When a car pulls up into the dirt driveway, Bucky figures it's a good thing he hadn't gone along with Sam and Sarah into town like he had originally planned.
Although the threat of Walker has since diminished with the shield exchanging hands, Bucky nor Sam believe it's over. Nothing ever is. It's one fight into another one. Despite it being a negative way to view things, Sam's heeded Bucky's warning despite the roll of his eyes and muttering of him always wanting to poke holes in things that don't have holes. Someone with Walker's ambition and need to be better, to be the person that his city needs, the hero that he pictures himself to be to make up for the void tearing at his sense of self inside of him is something Bucky recognises won't let him stop. A brutal defeat at an abandoned warehouse is only going to fuel his fire even hotter.
Calling in for extra reinforcements to help deal with him was the only smart idea Sam had. Although Bucky doesn't know Natasha as well as he knows Sam, Steve trusting her is enough for him to easily roll over and agree to the plan with an uncharacteristic easiness. If Steve had trusted her enough to recruit the Avengers who had been in hiding while he'd been in Wakanda getting his head screwed on straight, she was good enough for him.
Walking out from the side of the house, he begins to pull at the sleeve of his blue shirt, currently curled above his elbow, down to cover his arm. It's a self-conscious move he doesn't even think about. His step's easy, almost lazy. Bucky had been out the back trying to fix something Sarah had specifically forbidden him from fixing for her. It seemed like the perfect opportunity to give a little back to a family who had given him too much.
When Natasha steps out of the car, he lifts his hand with a bend of his wrist in a small wave. "You're early. Sam's going to be really disappointed I was the one who said "hey" first," he says with a small lopsided grin. He likes the fact Sam's so competitive with him to a childish point. It makes things feel easier, his interactions less burdened.
She'd only been through the southern US a handful of times, and never as a tourist. This time wasn't any different, but Natasha did, at least, take advantage of the destination and enjoy the scenery, although the humidity and the damp heat wasn't exactly kosher for a tourist. Nevertheless, the large cypress trees with their garnishing of grey moss, the green water that hid who knew what surprises and treasures, and the cordial hospitality everywhere spoke to her like few things ever had before. It was...different, though now she fancied that she could understand just a little more about Sam Wilson, and where his genial affability had stemmed. Beautiful place, this.
An SUV had been recommended for the most comfortable, practical travel, so she'd obliged, and followed local directions to the Wilson's family residence. From Sam's text, he'd beaten all around the bush, but she'd brought the reports he'd asked for; clandestine operation was still one of her specialties. The whereabouts, evaluations, and consequences of a certain John Walker were considered classified at the highest levels, even above, but infiltration was bread and butter for her; she'd been hacking into intelligence servers since her early teens. A few other interesting notes about certain individuals accompanied that particular file, secured in her carry-on.
She also wasn't too surprised to see a quasi-familiar figure emerge on the porch; Wilson had mentioned that Barnes was here in Louisiana, also, apparently needing a sabbatical from all of the noise back in New York. Made sense. Both men needed to get way off the radar, let things cool down before making any new splashes in the proverbial pool. But it was good practice to keep an eye on the water even while one wasn't swimming in it; Natasha approved of the request. And in the interest of iron-clad security, had opted to deliver everything in person, just because.
"Hey," she called back, bag on her shoulder as she closed the car door and approached the front porch. "Earlier flight." The heat was already thick, making her glad she'd opted for cool casual, white linen slacks, beige sandals, and a navy sarong with a thin white half-jacket. Scarlet curls in an artfully disheveled ponytail. Yet another mask, but then, she had so many. And, as was her habit, she automatically perused the former Winter Soldier with a speculative eye.
"You look good." Meaning, not half-crazy and on a hair-trigger. "Civilian life seems to agree with you, Barnes."
"Yeah, well..." He lifted a shoulder, the corner of his lips curving upward. "The magic of washing your hair and cutting it." And no longer looking like the property of Hydra.
While it made him feel a little good to have someone who was familiar with him as the Winter Soldier comment that he didn't look like the Winter Soldier, it still made Bucky a touch nervous. Natasha was Sam's friend, not his. He remembered vividly how he had tried to kill her a handful of times.
With his sleeve now down to his wrist, it was a subconscious move to hold his left hand against his hip. While the people of Delacroix took to celebrating his arm more than being afraid of it, he'd quickly developed the habit in New York to hide away his hands just in case. One could never be too prepared—or paranoid—that someone might recognise the metal arm, put two and two together, and either rightfully accuse him of a murder of a loved one or run for the hills. Bucky always expected the worse.
"Sam had to go into town with Sarah, but I can take you inside if you wanted to put your bag down."
Moving, pretending that he knew how to be a host, and trying to act normal seemed like a better idea than standing around in the heat. Sam would kick his ass for being weird.
Last night's match had run late, resulting in the gymnastics team not getting back to campus until well after midnight. She'd slept through her morning alarm, missing her eight o'clock class, but had finally woken just fifteen minutes before Adv. Physics at nine, Professor Barnes' class. Natalia swallowed coffee as she trotted across the grounds, still a bit disheveled and tugging at her clothes moments before stepping into the lecture room.
Curls disheveled, button-up shirt hastily pulled on over her haltertop and tied beneath her breasts, and her short-shorts unbuttoned but thankfully zipped, the Russian prodigy adjusted her sandals and slid into her customary front row seat, pulling out her textbook and notepad as the rest of her classmates began filing in. The professor had yet to arrive from his office; no doubt he'd gone for his own coffee between his classes.
Honestly, the Russian gymnast was distracting on the best of days but today she was showing so. much. skin. that Bucky wasn't sure if he was going to be able to manage a single word of his lecture. Too bad he couldn't just do powerpoints like Steve's history lectures and actually had to do equations. He looks at her even though he shouldn't and gives her a tight "Good morning."
"How was the match yesterday? I only got to catch half of it," he says, just making an excuse to talk to her.
Glancing up when she heard the familiar, achingly familiar voice, Natalia gave the professor a somewhat sleepy smile, reaching down to fetch her equations notebook. It was, perhaps, unintentional that the gesture pulled the shirt tight across her chest, revealing more than a generous hint of cleavage. Because her attention was riveted to that white shirt stretched sinfully taut across the man's magnificent torso, the definition of muscle beneath it momentarily robbing her of the ability to answer.
Manners, thankfully, came to her rescue.
"...dobroye utro, Professor," was her husky response, her voice still thick with the accent of her homeland. Sixteen and a prodigy of the Russian Imperial Family, though thankfully not in direct line for the throne, the little redheaded girl was, enough of a celebrity to warrant careful supervision, even if she did make a game of dodging her 'security' every chance she got.
"It went well," she reported, smile still curving full lips. "We placed second, remarkable considering we were one short this week." Katya was out with a sprained wrist, poor girl. Then just because she was still half-asleep and because she wanted him so badly, Natalia heard herself saying, "...I saw you, by the way, when I was on the bars." Her lashes lowered slightly. "I'm glad you came..."
It'd only been two weeks since she'd been selected for this position, but Natalie Rushman was finding it refreshingly enjoyable, considering her real reason for being here. "Here" being the Sokovian Royal Palace, as a personal aide to Her Royal Majesty, Queen Winnie. The Queen was lovely and kind, a little flighty but easy to manage, and the American debutante had come so very highly recommended that it was a shoo-in, attaining her spot at the Queen's right hand.
King George, while appropriately stern, was quite affable himself, always polite and respectful, and truly fond of his wife even with all of her personality quirks and idiosyncrasies. The true reason for Miss Rushman's position here in the palace had not returned from his sojourn to the islands; Prince James Buchanan had spent the summer months on holiday, as it were, and was, in fact, due to return this evening, in time for supper with his parents.
