She comes out of the bathroom in her casual clothes, a black pleated skirt down to her knee and a cream blouse with short puffy sleeves and a plunging neckline. She'd put her hair up in curls and freshened up her make up.
Her cheeky smile makes her bright red lips a perfect cupids bow
"You like this?" She twirls on the spot and Steve gives a low whistle
"Very much"
"I'll just make a few calls and we can head out. I'll need to ask reception to get my umbrella from the hotel safe"
"You keep an umbrella in the hotel safe?"
"Of course. It's vintage" she says, as if that explains everything.
She walks to the telephone by the bed and he stands behind her, wraps his arms around her waist and leans in to nibble her ear "You like dressing up and showing off for me?"
"Of course. It's nice to be appreciated and not have to leverage it to manipulate or kill you"
He feels her tremble as she leans back against him, enjoying the solid feel of his body against hers.
He thinks its excitement and lust then realises it's more "You're nervous. That's what it is. You're excited but nervous."
"I don't usually get close to people without an ulterior motive. This is personal and I'm not used to feeling so vulnerable"
"And liking it?"
She bites her lip "And liking it"
"It's ok, i like seeing you like this"
"Nervous? Scared?"
"Honest."
She laughs. "I've almost forgotten what that is"
There's a knock on the door and a uniformed bellboy hands her a large black umbrella with a curved bamboo handle. She takes it with a silent nod of thanks. Steve notices the bellboy was wearing white cotton gloves, like the doorman. There probably isn't a single fingerprint in this building.
The umbrella is a classic big black London umbrella with a curved rattan cane handle.
"This is a little bit of spy history" She twirls it, still furled. Brandishes it like a gun, a sword, a club.
"It was originally custom made for an agent of British Intelligence in WW2, it has a one shot 16 gauge short barrel smoothbore in the tip, an 18" stiletto blade in the body and a secret compartment in the handle. I had it modernised a bit, now the fabric is ballistic and blocks both infra-red and radar. That means it gets far too hot in the sun but makes it perfect for a rainy night out"
"So, where are we going?"
"Just an errand I've got to run and then a surprise for you before dinner"
"By Car?"
"In London? It's worse than New York for traffic and we're only going a few streets. Plus it's a nice night and I fancy a walk."
The night is just setting in and the rain is a slow miserable drizzle but Natasha seems strangely cheerful. She's put on a tailored black trench coat and belted it tightly against the rain. They leave the hotel and wind down narrow alleys behind tall buildings.
"We can work on your spycraft as we go. London is the worst city in the world for spies and one of the best. Our natural enemy, the camera. Is getting everywhere. When you need to move covertly you have two options; be seen and stop it recognising you, or avoid the cameras totally. Tonight we'll be doing option one.
Now part of the problem is the cameras get smaller and more portable every year. Expect them at every traffic junction, every ATM, every shop with a register, every hotel doorway. Those are the passive eyes you have to avoid, always watching and always online. Now, lots of cars have dash cameras and everyone has a phone with a camera but those only come out if something happens to attract attention, so if you have to worry about them you've already failed.
"Now the internet is full of paranoid people, some of whom keep up to date maps of cameras they see around the city." They come out of the alleys and onto a busy night time street, darkness cut by shop signs and passing cars, the pavement flagstones wet and glistening.
She unfurls the umbrella, angling it to cover their heads "blocks the camera on the shop front"
They head across the road, weaving between slow cars. No jaywalking in London Steve remembers, recalling Peggy laughing at American rules. "Angled for the crossing camera" Natasha says, keeping the umbrella up.
She feels almost giddy to get to share her art with someone who learns and moves as fast as she can.
They twirl into a side street "now you carry a jammer to block the phone signals but that won't stop the fixed cameras. You can have Tony rig you up with some state of the art Artificial Intelligence to follow you round scrambling cameras but people will just follow the damage."
She points out three cameras in the next street and they cross to the side, blocking them with the umbrella.
"Even if you guard your face they can track you by Biometrics. Your Height, your Arm and leg length which effects your stance and stride length. But your walk and wearing heels can throw that off. Computers are easy to confuse once you know how they measure things." She skips a few ballet steps, turns a slow pirouette then sashays back to Steve, rolling her hips. "you need five faces and six walks a day to hide in London"
"Sounds All very James Bond"
"yes, Jereym street is just down there. Where Bond got his shirts. Tony inflicted his movie collection on you?"
