Finkle
Oooh damn. It had been hard enough to maintain professional poise around the colonel, especially when I realized he was injured, but seeing him without a shirt made me realize exactly how long it had been since I'd had sex.
Too long, apparently. I don't do casual hook-ups, so when Harold and I divorced three years ago it was the start of my current celibacy. To be honest, sex with Harold wasn't all that great, but even mediocre sex is still sex, and I really missed all the fringe benefits of foreplay and cuddling.
And Fury without a shirt was extremely easy on my eyes. He had a nice broad chest, well-muscled and carpeted in lovely curls that I was dying to touch. I kept it together though, and took care of his bullet wound, making sure it was cleaned and sutured before anything else.
I'd gotten a lot of practice at repairing bullet wounds in the last few weeks.
Anyway when the time came to give him an injection, I absently reached out to steady myself and laid a hand on Fury's chest. I didn't actually plan that; my fingers had a mind of their own apparently, and it was only by the time I was done loading him with a dose of Ultram that I realized what I'd done.
Of course I went 'eep!' and pulled back, the heat running through my face at the same time. The colonel snagged my hand—damn his reflexes are quick—and he pulled it back to his chest as if it belonged there.
No mistaking the intent, but of course I spluttered, asking him if he was flirting with me because I wasn't quite sure. The colonel accused me of starting it, which actually, I very much did back at the range. Naturally I had to qualify matters by bringing up my medical degree but it was funny and sweet to see Fury looking amused. Too bad we were interrupted.
We both jumped right back into being professional of course, and Chief Agrino needed me to go look at a few more injuries, so I sent the colonel off to rest while I kept working. Nobody was dead and the fractured skull patient was stable after a few hours of surgery. Later, I had a chance to chat with Phil out in the hall, and he asked about Fury.
"The bullet did minor damage . . . if you can call any gunshot wound minor," I assured him.
"He's tough," Phil agreed with a little nod.
I nodded back, and hesitated. There were a thousand things I wanted to ask, but I didn't have any roundabout way of working them into a casual conversation, and in any case Phil's sharp enough that he'd pick up on my intentions in a heartbeat. If Fury is tough, Phil is sharp; eerily so sometimes.
So of course he picked up on the hesitation. "Something wrong?"
"Just . . . is there someone we ought to notify?" I asked, trying like hell not to blush.
Phil just looked at me. "The colonel doesn't have any family . . . at least not that I know of."
"Ohh." I tried to keep it casual. No big deal. Nothing of consequence. "Okay."
Before I could change the subject though, Phil gave one of those little half-smiles of his. The dangerous ones. "Any particular reason for asking?"
"What? Oh, no. Just sort of standard. Bullet wound and all," I tried to bluff.
Ever try to bluff against Special Agent Phillip J. Coulson? I don't recommend it. He crossed his arms and gave me his best bland look. The one that makes him seem like he's carved in granite and can outwait a mirror in a staring contest.
I caved after a few seconds. "I was just curious, that's all. I mean, he's . . . nice."
"Nice." Phil blinked, "the colonel?"
I wished a hole would open up in the floor and just deposit me somewhere else; maybe in some storage bay, or that fancy laboratory reserved for Doctor Banner. "Look, it's no big deal, Phil, all right? Let's just drop it, okay?"
"Okay," he agreed quietly, "it's just . . . I've been working for Colonel Fury for seven years now, and in all that time I don't think I've ever heard anyone describe him as . . . nice."
"Phil-!"
"Anyone . . . ever," he added, and finally grinned a little.
I had to get out of this conversation so I cleared my throat a little and looked away. "Lots of people are nice, okay? Cynara's nice. Chief Agrino's nice. You're nice."
"You keep using that word," Phil quoted at me. "I do not think it means what you think it means."
"Very funny, Inigo Montoya Coulson, but can we drop it now?" I muttered, feeling flushed.
Phil reached out and patted me on the shoulder. "Sure. We'll keep this just between us."
"This what?" I sputtered. "We're not in elementary school here!"
He just gave that half-smile again. "Guess that means I can forego singing about you and the colonel sitting in a tree?"
I punched his arm. HARD.
He didn't even flinch, the rat, and of course I totally broke up after that, laughing like an idiot. So much tension and all of it came out in my giggles. Phil let me lean against his shoulder as I finally pulled myself together, wiping my eyes and trying not to go off on another round when I looked at his smirk. "You are a totally rotten tease, Coulson."
"Sisters," he murmured. "I have three; best survival training ever."
"It shows," I assured him. "So . . . should I bring him some chicken soup?" I had two quart jars of homemade from my mother; she re-stocks me every time I visit her.
