Vance; Steve
Aug. 26th, 2012 08:16 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
aa_natasha 8/26/2012
The Great Room at Avengers Mansion earns its place namely by its size: the facilities are updated and rather expansive, and consolidate several different purposes in one area. It's one of the few rooms on the ground floor that has been completely stripped of ornate walling and flooring. The walls are a comfortable sage green and the floor has been covered with plush carpet and expensive tile, as appopriate. The sizable kitchen takes up the far end, stock full of buffed metal and shiny appliances, while an entertainment room fills the near end. An oversized island that also serves as a breakfast bar separates the two spaces.
The living space is set off by a pair of arm chairs and a small table set against the back of a large sectional couch. Several arm chairs flank the couch and coffee table to complete the 'U' that faces a television that is almost /too/ big, and just about every entertainment and video game console known to man.
A rolling carry-on sits in the south hall just outside the great room, left there by some inconsiderate hand (why can't they have a /real/ butler who carries things, hm?). Its owner becomes clear enough; Natasha's tight jeans are visible in the kitchen, though the rest of her has disappeared into the depths of the refrigerator. If the ass isn't enough identification, the muttered Russian that accompanies her rummaging probably is.
Vance may be new, and may still be in the process of learning most things to do with the Avengers, but he definitely recognizes that ass. "Hey, you're back," he says as enters the room, bouncing an empty water bottle absently against his hip, and greeting her well before he could even possibly be identifying her by anything other than her ass because he is not subtle, "Glad you guys all made it back alright. Sounds like a weird trip."
Natasha straightens with a slow turn, a bottle of beer in her hand. The faint lines of the bandaging on her left shoulder are visible beneath the fit of her blue tee, and she's careful about moving it. She studies Vance for a moment, head tilted, and then says, "Moved in?"
"What?" Vance looks confused, and hooks a thumb over his shoulder towards the hall, "I was using the gym." He heads towards the sink, turning on the faucet and letting it run for a minute, waiting for it to get cold. "What happened to your shoulder?"
"I asked if you'd moved in," Natasha answers, her words spaced slow and even just to be sure Vance understands this time. Her brows quirk upward, less than patient, and she turns to rummage through a drawer in search of a bottle opener. Vance gets a brief glance when she supplies the answer to his question with a single, short word: "Loki."
"No," says Vance, shaking his head as he wiggles two fingers in the stream of water. Why isn't it cold yettttt. "I wasn't sure if I was supposed to or not. And I share a lease anyway, you know? But if I could live here, I guess it's the end of the month." He considers that a moment, and then nods at her answer. "Right. I read your report. What's his deal? Loki? I don't get what he's after, here."
"Stark's got far too many rooms upstairs," Natasha says, hitching her right shoulder up in a lopsided shrug. Her attention turns down again, and kitchen utensils clatter as she works her way through them. Vance's last question is met with silence and a low curse in Russian.
"It is pretty huge," Vance agrees of the mansion. He looks over as she searches, and curses, and then pushes off the counter, stepping over and reaching out with a hand, "Here, lemme get that."
Natasha glances up at Vance, brows drawn down with a faint crease settled between them. She regards him in silence for several moments before she tips the bottle toward him neck-first.
Vance doesn't take the bottle out of her hand, just looks at it, and after a second one side begins to peel upwards until it pops right off. He catches it in the air with a hand, and grins. "There you go."
Natasha lifts her brows at him, her expression mild for the showing off, and draws the bottle back with a dry, "Thanks."
"You're welcome," Vance replies, stepping over towards the trash to drop the cap into it. He heads back to the sink to fill his water bottle and finally turn the tap off, drinking deeply.
Natasha drops into silence, hefting herself up to sit on the edge of a counter with beer in hand. Her eyes close briefly as she tips her head back, throat working in a long swallow.
Vance leans back against his bit of counter near the sink, gulping down water before lowering the bottle. He watches Natasha for a moment as she drinks, and then turns away to re-fill the bottle again, asking conversationally, "So what's up next for you?"
