yelena's been searching for more black widows scattered across the united states. they're typically installed in positions of power, cozied up to influential men, politicians, generals, scientists, lobbyists, investors, financiers. but there's all the weeks between each extraction as she prepares, and so along the way, she has to stop for gas, for food, subsisting on something more than gas station snacks and doughnuts.
these small towns roll past her window like a tapestry unfurling, and she doesn't feel anchored to any of it. detached, distant, adrift. after a whole day of driving, though, she's restless; wants to stretch her legs, go to the bathroom, wake herself up a little before she dozes off at the wheel. so she finally pulls up to a divey roadside bar, which is all worn floorboards and ugly neon and a beer-stained counter. televisions mounted on the wall, showing football, of course it's american football. jukebox playing music in the back. she wonders if they have don mclean; then shoves that thought aside almost as quickly as it came, as if she was touching a hot plate.
the blonde stands in the doorway for a moment, marveling at the bar, taking it all in. and then her expression shifts as she dons the mask again, a loosening of her tense body language: now yelena is just a carefree girl named jenny, on a roadtrip holiday. she heads straight for the counter, taking a stool beside a tall man. she raps her knuckles on the bartop.
her outfit consists of fashion cribbed from the 90s, because of her nostalgia for the decade. combat boots, denim shorts, and loose flannel over a retro looney tunes t-shirt. proper vintage! nothing better than the real thing for yelena belova. )
What's good here?
( a tilt of her head, trying to read the messy chalkboard drinks menu hanging over the bar. her accent is blandly american, from no identifiable region. she's not looking at the guy beside her, but the question's for him. )
typically the places just off the I-35 were desolate at best, a few stragglers coming in now and then, people with nowhere and no one to be any time soon stopping in with a long, single-lane road ahead of them as far as the eye can see. he's used to it, prefers the subtleties that came with kansas streets, the fog that laid like a thick, lingering breath outdoors only made all the more prominent with the moon shone above it. late summer sticks to the air, the back of his neck as he nurses a beer with a twin bottle empty beside him. he could really care less about the service; they kept them coming, and he kept his mouth shut.
thankfully, most of the brash bastards hooting and clapping shoulders over the game up on the screen have hunkered down to one of the small booths and tables scattered around the bar, and after awhile, it's all static, anyway. there's still that telltale lick of adrenaline left disappointed in his veins, a case that'd run stale, a vamp nest that'd clearly caught wind of the winchester's pursuit and beat it before they could have their necks sliced. you win some you lose some, sammy always said — might as well be a loss, and what better company than this.
he doesn't stir when she props herself beside him, used to various bodies coming and going once they've gotten their drink. it's only once the warm scarves of her voice intercept some stray thought, when a glance to his side assures him he's the only one close enough to make out her words. his own flannel is rolled up messily to his forearms, perched casually on the bar top, and he takes a moment to survey her side profile before a low chuckle leaves him — not exactly going out of his way to be friendly, but not dismissing, either. )
( and when he answers her, yelena finally sneaks the chance to glance to the side and meet the stranger's eye. she'd instinctively sized him up on approach — the broad shoulders filling out that flannel, the long legs which mean he'd probably dwarf her once he stands up — but now she can get a closer look at the man and she feels that low flicker of satisfaction that oh, yes, she'd chosen her mark wisely. there's a handsome face planted on those nice shoulders.
truth be told, she shouldn't be talking to anyone. should just be continuing along like a perpetually-moving shark, a ghost drifting onwards in the night, never stopping anywhere long enough for anyone to remember her face or her voice, or be able to respond to an APB calling for someone with her likeness. it would be the smarter move. but she's tired and restless and bored, and there's something reassuringly familiar to settling into the empty byplay of flirtation with a nice-looking man. it's old hat. she was trained for this, for that calculated honeyed edge to her voice, and for that cocky smile to spread across her face as she takes him in. )
Hmm. Let's say the strongest they have.
