Natasha Romanoff (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
outstandingbalance) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
undergrounds2016-04-12 07:06 pm
outstandingbalance) wrote in undergrounds2016-04-12 07:06 pm
Entry tags:
[open] somewhere after midnight
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
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sarosaron and we'll figure something out.))
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
no subject
The fact is, at this point she can use everyone on her side who she can get. She's in no position to turn down the offer. She might be cautious about it, but... she won't turn up her nose.
Instead, she offers her hand to shake. "Natasha Romanoff."
no subject
Either she takes him up on it or he doesn't, but at least he'll have a better idea of what he's dealing with and whether or not she's actually interested in getting help then. Or she'll seek help from another source, which is equally beneficial. He doesn't care so much where it comes from as long as she keeps to her efforts.
"You gonna be alright tonight?"
no subject
"I'll be okay. The worst part's past." Ironically enough, he actually had helped, in a way. He'd been a distraction when she needed one. From here, it was just a matter of making it somewhere where she could feed—on something not human.
Whatever that ended up being.
"Thanks."
no subject
"I'm going to head home, but, you know, don't fuck up and, uh, call me if you need me." He shrugs, moving to stand from the stool and casting one last glance to the coaster with his number on it. He's probably making a stupid mistake, but Kyle's never been the sharpest guy anyway.
no subject
"I have your number," she says, as close as she comes to agreeing to call him. She'd like to believe she won't need to, or that if it gets that bad she can trust herself to drink responsibly. But she doesn't like lying to herself all that much—maybe she'll be up to it, but there's no knowing how hard you'll fall until you're hit. "Take care of yourself."
no subject
"Always do." Another brief smile, then he's moving through the crowd and making his way out the door.