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aa_natasha 8/27/2012
=NYC= Command Center - Ground Floor - Avengers Mansion
The oval-walled control room is state of the art according to Stark Industries, which means it has toys most government agencies only dream of. There are no windows, and the lights are sensitive enough to be brought up or down by degrees. One wall holds a huge screen, and the room is overflowing with computers and communication devices that somehow manage to tuck away into the walls in favor of a large conference table when needed.
At the moment, there are little to no toys out and on display in the Command Center as there might be with other folks in it. Right now, it's just the big conference table, lined with chairs that are almost completely vacated, except for the one at the head of the table facing the massive screen. Peter's got his costumed feet propped up and crossed casually, one could say insolently, and he's leaned back in the chair in what could be described as nothing but a lounge, his hands working sans gloves on a little tablet he holds.
On the massive wall screen? Angry Birds. There's some chittering of birds as one of the black birds launches itself across the screen at a massive structure of pigs and blocks. *BOOM* Pigs fall, birds cheer. Peter wins the board.
"Ah," says Natasha's voice behind Peter, perhaps a few seconds after spidey senses start to tingle. "Putting Stark's hard-spent money to good use, I see." She steps into the room, clad casually in jeans and a black tank that leaves the white of her bandaged shoulder visible.
"What good is a room-sized screen if you can't play a game or two?" Peter responds easily, quite noticably not jumping at Natasha's silent appearance. Almost as if he had some indication someone was there. Hmm. "You should see some of the things that are loaded on this baby."
The costumed head swivels just enough for one of the bug eyes to look over in Natasha's direction as he eyes up her state of dress, not to mention the injury. "What is this, casual Monday? I figured you to be suited up and out on patrol already." Maybe what he meant to say was, 'Ow. That looks like it hurts. Are you okay?'.
Natasha's brows sweep upward. "Patrol?" she echoes, circling the table with a slow step.
Peter gestures with a hand uselessly, indicating Natasha in general. "I don't know. Recruiting. Kicking ass and taking names. Whatever it is you normally do." Even though he pays attention to her, his hands resume the game on the table, and a little blue bird goes flying, only to split in three. Whee!
"Normally," Natasha answers, dry and level as she pulls in front of him to watch that mask with an unnerving focus, "I am a spy, and an assasin."
Peter doesn't /seem/ to be fazed much by that stare, or at least not that is easily visible. (Hi is.) He /does/ stop playing the game, though. "Oh. Well, guess it's hard to spy and kill people with a bum shoulder then, huh?" Maybe THIS is his way of asking if she's okay! He lifts his hands in a kind of shrug, dropping the tablet in his lap, and she can tell there's a slight grin underneath that mask. "At least there's plenty of people to assassinate when your shoulder gets better," he says glibly.
One corner of Natasha's lips quirks up just slightly. "Not particularly," she answers
"Let me guess," Peter puts his arms up, hands behind his head and lounges back in the chair a little bit more as some sort of vague challenge. "You know how to kill someone fifteen ways just using your thumb, right?"
"The thumb is not my usual weapon of choice," Natasha demurs. She studies him for a moment, gaze narrowed just a touch. Her question, when it comes, is abrupt. "Why do you cling to the mask?"
There's a slight halt to Peter's whole body as the question catches him slightly off-guard. He covers it by unlacing his fingers and moving them back to his lap again, though this time he twiddles his thumbs idly. "You know who I am, and I'm sure you've done your homework," Peter says carefully, his head cocking to the side just slightly. "Doing this for me isn't as easy as it is for most of you. I've got school. Work. Bills to pay. People in my life that I'd rather not make easy targets of, if you know what I mean."
One of the sides of his mask lifts as he gives Natasha his own little smirk, "And frankly, I'm still not sure I can trust everyone around here with who I am. I mean-- we solve issues by hitting them with /lightning/."
"For such a very smart boy," Natasha answers, gaze steady on Peter, "you are not terribly bright."
Peter doesn't say anything for once. Shockingly. AMAZINGLY. Instead, his mask simply cocks to the side just enough to show that he is asking a silent question. Please elaborate, missus master spyssassin.
Natasha leaves the silence to hang for some span of time, but not so long that it becomes truly uncomfortable. Her arms fold carefully across her chest as she studies him. "Every person in this house," she says, low-voiced, "is smart and capable and skilled. Some will respect your privacy, because that is who they are. Some will not, because they cannot leave a secret alone. But in every case, it will be clear to them that you come here and you use our tools and you use our help and perhaps you even provide some of your own. But you do not belong because you choose not to belong. Because you do not trust." There is no hint of irony in her words. Ironically. "They will all know, soon enough. Those who find out will tell those who won't pry. And it will mean something else entirely when it is forced from your hand, than if you had given it."