The Queen was determined to meet her son at the airport, and despite George's insistence that the boy was grown, he didn't need his mother hovering over him at his age, but there was no dissuading her. Thus, the Queen, her security, and Natalia piled into the sedan and drove the short distance to the airport, the sleek car pulling directly into the tarmac of the ruling family's private landing strip. The prince's jet had already landed; it was just a matter of moments before he appeared and they could return to the palace.
While Queen Winnie bubbled in expectant happiness, Natalie decided to go through her aide notes, since Her Majesty was suitably distracted, at least for the moment. From what she'd gleaned about this particular prince, there wasn't much that she needed to be concerned about.
A summer in Greece had left James with a tan and an air of relaxation about him that was hard to achieve at home in colder, sadder Sokovia. Sokovia was home, yes, and he loved it but there was something about the islands that always invigorated him.
He's not shocked that his mother wants to greet him but when he steps off the plane, there's someone else who catches his eye. There's a beautiful redhead who's standing next to the Queen and he wants to bypass his mother entirely to find out who she is. He hasn't seen someone as stunning as her in a long time and he wants to know her - hopefully she's around long enough for him to get the chance.
He draws close to his mother and kisses both her cheeks before offering a hand to the redhead. "I'm James," he says, introducing himself informally for once. "I don't recognize you among the staff. Has my mother managed to charm another private secretary into her envoy?"
It boded rather well for her assignment, that the Prince immediately turned to her after greeting his lady mother. Natalie dipped in a low, elegant curtsy, putting on a genteel smile. "Your Highness," she returned his introduction, and took his hand in a firm but feminine clasp. "Natalie Rushman." She laughed lightly, a low, grosgrain alto.
"Your mother was kind enough to consider me for her personal aide, and I accepted the offer without thinking twice."
Anything else was truncated by the Queen, looping her arm with her son's in a maternal embrace. "You look so tanned and relaxed, dear heart," she told him, smiling fondly. "Did sweet Dot enjoy the islands, also? A shame she had to come back early, but family comes first, you know."
Natalie fell into step with the royal family as they headed for the sedan, obligingly opting to take the front passenger seat so that mother and son might have the privacy of the back.
The thing about Reaper, if you're not stabbing yourself with it, it takes a moment for your brain to catch onto what is happening to it. And in a crowd as thick as it is around Alcatraz, all it takes is a bump from a stranger, the smallest of pricks into exposed skin, and then your vision blurs and fades to black. If you're stabbed with enough of it, this can happen in a matter of seconds. You're not even aware of the arm looking under yours as your limbs go limp.
Now, all of that is technical, Takeshi has delt with it before. His mind caught on just before everything went dark.
The actual question: who was so fucking foolish to try to kidnap him so fresh on the heels of his notoriety in bring down the Bancroft family, exposing his sister's criminal empire, and bringing about the passage of Prop 653.
Tak got his answer when the Reaper started wearing off. He took that as a good sign, these idiots didn't know how to dose him. So, bad for them.
He let his other senses come back to him before opening his eyes and giving away their disadvantage.
He was sitting in a chair, that was also kind of his captors.
His arms were bound to the arms of the chair. Take any generous thought towards his captors back.
Oh, but the chair was wooden, and didn't feel solid. Maybe he could forgive them a little.
He heard footsteps, soft thuds at first, he thought the Reaper might still be dulling his mind, but after a moment he realized, no, he was hearing people walking on the other side of a wall. So he was in a room. And he'd guessed from the convergence of footsteps at one particular spot behind him, that the the door was to his back.
And then someone spoke. Japanese, deferential. The answer, also in Japanese, but authoritative. Trational.
Now what would the Yakuza want with him? All the way over here on Earth? Maybe this was some hairbrained idea of a middling son, thinking he'd win some kind of favor with his father...
Also, Tak had been on ice for over two hundred years, and he hadn't got the chance to catch up on what the Yakuza was up to these days. So maybe this was actual a friendly kidnapping?
He opened his eyes then, to confirm he was in the Real. And, rounding out all the information he could get at the moment, he started plotting.
He didn't get very far before the sound of one body hitting the floor started off a scuffle of action on the other side of the door. A fight that was clearly unanticipated on the Yakuza's side. The lack of yelling in the range of Ortega's voice was a clear indication that she wasn't about to burst through and give him an earful while she was saving him.
Right, best to get on with it. Whatever was going on on the other side of that wall, Tak intended to face it when it came through the door.
He steeled himself and then threw himself against the back of the chair, sending himself backwards and crashing to the ground. Predictably, the chair broke apart upon impact enough that he could wrench his arms relatively free. Free from the chair. His arms were secured to the chair arms in two spots each, so he had a few more steps to go to get the wood off.
But the click at the door told him he'd have to improvise, as is. Not the worst position he'd ever been in, he could make this work to his advantage.
He quickly turned towards the door and crossed the room to press himself against the wall to give him just a bit more time to see who he would be facing before he had to fight his way out of this. Because sometimes, seconds was all he needed to win.
Changing sleeves was old hat for her by now. But then, she'd been raised in one of the most hellish environments known to humanity, so it was quite a miracle that her brains were still more or less intact. That, ironically, didn't mean she was sane, not by a long shot - anyone brash enough to simply waltz right in to a Yakuza stronghold clearly had mental problems.
But at least she was quiet about it? That counted for something, right? And she comatose'd more than she killed; Stark had slowly weaned her away from leaving body counts, though it had taken quite a few years.
Nevertheless, she'd chosen her own sleeve for this little jaunt; her own body was formidable, intact, and a perfect killing machine, not to mention the flaming scarlet curls which were, by now, her trademark: the Black Widow knew no fear, and always attained her goal.
And this particular mission should have been simple: make contact with Takashi Kovacs, invite him to Stark's fortress in the Aerium. Easy. But she'd arrived at the Alcatraz port in perfect time to see the man get snatched right out of the crowd and surreptitiously get hauled off before anyone could even turn a goddamn hair.
Imagine her chagrin at that hellacious turn of events. She'd invented an entirely new language of curse words, just for the occasion.
But investigation had led her across the world, to Japan, and a little more chicanery had brought her to this hellhole, and by the time she arrived, Natasha's patience had worn almost down to absolutely nothing. Hence her entrance without preamble. It'd been a glorious fight, but the petite redhead was, for now, the only one standing, and she made her way to the "holding cell" quite calmly.
It didn't surprise her in the slightest when, after kicking in the heavy door, she spied her quarry already out of his restraints and waiting just inside. Which was why she flashed a quick, sly little grin, blinked ingeniously up, and up, at the tall drink of water, and caroled in a flat, neutral accent, whiskey-voice cool, "Hiya, handsome. Need a lift? I'm driving."
Bucky has been captain of the Eagle's Shadow for ten years now and on the ship for fifteen. His old life is something he doesn't think about much - he keeps it locked up tight in one part of his mind and tosses the key away to go about the current of it. The current is trying to keep Thanos and his Black Order from finding the Infinity Stones scattered somewhere around these islands, hidden in vain by those who knew better than to see the power of gods.
Bucky doesn't think it's smart to do that himself, honestly, but Nick Fury had spared his family in exchange for his service and he owes the man that, even after death. This is the cause that had sent Fury to the ends of the world and had his men plundering every cay and beach from here to Brazil and back again. Bucky hasn't managed to get his hands on one yet but he will because if he doesn't, he's afraid of what will happen.
Having a crew of pirates means that occasionally, you do have to let them pirate, so they capture a Spanish galleon and beach all the men, steal the silver, and slip off before anyone can be the wiser. Pockets full, his men want to spend the night in port and Sam has promised him he'll come back with all of them and maybe a few more so Bucky just lets them go. When they come back in the morning, though, they come back with entirely more than he wants them to have.
"You're not bringing a woman onto my ship," he calls out, seeing a slight figure being pulled along with two of his men. She has red hair and that's about all he can see of her from the wheel and he steps down onto the maindecks to get a better look.