"Fuck, kid," Natasha says, lowering her bottle with a level-eyed look that fixes on Vance. "Ready to shove me out the door already?"
"It's been like three whole minutes, what d'you want?" Vance jokes, and then shrugs, saying, "Nah, 'course not, I was just wondering if you knew. What do you do when you're not recruiting people in alleys or sneaking around weird dictatorships?"
Natasha's fingers stretch and flex against the bottle's cool surface, then tighten again. "Kill people," she says, deadpan.
"Huh," replies Vance. He drinks some more water, and then asks, "I'm gonna assume that's for work and not just a hobby. What do you do not-for-work?"
"Sometimes it is a hobby as well," Natasha answers, and tips her bottle back for another swallow.
"Huh," Vance says again, and then tilts his head, "Let's see. I bet you're great at video games. First person shooters?" Apparently he's just going to guess now, "Or maybe something random. Skee ball? Bowling? Unicycle polo?"
Natasha lowers her bottle and fixes a level look on Vance. It stretches for several moments before she moves, sliding from the counter with a neat hop and a tip of her bottle toward him. "See you around," she says, and nothing more before she slips out the door toward the hall.
"Right," Vance replies, sounding mildly disappointed but not really surprised, "See you around."
8/26/2012
=NYC= Atrium Garden - Ground Floor - Avengers Mansion
The glass-ceilinged atrium is a serene oasis in the midst of the Avengers Mansion. Its lighting varies according to weather outside, though the glass itself is frosted for security's sake. In the evening hours, soft lights glow along the ornate stone walkways and the white marble pillars.
The trickle of water announces the presence of a stone fountain set in the midst of a long oval indoor pond that takes up the center of the atrium. Greenery and the occasional flower surround the pool and peek out from almost all corners of the space. Bronzed sculptures stand guard on pedestals around the room, keeping watch over the benches tucked at each of the four sides.
The sun is starting to sink in New York, but it's still high enough to cast a warm golden glow on the glass roof of the atrium, filling it with light. Natasha has taken up a seat not on one of the benches, but on the edge of the water-filled pond. She's stripped her shoes off and rolled her pants up to dangle her feet in the water. She grasps a beer bottle in one hand and is busy staring absently at the fountain.
Steve is looking a bit wandery as he ducks in through the doorway and out into the atrium garden. His gaze lifts first to the glow through the overhead window before it slides down to Natasha on the edge of the pond. His lips quirk in a crooked smile, and he approaches her. "Hey," he says in greeting. "Glad to see you guys back safe."
Natasha glances up at the open of the door, relaxing only slightly when Steve offers his greeting. "Captain," she says, voice low. Her lips press into a thin line as she agrees, "Me too. Such as it is." She gives a small roll of her shoulders, drawing attention to the lines of the bandage on her left shoulder where arm meets chest.
"How bad is it?" he asks, his gaze following that roll of her shoulders to the bandage.
Natasha leaves her left shoulder still as she hitches up her right. "Second degree, I think," she answers. "Nothing that won't heal." She pauses, taking a long swallow of her beer before she adds, "Nothing like what it could have been."
"There's always that," Steve says with murmured seriousness. His smile grows a bit fainter as he considers her, then he finally begins the process of toeing out of his shoes and stripping off his socks to join her. "How was it over there?"
Natasha lifts her brows slightly as Steve begins stripping. Her voice is dry when she says, "I didn't peg you for a bare feet and ponds boy." She turns forward, frowning at the water for a moment as she considers her answer.
Steve pauses before he quite sits down. "Oh," he says. "I just figured -- you know, if you were--" SHOULD HE NOT?
"Not a lot of babbling brooks in Brooklyn," Nastasha points out.
"Well I didn't want to keep standing up and talking to you while you were sitting," Steve says with a certain stubborn politeness. He sits down and starts rolling his pants up.
