Steve; Clint
Aug. 18th, 2012 01:09 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
aa_natasha http://aa.mudmagic.com/w/index.php/2012-08-17_Settling_In
=NYC= Great Room - Ground Floor - Avengers Mansion
The Great Room at Avengers Mansion earns its place namely by its size: the dining facilities are rather expansive, and consolidate several different purposes in one area. Apart from the large dining area, there is also a sizable kitchen off one end, stock full of buffed metal and shiny appliances. An entertainment room is on the other, with a television that is almost /too/ big, and just about every entertainment and video game console known to man.
It's not quite dusk, but the sun is starting to sink low behind the touring buildings of New York City, and the Great Room's tall windows fill the room with a mix of shadows and gold-tinged light. Natasha sits in the latter, tucked into an arm chair with a glass of amber-colored liquid over ice balanced in one hand.
Steve is exploring. He's a good mark for it, his gaze open and expansive as he takes in all the details of the different areas. His head is tipped back to admire the high ceilings of the Great Room as he enters, though it drops soon enough to espy Natasha in her seat. "Hey," he greets her with a friendly smile, wandering closer.
Natasha has kicked one leg up over the arm of the chair, and she turns her head to track Steve as soon as he enters the room. "Tony Stark," she says rather than answering a hello, "has /excellent/ taste in liquor."
"Well, I'd assume he has expensive taste, but I guess that usually means excellent taste." Steve pulls up a less plush chair, aiming the back of it at the tall windows and straddling it to admire the early sunset. "Never had expensive liquor before."
"Sometimes," Natasha says, swirling her glass lightly. "Not always." At Steve's comment her brows rise and she gives him a moment of study before rising swiftly and gracefully (despite that dangling leg) from her chair. "Well," she says, brisk on her way to the bar. "That's a damn shame and we're going to fix it right now. What do you drink?"
"Didn't have the money for anything that decent," Steve says with a wry smile. "Mostly drank beer." His smile twitches, and he looks back to the window. "Whisky if I was trying to get drunk."
"Absolute travesty that you can't anymore," Natasha opines. She's thoughtful for a moment as she considers the wide variety of available liquors before she shrugs and tips a finger or two's worth of the same whisky she's drinking into a glass. "But at least you can appreciate the good stuff these days." She crosses the oversized room with a glass in each and to pause in front of him, whisky extended.
"I guess." Steve reaches for the glass she offers, canting his head to just look at the swirl of amber liquid inside at first. Then he sniffs, careful and considering, before taking a sip. His brows sweep upwards.
Natasha's smile is slow and small and deeply pleased. She tips her head back to look up at him, gauging his reaction with appreciation. "Different?" she says.
"Yeah," Steve says. "A lot smoother than I remember." He swirls the liquid around the glass again, draping his arm on the back of his chair and setting his chin upon it.
"That's money you're tasting," Natasha says. She lifts her own glass for a small, appreciative sip. "If Stark's buying, I'm not turning him down."
"I can remember the first time I tasted whisky," Steve says, expression thoughtful. "They'd just repeated Prohibition. Wasn't actually that big a deal by then -- you could ask a cop where to get drinks in the city -- but it didn't seem right to me before it was official. Bucky and I pooled our money."
Natasha's brows shoot upward over the rim of her glass. Lowering it, she remarks, "Quite young, weren't you?"
"Well." Steve just shrugs, smiling, and doesn't argue.
Natasha's expression shifts, and for a moment she looks notably impressed. "Captain Rogers," she says, all pleased shock. "There's a little bit of rebel in you after all."
"More like there was a lot in Bucky," Steve corrects, the fondness in his voice not bereft of quiet longing. "He was always best at getting me to do things."
"You don't follow even a friend in directions you don't really want to go," Natasha says. She gives Steve one last look before turning to slip down into her chair again. This time she doesn't drape her legs. "Bucky was one of your childhood friends?"
"I would've followed Bucky anywhere," Steve says quietly. He looks down at his glass, swallowing, then lifts it to take another sip, as if it will actually have an effect. "He was my best friend. In the Howling Commandos with me. I lost him."
"In the--" Natasha starts before she breaks off, watching Steve quietly while her brain chases the memory of Howling Commandos who didn't survive the war, and of any with names that might possibly be turned into 'Bucky'. After a moment she says softly, "I'm sorry. Losing people is-- never easy."
"No," Steve agrees, and says nothing more on the subject of his late friend.
Natasha marks that silence for a moment, then lifts her glass with a tinkle of ice and adds dryly, "Especially when you can't get drunk."
"That's when I figured it out, you know," Steve says with a tight, pained smile. "After Bucky. Apparently Dr. Erskine thought it might be a side effect, but nobody had told me that."
"That is truly, deeply tragic," Natasha says, solemn. After a moment she lifts her glass, tilting it toward Steve. "We could still toast him, if you like?"
Steve looks back over at her with a faint smile. He just looks at her a moment, then finally lifts his glass. "To James Buchanan Barnes," he says quietly. "He always had my back."
Well, that solves /that/ mystery, anyway. Natasha watches Steve with quiet seriousness, and she lifts her own glass a touch higher in return as she murmurs, "Za druzhbu," and drinks.
Steve finishes off the last of his drink, enjoying the sting even if he can't enjoy the after-effects. "What does that mean?" he asks Natasha of the Russian.
Natasha lowers her glass, empty save for the slowly-melting ice, to rest on the arm of the chair. The smile she gives Steve is small, and her eyes are sad. "To friendship," she answers.
