The question is delivered thoughtfully, as if she's a patron of the arts, weary in her search for the latest ingenue. Which is maybe the exact opposite of the truth, considering she is in fact a career spy sitting in the back booth of what might be the shadiest bar she's ever seen. It's shady enough that she's starting to wonder if they inadvertently wandered into one of the dens used by the Russian mob.
Which would track, given a) her luck b) Sharon's luck and c) the fact that they're still somewhere in Romania waiting for extraction after a very long, very tedious mission.
Still, they're here now, and the best way to blend in at a shitty bar is to act like a shitty person. Natasha slinks down in her seat and props her feet up next to Sharon on the bench she's sitting on. Her brow arches pointedly as she takes a swig of her beer, which - now that she's looking at it - is labeled Michelov Ultra.
Oh yeah. They're definitely in for a fun night.
"If you say yes I'm telling everyone you beat someone up with a cardboard cutout of David Hasselhoff."
"First of all, you know it was a cardboard cutout of Don Johnson, not the Hoff. If you were really my friend, you wouldn't tell such outrageous lies."
She's plucking at a loose corner of the label on her own beer. Beneath, instead of glass, is a second label in what she thinks is Serbo-Croatian. Sharon smooths the pasted-on label back over the other and casts a casual glance around the bar. "Secondly, I don't know about too old..."
Certainly neither of them seems to have acquired the wisdom they say comes with age. If they had, they would undoubtedly have thought twice about:
1. patronizing this bar; 2. even walking into this bar; 3. being here, in Romania, at all.
"... but I'm starting to think I should have kept the body armor on."
She sips at her own beer as her gaze comes to rest on a lumpy shape in a shadowy corner. A moment's puzzlement and some squinting later, she realizes it's got to be the oldest jukebox she's ever seen. "You think that thing plays any Stones?"
"Yeah, but I already put a 'I hassled the hoff' shirt in my cart and I don't want to have to google 'I donned the Johnson.'" The joke is delivered the same way much of her humor is, the dry tone of voice belied by the mischievous lilt of her mouth as she gives Sharon a guileless look across the table. It's usually anyone's guess whether or not she actually means the things she says when she's joking. Sharon knows her well enough to know that she will absolutely be receiving a hassled Hoff shirt in the mail in 3 - 6 business days.
Assuming they both make it out of this bar in one piece. Maybe she should go ahead and order the shirt before anyone comes at them with a shiv.
If pressed, Natasha's confident that most people at SHIELD will say that she, Sharon and Maria are among the more sensible long term agents. Which is a terrifying prospect, given the number of times she knows all three of them have done things like only bringing rebar to a gun fight. Or walking in on some under the table deal and announcing 'oh, this looks like a party.' Honestly, maybe that's more of a commentary on SHIELD's hiring process than anything else.
"Why, are you looking to get robbed at gunpoint for your body armor?" She delivers the question with a grin as she turns to look over her shoulder, casting a wary eye at the jukebox. Turning back, she fishes into the pocket of her leather jacket and produces a handful of regional change and sets it on the table for Sharon to pick through. "Oh, I know I want you to find out. I'll buy the next round if you find and play Tom Jones." Not out of any desire to actually hear Tom Jones. More to stir the pot a little. She wants to see what'll float to the surface. And she knows they'll use the opportunity of being separated to do a surreptitious once over of the bar.
Fun. They can compare who finds the worst health code violation. Natasha's already got her eye on an older man in the other corner that looks like he might be actively bleeding.
"I think 'robbed at gunpoint' is a little sophisticated for this crowd," Sharon points out, lounging back against the corner of the booth. Having the wall at her back is an improvement, but not by much. When she shifts to get more comfortable, the back of her coat sticks to the wood. "We'd probably be looking more at 'bludgeoned with a chair leg.'" Or maybe the whole chair. The patrons of this particular establishment don't look like they'd be all that distinguishing.
A younger, rangy-looking man at the bar casts a frankly lascivious glance over at Nat's spare change as it rattles on the tabletop. Sharon has a sudden sharp desire to fling the coins out over the floor like so much birdseed and watch them all come flocking. For the moment, she scoops up the change and stands, idly noting the way a cluster of slouch-shouldered ne'er-do-wells by the bathrooms shift. None of them look directly at her, but their heavy suspicion paints her like a spotlight. "God, you have the worst taste in music."
