Funniest damned noise I'd heard in a long time; it took real work on my part not to grin. Finkle tried to pull her hand away but I caught it and held it for a moment.

Then I put it back on my chest.

Finkle looked at her hand, and then up at me. I watched as the worry went out of her eyes and she started to smile. Didn't realize how tense she was until I saw her shoulders loosen up under her lab coat.

"Colonel, are you . . . flirting with me?"

"If you recall, I believe you started it," I pointed out. I wasn't going to take the rap for her foray into my personal space.

"I'm a doctor!" Finkle spluttered, but she was still grinning, so I knew any outrage was purely for show.

I looked down; fingers playing around with the curls again, stroking me. Felt nice.

She moved a little closer and huffed. "Okay, I'm a doctor who happens to like a little fur, so sue me."

I would have said more but we both heard the orderly coming over. Finkle took her hand back and I got dismissed to my quarters while she went to assist with the rest of the injured.

All in all, not a bad damned day.