Stark; Bruce
Aug. 15th, 2012 08:34 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
aa_natasha http://aa.mudmagic.com/w/index.php/2012-08-14_Security_Consultant
=NYC= Avengers Mansion - Upper East Side - NYC
An outward facade of brick covers the thoroughly modern protection buried within and on the thick wall encircling the Avengers Mansion at 890 Fifth Avenue. Occupying an entire (small) block of prime Manhattan real estate, the gates, emblazoned with a stylized A, open toward Central Park. Reddish brown stone forms the decorative elements against a backdrop of pale cream in a style pulled straight from the turn of the last century. The lawns are well-maintained but simple; they have been cleared of obstruction but also of decoration to allow clear lines of sight from the walls to the building itself. The foyer of the mansion spans the height of the above-ground floors with a balcony above reachable by paired staircases sweeping up the side. The ground floor is dominated by the twin needs of training and provisioning.
The courtesy of the request made of Natasha very strongly implies (really, it outright /states/) that Pepper wrote it. Despite that, it is from Stark's personal address, unsigned and without signature as is his manner. Very nicely the email asks if she will swing the Maria Stark Foundation Museum on 890 Fifth Avenue for a security consultation. So. That's where Stark is waiting. Happy is with the car and his other body guard is at the gate where shiny new metal has the look of a /very/ recent installation. Let me go back and emphasize a fact again: /Stark is on time/. Natasha really must be a special kind of terrifying. He is dressed down and has sunglasses firmly in place as he walks around the entry area.
Natasha is not on time. In fact, she makes Tony wait ten whole minutes before she appears not in front of the building in a cab or car, but behind Tony Stark. She taps him on the back of the shoulder. Hi.
Stark startles like /anything/: his shoulders come back, his chin jerks up, and his hands spasm and drop his phone. He does not have super reflexes. His phone hits the ground -- or more accurately, lands with relative softness on astonishingly dense, scrupulously neat plush grass. His eyes are wide when he looks back at Natasha, and his security is all oblivious to her. Obviously he should hire her and Clint instead, y/y? "You," he says, leaning over to pick up his phone with an old man stiffness, "are going to be the death of me." He straightens with his phone in hand to thumb his sunglasses back in place. "Damn ninja." Verbally, he recovers quickly; his breath eases back to normal a little more slowly: "Okay. Show me where the holes are so we can plug them."
Still more accurately, Tony's phone lands in the suddenly-present cradle of Natasha's booted foot as she slides it into place, then flicks her ankle to toss it up to catch with a thoughtless midair grab. "Pretty sure something a lot uglier will be the death of you," she answers, deadpan. She jerks her chin toward the mansion with a lift of her brows. "Nice place. /Big/ place."
That's acceptable. /Ninja/. Stark looks at the phone in her hand with a cramped sort of expression. His fingers wiggle in indecision and then he holds his hand out for the phone: give it to him. "I don't know. If I'm going to go, wouldn't mind going to something pretty. I'm pretty sure that my actuarial tables tipped heavily toward dying in bed surrounded by women up until quite recently." Now there's all kinds of other things to crowd out the averages: death by shrapnel, by fall, by fire, by crushing, by gunshot, by energy blast, by nuclear explosion, by asphyxiation in space--. "It's not bad. A little concerned about lines of sight with it so low to the ground, honestly. Feel crowded, here. Going to be a problem for Barton?"
Natasha twists Stark's phone in her hand, then tosses it up a bit to flip it over. And over. And over. "'Recently' seems pretty important," Natasha reminds. She turns, phone still in hand (flip, flip), to study the house itself. "It's not ideal," she admits. "But nowhere ever is. Towers have their own problems. Easier to make sure you have half a dozen outs, here. Harder to secure half a dozen outs."
