open | you got the story all made up inside your head.

[debts]

CHARACTERS: natasha romanoff debts and you.
LOCATION: kitchens.
WARNINGS: n/a.
SUMMARY: natasha romanoff drinks tea. some people sit. some people don't.
NOTES: will edit for future warnings.

[ Natasha misses the tea back home. It's not a strictly Russian sentiment, either. She misses teas, her little collection in one of her safehouses where it was readily available at a local market, the ones she could mix and blend together depending on what she felt; sharp citrus and rose teas for mornings, soothing green for nights. Not, exactly, the way Natasha likes to start her day -- the reality is that she misses sun the same way people miss summer, memories with sentimental touches that include drinking tea on a Brooklyn fire escape, warmth on her back. She's sitting at one of the tables and maybe the picture she paints is dramatic, bordering on poetic; her glock, disassembled in front of her, next to her mug (coffee, not tea). Next to that are her holsters, two small flat discs and in her hands is a spool that she slowly unwinds, checks the tensile strength of.

All of this is gear she hasn't had to use in months. She polishes it up anyway, in a public area, in her tac-suit and boots up on a chair. Her hair is still sporting the remnants of how choppy it used to be when she sheared it off with a knife, sitting at uneven angles at shoulder-length as she respools her garroting wire.

So, you know. Come over if you want to touch some shiny things or whatever. ]

Comments

[debts]

[ To her credit, Natasha still doesn't miss a beat. She blinks at him, measured, slow, and it's impossible to tell what's going on there. Maybe her blink after the knowing Widow? gets half a second of resistance, but even then. Well. ]

You're from the other place.

[ Observation, rather than question. She leans forward, elbows crossed on the table. ]

That's how you know me?

[starbuckslord]

"The other place." That sounds ominous. [ Peter lets out a tiny snort of amusement before looking over to the coffeemaker. It looks like there's enough for him to serve his first cup of what will probably be a long round of caffeination, so he goes about doing that with ease despite that little bomb. ]

Yeah, I guess that's one way of putting it. Parallel universes are fun like that. [ Once he has his coffee, he turns around takes a sip, eyeing Nat over the cup. ]

Peter Quill. My team and a version of yours did some work together a few months back.

[debts]

[ She doesn't flinch away from that eye-over-the-cup. There's assessment going on here, and Natasha doesn't try and flinch away from it, to reroute that.

She says it a little dryly, like it's supposed to be a joke (it's not): ]

In space?

[ yay cosmic marvel isn't a thing yet ]

[starbuckslord]

Mm'hm. We were helping you stop some big baddie who got his hands on something dangerous. [ But isn't that how it always goes? He's mostly thinking that he shouldn't give away too many details at this point. Who knows what might help and what might cause unnecessary worry over something that might not even happen? This is why he hates parallel universes. ]

For a team that works mostly on a backwater rock, you guys held your own well enough. [ Hell, it's his planet too, so he feels he can take shots at it if he wants. ]

[debts]

[ That is how it always goes. To her credit, she doesn't actually look surprised (or, to be fair, much of anything), fingers winding back her garrote, the filament catching the light when it stretches over her knuckles. ]

Backwater rock.

[ She repeats, arching her brow. ]

Am I supposed to be offended?

[ Okay, now that she's bantering, that is probably a joke. ]