"So what am I supposed to do, then?" Peter reaches up and takes off his mask completely, tossing it at the table next to his feet, "Hi, my name's Peter Parker, and I'm just starting college, still live at home with my Aunt in Queens-- oh, yeah. And I have two part time jobs to work my way through school so my Aunt doesn't have to pay for it all, so I'll come here and chip in when I can to save the world because I believe in the ultimate cause? But if there's class, or dinner at home, try not to call?" He takes his feet off the table and lifts the tablet from his lap to set it on the table next to his mask. "Or maybe I should be more subtle," he says in frustration, blowing out a breath.
Natasha quirks a single brow upward, and the corners of her lips follow. "It's a start," she says.
Peter points a finger at Natasha, and makes an imitation of Agent Coulson, sounding quite like him in tone and phrasing, "Not helpful."
"It's not my job to be helpful," Natasha answers, deadpan. She gives Peter another moment's study now that the mask has been pulled away, and them she lets out a breath and turns, hefting herself up to the table's edge. "Tell me the story," she invites. Helpfully.
Peter's eyes narrow slightly at Natasha's deadpan, but something actually schools him to hold his tongue. Perhaps it's the fact that he has his mask off, and can't hide behind it, so that sky and reserved kid is actually starting to show. His elbows prop on the edge of the conference table as he sits up, and pushes his hands through his hair before stopping and looking across at Natasha and her comforting ways. "It's a long story," he warns, and then he jokes to cover up the uncertainty and hidden vulnerability in his voice. "Maybe you should get some popcorn and a drink if you really want to hear it."
Natasha turns her head sideways just enough to meet Peter's gaze. "I'm a woman of many talents," she says, still dry, but also quiet. "Including patience." The spread of her hand invites him to continue.
Peter watches Natasha quietly for a minute, trying to decide for himself if she is truly sincere in this offer. Something tips his hand in her favor, because he does share his story, from his father's briefcase through his whole episode with Dr. Connors. It's slightly edited and abbreviated in places, but nothing that removes the facts of his story, nor the emotion. But it certainly gives her a /much/ clearer picture of just who he is that her research and her files just won't tell her. Basically, he's a kid who's had to grow up in a big damn hurry, and is afraid of people getting hurt because of him.
Natasha is not a particularly responsive audience. Occasionally some bit earns him the lift of a brow or the tilt of her head, but for the most part she is silent and, true to her word, patient. At the end of it all she sits in a moment's silence, her head turned to watch him.
Apparently he needed to tell /someone/. Lucky Natasha. He remains silent himself at his end of the table, staring at the tablet sitting on the table in front of him, though his eyes turn to look up at her. His lips pull sideways a little bit and he jokes, "Let me guess. I should just write an abridged copy next time, huh?" The tablet in front of him on the table makes a soft 'ping', but other than glancing back at it for a moment, he simply looks back up at Natasha.
"No," Natasha says, the shake of her head short. "Though I imagine you could write one if you wished." She watches him for a moment longer, and then rather suddenly gives him a smile, full and sincere, if quite brief. "It's a good story. It is an-- eventful. Tale."
"You're telling me," Peter responds as he blows out a breath he didn't even know he was holding, his hands moving to take the tablet and re-orient it in front of him. "I don't believe half of it myself, and I /lived/ the damn thing." As he talks, he glances from Natahsa to the screen behind her, his fingers dancing their way over the tablet screen. Natasha can tell that the screen behind her is changing, but there's no noise of the birds this time. Finally, his eyes return to hers, and his lips again pull in a half smile, "Then, again-- you all are the ones that fought off an alien invasion. Single-handedly. I'll bet that the unabridged story is no less eventful."
If Natasha bothers to turn and look at the wall screen, she's see a grid pattern of NYC laid out in blueprint form with all the different buildings. There are collections of yellow dots all over midtown and downtown manhattan, and little circular bands around most of the dots. However, there are a number of red, hollow dots instead of yellow also dotting the landscape.
"You'd be right," Natasha answers dryly. Her gaze flicks toward the screen, then she turns back to Peter with an inquiring lift of her brows.