Stark continues to hold his hand out for his phone with his only reaction to her flipping it an arch of his eyebrows. "That's what you're for." Glancing past her to the building and then back again, he tips his head. "Your idea of ideal is a flying aircraft carrier that goes invisible. Let's the walk the ground to see what we mere mortals--" HA HA. "--will have to make do with." HA HA HA.
"At least you know quality work," Natasha says, dry. She gives Stark a brief glance, then nods and sets off forward into the grounds (flip). "I've already noticed a few things," she beings, drawing a line up to the roof with one finger. "Small blindspots someone skilled could exploit. Line of sight issues. I'll show you."
"Jarvis," says Stark, hands folded behind his back as he sets off after Natasha. "Please export local data to home server and wipe."
The sound of Jarvis's voice goes in and out just a little as the speaker tumbles with the flip-flip. "Yes, sir." A moment later, the screen sets, wiped to a default StarkPhone boot-up screen.
Following the line of her point, Stark cants his head. He looks a bit uncertain at just what it is that she is pointing out. "You're the expert. You guys have anything for preventing weirdos from /teleporting/ in?"
"That seems like your area," Natasha answers, all level. She stops her phone flipping for a moment, pausing in her glance at Stark, and then tosses it toward him. Heads up! "Ours is just to be handy with guns nearby."
There's a twitch on Stark's features as he catches the phone -- not as neatly as she would, but he catches it -- and then pockets it. He touches it likely, as though he would prefer not to handle it, and wipes his hand on the seat of his jeans. His expression is faintly distracted as he considers the building. "Still working on identifying the tech. I'll let you know when I've got magic-blocking up and running."
Natasha falls silent for a moment, through several steps around the perimeter. When she speaks again, it's to change the subject with a few approving words for the security here even as she points out a potential lapse there. She doesn't bother to point out that it's only the /really good ones/ who'd be able to exploit them. It's only the really good ones who'd try.
What lapses there are -- and it isn't perfect, of course there are some -- would take the talent of a /really good one/ to spot, or to break. The security is good, although Stark does not seem to be relying much on /people/ to watch the grounds. It all feeds -- where else? -- to Jarvis. He loses some of the tension that he holds across his shoulders as they continue, and it is clear that the house is now fully wired for the AI when he makes his comments to the air to be answered by that clipped British accent. Notes are made and properly filed for attention and action. The building is still pretty empty, but it is quite coming into shape. "You going to be joining us?" he asks at one point or another.
Natasha pauses at the question, turning to look out a second story window with a thoughtful frown. Rather than answer, she turns her head to fix her gaze on Tony. "Why are you doing this?"
"I can," Stark says, which is perhaps more honest than his flippancy would suggest. "I want to. I don't think we're going to be able to hang up our helmets and handguns and retire. Do you?"
"We can," Natasha answers with a slight shake of her head. She shifts slightly, tracking the view from a different angle before she turns to look at Tony. "But I don't think any of us have it in us, no."
"Always one more thing to do." Stark presses a thumb to the near windowsill and pushes on it in an idle fidget. He tucks his hands back away. "So if the world still needs the Avengers, I think we deserve better than the cold comforts of the Helicarrier, thank you."
Natasha's brows rise slightly, but even she can't make much of an argument for the Helicarrier after their last trip aboard it. Instead what she says is, "I have an apartment. So does Captain Rogers. You have a /tower/."
"While I'll grant that I do have a very nice tower," says Stark, and no, he doesn't say the same about the apartments, "I'm pretty sure I shouldn't have to point out the tactical advantages." Canting his head as he looks back to her, he adds, "It's an open invitation, anyway, if you change your mind in the future."
"You're moving in?" Natasha checks, studying Stark with an intensity that might be a bit discomforting. "Who else? Banner? Rogers?"
"Set up my main workshop here," Stark confirms, which says /way/ more about where he might spend his time than where he moved his pillows. He is pretty used to intense looks, but even he can't help but sideye Natasha at her scrutiny. "Rogers seemed in favor of the idea. If Banner doesn't trip over himself to get into the lab here then I just don't know what to do with him."
