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aa_natasha http://aa.mudmagic.com/w/index.php/2012-09-05_Swimming_Laps
=NYC= Roof - Avengers Mansion - Upper East Side
At three stories high, the roof of the Avengers Mansion doesn't provide much in the way of a view. Nearby buildings tower over it on three sides, while the fourth looks just over the tree line into Central Park. A set of stairs just south of the atrium leads up onto a landscaped section of the flat roof that includes stone-paved walkways scattered with umbrella'd tables and lounge chairs, an abundance of low-maintenance greenery and flowering plants when in season, and an inset pool and hot tub. The garden-like area runs from roof's edge to the frosted glass ceiling of the atrium. A wrought-iron railing surrounds the area, keeping the roof itself safe from careless accidents and marking the garden off from the rest of the more utilitarian space atop the mansion.
Natasha is not naked, but she's not precisely /clothed/, either. At least not by 1940s standards. She's stretched out on a lounge chair in a black bikini that makes her skin look smoothly pale and her hair seem very, very red. She's not wet - yet - but she does wear a pair of oversized sunglasses as she lounges in what seems for all the world like complete peace. A cigarette trails smoke upward from its place between her fingers, and very occasionally she stirs to lift it to her lips.
Contemporary square-cut men's swim shorts are, perhaps surprisingly, probably the closest equivalent to how swimwear was panning out when Steve found himself unceremoniously ripped from his own time. Thus it is that he ends up on the roof in a pair, blue with a subtle hint of red and white in the two stripes on either side. (They are, at the least, not the shortest examples of the style.) He has a towel slung over his shoulders, but it doesn't do much to cover up the overall -- obviousness of his body. He pauses upon seeing Natasha in her very bikini. "Good afternoon," he says in a particularly gentlemanly sort of way as he looks absolutely nowhere inappropriate.
Natasha tugs her sunglasses down just a touch, the better to take in half-naked Steve. The smile that curves her lips is small and very slightly amused before it disappears behind a drag on her cigarette. "Dobryy den'," she returns with a tip of her chin. "The water's fairly warm, I think."
"I imagine I can figure that one out," Steve says with a weary smile at her Russian. You're so smart, Steve. He sets his towel down on one of the lounge chairs and starts off with a series of slow stretches to warm his muscles up. Even super soldiers need to stretch.
Natasha slides her glasses back into place with the slow push of a finger and studies Steve. "Came up for a serious swim then, did you?"
Steve pauses, glancing over at her with the hint of a frown. "Is that all right?"
Natasha's brows rise slowly above the frames of her glasses. "Yes," she says simply. She lifts her cigarette to pull a slow curl of smoke into her lungs, then exhales it in a sudden huff of breath before she adds, "I'll keep out of your way, then."
"Doesn't really seem like the time for swimming for fun," Steve notes, straightening back up.
"No?" Natasha wiggles upward a bit in her chair and fixes Steve with a look behind the dark impenetrability of her sunglasses. "Has all fun ceased? Are you not allowed to enjoy anything until the world is put right again?"
"Well," Steve says, considering and thoughtful. Then he shrugs with a slow roll of his shoulders. "In a way."
"That seems like an exhausting way to live," Natasha answers, lowering her hand to flick ash to the paved stone.
"--People always said I was no fun." There's a swallow somewhere at the start of his words, something hiccuped over and avoided. Steve forces a smile before padding around to the edge of the pool.
"What do you do when the world is all neat and tidy?" Natasha wonders, swinging her legs to one side of the chair to sit straighter still with a twist of her head to follow his padding.
Steve looks over his shoulder at her with a small, sad sort of smile. "Retire Captain America and go back to Steve Rogers." And then he dives, his muscles fluid and streamlined as he cuts into the water in one, graceful movement. His strokes are quick, even, efficient. Olympian.
Natasha gives a quiet, amused huff of a snort, but not until Steve is well and truly in the water amid the sound of his own splashing strokes. She watches him for a moment, her gaze both weighing and appreciative, and then she swings her legs back up to settle into her seat once more. Very occasionally, she remembers that she is smoking.
He is the kind of swimmer that's just plain enjoyable to watch, the way he stretches the limits of a perfectly-engineered body to push himself. He can certainly train for a long, long while, but eventually Steve slows and comes to to one edge of the pool, folding his arms on the concrete lip as water beads on his skin.
Natasha gives him a few moments to catch his breath and brush that adorable hair out of his eyes before she opines from her chair, "You're a very good swimmer. Did you swim before, or is it new?"
