Return to Russia

Chapter 9

Annoyed and exhausted, the four of us trudge up the stairs to the fourth floor, where we'll have yet another meeting; including impromptu ones, this will be my seventh of the day. Sure, I called for a few of those myself, but still. Seven meetings in less than 24 hours is ridiculous.

Per usual, Nick's seated at the head of the table, the rest of our bleary-eyed team members scattered amongst the many chairs lining the conference room walls. Except for Fury, no one looks particularly happy about this late night endeavor. Actually, I take that back. Nick rarely looks happy about anything. I think I saw a hint of a smile when we took down Pierce, but I was also slightly unconscious for a brief period during that whole ordeal, so I can't really be sure.

"Alright, Nick, what now?" I sigh as I take a seat at the table, Clint and the kids following my lead.

"Full mission report," he replies without looking up from the notebook in front of him.

"Can't it wait? We're exhausted."

"And run the risk of you forgetting potentially vital information? No way. Full mission report."

So as concisely as possible, we report the details and outcomes of our excursion. Nick takes notes in shorthand I can just hardly comprehend. Every now and then, he prompts us for more details, but for the most part, we're uninterrupted. When we finish, I look around the room, but my gaze is not met by any of my barely conscious friends. Can't Nick see how pointless having this meeting tonight is? We're dismissed with the wave of a hand, Nick's head still down, so the nine of us shuffle out the door, back to our respective rooms for some well-deserved rest.

"Well that was weird," Clint says, plopping down on our bed. "What's up with Fury?"

"Since when do you call him Fury?" I ask, slightly startled.

"Since he started acting strange," he shrugs in response, slipping out of his jacket. "Or is it just me that found his behavior bizarre?"

"Eh, he gets like that sometimes. Mainly when he's really tired or annoyed."

"Let's hope for the former; I don't think I can deal with him being grumpy again, especially when we haven't done anything wrong."

"I guess we'll find out tomorrow," I yawn. "Goodnight, Clint."

"Goodnight, Nat."

Sunlight blares in through the half-closed blinds, rousing me awake much earlier than I had hoped. The clock on the nightstand reads 6:26, the soft red glow behind the numbers creating almost a semicircle of tinted light in front of it. From that small pool of red I grab my phone, where I find several messages from Nick.

We need to discuss plan of action.

-NF

Received 6:00 a.m.

How are you still sleeping?

-NF

Received 6:03 a.m.

Fine, let me know when you get up.

-NF

Received 6:05 a.m.

Technically, I haven't gotten out of bed, so Nick can wait. The warmth emanating from Clint is so comforting, why would I want to get up yet?

I curl up closer to him, resting my arm across his bare chest. That's when I notice a patch of dried blood on my sleeve and realize I went to bed in yesterday's clothes. Sighing heavily, I drag myself out of bed and into the shower, already displeased with how this day is going.