"If you want to whore, you got to do it last night, but we're not bringing women along. We don't have work for women here and I'm not having my whole boat coming to blows over one woman in miles of ocean."
Her father was no doubt going to strap her bloody for this stunt, but Natalia had been adamant. She was not going to prance down the aisle to marry a man she didn't love, their family connections be damned. And while Commodore Steven G. Rogers was, indeed, a great friend - one of her best friends, actually - there was no love or lust shared between them. So rather than argue again with the Governor of Port-au-Prince, her own beloved father, formerly an Admiral in His Majesty's Fleet, a decorated war veteran of many years, now-turned politician and given the stewardship of the King's interests in these Caribbean Islands, Natalia Elizabeta Romanova-Bancroft had made her move.
Granted, it probably hadn't been the wisest choice - haring off on a schooner bound for Tortuga in dockworker's clothing, a pouch full of gold from her mother's hocked jewels, and her long, fiery curls tied up in a pickaninny bag to conceal her true identity - but by damn, at least she'd made one! No stranger to the rougher side of life, the soon-to-be spinster successfully made her way from Haiti to that disreputable den of swindlers, drunks, and the utmost scum of the earth.
Having proficiency in weaponry and self-defense had served her well; she absolutely knew how to use the rapier and dagger belted at her waist, and by a sheer miracle managed to book passage further along her route, paying a goodly amount to shove off with the carousing crew of the Eagle's Shadow, whatever sort of ship that was. She knew Steve and her father would never think to look for her in this sort of place, but she'd felt the need to keep moving most keenly.
A nuance that suffered a major setback when, upon boarding the large brigandine anchored just offshore, she heard a loud masculine bellow, belaying her arrival and refusing her very presence. It was enough to prick her ire, and, not bothering to let the First Mate respond to this approaching miscreant, who had to be the captain, Natalia narrowed her eyes and stepped around the taller black man, addressing the brigand directly.
"Excuse me," she snapped, ice chips in green eyes, "but I've paid for my passage, Captain. I'm not looking for work, or adventure, or whatever you seem to believe has to do with my presence here." One small hand settled on the butt of her dagger. "Nor am I worried about fending off your crew's affections, should it be needed."
Yanking off her oversized hat, she gave her head a toss, gold-touched scarlet streaming down over slender shoulders, but her chin remained level with the deck as she met this pirate directly eye-to-eye.
Anastasia Novikoff, or as she was otherwise known, Natasha Romanoff, stood near the beverage service with champagne glass in hand, idly surveying the small crowd milling nearby, but in reality keeping a close eye on her partner, her "husband, Dmitri Novikoff, as he swilled vodka and brokered business with their targets. The gown she wore fit her like a second skin, speaking to the wealth and luxury she and her "husband" boasted. But the sleek crimson fabric well-concealed the weapons she carried, and the earbug was invisible, Stark-Tech at its finest.
Also known as Bucky Barnes, "Dmitri Novikoff" wore the tailored tuxedo well, Natasha had to admit. Fluent in the Russian language, mannerisms, and culture, he was more than enough to pass for a native. Although she, Wilson, and even Barnes himself had initially had a few reservations about this mission, thus far things seemed to be going well. The two operatives were posing as a married Russian couple of arms dealings and money laundering, here in Los Angeles from Kiev to "mix and mingle" with the new criminal syndicates that had scrambled to power in the years since the end of the Snap. Their job was to infiltrate and obtain intel, then destabilize and disassemble as soon as possible. Preferably without kicking the hornet's nest.
They'd been in LA for four days, and this was the first party where everyone was in the same room. In her idle wandering here and there, she'd gained a lot of information, mainly gossip, which she'd need to filter through later. Nevertheless, there was no such thing as useless information, so whatever she could collect was important. In her ear, Barnes' conversation was starting to wane. Lifting her glass to her lips, wetting them with the champagne, she kept from smirking and murmured, "Ask him if he's responsible for the canapes. They're truly vile. And be a little snotty about it. Let's see how he tries to cover."
Bucky took to this kind of situation less fluently than Natasha did. Luckily for him, that didn't conflict with his cover. Dmitri was supposed to be a volatile, dangerous, impatient Russian bratva thug turned crimelord, making his money in stolen Soviet weapons. If he was standoffish, brusque or blunt, it only comports with the character he's meant to be playing.
If he was uncomfortable, it's because Dmitri would be happier in a dive bar or a gambling den, maybe even a strip club if he could visit without offending his beautiful and dangerous wife. It wasn't because Bucky Barnes hasn't socialized to speak of in eighty years.
Of course, all that would be out the window if Natasha made him laugh.
He covers the urge to smile with a healthy swig on his glass.
To the target, he said, "Do you really enjoy this?" His nose wrinkled somewhat in distaste, taking in the party. "My wife does, I think, and I do enjoy seeing her dressed up, but I never feel at ease in these crowds."
He put on a Russian accent, not something he usually effected, but it comes naturally enough after years of familiarity.
"I'd rather do business one on one. Man to man." He met his target's eyes seriously, unblinking. Sam had commented more than once about his ability to stare. Might as well put it to good use. "You should come shooting with me sometime. We can talk real business there."
Somehow, things still hadn't been awkward the morning after they shared a bed, nuzzled close into each other for warmth. Maybe it had something to do with the pair of assassins being consummate professionals: in the morning, the fire had run down and they were in a lingering pile of warmth, but they started their day briskly and efficiently, without comment. As if this happened all the time.
They had re-made the bed. Packed up their equipment. Natasha made coffee, James cooked scrambled eggs, and they waited for their missing third.
Steve eventually came back, cheeks pink from the cold and boots tracking in snow, and it didn't take long for them to float the discussion of Madripoor later in the day, and it didn't take long for Steve to refuse. Absolutely not, he'd said at first, but Bucky didn't relent.
It was like pulling teeth.
Trying to convince him of that cold, hard calculus. The fact that Bucky didn't want to put him at risk. The fact that Steve didn't mind being put in harm's way; actively courted it, really. The fact that Natasha's hand would be steadier on that trigger. The unsavoury underbelly of Madripoor and how these two were practically made for it, trained for it, and Captain America most decidedly wasn't.
Those trigger words, burning a pit into his best friend's brain.
It had been a long argument, it had gone back and forth, they kept going over it and over it in their drive down the mountain and onto the next safehouse. Natasha had, probably wisely, sat on the sidelines and let the men wrestle it out. They would come to a conclusion, either way.
And so, they did. It took another week to get the preparations ready, but then it was Steve packed into a duffel bag, a crushing hug on an airfield, arms drawn tight around each other — Bucky murmuring something into his ear, a laugh drawn out of the other man — the two finally parting with no idea when they'd see each other next, but with the hopes that when they did, things would be different. Bucky had watched him go, his glacier-blue eyes steady on Steve Rogers' retreating back; and when he was out of view, James had turned back to Natasha, and said:
What now?
More chartered flights with more private contacts. They made their way east out of Europe, to the steaming muggy heat of Madripoor; traded frigid Norwegian snow for monsoon season, swapped knit sweaters for sweating through their undershirts; traded a mountain cottage for a small apartment with wallpaper peeling in the humidity. There was only one bedroom, still. As much as there might've been a quiet ulterior motive, it was genuinely pragmatic too: they had to save their money, because disappearing off the grid took cash; greasing palms and bribing criminals took even more.
But they were here on a mission, so they spent their nights pounding the pavement and searching for clues, nosing around the city's information brokers, discreetly asking around. The leads mostly petered out — there were plenty of back-alley doctors, and even whispers of people buying superpowers if they wanted them — but James wanted the opposite. He didn't need more serums and more experimentation. He wanted the effects of the last experiments reversed, carved out of him. Their requirements were strict: they needed a neurosurgeon, a cognitive specialist, someone shady enough to operate and keep their mouth shut, but not so shady that they couldn't be trusted at all.
