"Another," Natasha commanded the barman, who raised an eyebrow. She swiftly recited the English alphabet backwards – "Z, Y, X, W…" – to prove her sobriety, then reiterated her demand, "Another."
The bemused barman poured another shot of vodka for the red headed woman who was here all alone and who apparently could hold her liquor better than any of his regular customers.
She knocked back the drink with ease – her fourth in as many minutes – and pointed to the glass to indicate her desire for more. By the time she had downed her sixth shot of vodka in under ten minutes the barman decided to try to distract her with conversation.
"Man troubles?"
She looked at him with murder in her eyes and whispered so that only he could hear, "If you speak to me again you will be the man with the most troubles in the world."
He took the hint and hurriedly moved up the crowded bar to serve some friendlier punters.
Natasha smiled grimly to herself, the show of mirth not reaching her eyes which remained dark and cold.
Man troubles.
How pathetic. The world's premier assassin, The Black Widow, the deadliest woman ever born, who had killed more men than she had bothered to keep a tally of, suffering from man troubles.
Stealthy as usual, silent and unnoticeable like her namesake, Tasha slid an almost full bottle of vodka from behind the bar and retreated with it to a dark corner booth. There she could remain hidden from view yet still keep an eye on her mark, a boozy old man with his hand in a number of multi-nationals, and who was in the habit of frequenting this particular bar until closing every night.
She drank deeply from the bottle, not merely sipping but throwing back the harsh liquid like it was water. She was more than used to ignoring the sear of the drink, waiting instead for the familiar spreading warmth that it brought to her limbs, the only warmth that was offered to an orphan child on the streets of Stalingrad as the icy teeth of winter closed in… Of course she had suffered a tough and lonely childhood, but what did that matter? It had been good training for her adult life as a lone assassin. She preferred to live alone, to work alone; she was safest unhindered and unattached. Only one person truly understood this about her, one man who could share her mercenary life but who could also melt away when she needed him to. Clint shared so much with her – the lonely childhood of an orphan, the intensive training, the life of crime, the seeking of redemption…
She shook her head angrily at the direction in which her mind was wandering. Taking another huge gulp of burning vodka as if in penance for her weakness, she mentally lectured herself yet again about her "feelings" for Agent Barton; they were a liability, a compromise, a danger to both of their lives. He was only a colleague, someone whose skills she admired, who she could work alongside of with ease, someone to whom she owed a debt and nothing more.
She cursed quietly in her native language, putting the bottle to her lips again and drinking deeply as she realised that Barton was compromising her even now by occupying her thoughts when she was supposed to be working. She kept her eyes on the mark, who was slurring and staggering after only four beers, while she coolly nursed a vodka bottle that was now only one quarter full.
A few moments later she stood with only the slightest unsteadiness and followed the mark's bodyguard across the busy bar floor and into the men's toilets. He turned at the click of her heels on the tiled floor, then slumped to the ground wide-eyed, his neck cleanly broken.
Tasha returned from the toilets calmly and retook her position at the booth, a faint flush in her cheeks from the alcohol in her bloodstream and the exertion of breaking a full grown man's neck; she preferred bullets for quick kills, but obviously the report of a gun in a crowded bar would have drawn unnecessary attention.
She remained waiting, watching for another long hour, her drunken mark not missing his lackey at all. She marvelled at how alone, how separate, she could feel even in a place like this which hummed with activity. Yet again she found herself thinking of Clint, and tipsy as she was she couldn't be bothered to drive him from her mind with any real determination. She wondered where he was, what he was doing… He was probably asleep she guessed, as she glanced at the wall clock which read three o'clock in the morning.
"Last call," came the voice of the barman, and Tasha spurred herself into action. She stood and feigned drunken vulnerability, giggling and blushing as she purposely bumped into the mark. Flattered by the attention of a beautiful young woman and already drunk beyond reason he happily left the bar with her; she despatched him in the car park behind the building, not bothering to hide the body.
Once she was safely locked in her own car she withdrew from the glove compartment a hipflask of vodka, took a swig, and then gunned the accelerator, speeding off towards the bright lights of New York City while murmuring sternly to herself, "Lone assassins do not feel loneliness."
