maskirovka | (no subject)

It was snowing in New York. Despite the weather, the city never slept. Hustle and bustle filled the still-crowded streets as citizens went about their usual habits, long-time residents more than used to the Big Apple's idiosyncrasies. Buildings were lit up like star-filled towers, and one in particular was still buzzing busily, even at such a late hour.

On the fortieth floor, two individuals occupied a fairly nondescript conference room, waiting for a third. The man, tall and dark-skinned sported a long black coat and a black eyepatch, and was slowly pacing back and forth. The woman, seated with dangerous nonchalance, was idly smoking a mint-scented cigarette, the smoke drifting around scarlet curls that cascaded around a pale, sharply aristocratic face. Cat-green eyes flicked now and again to the tall man, and it might have been a trick of the fluorescent light, but her upper lip may have lightly lifted in an expression of exasperated derision once or twice.

If so, it was irrelevant, as words had been exchanged, opinions noted (and just as quickly discarded), and decisions made. The time for talk was over. Now was the time for actions. And assignments.

And just possibly, the time to save the world.

Again.

Directory Fury glanced at the silent clock on the wall, then huffed a frustrated sigh.

The woman, Agent Romanoff, gave a light scoff, stubbing out her smoke on the table's perfect surface. Fury shot her a glare. Which she shrugged off, saying in a Russian-accented voice, "It would appear, Director, that your dog is incapable of telling time."

Fury's glare devolved into a glower. "He'll be here. Barnes is the best tracker there is."

"So you keep insisting."

The long black coat whispered as it fell still when he did. "Can it, Romanoff. You know what's at stake here. We're going to have to work together if we all want to survive."

She waved an elegant hand, crossing arms over her chest in marked defiance.

Not missing her silent indignance, Fury lifted a single eyebrow. "Mind your fangs, Romanoff. I don't want to have to put either of you into Time Out."

Threaded | Flat

Bucky was running late, and in a bad mood about it. To start with he hated being late for anything. He didnt like anyone waiting on him. Despised being the weak link.

That was normal.

But in this case he was also already peevish as fuck because the people he's making wait are vampires, and honestly, fuck them. The whole reason he was running late was because he'd been arguing with Steve and Sam. He still wasn't sure why this ended up being his special chore. Steve was more noble. Sam was more personable. Both of them were more idealistic. But he was the tracker, and he was one of the best agents in their task force. Sam and Steve would have their hands full running interference with the press—a job it he was completely unsuited for.

So they had a point about that, he guessed. At least as far as that went.

But the end result was that the worst people he could think of (vampires) had a legitimate reason to judge him, and that fact put his hackles up.

It was about ten minutes late that he finally swept into the room, his expression stormy and pale grey eyes flashing from Fury to the vampire agent. He nods to her slightly, grudging, almost daring either of them to comment on the fact he didn't want to be here.

"All right," he said gruffly. "Let's get this shit over with. I want to be out of the city by the end of the month."