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“We will fix this, you crazy ass motherfucker.”
Nick Fury for the most part liked his job, he excels at it and even takes a sadistic pleasure in kicking ass and obliterating threats one way or another. Leading one of the most powerful organizations on Earth and being in charge of equally competent and dangerous individuals that make up a lot of the SHIELD personnel was in some ways a thrill all on its own. There are aspects to the job though that he could do without. Dealing with the World Security Council is at the top of his list of things he has to grudgingly tolerate.
Rare are those days when he can genuinely say that he hates his job.
Looking down at the man lying still on the bed, Nick can honestly say that the days he does hate his job it almost always comes down to WSC. Fucking politics and fucking Council of stupid ass men and women. The thought flickers viciously through his brain.
Days like these, he really wouldn’t mind joining agent Romanov on the field and do some wet work himself, fuck appearances, and fuck procedures.
Nick presses his thumb over his eye. Rubbing, still feeling the minute tremors that don’t seem to want to stop ever since he stepped foot in the room.
Forcing himself to look back down on the still form he clenches his fists at his sides. It takes effort but Nick wills his hands to relax before placing one hand against the man’s sternum, below the arc-reactor, moving in tandem as the air is pushed into the struggling lungs, his dark hand stark against the white sheet.
“You just had to know better.” The words are quiet, barely discernible over the rhythmic sounds of the life support yet they seem like a curse. “Never wrong, huh? Fuck you Stark. Fuck you and all your math.”
“Sir?” the cautious request makes Fury look up and he turns around his hand going back to his side. Coulson is standing at the edge of the door, eyes firmly on the director.
Mentally wrapping himself in the role of his position Fury asks, expectant, voice steady even if it is done by the skin of his teeth, “Any news?”
Fury knows the answer before Coulson says a word as the other man shakes his head.
"He hasn’t come back yet.”
For the briefest of moments Fury allows his shoulder to slump, hiding nothing of the weariness he feels. He should know better than to pin his hope on a god. Life was a bitch and she seems especially keen to never let the stubborn boy ever catch his breath.
“He will come back Sir,” Coulson says, stepping into the room. “We just need to give him a little more time.”
Looking back to the prone figure Fury shakes his head. Stark was deteriorating, alarmingly fast. Faster than had been predicted to the point that the only reason his body was still alive was that it was being maintained by the machines vigorously controlled and maintained by Jarvis.
Even if Thor succeeded, in what state would the body be in? How damaged would it be? Perhaps it would be kinder to just let the body die. He knows Stark would prefer that over ever being kept in a vegetated state.
He doesn’t voice his thoughts but Coulson must have read it because he repeats entreatingly. “He will come back.”
The choice, in either case, Nick muses, is out of his hands. Jarvis, if not the others, would make sure Fury would be in no position to ‘pull the plug’. He was under no illusion that Tony Stark’s AI wouldn’t inflict a swift and brutal retaliation if he even tries.
Rubbing the back of his neck, Fury shakes his head. Turning towards Coulson Nick says as he stops next to him, “Time is exactly what we don’t have.”
He doesn’t need to look back to know that Coulson makes an aborted move towards the bed before turning on his heels and follows Fury out what was currently the most secure place in SHIELD, if not the world.
As Fury straightens out his coat, the thought crosses his mind almost like a prayer: Hurry Thor, we are losing him.
In the room, the arc-reactor remains a steady glow in the dark as the heart monitor continues to beep steadily, unchanging, and Jarvis continues to hum to make sure his creator is never alone, in the corner Dummy adds his own.
The End.