[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

II

[falsify]

He doesn't pay a huge amount of attention to the vampire at the bar - vampires exist, and as much he might like to, Eames can't do anything about that. And besides that he had meetings to attend to, information to exchange. Things to think about other than how annoying it is when the closest thing to one of your natural predators is in the room.

His contact has left and Eames has relocated to the bar when the fight breaks out. Mostly he looks annoyed by the whole thing, it's annoying and ruining his attempt to wind down after a long day, but his eyes aren't on the obnoxious neanderthals knifing eachother when blood gets spilled.

Eames watches Natasha out of the corner of his eye, and the way she reacts is extremely telling. Hasn't had blood in a while obviously - at least, not human - and she's clearly putting her all into not giving in to the bloodlust. And it'd be better for everyone if she didn't, which is why he orders her a gin and a slice of lemon once the bartender's attention is free. He figures it's probably not quite enough to block it out entirely, but gin has a strong scent, something more pervasive than other liquors. It'll help dull things a little, at the very least.

[outstandingbalance]

Normally Natasha would have more attention for the other patrons, but she's still struggling with herself and the hunger-heat rising in her chest when the bartender sets a drink in front of her. At first, she doesn't quite understand it. She just stares at the bartender flatly, her expression enough to make him squirm uneasily and tip his head back toward Eames as though passing on the blame.

Then she blinks, realizing what's happening instead of listening to the sound of his heartbeat.

She shakes her head a little, taking the lemon and squeezing it into the gin. The smell sticks to her fingers, not quite covering the lingering scent of blood, but at least taken with the gin it gives her something else she can pretend to pay attention to.

Hands still shaking slightly, she takes a drink. It's not what she wants. Not even slightly. She refuses to let herself turn her nose up at it though, drinking deeply, her eyes on Eames the entire time as she does.

[falsify]

Eames watches her back, not attempting to hide the look on his face. It's neither flirtatious or judging, like one might expect in this situation, but assessing. He's not an idiot, he knows better than to get close to a vampire in the throes of hunger; the risk is too high. He's seen other fae get torn into and is pretty keen not to meet the same end.

A man who loses interest in boring conversations astoundingly fast, but his ability to watch is something else entirely. And that's what he does, eyes on her until she seems stable again. Until she's not an immediate threat.

[outstandingbalance]

If there's one thing that Natasha's good at, it's control. For as strained as she was when she first smelled blood, she collects herself reasonably quickly. It's not a hundred per cent thing—tonight's not going to be her easiest. Once she trusts herself a little more, she'll be looking for blood. Animal blood.

Hopefully she won't be stooping to rats or stray cats, but it was too early to rule that out entirely.

By the time she finishes the gin, she's visibly more steady. Her expression is grimmer than it was a few moments before, paler and looking more tired, but she's not about to lash out. She doesn't stand until she's sure she trusts herself to regulate, especially approaching someone as tempting as her benefactor.

That is a rabbit hole she doesn't intend to go down.

"Are thanks in order?" she asks, her voice low; a little raspy, but that's how she usually sounds.

[falsify]

Eames makes an amused noise into his drink and he raises an eyebrow. Seems she's got her shit under control, which was very much the goal, so all in all a success. He's not surprised by her approach, even if he'd prefer that she just took the drink and left him be, and he doesn't do anything to prevent it or put her off. His body language isn't inviting, but there's nothing about it to suggest a desire to be left alone either.

"Depends," he says, not looking at her, and he takes a sip of his drink, "did it help?"

[outstandingbalance]

"Some." Which probably isn't the most reassuring answer, but it's about the most she can say and still have a chance he'll believe her. There's no point in lying if it'll be that obvious.

She turns so her back is to the bar, leaning against it, her posture deliberately relaxed. The attempt at appearing nonthreatening would probably go a lot further if he clearly didn't already know what she was, but it's a gesture.

"You don't have to worry, at least."

[falsify]

"We both know that's not true." He's not threatened, but he's also not an idiot. A creature with almost unrivalled strength and a nearly insatiable hunger for blood is always something to worry about. And just because she doesn't want to give in, it doesn't mean she won't.

"Why don't you join me?" Eames looks up at her with a smile and nudges the barstool next to him, "stick around until there's less bodies around to tempt you."

[outstandingbalance]

"The truth is always a matter of circumstance." She shrugs, not really arguing but not agreeing either. Maybe he shouldn't feel safe, but he was safer than he was. For Natasha, that counted for true enough.

At his invitation, she pushes away from the bar and hops onto the stool. The way she moves is a little off, lingering bloodlust making each motion somehow a little too smooth.

"You didn't look like you wanted company," she says. Normally there'd be more humor in her voice, but it's failing her just now. "Does this mean you're offering to be a distraction?"

[falsify]

"As long as you promise not to bite me," it's the truth, but he smirks as though it's a joke. He doesn't bother pretending not to watch the way she moves, tracking her for the moment he may need to defend himself. She's already seen he's perceptive, there's no point suddenly pretending not to be.