Steve nods in subdued approval. "A good toast," he says.
Natasha nods slightly, settled back in her chair. For a moment she's quiet, letting the moment stretch in silence. Eventually she glances toward Steve with curiosity marked in her eyes. "How old were you when you met?"
"Gosh, I don't know," Steve says, examining his empty glass while he thinks. "Eight or nine? I was getting beat up on my way home from school. Bucky was always pulling guys off me I was too stubborn to run away from."
"Stubborn?" Natasha says, dry complete-lack-of-surprise in her voice. "You?"
Steve's smile reappears, wry but warm. "I know," he says. "Hard to believe."
"Why'd you do it?" Natasha wonders, twisting her glass a little just to hear the ice clank against the sides. "All those fights. Scrawny little guy."
"I don't like bullies," Steve says simply.
"But you like getting hit in the face?" Natasha wonders, brows lifted in elegant query.
"I'm not particularly fond of either," Steve says, voice drying.
"Well," Natasha says, not quite smiling, and she lifts her glass again before turning a frown down toward it, as if noticing for the first time that it is empty.
"What about you?" Steve asks, perhaps a little suddenly.
"I don't care for being punched in the face either," Natasha says, rising once more with a move no less graceful for a glass of whisky. She extends her hand for Steve's cup with a querying glance.
"Not much point in wasting the money," Steve says, keeping a hold on his glass. "I moreso meant -- well, I just don't know that much about you."
"It's not wasted if you enjoy it," Natasha answers, but she doesn't press further and turns away without his glass. Her steps are silent as they cross to the bar. "There's not much to know," she says, twisting the cap free to pour herself another generous portion of whisky. "I've been doing this job for a very long time."
"I'd rather have a Coca-Cola, all things considered," Steve admits. He watches her pour herself another glass, his gaze curious, but he too doesn't press further. "Yeah, it sure seems like it," he says instead, settling on polite compliments.
"We've got that, too," Natasha says. She slides from bar to kitchen, tugging the fridge open with a light touch to retrieve Steve's drink. It's canned, not bottled, as they tend to come these days, but it's Coke nonetheless. She delivers it to him on the palm of her hand, whisky held light in the other.
"What'd they do to it, anyways?" Steve asks, suddenly reminded as he sets down his empty glass to reach for the can of Coke.
"To?" Natasha asks, a second or two (but only a second or two) slower on the uptake after a glass (two? was that her first?) of fine whisky. "Ah - the Coke. Changed the sweetener, I believe. The good old US of A likes corn syrup. The rest of the world still prefers real sugar."
"Corn syrup," Steve echoes, baffled. "They sweeten it with -- corn?" He looks at the can a touch more warily.
"That and half the other food we eat these days. Iowa farmers love it." Natasha looks amused as she crosses the room, bypassing her chair in favor of peering out the window at the ever-growing shadows.
"Weird." Steve snaps the can open, only to draw her attention to it a moment later. "This, by the way?" he tells her with every appearance of sincerity. "/Really/ cool."
"We've made a few improvements in the past sixty years," Natasha acknowledges. Her knuckles rap lightly against the window's not-glass. "This stuff, for example. What i would've have given for this on a safehouse in Bolivia four years ago."
"Yeah, Jarvis was telling me all about the security measures," Steve says, shaking his head a bit disbelievingly. "Sometimes it's just -- a lot. Everything you guys can do now."
"The problem," Natasha murmurs, trailing a line to the window's edge with a critical eye for the security measures there, "is that it's not just us. /Everyone/ can do it."
"You think the mansion's security isn't enough?" Steve asks, brow furrowing.
"No security is ever /enough/," Natasha answers. She turns, casting a glance at him over the curve of her shoulder in the dimming light. "It's better than most, though. I looked it over before Stark started handing out keys. "
"Well, you're the expert," Steve says with a crooked smile. "I'm glad he asked you, at least."
"He's buttering me up," Natasha answers, so deadpan that it's perhaps difficult to tell whether she's joking.
"For what?" Steve wonders seriously.
"Maybe he wants a pet assassin," Natasha suggests. She turns her gaze to the window again, glass lifted for a slow sip.
"I suppose that would be a reason for buttering," Steve agrees amiably.
"So," Natasha says, turning to tilt her shoulder into the wall. "Are you taking Stark up on the offer?"
"I like the idea of us -- being under one roof," Steve says. "Good for morale and team-building. And we can keep an eye on each other." He cants his head. "I like my apartment in Brooklyn, though."
"Have you /met/ our team?" Natasha checks with a faint smile.
"Why do you think I want us all in one place?" Steve replies without missing a beat.
Natasha gives Steve a dry look before she pushes off the wall and lifts her glass for a sip. "Well. Have you seen the place yet? The rooms Stark's carved out might change your mind about your Brooklyn place."
"Yeah, I've seen." Steve goes strangely shifty like he's, of all things, a little embarrassed. "He found an old poster of me. From back during the war. Put it up in my room."
Natasha is startled into a sudden choke of laughter, short but genuine. "That man positively delights in torment," she says. Then after a moment, "Is it a good poster?"
"It's--" Steve, very slightly, flushes. "Well, you know, it was a big problem. During the war."
"Posters?" Natasha's brows are very eloquent. Just now they express doubt and bemusement.
"It was about -- uhm." Steve gestures very ineloquently, then clears his throat and drops his voice just a touch to say, "VD."
Natasha blinks, blinks again, and then answers dryly, "Not enough condoms, hm?"