"Our very own little Avengers clubhouse," Natasha answers, her tone a mix of disbelief and mocking amusement. She shakes her head, then turns and paces to the next window to double-check the line of sight.
"Club house is slightly better than the frat house your presence would just barely rule out," Stark points out with a rock forward onto his toes as he pushes down the hall. "Obviously we need more women."
"Do we?" Natasha turns to glance at Tony, brows quirked again, before she draws a finger along the window's edge, searching out security she knows is there. Pressure, light, sound: glass and frame both are secured against a possible break. The glass itself has a slightly unusual quality to it characteristic of glass which can be polarized to allow no light through if need be. The thick frame has room for more substantial shielding to come down ... just in case. "What, are you kidding? Of course we do. Numbers are all off. Bad PR."
"This job is hell on girl's social life," Natasha says lightly, steps quiet as she continues along the line of windows.
"Tell me about it. Do you know how hard it has been on mine? No, wait. Don't tell me about it," Stark says, reconsidering as soon as the words have left his mouth. "You probably can. With footnotes. And yet -- we continue."
"Don't tell me we'll have to knock 'playboy' off your list of titles," Natasha answers, turning a glance toward Tony. "Maybe you should take a walk down Tenth Avenure in your suit. Or throw a party. That should help matters."
"But what could I replace it with? Can't let playboy go aside -- unless maybe hero," says Stark, and then mouths 'genius billionaire hero philanthropist'. "Syllables work. Don't think I'll have to worry much about shedding the reputation, though." As they come out to the main entry, he leans against the balcony overlooking the main floor. He does not seem heartbroken to have the title threatened. "Thinking about a party, though. I mean -- shwarama was great, but we really needed more."
Natasha pauses in earnest then, abandoning her study (re-study - she's been over this floor at least once before) in favor of frowning at Tony Stark. "Needed more?"
"Uhm, we saved the world," Stark points out to Natasha with the point of a finger. (Rude.) "That deserves a party."
"Loki's free again," Natasha answers, folding her arms across her chest. "And armed. And he's got /friends/."
Stark sighs. "Yeah." He doodles a pattern on the balcony with his fingertip. "First the timing wasn't right, with Agent Coulson -- but then he's alive, and the timing's still bad, because now we've mysteriously appearing Nazis and Loki running around. Maybe we can save the world /again/ and throw the party /then/."
"Not everything needs a party, Stark. Some things are just-- the job." Natasha Romanov: killjoy.
"Ugh, you're so Russian," says Stark, then he contradicts himself by adding, "but even a Russian wouldn't turn down the chance for vodka."
Natasha starts to say something, then pauses, eyes narrowing. "Depends on the vodka."
Stark spreads his hands wide and looks at her. He /looks/ at her. /Please/. /Would he serve bad vodka/.
Natasha lifts her brows. He might serve /American/ vodka.
Only if it is very good American vodka. "Fun just like -- dies. Around you. You have this fun-killing aura. I can see it." Stark closes his eyes and touches his temples to gesture. "Five meters around you and expanding in every direction."
"I'm fairly certain that 'fun' is not in any part of my job description," Natasha answers. Dry.
"I've always preferred to read between the lines of my job descriptions," Stark counters.
"You've always considered yourself above job descriptions," Natasha counters.
"I /am/ above job descriptions." Stark arches his eyebrows at Natasha with a tip of his head back and to the side as he considers her. "You should be, too."
Natasha gives Stark the barest hint of a smile. "I am."
"Clearly." Gesturing, Stark asks, "Anything else you want to see, Agent Buzzkill?"
"I've barely started, Mr. Stark," Natasha answers, twitching her brows up. "But you don't need to babysit me. I'll take a look at your bolt holes and see how they can be shored up, too. Go home. Call some girls and have a party."