This was the last try for the night before they would inevitably have to wend their way back to their apartment: to tossing and turning in sweaty sheets, James on the sofa, staring up at a black spider crawling across the apartment ceiling.
But they weren't there yet. In a crowded bar, James slipped through the crowd and back to Natasha's side. He was wearing long sleeves despite the heat; hiding his left arm from view, a cap low over his face, the ubiquitous Avengers disguise.
"Don't think the guy I spoke to is gonna pan out," he said. "Any word from your contacts?"
It had been difficult sending Steve back to the States. Rogers was a good friend, a solid presence, and a definite buffer between her and her memories. He hadn't wanted to leave them, that Natasha knew, but she'd prudently kept her opinions out of the discussion, and let things come to the logical conclusion.
Madripoor was an entirely different world. One had to be ruthless to survive, and able to scrounge while keeping one hand on a trigger and one eye over the shoulder. Vermin didn't always have four legs, in this sweltering nest. Dank back alleys, shadowed doorways, tired back rooms; these were the places where business went down, in Madripoor.
She'd just returned from one of those sorts of 'meetings', herself, plunking down at the far end of the bar with a grunt of exasperated frustration. The bartender brought her a club soda, heavy on the ice - her beverage of choice when working - and Natasha sipped it slowly, brooding over the glass's rim as her mind whirled a mile a minute.
It was hot; even indoors with conditioned air, the jungle heat was enough to oppress, lying thick and heavy over all beneath it. Nevertheless, she was prudently garbed in form fitting jeans and jacket, boots in which were secreted a number of weapons, as well as her customary arsenal she never went without.
A familiar shape materialized out of the gloom, and Natasha glanced up to greet her companion with a brief nod, then a repeat of her former exasperation. Barnes had to be dying, in this heat. She sympathized. "Nothing yet," was her low grumble, swallowing another icy gulp. "I may have to step on a few toes, if something doesn't come back soon."
They'd been at this for a while, trying to find the information they needed, and had hit more brick walls and dead ends than she liked. Before, her information network had been impeccable, able to provide whatever was requested within a matter of hours, but here, information routes were sketchy, at best. It was irritating. But necessary, therefore she wasn't willing to give up. Not by a damn sight.
And the more they 'worked', the busier they both stayed. Work was good. Busy was good. Unbusy, alone together, was...well. Even though their interlude back in the snow hadn't lifted any eyebrows, now, without the third to insulate, Natasha felt it. The slow thrum of...something, simmering away between her and the former Winter Soldier.
She ignored it, for the most part. They had other, more important objectives, and as long as it was kept out of sight, kept quiet, she could deal with it and move right on along. No harm, no foul. Smooth as glass. But it was nevertheless ever-present, and she could no more deny its existence than she could fly to the moon. Still. Work. Focus on the mission.
So she slid a second full glass over, automatically running her eye along Bucky's trail back through the room, just to make sure he hadn't been followed or any undue attention still lingered. "A storm's supposed to roll in tonight, so everything'll be battened down for the duration, anyway."
Natasha put down her phone, briefly considering changing out of her comfortable t-shirt and soft workout shorts into something more appropriate for company, but discarded the thought almost as soon as it arrived. Redfield wasn't someone she had to worry about impressing; they'd already done that for each other. And it was a little saddening, that their respective jobs kept both of them out of the normal "social scene", left to random hookups and "are you in town tonight" sort of queries.
Well, her track record for any sort of lasting relationship was a big fat zero, anyway.
Still, Chris deserved someone stable, comfortable, normal; the man had enough shit to deal with in his day-to-day to have to worry about coming home to an empty apartment. Sighing, not at herself but rather at the circumstances life had so generously given the both of them, the redhead plunked down on her couch after unbolting her front door. Redfield knew to slide it back once he came in, after all. The security system was remote, only requiring a touch on her phone to activate; Stark Tech at its finest.
The sort of lives they chose to lead didn't lend themselves to anything normal. That was fine with Chris at this point. He had accepted he'd never have a normal life. There was something nice about this though. Natasha was someone he could trust and someone who understood the nature of his work and wouldn't hold it against him. It was comfortable. More comfortable that picking up someone from a bar for a night.
He grabbed Thai on the way like he promised. Nothing special. Pad Thai. Thai basil shrimp. Some spring rolls. Something that they could both enjoy and split. The point wasn't dinner but he wasn't going to skimp. They would need the energy if it was anything like last time.
Chris knocked on the door before he walked in. "It's me. Don't shoot." He held up the bag of Thai food as a playful peace offering. Once he was certain Natasha wasn't going to attack he closed the door behind him, locked it, and then walked towards the kitchen.
"How've you been?" he asked as he set the bag down and started to pull out take out containers.
Steve isn't sure when the idea occurred to him. Somewhere between the aliens and the nazis and the robots, he got used to her at his side, always with a dry remark or an alternative plan. She's a part of what little life he has outside of work, the only original Avenger who stayed after Sokovia. Somewhere between going over intelligence reports over a pile of peanut butter sandwiches, and making a team out of the new Avengers, four years became plenty in terms of shared life experience.
He shouldn’t find it amusing how oblivious she is. One of the most perceptive people he’s ever met, and she never considered that his (admittedly terrible) flirting might be for her. The way it makes her laugh is enough that he keeps at it. And when the opportunity arises, he takes it.
Unfortunately, they live with an almost-telepath and an omnipresent android, along with a plain old nosy human. Steve manages to avoid all three on his way to the parking lot, only to run into Rhodes outside the elevator. The man takes one look at Steve’s suit (deep grey, white shirt, no tie with the top button left undone), car keys in one hand and a small bouquet in the other. Being the one person on the team who’s known Natasha for longer than Steve has, he puts the pieces together almost immediately.
“Wow, okay. Should I make sure the kids are in bed by the time you two get back?”
Steve can’t help his grin as he presses the button for the underground parking floor. “Don’t wait up,” he says as the doors close.
[ Thank you for waiting! And being so wonderfully patient! I'm on the mend, thank goodness, and will be slow (for now), but I'm gonna do my best to keep up! ♥♥ ]
Steve had said formal attire, and Natasha thought that something slightly vintage might be a nice touch. She'd swept her long scarlet curls into a Fifties twist behind her head, leaving one wayward lock to trail over her left shoulder, artfully coy. A bit of understated jewelry, retro makeup, her black clutch, and more than three weapons secreted here and there (she was a pro, but it was a miracle she'd managed to get anything else under this dress), and she was finally ready.
Figuring she was supposed to meet Steve in the garage - he hadn't intimated knocking on her suite door - Natasha ran into Rhodes just coming out of the elevator, and grinned to his wolf whistle.
"Damn, Red," he told her, giving her a look up and down, "don't stop the boy's heart or anything, all right?"
Natasha smirked, twirling on her toes just to show off. "He'll be fine," she assured the other Avenger, flicking a wrist coquettishly. "We're just going out for a quiet dinner. One that isn't takeout or frozen beforehand."
Rhodey didn't look convinced; he quirked an eyebrow at her. "Uh-huh. Well, have fun, and enjoy it, yeah?"
Natasha stepped into the elevator, hit the button for the garage floor, and blew her compatriot a kiss before the doors slid closed. "Don't wait up."
Natasha exited the cab with her backpack and carry-on, letting the driver finagle her larger rolling suitcase from the trunk, and gazed at the hotel with a tourist's interest. Rustic, charming, atmospheric, Manuc's Inn was everything advertised, a sprawling old architecture of another time, an older world, a world untroubled by all this modern nonsense.
After paying her fare, she casually strolled into the foyer and a porter immediately offered to take her luggage, which earned him a slight smile and a generous tip. She'd booked the reservation, checked in via her cell as soon as she'd made the airport - at least most places, regardless of how antique, hosted modern technology.
