It's A Little Late To Yell "Fore", Huh? / Fury and Sharon
She took a seat without needing to be prompted which is more than a victory in Nick’s mind. He didn’t have to wonder any longer when he was going to hear the tap of her knees knocking together like an errant schoolchild summoned to the principal’s office for a lecture and a call to her parents.
Nick laughed. ”It’s considered my best and worst trait,” he said, recalling the times he’d been accused of being a magpie of secrets. The grin got sharper the more she spoke. ”I’m also pretty well known for not giving one flying fuck about Political Correctness regardless of whether or not the door’s closed or who’s around to hear it.” For all that he’s a spy, he’s made his way to the top and through a great number of upper echelon circles by being known as the spy who doesn’t deal in bullshit. Nick Fury always gives it to you straight, which is a reputation that gained him a vast number of enemies but, quite surprisingly, an even more fast number of quiet allies.”
"So I’ll give it to you straight, then," he said, letting his newly empty glass clunk to the table and folding his free hands together, elbows resting on the woodtop and chin resting on his fingers. "You’re an extremely attractive woman. That text was an accident and I just can’t be fucked to regret it."
The first week of her upper-tier classes Sharon was introduced to the terrifying entity that was the Black Widow. She did a two-hour talk on females maintaining deep covers, and the micro-managing style she took into the field was hypnotizing to see in first person. (And deep down, she thanked every star in the sky that she'd never, ever be on the receiving end of it.)
One thing in particular she focused on was picking up subtle tells from a male, and Fury had a way of telegraphing his intentions that was just mechanical enough for her to recognize it as trained auto-pilot. He was trying to get her to pick it up on her own, and it definitely didn't go amiss. I owe Romanov lunch or something now.
His honesty was appreciated through the relaxed bow of her smile, her bottom lip still fitted to the curve with the bare tip of her tongue nestled at the apex of her smile. "You know? I really can't be, either." She took a sip when she paused (ugh, if this man's taste in whiskey was any better she'd feel guilty drinking it at all), reveling in the slow trickle of warmth that heated up the path under her buttoned jacket for a few slow seconds while she swiped a lingering drop of the drink from her lip. "So... where do we go from here, sir?"
If he wanted to play telegram with their body cues, she wasn't above using him as a whetstone.