"Uhm." Steve most distinctly does not look at Natasha. "They distributed them. To the troops and everything."
"Do you want me to stop talking about condoms and STIs, Captain Rogers?" Natasha asks, her voice low and rich with amusement.
"Uhm," Steve says eloquently.
"I mean, I imagine I can talk more on the subject, but you're starting to look a little flushed."
"No, that's all right," Steve says, clearing his throat again.
"I'm sorry," Natasha says, though she doesn't look /that/ apologetic. "I shouldn't tease you. It's not your fault you were born in 1918. Or-- posed for anti-VD propaganda posters."
"It was a serious problem in the ranks," Steve mumbles, barely audible.
"If you want to change the subject, I suggest you stop tempting me, Captain," Natasha says with arched brows.
Steve falls awkwardly silent. This is his best non-tempting face.
Natasha is gracious and helpful. She says, "What did you do with the poster?"
"I, uh--" This embarrassment is of a distinctly different breed as the last. "I can't get it off the wall."
Natasha has an excellent poker face, and it takes some degree of willpower to employ it just now. After a moment and a sip she asks, "What would you /like/ done with it?"
"Well, it's kind of--" Steve scrubs a hand along the back of his head. "I mean, it's not just the VD thing, I just feel awkward having pictures of myself around."
"It will be gone tomorrow," Natasha says, solemn promise.
"Well -- don't break it," Steve requests. "It doesn't belong to me."
Natasha regards Steve silently, sips, and then lies, "I won't break it."
"Okay," Steve says, eyeing her with a frown.
Natasha lifts her glass in silent toast, then finishes the last of her whisky with a quick swallow before turning toward the kitchen. "I'll see you around," she says.
"See you, Natasha," Steve says, his smile flashing quick but warm as he watches her head out.
Natasha leaves her dishes atop a counter as she goes, and then she disappears through a door and is gone.
8/18/2012
=NYC= Clint's Room - Second Floor - Avengers Mansion
Perhaps more surprising than the size of this three-room suite is the quiet. Thick walls and multi-paned windows keep out the city's daily clamor -- and neighboring noises, too. The plush carpet that softens the floor in the study and bedroom is a miracle of modern material sciences. You won't believe how easy it is to get bloodstains out of it! The tiles in the bathroom have the look of old stone, and warm in cold winters to chase away the chill. Each suite has its own set of environmental controls, so no fighting over the temperature.
Furniture defaults to a gentle modernity of soft curves and long lines. Comfort has not been sacrificed to style, nor style to comfort. The color palette is different in each room, but never jarring. While the rooms lack active video surveillance, Jarvis is at hand, though he speaks only when spoken to.
As twilight sinks across the city in deep indigos and midnight blues, something stirs outside Haweye's window. It shows itself in a light raptaptap against his window and the pale oval of Natasha's face lit by a nearby streetlight. She wiggles her fingers against the glass, listening to the dancing sound her nails make as they strike it.
Clint has the gun out at the sound of a rap against his glass, the solid feel of steel held against his thigh as he crosses the rooms to the window that Natasha inhabits. Ease flows through his posture at catching sight of the familiar face, his gun holstered before he steps to unlock the window and allow the agent access. "They're going to talk," he says, but not without a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
"Pft," Natasha says with a languid, whisky-laced dismissal. "No one saw me." Her voice grows very solemn as she ducks inside with over-careful movements that serve as a sure sign to Clint, at least, that she has a few in her system. "I'm very sneaky."
"Natasha Romanov, are you drunk?" Clint drawls dryly, his arms crossing his chest as he levels a look on the woman with the hint of warm amusement to rich, brown eyes.
Natasha rolls her eyes and moves to flop on the nearest piece of furniture with a boneless sort of sprawl. "Three whiskys doesn't make me /drunk/," she says. "I made it up the side of this ridiculous house, didn't I?"
Clint looks disbelieving, a curve of his brow upwards as he tuurns on his heel while watching Natasha flop onto his couch. "So, you're saying you want a drink?" he asks.
Natasha lifts her head, perking slightly. "Do you have anything good? I was enjoying Tony Stark's ridiculously good taste in whisky."
"I took a bottle from downstairs," Clint allows with a quirk of a smile, setting off at that to gather a glass and the stolen whiskey before returning with two generous portions. One is handed off towards Natasha before he sinks into a free chair rather than trying to join her on the sofa. "Just moved in and drunk already, Tasha? I think we need to get you out of Stark's influence."
"You've seen me /drunk/, Barton," Natasha says with half-hearted annoyance. She straightens enough to take the glass, then tilts it toward Clint's in automatic habit with a murmured "Za tvoye zdorov'ye" to accompany. Her first sip is testing, then she nods in approval and wiggles back against the arm of the couch to consider Clint's rooms with a wandering eye.
I don't understand that.
"Za fstry-tchoo," intones Clint more seriously, for all that he watches her as he tips back a measure of the whiskey into his own lips. Watching her observe her room. There is no personal imprint yet on the room, except for that slight slope to his walls that indicate his closeness to the roof. "Not since Belarus."
"No excuse for forgetting what it looks like," Natasha answers in distraction. She blinks after a moment, pulling her attention back to Clint. She twists her glass between her fingers and pulls her legs up, feet perched on Clint's sofa and knees bent before her. "So you're staying?"
Clint quirks an eyebrow up at her, but whatever he may wish to say passes unspoken, perhaps thinking better of it. Instead, he answers dismissively, "Better than the shithole I can afford."
