Natasha Romanoff (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
redintheledger) wrote2013-12-10 04:21 pm
redintheledger) wrote2013-12-10 04:21 pm
Entry tags:
OOM: Paris, December 1955
It just turns December by the time they get to Paris; the city is appropriately cold. Beautiful, different, Paris...and cold. As is the small apartment that James and Nancy Rushman are renting from a countess fallen on modern times, and Natasha bites back any complaints she might have over the heating because Nancy never grew up with ovens. (And yet, the point remains: she was warmer in Siberia.)
Natasha sits at the dressing table, carefully shading her eyelids. The make-up case is new, but she'd done her best to add some scratches and dents to it, so it'd actually look like it belonged to a woman who travelled. She'd done the same with the new wedding ring on her left hand, so it'd look like Nancy and James hadn't been married for less then five minutes. Of course, details like that wouldn't be worth a damn if no one reads them as being an item in the first place. Not for a married couple who are happy and stable, which is needed here. And which Alex has so far...somewhat failed at this aspect of James's life.
She sighs, and then carefully finishes applying her make-up. They have some time before they are due to go out, and she needs to talk to Alex. She slips on her coat, and then walks out into the living room.
"James?"
She thinks he'll listen.
Hopefully he'll listen.
no subject
"Okay."
no subject
"Do you think everyone took the bait, or just Amanda?" she asks once she's returned, tugging her coat back on.
no subject
"Hard to tell," James replies. "What do you think?"
no subject
But..." she trails off thoughtfully, curling herself up on the sofa. "I think it might come down to who else are they looking at. And how do those people manage to do.
Do you know who they are? Our competition."
no subject
He shrugs.
"Even if they take a while longer to decide, the Amanda connection should be useful.
James eases himself to a seat on the arm of the couch and looks down at her.
"Still have that headache?" he asks, gently.
no subject
Intel.
In case they need it.
Then she half-smiles. "A little. I find people to be fascinating. And tiring. A headache is a socially accepted excuse not to stab anyone for talking. Or did you work that one out?"
no subject
He laughs.
"No. If I stabbed people just for talking..." Shaking his head, he leaves it at that. "But if you don't mind, I could rub your temples. It always used to work for--"
A half-second's pause.
"-- a friend of mine," he finishes, with the slightest hint of uncertainty (or is it strain?) underneath his words.
no subject
Friends so often have a habit of turning up dead.
"Thank you. But, not tonight."
There's a line here, and while she's not sure where the boundaries are, she's not in the mood to go pushing.
"Just don't ask me to go dancing, and I'll be fine."
no subject
One corner of his mouth quirks up in a wry smile.
"We'll save the dancing for another time."
no subject
"So.
This is Paris, huh."
no subject
He glances toward the window, then back at her.
"Any regrets?"
no subject
It is something of a question that has the harmonics of traps, and yet he wouldn't...Would he?
"With regards to...?"
no subject
He waves his right hand at the two of them, then at the window and the city beyond, trying to indicate the situation as a whole.
"I mean, I'm sure you could have been assigned elsewhere. I'd have understood, I promise."
no subject
"And after all that effort you went to courting me..." she observes, drily. Then she shakes her head.
"I have none. But I wouldn't mind if we kept it that way, you understand."
no subject
"Perfectly."