Stark glances up, around, and then back. He tips his head and says, "Knock yourself out. I'm sure you'll have all kinds of fun imagining devious ways to poison us in our sleep. Enjoy your evening, Agent Romanov."
Natasha disappears without saying goodbye. She just slips away, fading into the depths of the mansion, and gets to work.
Most visits to Stark Tower involve a skirt or a well-tailored pantsuit. Today Natasha's business is different, and she's dressed for it in casual jeans and a black tank that does a nice job of showing off every curve she's got. And she's got 'em. Her hands are free, tucked into her back pockets as she considers the lit numbers above the elevator door and waits.
Bruce approaches the lobby elevator at a shuffle. At some point, someone (Pepper) gave him a regular ID card to let him in the building despite the fact that he is not employed here. Right now, he is messing with it as he walks, fiddling around with the laminate plastic. He is dressed in a dark blue button-down shirt that would look nicer if it didn't carry just a slightly inappropriate sheen to its fabric (i.e., it is painfully cheap) and a pair of tan slacks. His eye wanders past Natasha and then skips back to her in a surprised identification that might be a tiny bit comical. He says, "Hey," and pokes the elevator button to summon the elevator car even though Natasha has clearly already done this, because that is the kind of guy he is.
Natasha isn't startled - Natasha Romanov doesn't /do/ startled. She instead turns with slow consideration to fix her gaze on Bruce with a dipping nod of her head. "Dr. Banner," she says, and the elevator, more obedient to Bruce than Natasha, springs open. Her brow arcs. "That's a talent."
"What can I say? Sometimes I surprise even me," Bruce says, bland humor not missing a beat. He steps into the elevator at an easy lope, idly selecting his floor up top with the flick of his thumb. "Where you headed?" he asks her, eyebrows ticking up.
"Present for Mr. Stark," Natasha says, sliding a hand free from her back pocket to wiggle a tiny SD card at him. Her gaze turns considering, and there is the minutest of pauses before she steps into the elevator after him. She draws in a breath. "You?"
"Borrowing his R&D." Bruce tracks her progress, maybe notes the hesitation, maybe not; he gives little sign by his expression, which remains wry, as it often does. "Presents, huh?"
"Not as exciting as my last," Natasha answers, for surely Bruce has heard about their newly-given access to SHIELD's Asgardian treasures. She tucks the SD card back into her pocket and breathes in. Out. "He asked me to do a security review of the mansion."
Bruce settles his weight on his heels, hands tucked into the pockets of his slacks. He tilts his head, the twitch-together of his eyebrows a hint of baffle. What he says is just, "Yeah?"
"Mostly tight," Natasha says. "Some holes. Not enough routes out. Easy enough fixes, with a little time and plenty of money." Her gaze remains fixed on the numbers as they creep, creep, creep upward. This tower is fucking tall.
"Right," Bruce says, watching her watch the numbers. There is a beat's pause, wherein he says nothing, consideringly. Finally Bruce follows up: "What mansion?"
Natasha startles, looking toward Bruce with plain surprise. There is a long beat before she says, "The mansion he's expecting you to move into."
Bruce looks blank. Then, slowly, he starts to smile. The smile becomes more of a grin as he turns his head, laugh swallowed down to nothing but the puff of breath past his teeth. Then he says: "Oh." A beat's pause. /Another/ beat. Then, control of himself achieved, he appends: "/That/ mansion."
"Tony Stark built us a fucking clubhouse," Natashs mutters in reply, and turns her gaze numberwards again.
Hands shrugged deeper into his pockets, Bruce bounces a little on his heels, and smiles up at the climbing elevator numbers, blink slow and eyes bright as they crinkle at the corners. He says, at length: "Cool."
Natasha turns her head to give Bruce Banner a Look, and the doors ding open. She wastes absolutely no time in stepping through, tossing a wave behind her as she goes. She has business to do.
