Fic: Girl Talk
Another prompt fill for lost_spook's Obscure & British fest, although with a difference this time; I subverted the prompt a little. Also, I'm putting it at the end.
Girl Talk
Natasha Romanov had told her current case officer that it was a small, tidy cottage in rural Sussex - a typical retirement spot for a former civil servant.
It wasn’t, of course. The former civil servant had never actually been anything of the kind (well, civility had certainly been involved), the retirement spot was not a cottage, and rural Sussex was a ridiculous idea. The case officer was going to be furious, of course, when he finally caught up, and would undoubtedly do something drastic, like write a nasty report. In triplicate.
Natasha buzzed a total of four times, in a specific pattern. The security system immediately clicked and blinked a green light, and the door smoothly unlocked and allowed her access to the private lift that zipped her up to the penthouse flat.
Inside, the décor was all clean lines and smooth surfaces, mostly black and white with accents of intense, saturated colour. It should have seemed dated, but instead had a timeless elegance. Natasha darted a quick look around the suite’s main living area, tallying the contents, looking for the occupants. Two, in addition to herself, neither immediately visible, both sitting in the seats facing the main spread of picture windows. Her initial tenseness eased imperceptibly. She hadn’t admitted, even to herself - especially not to herself - how bad it would have been if there had only been one other person there. So much depended on this meeting.
The massive windows filling the two corner walls of the Knightsbridge flat looked out over Hyde Park in one direction and east towards Piccadilly and the Mall in the other. Less than two miles away, sunlight glinted on the water of the Thames as the river meandered north and east around South Bank. Assuming the windows could be opened, the not-exactly-retired resident could have parachuted down to her choice of restaurants, shops, and galleries, or caught a minor crosswind and landed in front of any of several theatres.
“The best part is how clearly you can hear the buzz,” said the not-retiree.
Natasha cocked her head as if to listen.
A contralto chuckle came from the depths of the most decadent of the room’s seats, a deep armchair upholstered in butter-soft white suede. The voice was clear and crisp, the elegant tones warm with amusement. “The buzz of events. The whooshing of the world’s political and social and economic lifeblood, chugging through the veins of London.”
“You can hear that in other cities, you know - New York, Hong Kong, Singapore - ” Natasha started to answer.
“But London still has a special charm. Speaking of special, have a drink.” A slim hand waved above the decadent armchair, indicating a sleek sideboard with its sparkling array of bottles.
Natasha examined the lineup with approval. She didn’t need to bother asking where the ‘good stuff’ was kept. Like Tony Stark, Emma Peel couldn’t be bothered with stocking anything that wasn’t the ‘good stuff’.
Natasha picked up the bottle of Luksusowa. “How the hell did you get this in the UK?”
“Good contacts. Isn’t that the whole point? Come and sit down. I had the housekeeper do up a platter of zakuski for later; it’s in the kitchen.”
Natasha brought the bottle with her, settled into another chair whose luxurious upholstery didn’t actually make it slow or difficult to get up quickly, and poured herself a drink in a diminutive crystal shotglass.
“I’m relieved that it was the right brand of vodka,” Emma said. “They actually tried to send some of that dreadful flavoured stuff.”
Natasha made a face. “New York’s awash with it. Too many hipsters.”
Emma shook her head. “Hot and cold running affectations and pomposities. I suppose they all order their martinis ‘shaken, not stirred’.”
The third woman in the room finally spoke, her tone crisp and acerbic. “Believe it or not, that’s not an affectation. Properly done, it affects the temperature, the flavour, and the texture of the drink. Of course, if you then gulp it down in one mouthful and order another, it hardly seems to matter.” She set down her own barely-touched drink and beckoned to Natasha. “Let me look at you.”
Natasha slid out of her chair in one smooth motion and stood, towering over the older woman, meeting her steady gaze.
“So you’re Romanov. Is that your real name?”
“Does it matter?” Natasha could feel Emma, behind her, catch her breath, but she pressed on. “Does your real name actually start with ‘M’?”
M shook her head faintly, but a smile quirked the corner of her mouth. “When I think of some of the more ridiculous grandstanding we went through during the Cold War . . . and here you are, on British soil, asking for my help.”
“I’m not asking for anything.”
“No. Emma here did the asking. Much more effective that way.”
“I certainly thought so,” Emma said.
Natasha ignored her. “Thank you for coming.”
“Emma asked me,” said M. “How could I refuse?”
“Easily enough. You don’t owe me any favours.”
“But I do owe her. I owe her a great deal.” M picked up her drink again.
Emma smiled and waved regally. “It’s mutual. Don’t worry, Natasha. You asked for help for yourself and two associates - ”
“Your fair-haired boy and his wingman,” M put in.
Emma glowered faintly. “Two associates. You all need to go poking around behind what used to be the Iron Curtain. Is it just me, or is the map looking a trifle ferrous again? I thought we’d left all that behind.”
“Everything old is new again,” Natasha said. “Can you help? I still have some contacts scattered around the area, but too much of my old network is compromised.”
“Caught in a compromising position. So you’ll need papers, covers, and probably funds. We can swing it. Even a couple of old retired biddies from the dusty vaults of the Cold War can still find a few markers to call in for a friend.”