"You know Stark's got his AI listening in all the damn time," Natasha tells him. She tips her head back and calls, "Isn't that right, Jarvis?"
There's half a beat before the AI responds, "That is correct, Agent Romanov."
"Except for the women moaning my name, I don't expect he'll overhear much of anything interesting," Clint replies, his lips flashing in a grin towards Natasha and a teasing suggestion in the draw of his brows.
Natasha says, "Going to sneak them past security and in through your window, Barton?" Natasha asks with an arch lift of her brows.""
"I don't think Stark will object," he counters, easily. Clint's shoulder shrugs up as he sips at his whiskey, leaning back in his chair.
"He had me check the security measures," Natasha answers, lifting her glass for a pointed gesture. "I think he would."
Clint just exhales a laugh, answering simply, "I noticed. Happy with them, Romanov?"
"I wish SHIELD could get their hands on some of Tony Stark's security measures," Natasha admits in the presence of a trusted friend. She frowns after a moment and then calls, "Don't you dare tell him I said that, Jarvis!"
"Of course not, Agent Romanov."
Natasha scowls and then drinks, slowly. "It's not perfect. But it's very, very good."
Clint's grin only reappears as Natasha speaks again to the artificial intelligence, but he offers wryly, "Want to go to the roof?" He is not entirely joking, his finger twitching slightly against his glass. "And you, Tasha? You staying?"
"Will you carry me back down?" Natasha asks with a teasing flutter of her lashes before she stirs, pushing to her feet with a grace that comes easy despite the alcohol. It's burned into bone and muscle, and though it takes more concentration, her balance is still quite good. She disappears through the window and onto the widow's walk without giving an answer.
Clint doesn't answer until he's joined her, the same lithe grace in the way his muscles move and the way he finds his balance on the roof. The delay becomes noticably reasoned where he tosses a blanket at her, nodding for her to spread it out. "Think it can hear us up here?" he questions first.
"Yes," Natasha says with a glance over her shoulder. She snatches the blanket out of the air with one hand, then drops it to the ground and tucks her whisky next to it. "Hi Jarvis," she intones, and then moves across the roof to do a bit of quick fiddling. It doesn't take long - she's clearly already checked the measures necessary to keep the AI out of this space, at least. When she returns, she looks insufferably smug. "No."
"Thank God," Clint replies as he throws himself carelessly on the blanket, stretching out his legs as he takes another sip of his own whiskey and watches Natasha with a subtle look. "Are you, Tasha?" he repeats.
Natasha lowers herself next to Clint, legs tucked up under her, and reaches for her whisky with an easy stretch. "Haven't decided yet," she admits lowly. She turns her head toward him, watching. "I thought we might need to keep an eye on them, but if you'll be here--"
"You'll leave me to babysit on my own?" The words finish hers with some wry amusement, his leg pressing against her knee as he leans into that bit of space in between them. Clint waits, his brows lifted in a continued question.
"Are you saying I can't trust you with the job?" Natasha returns, her own brows lifted in echoing query.
"All on my own?" Clint questions innocently, though his lips quirk in a smile as he presses his knee against hers again. "You can." A pause. "You should stay anyways, Natasha."
Natasha turns away, looking forward across Central Park as she brings her glass to her lips. "We'll see," she says, soft after a long moment's silence. She sips again, then asks, "Is she ready for Latveria?"
Clint's lips open at Natasha's answer, but he only eventually raises his whiskey for a long sip. He answers dryly, "Give her two years more of training, and maybe, but we do not have that long. Anymore time won't do any difference."
Natasha lifts a hand to press her thumb and forefinger against her eyes before she sides and nods, dropping her hand into her lap. "I agree," she says. "Though she could be much worse. Soon, then."
"Get paperwork in order, cover identities in place, and plane tickets booked," Clint summarizes, his gaze dragging over her hand as she pinches her eyes, lingering on the line of her arm before he glances off towards the expanse of lights folding out before them.
Natasha gives Clint a slow nod and then falls silent over the rim of her glass. She shifts, stretching her legs in front of her and leaning back into the brace of one arm.
It is one of those comfortable silences, the kind that only comes with enough liquor between them to blunt sharp edges and warm coldness to the point of companionable moments. Clint does not reach for more, nor does he expect it, basking in the low background of noise of New York City at night and his own watch over it.
Eventually Natasha finishes her whisky and stretches out on her back, curling one arm behind her head and looking toward the light-crowded heavens.
And eventually, Clint lays down beside her, a hint of reluctance to give up his vigil even as he ruffles red curls with one hand and props his own hand to cushion himself. "I'm ready for Latveria," he tells her, reassuringly.
Natasha bats Clint's hand away with a half-hearted wave of hers before she gives him a smile that is undeniably sleepy. "You're always ready," she says.
"That's what she said," Clint drawls, lightly, as he draws his hand away and tucks it behind his head as well.
Natasha snorts and kicks sideways at Clint's foot without any real force. "Watch it, Barton."
"Or what, Romanov?" The question shows his own sleepiness, a slight slur that would likely give away nothing if the person he were talking to wasn't Natasha, a smile hanging at the corners of Clint's lips even as his eyes try to slide shut.
"Or I'm turning Jarvis back on and going back downstairs," Natasha threatens.
Clint chuckles, calling her bluff with a teasing, "Alright."
Natasha doesn't bother to back it up. Her lips curve in a silent smile and she closes her eyes in the quiet.
With a soft laugh that sounds more of an exhale when it hits his lips, Clint does not gloat any further or press his luck. Instead, he allows his eyes to slide close as well even as he slides that much closer in the cool touch of the night air.