Bruce totally breaks up laughing once she has left the elevator and no one can see him except Jarvis. Who is always watching him.
=NYC= Avengers Mansion - Upper East Side - NYC
An outward facade of brick covers the thoroughly modern protection buried within and on the thick wall encircling the Avengers Mansion at 890 Fifth Avenue. Occupying an entire (small) block of prime Manhattan real estate, the gates, emblazoned with a stylized A, open toward Central Park. Reddish brown stone forms the decorative elements against a backdrop of pale cream in a style pulled straight from the turn of the last century. The lawns are well-maintained but simple; they have been cleared of obstruction but also of decoration to allow clear lines of sight from the walls to the building itself. The foyer of the mansion spans the height of the above-ground floors with a balcony above reachable by paired staircases sweeping up the side. The ground floor is dominated by the twin needs of training and provisioning.
The courtesy of the request made of Natasha very strongly implies (really, it outright /states/) that Pepper wrote it. Despite that, it is from Stark's personal address, unsigned and without signature as is his manner. Very nicely the email asks if she will swing the Maria Stark Foundation Museum on 890 Fifth Avenue for a security consultation. So. That's where Stark is waiting. Happy is with the car and his other body guard is at the gate where shiny new metal has the look of a /very/ recent installation. Let me go back and emphasize a fact again: /Stark is on time/. Natasha really must be a special kind of terrifying. He is dressed down and has sunglasses firmly in place as he walks around the entry area.
Natasha is not on time. In fact, she makes Tony wait ten whole minutes before she appears not in front of the building in a cab or car, but behind Tony Stark. She taps him on the back of the shoulder. Hi.
Stark startles like /anything/: his shoulders come back, his chin jerks up, and his hands spasm and drop his phone. He does not have super reflexes. His phone hits the ground -- or more accurately, lands with relative softness on astonishingly dense, scrupulously neat plush grass. His eyes are wide when he looks back at Natasha, and his security is all oblivious to her. Obviously he should hire her and Clint instead, y/y? "You," he says, leaning over to pick up his phone with an old man stiffness, "are going to be the death of me." He straightens with his phone in hand to thumb his sunglasses back in place. "Damn ninja." Verbally, he recovers quickly; his breath eases back to normal a little more slowly: "Okay. Show me where the holes are so we can plug them."
Still more accurately, Tony's phone lands in the suddenly-present cradle of Natasha's booted foot as she slides it into place, then flicks her ankle to toss it up to catch with a thoughtless midair grab. "Pretty sure something a lot uglier will be the death of you," she answers, deadpan. She jerks her chin toward the mansion with a lift of her brows. "Nice place. /Big/ place."
That's acceptable. /Ninja/. Stark looks at the phone in her hand with a cramped sort of expression. His fingers wiggle in indecision and then he holds his hand out for the phone: give it to him. "I don't know. If I'm going to go, wouldn't mind going to something pretty. I'm pretty sure that my actuarial tables tipped heavily toward dying in bed surrounded by women up until quite recently." Now there's all kinds of other things to crowd out the averages: death by shrapnel, by fall, by fire, by crushing, by gunshot, by energy blast, by nuclear explosion, by asphyxiation in space--. "It's not bad. A little concerned about lines of sight with it so low to the ground, honestly. Feel crowded, here. Going to be a problem for Barton?"
Natasha twists Stark's phone in her hand, then tosses it up a bit to flip it over. And over. And over. "'Recently' seems pretty important," Natasha reminds. She turns, phone still in hand (flip, flip), to study the house itself. "It's not ideal," she admits. "But nowhere ever is. Towers have their own problems. Easier to make sure you have half a dozen outs, here. Harder to secure half a dozen outs."
Stark continues to hold his hand out for his phone with his only reaction to her flipping it an arch of his eyebrows. "That's what you're for." Glancing past her to the building and then back again, he tips his head. "Your idea of ideal is a flying aircraft carrier that goes invisible. Let's the walk the ground to see what we mere mortals--" HA HA. "--will have to make do with." HA HA HA.
