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aa_natasha 9/14/2012
The lights of Moscow are dim in this part of the city. Many of the street lights have long since been broken, and the sidewalks are littered with glass and other less savory substances.
A burst of laughter breaks the night as a door swings open, spilling the warmth of incandescent light into the darkness. A woman exits with backward steps and a flirtatious giggle, tugging a man after her with the grip of both hands. He responds in a low murmur that speaks of possession and triumph and lowers his hands to her hips to bear her backwards into the wall and catch at her lips with his. Coy, she gives in to the kiss for only a moment before she ducks free of him with nimble ease and draws him away from the exit toward an alley even darker than the street. He's eager to follow, and the brightness in his eyes is easily marked as anticipation.
Words spill drunkenly from his lips, Russian and rough with smoke and misuse. "Ne igray so mnoy, zhenshchinoy." His attention is all for her, the pierce of red light in the darkness going unnoticed as he tries to trap her against the wall again in the brace of his arms. Shadows shift as a matter of course, the night swallowing light and casting shapes along the alley. Hidden in those shadows is the lean line of an archer, bow drawn and ready, waiting for a signal that has yet to come.
Natasha's laughter rings light and wild as she slips past him again and darts further down the darkness of the alley. She plasters herself against the wall, and the look she sends back to him is darkly dangerous for those who know her well. It's fortunate, perhaps, that he doesn't know her well. "<< I thought you liked to play, >>" she answers in Russian I won't make people reading our log look up. That dart puts just enough space between them for a flicker of a moment, but Natasha has no doubt it's quite enough.
The man lurches, though it is too quick to tell whether it is of his own volition to follow her again or the soft embedding of that arrow into his flesh. The tip releases a millions of volts into the man's body, stunning him and dropping him to the ground. Clint steps into the filtered light of the alley, shedding shadows as he slides his bow back over his shoulder. "Charming choice," he murmurs quietly, moving to grab the man's arms.
Natasha shrugs and gives her partner a cocky smile. "He grabbed first," she says, and slides to the other side to help Clint heft him upward.
"When we get home, I'm telling Stark that you'll take the first on your hook," Clint warns her, distributing the weight of the large, Russian man between them and dragging him away. Heels make a trail in trash in the alley only to be obscured a moment later in a simple breeze. Their quiet storeroom is only a block south of the bar, the stillness of the night only broken by the man's grunts. Securing him is left to the Black Widow, knots more her specialty than his.
Natasha's smile spreads over the Russian's slumped body. "Will you tell him what I do with them once they're well and truly snared?" she wonders before falling silently to the task of hefting their prize down the alley. She binds their man with quick, efficient knots, then steps backwards to consider him for a moment before upending a bucket of very cold water over his head.
The man comes up sputtering, dark hair plastered down and drops of moisture clinging to black lashes that he glares through. A scar runs along his jawline, though for all that puckered skin, he isn't the ugliest thug ever to be seen. He curses in low, guttural Russian, the weight of his anger leveled on Natasha rather than her partner. It is Clint that drawls evenly, "English, please." "Your fucking bitch gets gutted," he switches, stilted.
Natasha's brows lift in expressive disbelief and vivid amusement. She clicks her tongue against her teeth, tsk'ing softly as she moves to circle her thug with slow consideration. "<< This doesn't need to be difficult, >>" she assures him quietly in the mother tongue before lapsing easily into thickly accented English for Clint's benefit. "The restraints are just a precaution. We need to have a little chat. I am looking for Dmitri Gudkov."
Shoulder finding the rough brick of the run-down storage locker that consists of their interrogation room, Clint leans back with his arms crossing his chest and a passive look leveled on the Russian.
As Natasha speaks, she earns the man's attention, his wrists and fingers flezing in every effort to work against the bindings. "I do not know this Gudkov. You look in wrong place," Ivan answers, the briefest tell-tale flicker of his gaze.
"I don't think so," Natasha says, and punctuates the sentence with a blow so fast that his head is already jerking with the force of it before he sees it coming. She steps back, flexing her fingers lightly. "Don't lie to me. I can tell." She tilts her head, fixing on him for a moment before she says, "You have two options. You can leave here tonight a richer man or you can leave here tonight a bloody and broken man. Either way, you will tell me where Gudkov has gone, and how to contact him."
Ivan's jaw jumps as his head lifts from that blow, anger at bruised pride sparking in his gaze. He questions, slowly, "How much you pay for information?"
Natasha names a number, not so high as to be completely irresistible, but neither so low as to be insulting. It is a nice, persuasive number, particularly when coupled with that hard look in her eyes. "I am not asking you to betray him. As far as the organizatsiya is concerned, I have always known where Gudkov is."