"I can see why a kid who loved gadgets would like them"
Rain on concrete slabs, flagstones and cobbles, in places Steve can see potholes that show a hundred years of roads. One street sign catches his eye "Sackville street? like the Hobbits?"
Natasha stops, astonished "Lord of the Rings? really?"
Steve shrugs "Bucky used to love that book"
"You need to put the films on your list."
"I've seen them. I can see why he liked them" Steve stops outside a shops window, looks at the suits, the golden lettering. He points, questioningly ""I thought 'Huntsman' was made up for that film?"
"That's 'Kingsman' you're thinking of. And Saville row is full of surprises"
They head along the street, every window filled with fine examples of the tailors art.
As they pass number 13 Nat points them out "Gormley & Gamble, the only place that does womens wear on the Row. I've one of their suits, lovely work"
She leads him down a narrow side alley to a non-descript black door. She waves the handle of the umbrella over the blank plate of the doorbell and the intercom lights up. She leans close and says
"We have an appointment with Mr Weatherhill"
There's a buzz and the door opens. It's well concealed but Steve can hear and feel the bolts in that door slide back. As it swings open slowly he can hear the motor, the hydraulics mean it's heavy, probably armour plate under the painted wood. What sort of tailor lives in a hidden vault?
Inside it's a sharp turn right and down two narrow flights of stairs, the walls are dark mahogany wood panels and the floor thickly carpeted with burgundy carpet held in place with brass rods. No sounds reach them from the street outside
Several levels below the street the narrow stairs lead into a tailors studio of wood and mirrors, shelves of bolts of cloth and free standing mannequins. Standing, waiting are two besuited men in domino masks, who bow in greeting. Natasha drops into a well upholstered armchair and explains "These gentlemen run a bespoke service for the more unusual clientele in our community. People with special requests for styles, unusual materials, exceptional physiques. This place is strictly neutral ground. Invitation only"
"Sounds expensive"
"My treat. You'll need something tough enough for mission wear, both evening formal and casual"
The Tailors nod and invite Steve to stand on a low podium as they take measurements
"I don't know much about suits. I've never had one custom made and styles have changed a lot since the 40s"
"Don't worry, I've got you." To the Tailors she says "I was thinking square at the shoulder for a more military bearing, narrow lapel so as to not compete with that jawline, shaped in slightly at the waist."
She sits back in the chair, openly admiring him. "Formal needs to make an impression, Casual soften the line so he doesn't stand out as much"
"very good ma'am."
Steve glances in the mirror and flexes his shoulders "just as long as I don't look like a Dorito, Tony keeps joking about that"
"And which way does sir dress?"
"Pardon?"
The Widow smirks "He dresses to the left"
"very good sir"
"The Fabric?"
"The wool and ballistic polyaramid mix"
"And the lining?"
"Covert Tactical of course"
"Of course"
Natasha explains "usually we armour suits with a liner layer of impact plastic that's soft and flexible for normal wear, but sets rigid when hit hard. The trouble is those of us able to hit harder and faster than baseline humans move fast enough to start it stiffening, which gets in the way. So SHIELD developed a fine ceramic scale mail that can stop bullets without slowing the wearer. The fabric is fireproof, of course, and has a conductive layer to stop Tasers and other electric shock weapons."
One of the Tailors brings out an armoured briefcase "Your package arrived, as expected. You have the key?"
She unscrews the handle of the umbrella and pulls out a USB style pen drive.
The Tailor lays the case on a side table and she slots the pen drive in, keys in a code and presses her thumb to a reader. With a click the case opens.
"The next generation of high tech materials use some rather unusual unstable molecules that are able to absorb a lot of energy without damage. Three suit lengths, courtesy of our friends in the Baxter building and several flat spaces ready to be used."
She pulls out a shoulder holster and hands it to Steve "here, try this on".
He shrugs it on over his shoulders, the holster under his left arm "Fits nicely"
"It holds a normal pistol, like your classic Model 1911. But see the seam next to it?"
He finds a long seam and opens it, reaching in he finds a second empty holster. But impossibly the outside of the holster doesn't swell as his hand goes in.
"Super science means we can fit it with a second concealed holster, an extra dimensional Flat space for another pistol or extra magazines. Its holster sized on the inside but has no thickness on the outside."
"How is that even possible?"
