7/18/12 - Pepper

[aa_fury]

 

 

An /office/, in the standard definition of the word, traditionally consists of desks. Chairs. Computers. Trash can. Asshole in a suit. That this is the Avengers' Headquarters, and thus requires different things of its staff, necessitates certain variation from the standard definition. The desk stays. The chair, likewise. The trash can is a shredder, large enough to eat a man (were the pieces dismembered into reasonable pieces). The computer is a thing of glory and sleek black lines, its processor hidden, its panels the entirety of one long wall. The asshole in a suit--

 

Well, that would be Nick Fury.

 

He lounges, if so temperate a word could be used for so energetic a man, leaned back in his chair with two booted feet crossed at the ankles atop the steel desk. Black leather creaks in his usual overcoat, an affectation that serves him well under the high whine of air conditioning run amok. One long arm stretches straight and steady, down which the single good eye stares in cool consideration. The presence of a gun in his hand is nearly superfluous, considering. To shoot the target on the wall, or not? The thumb of the other hand steadies under a coin. Heads? Or tails?

 

The rap of Miss Potts' knuckles against one Nick Fury's door is soft but firm, a polite announcement despite that the door has been left open. (Hopefully. If it hasn't, then this pose makes no sense.) In a black pencil skirt and a tailored white shirt, the professionalism of her knock is echoed in the look of her outfit, even heels given to low slingbacks rather than anything too dangerously high. "Agent Fury," she says without stepping into the office, her gaze dropping for a moment on that clearly pointed gun.

 

The thumb twitches. The coin flips up, sketches a graceful arc in the air, then slaps down into an upturned palm. Without looking at the result, Fury fires. The appropriate onomatopoeia is BAM. The acrid smell of burning metal smokes across the office; the target grows a perfectly centered black hole in the middle of its head. And Fury looks down at the coin to discover, "Damn. Heads. --Ms. Potts. What the fuck has he done now?"

 

Despite the gun clearly being aimed and ready to fire, there is still some surprise at the sound of it in an office that causes Pepper to half-startle. "Nothing, yet," she assures him with a half-smile at the question. "Stark Industries has prepared a statement for the press that Mr. Stark has asked for you to review for anything you may want to add for the Avengers." She opens a folder, all the more for his convenience to quickly glance over the typed statement as she holds it out for him. It says something along the lines of Stark Industries future looking brighter, and recovering quickly, etc etc, looking to apply new technological advances during other disasters, both natural and non, yada yada.

 

Agent Fury sends his coin skipping across the table, where it comes up short against a stack of pencils sharpened a little too much for real use. "The usual garbage, I suppose," he says, leaning forward to pluck the page from Pepper's hand. Leather creaks again as he settles back, feet dropping off the table to thump onto the floor. The gun, given a modicum more respect, disappears with a click into its holster on his thigh. "You don't have to mention the Avengers. I expect we have enough troubles coming for our asses that we don't need to add support of Stark Industries to the mess."

 

"I believe Mr. Stark thought you might like to say something of the incident at Stark Tower. Not in particular on our technology," Pepper suggests, her fingers folding together in front of her as she is divested of the folder. Instead, she takes a quick moment to assess the hole in the wall with the flicker of her brows inward before her gaze returns to the agent. Approps to nothing, she adds, "Did you receive Mr. Stark's note about security, Agent Fury?"

 

There is nothing apropos about a bullet-drilled target in a man's office. Unless said man is armed and works with the personalities that make up the Avengers team. "The /incident/," drawls Fury, dark eye bright with mocking amusement. He settles his weight forward, swiveling the chair to plant both elbows on the desk, hands steepling together. Lo, he is attentive. "Is that what we're calling it now? How about something along the lines of, 'saved your asses, leave tips in the jar.' Too much, you think? --What note?" He glances towards the shredder, just because.

 

Ms. Potts tips her chin slightly as if considering Agent Fury's addition, her lips twitching back into that soft smile as she answers, "Not the most diplomatic phrasing I have come across, but it is about what Mr. Stark wanted to say as well." And if that is what he wanted to say, probably not diplomatic at all. But, she presses on professionally at the last question. "On security. He believes that SHIELD needs upgrades in its security."

 

"And I suppose he has /suggestions/," Fury says flatly. He settles back in his chair again, the metal and fabric of its cage realigning to support his long-limbed sprawl. The long lines of scars, three vicious tracks that disappear and then reappear under the eyepatch, are dark under the overhead lights. By comparison, his shaven head is almost bright, reflecting white back at itself like polished marble. "Do tell, Ms. Potts. Is he looking for animal, vegetable, or mineral upgrades? Animal and mineral, we can do. If he wants to start looking into vegetable, there's a big ol' radish down in labs that the squints'd be /happy/ to introduce to his backside."

 

That smile twitches and humor dances in Pepper's gaze, but she does not /quite/ laugh at the image of her boss pelted with a radish. Instead, she answers, "Of course he has suggestions, Agent Fury, though I am sure his suggestions will come with the donated equipment to accompany it on behalf of Stark Technologies. He is currently looking into sensors."

