Had they been anywhere else in the world, Natasha would have corrected Barnes' position, bringing him in step with her; he wasn't her servant, damnit. But here in Madripoor, the literal "urban jungle", it looked better if he did stay one step behind. Gave her street-credibility, that. And that was precious coin in this hellish maze.

Natasha nodded to James' question just as the wind began to pick up power and speed, thus she didn't linger in their trek to retrieve supplies. Her list was complete, and after only minor haggling over the prices - tropical storms were no joke around here - she and the former Winter Soldier made a hasty retreat for their apartment building, Natasha running inside just as a particular gust almost blew Barnes inside.

"God," the redhead groused, readjusting her burden for easier carry up the four flights. (This posh establishment wasn't nearly flush enough to afford an elevator.) Their rented apartment wasn't anything to write home about: aged curling wallpaper, kitchen furniture not even popular in the sixties, a spavined refrigerator, microwave that only worked half of the time, frayed, vermin-chewed carpet, and there was probably enough penicillin growing in the bathroom to cure half the world's cancer.

But it was private - she'd made sure of that - and no one asked questions, no one visited, and best of all, it was a corner spot, which meant they had eyelines in all directions. Natasha had insisted. The view was lost on the both, however, as Natasha deposited her bags on the small Formica table and began rummaging for the cold stuff, to get it in the fridge before it melted or soured entirely.

The lights suddenly flickered, garnering her disapproving frown upwards, and a muttered Russian curse followed.