The number moves Ivan, at least slightly. The look in his gaze turns to calculating, that twitch of his jaw smoothing away as he considers Natasha, and briefly the man standing behind her. "Gudkov works for Chendev now, from the backroom of tattoo parlor on Petrovka street," he answers. It is possible that the answer is the truth, and the man is better about his expression, no sign of it in his face. However, he banks on the woman not knowing of bad blood between the two, ten years in the past.
Natasha gifts Ivan with a brilliant smile in the instant before her foot takes him hard in the gut, sending his chair skittering an inch or two backwards. "I told you not to lie to me," she says, and names another number, slightly lower. The bargaining doesn't seem to be going in his favor.
"You little bitch," spits out Ivan between his teeth, the knots of his restraints preventing him from curling inward on radiated pain. His teeth bare at Natasha, violence in the gesture. Clint's fingers twitch at the pistol on his hip, but it remains holstered. His words have gone flat as he comments, "I don't think he's as quick as we thought he is."
"He's tiresome," Natasha agrees with a brief glance at Clint. She turns forward again, hands braced on her hips and feet spread in sturdy stance. She repeats her number and says, "This is my last pleasant offer."
Ivan considers the number, though his gaze lingers on the space between him and the woman, Clint's fingers on his weapons. He says still with that edge of violence and temper, "Gudkov visits the fights every tuesday night. If you are lucky, maybe he'll feed you to dogs."
Natasha's eyes glint with silent amusement, though the expression does not spread to the curve of her lips. "Khoroshiy mal'chik," she says, and steps forward to ruffle his hair with the sweep of her fingers before she digs a handful of bills free from a pocket. These she drops in his lap before she jerks her chin at Clint on her way toward the door, leaving poor Ivan bound behind her.
Clint steps forward at that nod, the slide of his bow into his hands seemless. It comes across Ivan's skull in a crack, leaving him unconscious to wake up later, no chance given to call for help until they are well away. He catches up to his partner easily, and comments in easy, teasing English about wasting money.
Natasha's retort is a quiet snort as they disappear into the darkness with effortless ease and set out to case the location of the fights - presuming that hasn't changed - before tomorrow night.
Russian shenanigans. Set Monday.
The lights of Moscow are dim in this part of the city. Many of the street lights have long since been broken, and the sidewalks are littered with glass and other less savory substances.
A burst of laughter breaks the night as a door swings open, spilling the warmth of incandescent light into the darkness. A woman exits with backward steps and a flirtatious giggle, tugging a man after her with the grip of both hands. He responds in a low murmur that speaks of possession and triumph and lowers his hands to her hips to bear her backwards into the wall and catch at her lips with his. Coy, she gives in to the kiss for only a moment before she ducks free of him with nimble ease and draws him away from the exit toward an alley even darker than the street. He's eager to follow, and the brightness in his eyes is easily marked as anticipation.
Words spill drunkenly from his lips, Russian and rough with smoke and misuse. "Ne igray so mnoy, zhenshchinoy." His attention is all for her, the pierce of red light in the darkness going unnoticed as he tries to trap her against the wall again in the brace of his arms. Shadows shift as a matter of course, the night swallowing light and casting shapes along the alley. Hidden in those shadows is the lean line of an archer, bow drawn and ready, waiting for a signal that has yet to come.
Natasha's laughter rings light and wild as she slips past him again and darts further down the darkness of the alley. She plasters herself against the wall, and the look she sends back to him is darkly dangerous for those who know her well. It's fortunate, perhaps, that he doesn't know her well. "<< I thought you liked to play, >>" she answers in Russian I won't make people reading our log look up. That dart puts just enough space between them for a flicker of a moment, but Natasha has no doubt it's quite enough.
The man lurches, though it is too quick to tell whether it is of his own volition to follow her again or the soft embedding of that arrow into his flesh. The tip releases a millions of volts into the man's body, stunning him and dropping him to the ground. Clint steps into the filtered light of the alley, shedding shadows as he slides his bow back over his shoulder. "Charming choice," he murmurs quietly, moving to grab the man's arms.
Natasha shrugs and gives her partner a cocky smile. "He grabbed first," she says, and slides to the other side to help Clint heft him upward.
"When we get home, I'm telling Stark that you'll take the first on your hook," Clint warns her, distributing the weight of the large, Russian man between them and dragging him away. Heels make a trail in trash in the alley only to be obscured a moment later in a simple breeze. Their quiet storeroom is only a block south of the bar, the stillness of the night only broken by the man's grunts. Securing him is left to the Black Widow, knots more her specialty than his.