Natasha presses her lips together, and the corners pull upward just slightly. She leans forward, resting one hand hard beside her. "Such a gentleman," she murmurs. She blows a bit of hair out of her face with a huff and then finally answers him. "It was-- strained. One of those countries you don't go to unless you have to. They don't like strangers and they don't seem to care much for familiar faces either." Her eyes flick toward him. "You saw the pictures?"
"I saw the pictures," Steve says, drawing back into seriousness even as he dips his feet carefully into the water to join her wet lounging.
"Well," Natasha says, and tilts her bottle toward Steve in indication.
"Yeah," Steve agrees quietly. He looks down at his feet in the water, his fingers lacing loosely in his lap. "Where do we go from here?"
"I don't know," Natasha answers. Her brows draw down and the glance she sends Steve carries an edge of challenge. "I don't make the plans. I follow orders." Mostly.
"I don't suppose we can extradite Schmidt," Steve says with a dry little sigh.
"I don't think so," Natasha mutters. She straightens a bit, tipping her head toward the glassed ceiling. "Then again. We specialize in people we can't extradite."
"Latveria fought /against/ the Nazis," Steve says with a hint of frustration. "Why would Doom harbor a Nazi criminal?"
"From what I've seen in the files, Schmidt wasn't all that attached to the whole Nazi thing," Natasha answers, drawing her gaze down to watch Steve in profile.
"But he still came from that," Steve says, firm in his refusal to divest Schmidt entirely of that evil.
"Doom may not care," Natasha says practically. "Schmidt may be able to offer him something he wants. And--" There is the briefest of pauses before Natasha finishes, "Latveria fought against the Nazis seventy years ago, Steve. The US fought against Japan and now it's cool to buy their cars, computers, and cartoons."
"Yeah, but--" Steve quiets, though, with a sort of bone-deep discomfort at this visceral reminder of his poor fit in the world.
A hint of sympathy shows in Natasha's eyes, though it doesn't quite make it to the rest of her expression. She falls silent, letting him adjust for a long moment.
"The people in Japan developing products aren't criminals from the war," Steve finally settles on.
Natasha doesn't bother to argue. Instead she takes another sip and says, "Figuring out what holds them together is a good priority. Janet said there seemed to be some tension."
"Information retrieval isn't really my area of expertise," Steve says, his smile flickering wryly. "Schmidt isn't someone to collaborate, though. He uses people, but at the end of the day, he thinks he's something more than a man."
"If I weren't afraid of what it may come to," Natasha admits quietly, "I'd suggest leaving them be for a few months to see if they'll tear each other apart and make our job easier."
"Considering what we know of all three of them, they do seem to be similar in that respect," Steve says in a tone of quiet agreement. "Men obsessed with power who will work with others just long enough to achieve that."
Natasha murmurs a soft sound of agreement and falls silent again, twisting her bottle between her fingers while she considers the water.
"But you're right," he says next. "It's too dangerous to leave them to their own devices in hopes that they thin out their own ranks."
"Pravda," Natasha agrees, tipping her bottle toward Steve before exhaling a quiet sigh.
"So we don't," Steve decides, whether or not he has any sort of plan for stopping it.
"Rally the troops, Captain," Natasha encourages, dry.
"Maybe I will," Steve says, earnest to her dry.
"You know how to fight a war," Natasha says, more serious in response to earnestness. Her voice draws out slow and soft. "Tony knows how to explode things. Bruce wants to pretend he's not really here. And Clint and I--" Her gaze glances toward him and then away. "We have other skills."
"Important ones," Steve says of her and Clint's skills. "We all have different skills, but we can work together when it counts. We've done it before."
"Mmm," Natasha says, and settles into a drink before giving her bottle a sudden, dark frown upon finding it empty.
Steve settles into a thoughtful silence as he lifts his gaze back to the garden surrounding them. While she frowns at her bottle.
With empty bottle in hand, Natasha pushes herself upward to rise from her seat. She doesn't bother to give Steve a farewell beyond a tip of her chin and a tilt of her bottle before she grabs up her shoes and pads barefoot toward the stairs.
