[open] somewhere after midnight

[outstandingbalance]

I. Drinking, Conversation & Light Blood Sport

It's not strange for Natasha to end up in a bar at some point in the evening. Sometimes earlier, sometimes later, but at least a couple of times a week she ends up in one. Tonight is notable not because she's found herself in a new bar—that could be any night—but because she breaks out of her routine of taking a seat at the counter and nursing a drink or two for hour or so, maybe chatting with a regular, then going on her way.

This time she's found herself in a bar near the institute, and she has a drink sitting on the a table off to one side, sure, but instead of sipping it without appetite, she's standing facing a dart board, throwing set after set of darts and landing them in tight clusters in the cork. First around the bull's eye then the triple twenty, the triple nineteen, eighteen, seventeen... and so forth.

Maybe she's relaxing. Maybe she's getting used to being in London and the new job. She'd like to think that's the case, though mostly she's been keeping her head down and her eyes open.

It might be going a little too far to say she's in a good mood, but she's starting to feel a little more outgoing. Enough to turn to someone near by and ask, "Care to give me some competition?"



II. Light Blood Sports & A Drinking Problem

Another night, another bar. This time Natasha is more to her normal script. Or at least, she was for about the first third of her whiskey sour. That's when a disagreement down the bar turns violent. At first, Natasha isn't too worried about it. It isn't her problem, just a couple of drunks knocking over stools and raising their voices.

Then one of them pulls a switchblade and it goes from not her problem to to very much her problem in a matter of a fraction of a second when the blade slides through the other man's jacket and into his forearm. The smell of blood fills the bar room, stronger and more intoxicating than any of the alcohol on the shelf.

It's been over two months since Natasha had human blood, and all in a rush it seems like every second of it was screaming at her. For a moment she freezes, afraid of what she'd do if she moved, afraid of what someone might see if she drew their attention. Her jaw tightens and her nails drag across the top of the bar in a slow, tense scratch. She stares at nothing, her attention narrowing to pin point.

The fight doesn't last from there. The bartender yells at both of them to get out, the bouncer appears. Both of them are kicked out.

And Natasha covers her mouth, shaking.



III. Streetlights, Shadows & Night Owls

Let's call it work. Natasha thinks of it that way. It's not exactly patrolling—nothing that formal. It's more just being out, keeping her eyes open, paying attention and being around. Most nights, it doesn't lead to much. Not wasted time since she's getting used to the city, but she doesn't accomplish a whole lot.

Sometimes, though, she runs into something interesting. Someone she can help? Who knows.



IV. Wildcard

((Don't see something you like? Hit me up at sarosaron and we'll figure something out.))

Comments

[falsify]

"If you're imagining something dreadful, you're in the right area." He tips his glass with a sigh and a shake of his head, "I guess people were starved for entertainment before Netflix."

[outstandingbalance]

"I guess they must have been. Somehow, I don't remember ever having time to be that bored." That's not true. Not that she'd entertained the idea of torturing animals for fun or profit, but that she hadn't had time to be bored. She remembered in the orphanages being so bored, so overwhelmed by the sheer monotony, that more than once she'd run away and hungry for stimulation for plan old hungry.

But whether or not she was telling the autobiographical truth or not, the point stood.

"Some people have too much time on their hands and not enough aversion to singed fur."

[falsify]

"I imagine people rarely had the time to get that bored in Russia." Especially before the fall of the USSR. Even if they wanted to swear up and down about not having the class system they clearly did the work ethic was different. Not that Eames ever spent a lot of time over there, but it always seemed like people were being worked to the bone whenever he did.

[outstandingbalance]

"Not most of them," Natasha agrees. "Things are different here. Different there too, these days." In many ways. Her former nest had gone from influential to barely different from small time mobsters. Corrupt officials who'd spent their soviet careers skimming accounts and squirreling away bribes had taken to the greedy capitalist lifestyle easily enough.

"Though it's a little silly for me to moan about getting old to you."

[falsify]

That gets a hearty laugh out of Eames - it's brief, but he's genuinely amused by the comment - and he nods his head in seeming acceptance of his age.

"It's all relative though, isn't it?" Certainly, if the amount of shit he gave Arthur over turning 30 is anything to go by, "eighty years is a lifetime to a human, but one doesn't consider time in quite the same way when they're born timeless."

Truth be told, Eames still feels relatively young. Likely will for several more centuries too.

[outstandingbalance]

"I'd say that's true." And centuries stop feeling so heavy when you've survived a few of them. For all their immortality, though, many, many vampires don't last long at all. If hunters and werewolves don't get them, then nest politics or their own stupidity do.

"There are worse fates than living longer than you expected." She raises her glass, sipping thoughtfully. Maybe that's what all this is—getting restless because some part of her never expected to see eighty.

And she still might not, but even with what's behind her, Natasha doesn't see herself dying.

[falsify]

"Much worse," Eames agrees, and there's a touch of knowingness to the way he says it. But that shouldn't be a surprise - you live long enough, you're gonna see some shit. It's inevitable.

Oof. What a morose conversation. Eames drains the rest of his beer and glances at Natasha, a thoughtful look on his face for a moment before he speaks, "how's that bloodlust of yours doing?"

[outstandingbalance]

Her jaw tightens at that question. She'd rather pretend it wasn't bothering her at all. She toys with her glass a little, finally answering, "Better than it was."

It'll take more than gin to get things back where they were, but better is fine. She can live with better.

"I don't think I'll have to stretch your generosity for a third drink," she says, lifting the glass.

[falsify]

"You sure?" Eames smirks and raises an eyebrow, nodding toward the clock behind the bar, "still got half an hour until last orders."

Not that he's terribly interested in keeping her around - the fact that he's not at immediate risk of becoming a late night snack, or of having to wade home through a sea of bodies is enough for Eames - but she is more tolerable than most vampires. Certainly there's a refreshing lack of talking about her, which is more than he can say for most of her kind.

[outstandingbalance]

"Well, I wouldn't say no if you wanted to spend more money on me," she says, drawing the words out ironically. The distraction has helped. She'll owe him one for that, even if he did it out of self-interest.

"But I'd say I'm out of the woods."

She snorts then, offering a smile, even if it's still thin. She's fairly sure it won't show fang though. Whether or not that's reassuring is up to him. "Thanks?"

[falsify]

Reassuring or no, it's answer enough. Eames stands from the bar with a smile, "maybe I'll buy you another drink some other time." But for now, he's got things to do. Like sleeping and gently hating everyone on this stupid side of the world.

"See you around."

[outstandingbalance]

"Until next time," she says, raising her glass in a mock salute as he makes his way out.