Natasha Romanoff (
outstandingbalance) wrote in
undergrounds2016-11-25 01:25 pm
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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.
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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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."
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"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.
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"Somehow, I can't picture you letting yourself sound like that seriously. You have too much taste.,"
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"So. How many bars have you been to so far?"
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"Figure I have at least two or three left in me. Unless something better shows up."
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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?"
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But it isn't so unpleasant, as coping strategies go.
"I like to think I'll know it when I see it, though."
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"And here I thought the evidence so far spoke very highly of my taste in people."
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"How about this. I'll tell you who I have my eye on, and we can see if you approve."
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If it's not him he would highly recommend that woman down the other end of the bar.
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"Here's my suggestion," and he leans a little toward her as if imparting great wisdom, "go back to his place, thoroughly wear him out, and then play with his dog come the next day."
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She nods, not entirely hiding her smile. "I think you and I have the same idea."
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