"I knew /how/ to swim," Steve says, if that's an answer.
"Did you know how to fight?" Natasha wonders.
"I mostly got beat up," Steve replies.
Natasha's lips twitch. For a moment it looks like she might smile. "Hit pretty hard now," she observes.
"Yeah," Steve agrees. He finally hoists himself out of the pool with a smooth lift of muscle and a quiet sluice of water to find his feet on the concrete.
Natasha tucks pieces of their conversation away for future consideration and rolls her head back, directing her gaze toward the slice of sky visible between the towering buildings that surround them. After a moment she says, "Seems like your serum would mean you don't really need to swim, except for fun."
"It's not--" Steve goes quiet a moment, thoughtful, considering the right words. "It's -- designed for it. I'm designed for it. The training."
"There's more to the fight than the physical," Natasha allows, turning her head with a slow roll against the chair to better fix on Steve.
"I wouldn't have been able to do that for two minutes before," Steve says quietly, glancing back at the pool in indication.
Natasha lifts her brows just slightly. "Your file says you volunteered."
Steve blinks, confused by her words. "Yes," he agrees. He steps back over to where his towel is and reaches to pluck it up from the chair.
"Do you regret it?"
"No," he says without hesitation. "Never." He begins swiping the towel over his damp skin.
Natasha doesn't call Steve a liar, but her brows are occasionally eloquent, and she allows them to express doubt over the rims of her shades before she says, "It's good you're here."
"Thanks," Steve says with a subdued smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. He scrubs his towel over his damp hair and says, "You, too."
Natasha gives Steve a silent look that says quite clearly, 'Duh'.
WELL, WAY TO BE GRATEFUL, NATASHA. Steve goes quiet again as he settles his towel about his shoulders, his expression creased with thought.
Natasha is what she is, and 'grateful' applies only rarely. She seems comfortable with his lapse into silence, and with a slow stretch of her limbs, she falls into one similar.
Steve scrubs his hand through his hair next, leaving it sticking up at places and in need of a good combing. He offers Natasha a quick, polite smile and says, "I'll see you around, then."
"Of course," Natasha answers, and she goes so far as to give him a slight wave as he goes.
Steve dips his head to the wave, and then he's off. To go do Captain American-ly things.
Natasha stays. To smoke and move very little.
=NYC= Roof - Avengers Mansion - Upper East Side
At three stories high, the roof of the Avengers Mansion doesn't provide much in the way of a view. Nearby buildings tower over it on three sides, while the fourth looks just over the tree line into Central Park. A set of stairs just south of the atrium leads up onto a landscaped section of the flat roof that includes stone-paved walkways scattered with umbrella'd tables and lounge chairs, an abundance of low-maintenance greenery and flowering plants when in season, and an inset pool and hot tub. The garden-like area runs from roof's edge to the frosted glass ceiling of the atrium. A wrought-iron railing surrounds the area, keeping the roof itself safe from careless accidents and marking the garden off from the rest of the more utilitarian space atop the mansion.
Natasha is not naked, but she's not precisely /clothed/, either. At least not by 1940s standards. She's stretched out on a lounge chair in a black bikini that makes her skin look smoothly pale and her hair seem very, very red. She's not wet - yet - but she does wear a pair of oversized sunglasses as she lounges in what seems for all the world like complete peace. A cigarette trails smoke upward from its place between her fingers, and very occasionally she stirs to lift it to her lips.
Contemporary square-cut men's swim shorts are, perhaps surprisingly, probably the closest equivalent to how swimwear was panning out when Steve found himself unceremoniously ripped from his own time. Thus it is that he ends up on the roof in a pair, blue with a subtle hint of red and white in the two stripes on either side. (They are, at the least, not the shortest examples of the style.) He has a towel slung over his shoulders, but it doesn't do much to cover up the overall -- obviousness of his body. He pauses upon seeing Natasha in her very bikini. "Good afternoon," he says in a particularly gentlemanly sort of way as he looks absolutely nowhere inappropriate.
Natasha tugs her sunglasses down just a touch, the better to take in half-naked Steve. The smile that curves her lips is small and very slightly amused before it disappears behind a drag on her cigarette. "Dobryy den'," she returns with a tip of her chin. "The water's fairly warm, I think."
"I imagine I can figure that one out," Steve says with a weary smile at her Russian. You're so smart, Steve. He sets his towel down on one of the lounge chairs and starts off with a series of slow stretches to warm his muscles up. Even super soldiers need to stretch.