=NYC= Great Room - Ground Floor - Avengers Mansion
The Great Room at Avengers Mansion earns its place namely by its size: the dining facilities are rather expansive, and consolidate several different purposes in one area. Apart from the large dining area, there is also a sizable kitchen off one end, stock full of buffed metal and shiny appliances. An entertainment room is on the other, with a television that is almost /too/ big, and just about every entertainment and video game console known to man.
It's not quite dusk, but the sun is starting to sink low behind the touring buildings of New York City, and the Great Room's tall windows fill the room with a mix of shadows and gold-tinged light. Natasha sits in the latter, tucked into an arm chair with a glass of amber-colored liquid over ice balanced in one hand.
Steve is exploring. He's a good mark for it, his gaze open and expansive as he takes in all the details of the different areas. His head is tipped back to admire the high ceilings of the Great Room as he enters, though it drops soon enough to espy Natasha in her seat. "Hey," he greets her with a friendly smile, wandering closer.
Natasha has kicked one leg up over the arm of the chair, and she turns her head to track Steve as soon as he enters the room. "Tony Stark," she says rather than answering a hello, "has /excellent/ taste in liquor."
"Well, I'd assume he has expensive taste, but I guess that usually means excellent taste." Steve pulls up a less plush chair, aiming the back of it at the tall windows and straddling it to admire the early sunset. "Never had expensive liquor before."
"Sometimes," Natasha says, swirling her glass lightly. "Not always." At Steve's comment her brows rise and she gives him a moment of study before rising swiftly and gracefully (despite that dangling leg) from her chair. "Well," she says, brisk on her way to the bar. "That's a damn shame and we're going to fix it right now. What do you drink?"
"Didn't have the money for anything that decent," Steve says with a wry smile. "Mostly drank beer." His smile twitches, and he looks back to the window. "Whisky if I was trying to get drunk."
"Absolute travesty that you can't anymore," Natasha opines. She's thoughtful for a moment as she considers the wide variety of available liquors before she shrugs and tips a finger or two's worth of the same whisky she's drinking into a glass. "But at least you can appreciate the good stuff these days." She crosses the oversized room with a glass in each and to pause in front of him, whisky extended.
"I guess." Steve reaches for the glass she offers, canting his head to just look at the swirl of amber liquid inside at first. Then he sniffs, careful and considering, before taking a sip. His brows sweep upwards.
Natasha's smile is slow and small and deeply pleased. She tips her head back to look up at him, gauging his reaction with appreciation. "Different?" she says.
"Yeah," Steve says. "A lot smoother than I remember." He swirls the liquid around the glass again, draping his arm on the back of his chair and setting his chin upon it.
"That's money you're tasting," Natasha says. She lifts her own glass for a small, appreciative sip. "If Stark's buying, I'm not turning him down."
"I can remember the first time I tasted whisky," Steve says, expression thoughtful. "They'd just repeated Prohibition. Wasn't actually that big a deal by then -- you could ask a cop where to get drinks in the city -- but it didn't seem right to me before it was official. Bucky and I pooled our money."
Natasha's brows shoot upward over the rim of her glass. Lowering it, she remarks, "Quite young, weren't you?"
"Well." Steve just shrugs, smiling, and doesn't argue.
Natasha's expression shifts, and for a moment she looks notably impressed. "Captain Rogers," she says, all pleased shock. "There's a little bit of rebel in you after all."
"More like there was a lot in Bucky," Steve corrects, the fondness in his voice not bereft of quiet longing. "He was always best at getting me to do things."
"You don't follow even a friend in directions you don't really want to go," Natasha says. She gives Steve one last look before turning to slip down into her chair again. This time she doesn't drape her legs. "Bucky was one of your childhood friends?"
"I would've followed Bucky anywhere," Steve says quietly. He looks down at his glass, swallowing, then lifts it to take another sip, as if it will actually have an effect. "He was my best friend. In the Howling Commandos with me. I lost him."
"In the--" Natasha starts before she breaks off, watching Steve quietly while her brain chases the memory of Howling Commandos who didn't survive the war, and of any with names that might possibly be turned into 'Bucky'. After a moment she says softly, "I'm sorry. Losing people is-- never easy."
"No," Steve agrees, and says nothing more on the subject of his late friend.
Natasha marks that silence for a moment, then lifts her glass with a tinkle of ice and adds dryly, "Especially when you can't get drunk."
"That's when I figured it out, you know," Steve says with a tight, pained smile. "After Bucky. Apparently Dr. Erskine thought it might be a side effect, but nobody had told me that."
"That is truly, deeply tragic," Natasha says, solemn. After a moment she lifts her glass, tilting it toward Steve. "We could still toast him, if you like?"
Steve looks back over at her with a faint smile. He just looks at her a moment, then finally lifts his glass. "To James Buchanan Barnes," he says quietly. "He always had my back."
Well, that solves /that/ mystery, anyway. Natasha watches Steve with quiet seriousness, and she lifts her own glass a touch higher in return as she murmurs, "Za druzhbu," and drinks.
Steve finishes off the last of his drink, enjoying the sting even if he can't enjoy the after-effects. "What does that mean?" he asks Natasha of the Russian.
Natasha lowers her glass, empty save for the slowly-melting ice, to rest on the arm of the chair. The smile she gives Steve is small, and her eyes are sad. "To friendship," she answers.
Steve nods in subdued approval. "A good toast," he says.
