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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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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no subject
"You may keep an eye on my progeny," he agrees. "But do not worry about her. Not where I am concerned, at least. It is a poor maker indeed who cannot keep an eye on their children, as you say. Even those who have a mind to get themselves into trouble, heedless of my rules." Yes, Kenzi, he will be speaking to you about that one.
no subject
Maybe she shouldn't make it her business, but...
It couldn't hurt, could it?
Natasha could maybe do a little good.
"But as long as you don't mind seeing my face around."
no subject
"Not at all," he says. "I am her maker. I can only help so much. It would do her well to have a level head about the place." Though there's perhaps something about his response to suggest that her helping mentor Kenzi isn't the only reason he'd be happy to see her around the club.
no subject
She doesn't really mind it.
no subject
He inclines his head slightly, offering her something of a bow. It is an old-fashioned gesture, but then again Jean-Claude is something of an old-fashioned man. "I shall look forward to it," he responds, with the quirk of a smile. "But I see that I am keeping you now. You are certain you do not want the company?" he asks, because he has to ask, even if he's fairly certain she will turn him down regardless.
no subject
But it's nice not being alone, and she doesn't hate his company.
What she wants isn't usually much of a priority when she makes choices, though, and caution says it's better not to get too close or seem too encouraging.
"But maybe better another time."
no subject
"Until that time," he says, with a smile. And turns on his heel to start away down the street, continuing the way he'd been headed before.