The Great Room at Avengers Mansion earns its place namely by its size: the facilities are updated and rather expansive, and consolidate several different purposes in one area. It's one of the few rooms on the ground floor that has been completely stripped of ornate walling and flooring. The walls are a comfortable sage green and the floor has been covered with plush carpet and expensive tile, as appopriate. The sizable kitchen takes up the far end, stock full of buffed metal and shiny appliances, while an entertainment room fills the near end. An oversized island that also serves as a breakfast bar separates the two spaces.
The living space is set off by a pair of arm chairs and a small table set against the back of a large sectional couch. Several arm chairs flank the couch and coffee table to complete the 'U' that faces a television that is almost /too/ big, and just about every entertainment and video game console known to man.
A rolling carry-on sits in the south hall just outside the great room, left there by some inconsiderate hand (why can't they have a /real/ butler who carries things, hm?). Its owner becomes clear enough; Natasha's tight jeans are visible in the kitchen, though the rest of her has disappeared into the depths of the refrigerator. If the ass isn't enough identification, the muttered Russian that accompanies her rummaging probably is.
Vance may be new, and may still be in the process of learning most things to do with the Avengers, but he definitely recognizes that ass. "Hey, you're back," he says as enters the room, bouncing an empty water bottle absently against his hip, and greeting her well before he could even possibly be identifying her by anything other than her ass because he is not subtle, "Glad you guys all made it back alright. Sounds like a weird trip."
Natasha straightens with a slow turn, a bottle of beer in her hand. The faint lines of the bandaging on her left shoulder are visible beneath the fit of her blue tee, and she's careful about moving it. She studies Vance for a moment, head tilted, and then says, "Moved in?"
"What?" Vance looks confused, and hooks a thumb over his shoulder towards the hall, "I was using the gym." He heads towards the sink, turning on the faucet and letting it run for a minute, waiting for it to get cold. "What happened to your shoulder?"
"I asked if you'd moved in," Natasha answers, her words spaced slow and even just to be sure Vance understands this time. Her brows quirk upward, less than patient, and she turns to rummage through a drawer in search of a bottle opener. Vance gets a brief glance when she supplies the answer to his question with a single, short word: "Loki."
"No," says Vance, shaking his head as he wiggles two fingers in the stream of water. Why isn't it cold yettttt. "I wasn't sure if I was supposed to or not. And I share a lease anyway, you know? But if I could live here, I guess it's the end of the month." He considers that a moment, and then nods at her answer. "Right. I read your report. What's his deal? Loki? I don't get what he's after, here."
"Stark's got far too many rooms upstairs," Natasha says, hitching her right shoulder up in a lopsided shrug. Her attention turns down again, and kitchen utensils clatter as she works her way through them. Vance's last question is met with silence and a low curse in Russian.
"It is pretty huge," Vance agrees of the mansion. He looks over as she searches, and curses, and then pushes off the counter, stepping over and reaching out with a hand, "Here, lemme get that."
Natasha glances up at Vance, brows drawn down with a faint crease settled between them. She regards him in silence for several moments before she tips the bottle toward him neck-first.
Vance doesn't take the bottle out of her hand, just looks at it, and after a second one side begins to peel upwards until it pops right off. He catches it in the air with a hand, and grins. "There you go."
Natasha lifts her brows at him, her expression mild for the showing off, and draws the bottle back with a dry, "Thanks."
"You're welcome," Vance replies, stepping over towards the trash to drop the cap into it. He heads back to the sink to fill his water bottle and finally turn the tap off, drinking deeply.
Natasha drops into silence, hefting herself up to sit on the edge of a counter with beer in hand. Her eyes close briefly as she tips her head back, throat working in a long swallow.
Vance leans back against his bit of counter near the sink, gulping down water before lowering the bottle. He watches Natasha for a moment as she drinks, and then turns away to re-fill the bottle again, asking conversationally, "So what's up next for you?"