Then she headed for the bar, just another tourist in white linen, wide-legged pants, flowing jacket, and a sky-blue silk chemise beneath it. Comfortable white sandals completed the ensemble, even if she still looked far too pale to completely pull off the look. Long red curls gently swinging in their artful ponytail, she took a seat at the bar and ordered a club soda, sending the bartender on his way after he'd brought it.
She didn't need anything else; she was waiting for someone.
Bucky's already there, watching from a distance, waiting for her to arrive. He knows this is it. His last chance to bail and call it quits before they rekindle whatever it is that started up months ago. This is it, and yet he stays put until he sees her there, strolling in like she owns the place. Just another tourist? Hardly. Jeez.
He's quick to do a sweep of the place, just to make sure she's alone- not because he doesn't believe her, but because he knows how much people like to tag along, and he's spent far too long hiding out to be found like this.
And then he's there, sliding onto the stool next to her, looking a lot like he did three months ago. He feels a little underdressed.
"Didn't think I'd find a girl like you in a place like this."
Tea. He'd agreed to tea with someone that had murdered a man en route to his hospital. There hadn't been much fuss about it at the time; people coded en route every day. He'd mad a casual inquiry into it and had gotten a name, which led him down a rabbit hole of who the man had been. Not pleasant by any means. She hadn't taken down a saint by any means.
He'd then tried to look up Ms. Rushmore. That had been an entirely different rabbit hole that had him up for most of the night, learning more about the people that had been experimented on, the outcomes of that, the good and bad parts of government subterfuge.
Rowan had tagged out early that day, taking one of his few instances of personal time that had led to too many queries about his health in tones of concern, but no refusals of him taking it. He never got sick, so he'd never needed to take a personal day for it. He was owed it, even if he felt a little guilty creeping away to meet an assassin for tea.
And he'd gotten there early, he hoped. Sat in a seat that left one open with its back not towards the public, figuring she'd prefer that. He sipped his tea and waited.
At least Krishnakov was out of commission, which left what remained of the Avengers to confiscate the alien weapons his mercenaries had been smuggling across the globe - with, ironically, their HQ right here in the middle of the city. Maximoff and Wilson were still working on an angle to infiltrate that little cadre. And Rogers was running interference with Stark for the duration, leaving Natasha free to make good on her promise of tea and pastries with the Irish doctor from the day before.
She was too paranoid not to arrive nearly two hours ahead of schedule, silently casing the place and making note of all the entrances and exits, the flow of customers coming and going, and even running remote facial recognition on all of the employees she could see. (And even digging a little bit into those who weren't on shift today.) She wasn't worried about her own alias, Natalie Rushman; that particular persona was ironclad and waterproof. Just a modest little Russian mercenary for hire, nothing to see here, folks.
And she'd noted the good doctor arriving early himself, ordering tea and taking a seat with his back to the window - presumably leaving the open seat for her, how thoughtful. She grinned to herself, shaking her head in dry amusement. Well, soonest begun was best done, or however that saying went. So she arranged herself into a nondescript image of just a petite redheaded woman in a casual blouse, short jacket, and jeans, heading into the cafe for a quick bite and sip.
At precisely twelve-thirty, she slipped into the empty seat at the doctor's table, lacing her hands on the table and favoring him with a polite smile. "What's up, Doc?" Then she smirked, wry. "Sorry, couldn't help it. Told you I'd show up. What're you drinking?"
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
maskirovka) wrote2021-07-20 01:46 am
vanilla 🥰 | it's here that i've got to stay
Although the threat of Walker has since diminished with the shield exchanging hands, Bucky nor Sam believe it's over. Nothing ever is. It's one fight into another one. Despite it being a negative way to view things, Sam's heeded Bucky's warning despite the roll of his eyes and muttering of him always wanting to poke holes in things that don't have holes. Someone with Walker's ambition and need to be better, to be the person that his city needs, the hero that he pictures himself to be to make up for the void tearing at his sense of self inside of him is something Bucky recognises won't let him stop. A brutal defeat at an abandoned warehouse is only going to fuel his fire even hotter.
Calling in for extra reinforcements to help deal with him was the only smart idea Sam had. Although Bucky doesn't know Natasha as well as he knows Sam, Steve trusting her is enough for him to easily roll over and agree to the plan with an uncharacteristic easiness. If Steve had trusted her enough to recruit the Avengers who had been in hiding while he'd been in Wakanda getting his head screwed on straight, she was good enough for him.
Walking out from the side of the house, he begins to pull at the sleeve of his blue shirt, currently curled above his elbow, down to cover his arm. It's a self-conscious move he doesn't even think about. His step's easy, almost lazy. Bucky had been out the back trying to fix something Sarah had specifically forbidden him from fixing for her. It seemed like the perfect opportunity to give a little back to a family who had given him too much.
When Natasha steps out of the car, he lifts his hand with a bend of his wrist in a small wave. "You're early. Sam's going to be really disappointed I was the one who said "hey" first," he says with a small lopsided grin. He likes the fact Sam's so competitive with him to a childish point. It makes things feel easier, his interactions less burdened.
no subject
An SUV had been recommended for the most comfortable, practical travel, so she'd obliged, and followed local directions to the Wilson's family residence. From Sam's text, he'd beaten all around the bush, but she'd brought the reports he'd asked for; clandestine operation was still one of her specialties. The whereabouts, evaluations, and consequences of a certain John Walker were considered classified at the highest levels, even above, but infiltration was bread and butter for her; she'd been hacking into intelligence servers since her early teens. A few other interesting notes about certain individuals accompanied that particular file, secured in her carry-on.
She also wasn't too surprised to see a quasi-familiar figure emerge on the porch; Wilson had mentioned that Barnes was here in Louisiana, also, apparently needing a sabbatical from all of the noise back in New York. Made sense. Both men needed to get way off the radar, let things cool down before making any new splashes in the proverbial pool. But it was good practice to keep an eye on the water even while one wasn't swimming in it; Natasha approved of the request. And in the interest of iron-clad security, had opted to deliver everything in person, just because.
"Hey," she called back, bag on her shoulder as she closed the car door and approached the front porch. "Earlier flight." The heat was already thick, making her glad she'd opted for cool casual, white linen slacks, beige sandals, and a navy sarong with a thin white half-jacket. Scarlet curls in an artfully disheveled ponytail. Yet another mask, but then, she had so many. And, as was her habit, she automatically perused the former Winter Soldier with a speculative eye.
"You look good." Meaning, not half-crazy and on a hair-trigger. "Civilian life seems to agree with you, Barnes."
no subject
While it made him feel a little good to have someone who was familiar with him as the Winter Soldier comment that he didn't look like the Winter Soldier, it still made Bucky a touch nervous. Natasha was Sam's friend, not his. He remembered vividly how he had tried to kill her a handful of times.
With his sleeve now down to his wrist, it was a subconscious move to hold his left hand against his hip. While the people of Delacroix took to celebrating his arm more than being afraid of it, he'd quickly developed the habit in New York to hide away his hands just in case. One could never be too prepared—or paranoid—that someone might recognise the metal arm, put two and two together, and either rightfully accuse him of a murder of a loved one or run for the hills. Bucky always expected the worse.
"Sam had to go into town with Sarah, but I can take you inside if you wanted to put your bag down."
Moving, pretending that he knew how to be a host, and trying to act normal seemed like a better idea than standing around in the heat. Sam would kick his ass for being weird.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
for ostavil - university AU
Curls disheveled, button-up shirt hastily pulled on over her haltertop and tied beneath her breasts, and her short-shorts unbuttoned but thankfully zipped, the Russian prodigy adjusted her sandals and slid into her customary front row seat, pulling out her textbook and notepad as the rest of her classmates began filing in. The professor had yet to arrive from his office; no doubt he'd gone for his own coffee between his classes.
no subject
"How was the match yesterday? I only got to catch half of it," he says, just making an excuse to talk to her.
no subject
Manners, thankfully, came to her rescue.