"At least you know quality work," Natasha says, dry. She gives Stark a brief glance, then nods and sets off forward into the grounds (flip). "I've already noticed a few things," she beings, drawing a line up to the roof with one finger. "Small blindspots someone skilled could exploit. Line of sight issues. I'll show you."
"Jarvis," says Stark, hands folded behind his back as he sets off after Natasha. "Please export local data to home server and wipe."
The sound of Jarvis's voice goes in and out just a little as the speaker tumbles with the flip-flip. "Yes, sir." A moment later, the screen sets, wiped to a default StarkPhone boot-up screen.
Following the line of her point, Stark cants his head. He looks a bit uncertain at just what it is that she is pointing out. "You're the expert. You guys have anything for preventing weirdos from /teleporting/ in?"
"That seems like your area," Natasha answers, all level. She stops her phone flipping for a moment, pausing in her glance at Stark, and then tosses it toward him. Heads up! "Ours is just to be handy with guns nearby."
There's a twitch on Stark's features as he catches the phone -- not as neatly as she would, but he catches it -- and then pockets it. He touches it likely, as though he would prefer not to handle it, and wipes his hand on the seat of his jeans. His expression is faintly distracted as he considers the building. "Still working on identifying the tech. I'll let you know when I've got magic-blocking up and running."
Natasha falls silent for a moment, through several steps around the perimeter. When she speaks again, it's to change the subject with a few approving words for the security here even as she points out a potential lapse there. She doesn't bother to point out that it's only the /really good ones/ who'd be able to exploit them. It's only the really good ones who'd try.
What lapses there are -- and it isn't perfect, of course there are some -- would take the talent of a /really good one/ to spot, or to break. The security is good, although Stark does not seem to be relying much on /people/ to watch the grounds. It all feeds -- where else? -- to Jarvis. He loses some of the tension that he holds across his shoulders as they continue, and it is clear that the house is now fully wired for the AI when he makes his comments to the air to be answered by that clipped British accent. Notes are made and properly filed for attention and action. The building is still pretty empty, but it is quite coming into shape. "You going to be joining us?" he asks at one point or another.
Natasha pauses at the question, turning to look out a second story window with a thoughtful frown. Rather than answer, she turns her head to fix her gaze on Tony. "Why are you doing this?"
"I can," Stark says, which is perhaps more honest than his flippancy would suggest. "I want to. I don't think we're going to be able to hang up our helmets and handguns and retire. Do you?"
"We can," Natasha answers with a slight shake of her head. She shifts slightly, tracking the view from a different angle before she turns to look at Tony. "But I don't think any of us have it in us, no."
"Always one more thing to do." Stark presses a thumb to the near windowsill and pushes on it in an idle fidget. He tucks his hands back away. "So if the world still needs the Avengers, I think we deserve better than the cold comforts of the Helicarrier, thank you."
Natasha's brows rise slightly, but even she can't make much of an argument for the Helicarrier after their last trip aboard it. Instead what she says is, "I have an apartment. So does Captain Rogers. You have a /tower/."
"While I'll grant that I do have a very nice tower," says Stark, and no, he doesn't say the same about the apartments, "I'm pretty sure I shouldn't have to point out the tactical advantages." Canting his head as he looks back to her, he adds, "It's an open invitation, anyway, if you change your mind in the future."
"You're moving in?" Natasha checks, studying Stark with an intensity that might be a bit discomforting. "Who else? Banner? Rogers?"
"Set up my main workshop here," Stark confirms, which says /way/ more about where he might spend his time than where he moved his pillows. He is pretty used to intense looks, but even he can't help but sideye Natasha at her scrutiny. "Rogers seemed in favor of the idea. If Banner doesn't trip over himself to get into the lab here then I just don't know what to do with him."
