maskirovka | (no subject)

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It was snowing in New York. Despite the weather, the city never slept. Hustle and bustle filled the still-crowded streets as citizens went about their usual habits, long-time residents more than used to the Big Apple's idiosyncrasies. Buildings were lit up like star-filled towers, and one in particular was still buzzing busily, even at such a late hour.

On the fortieth floor, two individuals occupied a fairly nondescript conference room, waiting for a third. The man, tall and dark-skinned sported a long black coat and a black eyepatch, and was slowly pacing back and forth. The woman, seated with dangerous nonchalance, was idly smoking a mint-scented cigarette, the smoke drifting around scarlet curls that cascaded around a pale, sharply aristocratic face. Cat-green eyes flicked now and again to the tall man, and it might have been a trick of the fluorescent light, but her upper lip may have lightly lifted in an expression of exasperated derision once or twice.

If so, it was irrelevant, as words had been exchanged, opinions noted (and just as quickly discarded), and decisions made. The time for talk was over. Now was the time for actions. And assignments.

And just possibly, the time to save the world.

Again.

Directory Fury glanced at the silent clock on the wall, then huffed a frustrated sigh.

The woman, Agent Romanoff, gave a light scoff, stubbing out her smoke on the table's perfect surface. Fury shot her a glare. Which she shrugged off, saying in a Russian-accented voice, "It would appear, Director, that your dog is incapable of telling time."

Fury's glare devolved into a glower. "He'll be here. Barnes is the best tracker there is."

"So you keep insisting."

The long black coat whispered as it fell still when he did. "Can it, Romanoff. You know what's at stake here. We're going to have to work together if we all want to survive."

She waved an elegant hand, crossing arms over her chest in marked defiance.

Not missing her silent indignance, Fury lifted a single eyebrow. "Mind your fangs, Romanoff. I don't want to have to put either of you into Time Out."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Bucky shoved his hands in his pockets. He hated being here, both in the lab and in the city itself. He'd grown up in New York—Brooklyn—but the city had grown since then and he'd changed. The wolf in him, yeah, but more than that too.

He needed more quiet to work. Quiet to find peace.

He wasn't going to have peace while something was out there murdering people like this.

And none of that is Romanoff's fault.

"Not a problem for me, tsarina," he said gruffly. Whatever gets them out. He can't help but tag on the end, "I'm not the one we'll burn to a crisp if we get caught outside when the sun comes up."

She gave him an extremely saturnine look as the elevator doors opened into the garage. "Me neither, Scooby Doo," she tossed back before striding out, scarlet ponytail swinging. "The sun bothers me, but it won't toast me."

Her bloodline carried the genetic makeup that allowed them to move about during the day. It was uncomfortable, to be sure, and she had to wear heavy clothing, dark sunglasses, and had to limit her exposure as much as she could, but the UV wouldn't kill her.

She paused, hand on a hip and a saucy expression aimed his way. "Disappointing, is it?"

Bucky grunted as he joined her on the way out, not exactly a disagreement, but acknowledging what she said. He didn't want her to die. He didn't particularly want anyone to die, if they could avoid it.

Though there was at least one creature out there right now that he'd make an exception for.

"Nah," he continued then, putting on a very fake, very unconvincing sort of smile. He really... probably shouldn't smile. Especially if he didn't mean it. He looked more like he was baring his teeth. "I'm glad to hear you might not be a complete liability. Maybe you'll even be useful."

Rather than start a fight - she doubted Fury would appreciate having his garage bashed all to hell - Natasha just rolled her eyes ignored the verbal sally; arguing with a dog was just stupid, really.

Though she did still wonder just what the Director had been thinking - or smoking - when he'd assigned the two of them to this particular mission. The friction between their species was more than just well known; it was legendary.

"Where's your ride?" She'd been delivered to the meeting by the Soviet Vampire Embassy. "I don't really fancy walking all the way across town."

"Don't worry. You won't have to get your shoes dirty," he said, perhaps a little more reflexively snappy than he should be, especially when she didn't rise to the last bait.

He rolled his shoulders, then nodded down a row of cars. No, if he was going to be playing chauffeur to some prissy vampire princess from the old world, he was entitled to be a little fucking bitchy about it. It's not like he was making her walk, or get her own ride.

Of course, there might have been some satisfaction anticipating her reaction to his ride. Somehow, he didn't think his battered old jeep was going to be up to her highness's standards. He led the way, pointing with his chin when they were close and even going so far as to open the door for her to get in before him.

He might be bitchy about the whole vampire thing, but his ma didn't raise him to be rude to a woman. Funny how things work.

"Not the smoothest ride around town, but it might come in handy once we're up in the woods."