"Fuck, kid," Natasha says, lowering her bottle with a level-eyed look that fixes on Vance. "Ready to shove me out the door already?"
"It's been like three whole minutes, what d'you want?" Vance jokes, and then shrugs, saying, "Nah, 'course not, I was just wondering if you knew. What do you do when you're not recruiting people in alleys or sneaking around weird dictatorships?"
Natasha's fingers stretch and flex against the bottle's cool surface, then tighten again. "Kill people," she says, deadpan.
"Huh," replies Vance. He drinks some more water, and then asks, "I'm gonna assume that's for work and not just a hobby. What do you do not-for-work?"
"Sometimes it is a hobby as well," Natasha answers, and tips her bottle back for another swallow.
"Huh," Vance says again, and then tilts his head, "Let's see. I bet you're great at video games. First person shooters?" Apparently he's just going to guess now, "Or maybe something random. Skee ball? Bowling? Unicycle polo?"
Natasha lowers her bottle and fixes a level look on Vance. It stretches for several moments before she moves, sliding from the counter with a neat hop and a tip of her bottle toward him. "See you around," she says, and nothing more before she slips out the door toward the hall.
"Right," Vance replies, sounding mildly disappointed but not really surprised, "See you around."
8/26/2012
=NYC= Atrium Garden - Ground Floor - Avengers Mansion
The glass-ceilinged atrium is a serene oasis in the midst of the Avengers Mansion. Its lighting varies according to weather outside, though the glass itself is frosted for security's sake. In the evening hours, soft lights glow along the ornate stone walkways and the white marble pillars.
The trickle of water announces the presence of a stone fountain set in the midst of a long oval indoor pond that takes up the center of the atrium. Greenery and the occasional flower surround the pool and peek out from almost all corners of the space. Bronzed sculptures stand guard on pedestals around the room, keeping watch over the benches tucked at each of the four sides.
The sun is starting to sink in New York, but it's still high enough to cast a warm golden glow on the glass roof of the atrium, filling it with light. Natasha has taken up a seat not on one of the benches, but on the edge of the water-filled pond. She's stripped her shoes off and rolled her pants up to dangle her feet in the water. She grasps a beer bottle in one hand and is busy staring absently at the fountain.
Steve is looking a bit wandery as he ducks in through the doorway and out into the atrium garden. His gaze lifts first to the glow through the overhead window before it slides down to Natasha on the edge of the pond. His lips quirk in a crooked smile, and he approaches her. "Hey," he says in greeting. "Glad to see you guys back safe."
Natasha glances up at the open of the door, relaxing only slightly when Steve offers his greeting. "Captain," she says, voice low. Her lips press into a thin line as she agrees, "Me too. Such as it is." She gives a small roll of her shoulders, drawing attention to the lines of the bandage on her left shoulder where arm meets chest.
"How bad is it?" he asks, his gaze following that roll of her shoulders to the bandage.
Natasha leaves her left shoulder still as she hitches up her right. "Second degree, I think," she answers. "Nothing that won't heal." She pauses, taking a long swallow of her beer before she adds, "Nothing like what it could have been."
"There's always that," Steve says with murmured seriousness. His smile grows a bit fainter as he considers her, then he finally begins the process of toeing out of his shoes and stripping off his socks to join her. "How was it over there?"
Natasha lifts her brows slightly as Steve begins stripping. Her voice is dry when she says, "I didn't peg you for a bare feet and ponds boy." She turns forward, frowning at the water for a moment as she considers her answer.
Steve pauses before he quite sits down. "Oh," he says. "I just figured -- you know, if you were--" SHOULD HE NOT?
"Not a lot of babbling brooks in Brooklyn," Nastasha points out.
"Well I didn't want to keep standing up and talking to you while you were sitting," Steve says with a certain stubborn politeness. He sits down and starts rolling his pants up.
