Logs:Re-Evaluation

Re-Evaluation
Dramatis Personae Clint, Fury
In Absentia	2019-08-20 "I need to spend some time with my dog."
Location <NYC> SHIELD HQ - Times Square
This corner office is big, bright and airy, which is not cheap to come by in midtown Manhattan. On one side, a huge glass desk sits in front of the floor-to-ceiling window looking out over Times Square. The far corner has a leather couch, a coffee table, a liquor cabinet and a sideboard, but the rest of the floor space was left open between bookshelves. "I did not help them break out, Sir," Clint says, his voice level to the point of boredom, as soon as he can get a word in edgewise. He's standing at ease in front of Fury's desk, dressed down for his dressing down in a black athletic t-shirt, black tactical pants, and black combat boots. He looks like he's on his way to train. Nick Fury is also on his feet, hands also clasped behind his back, pacing between the huge window and his desk. But now he stops and whirls on Clint. "Would you like to send my mama a fruit basket and a get well card?" he asks, incredulous. "Because it sounds kinda like you think I was born yesterday. I send you in and three weeks later they're busting themselves out. Which, judging by subsequent intercepted chatter, is completely unprecedented." He braces his hands on his glass desk and leans forward, his eye boring into Clint's. "Do you have any idea the shitstorm this will raise if Prometheus and HAMMER find out?" "I don't think you were born yesterday, Sir," Clint deadpans, "but I'll be happy to send your mother a fruit basket if you provide me her address." He meets Fury's gaze, unflinching. "The man you sent me to surveil has done that a dozen times. You're giving me a lot of credit if you think they needed my help." He sighs. "I have some idea, though probably not as much as you. There's a lot you don't tell us. But I suspect they would raise exactly as much shit whether I had helped or not." There's a flinty edge in his voice now. "They would assume I had, because it's more comfortable than accepting that any of the thousands of people they've brutally imprisoned and tortured might free themselves." Fury straightens up, his eye narrowing as he looks down at Clint. "I'm going to choose not to take that as a threat this time, Barton, but you better watch yourself." It's hard to tell how serious he is. "Look, I know you've got a history with not waiting around to let formal justice take its course. I'm not unsympathetic to that, as you well know." Here his voice softens uncharacteristically. "If I had known how intense that was going to be -- what was really going on in those facilities? I might not have sent you, certainly not without warning." He shakes his head. "You've gone off-script before. You're lucky I don't re-evaluate your clearance over this, but you have leave with mandatory therapy for the next week." "My history is my history, and that time I went off script? You got Natasha out of it." Clint pauses, considering Fury steadily. "So we didn't know what Prometheus was really about, before." His voice is impassive. "Now we know--that it's a flagrant violation of both U.S. and international law, to say nothing of any higher authorities, personal or otherwise, that it causes mutant terrorism, which is a primary concern for us, that it is attempting to develop potentially dangerous new technologies, which also falls under our jurisdiction--" He stops to draw breath, a twitch of his cheek betraying little. "Now that we know. Are we going to do something about it?" He doesn't seem too put out by the punishment, when it's ultimately dished out. "Thank you, Sir. I need to spend some time with my dog." Fury just stares at Clint while he lists the litany of things they now know about Prometheus. "Yes, Agent Barton, but we are not talking about that right now." He huffs a frustrated breath, stalking over to pour himself a scotch, and then another. "I'll want a report when you come back, but you are off duty as of now." He turns around and hands Clint one of the squat glasses. "We /would/ have gotten him out." "Yes, Sir." Clint accepts the scotch with a small dip of his head. "I believe you would have." His eyes fix on Fury, his brows tug together, and for a moment he looks tempted to say more. The moment passes, and he merely raises his glass. "To re-evaluating."