Finkle
And so we waited. I got in, checked in with Phil and spent the majority of my time trying to have the medical facility laid out for triage. See? This is what being in S.H.I.E.L.D. has done to me, a perfectly normal obstetrician. I was prepping for casualties and trying to see where the nearest medical facilities were located, just in case.
Fury was around too, looking bleak and making it a point not to talk to me too much, even though I could see the stress making those brackets around his mouth. To be fair everywhere else on him seemed more relaxed and I took quiet personal credit for that, oh yes. The benefits of athletic sex for both of us were pretty nice.
And then, just after sunset, the alarms went off. Both Fury and Phil headed for the door and I scooted myself into the medical facility, readying myself for the worst.
Loki came in with her and she looked pretty good from the outside. Gooey for some reason, but not wounded or injured as far as I could see. I checked her over pretty thoroughly and from what I could see she was just about at the twentieth week now—two month's jump, but hey, that's what the tests were indicating.
Did a sonogram and there she was, a blurry active little ball doing everything but waving at us. Once I saw that, a lot of the tension went out of my shoulders and pointed out a few of her cuter features to her parents. I could tell both of them were exhausted, but being able to reassure them felt good, and I sent Cynara and Loki to bed happy.
Then I put in about three hours into observation records and some study of the gooey stuff. Turned out to be albumen, although not from any bird on file. I sent samples to the helicarrier and to S.H.I.E.L.D. labs and went to go turn in, feeling seriously worn-out.
Fury was in my room, looking out the window, glowering at the universe in general. I shot him a patient glance. "Stop feeling guilty and stop pretending you don't feel guilty. For all we know it was our fantastic love vibe that projected Mr. Sleepless in Saskatchewan to the right spot."
"I used to think Stark was a loose cannon," came Fury's grumble. "Compared to him, Loki's a fuckin Jiffy-lubed armada."
"Yeah, well we can be grateful that he's on our side for the moment," I shot back and headed for the bathtub. Fury followed me.
"So now you're my lifeguard?"
"Just making sure your back's properly scrubbed," he settled in on the edge of the tub and soaped up the loofah. I let him; after all, if he needs something therapeutic to do, this is a hell of a lot better than having him go down to the firing range.
Blissful. Hot water, big strong hands working shampoo and then conditioner in to my hair—talk about heavenly. The man had hidden talents and now I was determined to exploit them.
"Fabulous," I sighed. "You could give up your day job and open a spa; you'd make a killing, Nick."
"The only killing I'll make is if you tell someone I did this," he muttered. "My reputation does not include hairdressing."
"Could have fooled me," I let him rinse my scalp down and towel my hair, feeling utterly pampered. "Is this some sort of attempt for a nightcap?"
"Oh I don't think so, Jo-seph-ine, not with the way you scream my name."
I didn't even have to look at him to know he was gloating. "They're not screams. They're . . . enthusiastic pronouncements."
"Yeah, you keep tellin' yourself that. In any case we're on the job right now, which means anything personal is off the table."
"Oh really?" I rose up out of the tub and wrapped a towel around myself, grateful that Outpost Nord had bath sheets. "You wash Phil's hair a lot, do you?"
This was so weird. I mean, sure we were hooked up, but this was more like . . . relationship stuff. I was pretty sure there was supposed to be a boundary here somewhere but at the same time it felt so damned good to have him here that I was confused. So I moved past him and plucked my nightgown from the back of the door and slipped it on.
"Phil Coulson is a trained agent; he can handle his own damned grooming. Besides, I had another reason for being here, and that's Sigyn-Laufeyson. Is it just me, or is she a little farther along on her pregnancy than she was before?"
I nodded. "Yeah. She's jumped about six weeks on the timeline, but so far she's healthy and I'm monitoring her. Any explanation on your end?"
"Warped time," Fury shrugged. "Not a common phenomenon but not unheard of either. We've got specialists looking into it, even if Loki's not giving up a lot of details." Even as he talked the man was watching me put lotion on, which was a little unnerving.
"Well I intend on staying up and keeping an eye on her. Aside from the 'phenomenon' as you call it, I think it's time to make sure I'm on hand."
Fury grunted. "I know. You'll be staying here and I'll be . . ." he waved a hand towards the universe, "out there, doing shit."