Natasha's smile spreads over the Russian's slumped body. "Will you tell him what I do with them once they're well and truly snared?" she wonders before falling silently to the task of hefting their prize down the alley. She binds their man with quick, efficient knots, then steps backwards to consider him for a moment before upending a bucket of very cold water over his head.
The man comes up sputtering, dark hair plastered down and drops of moisture clinging to black lashes that he glares through. A scar runs along his jawline, though for all that puckered skin, he isn't the ugliest thug ever to be seen. He curses in low, guttural Russian, the weight of his anger leveled on Natasha rather than her partner. It is Clint that drawls evenly, "English, please." "Your fucking bitch gets gutted," he switches, stilted.
Natasha's brows lift in expressive disbelief and vivid amusement. She clicks her tongue against her teeth, tsk'ing softly as she moves to circle her thug with slow consideration. "<< This doesn't need to be difficult, >>" she assures him quietly in the mother tongue before lapsing easily into thickly accented English for Clint's benefit. "The restraints are just a precaution. We need to have a little chat. I am looking for Dmitri Gudkov."
Shoulder finding the rough brick of the run-down storage locker that consists of their interrogation room, Clint leans back with his arms crossing his chest and a passive look leveled on the Russian.
As Natasha speaks, she earns the man's attention, his wrists and fingers flezing in every effort to work against the bindings. "I do not know this Gudkov. You look in wrong place," Ivan answers, the briefest tell-tale flicker of his gaze.
"I don't think so," Natasha says, and punctuates the sentence with a blow so fast that his head is already jerking with the force of it before he sees it coming. She steps back, flexing her fingers lightly. "Don't lie to me. I can tell." She tilts her head, fixing on him for a moment before she says, "You have two options. You can leave here tonight a richer man or you can leave here tonight a bloody and broken man. Either way, you will tell me where Gudkov has gone, and how to contact him."
Ivan's jaw jumps as his head lifts from that blow, anger at bruised pride sparking in his gaze. He questions, slowly, "How much you pay for information?"
Natasha names a number, not so high as to be completely irresistible, but neither so low as to be insulting. It is a nice, persuasive number, particularly when coupled with that hard look in her eyes. "I am not asking you to betray him. As far as the organizatsiya is concerned, I have always known where Gudkov is."
The number moves Ivan, at least slightly. The look in his gaze turns to calculating, that twitch of his jaw smoothing away as he considers Natasha, and briefly the man standing behind her. "Gudkov works for Chendev now, from the backroom of tattoo parlor on Petrovka street," he answers. It is possible that the answer is the truth, and the man is better about his expression, no sign of it in his face. However, he banks on the woman not knowing of bad blood between the two, ten years in the past.
Natasha gifts Ivan with a brilliant smile in the instant before her foot takes him hard in the gut, sending his chair skittering an inch or two backwards. "I told you not to lie to me," she says, and names another number, slightly lower. The bargaining doesn't seem to be going in his favor.
"You little bitch," spits out Ivan between his teeth, the knots of his restraints preventing him from curling inward on radiated pain. His teeth bare at Natasha, violence in the gesture. Clint's fingers twitch at the pistol on his hip, but it remains holstered. His words have gone flat as he comments, "I don't think he's as quick as we thought he is."
"He's tiresome," Natasha agrees with a brief glance at Clint. She turns forward again, hands braced on her hips and feet spread in sturdy stance. She repeats her number and says, "This is my last pleasant offer."
Ivan considers the number, though his gaze lingers on the space between him and the woman, Clint's fingers on his weapons. He says still with that edge of violence and temper, "Gudkov visits the fights every tuesday night. If you are lucky, maybe he'll feed you to dogs."
Natasha's eyes glint with silent amusement, though the expression does not spread to the curve of her lips. "Khoroshiy mal'chik," she says, and steps forward to ruffle his hair with the sweep of her fingers before she digs a handful of bills free from a pocket. These she drops in his lap before she jerks her chin at Clint on her way toward the door, leaving poor Ivan bound behind her.
Clint steps forward at that nod, the slide of his bow into his hands seemless. It comes across Ivan's skull in a crack, leaving him unconscious to wake up later, no chance given to call for help until they are well away. He catches up to his partner easily, and comments in easy, teasing English about wasting money.
Natasha's retort is a quiet snort as they disappear into the darkness with effortless ease and set out to case the location of the fights - presuming that hasn't changed - before tomorrow night.
Russian shenanigans. Set Monday.