"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}
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?