2012-09-03 Last Shots

Twenty minutes ago Agent Ramsey received a strange order: walk into the Special Hardware locker and sign out an old, mostly-empty bottle of vodka. It started off its life as a big one-and-a-half-liter monstrosity, but time has reduced it to the point where there's only a centimeter sloshing around in the bottom. Still, if it's in the Special Hardware locker it must be /something/ important, and judging from the signout logs it gets removed each and every September Third.
Upon walking this bottle up into the Director's Office, Doug gets greeted by a scene: the Director and the Black Widow in an admittedly less-than-professional environment. His feet are up on his desk and a lit cigar is in the ashtray, both in violation of SHIELD policies. He seems to be in a cheerful mood, all told, and was in mid-conversation when Doug and the bottle enter.
"Ah, there we are!" Fury greets ... the bottle, maybe? ... as he rises to his feet. "Told you, Romanova, I /told/ you there were a couple of shots left."
Then, over towards Ramsey, the old cyclops waves the younger man over. "Come here, Agent. Little history lesson. September 3, 1943, sixty-nine years ago, the Allies invaded Italy. That was the turning point of the war, if you ask me. I was damn sure I was going to die, so after I made it the first day I bought -- well, /appropriated/ -- the biggest bottle of booze I could find and figured there'd be one shot a year to celebrate living through that nightmare. Romanova knows all this, of course, you don't know someone for fifty years without talking about this, but -- come on in, Ramsey, sit down. Welcome to my celebration of surviving the invasion of Italy. There enough in there for three last shots?"
It was an odd order, but a) it was an order, b) Doug's life had been full of those, even before coming to S.H.I.E.L.D. so he was used to them. No questions asked: he signed out the bottle and he brought it straight up to the Director's office, no ifs, ands, or buts.
When he's let inside, Doug dutifully crosses the room (once he's invited to, of course) to pass the bottle over to Fury, and bless his heart, he listens attentively to the whole story before he so much as grins. "Thank you for the invitation, sir. I think three can be wrung out of here if we try real hard," he muses, and is suddenly grateful that Wisdom introduced him to vodka last week. This could have been embarassing otherwise.
Being called into the Director's office is never a good thing. It usually means demotion or some form of paperwork. Most would rather have the demotion. Natasha always comes to Fury's office fully prepared to avoid either, by bringing a bottle of scotch with her and handing it to him first thing. However, Natasha knows that September 3rd is a date she has no fear of a call from Fury on. She's dressed in a pair of jeans, a blouse, and a leather jacket as she is perched casually on an office chair. "So it seems, Director," she murmurs in amusement. Mind you, while the Allies were invading Italy, she was busy being brainwashed by undead ninjas. Long story. "Agent Ramsey, I'd recommend doing as ordered. You'll get a good history lesson," she advises Doug.
SHIELD is a Smoke-Free Workplace and there is a Zero Tolerance Policy for on-the-job alcohol use. Tell that to the cigar smouldering in the ashtray, and tell that to the shotglasses that Fury has pulled out of a desk drawer -- judging by the other crystalware in there, Fury could pretty easily turn this place into the world's most exclusive bar if he wanted to. Of course, that would require Fury to find people he actually wanted to drink /with/...
He takes hold of the bottle, then holds it up to Ramsey so he can study the label. "Georgy Zhukov drank this stuff. It'll degrease your engine but good, Agent Ramsey."
He looks over towards Natasha, and a hint of a smile touches the corner of his mouth. "You know the score as well as I do, Agent Romanov." The bottle is uncorked, and three shots of vodka are poured out -- the last shot being a slight bit short, and taking the last drips of the bottle. He looks back and forth towards Romanov and Ramsey, then scowls and mutters something about how the CO drinks last, sliding the full shots to the two others in the office.
"The truth, Agent Ramsey? The truth is--" And here Fury gets quite serious. "The truth is I've been shot at so much I don't really remember invading Salerno any more. That entire campaign is one big smear of blood and fire. I landed with the Howling Commandos and we were attached to one of Montgomery's special-ops groups. We all made it out okay, more or less. Some of Monty's guys, didn't. And I don't remember their names any more, either. I remember what happened to them, don't think anyone could ever forget... but after a while, the names..."