"Our very own little Avengers clubhouse," Natasha answers, her tone a mix of disbelief and mocking amusement. She shakes her head, then turns and paces to the next window to double-check the line of sight.
"Club house is slightly better than the frat house your presence would just barely rule out," Stark points out with a rock forward onto his toes as he pushes down the hall. "Obviously we need more women."
"Do we?" Natasha turns to glance at Tony, brows quirked again, before she draws a finger along the window's edge, searching out security she knows is there. Pressure, light, sound: glass and frame both are secured against a possible break. The glass itself has a slightly unusual quality to it characteristic of glass which can be polarized to allow no light through if need be. The thick frame has room for more substantial shielding to come down ... just in case. "What, are you kidding? Of course we do. Numbers are all off. Bad PR."
"This job is hell on girl's social life," Natasha says lightly, steps quiet as she continues along the line of windows.
"Tell me about it. Do you know how hard it has been on mine? No, wait. Don't tell me about it," Stark says, reconsidering as soon as the words have left his mouth. "You probably can. With footnotes. And yet -- we continue."
"Don't tell me we'll have to knock 'playboy' off your list of titles," Natasha answers, turning a glance toward Tony. "Maybe you should take a walk down Tenth Avenure in your suit. Or throw a party. That should help matters."
"But what could I replace it with? Can't let playboy go aside -- unless maybe hero," says Stark, and then mouths 'genius billionaire hero philanthropist'. "Syllables work. Don't think I'll have to worry much about shedding the reputation, though." As they come out to the main entry, he leans against the balcony overlooking the main floor. He does not seem heartbroken to have the title threatened. "Thinking about a party, though. I mean -- shwarama was great, but we really needed more."
Natasha pauses in earnest then, abandoning her study (re-study - she's been over this floor at least once before) in favor of frowning at Tony Stark. "Needed more?"
"Uhm, we saved the world," Stark points out to Natasha with the point of a finger. (Rude.) "That deserves a party."
"Loki's free again," Natasha answers, folding her arms across her chest. "And armed. And he's got /friends/."
Stark sighs. "Yeah." He doodles a pattern on the balcony with his fingertip. "First the timing wasn't right, with Agent Coulson -- but then he's alive, and the timing's still bad, because now we've mysteriously appearing Nazis and Loki running around. Maybe we can save the world /again/ and throw the party /then/."
"Not everything needs a party, Stark. Some things are just-- the job." Natasha Romanov: killjoy.
"Ugh, you're so Russian," says Stark, then he contradicts himself by adding, "but even a Russian wouldn't turn down the chance for vodka."
Natasha starts to say something, then pauses, eyes narrowing. "Depends on the vodka."
Stark spreads his hands wide and looks at her. He /looks/ at her. /Please/. /Would he serve bad vodka/.
Natasha lifts her brows. He might serve /American/ vodka.
Only if it is very good American vodka. "Fun just like -- dies. Around you. You have this fun-killing aura. I can see it." Stark closes his eyes and touches his temples to gesture. "Five meters around you and expanding in every direction."
"I'm fairly certain that 'fun' is not in any part of my job description," Natasha answers. Dry.
"I've always preferred to read between the lines of my job descriptions," Stark counters.
"You've always considered yourself above job descriptions," Natasha counters.
"I /am/ above job descriptions." Stark arches his eyebrows at Natasha with a tip of his head back and to the side as he considers her. "You should be, too."
Natasha gives Stark the barest hint of a smile. "I am."
"Clearly." Gesturing, Stark asks, "Anything else you want to see, Agent Buzzkill?"
"I've barely started, Mr. Stark," Natasha answers, twitching her brows up. "But you don't need to babysit me. I'll take a look at your bolt holes and see how they can be shored up, too. Go home. Call some girls and have a party."