( this, from the woman who grew up with a russian taste for high-proof vodka that can blister the tongue and bring tears to your eyes. she's small — 5'4" and built compact — but is there a needling challenge to her voice when she looks at him? hell yeah you bet there is. she needs to make her own fun somehow. )
Can't say the strongest and 'something good' really work out together.
( tastes like shit, actually. a colonel taylor, 135 proof. he shouldn't exactly be boasting his addictive habits — hell, it hardly hit him anymore, too used to tossing a case back once they've rallied back to the bunker whether it was a hit or miss, long since used to the burn of whiskey. then again, they're two people that've both walked into a bar solo, though the more he takes her in the further questions raise as to why exactly she has. it crosses him briefly that she could be some shapeshifter, some silver-repugnant bastard trying him on for size. at this rate after the evening he's had, he almost wishes she were.
he's not shy to let his gaze linger a little longer than it should. casual sex was his go to, and chatting up a woman at some mahogany bar top wasn't anything stranger to him. he knows the lay of the land well enough to let the cards fall as they may – once upon a time he might've amped up the charm, but that boat doesn't come back around often once you've met death a few times. literally.
eventually, viridian stare shifts to the array of bottles before them, taking another swig of his beer before nudging the butt of the bottle toward one in particular, just as his eyes settle on it. )
Blanton's is nice. Smooth. Even finishes with peaches and chocolate — so it's your pina colada and shit-faced all in one. ( not that he's one to shit on the 'girly drinks.' they're delicious; umbrellas and all. )
( the smooth, comfortable way he gives his recommendation speaks to enough personal experience. hers came honed through unconventional means, taste-testing and mixology lessons under the weight of a heavy fist: these are the brands of alcohol that young women of your generation like. here are the ingredients to craft stories of having too much peach-flavoured vodka in college, long island ice teas, bottles of corona with a wedge of orange. anecdotes to tuck into her back pocket, to pad out her cover stories and make her seem more believable. it's not like the widows ever got to kick back and enjoy a drink just for the sake of enjoying a drink; it was always to a purpose, a lesson learned.
she reaches for those memories now, tries to settle back into the skin of this american girl, and says: )
Then Blanton's it is. Neat, thanks.
( as soon as the bartender pours her a glass and slides it over to her, she takes a deep swig and then swivels sideways in her stool, her knee knocking into the man's (a purposeful little bit of physical contact, a gentle brush against him). whoever he is, he's solitary enough to not be in a group of rowdy men camped out in front of the TVs, and that alone makes him more interesting to her; more worth speaking to, compared to the jocks at the back tables. )
Thanks for the recommendation. It looked like you'd been sitting here a while and probably knew what's what. ( a glance down the empty bar. ) Alone tonight?
( the bartender seems to regard them together a moment once he's taken her order, but he can't remember the last time he'd sat down at a bar with company he'd invited, let alone expected. dean doesn't pay it much mind, and eventually the man makes off to whip up her request, towel slung over one shoulder. she isn't hard on the eyes, not even slightly, but it's not the typical lip-glossed girl swimming in her own perfume that's sauntered up beside him. he watches her carefully, leisurely, the way she cradles the glass and gives the slightest tick back of her head, downs the stuff like it's nothing.
he can't help but to purse his lips at that, gaze flitting down to where her knee bristles against the denim of his thigh. he recognizes, keenly, that there's far more to her than meets the eye — but at the moment, he's willing to take whatever version of herself she's offering up tonight, and she seems receptive to his in kind. )
Awhile? Doesn't sound like a good look.