"...dobroye utro, Professor," was her husky response, her voice still thick with the accent of her homeland. Sixteen and a prodigy of the Russian Imperial Family, though thankfully not in direct line for the throne, the little redheaded girl was, enough of a celebrity to warrant careful supervision, even if she did make a game of dodging her 'security' every chance she got.
"It went well," she reported, smile still curving full lips. "We placed second, remarkable considering we were one short this week." Katya was out with a sprained wrist, poor girl. Then just because she was still half-asleep and because she wanted him so badly, Natalia heard herself saying, "...I saw you, by the way, when I was on the bars." Her lashes lowered slightly. "I'm glad you came..."
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
for ostavil - His Royal Highness AU
King George, while appropriately stern, was quite affable himself, always polite and respectful, and truly fond of his wife even with all of her personality quirks and idiosyncrasies. The true reason for Miss Rushman's position here in the palace had not returned from his sojourn to the islands; Prince James Buchanan had spent the summer months on holiday, as it were, and was, in fact, due to return this evening, in time for supper with his parents.
The Queen was determined to meet her son at the airport, and despite George's insistence that the boy was grown, he didn't need his mother hovering over him at his age, but there was no dissuading her. Thus, the Queen, her security, and Natalia piled into the sedan and drove the short distance to the airport, the sleek car pulling directly into the tarmac of the ruling family's private landing strip. The prince's jet had already landed; it was just a matter of moments before he appeared and they could return to the palace.
While Queen Winnie bubbled in expectant happiness, Natalie decided to go through her aide notes, since Her Majesty was suitably distracted, at least for the moment. From what she'd gleaned about this particular prince, there wasn't much that she needed to be concerned about.
no subject
He's not shocked that his mother wants to greet him but when he steps off the plane, there's someone else who catches his eye. There's a beautiful redhead who's standing next to the Queen and he wants to bypass his mother entirely to find out who she is. He hasn't seen someone as stunning as her in a long time and he wants to know her - hopefully she's around long enough for him to get the chance.
He draws close to his mother and kisses both her cheeks before offering a hand to the redhead. "I'm James," he says, introducing himself informally for once. "I don't recognize you among the staff. Has my mother managed to charm another private secretary into her envoy?"
no subject
"Your mother was kind enough to consider me for her personal aide, and I accepted the offer without thinking twice."
Anything else was truncated by the Queen, looping her arm with her son's in a maternal embrace. "You look so tanned and relaxed, dear heart," she told him, smiling fondly. "Did sweet Dot enjoy the islands, also? A shame she had to come back early, but family comes first, you know."
Natalie fell into step with the royal family as they headed for the sedan, obligingly opting to take the front passenger seat so that mother and son might have the privacy of the back.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
Altered MCU - sorry this took me so long. But here it is for you.
Now, all of that is technical, Takeshi has delt with it before. His mind caught on just before everything went dark.
The actual question: who was so fucking foolish to try to kidnap him so fresh on the heels of his notoriety in bring down the Bancroft family, exposing his sister's criminal empire, and bringing about the passage of Prop 653.
Tak got his answer when the Reaper started wearing off. He took that as a good sign, these idiots didn't know how to dose him. So, bad for them.
He let his other senses come back to him before opening his eyes and giving away their disadvantage.
He was sitting in a chair, that was also kind of his captors.
His arms were bound to the arms of the chair. Take any generous thought towards his captors back.
Oh, but the chair was wooden, and didn't feel solid. Maybe he could forgive them a little.
He heard footsteps, soft thuds at first, he thought the Reaper might still be dulling his mind, but after a moment he realized, no, he was hearing people walking on the other side of a wall. So he was in a room. And he'd guessed from the convergence of footsteps at one particular spot behind him, that the the door was to his back.
And then someone spoke. Japanese, deferential. The answer, also in Japanese, but authoritative. Trational.
Now what would the Yakuza want with him? All the way over here on Earth? Maybe this was some hairbrained idea of a middling son, thinking he'd win some kind of favor with his father...
Also, Tak had been on ice for over two hundred years, and he hadn't got the chance to catch up on what the Yakuza was up to these days. So maybe this was actual a friendly kidnapping?
He opened his eyes then, to confirm he was in the Real. And, rounding out all the information he could get at the moment, he started plotting.
He didn't get very far before the sound of one body hitting the floor started off a scuffle of action on the other side of the door. A fight that was clearly unanticipated on the Yakuza's side. The lack of yelling in the range of Ortega's voice was a clear indication that she wasn't about to burst through and give him an earful while she was saving him.
Right, best to get on with it. Whatever was going on on the other side of that wall, Tak intended to face it when it came through the door.
He steeled himself and then threw himself against the back of the chair, sending himself backwards and crashing to the ground. Predictably, the chair broke apart upon impact enough that he could wrench his arms relatively free. Free from the chair. His arms were secured to the chair arms in two spots each, so he had a few more steps to go to get the wood off.
But the click at the door told him he'd have to improvise, as is. Not the worst position he'd ever been in, he could make this work to his advantage.
He quickly turned towards the door and crossed the room to press himself against the wall to give him just a bit more time to see who he would be facing before he had to fight his way out of this. Because sometimes, seconds was all he needed to win.
It is totally fine, no worries at all!
But at least she was quiet about it? That counted for something, right? And she comatose'd more than she killed; Stark had slowly weaned her away from leaving body counts, though it had taken quite a few years.
Nevertheless, she'd chosen her own sleeve for this little jaunt; her own body was formidable, intact, and a perfect killing machine, not to mention the flaming scarlet curls which were, by now, her trademark: the Black Widow knew no fear, and always attained her goal.
And this particular mission should have been simple: make contact with Takashi Kovacs, invite him to Stark's fortress in the Aerium. Easy. But she'd arrived at the Alcatraz port in perfect time to see the man get snatched right out of the crowd and surreptitiously get hauled off before anyone could even turn a goddamn hair.
Imagine her chagrin at that hellacious turn of events. She'd invented an entirely new language of curse words, just for the occasion.
But investigation had led her across the world, to Japan, and a little more chicanery had brought her to this hellhole, and by the time she arrived, Natasha's patience had worn almost down to absolutely nothing. Hence her entrance without preamble. It'd been a glorious fight, but the petite redhead was, for now, the only one standing, and she made her way to the "holding cell" quite calmly.
It didn't surprise her in the slightest when, after kicking in the heavy door, she spied her quarry already out of his restraints and waiting just inside. Which was why she flashed a quick, sly little grin, blinked ingeniously up, and up, at the tall drink of water, and caroled in a flat, neutral accent, whiskey-voice cool, "Hiya, handsome. Need a lift? I'm driving."
pirates
Bucky doesn't think it's smart to do that himself, honestly, but Nick Fury had spared his family in exchange for his service and he owes the man that, even after death. This is the cause that had sent Fury to the ends of the world and had his men plundering every cay and beach from here to Brazil and back again. Bucky hasn't managed to get his hands on one yet but he will because if he doesn't, he's afraid of what will happen.
Having a crew of pirates means that occasionally, you do have to let them pirate, so they capture a Spanish galleon and beach all the men, steal the silver, and slip off before anyone can be the wiser. Pockets full, his men want to spend the night in port and Sam has promised him he'll come back with all of them and maybe a few more so Bucky just lets them go. When they come back in the morning, though, they come back with entirely more than he wants them to have.
"You're not bringing a woman onto my ship," he calls out, seeing a slight figure being pulled along with two of his men. She has red hair and that's about all he can see of her from the wheel and he steps down onto the maindecks to get a better look.
