Their meeting place was a quaint little tea shop, next-door to an old rickety brownstone that had undergone some construction. The green awning blocked out the sun for the most part, but Owen squinted anyway- it was hard to spot anyone in a big crowd. Brown eyes darting from one person to another, he sipped his Guiness beer lazily, his fingers becoming slick with condensation.
"Owen Harper?" a voice asked, making the doctor jump. Turning, he was looking at a woman- probably in her twenties- with brown eyes and a head of short red hair, the color looking almost like a fire-truck, but only barely able to pass as natural.
"You must be Miss Romanoff, love?" Owen asked, getting up to shake her hand. The woman took his hand, her grip vise-like, nearly crushing his fingers.
"Please," she said simply as he pulled out a chair for her, call me Natasha." Owen nodded, smiling nervously.
"Alright, Natasha," he said, "…um, I don't suppose you would like anything to eat?" Natasha shrugged, crossing her legs, her foot bobbing idly.
"That's why we're here, isn't it?" Natasha joked, a smirk playing on her red lipsticked mouth. Owen laughed, holding his beer glass tighter.
"Funny," he said, "I like that." Natasha looked around, then snapped her fingers, saying, "Waitress!" Owen gave her a confused look- was she rich that she felt the need to snap her fingers at people? Did she have the sort of privileged life where people waited on her hand and foot? A blond fir no older then nineteen or twenty strolled over. She wore a black waistcoat with matching pants and a white button down shirt. On her neck was a silk bow tie and a towel was draped over her arm, notepad in hand.
"Hello," she said cheerfully, "my name is Rose and I'll be your server today." Owen pursed his lips, watching as Natasha picked up one of the menus that were sitting on the table, flipping through it as if she were skimming a book, a bored look etched into her features.
"Um, what's this?" she said, pointing to an item. The waitress- Rose, as her name tag and herself declared- peered over and soon they were discussing the different types of cream in eclairs. I wonder if she's American? Owen thought, staring at her as she spoke. Her accent wasn't British, that was for sure, but it also wasn't Scottish…
"Owen?" Natsha's voice broke through his thoughts, pulling him back into reality.
"Sorry, what?" he asked suddenly. Rose was looking at him patiently, smile on her face.
"What would you like to order, sir?" she asked patiently.
"Oh, um, I'll just have the fish and chips then…? You serve that right?" Owen asked, rubbing his eyes. Rose nodded, scrawling messily on the notepad.
"Your food will be here shortly," she said, then waltzed away, blond hair being disarrayed by the wind. Natasha scoffed.
"How come it will be here shortly if sh just ordered it?" she muttered. Owen raised an eyebrow in confusion.
z"I'm sorry?" he asked.
"Think about it," Natasha said, "if we just ordered it, then it will take some time to get here due to the fact that it will take time to actually cook." Owe shrugged.
"Yeah, but they'll probably rush it like other tea shops do," he added.
"That may be the case, but even so, you also have to take into account the number of people here," Natasha said, gesturing to other hungry citizens that sat around them. Indeed, there were many people there that day.
"Well, let me ask you something," Owen said, clasping his hands on the table.
"Shoot," she said.
"Your accent," he said, "I can't place it."
"That's not a question," she shook her head.
"Well, what is it?"
"What's yours?" Natasha countered, leaning her elbows on the table and resting her chin in her hand.
"That's obvious, isn't i, love?" Owen said, "but what about yours?"
"Well, in truth, it's American, but my parents were of Russian descent. I moved from Russia to America as a little girl, but never quite got rid of the accent," Natasha explain, tucking a strand of re chair behind her ear.
"Why would you get rid of it?" Owen asked. It made more sense now though- the undertone of the accent wasn't Scottish, nor British.
"Well, people weren't able to understand me," Natasha said, "so I tried getting rid of it for other people's convenience." Owen nodded understandingly.
"Well, at least you didn't have to get rid of that pretty face of yours," Owen complimented, which succeeded in making her turn as red as her hair.
"I may have to kill you later, she joked, kicking him under the table. Owen let out a hoot, eyes crinkling at the corners as he winded his smile.
"Playing footsie, now are we?" he laughed.
"Yu wish!" Natasha laughed, pushing herself away from the table. HEr chair screeched as it scratched along the pavement, "Come on." She slung her bag over her shoulder, dusting off her dress.
"what?" Owen asked, watching as she slung her coat over her arm.
"Let's go," she said, nodding in the opposite direction of the tea shop.
"But the food didn't even come-"
"Who cares?" Natasha scoffed, "besides, I feel like if that waitress comes back you'll focus more on her then on me and we wouldn't want that." As soon s she said it, Rose appeared again, carefully carrying a large silver platter, the smell of fried fish and melted chocolate wafting through the air, filling his nostrils with cunning delight.
"Are you sure?" he asked, getting up hesitantly, "I mean-"
Natasha rolled her eyes, grabbing his hand, "Oh come on you worry-wart. She'll be fine." Her heels clicked on the concrete as she nearly dragged him down the street, leaving the waitress to sand at an empty table with a full tray of food.
"Wh-where are we going?!" Owen cried as she roughly pulled him around the corner.
"A safe house," she said simply, clutching his hand tightly until she drew thin lines of blood. Owen winced. Wait- he thought, - a safe house?! Own jerked his hand away, the blood running down his hand and dripping off his fingers.
"I-I don't under-understand…." he gulped, taking a hesitant step back. Natasha rolled her eyes.
"Geez, all of you British men," she muttered with a scowl that ruined her pretty features, "see a pretty woman and you don't pay attention."
"Natasha-" Owen said, then found the ground rushing up at him, too eager to meet with his face, followed by a loud crack that rattled his brain inside his skull. As soon as he fell, Natasha held up a hand, saying, "That's enough, Clint."
Clint Barton- better known as Hawkeye- slung his gun back into its holster, sending a trail of saliva at Owen's unconscious body. The leather jacket he wore was pulled so tightly across his chest it looked as if the seams were going to rip if he made any sudden movements.
"He was getting too touchy with you," Clint whined, Natasha scowled.
"You say that about all my boyfriends," she said, now collect him and let's go."