"Wow," says the American, and spins the pub chair around in his hands so it's facing towards him and sits down straddling it. "That's not pretty, is it?"
He's got a bland expression of dismay on his square, lantern-jawed face, like many a blase civilian onlooker to someone else's disaster. His eyes are on the television, where they're showing footage from the latest half-foiled subway bombing. Romanova's are too, casually, but her attention is not. Romanova is the finest thing that ever happened to the Soviet Army, and that's without the serum. Romanova can pick the wings off a monarch butterfly from three hundred metres on a gusty day. Romanova can spot the silhouette of a camouflaged man from five hundred. Romanova knows a spy when she sees one.
She's out of uniform, so she favors the man with an offhand, distracted smile. She's not worried about him, exactly. He doesn't pose her a threat. Virtually nothing does on its own, without the element of surprise. It's any American friends he might have that concern her, so she gives the pub an obligatory once-over for any tensed figures who might be watching her or falling into position; the American's just a spy, and spies are monarch butterflies themselves, numerous and short-lived and indistinguishable. It's not the spy. It's what he signifies: someone's watching her here.
He doesn't look like a spy, she thinks with distant approval. He's burly and bluff, like a docker. At least someone wasn't an idiot. He's good, too: an easy smile when he looks at her, like any unassumingly confident man with a casual interest in a woman at a pub. It's sort of appealing, she admits. Pity it's not real.
"I'm afraid I have to be going," she says and starts to push her chair out, braced for any sudden moves from him. "It's getting late. Good to meet you, Mr.--"
She waits for a fake name to be provided. It is, dutifully: "Barton," says the American spy with another one of those down-home smiles. "It's Barton. So early?"
"Rising early tomorrow," says Romanova with the thinnest smile and shrugs her loose hair back over her shoulders. He hasn't gone for a weapon and no one else in the pub has reacted. Maybe he's just reconnaissance. Either way, she's going to be on her way out.
He looks faintly disappointed, but so would the man he's playing. She's almost wondering if it's coincidence when she's about to turn to go, but when she kneels to scoop up her bag he says under his breath, "Commander Romanova. I'd like to talk."
"Post me a letter, Agent Barton," comes her short response. She fixes him with a look when she straightens up that she hopes indicates what Natalia Romanova the Winter Soldier thinks of his nerve.
He meets it steadily. All that easy longshore blokeishness is gone from his shoulders, while she's had her eyes down he's flowed into a crisp, Langley pin-straight posture: oh, he is good. On and off like a light, like a machine with a dial. She knows machinery. She's a machine too. She has just one setting. She needs just one setting.
Barton smiles at her again, a different smile this time. It's a little tired around the edges. Probably not the subway bombing. "I mean it," he said. "I just want to talk to you. I know who you are. I have a lot of admiration."
"I'm honored," Romanova says with minimal dryness. She turns to go.
"I'm not with the Pentagon," murmurs Barton, just loud enough for her to hear.
She frowns, but there's nothing stopping him from telling a blatant lie to get her attention, of course. Spies do that sort of thing all the time, appealing to people's sense of mystery to hide what's always a very ugly little prosaic truth. It's all the Pentagon, sooner or later, or it's the Secret Intelligence Service or sometimes the KGB, and what does it matter? If Barton wasn't trouble for her in one way or another he'd have been handed down with a set of orders.
Romanova snorts and looks back at him. What she sees unnerves her a little. Romanova is the finest thing that ever happened to the Soviet Army. She knows genuine concern when she sees it.
She shrugs her bag over her shoulder. "I'm sorry, Mr. Barton," she says a little louder, at a normal conversational volume, like she's turning down a casual proposition in a pub. "I've got someone waiting for me."
She does. When she turns again, she can feel his steady eyes on her back.
Re: MCU, Clint/Natasha
He's got a bland expression of dismay on his square, lantern-jawed face, like many a blase civilian onlooker to someone else's disaster. His eyes are on the television, where they're showing footage from the latest half-foiled subway bombing. Romanova's are too, casually, but her attention is not. Romanova is the finest thing that ever happened to the Soviet Army, and that's without the serum. Romanova can pick the wings off a monarch butterfly from three hundred metres on a gusty day. Romanova can spot the silhouette of a camouflaged man from five hundred. Romanova knows a spy when she sees one.
She's out of uniform, so she favors the man with an offhand, distracted smile. She's not worried about him, exactly. He doesn't pose her a threat. Virtually nothing does on its own, without the element of surprise. It's any American friends he might have that concern her, so she gives the pub an obligatory once-over for any tensed figures who might be watching her or falling into position; the American's just a spy, and spies are monarch butterflies themselves, numerous and short-lived and indistinguishable. It's not the spy. It's what he signifies: someone's watching her here.
He doesn't look like a spy, she thinks with distant approval. He's burly and bluff, like a docker. At least someone wasn't an idiot. He's good, too: an easy smile when he looks at her, like any unassumingly confident man with a casual interest in a woman at a pub. It's sort of appealing, she admits. Pity it's not real.
"I'm afraid I have to be going," she says and starts to push her chair out, braced for any sudden moves from him. "It's getting late. Good to meet you, Mr.--"
She waits for a fake name to be provided. It is, dutifully: "Barton," says the American spy with another one of those down-home smiles. "It's Barton. So early?"
"Rising early tomorrow," says Romanova with the thinnest smile and shrugs her loose hair back over her shoulders. He hasn't gone for a weapon and no one else in the pub has reacted. Maybe he's just reconnaissance. Either way, she's going to be on her way out.
He looks faintly disappointed, but so would the man he's playing. She's almost wondering if it's coincidence when she's about to turn to go, but when she kneels to scoop up her bag he says under his breath, "Commander Romanova. I'd like to talk."
"Post me a letter, Agent Barton," comes her short response. She fixes him with a look when she straightens up that she hopes indicates what Natalia Romanova the Winter Soldier thinks of his nerve.
He meets it steadily. All that easy longshore blokeishness is gone from his shoulders, while she's had her eyes down he's flowed into a crisp, Langley pin-straight posture: oh, he is good. On and off like a light, like a machine with a dial. She knows machinery. She's a machine too. She has just one setting. She needs just one setting.
Barton smiles at her again, a different smile this time. It's a little tired around the edges. Probably not the subway bombing. "I mean it," he said. "I just want to talk to you. I know who you are. I have a lot of admiration."
"I'm honored," Romanova says with minimal dryness. She turns to go.
"I'm not with the Pentagon," murmurs Barton, just loud enough for her to hear.
She frowns, but there's nothing stopping him from telling a blatant lie to get her attention, of course. Spies do that sort of thing all the time, appealing to people's sense of mystery to hide what's always a very ugly little prosaic truth. It's all the Pentagon, sooner or later, or it's the Secret Intelligence Service or sometimes the KGB, and what does it matter? If Barton wasn't trouble for her in one way or another he'd have been handed down with a set of orders.
Romanova snorts and looks back at him. What she sees unnerves her a little. Romanova is the finest thing that ever happened to the Soviet Army. She knows genuine concern when she sees it.
She shrugs her bag over her shoulder. "I'm sorry, Mr. Barton," she says a little louder, at a normal conversational volume, like she's turning down a casual proposition in a pub. "I've got someone waiting for me."
She does. When she turns again, she can feel his steady eyes on her back.