Stark glances up, around, and then back. He tips his head and says, "Knock yourself out. I'm sure you'll have all kinds of fun imagining devious ways to poison us in our sleep. Enjoy your evening, Agent Romanov."
Natasha disappears without saying goodbye. She just slips away, fading into the depths of the mansion, and gets to work.
Most visits to Stark Tower involve a skirt or a well-tailored pantsuit. Today Natasha's business is different, and she's dressed for it in casual jeans and a black tank that does a nice job of showing off every curve she's got. And she's got 'em. Her hands are free, tucked into her back pockets as she considers the lit numbers above the elevator door and waits.
Bruce approaches the lobby elevator at a shuffle. At some point, someone (Pepper) gave him a regular ID card to let him in the building despite the fact that he is not employed here. Right now, he is messing with it as he walks, fiddling around with the laminate plastic. He is dressed in a dark blue button-down shirt that would look nicer if it didn't carry just a slightly inappropriate sheen to its fabric (i.e., it is painfully cheap) and a pair of tan slacks. His eye wanders past Natasha and then skips back to her in a surprised identification that might be a tiny bit comical. He says, "Hey," and pokes the elevator button to summon the elevator car even though Natasha has clearly already done this, because that is the kind of guy he is.
Natasha isn't startled - Natasha Romanov doesn't /do/ startled. She instead turns with slow consideration to fix her gaze on Bruce with a dipping nod of her head. "Dr. Banner," she says, and the elevator, more obedient to Bruce than Natasha, springs open. Her brow arcs. "That's a talent."
"What can I say? Sometimes I surprise even me," Bruce says, bland humor not missing a beat. He steps into the elevator at an easy lope, idly selecting his floor up top with the flick of his thumb. "Where you headed?" he asks her, eyebrows ticking up.
"Present for Mr. Stark," Natasha says, sliding a hand free from her back pocket to wiggle a tiny SD card at him. Her gaze turns considering, and there is the minutest of pauses before she steps into the elevator after him. She draws in a breath. "You?"
"Borrowing his R&D." Bruce tracks her progress, maybe notes the hesitation, maybe not; he gives little sign by his expression, which remains wry, as it often does. "Presents, huh?"
"Not as exciting as my last," Natasha answers, for surely Bruce has heard about their newly-given access to SHIELD's Asgardian treasures. She tucks the SD card back into her pocket and breathes in. Out. "He asked me to do a security review of the mansion."
Bruce settles his weight on his heels, hands tucked into the pockets of his slacks. He tilts his head, the twitch-together of his eyebrows a hint of baffle. What he says is just, "Yeah?"
"Mostly tight," Natasha says. "Some holes. Not enough routes out. Easy enough fixes, with a little time and plenty of money." Her gaze remains fixed on the numbers as they creep, creep, creep upward. This tower is fucking tall.
"Right," Bruce says, watching her watch the numbers. There is a beat's pause, wherein he says nothing, consideringly. Finally Bruce follows up: "What mansion?"
Natasha startles, looking toward Bruce with plain surprise. There is a long beat before she says, "The mansion he's expecting you to move into."
Bruce looks blank. Then, slowly, he starts to smile. The smile becomes more of a grin as he turns his head, laugh swallowed down to nothing but the puff of breath past his teeth. Then he says: "Oh." A beat's pause. /Another/ beat. Then, control of himself achieved, he appends: "/That/ mansion."
"Tony Stark built us a fucking clubhouse," Natashs mutters in reply, and turns her gaze numberwards again.
Hands shrugged deeper into his pockets, Bruce bounces a little on his heels, and smiles up at the climbing elevator numbers, blink slow and eyes bright as they crinkle at the corners. He says, at length: "Cool."
Natasha turns her head to give Bruce Banner a Look, and the doors ding open. She wastes absolutely no time in stepping through, tossing a wave behind her as she goes. She has business to do.
Bruce totally breaks up laughing once she has left the elevator and no one can see him except Jarvis. Who is always watching him.