Contrary to what she suspected he hoped, the vampire didn't have any cutting acerbicisms about the aged metal Jeep; it actually made sense. He was American, a scruffy werewolf, and more of a brute than an assassin. So, why wouldn't he own such a vehicle? It actually amused her more than anything, hence the small, private smile she ducked her head to conceal when Barnes sardonically opened the passenger door, sarcasm at the ready.

So, gracious as any 'princess' might have been, she gave him an elegantly polite nod of thanks, even murmuring, "Spasibo," when she slipped past him and into the passenger seat. The door closed; she fastened her seat belt. And said as he got into the driver's seat and started the engine, "No doubt. I'm sure we'll need to go off-road at some point. And a company SUV would draw too much attention."

She lightly touched the weathered dash with small fingertips, giving a tiny shrug. "And I've always preferred things with a few miles on them, anyway."

"Pozhaluysta." In case she thought he was one of those Americans who only knew one language. He did unclench a little, though, relaxing when she let that vampire air of superiority drop. As though approving of his car was a little like approving of him.

Which it might be, considering the number of hours he'd put into the old beast. The work had paid off, though, the engine purred reliably, and the way it rattled faintly was familiar.

"Never been a fan of those luxury SUVs," he admitted. "Worst of all worlds. Too conspicuous and they don't really have any performance on the road or off. About the only thing they have going for them is the legroom." Which is something if you're a passenger being ferried around town, and basically worthless any other time.

He backed out of his parking spot.

"Where are we going?"

She'd lifted an eyebrow in pleased surprise, hearing the response in her mother tongue. Interesting. Perhaps there was more to this wolf than just fleas and drool. And despite herself, she couldn't help but chuckle agreement to his observation regarding "new" automobiles.

"Well," she granted as he backed out of the parking spot, "at least I'm not all that tall." Petite and curvy, yes, but definitely not on the "jolly green giant" side, unlike her chauffeur.

"Chelsea," was her initial response to the query about directions, then added, "Greenwich Street, seven hundred block." An upper-modest studio apartment in a reputable, comfortable building; she didn't need all that much room, nor did she entertain guests or have company dropping in. Her life revolved around the job, enduring her family's never-ending (literally) disappointment and judgement over her professional choices, and staying away from any potential threats.

Such as friends, relationships, all those positive things that others craved so desperately.

"Got it." He told her, and pulled into traffic. As much as he avoided the city now when he could, he grew up here (albeit in a different era) and his work for the pack and the department brought him in regularly. Since he couldn't stomach mass transit (too many people, too many smells, too little control, and too much risk having a nervy wolf trapped in a metal tube with all those other passengers), that meant he'd never lost the habit of navigating the city either on foot or by car.

He got her there as reliably as a New York cabbie, and with relatively little attempt to force conversation. Mentally, he was considering their situation, how they'd handle this.

Discreetly, he breathed in to get a better scent on Natasha. In his own car without the distractions of other agents or the smells of the building, it was easier to isolate her own scent and see what that told him. For the most part, nothing he didn't already know. She was a vampire. She didn't smell like rotten blood, which meant she was fastidious. She didn't exactly smell dead, which was pleasant, even if she didn't exactly smell alive either. Some vampires lived up to the undead name. Others, like her, were something a little different. That would make the drive upstate easier.

As they were nearing her address, he did speak up to ask a question, though.

"Were you born or bitten?"

She didn't answer for a minute or so, not until they turned south on Greenwich Street, and when she did, it was short and clipped. "--born." Her heart beat, her blood coursed, her skin flushed; only those who had been bitten and turned were considered "legally dead". And since turning was now, in most world governments, a felony - and the howls of vampire outrage had nearly shaken the earth from its axis, the indignant babies - the vampire population had, thankfully, crested and was now actually on the decline, much to the rest of the planet's relief.

And honestly, it wasn't that the vampire nation was truly hurt by the fact that those strong enough weren't legally allowed to turn their pets or lovers or any idiot actually wanting that particular lifestyle, it was more the fact that they'd been forbidden from doing so. The typical vampire considered itself the pinnacle of human evolution and believed that as such, paltry human rules couldn't apply to their species. Those old enough to remember the days of skulking about in the darkness, feeding on animals and whatever prey they could scrounge made a point to keep their fanged mouths closed, more than willing to let the younger, "outraged" generation draw all the ire.

Self-centered ingrates, the lot of them.

But a few, like Natasha, had turned their back on coven and bloodties, following the way of logic and embracing the newer way of life, as it only made sense if all of the species were going to cohabitate. There was only one planet, after all, and they all had to learn to share.

Which made whatever it was tearing monsters to bits in the north forests a definite threat, one that needed to be neutralized. Immediately.

He nodded as though confirming what he suspected. It went with her scent. With her attitude. He suspected if he were to go over every inch of her pale skin, he wouldn't find a single scar on her—proof of a time before she'd been immortal, before she'd been able to heal any injury short of a fatal one.

