Despite the notions of the betting pool being run by R&D, Nick Fury is, in fact, human. He eats, sleeps, shits, and, once in a great while, makes mistakes. Some of them are huge (Budapest), some are small (forgetting his daughter wanted a pink, not blue leotard). While his latest mistake was small in nature, the ramifications are enormous.
As demonstrated by the chair he is currently chained to and the hood that has been tied over his head. He hadn't gotten even a look at his assailants, but some things have signature all their own.
"I was going to call you personally."
"You didn't." The voice is very cold, exceptionally British. "Instead, we make our weekly call to our son, and his archer answers. His suspended, unstable, mourning husband, upon whom we inflicted greater emotional damage by asking to speak with Philip. I am not pleased Nicholas."
The hood is whisked off to reveal a platinum blond woman in an exquisite Chanel suit. The Glock held at her right side is as much an accessory as the perfect strand of pearls around her neck. To her left, a graying bear of a man, uncharacteristically solemn, regards Fury with grave disappointment.
"You will explain, now, please, what exactly transpired. Leave no details out." He rumbles, and left unsaid is the admonition that if either of them are displeased, Fury is not long for this Earth.
"He's not dead."
"Would you mind unchaining me, now that we all know you're not going to be dumping my body in the harbor any time soon? Yes, Coulson's alive, no, I did not inform either you or Barton. Frankly, the need to mop up New York, and then take care of the families of agents who actually died occupied too much of my time to properly take care of communication with you. Had I known you'd be talking with Barton, I would have contacted you earlier." Fury sighs, all the weariness of the past week catching up at once. The chains around him disengage. "Thanks, Marvin." A knife pricks at the back of his neck.
"How did you know it was me?" Marvin's voice hisses out.
"Cause Joe's dead, Frank wouldn't have given a shit if I'd seen him, and the last I heard, you were running around Moldova doing a favor for Ivan here."
"Fair enough." The knife is removed, and Nick stands up and stretches. He's been out for three hours if the kinks in his back are any indicator.
"Everybody just sit down, please. By the way, where is Frank?"
The couple in front of him exchange glances. The cold tension leaves Victoria, and she safeties her gun and sits. "With Clinton. Frank was...worried he might try something rash."
"I'll bet," he replies, too familiar with Barton's impulsive streak when it comes to ops.
"No. Something more personal." As always, she sees right to the heart of things.
Fury closes his eye. Damn it to hell. Another fuck-up on his watch.
"It wasn't supposed to be this way." He drops back into the chair.