I own nothing that is Marvel's or anyone else's. I own what I own, obviously. This one-shot was inspired by my nonsense brain. As I said on my profile, while everything is comic based, I am using the characters/characterization from the movie-verses. Also, if you catch any mismatched sentences or misspellings or misplaced words or something of the like, forgive me, because reasons. Right, so, let's get on with one-shot, alrighty?

"There's a ghost upon the moor tonight,
Now it's in our house,
When you walked into the room just then,
It's like the sun came out,
It's like the sun came out."

Gabrielle Aplin — 'Start of Time'

Part I.

Hello, Stranger

The night's chill must have been what drove the Russian towards the more brightly lit streets of Brooklyn—away from the dark alleys and side streets that she's so accustomed to using when she's out on a mission, hunting down her mark. But tonight she's not hunting down her mark; he's already been found. She'd been strictly ordered to come to Brooklyn, and the next day, she should find him, and then the next day, she should kill him. And she needs someplace to be, someplace warm, preferably, because even though she grew up in Russia, of all places, the cold still stings her skin, and she might be perfectly immune to it now, but in all honesty, sometimes indoors work better for her than outdoors do.

She's supposed to be pretending to be an American, an American all the way from the west coast, visiting Brooklyn, for family reasons, but she knows that no matter how hard one might try, you can't avoid suspicion forever. If a twenty-year-old like herself (as defenseless as she might look) is wandering the streets alone late at night, quite aimlessly, questions might be asked, and she might be investigated. She doesn't really want to deal with any questions, or investigations, tonight. She can handle it, no problem, but at the same time, she doesn't really want to deal with any sort of authority in America right now.

And besides, she's not supposed to kill anyone else. No one's supposed to see her, or notice her, or even be aware of her existence as she stays in the city for the duration of her mission, just until she is able to take out the mark and get out of the country as fast as possible.

Natalia Romanova is convinced that there are too many bright, inviting places in Brooklyn. She's used to dark alleys, empty, abandoned warehouses, quiet houses with their occupants sleeping through the night—not this, not the constant hustle of the night life in this city. Moscow feels different from here. There is light, and warmth, and pride here, and she has to admit that the feelings that the city projects are foreign, and she dislikes it terribly, though it's nice to be away from the Red Room—away from the instructors, the other girls, the training—everything.

Emotions are something the Red Room has been working very hard to work out of her system, ever since she joined, pretty much, in any possible way they can. But she knows that there are some biological basics that you cannot erase—such as the feelings the city gives her as she walks, looking straight ahead as her eyes darted to and fro, searching for a place she perhaps get a drink or some food at, some place where people would not ask questions—somewhere where she could be left in peace.

Eventually, up ahead of her, past a crowd of tall women, who are dressed in fine coats and shoes, laughing—looking as if they have all the innocence in the world, she sees a sign, hanging from the building on the corner. She squints to read past the hat-clad girls, who are squealing now quite loudly, and is somewhat pleased to see that, with the lamplight providing just enough visibility for her to see it, it is a bar. She can't very well make out the name, but it doesn't matter. A warm building and a cool drink should do the trick, though, some might want something warmer, like tea, on a chilly night like this. But not Natalia.

She manages to dart in between two particularly tall girls, ducking under their linked arms with the agility that could rival a graceful feline's. She hurries on, keeping her eyes on the building at the end of the sidewalk, and less than a minute, she has reached it.

She takes a moment, before entering, to look around her, to observe. There are people everywhere, getting in and out of cabs, crossing the streets, driving their cars, walking the sidewalks, some quiet, some somber, some loud, and some filled with the kind of boisterous, genuine laughter that has never once the Russian's lips. It makes her feel a twinge of something, deep inside, but, like everything else, she shoves it even deeper, till it's so far down, the sun won't ever see it—because that small twinge of that dark, heavy, consuming emotion that had spawned within her ribcage was unsettling, and Natalia Romanova never becomes unsettled. It's unbecoming of an assassin—the Red Room has been teaching her that since she first joined. They still teach her that. She can hear them perfectly, yelling at her inside her head in angry Russian, dwelling deep within the depths of the memories she refuses to dwell on during the day, and she shuts them out, as fast as she can, because she can't get distracted. Not here. Not now. Not when she doesn't really have any time to herself.

