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aa_natashaFuck.
8/19/2012
It's Sunday, but it's also Midtown, which means that the occasional professional grabbing lunch in a busy restaurant isn't very notable at all even on a weekend. Natasha Romanov has claimed a table for two tucked against the wall, one of the last available seats, and is making short work of a salad. She's dressed in impeccable businesswear, her blouse stylish and cut to enhance certain assets above the slim lines of her pencil skirt.
Amora has toned down her clothing to laced bodice-style shirt today, so she almost blends in--well, not really. She moves too much like a woman used to collecting male attention just in case she decides to do something with it. She flicks a glance toward Natasha on entering, but goes and orders a Coke and looks around at all those full seats before approaching Natasha's table. "Is this taken?" She touches the other chair and smiles.
Natasha glances up, then takes a moment to study Amora before she fishes out a Natalie Rushman smile and opens her palm in indication. "Go ahead," she invites, flicking her eyes around the restaurant. "It's crowded today."
"Thanks." Amora sits, crosses her legs gracefully, and sips her drink as if grateful for the cool in summer. "You look familiar. I haven't--see you on TV or something, have I?"
Natasha's smile is politely startled and then a little wistful. "Not unless CNN was reporting in Midtown again and they caught me in the background."
"A mistake, perhaps. You live around here, then? Or just work?" Amora's smile is just slightly emptier than a warm one should be. She adjusts a couple of cheap bangles, copper, silver, and gold-colored, but clearly base metal.
"Work," Natasha answers without hesitation. There's a faint note of pride in her voice as she says, "Stark Tower. Six months now." She twirls her fork slightly and adds, "Which is why I'm still working Sunday afternoons. Not that most of Stark Industries /doesn't/. I'm not sure when some of them sleep."
"Impressive," Amora says, with the tone of voice a woman of her apparent age would actually have said "wow" or "woah" or even "ohmygod". "Have you actually met Tony Stark?"
"I've been in the same room with him?" Natasha offers up with a little laugh. "Does that count?"
Amora reaches out to put her hand on Natasha's lower arm in a "oh girl!", excited sort of way. "That can count. Any of his famous friends, as well?"
Natasha allows it, but only for a second before she's politely pulling away from this overzealous stranger. "Oh, um," she says, a bit flustered as her fork digs into lettuce. "I mean, Pepper Potts was there, she's famous? I mean. Sort of. I'm sure there were other people but I don't really know--"
In the brief touch, Amora feeds a pulse of a suggestion to be truthful in answering questions, but she lets the contact go rather than prolong it to add more strength. "In the manner of that..." Amora pretends to need time to remember the name. "Thor?"
Natasha's eyes promptly go wide and then wider still. "The one with the blond hair and red cape and that-- hammer thing?" she checks, because manipulating the truth is a very deeply ingrained impulse in Natasha Romanov. "I've seen him in Stark Tower," she answers. "He's very-- tall."
"Yes!" Amora beams, and belately remembers to sip her cover Coke. "He is most handsome. Tall and chiseled." Her humor seems to take a sideways twist briefly as she makes the comment. "Was he with anyone?"
"Um," says Natasha, and the urge to trip over truth - with Bruce, with Clint, with Stark, with Steve - bubbles up in her throat. She settles for a half-measure, replying, "I saw him once with a man with dark hair and glasses," and that's true, if not quite complete. She doesn't frown, there are no outward signs of panic, but she suddenly pulls a phone from her pocket, checks it, and gives her companion an apologetic glance before saying quite truthfully, "I've got to go." She doesn't pause to let Amora respond before she's standing and halfway to the door.
Amora half-stands, beginning an "Oh, no, don't--" while the hand with the bracelets reaches for the more important half of that invitation to stay. But Natasha is fast enough she stays where she is rather than lunging. Amora lifts her fingertips in an ironic little wave, and sits back down, looking thoughtful.
8/19/2012
It's Sunday, but it's also Midtown, which means that the occasional professional grabbing lunch in a busy restaurant isn't very notable at all even on a weekend. Natasha Romanov has claimed a table for two tucked against the wall, one of the last available seats, and is making short work of a salad. She's dressed in impeccable businesswear, her blouse stylish and cut to enhance certain assets above the slim lines of her pencil skirt.
Amora has toned down her clothing to laced bodice-style shirt today, so she almost blends in--well, not really. She moves too much like a woman used to collecting male attention just in case she decides to do something with it. She flicks a glance toward Natasha on entering, but goes and orders a Coke and looks around at all those full seats before approaching Natasha's table. "Is this taken?" She touches the other chair and smiles.
Natasha glances up, then takes a moment to study Amora before she fishes out a Natalie Rushman smile and opens her palm in indication. "Go ahead," she invites, flicking her eyes around the restaurant. "It's crowded today."
"Thanks." Amora sits, crosses her legs gracefully, and sips her drink as if grateful for the cool in summer. "You look familiar. I haven't--see you on TV or something, have I?"
Natasha's smile is politely startled and then a little wistful. "Not unless CNN was reporting in Midtown again and they caught me in the background."
"A mistake, perhaps. You live around here, then? Or just work?" Amora's smile is just slightly emptier than a warm one should be. She adjusts a couple of cheap bangles, copper, silver, and gold-colored, but clearly base metal.
"Work," Natasha answers without hesitation. There's a faint note of pride in her voice as she says, "Stark Tower. Six months now." She twirls her fork slightly and adds, "Which is why I'm still working Sunday afternoons. Not that most of Stark Industries /doesn't/. I'm not sure when some of them sleep."
"Impressive," Amora says, with the tone of voice a woman of her apparent age would actually have said "wow" or "woah" or even "ohmygod". "Have you actually met Tony Stark?"
"I've been in the same room with him?" Natasha offers up with a little laugh. "Does that count?"
Amora reaches out to put her hand on Natasha's lower arm in a "oh girl!", excited sort of way. "That can count. Any of his famous friends, as well?"
Natasha allows it, but only for a second before she's politely pulling away from this overzealous stranger. "Oh, um," she says, a bit flustered as her fork digs into lettuce. "I mean, Pepper Potts was there, she's famous? I mean. Sort of. I'm sure there were other people but I don't really know--"
In the brief touch, Amora feeds a pulse of a suggestion to be truthful in answering questions, but she lets the contact go rather than prolong it to add more strength. "In the manner of that..." Amora pretends to need time to remember the name. "Thor?"
Natasha's eyes promptly go wide and then wider still. "The one with the blond hair and red cape and that-- hammer thing?" she checks, because manipulating the truth is a very deeply ingrained impulse in Natasha Romanov. "I've seen him in Stark Tower," she answers. "He's very-- tall."
"Yes!" Amora beams, and belately remembers to sip her cover Coke. "He is most handsome. Tall and chiseled." Her humor seems to take a sideways twist briefly as she makes the comment. "Was he with anyone?"
"Um," says Natasha, and the urge to trip over truth - with Bruce, with Clint, with Stark, with Steve - bubbles up in her throat. She settles for a half-measure, replying, "I saw him once with a man with dark hair and glasses," and that's true, if not quite complete. She doesn't frown, there are no outward signs of panic, but she suddenly pulls a phone from her pocket, checks it, and gives her companion an apologetic glance before saying quite truthfully, "I've got to go." She doesn't pause to let Amora respond before she's standing and halfway to the door.
Amora half-stands, beginning an "Oh, no, don't--" while the hand with the bracelets reaches for the more important half of that invitation to stay. But Natasha is fast enough she stays where she is rather than lunging. Amora lifts her fingertips in an ironic little wave, and sits back down, looking thoughtful.