Work Text:
1.
Fury eyed the mark from across the bar. She was a middle-aged business tycoon in a boring suit, and she might tell an attractive young man more than was prudent. He strode towards her, aware of how he drew the eye of everyone in the room. That was when the knife came hurtling out of nowhere.
The knife buried itself under his ribs and he grunted in surprise. Goddamn Russians and their goddamn knives. He drew his pistol from its hidden holster and returned fire before the pain could register.
He pulled the trigger three times. By the time the last gunshot had echoed through the bar the patrons had scattered. A body falling to the floor told him he had hit his mark.
Blood was seeping through his shirt and splashing on his new shoes. Fury sighed. Performing missions as a field agent was getting old. Maybe he should take Peggy Carter up on her offer of a promotion.
2.
Fury dodged the hail of gunfire by rolling under the kitchen counter. His vacation was suddenly less relaxing. His shoulder burned, and a glance told him that he had been hit.
He pressed a button on his cellphone. The wide glass windows of the vacation home became steel walls as the shutters slammed down. He applied pressure to the wound with a dishtowel as he pulled up the security camera feeds. At the corner of one screen a woman in a black catsuit fled the area, disappearing into the thick jungle as he watched.
Fury swore aloud. The way she moved screamed Red Room. S.H.I.E.L.D. had supposedly taken care of all of the Room's offspring. He put his irritation aside as he mentally assigned Barton to take out this assassin. Any rule bound agent that had gone through the standard training would be sent back with their throat cut. Hawkeye might stand a chance.
3.
Fury was hurrying down a side alley in Florence when he saw it: a simple black leather coat that whispered to him of power and authority. There were footsteps sounding on the cobblestones behind him as the night hung heavy over the city streets.
He entered the shop, just as the rotund shop owner was closing the door.
“We’re closing, come back tomorrow,” the shop owner said.
His thick Italian accent did not obscure his words in the slightest.
“I want that,” Fury answered, pointing at the coat, not willing to take no for an answer.
He threw 2,000 Euros at the shopkeeper. He was Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. and could afford to splurge if he wanted to.
The two enemy agents following him, one man and one woman, never saw him coming. The coat mixed with the inky blackness of the night. He searched their unconscious bodies and found the bottle of poison they had planned to use.
He emptied the bottle in the Arno, enjoying the way the coat swirled around him as he strolled along its banks. He couldn’t wait to see Maria’s reaction to his purchase.
4.
The World Security Council needed someone to blame after the New York fiasco and Fury knew he was the obvious scapegoat. He was surprised when it took them two whole months to work up the nerve to hire an assassin.
This one had a thing for darts. Fury gave him points for originality, but deducted them for practicality. A poison dart embedded itself in his coat at the same time he shot the would-be assassin in the stomach.
Fury kept the assassin alive for interrogation. Having his confession on record would give him more ammunition against the WSC should he need it.
5.
“You know what the best thing about killing a dead man is?” his kidnapper asked.
“It’s obviously not skipping the villain monologue,” Fury answered.
The man had punched him in the face, again. He had become much braver once he had Fury safely tied up.
Fury’s eyes were swelled up to where he could barely see, but he’d be damned if he cowered like the kidnapper so obviously expected.
“No. It’s that no one is going to come looking for you. No one’s going to miss you when you’re gone.”
A single shot rang out, and the kidnapper toppled to the ground with a red hole in the center of his forehead.
“Having a rough day, Nick?”
Natasha’s distinctive voice was music to his ears.
“Took your time, Romanoff,” he answered.
She strode into the room, her black leather jacket blending in with the darkened room. He felt a swell of pride as he saw the formidable superspy she’d become, grown into her talent.
“One of Stark’s creations is trying to take over the world,” she informed him. “We need you.”
He would never say thank you and she would never expect him to say it. But she understood that he meant it, all the same.