Logs:Operation: O.P.T.I.M.I.S.M

Operation: O.P.T.I.M.I.S.M
Operatives Planning Thoughtful Ideas to Manage Internal Staff Misgivings
Dramatis Personae Fury, Natasha	2021-02-07 "I'd listen, but he don't trust me too much."
Location <NYC> Fury's Apartment - Hell's Kitchen
An easy walk from Times Square, this two-bedroom apartment is on the top floor of a carefully restored historic apartment building, the southern exposure letting in as much natural light as the season and skyline will allow. It's sparsely decorated -- a scattering of framed historical photographs of the city on the pale gray walls -- but comfortably appointed in chic monochrome. The kitchen is definitely the focus of this residence, its black marble and steel kept scrupulously clean and well-provisioned. The master bedroom is generously sized by Manhattan standards, with a queen sized bed and its own bath to boot, but to the observant eye it shows shows few signs of regular habitation. The smaller bedroom is set up as an office with a twin bed and entirely too much advanced computer equipment, its door usually kept closed when there are visitors. A fresh blanket of snow has hushed the city yet again, and, now that the sky has cleared, lends the night a luminous otherworldly quality as the night grows colder. The apartment smells of rich soul food, cornbread and greens and oxtail stew still out on the counter -- Fury cooked far more than was necessary to feed two -- even if the meal itself has progressed on to desert in the living room. Fury is at ease on his plush black leather sofa, working unhurriedly at his sweet potato pie, a crystal lowball glass with a generous portion of bourbon on the coffee table in front of him, its glass surface so smooth that it looks like a pool of black ink. He's dressed a bit more formally than he usually does for work, but still all in black -- shirt, vest, tie, and slacks all tailored to fit, and of course the ever-present black eyepatch. "I'll give you your official mission tomorrow at briefing, but in the unlikely event there's a conflict -- I want you to find that dead drop." The scrunch of his eye is maybe faintly apologetic. Maybe. "Your record at S.H.I.E.L.D. can take the hit, and I can send someone else to do the extraction." "Unlikely. Good. So we're doing optimism." Natasha has draped herself into an armchair, her leather jacket tossed casually over its back, her icy wet boots thawing in their own puddle by the door; she's just in jeans and a red sweater and thick wool socks, now. One leg is slung over the arm of the chair, one dangling to the floor, her own plate of pie resting on her stomach and her head against the opposite arm. "Kowloon is nice this time of year." Her eyes flick towards the window, her lips twitching. "Though between here and the land of Doom the bar is low." "I'm doing optimism," Fury says with a flourish of of his fork, "you are Russian." The breath he huffs might be a laugh coming from anyone else. "If the weather's getting to you, I can see about sending you to Rio, next." He pauses, eye flicking to his guest, steady for a moment. "Maybe Barton, too, even if I'd like him here to pal around with the --" His mouth pulls dubiously to one side, but when he completes the sentence his tone is even enough, "-- Avengers." Natasha snorts as she digs her fork down, cutting off the tip of her pie slice and popping it into her mouth. "Socializing. With Steve and --" Now the twist of her lips is just slightly thinner. "You are doing optimism." She, on the other hand, is reaching for her booze, plucking up the glass to knock the rest of it back. "Why not? You ain't gon' tell." Fury reaches for the bottle and leans forward to refill Natasha's glass after she sets it back down. "Anyway, getting his head right is more important, though I'm doubtful a vacation will do that. Besides, you might have your own special in with Rogers soon enough, if you want it." He plucks up his own glass, though he does not drain it. "He came at me about our mutant policy, if I can even call it that, and I suppose I should. He thought you were one -- might still think you are, and slick enough to hide it from me." "Guess that depends on the vacation." It sounds a little absent, as Nat chews over her pie and nods in absent thanks at the refill. Her head rolls to the side, her brows hiking slightly as she looks over Fury. She gives a quiet hum, takes another bite of her pie. "I am very slick." Her eyes drift back to the ceiling. She taps the tins of her fork slowly against her plate, one of her legs bobbing idly over the arm of the chair. "Safe assumption to make. Guess he hasn't had a lot of cause to -- think there's many other options." "If you got an idea what might help, you tell me." Fury's lips compress. "Unless he's jonesing for the kind of vacation comes with a side of terrorism, in which case the less I know the better." This time he does drain his glass; refills it. "Rogers got more cause than most to think it, but I guess that don't say much. Can't be sure, but my guess is if you tell him the truth he'll be real interested in you." He studies Natasha again. "Might not be the worst thing, and I don't mean on account of it plays into my Avengers machinations." Natasha only gives a quiet chuckle at the question of Clint's Potential Vacation. She picks up her glass again, swirling the liquor in it before taking a swallow. "I imagine," she muses, eyes still tipped upwards, "that there's plenty of reason Rogers could do with another ear lately." Fury's sharp exhale here is less like a laugh and more a forceful sigh. "Pity getting lots of practice loosing folks don't ever make it any easier." His glance at Natasha is opaque. "I'd listen, but he don't trust me too much." Here a small shrug with one shoulder, unconcerned. "You, though -- maybe." The corner of his mouth quirks. "You are very slick."