2012-08-31 An Invaluable Asset

Once the medics arrived, Doug had moved back to allow them to do their jobs. He had, however, also followed them and Coulson to the medbay like a worried, slightly lost puppy; once the situation was resolved, his brain had finally gotten a chance to process everything that had happened. Doug had taken just long enough to wash the blood from his hands before he parked in a chair to wait, occasionally wringing his hands or fidgeting with his sleeves. But he is quiet, and out of the way, and he is always polite.

By the time the medics let Doug in, Coulson's settled into a bed to recover. He's wearing a cleans shirt that's a little bulky through the shoulder due to the bandaging, a sling, and is already juggling a cup of coffee, a mug, and a replacement data unit just like the tablet that kept him from being fatally shot. Just another day on the job, except usually Phil isn't in bed *or* wearing a t-shirt that exposes the elaborate tattoo on his upper arm. Trivialties.

Doug is with it enough to lightly knock on the door before he pokes his head inside. He's clearly relieved to see Coulson looking so... well, himself, but his brow is still knit together with worry just the same. "Sir?"

"Come on in, Doug," Coulson beckons. "Don't mind me. Just trying to finish up before the visitations get going full swing." He trades the muffin for the coffee and leaves the reader carefully tilted in his lap. "It wasn't too bad. You can relax."

Doug doesn't even look embarassed. He just comes inside and claims a bedside chair, clasping his hands in his lap and nodding once, just a little tense. "I'll try, sir. It might take a little bit," he admits, with a quiet cough. "But I'm working on it."

"Ah, right," Coulson says, setting the coffee down to look at Doug somewhat intently. There's understanding, though. "I forgot about that business before you joined. I guess we just get used to being shot at," he allows. For Pete's reference, he is sitting up in a bed, clearly bandaged under a clean t-shirt that puts an eleaborate upper-arm military-style unit tattoo in view on his upper arm, a data tablet in his lap and coffee and a muffin to hand. Left arm in a sling in a vague attempt to keep his shoulder still.

And in comes Wisdom then, wearing the one outfit least expected: a noncommittal SHIELD uniform, no special signature markings on it. It makes him look even skinnier, it's awful. And there's noplace to hide a flask on it because he's not Black Widow. He does, however, smell of vodka when he gets over to Coulson's cubicle. His hands are still a bit shaky, and his look speaks legions of doom upon the young blond beside the senior agent's bed. "It wasn't," he says sternly to Doug, "/magic lightning/. I'm f-fine." Switch of focus. "Coulson. You on enough painkillers?"

"I don't mind being shot at. I just don't like it when people actually get hit." It makes sense in Doug's head, it really does. He isn't looking entirely himself, at least compared to how together he was in the hall; now he's quiet and a bit pale, hands clasped in his lap to keep himself from fidgeting. When Wisdom shows up and glares at him, he actually shrinks back in his chair, but he stubbornly sets his jaw all the same. No apologies for making sure his partner got looked at. Nope.

"Less than they wanted to give me," Coulson replies with a shrug, then decides that was a bad idea. He'll remember not to do that eventually. "And apparently less than you've self-medicated," he notes. No reproach, but that's almost worse, isn't it?

The surprise on Pete's face at Doug's reaction probably tells a story worth at least airing on CSPAN-1. "Shit, calm down, Ramsey, I'm not mad at you. Fuck's sake." He eyes Coulson then, and his lack of reproach, and he pulls a chair over with a foot and sinks into it. After a second, he brings his hands up and mashes the heels into his eyes, then runs his fingers back through his hair-- which does a sort of Tennant thing thereafter. "I'm not drunk, Coulson, I burn it off too fast for a couple of fingers of vodka to do anything more than steady my nerves. Not to mention the high tolerance of an alcoholic. So: now that I'm in my dirty-laundry-shirt-- note to self, move a few more suits upstairs-- and you're trapped in bed where we can talk at you and no fear of you having something better to do, and it involves work anyway which I imagine is a lovely distraction from not enough pain medication--" Unimpressed look. "--Ramsey and I accidentally tripped some CIA flags on a profile."

"Now? You want to talk to him about this /now/?" Doug asks incredulously, staring at Pete for a long moment before he leans over and tries for a good old fashioned Gibbs Smack upside the back of his head. "The /hell/ is /wrong/ with you?"

There is a long and very pregnant silence while Coulson just Looks at Pete. Well past the point where it's uncomfortable and well into can't-look-away-or-I'll-die. Phil contemplates the whole situation. He is too far away and slightly too infirm to smack Pete like he deserves. His sole weapons at his disposal are one(1) data tablet-- no, he's already detroyed one of those today-- one(1) cup of hot coffee-- Again, already wasted one in prior combat-- and one(1) half-eaten muffin-- which he would like to finish. Damn, options depleted. Medbay sucks. "Okay," he finally says in an even tone. "Details?"

Besides, Wisdom already got Gibbs-smacked for his trouble. He makes a big show of cringing and giving Doug a hurt look. "Goddammit, that's where Fury hit me," he grumbles-- and then is caught like a deer in headlights by the Coulson Stare. Which. Turns into a staring contest, yes. Pete's eyes are watering by the time Phil speaks and he feels like he can finally blink. And then another muttering, half under his breath: "I'm flattered but soulgazing is generally for vampires and lust. And. You know. You're not my type." He slouches sulkily into his chair and crosses his skinny arms over his skinny chest, being skinny in his kevlar. "Look if it's *not* a good distraction I can fuck off and we can tell you later. It's not /currently/ an issue because I could truthfully tell them I have no idea where she is. The girl. Caitlin Fairchild. Apparently some sort of super soldier, listed as AWOL and dangerous, detain and question and hand over to the CIA without hassle. But she helped us save a fuckwit magician kid from the fairy monsters he summoned in Central Park, she's living rough, and she knows what she's doing."