( yeah, he's considered he's that lonely, brooding guy hitting up every bar top across america, but it's been awhile since someone's called it out. he finishes off the remnants of his beer, another following after it almost knowingly from the bartender. tongue crosses his lips, sucking at his teeth a moment later as he mulls at her question. )
Yeah. Had some plans fall through, couldn't sleep, so I figured a drink could help. ( it's not a lie, just a partial truth. then he's directing his attention to her, the wear of her flannel, the graphic hiding beneath on her shirt. )
( there's the slightest pause when he says doesn't sound like a good look: the young woman is still watching him, assessing, as if she's balancing on a knife's edge and still deciding how she ought to play it. the black widows are chameleonic, becoming whatever they need to be in the moment. some men like to be coddled, their egos stroked and assuaged. others like to be put on their toes. by the way he doesn't sour on her at being called out, she's starting to think he's the latter. a lucky thing, too, considering how that remark could've gone awry.
she doesn't know enough about him to know exactly what angle will work best on him, but in a way, that's part of the game. making a call and seeing how it plays out. unthinkingly and automatically spinning that web, seeing what she might catch tonight. )
Road trip. I've been driving all day and I could tell I was starting to doze off, so I needed to take a break. Figured it was about time to clock out for the night, loosen up.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
— and them good old boys were drinkin' whiskey & rye.
yelena's been searching for more black widows scattered across the united states. they're typically installed in positions of power, cozied up to influential men, politicians, generals, scientists, lobbyists, investors, financiers. but there's all the weeks between each extraction as she prepares, and so along the way, she has to stop for gas, for food, subsisting on something more than gas station snacks and doughnuts.
these small towns roll past her window like a tapestry unfurling, and she doesn't feel anchored to any of it. detached, distant, adrift. after a whole day of driving, though, she's restless; wants to stretch her legs, go to the bathroom, wake herself up a little before she dozes off at the wheel. so she finally pulls up to a divey roadside bar, which is all worn floorboards and ugly neon and a beer-stained counter. televisions mounted on the wall, showing football, of course it's american football. jukebox playing music in the back. she wonders if they have don mclean; then shoves that thought aside almost as quickly as it came, as if she was touching a hot plate.
the blonde stands in the doorway for a moment, marveling at the bar, taking it all in. and then her expression shifts as she dons the mask again, a loosening of her tense body language: now yelena is just a carefree girl named jenny, on a roadtrip holiday. she heads straight for the counter, taking a stool beside a tall man. she raps her knuckles on the bartop.
her outfit consists of fashion cribbed from the 90s, because of her nostalgia for the decade. combat boots, denim shorts, and loose flannel over a retro looney tunes t-shirt. proper vintage! nothing better than the real thing for yelena belova. )
What's good here?
( a tilt of her head, trying to read the messy chalkboard drinks menu hanging over the bar. her accent is blandly american, from no identifiable region. she's not looking at the guy beside her, but the question's for him. )
no subject
typically the places just off the I-35 were desolate at best, a few stragglers coming in now and then, people with nowhere and no one to be any time soon stopping in with a long, single-lane road ahead of them as far as the eye can see. he's used to it, prefers the subtleties that came with kansas streets, the fog that laid like a thick, lingering breath outdoors only made all the more prominent with the moon shone above it. late summer sticks to the air, the back of his neck as he nurses a beer with a twin bottle empty beside him. he could really care less about the service; they kept them coming, and he kept his mouth shut.
thankfully, most of the brash bastards hooting and clapping shoulders over the game up on the screen have hunkered down to one of the small booths and tables scattered around the bar, and after awhile, it's all static, anyway. there's still that telltale lick of adrenaline left disappointed in his veins, a case that'd run stale, a vamp nest that'd clearly caught wind of the winchester's pursuit and beat it before they could have their necks sliced. you win some you lose some, sammy always said — might as well be a loss, and what better company than this.
he doesn't stir when she props herself beside him, used to various bodies coming and going once they've gotten their drink. it's only once the warm scarves of her voice intercept some stray thought, when a glance to his side assures him he's the only one close enough to make out her words. his own flannel is rolled up messily to his forearms, perched casually on the bar top, and he takes a moment to survey her side profile before a low chuckle leaves him — not exactly going out of his way to be friendly, but not dismissing, either. )
Depends what you're after.