"super science, of course; Shield issue flat spaces" She gives a Little smile "How do you think i store so much widow kit in that skin tight suit? My belts full of them"
Once all the measurements are taken they head back out onto the street.
"Now, Dinner. For me London is best for power for privilege. Paris for fashion and food. But for a suit, always Saville row. And I know a little place to eat I think You'll like"
They turn into another narrow cobbled side street, weaving through a late night crowd of people drunkenly celebrating down Swallow street. Another unmarked door , this time leading to stairs up, the walls papered with menus and fliers, old magazines and newspaper clippings. The smell of cooking food and beer greets them as they climb, out into a small bar with one wall opening out onto a rain damp rooftop terrace, the other dominated by a wall of spirits behind a marble bar top.
The bar man, a wiry man in waiters whites but with a shaved head and rolled sleeves that show an unholy medley of tattoos and scars is staring off into space with a sullen scowl but his face lights up as they walk in.
"Natalie, babe! Always good to see you! How you been holding up?"
He comes out from behind the bar, arms out.
"Mikey! Didn't I promise I'd stop by next time I was in town?" She gives him a fierce hug and grins.
"Mikey, I want you to meet Steve"
"Latest boy toy? Good to meet you mate" He offers Steve a handshake, which he returns firmly
"Hope you like good food and strong drink, you're the last customers of the night" He pokes a skeletal finger at Nat. "Hold on. You pulled a fast one with the boss?"
Nat shrugs "May have booked the place out late."
He laughs "What'd that cost you?"
"Couple of grand and a favour with a farmer friend in Finland."
"More of those steaks? Fuck, you're an angel" Turning to Steve he says "She's a real miracle worker, this one. She calls it gourmet import / export but I swear its smuggling."
He leads them to a table with shelter but a view out over the city. "I'll get the food moving"
"He's quite the character."
"Hard as nails but heart of gold. I helped him kick heroin back in the 90s. He's killed at least three men I know of. Probably one of the best Grillardins in the city not in a gourmet resturant kitchen."
"And he thinks you're what, a food importer?"
"Import/Export. Having friends in the kitchens is a good way to get into interesting places"
Mikey comes back with an ice bucket and a fist full of shot glasses – in the bucket is a bottle of Smirnoff Blue label vodka in a solid block of Ice.
He reads the label as she pours shot after shot
"100 Proof?"
"Not the best taste but we need something a bit stronger than most folks to take the edge off"
She hands him a glass of the oily clear liquid, already misting over with condensation, then picks up her own and knocks it back. He lifts it, icy cold to the touch and with the sharp acrid scent of the alcohol vapours and knocks it back. It tastes of icy cold, oily smooth and clean yet burns as it goes down into his chest, leaving a clean bittersweetness behind.
Natasha slams back her second and third in quick succession and starts refilling the glasses. Steve watches her steady hand and takes a second shot glass. It's less of a shock to the system than the first, or perhaps his tongue has gone numb?
Natasha puts the bottle back into the ice block "Don't worry, you have the metabolism and body mass to drink five of these bottles before you need worry about intoxication"
"You've very sure about that"
"Of course. I know my limits and I've read your SHIELD medical file, we both have high tolerances to organic toxins and very effective metabolisms. Tests showed you should eat about eight thousand calories a day to keep in optimum shape, but can go a week without food and not worry. So I've ordered plenty of food, I hope you like it"
She slips her shoe off under the table and strokes her stocking clad foot over his ankle.
"So, have I pleased you Sir?"
He smiles, knocking back a third shot. The burn has mellowed and he can savour it more, the raw taste of the alcohol and the aftertastes of more complex organics.
"You've done very well, so far" he says, watching the eager gleam in her eye. Simple praise seems to give her more of a rush than the vodka.
There's a thump and clatter from the kitchen door and Mikey appears, bearing two plates. He's surrounded with a cloud of scented steam that makes Steve's mouth water, grilled steak and rich buttery fats, fragrant herbs and a salty undertone he doesn't recognise.
"here you go loves, speciality of the house, Double steaks and oysters Rockerfeller"
Each plate had two thick and juicy steaks piled high with pan fried oysters swimming in herbs and butter.
