undergrounds | Backdated to 22 November

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Backdated to 22 November

Natasha's never much been the sort to celebrate her birthdays. Wasn't even when she was alive and aging. Call it the result of not having anyone to celebrate with. Family had all died when she was young, and growing up in thin times, in and out of orphanages and boarding schools, there weren't many people interested in splurging to buy her presents or take her out to dinner. She could count the number of birthday parties she's had in her whole like—seventy-eight years today—on one hand and still have fingers leftover.

She's not sure why she's thinking of it at all this year. Maybe just because there's been so many changes. New city. New allegiances. New friends, maybe. New life, maybe.

Maybe she just didn't actually expect to live to see this one after she fled Russia.

Whatever it is, Natasha goes out drinking tonight with purpose, making the rounds and her regular bars and drinking a toast at each of them. Sometimes she drinks them to herself. Sometimes she drinks them to the people who didn't make it this far. If, along the way, she runs into anyone she knows? In the event that happens, they might find themselves with a bottle of beer or a glass of whiskey being set in front of them, a silent invitation to join her for this round.

If she doesn't, then she has her drink alone and moves on.

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Eames waves off the concern with a smile and a shake of his head as he takes a sip of his drink, he knows the look she's wearing and he's happy to provide a little company for a while. It's a welcome distraction regardless of how busy he may or may not be.

"I was dealing with some work but--" he glances at his watch, "--it would seem I've just checked out."

"Imagine my luck." She smiles then, settling in beside him for a drink. "Though maybe not exactly luck. As many bars as I'm planning to hit tonight, I was bound to run into someone I knew."

Half a shrug and a sip of whiskey. "Not sad it's you, though."

Eames lets out a small laugh, glancing at Natasha with a wry smile on the corner of his lips.

"Celebrating?" He asks, very much aware that this seems like quite the opposite.

"Something like that." Celebrating might be a stretch, but Natasha's not entirely sure what else to call it, so why not? She's doing something anyway.

She considers whether to draw out the suspense, make him guess, but it doesn't seem like all that much of a challenge. If he wants to chase her secrets, there are more interesting ones to pursue.

"I made it through another year. This time it was questionable there for a while. Might as well celebrate, right?"

"It's the done thing, I hear," he smiles with a tip of his glass in Natasha's direction, here's to not dying. It's never been much of a thing for Eames, he can't even remember where exactly in the month his birthday is, but as far as milestones go it's not a bad one. Especially when it's been a close call.

"Zazdarovje in that case."

Her lips twitch, and she raises her glass. She would have been more surprised if he did celebrate his birthdays. Natasha might be undead, but as she is often reminded, she's not all that old as vampires go. Let alone fae.

"You speak Russian? If I'd have known, I'd have taken advantage of it a long time ago. Always nice to be able to throw any eaves droppers."

And it's nice to hear, sometimes. Especially surrounded by English speakers.

"I'm a little rusty," he admits - in Russian - accent borderline flawless but there's some awkwardness in the way he feels out the words, hesitations where he's not completely certain he's picking the right inflection. And if they keep it up, Natasha might notice the way some of his word choices and conjunctions are a little... Old fashioned, shall we say.

He raises his eyebrows, a little teasing as he continues, "maybe I didn't want to embarrass myself."

"You sound good enough to me," Natasha says, gently encouraging. She's been around enough older vampires to be used to dated forms of the language; it's more endearing from him than stubborn vampires having trouble keeping up with the times, though.

Her own accent is less neutral in Russian than in English. When she puts effort into it, she can mimic most accents effectively. In her day to day speech, though, she's never quite scrubbed off Volgograd.

"Your accent is better than most Westerners. And some Russians I know."

Eames lets out a soft laugh through his nose, fairly certain Natasha is just softening, but he'll let himself feel flattered. It's an important skill, something he's sure she understands, making a language sound natural when it comes out of your mouth. It's easier to get around not knowing words than sounding obviously foreign.

"I think we'd both prefer it if I didn't sound like this," he says, losing the accent in favour of one that sounds more like it's coming from a guy taking a basics course for his business trip.

That gets a laugh out of her, both because he's right and because his impression of the standard English accent is particularly accurate. She's heard it more than once, people who put out an enough effort to learn the vocabulary but weren't practiced enough or fluent enough, or perhaps just didn't care to try to sound natural.

"Somehow, I can't picture you letting yourself sound like that seriously. You have too much taste.,"

"Flatterer." Eames' lips curl into a smile as he takes a sip from his glass, entertained by the comment. 'Too much taste' isn't a comment most people would levy at him.

"So. How many bars have you been to so far?"

"This is number three," Natasha says with a slight smile, as though admitting something. Advantages of being a vampire: she holds her liquor well, even when she's not on human blood. That's also a disadvantage.

"Figure I have at least two or three left in me. Unless something better shows up."

It's a problem they share; the last time Eames had managed to get drunk on the human stuff, it took the better part of two days of solid drinking to get there. But the taste is good, and the atmosphere almost lets one forget the drink isn't doing anything. Or so he tells himself.

He makes a gently amused noise, a hum through a mouthful of whiskey, and tilts his head, "and what counts as better to the birthday girl, mm?"

"That's a good question," She says, taking another sip. Her reasons for drinking are, in some ways, less benign. She might not get drunk, but it does tend to take the edge of her thirst, and the smell of alcohol helps distract from the smell of blood.

But it isn't so unpleasant, as coping strategies go.

"I like to think I'll know it when I see it, though."

"I'll keep an eye out for you," Eames winks aside to her, tilting his head as if he's totally unaware of the chemistry between them. A playful glint in his eye as he glances around the bar, "two heads and so on."

"Oh, will you?" Natasha asks, playing along with his tease. She knows that's what it is. They both know very well what's going on here. But they also both seem to enjoy the game. "Now I'm curious what you'd find. Can I trust your taste?"

"Ah--" Eames lets out a small laugh, raising an eyebrow with a teasing lilt to his voice, "so first I have too much taste, and now you can't trust it? What's a man to think, mm?"

"May I like to keep you guessing?" A spy's prerogative. She goes back to Russian then, leaning in slightly, her head tilted slightly. "It's less a matter of too much or too little. I just only have so much evidence what you might like in men. Or women."

Eames shakes his head, tilting it a little toward hers with a soft, amused sigh.

"And here I thought the evidence so far spoke very highly of my taste in people."

"Oh, your taste is suspect. I've seen some of the people you flirt with. Very shady." It's fairly clear who she's talking about. Or she assumes it is.

It's herself, right. Or Eames assumes it is. Either way he shrugs, "you must see something different when I see someone gorgeous and fascinating."

It is herself, true. She hadn't precisely meant to fish for a compliment out of it either; she meant it in a self-deprecating way, a joke. But the response does get a smile out of her. "Funny how different perspectives will do that. But if that's what you see, I won't argue it."

"Good." He makes a gently satisfied noise, "I'd hate to start telling you to respect your elders and accept our opinions without question."

"People have been telling me that for decades now. To think I used to listen to them." She says it more as an aside than a response, amused as much because it's true than because it's actually funny. She pauses then, sipping her drink around a smirk.

"How about this. I'll tell you who I have my eye on, and we can see if you approve."

Eames snorts and nods, taking a liberal swig of his drink, "okay. Point them out."

If it's not him he would highly recommend that woman down the other end of the bar.

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