"Homework," Peter says with a slight grin at Natasha's brow lift. "Since everyone's still busy declaring war on Latveria, and then revoking it, I thought I'd do a little digging on the other end of things." His hands slide over the tablet, and a few dots turn green on the map. "I got the idea thinking about your Latverian friend, Ana, from the bar." He makes a few other gestures, and some spots turn orange, "I saw her at a fire sale a few nights prior. Heard about the possibility of some funny activity while I was at the Bugle-- but this database can cross reference with the cops /and/ with Shield." Peter stops talking long enough to stare at the map, "I thought maybe we'd want to know how many pop guns are still out there and unaccounted for." There's a slight pause before he adds, "Aside from the ones we know at in Latveria-- those are in green."
Natasha lifts her brows slowly, and then turns a very small, impressed smile on Peter. "Smart," she says, turning her gaze back to the map to study it. "Send this out. See what you can do about recovering them, and noting who's interested in getting their hands on them."
"See," Peter adds, still grinning slightly as he jokes, "not just a handsome face and quick webs." He would tap his head to indicate his brains, but Natasha's simply not looking at him, so why waste the gesture? "Yeah. I figure a few of us could spread it out, try and keep it quiet that we're looking to track them." His grin widens a little bit more, eyes alight, "After all, SHIELD's stumbling around loud enough that maybe we can be a little more low key." There's only a brief pause before he adds lightly, "Well, /some/ of us can be low key, anyway."
Natasha looks at Peter, and the joke she doesn't make is almost visible on her features. Her brows are very expressive. "Not everything requires low key," she says. She slides forward, slipping from the table. "But it's a good start. Take the telekinetic marvel with you, maybe." She turns, fixing an expectant glance on him.
"Hey, I happen to like making a distraction," Peter quips back, completely unhurt by Natasha's non-joke. Hhis fingers do a little more dancing on the tablet, as he watches her get up, and he smirks slightly, "We have anything for him that's better than a Mets t-shirt and sweatpants? Because I don't know about you, but if I'm taking him with me, I have an image to maintain at the least." What that image /is/, Peter doesn't say.
Natasha lifts her brows slightly as she turns for the door. "You're Avengers," she says blandly. "I have faith in your ability to figure it out."
"I was afraid you'd say that," Peter says to her retreating figure just before the doors close behind her. Anything else he might add is lost with the closing of the doors.
=NYC= Command Center - Ground Floor - Avengers Mansion
The oval-walled control room is state of the art according to Stark Industries, which means it has toys most government agencies only dream of. There are no windows, and the lights are sensitive enough to be brought up or down by degrees. One wall holds a huge screen, and the room is overflowing with computers and communication devices that somehow manage to tuck away into the walls in favor of a large conference table when needed.
At the moment, there are little to no toys out and on display in the Command Center as there might be with other folks in it. Right now, it's just the big conference table, lined with chairs that are almost completely vacated, except for the one at the head of the table facing the massive screen. Peter's got his costumed feet propped up and crossed casually, one could say insolently, and he's leaned back in the chair in what could be described as nothing but a lounge, his hands working sans gloves on a little tablet he holds.
On the massive wall screen? Angry Birds. There's some chittering of birds as one of the black birds launches itself across the screen at a massive structure of pigs and blocks. *BOOM* Pigs fall, birds cheer. Peter wins the board.
"Ah," says Natasha's voice behind Peter, perhaps a few seconds after spidey senses start to tingle. "Putting Stark's hard-spent money to good use, I see." She steps into the room, clad casually in jeans and a black tank that leaves the white of her bandaged shoulder visible.
"What good is a room-sized screen if you can't play a game or two?" Peter responds easily, quite noticably not jumping at Natasha's silent appearance. Almost as if he had some indication someone was there. Hmm. "You should see some of the things that are loaded on this baby."
The costumed head swivels just enough for one of the bug eyes to look over in Natasha's direction as he eyes up her state of dress, not to mention the injury. "What is this, casual Monday? I figured you to be suited up and out on patrol already." Maybe what he meant to say was, 'Ow. That looks like it hurts. Are you okay?'.
Natasha's brows sweep upward. "Patrol?" she echoes, circling the table with a slow step.
Peter gestures with a hand uselessly, indicating Natasha in general. "I don't know. Recruiting. Kicking ass and taking names. Whatever it is you normally do." Even though he pays attention to her, his hands resume the game on the table, and a little blue bird goes flying, only to split in three. Whee!
"Normally," Natasha answers, dry and level as she pulls in front of him to watch that mask with an unnerving focus, "I am a spy, and an assasin."