"If you want to whore, you got to do it last night, but we're not bringing women along. We don't have work for women here and I'm not having my whole boat coming to blows over one woman in miles of ocean."
no subject
Granted, it probably hadn't been the wisest choice - haring off on a schooner bound for Tortuga in dockworker's clothing, a pouch full of gold from her mother's hocked jewels, and her long, fiery curls tied up in a pickaninny bag to conceal her true identity - but by damn, at least she'd made one! No stranger to the rougher side of life, the soon-to-be spinster successfully made her way from Haiti to that disreputable den of swindlers, drunks, and the utmost scum of the earth.
Having proficiency in weaponry and self-defense had served her well; she absolutely knew how to use the rapier and dagger belted at her waist, and by a sheer miracle managed to book passage further along her route, paying a goodly amount to shove off with the carousing crew of the Eagle's Shadow, whatever sort of ship that was. She knew Steve and her father would never think to look for her in this sort of place, but she'd felt the need to keep moving most keenly.
A nuance that suffered a major setback when, upon boarding the large brigandine anchored just offshore, she heard a loud masculine bellow, belaying her arrival and refusing her very presence. It was enough to prick her ire, and, not bothering to let the First Mate respond to this approaching miscreant, who had to be the captain, Natalia narrowed her eyes and stepped around the taller black man, addressing the brigand directly.
"Excuse me," she snapped, ice chips in green eyes, "but I've paid for my passage, Captain. I'm not looking for work, or adventure, or whatever you seem to believe has to do with my presence here." One small hand settled on the butt of her dagger. "Nor am I worried about fending off your crew's affections, should it be needed."
Yanking off her oversized hat, she gave her head a toss, gold-touched scarlet streaming down over slender shoulders, but her chin remained level with the deck as she met this pirate directly eye-to-eye.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
for leftcold - Mission Impossible
Also known as Bucky Barnes, "Dmitri Novikoff" wore the tailored tuxedo well, Natasha had to admit. Fluent in the Russian language, mannerisms, and culture, he was more than enough to pass for a native. Although she, Wilson, and even Barnes himself had initially had a few reservations about this mission, thus far things seemed to be going well. The two operatives were posing as a married Russian couple of arms dealings and money laundering, here in Los Angeles from Kiev to "mix and mingle" with the new criminal syndicates that had scrambled to power in the years since the end of the Snap. Their job was to infiltrate and obtain intel, then destabilize and disassemble as soon as possible. Preferably without kicking the hornet's nest.
They'd been in LA for four days, and this was the first party where everyone was in the same room. In her idle wandering here and there, she'd gained a lot of information, mainly gossip, which she'd need to filter through later. Nevertheless, there was no such thing as useless information, so whatever she could collect was important. In her ear, Barnes' conversation was starting to wane. Lifting her glass to her lips, wetting them with the champagne, she kept from smirking and murmured, "Ask him if he's responsible for the canapes. They're truly vile. And be a little snotty about it. Let's see how he tries to cover."
no subject
If he was uncomfortable, it's because Dmitri would be happier in a dive bar or a gambling den, maybe even a strip club if he could visit without offending his beautiful and dangerous wife. It wasn't because Bucky Barnes hasn't socialized to speak of in eighty years.
Of course, all that would be out the window if Natasha made him laugh.
He covers the urge to smile with a healthy swig on his glass.
To the target, he said, "Do you really enjoy this?" His nose wrinkled somewhat in distaste, taking in the party. "My wife does, I think, and I do enjoy seeing her dressed up, but I never feel at ease in these crowds."
He put on a Russian accent, not something he usually effected, but it comes naturally enough after years of familiarity.
"I'd rather do business one on one. Man to man." He met his target's eyes seriously, unblinking. Sam had commented more than once about his ability to stare. Might as well put it to good use. "You should come shooting with me sometime. We can talk real business there."
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
Sorry for the wait. The last week has seemed to be one thing after another.
gah tell me about it.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
from madripoor with love.
They had re-made the bed. Packed up their equipment. Natasha made coffee, James cooked scrambled eggs, and they waited for their missing third.
Steve eventually came back, cheeks pink from the cold and boots tracking in snow, and it didn't take long for them to float the discussion of Madripoor later in the day, and it didn't take long for Steve to refuse. Absolutely not, he'd said at first, but Bucky didn't relent.
It was like pulling teeth.
Trying to convince him of that cold, hard calculus. The fact that Bucky didn't want to put him at risk. The fact that Steve didn't mind being put in harm's way; actively courted it, really. The fact that Natasha's hand would be steadier on that trigger. The unsavoury underbelly of Madripoor and how these two were practically made for it, trained for it, and Captain America most decidedly wasn't.
Those trigger words, burning a pit into his best friend's brain.
It had been a long argument, it had gone back and forth, they kept going over it and over it in their drive down the mountain and onto the next safehouse. Natasha had, probably wisely, sat on the sidelines and let the men wrestle it out. They would come to a conclusion, either way.
And so, they did. It took another week to get the preparations ready, but then it was Steve packed into a duffel bag, a crushing hug on an airfield, arms drawn tight around each other — Bucky murmuring something into his ear, a laugh drawn out of the other man — the two finally parting with no idea when they'd see each other next, but with the hopes that when they did, things would be different. Bucky had watched him go, his glacier-blue eyes steady on Steve Rogers' retreating back; and when he was out of view, James had turned back to Natasha, and said:
What now?
More chartered flights with more private contacts. They made their way east out of Europe, to the steaming muggy heat of Madripoor; traded frigid Norwegian snow for monsoon season, swapped knit sweaters for sweating through their undershirts; traded a mountain cottage for a small apartment with wallpaper peeling in the humidity. There was only one bedroom, still. As much as there might've been a quiet ulterior motive, it was genuinely pragmatic too: they had to save their money, because disappearing off the grid took cash; greasing palms and bribing criminals took even more.
But they were here on a mission, so they spent their nights pounding the pavement and searching for clues, nosing around the city's information brokers, discreetly asking around. The leads mostly petered out — there were plenty of back-alley doctors, and even whispers of people buying superpowers if they wanted them — but James wanted the opposite. He didn't need more serums and more experimentation. He wanted the effects of the last experiments reversed, carved out of him. Their requirements were strict: they needed a neurosurgeon, a cognitive specialist, someone shady enough to operate and keep their mouth shut, but not so shady that they couldn't be trusted at all.
This was the last try for the night before they would inevitably have to wend their way back to their apartment: to tossing and turning in sweaty sheets, James on the sofa, staring up at a black spider crawling across the apartment ceiling.
But they weren't there yet. In a crowded bar, James slipped through the crowd and back to Natasha's side. He was wearing long sleeves despite the heat; hiding his left arm from view, a cap low over his face, the ubiquitous Avengers disguise.
"Don't think the guy I spoke to is gonna pan out," he said. "Any word from your contacts?"
no subject
Madripoor was an entirely different world. One had to be ruthless to survive, and able to scrounge while keeping one hand on a trigger and one eye over the shoulder. Vermin didn't always have four legs, in this sweltering nest. Dank back alleys, shadowed doorways, tired back rooms; these were the places where business went down, in Madripoor.
She'd just returned from one of those sorts of 'meetings', herself, plunking down at the far end of the bar with a grunt of exasperated frustration. The bartender brought her a club soda, heavy on the ice - her beverage of choice when working - and Natasha sipped it slowly, brooding over the glass's rim as her mind whirled a mile a minute.
It was hot; even indoors with conditioned air, the jungle heat was enough to oppress, lying thick and heavy over all beneath it. Nevertheless, she was prudently garbed in form fitting jeans and jacket, boots in which were secreted a number of weapons, as well as her customary arsenal she never went without.
A familiar shape materialized out of the gloom, and Natasha glanced up to greet her companion with a brief nod, then a repeat of her former exasperation. Barnes had to be dying, in this heat. She sympathized. "Nothing yet," was her low grumble, swallowing another icy gulp. "I may have to step on a few toes, if something doesn't come back soon."