Natasha presses her lips together, and the corners pull upward just slightly. She leans forward, resting one hand hard beside her. "Such a gentleman," she murmurs. She blows a bit of hair out of her face with a huff and then finally answers him. "It was-- strained. One of those countries you don't go to unless you have to. They don't like strangers and they don't seem to care much for familiar faces either." Her eyes flick toward him. "You saw the pictures?"
"I saw the pictures," Steve says, drawing back into seriousness even as he dips his feet carefully into the water to join her wet lounging.
"Well," Natasha says, and tilts her bottle toward Steve in indication.
"Yeah," Steve agrees quietly. He looks down at his feet in the water, his fingers lacing loosely in his lap. "Where do we go from here?"
"I don't know," Natasha answers. Her brows draw down and the glance she sends Steve carries an edge of challenge. "I don't make the plans. I follow orders." Mostly.
"I don't suppose we can extradite Schmidt," Steve says with a dry little sigh.
"I don't think so," Natasha mutters. She straightens a bit, tipping her head toward the glassed ceiling. "Then again. We specialize in people we can't extradite."
"Latveria fought /against/ the Nazis," Steve says with a hint of frustration. "Why would Doom harbor a Nazi criminal?"
"From what I've seen in the files, Schmidt wasn't all that attached to the whole Nazi thing," Natasha answers, drawing her gaze down to watch Steve in profile.
"But he still came from that," Steve says, firm in his refusal to divest Schmidt entirely of that evil.
"Doom may not care," Natasha says practically. "Schmidt may be able to offer him something he wants. And--" There is the briefest of pauses before Natasha finishes, "Latveria fought against the Nazis seventy years ago, Steve. The US fought against Japan and now it's cool to buy their cars, computers, and cartoons."
"Yeah, but--" Steve quiets, though, with a sort of bone-deep discomfort at this visceral reminder of his poor fit in the world.
A hint of sympathy shows in Natasha's eyes, though it doesn't quite make it to the rest of her expression. She falls silent, letting him adjust for a long moment.
"The people in Japan developing products aren't criminals from the war," Steve finally settles on.
Natasha doesn't bother to argue. Instead she takes another sip and says, "Figuring out what holds them together is a good priority. Janet said there seemed to be some tension."
"Information retrieval isn't really my area of expertise," Steve says, his smile flickering wryly. "Schmidt isn't someone to collaborate, though. He uses people, but at the end of the day, he thinks he's something more than a man."
"If I weren't afraid of what it may come to," Natasha admits quietly, "I'd suggest leaving them be for a few months to see if they'll tear each other apart and make our job easier."
"Considering what we know of all three of them, they do seem to be similar in that respect," Steve says in a tone of quiet agreement. "Men obsessed with power who will work with others just long enough to achieve that."
Natasha murmurs a soft sound of agreement and falls silent again, twisting her bottle between her fingers while she considers the water.
"But you're right," he says next. "It's too dangerous to leave them to their own devices in hopes that they thin out their own ranks."
"Pravda," Natasha agrees, tipping her bottle toward Steve before exhaling a quiet sigh.
"So we don't," Steve decides, whether or not he has any sort of plan for stopping it.
"Rally the troops, Captain," Natasha encourages, dry.
"Maybe I will," Steve says, earnest to her dry.
"You know how to fight a war," Natasha says, more serious in response to earnestness. Her voice draws out slow and soft. "Tony knows how to explode things. Bruce wants to pretend he's not really here. And Clint and I--" Her gaze glances toward him and then away. "We have other skills."
"Important ones," Steve says of her and Clint's skills. "We all have different skills, but we can work together when it counts. We've done it before."
"Mmm," Natasha says, and settles into a drink before giving her bottle a sudden, dark frown upon finding it empty.
Steve settles into a thoughtful silence as he lifts his gaze back to the garden surrounding them. While she frowns at her bottle.
With empty bottle in hand, Natasha pushes herself upward to rise from her seat. She doesn't bother to give Steve a farewell beyond a tip of her chin and a tilt of her bottle before she grabs up her shoes and pads barefoot toward the stairs.