"I heard about the brisket from Sandoval," Phil murmured, a little wistfully. "So yeah, soup would be good. I might have to check it for quality first."
"Will it buy your silence?"
"Depends on the soup."
Fury
The thing most people don't know about the aftermath of missions is that there is a hell of a lot of paperwork afterwards. It's just sort of assumed that soldiers get back to whatever they were doing before the mission, that wrapping things up might involve a de-briefing and that's pretty much it.
I'm here to tell you different. Missions mean all sorts of paperwork, and while I don't have to write up the mundane stuff—weapon and ammunition checklists, minute-by-minute depositions, personnel records, medical records, official reports—I DO have to sign off on them. Just because everything's digitized and filed in the cloud doesn't get me off the hook for accountability.
My being wounded is no excuse, either. After I left the infirmary I went to my quarters, dropped my ass in the chair behind my desk and started delivering my John Hancock to the necessary forms. Wish I could say I had a system to speed the job up, but I don't, and the Ultram in my system wasn't helping either by putting a fuzzy edge to things.
Still, the base had been cleared and secured; we had some interesting technology for our engineers to pull apart, and a few zealots to interrogate. Nobody was dead, either, which I consider a major win. We'd be back in Tia Carumba before long, but right now this little foray was done.
Tired, though. I'm not immune to that and I figured I'd have myself a drink and turn in early, let the arm heal up. Would be fun to see Finkle's expression in the morning when she'd find it pretty much mended. Those were my plans, so when the knock came on my door I called for whoever it was to come in, figuring it was Hall with some report.
Wasn't, though. Looked as though my doctor was making a house call, and the smell drifting from the tray she was carrying made my damned stomach growl. Well, well, well—a little Jewish penicillin, personally delivered, no less. Had no idea I was even hungry. I watched her bring it over and set it down, all steaming.
"You made me chicken soup," I pointed out. This was a pretty damned big deal, even I knew that. In terms of dating a Jewish girl, that was practically going steady. I looked up at Finkle and she gave a shrug, mostly to cover up the fact that she was nervous.
"It's my mom's. I can't eat two quarts by myself."
"You brought your mother's chickensoup with you aboard the helicarrier?"
Then she gave me this look. I can't even begin to describe it, but right from that moment on I knew I wanted to see it a lot. A sort of exasperated twist to her mouth and a feisty little glare in her eyes. A take-no-prisoners sorta look.
"Colonel Fury, lesser men have worshiped at my mother's FEET for this soup. I'll have you know that Miriam Finkle's chicken soup should be registered as a cure for hanta virus, athlete's foot, bi-polarism and every strain of bird flu known to man, and you are going to finish every drop, got it?"
By the time she finished I was grinning because seeing Finkle get wound up is fun. I knew the soup would be good, oh hell yes. If her mother taught her how to cook of course it was gonna be good; the floor show was just an added bonus.
"I don't doubt it's amazing, doctor—I'm just surprised nobody's confiscated it so far. In case you haven't noticed, the cuisine onboard here isn't exactly four star."
She gave a knowing nod and pulled up a chair to sit near me. "Tell me about it. Anyway as your attending physician, I highly recommend this and don't try to tell me you're not hungry because I can hear your stomach from here, Nick."
"Oh we're on the first name basis now, are we?" I already had a spoon in my hand.
"Considering you've shown me your gun and made me feel up your chest, I think so," came her sassy reply and that was sorta that.
Damn it was good. I tried to eat slowly and savor it, but it was hard not to just bring the bowl up to my mouth and guzzle it down. I'm not particularly a soup lover, but this was honest-to-God homemade. Not out of a can, not over-processed glop with too much salt and mush for noodles, no, this was the genuine article; real chicken slivered up, carrots and peas that needed a little chewing, noodles solid and filling.
I can't even tell you the last time I'd had real soup. Don't even want to try and think back that far. I went through it faster than I intended to, and Finkle didn't even try to hide her smug look when I was done. I wiped my mouth with the napkin and gave a little sigh.
"Thank you . . . Josie."
"You're welcome," she told me, and smiled.
She collected the dishes even though I told her she could leave them, and I walked her to the door. Before I opened it, I leaned in close; whispered to her.
"We are crossing a Rubicon here, Doctor Josie Finkle, so you better think long and hard about what comes next. I'm a workaholic, I'm at least three generations older than you and a schwartzer goy to boot."
"Yeah? Well I weigh at least thirty pounds more than you, Colonel Nick Fury, and I'm a pretty dedicated workaholic myself," Finkle whispered back. "If you think you can handle that, we might be able to work something out."
She slipped past me, swaying those hips and I watched her all the way down the hall, giving myself permission to enjoy the mighty fine view.