They'd been at this for a while, trying to find the information they needed, and had hit more brick walls and dead ends than she liked. Before, her information network had been impeccable, able to provide whatever was requested within a matter of hours, but here, information routes were sketchy, at best. It was irritating. But necessary, therefore she wasn't willing to give up. Not by a damn sight.
And the more they 'worked', the busier they both stayed. Work was good. Busy was good. Unbusy, alone together, was...well. Even though their interlude back in the snow hadn't lifted any eyebrows, now, without the third to insulate, Natasha felt it. The slow thrum of...something, simmering away between her and the former Winter Soldier.
She ignored it, for the most part. They had other, more important objectives, and as long as it was kept out of sight, kept quiet, she could deal with it and move right on along. No harm, no foul. Smooth as glass. But it was nevertheless ever-present, and she could no more deny its existence than she could fly to the moon. Still. Work. Focus on the mission.
So she slid a second full glass over, automatically running her eye along Bucky's trail back through the room, just to make sure he hadn't been followed or any undue attention still lingered. "A storm's supposed to roll in tonight, so everything'll be battened down for the duration, anyway."
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
for captainbara
Natasha put down her phone, briefly considering changing out of her comfortable t-shirt and soft workout shorts into something more appropriate for company, but discarded the thought almost as soon as it arrived. Redfield wasn't someone she had to worry about impressing; they'd already done that for each other. And it was a little saddening, that their respective jobs kept both of them out of the normal "social scene", left to random hookups and "are you in town tonight" sort of queries.
Well, her track record for any sort of lasting relationship was a big fat zero, anyway.
Still, Chris deserved someone stable, comfortable, normal; the man had enough shit to deal with in his day-to-day to have to worry about coming home to an empty apartment. Sighing, not at herself but rather at the circumstances life had so generously given the both of them, the redhead plunked down on her couch after unbolting her front door. Redfield knew to slide it back once he came in, after all. The security system was remote, only requiring a touch on her phone to activate; Stark Tech at its finest.
no subject
He grabbed Thai on the way like he promised. Nothing special. Pad Thai. Thai basil shrimp. Some spring rolls. Something that they could both enjoy and split. The point wasn't dinner but he wasn't going to skimp. They would need the energy if it was anything like last time.
Chris knocked on the door before he walked in. "It's me. Don't shoot." He held up the bag of Thai food as a playful peace offering. Once he was certain Natasha wasn't going to attack he closed the door behind him, locked it, and then walked towards the kitchen.
"How've you been?" he asked as he set the bag down and started to pull out take out containers.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
Date night? Date night.
Steve isn't sure when the idea occurred to him. Somewhere between the aliens and the nazis and the robots, he got used to her at his side, always with a dry remark or an alternative plan. She's a part of what little life he has outside of work, the only original Avenger who stayed after Sokovia. Somewhere between going over intelligence reports over a pile of peanut butter sandwiches, and making a team out of the new Avengers, four years became plenty in terms of shared life experience.
He shouldn’t find it amusing how oblivious she is. One of the most perceptive people he’s ever met, and she never considered that his (admittedly terrible) flirting might be for her. The way it makes her laugh is enough that he keeps at it. And when the opportunity arises, he takes it.
Unfortunately, they live with an almost-telepath and an omnipresent android, along with a plain old nosy human. Steve manages to avoid all three on his way to the parking lot, only to run into Rhodes outside the elevator. The man takes one look at Steve’s suit (deep grey, white shirt, no tie with the top button left undone), car keys in one hand and a small bouquet in the other. Being the one person on the team who’s known Natasha for longer than Steve has, he puts the pieces together almost immediately.
“Wow, okay. Should I make sure the kids are in bed by the time you two get back?”
Steve can’t help his grin as he presses the button for the underground parking floor. “Don’t wait up,” he says as the doors close.
no subject
Steve had said formal attire, and Natasha thought that something slightly vintage might be a nice touch. She'd swept her long scarlet curls into a Fifties twist behind her head, leaving one wayward lock to trail over her left shoulder, artfully coy. A bit of understated jewelry, retro makeup, her black clutch, and more than three weapons secreted here and there (she was a pro, but it was a miracle she'd managed to get anything else under this dress), and she was finally ready.
Figuring she was supposed to meet Steve in the garage - he hadn't intimated knocking on her suite door - Natasha ran into Rhodes just coming out of the elevator, and grinned to his wolf whistle.
"Damn, Red," he told her, giving her a look up and down, "don't stop the boy's heart or anything, all right?"
Natasha smirked, twirling on her toes just to show off. "He'll be fine," she assured the other Avenger, flicking a wrist coquettishly. "We're just going out for a quiet dinner. One that isn't takeout or frozen beforehand."
Rhodey didn't look convinced; he quirked an eyebrow at her. "Uh-huh. Well, have fun, and enjoy it, yeah?"
Natasha stepped into the elevator, hit the button for the garage floor, and blew her compatriot a kiss before the doors slid closed. "Don't wait up."
for endof_theline
Natasha exited the cab with her backpack and carry-on, letting the driver finagle her larger rolling suitcase from the trunk, and gazed at the hotel with a tourist's interest. Rustic, charming, atmospheric, Manuc's Inn was everything advertised, a sprawling old architecture of another time, an older world, a world untroubled by all this modern nonsense.
After paying her fare, she casually strolled into the foyer and a porter immediately offered to take her luggage, which earned him a slight smile and a generous tip. She'd booked the reservation, checked in via her cell as soon as she'd made the airport - at least most places, regardless of how antique, hosted modern technology.
Then she headed for the bar, just another tourist in white linen, wide-legged pants, flowing jacket, and a sky-blue silk chemise beneath it. Comfortable white sandals completed the ensemble, even if she still looked far too pale to completely pull off the look. Long red curls gently swinging in their artful ponytail, she took a seat at the bar and ordered a club soda, sending the bartender on his way after he'd brought it.
She didn't need anything else; she was waiting for someone.
ty!
He's quick to do a sweep of the place, just to make sure she's alone- not because he doesn't believe her, but because he knows how much people like to tag along, and he's spent far too long hiding out to be found like this.
And then he's there, sliding onto the stool next to her, looking a lot like he did three months ago. He feels a little underdressed.
"Didn't think I'd find a girl like you in a place like this."
💕
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
no subject
He'd then tried to look up Ms. Rushmore. That had been an entirely different rabbit hole that had him up for most of the night, learning more about the people that had been experimented on, the outcomes of that, the good and bad parts of government subterfuge.
Rowan had tagged out early that day, taking one of his few instances of personal time that had led to too many queries about his health in tones of concern, but no refusals of him taking it. He never got sick, so he'd never needed to take a personal day for it. He was owed it, even if he felt a little guilty creeping away to meet an assassin for tea.
And he'd gotten there early, he hoped. Sat in a seat that left one open with its back not towards the public, figuring she'd prefer that. He sipped his tea and waited.
no subject
She was too paranoid not to arrive nearly two hours ahead of schedule, silently casing the place and making note of all the entrances and exits, the flow of customers coming and going, and even running remote facial recognition on all of the employees she could see. (And even digging a little bit into those who weren't on shift today.) She wasn't worried about her own alias, Natalie Rushman; that particular persona was ironclad and waterproof. Just a modest little Russian mercenary for hire, nothing to see here, folks.
And she'd noted the good doctor arriving early himself, ordering tea and taking a seat with his back to the window - presumably leaving the open seat for her, how thoughtful. She grinned to herself, shaking her head in dry amusement. Well, soonest begun was best done, or however that saying went. So she arranged herself into a nondescript image of just a petite redheaded woman in a casual blouse, short jacket, and jeans, heading into the cafe for a quick bite and sip.
At precisely twelve-thirty, she slipped into the empty seat at the doctor's table, lacing her hands on the table and favoring him with a polite smile. "What's up, Doc?" Then she smirked, wry. "Sorry, couldn't help it. Told you I'd show up. What're you drinking?"
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)