He stops abruptly, then picks up a shotglass. "To those forgotten by man, known only to God, who wrote a future of peace and liberty for Italy. On balance, that's a better epitaph than most of us ever manage to get."
"I have always liked history," Doug tells Natasha with a slightly sheepish smile. He may be a giant nerd, but /some/ of the things he's nerdy about do not involve television or computers. ...some.
Doug knows better than to turn down the shot he's presented with, even if he'd be just as happy with the shorter one. Happier, arguably, given how strong he's pretty sure this stuff is going to prove to be. So he takes up the glass and slides into an open chair /now/, before he can manage to fall over. A shorter trip to the floor seems... wise.
At the toast, Doug raises his own glass, his mouth quirked into a slightly rueful smile before he tosses the shot back like an old pro. Thank you, Pete Wisdom. ...except, the stuff Pete brought didn't kick like a horse. Don't mind the kid, he'll just be clutching his chest and wheezing for a moment, here.
Natasha picks up her shotglass and raises it when Fury begins his toast. "And may we be wise enough not to repeat history, except for the good bits," she adds, before tossing back the liquid. It might be one step up from gasoline, but she's Russian, and it's still vodka at the end of the day. Not even a twitch from the Widow. She watches Doug suffer in quiet amusement.
"You two're braver'n I am, I've had seven decades to grow a fear and respect for this stuff." Fury's patter is more to himself than to anyone else: yes, folks, this is liquor that even Fury trembles at, liquor that he has to talk himself up to doing. He grimaces even before he drinks it, probably so that nobody can see him scowl in response to the alcohol. He doesn't fall over, doesn't flail, doesn't run around screaming -- although one might suspect, judging from the way he's suddenly developed a facial tic, that once upon a time he would've reacted such a way.
"To the heroes," he says with a note of finality as he lowers his shotglass to the desk. He then resumes his seat, opens the drawer and puts the shotglasses away. "You know, I don't know why I should wash those. Am I trying to make sure our germs are off it, or am I trying to make sure I get all the traces of vodka out before it melts the glass?"
"Habit?" Doug suggests, the word coming out in more of a croak than an actual, normal voice. He tried, dangit, and he is at least too busy trying to ignore the way his mouth and throat are on fire to realize how amused Natasha looks. Small favors.
After a moment, Doug lightly thumps himself on the chest and blinks rapidly. Woof. Okay. Better. "I'm not brave. I just don't know any better," he admits, sounding slightly more human now that he's had a moment.
"--Breathe through your nose, not your mouth,--" Natasha advises Doug gently. "I vote for the glass melting," she replies to Fury in English. She picks up the bottle and looks at it, not so much fondly but with a certain nostalgia. "Nearly 70 years, but the memories stay fresh." (--Spoken in Russian.)
Fury gives the Widow one of these Significant Nods. The difference between a Significant Nod and a significant nod is this: the more significant the nod, the less the people involved draw attention to the action. A significant nod is easy to spot; a Significant Nod is the sort of thing that's easy to overlook. Between Fury and the Widow, that slight bob of his head is a compactly-coded reference to ... something: the Battle of Stalingrad, maybe, or the tanks burning after the Battle of Kursk. The Katyn Forest or the Soviets liberating Auschwitz, or maybe... there are too many possibilities there, too many memories.
But the memories stay fresh.
"Glass melting," Fury declares with a slap of his hand on the surface of the desk, "the ayes have it."
Doug isn't /so/ distracted by the fire that he doesn't hear Natasha's advice. He is, however, distracted enough that he doesn't realize that it, and his "--Thank you,--" are not spoken in English. At least his Russian is perfect.
Doug settles back in his chair and doesn't bother trying to be sneaky about wiping his eyes. Good vodka. He... he thinks that makes it good, anyway. He's very new to the booze thing.
(--Spoken in Russian.)
"Douglas is new to the whole alcohol thing, I believe, Director. We shouldn't corrupt him too badly at so young an age. I think he has a lot of potential to move up in the SHIELD ranks, and he's been performing far above expectations in every facet." Natasha pauses. "Especially the stupidly charging into danger one. All our best agents have that gene."