It fit with what she'd said about her line, though vampires who were made inherited some of their maker's bloodline traits too, it was different.

Not that he was an expert in vampires.

He cut a look at her, taking in the clipped tone and the way she didn't elaborate. That said something about the tsarina.

"Bitten," he said as he pulled the jeep up to the curb. His voice had a little gravel in it as he admitted that. He didn't want to pull up the memories of that, the violence that had nearly cost him his left arm. Fair is fair, though, and she answered his question. "A long time ago now."

Not surprising.

"...I'm sorry," she murmured as the Jeep growled up to the curb. But she didn't immediately open the door and get out, pausing with one hand on the door handle. She wasn't going to be long, but leaving him here while she gathered what she needed smacked of a lack of class. And they were going to have to learn to get along sooner rather than later.

"You wanna come up?"

No innuendo intended. A courtesy, rather. Besides, she might need an extra hand hauling all of the weapons back down.

The offer took him by surprise. Bucky couldn't even hide his reaction, his head turning toward her in question. Vampires weren't exactly quiet about their dislike for his kind (and the dislike was generally mutual), and he'd figured the last thing she'd want was to let him into her personal space.

He almost asked if she wasn't worried about having to deep clean to get out the dog smell, but he didn't want to play into that. Besides, he didn't want to repay an attempt at kindness with snapping.

After a slight pause, he turns off the engine. "You sure you're okay with that?" he asked instead, giving her the chance to back out.

Though it was appreciated, she didn't take it. "I'm sure." Decisive, and she left it at that, opening the door and slipping out of the vehicle. Closing the door behind her, she shook back her ponytail, adjusted her jacket, and headed for the building's entrance, a six digit code buzzing the door open.

Her apartment was on the sixth floor, at the far of the end of the carpeted hallway. Sparse but tasteful furniture was placed here and there, with heavy drapes covering every window. An open plan, only the spacious bathroom had its own door and walls, but the rest of the place was spotless, painted in cool grey-white and navy.

After opening the door, Natasha deactivated the security system and turned on the lamps.

"Find a seat," she offered. "I won't be long."

He followed her up, his eyes shifty as he watched for anyone following. It was habit more than real suspicion. They were nowhere near their killer, and if the creature knew who they were then there were bigger problems.

But paranoia had kept him alive for decades so far, and he wasn't going to stop now.

The apartment itself got a wrinkled nose and no comment. It was nice. Clean. It smelled even more strongly of Romanoff, which was a rich scent. Less unpleasant than he'd admit. It wasn't especially homey though, was it? Not the sort of place you could curl up and feel comfortable. Maybe vampires didn't lower themselves to ideas as pedestrian as coziness?

"Yeah, sure," he said, sitting awkwardly on the corner of a long, low sofa. His legs look too long, folded up sitting there, but standing back up again would just make him look more uncomfortable. "Let me know if you need a hand."

Natasha went to her closet first, a good size walk-in that could have doubled as a small bedroom in any other place, turning on the light and disappearing into the rows of clothes and shoes. Unlike other women, however, it didn't take her long to have a duffel assembled, reemerging and dropping it next to Bucky as he gingerly perched on the end of her couch.

Then she went to the far wall, which was plain and unadorned, and pressed a certain spot on the side paneling. A section hissed aside, revealing a weapon stash that held everything from throwing axes to bayonets. Black and silver guns, rifles, and shotguns of all shapes and sizes decorated the inner wall, and a range of deadly smaller implements gleamed in their specially-crafted holders. Ammunition was stocked on the far left wall, each caliber neatly in its row.

The vampire began selecting her favorites, carefully placing each in a second duffel, then glanced over her shoulder. "Pick what you like," she invited. "They're all safe, silver's locked in the cabinet." Vampires weren't really fond of it, either.

"We should bring some with us," he said, not as a correction or to start another argument, just as acknowledgment of a reality neither of them will enough. Whatever they're going to face, werewolves, vampires, even some fae, silver would be a useful weapon against them.

And there was no way to know if it wasn't one of their kinds, as outside of normal behavior as it might be.

At her invitation, Bucky stood and surveyed her collection. After a moment, as the full variety of weapons available fully sunk in, he let out a low whistle. He reached for one of the guns, a powerful handgun that would normally be a lot of weapon for a woman Natasha's size. Of course, she'd be more than up to handling it.

"Impressive." He put it back, though, before pulling a combat knife. "Don't usually go for weapons, though."

"In the cabinet behind you. Second shelf. Zero-one-two-four-one-eight-nine-nine." She gave a small amused huff, holding out her hand for the gun and expertly jacking the slide when Barnes passed it over. "And yes, before you ask, it's my birthday." Or so she'd always believed. It hadn't really mattered much when she'd been just a young vampire ingenue.

