Iron Man, Rhodey/Nick Fury, training exercise (1/2)
Any minute now they're going to get the call. They'll find out who the target is, who they need to pick up. They'll put together an approach plan and an acquisition plan, and it'll all come together like clockwork. Jim knows this because it's happened before--but it's happened in Toronto, in New York, in Detroit. Not in Santorini, where they've got a view so pretty it nearly hurts Jim's eyes to look at it.
"Want a glass of orange juice?" Fury offers.
"Yeah--no," Jim corrects himself. "No, I'm all right."
Fury nods. "I'm going out for a run. I'll be back in an hour or so."
"Okay."
He thinks about inviting himself, but doesn't; he's gone on runs with Fury before and has a hard time keeping up. Add to that the way he has trouble focusing when Fury's sweating and exerting himself--the man looks damn good in running shorts and a skintight t-shirt. The fact is, Jim hasn't been able to focus much out here at all. Mostly he's been looking at Fury and trying to avoid admitting to it; watching Fury watching him and trying to avoid thinking about it. That's not what he's here for. That's not what they do.
Except when it is, which has been almost every morning and twice last Sunday. They've been here nine days and eight nights now, and the longer they stick around, the harder it is to remember what they're really doing. Pulling somebody out of a tight spot, Fury said at first. Taking care of their own. Somehow all Jim can think about is Tony, back home, Pepper and Happy taking care of him while that busted-up carcass of his heals from the beating--and the fifty-story fall--he took last time he got in the suit after too much to drink. He got the bad guy (Stilt-Man is a lot of things, but a hardcore threat ain't one of 'em), but it was an ugly win, and he'll be out of commission at least three weeks.
If Jim were home, there'd still be an Iron Man. He'd be going on fumes by now, trying to do his work for the Air Force and his work for S.H.I.E.L.D. and the superhero shit on top of it, but he'd be there, and maybe the world would be better off for it. Maybe. He hasn't heard anything about the west coast going up in flames or Justin Hammer making another play for the company--surely Pepper would have found a way to reach him if anything like that had happened.
Fury comes back in from the run looking exactly like Jim knew he would; hot, sweaty, drop-dead-fucking-gorgeous. Fury's a man Jim shouldn't even look at, let alone touch.