"Agent Romanov, I hate to break the news to you, but compared to you they're /all/ at so young an age." Pot, kettle much there, Nick? After all, although little is known for a fact popular rumor has it that the Director is older than the Widow. "But. Yes. Agent Ramsey, if Agent Romanov says you have a habit of stupidly charging into danger... then, son, I hate to break the news to you, but there's no amount of therapy in the world that will fix you. Let's see if you can't escalate that to smartly flanking danger and setting it up for a blind date with the Hulk. That's fightin' the SHIELD way."
He looks over towards the Widow for a moment, then reaches for his stogie and takes a deep draw off it. "Had to bust Agent Wisdom some. Smoking on the flight deck around the jet fuel. Keep an eye on him, all right?"
Doug is never, ever, ever going to get used to having the /Black Widow/ talking him up like that. At least his face is already ready from the vodka. "That gene's already gotten me killed the once, sir," he notes lightly, bobbing his head at the Director. "No intention of letting it do it again."
Speaking of stupid. Doug can't decide if he's surprised Wisdom was stupid enough to smoke around jet fuel, or if he had been doing it on purpose. He just gives Natasha a vaguely helpless look. Why is his partner a crazy person?
"I'll try sir, but he's British you know," Natasha points out to Fury. As if that explains everything wrong with Pete. She also leaves out the fact she brought him a flask of scotch while he was in medbay. She then jerks a thumb at Doug. "He even comes back from the dead. See? Just keeps getting better."
"Isn't there one of the Great Lakes Avengers who has that as his super power? His /only/ super power? Man, I wouldn't be him for all the money in the world. Bullseye, the Taskmaster, Deathstroke, they must all be spending their vacations in Detroit gunning for him just so they can say they're the one who finally put the permanent death on Mr. Immortal." Fury doesn't seem too concerned by this, of course, as he smokes his cigar. After all, we're talking about _Detroit_ here.
"Well, ain't that a hell of a talent," Fury grouses. "It's damned /insincere/, is what it is. When I kill a man dead, that's it, it's over, I win, he loses forever. I those who come back from the dead after a legitimate kill almost as much as I respect those who after I clean 'em out in poker declare they thought we were just playin' for funsies. It's /insincere/, young man," the geezer says to Ramsey, stabbing the air with his cigar for emphasis, "and totally unbecoming of a SHIELD agent. I expect you to fight fair and you do not have my permission to do something as /ungentlemanly/ as--"
Okay, every man has his limit, and for Fury that's it. He can't keep a straight face any more: a wry, sardonic grin breaks out. "It's still $#*#$*! insincere," he says after a moment. "God bless you for it. Don't ever change."
To his credit, Doug does not shrink back into his seat as Fury jabs the cigar at him. Mostly, he just looks confused -- why /wouldn't/ the Director want people in his employ who didn't stay dead? He glances askance at Natasha, brow furrowed, before Fury is grinning at him and he sighs in relief.
"I wish I could say I did it on purpose," Doug admits with a laugh, rubbing the back of his head. "My gift is for languages, not rising from the ashes. As far as I know, anyway, and I /really/ don't want to test that theory if I can avoid it." He makes a face.
"Well, gentlemen, thank you for the drink and the company, but I need to go hunt down my partner and make sure he's not making any trainees cry today," Natasha apologizes. She rises, completely steady on her feet. Either the vodka didn't do much to her, or she's exceptionally good at hiding it if it did.
"See you next September, Agent Romanov," Fury offers the Widow as a valedictory. To Ramsey, he gives a polite nod. "Agent Ramsey. Pleasure you could join us. You want to take that empty bottle back down and check it back in to Special Hardware? Make sure to sign the logbook."
Doug blinks once. "The empt--" He catches himself short and just nods, rising to his feet and taking the bottle from the desk. "Yessir. It'll be right where you left it," he promises. With a wry smile, he inclines his head respectfully before he turns to follow Natasha out, some small corner of his brain aware that this was probably one of the more pleasant first run-ins with Nick Fury that a SHIELD trainee was ever likely to get.
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