 

Fury lifts his hand, a broad, flat, scarred member that stops the thought before it has a chance to continue. "Let me guess. He wants to see Agent Romanov--no, even he couldn't be that stupid or suicidal. Could he?"

 

"If he were, I am sure he would not put such a request officially through you," Pepper points out easily.

 

"Are you?" 

 

It must be said that Pepper Potts does not lie easily nor well, her brows wrinkling together in an obvious tell as she answers smoothly, "Yes."

 

Fury's eye gleams. "That's what I thought," he says, not at all cryptically. "So, sensors. We have the best sensors in the known world, Ms. Potts. I suppose he's going to tell me that he can come up with something better? Something that can detect Asgardian technology and is calibrated to pick up the energy signatures displayed by the tesseract and our ass-ugly visitors from the rift?"

 

"Something like that, Agent Fury. Mr. Stark can always come up with something better," says Pepper with that wry dash of respect and affection for her boss.

 

"Tell him to bring by what he thinks he's got," Fury says, dragging his fingertips across his cheekbone before sinking his weight forward again. This time he stands, crossing over to the target on the wall to peel it back. Behind it, a faintly dyed sheet of some thin material glistens opalescent against the plaster. "If the squints clear it--if he can explain how it works--it can go in. Tell me, Ms. Potts. Is your professional life really as satisfying as it could be? Ever think about serving a greater good?"

 

Pepper's brow lifts slightly at the question, though she smiles simply as she says, "A greater good than Tony Stark, Agent Fury? All of the time." (Yes, there is that twitch of brows, that slight wrinkle between them.)

 

"A career helping to protect the whole of humanity against threats that we haven't even begun to imagine." The target peels a little further to show the neat, oblong circle of the smashed bullet planted in the middle of the backing. Fury drags a large hunting knife from some sheath beneath his coat and flicks it out (plink) onto his palm before shoving the knife back out of sight. He smooths the target back into place, then turns a faint half-smile back to Pepper. "You might want to think about what you could bring to the Avengers initiative. If nothing else--" malicious amusement flickers in the dark eye, "--it's never a bad idea to keep your boss on his toes."

 

The impression of flattened bullets causes Pepper to watch carefully where it is plucked from the material with ease. "I am not a superhero. I only work for one." Though, his words leave an impression, a quiet thoughtfulness left in the corner of her lips and in green eyes. "But, if I think of anything, you will be the first to know."

 

Fury returns to his desk and tosses the bullet onto the metal, where it skitters on an erratic trajectory to come up short against the same group of pencils. "The thing about superheroes, Ms. Potts," he says dryly, "is that they also tend to be superegos. The majority of the people working for me are normal human beings who excel at what they do. Your superhero might save the flying super cruiser, but it's the normal human beings who build it, run it, and make it go where it needs to go. Superheroes need normal people. Otherwise, they wouldn't know how to get their shoes on the right feet, come morning."

 

"Mr. Stark is not that bad, unless he's hungover," Pepper replies, though agreement echoes in her smile, of course. No, those superheroes are helpless. "Do you really think the Avengers could use a woman of my skills, Agent Fury?"

 

"I think there are governments, corporations, NGOs, countries, and entire civilizations who could use a woman of your skills, Ms. Potts," Fury says, the pitch of his voice more sardonic than the lift of his eyebrows. "Why think small?" 

 

"I think you are a flatterer, agent." Because that is exactly what comes to mind when one thinks of Nick Fury. But Pepper smiles anyways, tempered by a brush of professionalism as she straightens. "I will tell Mr. Stark to submit any sensor upgrades to your own techs," she adds, tracking back to her own list of tasks.

 

Fury snorts a little at this, and slams back down into his chair to pitch back once more. Feet thunk onto the desk again, ankles crossing. The overcoat hisses across his legs. "I've been a lot of things in my time. Usually, asshole. Flatterer's a new one. --Do that. And tell him if he tries to install anything without my say so, I'll send Natasha to deal with it personally." 

 

"That I would like to see," Pepper replies, genuinely--something about the idea of Coulson coming to deal with Stark's misbehavior. "But, I will be sure to tell him that he will have to wait on your approval, Agent Fury. Thank you for your assistance."

 

Fury inclines his head to Pepper. Under the gesture, the gun at his thigh snikts out of its holster to be raised again, speculatively. He stretches an arm for his coin. "You're welcome, Ms. Potts." The coin flips again and spins in mid-air--the gun points. Shoots. A black hole materializes in the groin of the target--and then clatters down onto the table. Tails. "/Damn/, I'm good."

 

"Have a nice day." And with business concluded and pleasantries and professionalism maintained, the personal assistant turns to retreat from the agent's office, though Pepper Potts jumps awkwardly on her way out at the sound of that fired gun. Way to ruin her exit.

 

Comments

[aa_stark]

STOP TRYING TO POACH MY PA.