So saying, she strolls off across the bar towards the jukebox. Her path takes her past the dingy remnants of a couple of pool tables, the velvet so stained with beer and almost-definitely-blood it's more of a tepid, muddy olive than the bright green she assumes it must one day have been. A flutter of interest follows as she walks: heads don't quite turn all the way, bodies don't quite shift in their seats, but there's a ripple nonetheless. For a moment, she feels like a gazelle heading to a watering hole, scenting predators hiding in the grass all around her at every step.
But she's not a fucking gazelle, and the one good piece of news when she reaches the jukebox – which puts her back to the room, because of course it does – is that it not only has Tom Jones, it has maybe the only acceptable Tom Jones song.
Which means that when one of the pool-playing troglodytes comes over to smack her ass, she can reach back and twist his hand until his wrist creaks in protest while his yelps mingle with the dulcet tones of 'She's a Lady.'
Well, she's all you'd ever want She's the kind they'd like to flaunt and take to dinner Well she always knows her place She's got style, she's got grace, she's a winner.
The smirk on her lips makes it apparent that she's having a very similar thought as regards to the chair leg. On the plus side, she's pretty sure most of the furniture in here will just break apart the second it gets up to hitting velocity. The thought is erased from her mind when Sharon slanders Tom Jones and she gives her a look of shock that's only a little exaggerated. "He's an international treasure, Carter."
Even though she's partly tempted to stay put and watch if anyone is stupid enough to try to follow Sharon to the jukebox, she knows they'll be better served by getting a lay of the land. So she slides out of the booth herself and makes her way over to the bar, elbows leaning on the top of it despite the fact that she knows in her soul it's got to be stickier than fly paper. She gives the bartender a quick up nod and speaks in Italian, the only language they've established they have in common. "Can we have two more? Preferably something that didn't fall off the back of a truck?"
The man laughs and shakes his head and goes off to the other side of the bar as the opening notes of She's a Lady fill the room. With a grin, she turns her head so she can shoot Sharon a thumbs up - and instead watches her efficiently twist back the arm of the man that just slapped her ass. "Hold that thought," she calls to the bartender. Sharon has the ass slapper well in hand, but she can tell that the other fine upstanding citizens from his group are getting hyped as they start nudging each other and putting drinks down. Natasha moves with an easy grace as she makes her way back across the dingy bar so that she's standing directly in the path of the astonishingly hairy man that seems to be their ringleader.
"And where do you gentlemen think you're going?" she asks the question in Russian, a stab in the dark, and is unsurprised when hirsute Harry spits out that they're going to teach that bitch a lesson. Aw. And they were having such a good time, trading sarcastic quips in this shit hole. The man grabs her upper arm, ostensibly to push her out of the way, and instead she punches him in the throat and then steps in so she can swing her leg up and knee him sharply in the groin.
He takes in a startled, wheezing breath and Natasha gives him a shove so that he topples onto his back. Turning, she looks over her shoulder at Sharon and shrugs as if to say this was sort of inevitable, wasn't it?
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
for worldsbestburger - two spies walk into a bar
The question is delivered thoughtfully, as if she's a patron of the arts, weary in her search for the latest ingenue. Which is maybe the exact opposite of the truth, considering she is in fact a career spy sitting in the back booth of what might be the shadiest bar she's ever seen. It's shady enough that she's starting to wonder if they inadvertently wandered into one of the dens used by the Russian mob.
Which would track, given a) her luck b) Sharon's luck and c) the fact that they're still somewhere in Romania waiting for extraction after a very long, very tedious mission.
Still, they're here now, and the best way to blend in at a shitty bar is to act like a shitty person. Natasha slinks down in her seat and props her feet up next to Sharon on the bench she's sitting on. Her brow arches pointedly as she takes a swig of her beer, which - now that she's looking at it - is labeled Michelov Ultra.
Oh yeah. They're definitely in for a fun night.
"If you say yes I'm telling everyone you beat someone up with a cardboard cutout of David Hasselhoff."
no subject
She's plucking at a loose corner of the label on her own beer. Beneath, instead of glass, is a second label in what she thinks is Serbo-Croatian. Sharon smooths the pasted-on label back over the other and casts a casual glance around the bar. "Secondly, I don't know about too old..."
Certainly neither of them seems to have acquired the wisdom they say comes with age. If they had, they would undoubtedly have thought twice about:
1. patronizing this bar;
2. even walking into this bar;
3. being here, in Romania, at all.
"... but I'm starting to think I should have kept the body armor on."