Doug just scowls at Pete and gives him another Gibbs Smack for smarting off at Coulson, same spot and everything. BAD AGENT. BAD. If he had a squirt bottle, he'd use that instead. Then he sighs tiredly and fishes his SHIELD-issue phone out of his pocket, leaning back in his seat to tap at the screen while Pete lays it out for him. By the time he's finished talking, he offers the phone to Coulson, with a screenshot of the aformentioned Fairchild's file. He didn't save the file itself to his computer -- he'd had FRAPS up for his Space Marine game and hit printscreen. Harder to track.

This one, Pete actively tries to duck, but he's still a little wobbly-- it clips his ear, and he makes a huge stinkface at Doug and then slouches even more vehemently for a second. But then he's finally sitting up again, and really, just looking tired. "She helped Barton and myself when she didn't have to. She revealed her superhuman nature when it could get her spotted. And it was to get a kid out of hot water and stop a monster from making Central Park eat the city. It's not even her city, her accent's not from around here any more than mine is. She's broke and hungry and her clothes-- /duct taped together/ for Godsake-- were trashed in the fight. I gave her what cash I had on me, but it wasn't a lot. If the situation she's in is anything like the Warpies-- taken by the government and experimented on-- she /needs/ help. Should I happen to run into her again, /naturally/, I should detain her for questioning. Equally naturally, she's super-strong and invulnerable and I'm roughly as strong and invulnerable as a cardboard box full of mine canaries. So if I were to get my ass handed to me before I could call anyone in for help-- *in theory*, who would be able to help her that doesn't have to listen to the CIA?"

Doug will be good now. Coulson said. He accepts his phone back once he's taken the screenshot onto his tablet, tucking it back into his pocket and out of the way. He doesn't need it. He remembers what it said. "That many red flags for one girl, no matter how strong, just smells really off to me," he notes, resting his elbow against his arm rest and plunking his chin into his hand. He's tired. The adrenaline and worry are worn off.

"It's the CIA and she's clearly an invaluable asset by their standards," Coulson points out. "Of course it's off." He considers Pete's question, leaning back against the pillows. "It would be difficult and ugly for us. Our authority here is purely whatever the US Government agrees to give us. It's therefore difficult to take on the CIA over something large like this, officially. Unofficially, I'm not sure the Director would go for it, and I wouldn't blame him. The best solution is the JLA. They're Governemnt-sponsored, and unless the CIA convinced the president to disagree with them, it'd be fine. But if it went that way, she'd be screwed. The Avengers aren't quite as safe, but better at misbehaving if they decide they need to and arguably easier to get in with... And then there's the other odd groups here or there we're getting murmurs about, but most of them aren't much safer than what she's got now." he rubs his forehead. "Did you give her your public contact number in case she runs into trouble? We're somewhat tied, but it's better than nothing."

"Ff no, I gave her my private number," Pete says, knuckling at one eye, the effort causing him to briefly talk like he's got marbles in his mouth. "Military super living rough? I told her we were SHIELD, but didn't give any SHIELD numbers. Just my mobile. Just in case." He sighs, rests his elbows on the arms of the chair, and gives up and just rubs his face with both hands. "I didn't think we'd be an option regardless. I could get her out of the country, but Fury's got me doing something mad with a roboticist and a crazy woman right now--"

He stops dead, does Wisdom, and then lifts his head, eyes suddenly glittering bright with an Idea. "I need to talk to Stark anyway. And I think the Avengers'd be a better fit than the JLA anyway, because I don't doubt the CIA wants her badly enough to put some heavy leverage on the President. *We* might not be able to tell them to fuck off, but Stark'd do it with bells on."

"Not that Tony Stark can actually boss the CIA around any more than we can," Doug notes wryly, staying tiredly slouched and propped up in his chair. "But if she's a part of some kind of black project and wants out, better for him to try blackmailing them to keep it out of the media than us, right?"

"He can't, but Stark lives for this sort of civil disobediance," Coulson muses. "It makes him enormously useful, which is why we keep him on our consultant list. And while I'll deny any attempt to tell him I said so, he's also good enough to pull it off most of the time."

"Brilliant," says Pete with an immense sigh of relief and satisfaction. "Ramsey-- you're much prettier than I am, mate, maybe if you come with me it'll go all the better..." /Now/ he's grinning, getting up in a halfassed evasive action. "But-- tomorrow, fuck today. Today needs to be done. Sorry, Coulson, for bringing this up now."

"I don't think I'm the kind of pretty that'll help you with Stark, man," Doug notes in a sleepy voice. He's only resting his eyes, really. He'll be out of here and in his room to let Coulson rest in a moment. "An' Fairchild doesn't know me from Adam. But if you think it'd help."

Coulson waves it off. "I don't mind, Pete. But you need to work on your delivery when your senior agent's had a round dug out of his collar," he notes wryly.

"Yes, sir," the Briton says without rancour, but with a certain amount of chagrin. Or maybe just rue. No: chagrin. He comes around to where Doug's falling asleep in his chair, prodding the blond's shoulder. "Come on, mate, up the hill to Bedfordshire. Before I say anything else to get my ass in a sling this week."

Doug immediately straightens up in his seat at the prod, blinking once. He wasn't falling asleep at his desk, Mr. Summers, the subject is totally interes--oh. He nods up at Pete and starts to haul himself back up to his feet. "Probably a good idea," he admits, before looking to Coulson. "I promise not to trip anymore CIA flags until you've got your smackin' arm back."

Coulson takes the tablet back up. "Don't worry, Ramsey. If you do, I'll just boot you both up to the principal's office," he notes lightly.