[outstandingbalance]

Her smile in response is slight, in on the joke. She'll give him one thing—he is distracting. And she could use something to focus on.

"You have my word." Up to him if he wants to trust it. She knows better than to try to convince someone to believe something; that was a lesson she'd learned as a human, and it'd served her well over the years.

Her nails tap lightly on the counter briefly, then she signals for the bartender. "He'll be getting me another."

[falsify]

Eames laughs, "myself as well."

He waits for their drinks to come, and gently implies with a tip of the head that the bartender may feel like occupying himself with other customers. He doesn't speak until he's out of immediate earshot, and when he does, Eames' voice is low and quiet. Friendly in tone when he asks, "how long ago did you climb aboard the wagon?"

[outstandingbalance]

That gets a soft huff of laughter out of her. "The wagon, huh?" There was always a humor in how they spoke in public. His tone was good. He did a good job skirting lying; it didn't seem forced or strange.

All right, she would play along.

"About two months now," she says, taking a sip of her of her drink and tamping down the urge to make a face. "That obvious?"

[falsify]

Eames tilts his head toward her with a smirk, "you learn to spot these things after a while." And he drums his fingers on the bar, "and your self-control is too good for a newborn." It's the only reason he'd risk talking to her right now, after all.

[outstandingbalance]

"If I were a newborn, it wouldn't have mattered much if I was on the wagon or off it. Things would have gotten very messy very fast if I were fifty years younger." Her voice drops low at the end. Natasha doesn't see any reason softening the reality of what young vampires are like—there's something refreshing about the lack of pretense. Knowing that she's not likely to convince one of the fae she's better than she is takes off a certain pressure.

Her gaze stays steady, considering his face. "Lucky you?"

[falsify]

Fifty years, huh. She's younger than he would've assumed, most vampires in his experience rack up a century or two of murder before they have a crisis of conscience. Usually involving some mortal friend or what have you showing them 'another way'.

The surprise doesn't show on his face though, instead he laughs into his drink and nods, "lucky me indeed. It might be old-fashioned, but I'm quite a fan of keeping my blood in my own body."

[outstandingbalance]

Natasha toys with her glass, putting off taking another drink. Her expression falls somewhat, lips compressing.

"Might be you are," she says, then she snorts and adds wryly: "But you wear it well? Seems like you've seen a bit to back it up."

I

[protagonized]

Simon has been watching his new...comrade? Associate? Coworker?...throw a perfect game of darts for the better part of half an hour with a not-quite-present expression on his face. It's almost soothing, the way she seems utterly in control of herself as she throws, and his mind is wandering back to his long-neglected dissertation. In just a matter of weeks, he will be a university graduate. Not that he'll end up doing much with his degree; he's long since disabused himself of the notion that he'll be doing anything in science or biology. No, he's stuck as a supernatural policeman until he can prove his incompetence once and for all and end up as a statue in Sylvia Redbright's office.

It's not a comforting thought.

Still, he's sufficiently occupied with his thoughts about chromosome abnormalities that Natasha's offer comes completely out of left field and he chokes on his drink.

"Fuck, no," he splutters, laughing. "Not really my area of expertise."

[outstandingbalance]

"So? You're not going to get better by not trying." Natasha smiles as she says it, her tone just slightly drawled. She wouldn't say she feels at ease with her coworkers—if that's what they're calling them—but she's willing to fake it until either it's true or they part ways.

"Besides," she adds, "it looks like you could use a distraction."

[protagonized]

Simon laughs. "I'm not going to get better, period," he points out. Who knows how old Natasha, being a vampire, really is? She's had decades to perfect her aim. Simon's a far better sharpshooter with an Xbox controller in his hand, and if things were different and he were actually allowed to live a normal life he would be perfectly fine with that.

But, alas, it's not.

"My hand-eye coordination's pretty shit," Simon cautions, but he stands up anyway and takes a dart. It's not completely true--he was reasonable enough at sports--but he's got no innate talent that even approaches the kind of precision he'd just seen from Natasha. (Or even from Illya, the mysteriously well-armed werewolf. Christ, his life.)

The dart hits the board. It's not particularly close to the center, but at least he doesn't miss it entirely.

[outstandingbalance]

"That's not a bad start," Natasha says, picking up her drink and forcing some of it down while he takes his turn. She licks her lips, considering. "Room for improvement, but that's what practice is for—trust me, everyone needs practice."

Not that there's not inborn talent or advantages that come with inhuman physiology, but Natasha's aim hasn't changed much from when she was human, and any natural talent she might have had was only a springboard for more hours of training than she can estimate.

"Just try to relax and give it another shot."

[falsify]

"I've seen a few things. Saw a man electrocute a dog for engineering patents once." Eames shrugs and gestures airily with a hand, the statement offered plainly. Though there's a slight wrinkle of his nose that indicates he wasn't a fan.

[outstandingbalance]

That gets a snort out of her, though not much surprise or disgust; she expected him to be old, and she's very well aware what kinds of things people will do for power or money or glory.

"I can imagine how that must have smelled."

[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.