Natasha slides her glasses back into place with the slow push of a finger and studies Steve. "Came up for a serious swim then, did you?"
Steve pauses, glancing over at her with the hint of a frown. "Is that all right?"
Natasha's brows rise slowly above the frames of her glasses. "Yes," she says simply. She lifts her cigarette to pull a slow curl of smoke into her lungs, then exhales it in a sudden huff of breath before she adds, "I'll keep out of your way, then."
"Doesn't really seem like the time for swimming for fun," Steve notes, straightening back up.
"No?" Natasha wiggles upward a bit in her chair and fixes Steve with a look behind the dark impenetrability of her sunglasses. "Has all fun ceased? Are you not allowed to enjoy anything until the world is put right again?"
"Well," Steve says, considering and thoughtful. Then he shrugs with a slow roll of his shoulders. "In a way."
"That seems like an exhausting way to live," Natasha answers, lowering her hand to flick ash to the paved stone.
"--People always said I was no fun." There's a swallow somewhere at the start of his words, something hiccuped over and avoided. Steve forces a smile before padding around to the edge of the pool.
"What do you do when the world is all neat and tidy?" Natasha wonders, swinging her legs to one side of the chair to sit straighter still with a twist of her head to follow his padding.
Steve looks over his shoulder at her with a small, sad sort of smile. "Retire Captain America and go back to Steve Rogers." And then he dives, his muscles fluid and streamlined as he cuts into the water in one, graceful movement. His strokes are quick, even, efficient. Olympian.
Natasha gives a quiet, amused huff of a snort, but not until Steve is well and truly in the water amid the sound of his own splashing strokes. She watches him for a moment, her gaze both weighing and appreciative, and then she swings her legs back up to settle into her seat once more. Very occasionally, she remembers that she is smoking.
He is the kind of swimmer that's just plain enjoyable to watch, the way he stretches the limits of a perfectly-engineered body to push himself. He can certainly train for a long, long while, but eventually Steve slows and comes to to one edge of the pool, folding his arms on the concrete lip as water beads on his skin.
Natasha gives him a few moments to catch his breath and brush that adorable hair out of his eyes before she opines from her chair, "You're a very good swimmer. Did you swim before, or is it new?"
"I knew /how/ to swim," Steve says, if that's an answer.
"Did you know how to fight?" Natasha wonders.
"I mostly got beat up," Steve replies.
Natasha's lips twitch. For a moment it looks like she might smile. "Hit pretty hard now," she observes.
"Yeah," Steve agrees. He finally hoists himself out of the pool with a smooth lift of muscle and a quiet sluice of water to find his feet on the concrete.
Natasha tucks pieces of their conversation away for future consideration and rolls her head back, directing her gaze toward the slice of sky visible between the towering buildings that surround them. After a moment she says, "Seems like your serum would mean you don't really need to swim, except for fun."
"It's not--" Steve goes quiet a moment, thoughtful, considering the right words. "It's -- designed for it. I'm designed for it. The training."
"There's more to the fight than the physical," Natasha allows, turning her head with a slow roll against the chair to better fix on Steve.
"I wouldn't have been able to do that for two minutes before," Steve says quietly, glancing back at the pool in indication.
Natasha lifts her brows just slightly. "Your file says you volunteered."
Steve blinks, confused by her words. "Yes," he agrees. He steps back over to where his towel is and reaches to pluck it up from the chair.
"Do you regret it?"
"No," he says without hesitation. "Never." He begins swiping the towel over his damp skin.
Natasha doesn't call Steve a liar, but her brows are occasionally eloquent, and she allows them to express doubt over the rims of her shades before she says, "It's good you're here."
"Thanks," Steve says with a subdued smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. He scrubs his towel over his damp hair and says, "You, too."
Natasha gives Steve a silent look that says quite clearly, 'Duh'.
WELL, WAY TO BE GRATEFUL, NATASHA. Steve goes quiet again as he settles his towel about his shoulders, his expression creased with thought.
Natasha is what she is, and 'grateful' applies only rarely. She seems comfortable with his lapse into silence, and with a slow stretch of her limbs, she falls into one similar.
Steve scrubs his hand through his hair next, leaving it sticking up at places and in need of a good combing. He offers Natasha a quick, polite smile and says, "I'll see you around, then."
"Of course," Natasha answers, and she goes so far as to give him a slight wave as he goes.
Steve dips his head to the wave, and then he's off. To go do Captain American-ly things.
Natasha stays. To smoke and move very little.