Natasha nods slightly, settled back in her chair. For a moment she's quiet, letting the moment stretch in silence. Eventually she glances toward Steve with curiosity marked in her eyes. "How old were you when you met?"
"Gosh, I don't know," Steve says, examining his empty glass while he thinks. "Eight or nine? I was getting beat up on my way home from school. Bucky was always pulling guys off me I was too stubborn to run away from."
"Stubborn?" Natasha says, dry complete-lack-of-surprise in her voice. "You?"
Steve's smile reappears, wry but warm. "I know," he says. "Hard to believe."
"Why'd you do it?" Natasha wonders, twisting her glass a little just to hear the ice clank against the sides. "All those fights. Scrawny little guy."
"I don't like bullies," Steve says simply.
"But you like getting hit in the face?" Natasha wonders, brows lifted in elegant query.
"I'm not particularly fond of either," Steve says, voice drying.
"Well," Natasha says, not quite smiling, and she lifts her glass again before turning a frown down toward it, as if noticing for the first time that it is empty.
"What about you?" Steve asks, perhaps a little suddenly.
"I don't care for being punched in the face either," Natasha says, rising once more with a move no less graceful for a glass of whisky. She extends her hand for Steve's cup with a querying glance.
"Not much point in wasting the money," Steve says, keeping a hold on his glass. "I moreso meant -- well, I just don't know that much about you."
"It's not wasted if you enjoy it," Natasha answers, but she doesn't press further and turns away without his glass. Her steps are silent as they cross to the bar. "There's not much to know," she says, twisting the cap free to pour herself another generous portion of whisky. "I've been doing this job for a very long time."
"I'd rather have a Coca-Cola, all things considered," Steve admits. He watches her pour herself another glass, his gaze curious, but he too doesn't press further. "Yeah, it sure seems like it," he says instead, settling on polite compliments.
"We've got that, too," Natasha says. She slides from bar to kitchen, tugging the fridge open with a light touch to retrieve Steve's drink. It's canned, not bottled, as they tend to come these days, but it's Coke nonetheless. She delivers it to him on the palm of her hand, whisky held light in the other.
"What'd they do to it, anyways?" Steve asks, suddenly reminded as he sets down his empty glass to reach for the can of Coke.
"To?" Natasha asks, a second or two (but only a second or two) slower on the uptake after a glass (two? was that her first?) of fine whisky. "Ah - the Coke. Changed the sweetener, I believe. The good old US of A likes corn syrup. The rest of the world still prefers real sugar."
"Corn syrup," Steve echoes, baffled. "They sweeten it with -- corn?" He looks at the can a touch more warily.
"That and half the other food we eat these days. Iowa farmers love it." Natasha looks amused as she crosses the room, bypassing her chair in favor of peering out the window at the ever-growing shadows.
"Weird." Steve snaps the can open, only to draw her attention to it a moment later. "This, by the way?" he tells her with every appearance of sincerity. "/Really/ cool."
"We've made a few improvements in the past sixty years," Natasha acknowledges. Her knuckles rap lightly against the window's not-glass. "This stuff, for example. What i would've have given for this on a safehouse in Bolivia four years ago."
"Yeah, Jarvis was telling me all about the security measures," Steve says, shaking his head a bit disbelievingly. "Sometimes it's just -- a lot. Everything you guys can do now."
"The problem," Natasha murmurs, trailing a line to the window's edge with a critical eye for the security measures there, "is that it's not just us. /Everyone/ can do it."
"You think the mansion's security isn't enough?" Steve asks, brow furrowing.
"No security is ever /enough/," Natasha answers. She turns, casting a glance at him over the curve of her shoulder in the dimming light. "It's better than most, though. I looked it over before Stark started handing out keys. "
"Well, you're the expert," Steve says with a crooked smile. "I'm glad he asked you, at least."
"He's buttering me up," Natasha answers, so deadpan that it's perhaps difficult to tell whether she's joking.
"For what?" Steve wonders seriously.
"Maybe he wants a pet assassin," Natasha suggests. She turns her gaze to the window again, glass lifted for a slow sip.
"I suppose that would be a reason for buttering," Steve agrees amiably.
"So," Natasha says, turning to tilt her shoulder into the wall. "Are you taking Stark up on the offer?"
"I like the idea of us -- being under one roof," Steve says. "Good for morale and team-building. And we can keep an eye on each other." He cants his head. "I like my apartment in Brooklyn, though."
"Have you /met/ our team?" Natasha checks with a faint smile.
"Why do you think I want us all in one place?" Steve replies without missing a beat.
Natasha gives Steve a dry look before she pushes off the wall and lifts her glass for a sip. "Well. Have you seen the place yet? The rooms Stark's carved out might change your mind about your Brooklyn place."
"Yeah, I've seen." Steve goes strangely shifty like he's, of all things, a little embarrassed. "He found an old poster of me. From back during the war. Put it up in my room."
Natasha is startled into a sudden choke of laughter, short but genuine. "That man positively delights in torment," she says. Then after a moment, "Is it a good poster?"
"It's--" Steve, very slightly, flushes. "Well, you know, it was a big problem. During the war."
"Posters?" Natasha's brows are very eloquent. Just now they express doubt and bemusement.
"It was about -- uhm." Steve gestures very ineloquently, then clears his throat and drops his voice just a touch to say, "VD."
Natasha blinks, blinks again, and then answers dryly, "Not enough condoms, hm?"
"Uhm." Steve most distinctly does not look at Natasha. "They distributed them. To the troops and everything."
