#saturdayscenes: 3/19/16

a sample of today’s writing:

After a job in Turkey that goes tits-up so quickly Natasha had spent the rest of the mission doing damage control, she stalks into Fury’s office the minute Medical releases her with fresh stitches itching along her shoulder blade and a bandage around her knuckles. “I want a new partner,” she snaps, kicking the door shut behind her.

Fury snorts. “Hello to you, too,” he says, leaning back in his chair. The DC skyline stretches out behind him, glittering and gorgeous in the late afternoon sun, and Natasha wants to glare at it for daring to be lovely when she’s so annoyed. “You just missed Rogers. He came in with the same request.

“Good,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest, not even wincing at the tug of her stitches. “Shouldn’t be hard to do a transfer, then.”

“It’s as hard as I decide to make it,” he says, narrowing his eye at her. “And I’m of a mind to make it damn tricky for you, since you seem to be forgetting that I’m the one who makes those assignments around here.”

Natasha glares. “I want,” she repeats, “a new partner.”

“Tough shit.” He gets up, crossing to the table against the wall and pouring her a generous glass of an amber liquor, holding it out to her pointedly. Natasha sighs and takes it, and he points her toward the black leather couches in the center of the room.

When she’s sitting, her shoulders tight and the glass held loosely in her hands, he brings the decanter with him and sits down across from her. “How’s Barton?”

The abrupt change of topic should probably phase her, but she’s known Fury long enough that it doesn’t. He might be down one eye, but he’s been able to read her too well from the beginning. “Better,” she says, running her thumb along the smooth crystal of her glass. “He’s shooting again, but not with a SHIELD bow. One of his old ones. Not sure where he dug it up.”

That’s not quite true, but Fury doesn’t need to know that. The last time she’d talked to Clint over Skype, he’d shown her the fresh bowstring calluses on his fingers, telling her about the bow Laura had unearthed for him in the attic in one of the boxes Natasha had brought from her old New York apartment, and his grin had reached all the way to his sparkling eyes.

“That’s progress,” Fury says, and extends his glass to her. “To an absent friend,” he says, and as irritated as she is with him, she leans across the table and clinks her glass to his.

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