"Hey," I told him. "For what it's worth, today was pretty fabulous. And I'm glad we got my patient back."
He came over and hand to God, I swear, Nick Fury tucked me in. "Yeah, I know what you mean. All right, you get some sleep, hear? I probably won't be here when you get up but you'll be hearing from me soon, woman."
True to his word he and the helicarrier were gone in the morning, and yeah, I missed him. Oh I had plenty to do, and whatever spare time I did have I used to make sure I didn't go too stir-crazy here in the great white north, but it wasn't easy.
I'm a city girl, or at the very least, a concentrated population girl at heart. I like traffic noises and bustling streets and new faces. Outpost Nord was not a major social scene, and although Saskatchewan has oodles of rustic charm, I missed the congestion and teeming throngs so typical of New York and her boroughs. Ever try to find good pastrami in Canada? Not easy or cheap, although I was getting fond of poutine in the meantime.
What got to me though, was when 'Nara's friends and relatives threw her a baby shower. You'd think I'd be used to those in my line of work, and I do get invitations from my patients on a semi-regular basis, but this time was different. At other showers I know at least one other person besides my patient, and I can schmooze with the best of them.
But this one . . . I mean I recognized 'Nara's mom, sort of, but I didn't know her mother in law—who was incredibly gorgeous btw—and the other guests were S.H.I.E.L.D. folks I hadn't met and some academic types who were as rune-crazy as my patient. A very mixed bag, and I couldn't quite blend in the way I usually do. Phil and I ended up together at one end of the room, watching over things, and it was easy to see he was as out-of-place as I was in a gathering like this.
"So, going to play any of the party games?" I asked him, to break the ice.
"I'd win them all, and that would lead to awkward questions," Phil assured me. "Each of my sisters has at least two kids, so I've had a lot of practice. You should play, though."
"Not generally my schtick," I replied, watching 'Nara unwrapping something amid cooing. "In fact this whole party . . ." I waved, "It's . . ."
Phil nodded empathetically. "Weird."
"Weird," I agreed, and then excused myself because I was getting verklempt. I left and went to my office, staying there for nearly forty minutes while I tried to collect myself and figure out why the hell I couldn't handle having a lover in charge of world security and a patient who was going to give birth to the first human/ice giant hybrid.
Fury
Agent Romanov's Lithuanian field trip had paid off and what with the cleaning out of yet another Hydra base I was starting to wonder if someone out there was hunting the damned things down a few steps ahead of us. In the meantime we had a few last deliveries to the Southwest, a clandestine rendezvous rescue with some NATO forces who'd gotten stranded in some Afghanistan mountain pass and a bunch of pissy little maintenance drills that I would have paid to get out of if I'd could.
Busy shit, yeah, and all for the greater good I suppose but being busy didn't stop me from wondering about a certain obstetrician and how she was doing. Not that I let it get in the way of doing my job, you understand, but I was aware of gaps in my time where it would have been nice to see her. Hold her. Do other age-appropriate activities not meant for public consumption as the saying goes.
Truth was, Finkle had started out by jump-starting my libido, but that wasn't the only thing she'd woken up. I found myself texting her before climbing into bed, and keeping watch on what she'd left behind here in the states. She'd never know it, but I had both her practice and her mother under S.H.I.E.L.D. protection, ostensibly because of her connection to the extraterrestrial birth thing, but also because it made me feel better to know I could do that for her.
Shit. Jo-seph-ine Finkle wasn't getting to me; she'd fucking landed me and I damned well knew it.
There were a lot of ways to fuck this up, and only a few ways to get it right, so I started working on my strategy, starting with the damned sonnet. Took me a week to get it right and a lot of paper because I wasn't about to have something that dangerous on any computer file.
Stupid, I know. If anybody had told me I'd be writing fucking poetry again I'd probably have them shot on general principal. Tased at the very damned least. And yet here I was, taking the risk and for what? The chance to make Finkle smile? To prove to her I had an education that included liberal arts?
Maybe it was about reminding myself that there was more to life than the job.
So a few weeks later I got a text. Not from Finkle, though—from Coulson.
You need to talk to the doc.
That was suspicious, and I needed more information.
I'm not pregnant. What's this about?
She misses you, boss.
Damn. So much for the two of us being under the radar. Should have realized that if anyone was going to figure out my relationship with Finkle it would be Phil.