"You have a mouthful of teeth and an impressive set of claws," she remarked, adding a few more weapons, three boxes of silver ammunition, as well as three boxes of ultraviolet bullets too, just in case, and zipped up the duffel. "I can't imagine you'd get much use out of a trigger once you shift." More of a hindrance than a help, really.

He huffed a little at the comment about her birthday. If it was true that would make her about, what, twenty years older than he was? A little less. Not that it came as a tremendous surprise. Both werewolves and vampires could live for centuries, but werewolves tended not to have the same longevity. For those who couldn't control the wolf in them, who went rampaging every full moon, life tended to be short. Local packs would even step in to put them down, if it became necessary.

"No, if I have to shift a gun's more likely to get lost." And have been. He's had to abandon some nice weapons that way. "Hopefully it won't come to that, but considering the state of those bodies..."

He trailed off meaningfully. They might need the power that comes with the wolf shape.

"I'll send you a card for your birthday if we live through this."

"Carry one anyway," she suggested, holding out a very nice Sig, complete with belt clip and a shoulder rig, if that might be more comfortable. "All of my guns are chipped so I'll be able to locate it if you do drop it." This one was matte black, sleek, and very powerful. "It's modified to seventy-five caliber - a human couldn't fire it." Green eyes twinkled as the corner of her mouth quirked. "Somehow I don't think you'll have much of a problem."

Just...mind the tire-size hole the thing leaves in whatever it's fired at, Barnes.

Done packing her weapons, Natasha closed the armory and went to the refrigerator after placing that duffel near the other. This time she offered no comment as she packed a small collapsible cooler with cold plasma packets, adding blocks of coolant to keep them from spoiling. Sealing it, she carefully tucked it away in the bag with her clothing.

"Mind taking the artillery downstairs?"

All that was left was to turn out the lights, reset the security alarms, plural, and lock up.

Bucky hefted the duffle, shouldering it easily. Even as werewolves go, he was considered strong. His own bloodline, he supposed. It didn't matter. There wasn't any good reason for him to make her carry it.

Besides, his ma would come back from the grave to scold him for being a gentleman.

"Anything else you need to while we're here?" Bucky asked as he cast another glance around the apartment. He sniffs discreetly. "No cat?"

Joking as he said it. Among other reasons, he'd know immediately if there was another living creature in the flat. Still, the idea of this sleek, stylish vampire having a pet was unimaginable.

Closing the door behind them, Natasha turned the key in the lock, shrugging in answer. "Not one that belongs to me, no." She picked up the other duffel and headed for the elevator. "There's a stray black cat that comes around every now and then. I leave some tuna out for her."

And left the back window open on really cold nights, so the feline could come in if she wished. "I'm not really home enough to have anyone waiting for me at night."

Sadly enough.

Back in the Jeep, Natasha handed Bucky the other bags then settled back into the passenger seat, bucking her seat belt again. "We going by your place?"

"Nah," he told her as he stowed her gear. Then added, because it wasn't meant as an insult: "I live outside the city. I keep a bug out bag under the back seat in the Jeep. It's got everything I need."

Change of clothes, IDs (fake and otherwise), weapons, even some emergency rations.

One of the reasons to take his car.

"Besides, it's not this nice." He slid into the driver seat and started the engine. "I'm ready to head upstate if you are." Which meant nothing but hours on the road, the two of them, and a murderer waiting for them at the end.

"Need anything else before we go. Coffee?"

Time to get this mission truly underway. God. Natasha almost, almost considered calling Fury and telling him she couldn't do this and would take whatever scathing repercussion he wanted to throw at her, but she kept her teeth closed and her phone securely in her jacket pocket.

This was just work. She could handle it. It was just work.

But that didn't stop her sharp senses from being acutely attuned to the wolf in the driver's seat, although she thankfully managed to keep the rasp out of her voice as she shook her head with a slight smile.

"No, I'm good." Coffee would have her jittering right out of the damned seat. As it was, it was going to be a hellishly long night.

"I'll book us a room somewhere on the way," she opted, praying that the place would even have a motel that hosted online reservations. ...and would, please God, be a few levels above the last room they'd shared.

"Two rooms, if you can." Bucky pulled back into traffic. He could talk a big game, but they still had to get out of the city and it would be stop and go while he navigated.

He pretended that took more of his attention than it did so he wouldn't have to look at her face when he tried to shoot down one room. Working with her, riding in a car full of her scent, would be bad enough without having to sleep with her one bed over.

Dear god, if there was only one room let there be two beds. Otherwise he'd sleep on the floor and fucking cope with the dog jokes.

"I'd hate not to give a lady her privacy."