Peter doesn't /seem/ to be fazed much by that stare, or at least not that is easily visible. (Hi is.) He /does/ stop playing the game, though. "Oh. Well, guess it's hard to spy and kill people with a bum shoulder then, huh?" Maybe THIS is his way of asking if she's okay! He lifts his hands in a kind of shrug, dropping the tablet in his lap, and she can tell there's a slight grin underneath that mask. "At least there's plenty of people to assassinate when your shoulder gets better," he says glibly.
One corner of Natasha's lips quirks up just slightly. "Not particularly," she answers
"Let me guess," Peter puts his arms up, hands behind his head and lounges back in the chair a little bit more as some sort of vague challenge. "You know how to kill someone fifteen ways just using your thumb, right?"
"The thumb is not my usual weapon of choice," Natasha demurs. She studies him for a moment, gaze narrowed just a touch. Her question, when it comes, is abrupt. "Why do you cling to the mask?"
There's a slight halt to Peter's whole body as the question catches him slightly off-guard. He covers it by unlacing his fingers and moving them back to his lap again, though this time he twiddles his thumbs idly. "You know who I am, and I'm sure you've done your homework," Peter says carefully, his head cocking to the side just slightly. "Doing this for me isn't as easy as it is for most of you. I've got school. Work. Bills to pay. People in my life that I'd rather not make easy targets of, if you know what I mean."
One of the sides of his mask lifts as he gives Natasha his own little smirk, "And frankly, I'm still not sure I can trust everyone around here with who I am. I mean-- we solve issues by hitting them with /lightning/."
"For such a very smart boy," Natasha answers, gaze steady on Peter, "you are not terribly bright."
Peter doesn't say anything for once. Shockingly. AMAZINGLY. Instead, his mask simply cocks to the side just enough to show that he is asking a silent question. Please elaborate, missus master spyssassin.
Natasha leaves the silence to hang for some span of time, but not so long that it becomes truly uncomfortable. Her arms fold carefully across her chest as she studies him. "Every person in this house," she says, low-voiced, "is smart and capable and skilled. Some will respect your privacy, because that is who they are. Some will not, because they cannot leave a secret alone. But in every case, it will be clear to them that you come here and you use our tools and you use our help and perhaps you even provide some of your own. But you do not belong because you choose not to belong. Because you do not trust." There is no hint of irony in her words. Ironically. "They will all know, soon enough. Those who find out will tell those who won't pry. And it will mean something else entirely when it is forced from your hand, than if you had given it."
"So what am I supposed to do, then?" Peter reaches up and takes off his mask completely, tossing it at the table next to his feet, "Hi, my name's Peter Parker, and I'm just starting college, still live at home with my Aunt in Queens-- oh, yeah. And I have two part time jobs to work my way through school so my Aunt doesn't have to pay for it all, so I'll come here and chip in when I can to save the world because I believe in the ultimate cause? But if there's class, or dinner at home, try not to call?" He takes his feet off the table and lifts the tablet from his lap to set it on the table next to his mask. "Or maybe I should be more subtle," he says in frustration, blowing out a breath.
Natasha quirks a single brow upward, and the corners of her lips follow. "It's a start," she says.
Peter points a finger at Natasha, and makes an imitation of Agent Coulson, sounding quite like him in tone and phrasing, "Not helpful."
"It's not my job to be helpful," Natasha answers, deadpan. She gives Peter another moment's study now that the mask has been pulled away, and them she lets out a breath and turns, hefting herself up to the table's edge. "Tell me the story," she invites. Helpfully.
Peter's eyes narrow slightly at Natasha's deadpan, but something actually schools him to hold his tongue. Perhaps it's the fact that he has his mask off, and can't hide behind it, so that sky and reserved kid is actually starting to show. His elbows prop on the edge of the conference table as he sits up, and pushes his hands through his hair before stopping and looking across at Natasha and her comforting ways. "It's a long story," he warns, and then he jokes to cover up the uncertainty and hidden vulnerability in his voice. "Maybe you should get some popcorn and a drink if you really want to hear it."
Natasha turns her head sideways just enough to meet Peter's gaze. "I'm a woman of many talents," she says, still dry, but also quiet. "Including patience." The spread of her hand invites him to continue.