I stared at the message, trying to figure out what to say. Coulson wouldn't have contacted me if it wasn't important, but this was personal as well, which meant it was hard to figure out what to say.
I'm on it. I finally typed, and added, thanks.
Nothing after that, thank God. If he'd smiley-faced me I would have kicked his ass through the phone. Instead I texted Doctor Finkle.
Talk to me, woman.
Nearly fifteen minutes went by before I got a reply; not a good sign.
You're either psychic or you've got a spy. Which is it?
Neither. Apparently Cupid's last name is Coulson. Damn, I really didn't need to give myself the diaper imagery on that.
I will kill Phil. I'm fine. Just . . . going a little stir-crazy.
Yeah I could relate. I've been stuck on missions like that myself. Rendezvous in two hours, dinner up here. And you can't kill Coulson; it's been tried.
I'm a doctor, I could find a way that sticks. Dinner?
Dinner, on me. I texted.
Literally?
Tables are not an option.
That got a string of symbols that I took to mean she approved, but I had to shut things down quick when Hill came over to report. Bad enough to be caught grinning, let alone texting.
We changed course and headed north, making pretty good time despite the weather. Apparently parts of Canada hadn't gotten the message it was late spring and the carrier hit some serious cloud cover, but nothing we couldn't fly through. Tried not to pace around too much; it makes the bridge crew nervous.
For the record I don't think any S.H.I.E.L.D. outpost has ever hosted a baby shower before, particularly one that included two male aliens. Loki at least looked uncomfortable, but Thor was making headway through the cake, washing it down with steins of beer and making small talk with everyone. I wondered why the god of thunder had so many damned clothespins on his cape, but not enough to ask.
Coulson intercepted me in the hallway and tried not to look smug. Since he's the master of the bland expression it was tough to tell; I have to judge it myself by centimeters of smirk.
"Glad you could make it, sir."
I harrumphed, just to let him know I knew that he knew and I wasn't pleased about it. In turn I got a fraction more of the smirk, which meant Coulson knew damned well he was in the catbird seat.
For the moment, anyway.
"I don't do baby showers."
"I . . . don't think Doctor Finkle does either," he replied, and there was just enough in his tone to give me the heads up. So I nodded and went off to the medical section of the base, confident that I'd have the privacy I needed.
Still gorgeous. I looked at her from the doorway for a moment and then took everything else in. Piles of files, neglected slice of cake, wads of Kleenex peeking out of the wastepaper basket . . . yeah, my baby was in a bad way. I stepped in and nudged the door closed behind me. "Doctor."
She looked up and fumbled her pen. "C-Colonel Fury."
"Got something for you," I told her, and handed over a piece of paper. Finkle looked at me, confused.
"Yeah, well I've got other things for you too, but . . ." I motioned to it again and she glanced at it.
Two lines in and my Jo-seph-ine clued in; I watched the dimples slowly show up at the corners of her mouth, getting deeper as she read along. I took the initiative to move closer and lift some of her hair away from her neck in lieu of getting some nuzzling in. When she reached the end of my little epic, she laughed out loud.
Best damned sound in the world.
So I kissed her neck and Josie squealed instead, turning to slip her arms around me, big and warm and perfect.
"That," she said, "is THE worst sonnet I've ever read, Nick. I love it! I'm going to frame it and hang it over my bed."
"I'll have you know I went through a damned ream of paper for that thing, woman! And if you think it's easy to find rhymes that don't sound like Doctor Seuss, think again!"
"Well you can tell me all about it when you make me dinner," she sighed, and kissed me. When I let her up for air, she added, "Thank you. I really, really needed that today, Nick."
All I could do was nod, and I made a mental note to have a chat with a certain cupid-playing agent.
Sonnet to a big round thang
The preference of men for features sweet
On our women, oft are sing-u-lar
Some worship eyes or nose or even feet
And some, those as-pects far more vul-gar
I find myself in latter company
A man with tastes direct and slightly crude
And though I'm numbered with the many
Who love to gaze upon their lovers nude
I find my stare directed down behind
To regions round and firm; so full of bounce
The cushions fair, temptation most unkind
They urge me on, demanding that I pounce
My lover fair in observation crass
Is mistress over me with mmm, dat ass