"Do you want me to stop talking about condoms and STIs, Captain Rogers?" Natasha asks, her voice low and rich with amusement.
"Uhm," Steve says eloquently.
"I mean, I imagine I can talk more on the subject, but you're starting to look a little flushed."
"No, that's all right," Steve says, clearing his throat again.
"I'm sorry," Natasha says, though she doesn't look /that/ apologetic. "I shouldn't tease you. It's not your fault you were born in 1918. Or-- posed for anti-VD propaganda posters."
"It was a serious problem in the ranks," Steve mumbles, barely audible.
"If you want to change the subject, I suggest you stop tempting me, Captain," Natasha says with arched brows.
Steve falls awkwardly silent. This is his best non-tempting face.
Natasha is gracious and helpful. She says, "What did you do with the poster?"
"I, uh--" This embarrassment is of a distinctly different breed as the last. "I can't get it off the wall."
Natasha has an excellent poker face, and it takes some degree of willpower to employ it just now. After a moment and a sip she asks, "What would you /like/ done with it?"
"Well, it's kind of--" Steve scrubs a hand along the back of his head. "I mean, it's not just the VD thing, I just feel awkward having pictures of myself around."
"It will be gone tomorrow," Natasha says, solemn promise.
"Well -- don't break it," Steve requests. "It doesn't belong to me."
Natasha regards Steve silently, sips, and then lies, "I won't break it."
"Okay," Steve says, eyeing her with a frown.
Natasha lifts her glass in silent toast, then finishes the last of her whisky with a quick swallow before turning toward the kitchen. "I'll see you around," she says.
"See you, Natasha," Steve says, his smile flashing quick but warm as he watches her head out.
Natasha leaves her dishes atop a counter as she goes, and then she disappears through a door and is gone.
8/18/2012
=NYC= Clint's Room - Second Floor - Avengers Mansion
Perhaps more surprising than the size of this three-room suite is the quiet. Thick walls and multi-paned windows keep out the city's daily clamor -- and neighboring noises, too. The plush carpet that softens the floor in the study and bedroom is a miracle of modern material sciences. You won't believe how easy it is to get bloodstains out of it! The tiles in the bathroom have the look of old stone, and warm in cold winters to chase away the chill. Each suite has its own set of environmental controls, so no fighting over the temperature.
Furniture defaults to a gentle modernity of soft curves and long lines. Comfort has not been sacrificed to style, nor style to comfort. The color palette is different in each room, but never jarring. While the rooms lack active video surveillance, Jarvis is at hand, though he speaks only when spoken to.
As twilight sinks across the city in deep indigos and midnight blues, something stirs outside Haweye's window. It shows itself in a light raptaptap against his window and the pale oval of Natasha's face lit by a nearby streetlight. She wiggles her fingers against the glass, listening to the dancing sound her nails make as they strike it.
Clint has the gun out at the sound of a rap against his glass, the solid feel of steel held against his thigh as he crosses the rooms to the window that Natasha inhabits. Ease flows through his posture at catching sight of the familiar face, his gun holstered before he steps to unlock the window and allow the agent access. "They're going to talk," he says, but not without a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
"Pft," Natasha says with a languid, whisky-laced dismissal. "No one saw me." Her voice grows very solemn as she ducks inside with over-careful movements that serve as a sure sign to Clint, at least, that she has a few in her system. "I'm very sneaky."
"Natasha Romanov, are you drunk?" Clint drawls dryly, his arms crossing his chest as he levels a look on the woman with the hint of warm amusement to rich, brown eyes.
Natasha rolls her eyes and moves to flop on the nearest piece of furniture with a boneless sort of sprawl. "Three whiskys doesn't make me /drunk/," she says. "I made it up the side of this ridiculous house, didn't I?"
Clint looks disbelieving, a curve of his brow upwards as he tuurns on his heel while watching Natasha flop onto his couch. "So, you're saying you want a drink?" he asks.
Natasha lifts her head, perking slightly. "Do you have anything good? I was enjoying Tony Stark's ridiculously good taste in whisky."
"I took a bottle from downstairs," Clint allows with a quirk of a smile, setting off at that to gather a glass and the stolen whiskey before returning with two generous portions. One is handed off towards Natasha before he sinks into a free chair rather than trying to join her on the sofa. "Just moved in and drunk already, Tasha? I think we need to get you out of Stark's influence."
"You've seen me /drunk/, Barton," Natasha says with half-hearted annoyance. She straightens enough to take the glass, then tilts it toward Clint's in automatic habit with a murmured "Za tvoye zdorov'ye" to accompany. Her first sip is testing, then she nods in approval and wiggles back against the arm of the couch to consider Clint's rooms with a wandering eye.
I don't understand that.
"Za fstry-tchoo," intones Clint more seriously, for all that he watches her as he tips back a measure of the whiskey into his own lips. Watching her observe her room. There is no personal imprint yet on the room, except for that slight slope to his walls that indicate his closeness to the roof. "Not since Belarus."
"No excuse for forgetting what it looks like," Natasha answers in distraction. She blinks after a moment, pulling her attention back to Clint. She twists her glass between her fingers and pulls her legs up, feet perched on Clint's sofa and knees bent before her. "So you're staying?"
Clint quirks an eyebrow up at her, but whatever he may wish to say passes unspoken, perhaps thinking better of it. Instead, he answers dismissively, "Better than the shithole I can afford."
"You know Stark's got his AI listening in all the damn time," Natasha tells him. She tips her head back and calls, "Isn't that right, Jarvis?"