Peter watches Natasha quietly for a minute, trying to decide for himself if she is truly sincere in this offer. Something tips his hand in her favor, because he does share his story, from his father's briefcase through his whole episode with Dr. Connors. It's slightly edited and abbreviated in places, but nothing that removes the facts of his story, nor the emotion. But it certainly gives her a /much/ clearer picture of just who he is that her research and her files just won't tell her. Basically, he's a kid who's had to grow up in a big damn hurry, and is afraid of people getting hurt because of him.
Natasha is not a particularly responsive audience. Occasionally some bit earns him the lift of a brow or the tilt of her head, but for the most part she is silent and, true to her word, patient. At the end of it all she sits in a moment's silence, her head turned to watch him.
Apparently he needed to tell /someone/. Lucky Natasha. He remains silent himself at his end of the table, staring at the tablet sitting on the table in front of him, though his eyes turn to look up at her. His lips pull sideways a little bit and he jokes, "Let me guess. I should just write an abridged copy next time, huh?" The tablet in front of him on the table makes a soft 'ping', but other than glancing back at it for a moment, he simply looks back up at Natasha.
"No," Natasha says, the shake of her head short. "Though I imagine you could write one if you wished." She watches him for a moment longer, and then rather suddenly gives him a smile, full and sincere, if quite brief. "It's a good story. It is an-- eventful. Tale."
"You're telling me," Peter responds as he blows out a breath he didn't even know he was holding, his hands moving to take the tablet and re-orient it in front of him. "I don't believe half of it myself, and I /lived/ the damn thing." As he talks, he glances from Natahsa to the screen behind her, his fingers dancing their way over the tablet screen. Natasha can tell that the screen behind her is changing, but there's no noise of the birds this time. Finally, his eyes return to hers, and his lips again pull in a half smile, "Then, again-- you all are the ones that fought off an alien invasion. Single-handedly. I'll bet that the unabridged story is no less eventful."
If Natasha bothers to turn and look at the wall screen, she's see a grid pattern of NYC laid out in blueprint form with all the different buildings. There are collections of yellow dots all over midtown and downtown manhattan, and little circular bands around most of the dots. However, there are a number of red, hollow dots instead of yellow also dotting the landscape.
"You'd be right," Natasha answers dryly. Her gaze flicks toward the screen, then she turns back to Peter with an inquiring lift of her brows.
"Homework," Peter says with a slight grin at Natasha's brow lift. "Since everyone's still busy declaring war on Latveria, and then revoking it, I thought I'd do a little digging on the other end of things." His hands slide over the tablet, and a few dots turn green on the map. "I got the idea thinking about your Latverian friend, Ana, from the bar." He makes a few other gestures, and some spots turn orange, "I saw her at a fire sale a few nights prior. Heard about the possibility of some funny activity while I was at the Bugle-- but this database can cross reference with the cops /and/ with Shield." Peter stops talking long enough to stare at the map, "I thought maybe we'd want to know how many pop guns are still out there and unaccounted for." There's a slight pause before he adds, "Aside from the ones we know at in Latveria-- those are in green."
Natasha lifts her brows slowly, and then turns a very small, impressed smile on Peter. "Smart," she says, turning her gaze back to the map to study it. "Send this out. See what you can do about recovering them, and noting who's interested in getting their hands on them."
"See," Peter adds, still grinning slightly as he jokes, "not just a handsome face and quick webs." He would tap his head to indicate his brains, but Natasha's simply not looking at him, so why waste the gesture? "Yeah. I figure a few of us could spread it out, try and keep it quiet that we're looking to track them." His grin widens a little bit more, eyes alight, "After all, SHIELD's stumbling around loud enough that maybe we can be a little more low key." There's only a brief pause before he adds lightly, "Well, /some/ of us can be low key, anyway."
Natasha looks at Peter, and the joke she doesn't make is almost visible on her features. Her brows are very expressive. "Not everything requires low key," she says. She slides forward, slipping from the table. "But it's a good start. Take the telekinetic marvel with you, maybe." She turns, fixing an expectant glance on him.
"Hey, I happen to like making a distraction," Peter quips back, completely unhurt by Natasha's non-joke. Hhis fingers do a little more dancing on the tablet, as he watches her get up, and he smirks slightly, "We have anything for him that's better than a Mets t-shirt and sweatpants? Because I don't know about you, but if I'm taking him with me, I have an image to maintain at the least." What that image /is/, Peter doesn't say.
Natasha lifts her brows slightly as she turns for the door. "You're Avengers," she says blandly. "I have faith in your ability to figure it out."
"I was afraid you'd say that," Peter says to her retreating figure just before the doors close behind her. Anything else he might add is lost with the closing of the doors.