"This is…" Steve pauses, trying to place the scents, complimentary and multi layered "It smells amazing"
"It tastes even better"
He cuts a piece, the steak rare but tender – it melted in his mouth with a rich flavour that spread and grew as he chewed. There was a trace of heat, a peppery savour with onions and garlic and a delicate trace of aniseed. It reminds him of the times Frenchie complained about the Howling Commandoes ration packs and somehow found red wine and herbs to make even the army C rations palatable.
"this is Fantastic. There's just so much going on. I can't place half of the flavours but they work well together"
Nat stabs one of her oysters with a fork then looks at him and asks "Did you find the serum boosted your senses?" then pops it into her mouth and chews
Steve gives a sharp laugh that surprises her "I thought you read my file? Before the serum I was a short, half blind, half deaf, anaemic asthmatic. Every day was a struggle just to get up and get moving. Every day hurt. I'd survived rheumatic and scarlet fever and they'd damn near ruined me.
After the serum I could see colours I never knew existed. It was like the world was on lit up and on fire, it was so bright with new colours and sounds. I had to learn that Red and Green are different, not the same greys. I'd gone from being surrounded and muffled in fog to better than 20/20"
"Did you find there was a Cognitive boost as well? An increase in your Conscious or subconscious perception?
"I'm kind of aware of everything but only really notice it if it seems important"
"Same here, it's your subconscious absorbing and analysing everything. Did Peggy ever get you playing Kims game? Where you look at a collection of small things and then try and recall details?"
"The remembering random objects one? Yes, passed the time on the plane before parachute jumps. I aced it every time; Peg was really good at it too."
"Of course, it's classic British intelligence memory training."
Steve catches the look in her eye even as she strokes a silky stockinged foot up his shin. Where is this going? She's playing a game, hinting at an ulterior motive. Leading the conversation, deliberately making parallels between their enhancements and trainings. Talking about perception… There is something in here she wants him to see
He focuses his attention on the room, putting aside the very pleasant distraction Natasha was offering. There were seventeen bottles of vodka behind the bar, fifteen brands. Bottles hanging in optics, things on tap. The chairs were reclaimed, no full sets. The walls were decorated with old papers and magazines, most just pasted onto the wall but some old magazine pages were framed.
Some are vintage adverts. Then he recognizes her in a magazine on the far wall. She's sitting with her back to a picture that's almost certainly her. But somehow in a Smirnoff vodka advert from 1966 .
She notices his astonishment and smiles her secretive little smile.
Did she fake it to mess with him or did she bring him here to share the secrets of her past?
She catches the slight widening of his eyes
Oh, you are good, Captain, She thinks and knocks back another shot of vodka.
He glances at her and its question enough. She closes her eyes and explains
"It was a Photo-shoot in New york back in '66. I tried out for the Smirnoff campaign. Got to meet Groucho Marx, he was a lovely old man, very charming and wickedly funny. I didn't get the job in the end; they gave it to Tammy Grimes.
I don't really remember taking that photographs but it could have been me. I think it was. It's just memory muddles over time. It could have been someone else with this face but I'm pretty sure it was me."
"But that was 1966?!"
"and my passport to get into America said I was 21. I don't really know for sure when I was born, or where. I can remember the cold and the snow, crawling over the rubble of the ruined buildings. I had no shoes and the puddles were frozen into muddy slush that crunched under foot. Everyone I knew had gone away and the strangers all seemed like giants and monsters." She knocks back another shot "I ended up on a train and then to a state orphanage. That led to state education, military service, the tests and recommendation for the Red Room." She sighs. "So that's who I really am, Steve Rogers, a little Russian girl orphaned in the last days of the War, raised and enhanced by an uncaring monster of a government to spy and kill on command"
She looks at the compassion and sympathy on his face.
She scowls and hands him another shot
"Don't do that. Don't do the big puppy eyes, the Captain America square jaw hero with the urge to save everyone. It's in the past, it can't be changed, you can't save me from what has happened. What I need now is just a simple honest guy living in the moment. Can you do that? Just for tonight be average guy Steve from Brooklyn"
"If you'll be Natasha for me."
"I'd rather be Natalia."
"Natalia? But I thought. "
"My name is Natalia. Natalia Alianovna Romanova. "Natasha Romanoff" is an alias invented for the Widow, an Americanised version of the name"
"Oh… I didn't know. So all this time we've been calling you an alias?"
"It's the Widows name. Part of my professional identity."
He's taken aback, lost in thought for a moment, then offers "Well, my middle names Grant if you didn't know."