She sips at her own beer as her gaze comes to rest on a lumpy shape in a shadowy corner. A moment's puzzlement and some squinting later, she realizes it's got to be the oldest jukebox she's ever seen. "You think that thing plays any Stones?"
no subject
Assuming they both make it out of this bar in one piece. Maybe she should go ahead and order the shirt before anyone comes at them with a shiv.
If pressed, Natasha's confident that most people at SHIELD will say that she, Sharon and Maria are among the more sensible long term agents. Which is a terrifying prospect, given the number of times she knows all three of them have done things like only bringing rebar to a gun fight. Or walking in on some under the table deal and announcing 'oh, this looks like a party.' Honestly, maybe that's more of a commentary on SHIELD's hiring process than anything else.
"Why, are you looking to get robbed at gunpoint for your body armor?" She delivers the question with a grin as she turns to look over her shoulder, casting a wary eye at the jukebox. Turning back, she fishes into the pocket of her leather jacket and produces a handful of regional change and sets it on the table for Sharon to pick through. "Oh, I know I want you to find out. I'll buy the next round if you find and play Tom Jones." Not out of any desire to actually hear Tom Jones. More to stir the pot a little. She wants to see what'll float to the surface. And she knows they'll use the opportunity of being separated to do a surreptitious once over of the bar.
Fun. They can compare who finds the worst health code violation. Natasha's already got her eye on an older man in the other corner that looks like he might be actively bleeding.
no subject
A younger, rangy-looking man at the bar casts a frankly lascivious glance over at Nat's spare change as it rattles on the tabletop. Sharon has a sudden sharp desire to fling the coins out over the floor like so much birdseed and watch them all come flocking. For the moment, she scoops up the change and stands, idly noting the way a cluster of slouch-shouldered ne'er-do-wells by the bathrooms shift. None of them look directly at her, but their heavy suspicion paints her like a spotlight. "God, you have the worst taste in music."
So saying, she strolls off across the bar towards the jukebox. Her path takes her past the dingy remnants of a couple of pool tables, the velvet so stained with beer and almost-definitely-blood it's more of a tepid, muddy olive than the bright green she assumes it must one day have been. A flutter of interest follows as she walks: heads don't quite turn all the way, bodies don't quite shift in their seats, but there's a ripple nonetheless. For a moment, she feels like a gazelle heading to a watering hole, scenting predators hiding in the grass all around her at every step.
But she's not a fucking gazelle, and the one good piece of news when she reaches the jukebox – which puts her back to the room, because of course it does – is that it not only has Tom Jones, it has maybe the only acceptable Tom Jones song.
Which means that when one of the pool-playing troglodytes comes over to smack her ass, she can reach back and twist his hand until his wrist creaks in protest while his yelps mingle with the dulcet tones of 'She's a Lady.'
Well, she's all you'd ever want
She's the kind they'd like to flaunt and take to dinner
Well she always knows her place
She's got style, she's got grace, she's a winner.
no subject
Even though she's partly tempted to stay put and watch if anyone is stupid enough to try to follow Sharon to the jukebox, she knows they'll be better served by getting a lay of the land. So she slides out of the booth herself and makes her way over to the bar, elbows leaning on the top of it despite the fact that she knows in her soul it's got to be stickier than fly paper. She gives the bartender a quick up nod and speaks in Italian, the only language they've established they have in common. "Can we have two more? Preferably something that didn't fall off the back of a truck?"
The man laughs and shakes his head and goes off to the other side of the bar as the opening notes of She's a Lady fill the room. With a grin, she turns her head so she can shoot Sharon a thumbs up - and instead watches her efficiently twist back the arm of the man that just slapped her ass. "Hold that thought," she calls to the bartender. Sharon has the ass slapper well in hand, but she can tell that the other fine upstanding citizens from his group are getting hyped as they start nudging each other and putting drinks down. Natasha moves with an easy grace as she makes her way back across the dingy bar so that she's standing directly in the path of the astonishingly hairy man that seems to be their ringleader.
"And where do you gentlemen think you're going?" she asks the question in Russian, a stab in the dark, and is unsurprised when hirsute Harry spits out that they're going to teach that bitch a lesson. Aw. And they were having such a good time, trading sarcastic quips in this shit hole. The man grabs her upper arm, ostensibly to push her out of the way, and instead she punches him in the throat and then steps in so she can swing her leg up and knee him sharply in the groin.
He takes in a startled, wheezing breath and Natasha gives him a shove so that he topples onto his back. Turning, she looks over her shoulder at Sharon and shrugs as if to say this was sort of inevitable, wasn't it?