She takes a breath, not deep, but moderately shallow. She sucks it in through her teeth, and she winces as her gums are affected by the cool night air. Squaring her shoulders as much as a woman in America could, she reaches for the door and rests her handle around the knob. She hesitates, for only a moment, contemplating nothing and something all at once, before she opens the door, and steps inside, allowing it to shut behind her, the little bell still ringing above her head. The sound of it ringing sounds festive—so unlike how she feels right now. As she makes her way to the near-empty bar counter, she notes that she has never really felt festive before. Not even on birthdays, because the Red Room celebrates those with ridiculous amounts of training difficult enough for her spirits to take a beating for the remainder of that day. Any holiday, truthfully, right now, felt irrelevant. There was no time to honestly give one's self over to traditions and festivities for day when one killed for a means of living.

She sits herself down, on a stool, and slides her purse down onto the counter top. The bartender turns from another patron, one seat down from her own, and smiles politely at her. She knows he's taking in her features—her flaming red hair, that's piled high on her head, her fine bone structure, the skin around her eyes caked in makeup to make her appear more innocent than she really is, because if one knew just how innocent she wasn't—if someone knew of what she's done and what she's going to do tomorrow and perhaps for the rest of her days, till she fails a mission and ends up getting killed for it—and she smiles politely right back at him. She's been told, by many marks, that her smile can light up a room, and tonight, she thinks that the bartender thinks just that—but it feels more stretched than usual. It's not as easy to produce, it's not as easy to keep on her face as she sighs and allows her stiff shoulders to relax a bit.

"What can I get you, ma'am?" The bartender seems nice, and kind, and almost fatherly. He looks to be about sixty, or older—no, she thinks that he looks grandfatherly.

She's about to ask for vodka, because she's used to that—used to the way it burns down her throat and settles in her belly in the worst (and best) of ways after a particularly bloody mission, when she needs to clear her mind of everything that she's done. She's not guilty, mind you—it's just that, some days, a distraction is in order for her to keep functioning the way she does.

No, instead of vodka (she wonders if this bar even has it), she simply asks for a glass of water, making sure to remember to use the American accent she's been working on for a long while now, and the elderly man nods while he sets about getting it. She thinks that he looked at her approvingly when she didn't ask for alcohol, but it's for the best—for her cover and herself. If she is hung-over tomorrow, she'll have difficulty taking out her mark without any witnesses successfully, and though she's done it before with a hangover, she'd rather not risk it.

A tall glass is set on the beige mug coaster in front of her. She gives the man a nod and a tight smile, indicating that she doesn't want to share any sort of conversation with him, and to her surprise, her just gives her one last smile before he goes about to the other patrons.

Out of habit, as her hands go to clasp the cold glass in front of her, her eyes dart around the room carefully. The bar is old, and it smells nice—not like alcohol, but like warmth. The seats of the booths are ratty, but not horrible. It's small, actually, and it's so quiet. She can count thirteen—no, fifteen—patrons in all, sharing the space with her, and that's not including the bartender, who is now talking to another woman at the opposite end of the bar from where she is.

She sighs, and decides that she can stay here for more than just a few minutes. Though everyone could be a potential threat, she decides to sink into her temporary role as a typical American citizen who wants nothing more than a glass of water to quench her thirst before she treks home through the streets, in a little while, at the least.

"Rough day?"

The voice comes from her right, and her eyes, now narrowed suspiciously, slide towards the man who has turned in his seat to face her fully. If he had said hello, she realizes, she would have been more concerned. But it's not a 'hello, stranger'. It's a simple inquiry, and her curiosity is somewhat piqued. She turns her head to get a better look at him, and immediately realizes that proceeding with answering his causal, harmless question might not be the best thing ever. He's dressed in his uniform—going to be shipped out soon, she guesses, someplace where he might never come back from. Talking to him isn't wise. The Red Room—

She decides, quite irrationally—and, had one of the instructor's been here, they would have punished her in the most painful of ways for her intended stupidity—to talk to him. Remembering herself, as she opens her mouth, she makes sure the American accent is as flawless as it's been getting, but it won't last forever. So she'll speak in short answers—so he won't suspect a thing. A few, friendly words exchanged with a stranger would do her harm—she was a Soviet spy, for goodness' sake—but she decided against her instincts, and answered him, because he really does seem simply curious—though his motives for talking to her might involve the fact that she is a pretty face—easy on the eyes, and he, obviously is a handsome man many a girl might swoon over, and since is definitely not her mark, she answers him truthfully.

She hasn't done that with a stranger—let alone an American—since . . . well, this must be the first time she's ever done something as stupid as this.