There's half a beat before the AI responds, "That is correct, Agent Romanov."
"Except for the women moaning my name, I don't expect he'll overhear much of anything interesting," Clint replies, his lips flashing in a grin towards Natasha and a teasing suggestion in the draw of his brows.
Natasha says, "Going to sneak them past security and in through your window, Barton?" Natasha asks with an arch lift of her brows.""
"I don't think Stark will object," he counters, easily. Clint's shoulder shrugs up as he sips at his whiskey, leaning back in his chair.
"He had me check the security measures," Natasha answers, lifting her glass for a pointed gesture. "I think he would."
Clint just exhales a laugh, answering simply, "I noticed. Happy with them, Romanov?"
"I wish SHIELD could get their hands on some of Tony Stark's security measures," Natasha admits in the presence of a trusted friend. She frowns after a moment and then calls, "Don't you dare tell him I said that, Jarvis!"
"Of course not, Agent Romanov."
Natasha scowls and then drinks, slowly. "It's not perfect. But it's very, very good."
Clint's grin only reappears as Natasha speaks again to the artificial intelligence, but he offers wryly, "Want to go to the roof?" He is not entirely joking, his finger twitching slightly against his glass. "And you, Tasha? You staying?"
"Will you carry me back down?" Natasha asks with a teasing flutter of her lashes before she stirs, pushing to her feet with a grace that comes easy despite the alcohol. It's burned into bone and muscle, and though it takes more concentration, her balance is still quite good. She disappears through the window and onto the widow's walk without giving an answer.
Clint doesn't answer until he's joined her, the same lithe grace in the way his muscles move and the way he finds his balance on the roof. The delay becomes noticably reasoned where he tosses a blanket at her, nodding for her to spread it out. "Think it can hear us up here?" he questions first.
"Yes," Natasha says with a glance over her shoulder. She snatches the blanket out of the air with one hand, then drops it to the ground and tucks her whisky next to it. "Hi Jarvis," she intones, and then moves across the roof to do a bit of quick fiddling. It doesn't take long - she's clearly already checked the measures necessary to keep the AI out of this space, at least. When she returns, she looks insufferably smug. "No."
"Thank God," Clint replies as he throws himself carelessly on the blanket, stretching out his legs as he takes another sip of his own whiskey and watches Natasha with a subtle look. "Are you, Tasha?" he repeats.
Natasha lowers herself next to Clint, legs tucked up under her, and reaches for her whisky with an easy stretch. "Haven't decided yet," she admits lowly. She turns her head toward him, watching. "I thought we might need to keep an eye on them, but if you'll be here--"
"You'll leave me to babysit on my own?" The words finish hers with some wry amusement, his leg pressing against her knee as he leans into that bit of space in between them. Clint waits, his brows lifted in a continued question.
"Are you saying I can't trust you with the job?" Natasha returns, her own brows lifted in echoing query.
"All on my own?" Clint questions innocently, though his lips quirk in a smile as he presses his knee against hers again. "You can." A pause. "You should stay anyways, Natasha."
Natasha turns away, looking forward across Central Park as she brings her glass to her lips. "We'll see," she says, soft after a long moment's silence. She sips again, then asks, "Is she ready for Latveria?"
Clint's lips open at Natasha's answer, but he only eventually raises his whiskey for a long sip. He answers dryly, "Give her two years more of training, and maybe, but we do not have that long. Anymore time won't do any difference."
Natasha lifts a hand to press her thumb and forefinger against her eyes before she sides and nods, dropping her hand into her lap. "I agree," she says. "Though she could be much worse. Soon, then."
"Get paperwork in order, cover identities in place, and plane tickets booked," Clint summarizes, his gaze dragging over her hand as she pinches her eyes, lingering on the line of her arm before he glances off towards the expanse of lights folding out before them.
Natasha gives Clint a slow nod and then falls silent over the rim of her glass. She shifts, stretching her legs in front of her and leaning back into the brace of one arm.
It is one of those comfortable silences, the kind that only comes with enough liquor between them to blunt sharp edges and warm coldness to the point of companionable moments. Clint does not reach for more, nor does he expect it, basking in the low background of noise of New York City at night and his own watch over it.
Eventually Natasha finishes her whisky and stretches out on her back, curling one arm behind her head and looking toward the light-crowded heavens.
And eventually, Clint lays down beside her, a hint of reluctance to give up his vigil even as he ruffles red curls with one hand and props his own hand to cushion himself. "I'm ready for Latveria," he tells her, reassuringly.
Natasha bats Clint's hand away with a half-hearted wave of hers before she gives him a smile that is undeniably sleepy. "You're always ready," she says.
"That's what she said," Clint drawls, lightly, as he draws his hand away and tucks it behind his head as well.
Natasha snorts and kicks sideways at Clint's foot without any real force. "Watch it, Barton."
"Or what, Romanov?" The question shows his own sleepiness, a slight slur that would likely give away nothing if the person he were talking to wasn't Natasha, a smile hanging at the corners of Clint's lips even as his eyes try to slide shut.
"Or I'm turning Jarvis back on and going back downstairs," Natasha threatens.
Clint chuckles, calling her bluff with a teasing, "Alright."
Natasha doesn't bother to back it up. Her lips curve in a silent smile and she closes her eyes in the quiet.
With a soft laugh that sounds more of an exhale when it hits his lips, Clint does not gloat any further or press his luck. Instead, he allows his eyes to slide close as well even as he slides that much closer in the cool touch of the night air.