( or what kind of night you want to have. )
no subject
truth be told, she shouldn't be talking to anyone. should just be continuing along like a perpetually-moving shark, a ghost drifting onwards in the night, never stopping anywhere long enough for anyone to remember her face or her voice, or be able to respond to an APB calling for someone with her likeness. it would be the smarter move. but she's tired and restless and bored, and there's something reassuringly familiar to settling into the empty byplay of flirtation with a nice-looking man. it's old hat. she was trained for this, for that calculated honeyed edge to her voice, and for that cocky smile to spread across her face as she takes him in. )
Hmm. Let's say the strongest they have.
( this, from the woman who grew up with a russian taste for high-proof vodka that can blister the tongue and bring tears to your eyes. she's small — 5'4" and built compact — but is there a needling challenge to her voice when she looks at him? hell yeah you bet there is. she needs to make her own fun somehow. )
no subject
( tastes like shit, actually. a colonel taylor, 135 proof. he shouldn't exactly be boasting his addictive habits — hell, it hardly hit him anymore, too used to tossing a case back once they've rallied back to the bunker whether it was a hit or miss, long since used to the burn of whiskey. then again, they're two people that've both walked into a bar solo, though the more he takes her in the further questions raise as to why exactly she has. it crosses him briefly that she could be some shapeshifter, some silver-repugnant bastard trying him on for size. at this rate after the evening he's had, he almost wishes she were.
he's not shy to let his gaze linger a little longer than it should. casual sex was his go to, and chatting up a woman at some mahogany bar top wasn't anything stranger to him. he knows the lay of the land well enough to let the cards fall as they may – once upon a time he might've amped up the charm, but that boat doesn't come back around often once you've met death a few times. literally.
eventually, viridian stare shifts to the array of bottles before them, taking another swig of his beer before nudging the butt of the bottle toward one in particular, just as his eyes settle on it. )
Blanton's is nice. Smooth. Even finishes with peaches and chocolate — so it's your pina colada and shit-faced all in one. ( not that he's one to shit on the 'girly drinks.' they're delicious; umbrellas and all. )
no subject
she reaches for those memories now, tries to settle back into the skin of this american girl, and says: )
Then Blanton's it is. Neat, thanks.
( as soon as the bartender pours her a glass and slides it over to her, she takes a deep swig and then swivels sideways in her stool, her knee knocking into the man's (a purposeful little bit of physical contact, a gentle brush against him). whoever he is, he's solitary enough to not be in a group of rowdy men camped out in front of the TVs, and that alone makes him more interesting to her; more worth speaking to, compared to the jocks at the back tables. )
Thanks for the recommendation. It looked like you'd been sitting here a while and probably knew what's what. ( a glance down the empty bar. ) Alone tonight?
no subject
he can't help but to purse his lips at that, gaze flitting down to where her knee bristles against the denim of his thigh. he recognizes, keenly, that there's far more to her than meets the eye — but at the moment, he's willing to take whatever version of herself she's offering up tonight, and she seems receptive to his in kind. )
Awhile? Doesn't sound like a good look.
( yeah, he's considered he's that lonely, brooding guy hitting up every bar top across america, but it's been awhile since someone's called it out. he finishes off the remnants of his beer, another following after it almost knowingly from the bartender. tongue crosses his lips, sucking at his teeth a moment later as he mulls at her question. )
Yeah. Had some plans fall through, couldn't sleep, so I figured a drink could help. ( it's not a lie, just a partial truth. then he's directing his attention to her, the wear of her flannel, the graphic hiding beneath on her shirt. )
What's your excuse?
no subject
she doesn't know enough about him to know exactly what angle will work best on him, but in a way, that's part of the game. making a call and seeing how it plays out. unthinkingly and automatically spinning that web, seeing what she might catch tonight. )
Road trip. I've been driving all day and I could tell I was starting to doze off, so I needed to take a break. Figured it was about time to clock out for the night, loosen up.
( it's not a lie, just a partial truth. )
Plans fell through— What, like a date?