“Speak for yourself, biddy,” said M in a less tart voice. “I’ve only just retired, and you never officially did at all.”
“That’s because I had nothing official to retire from. Much simpler that way.”
“I thought you were supposed to be dead,” Natasha said to M.
“Oh, I am. It’s much tidier that way. You should try it.”
“The way things have gone lately, I may have to,” said Natasha.
“Your Director’s done a nice job of it. Oh, don’t look at me like that. One hears things. I know bloody well that he’s still above ground. Damn him for ducking out while we’ve still got that frightful mess in Greenwich to finish cleaning up. Speaking of hearing the buzz, I’m not sure how you can hear anything in New York these days over the crashing and banging of catastrophic property damage.”
Natasha shrugged. “It’s cut down on street crime.”
“Only because you have hardly any streets left. At least that damned alien ship landed at the ORNC instead of Chancery Lane.” M took another sip of her drink. “We got out of the business in good time, Emma. I’m not sure I’d care to face the brave new world.”
“That hath such creatures in it?” Emma turned to Natasha again. “Speaking of all that, I do have one question.”
“Name it.”
M smiled at the immediate reply, but the smile wasn’t exactly amused. “Nicely done. A quick reply that isn’t actually a promise to answer truthfully. Or at all.”
Natasha shrugged.
“Ah, yes. A good old-fashioned Slavic shrug. An even more eloquent way of not saying anything.”
Natasha turned back to Emma. “What’s the question?”
Emma Peel leaned forward. “What was it like to fight that green giant person - what do they call him? The Hulk.”
Natasha paused for a long moment and emptied her glass before she answered.
“Honest.”
M nodded in the silence that followed.
“Also, uncomplicated,” Natasha added. “I didn’t even have to worry about whether or not to kill him.”
“How refreshing,” Emma said.
“Unpretentious,” M declared. “In the real sense of the word. No pretense. No pretending that the fight isn’t what it is. No gallant, tacit lies about the brutality.”
Emma laughed. She reached forward, snagged Natasha’s bottle of vodka and filled her own glass with a generous splash. “They never do realise it, do they? No matter how many rounds you go in a fight, no matter how much strategic maneuvering or intellectual probing or verbal sparring you go through before it finally comes down to blows. Somehow, they always think they’re crossing a special line when the fists start swinging.”
Natasha held out a hand for the bottle. “So it’s always been that way?”
“Oh, yes.” Emma passed her the bottle, and Natasha poured for herself and M.
M nodded her thanks. “When a man hits a woman with everything he’s got - whether it’s brute physical strength or heavy-handed intellect - ”
“Or strategic finesse, or refined martial arts,” Emma interrupted.
“Oh, yes, that too. Or raw testosterone-edged emotionalism tucked behind a mask of cool presumed authority.” M downed her vodka.
Emma sipped hers. “They always, always assume, when they hit a woman, that she’s never been hit that way before. That she’s never actually had a man hit her as hard as he can, with everything he’s got.”
“Damned fools,” said M.
“Poor fools,” Emma corrected. She downed her drink and held out her glass for a refill. “It never occurs to them that we’ve been hit with everything they’ve got since we learned to stand upright.”
~ fin ~
The prompt was from pedanther: The Avengers/James Bond, any characters, M appeal. But it also owes an important debt to this exchange of comments about the fest, which means it's partly sidlj's fault. Because there's more than one band of Avengers.
Very special enthusiastic thanks to lost_spook, not only for running the fest, but for helping me figure out where Emma Peel's flat was located, and then betaing the fic and making sure I wasn't sounding like a bloody Yank.
Girl Talk
Natasha Romanov had told her current case officer that it was a small, tidy cottage in rural Sussex - a typical retirement spot for a former civil servant.
It wasn’t, of course. The former civil servant had never actually been anything of the kind (well, civility had certainly been involved), the retirement spot was not a cottage, and rural Sussex was a ridiculous idea. The case officer was going to be furious, of course, when he finally caught up, and would undoubtedly do something drastic, like write a nasty report. In triplicate.
Natasha buzzed a total of four times, in a specific pattern. The security system immediately clicked and blinked a green light, and the door smoothly unlocked and allowed her access to the private lift that zipped her up to the penthouse flat.
Inside, the décor was all clean lines and smooth surfaces, mostly black and white with accents of intense, saturated colour. It should have seemed dated, but instead had a timeless elegance. Natasha darted a quick look around the suite’s main living area, tallying the contents, looking for the occupants. Two, in addition to herself, neither immediately visible, both sitting in the seats facing the main spread of picture windows. Her initial tenseness eased imperceptibly. She hadn’t admitted, even to herself - especially not to herself - how bad it would have been if there had only been one other person there. So much depended on this meeting.
The massive windows filling the two corner walls of the Knightsbridge flat looked out over Hyde Park in one direction and east towards Piccadilly and the Mall in the other. Less than two miles away, sunlight glinted on the water of the Thames as the river meandered north and east around South Bank. Assuming the windows could be opened, the not-exactly-retired resident could have parachuted down to her choice of restaurants, shops, and galleries, or caught a minor crosswind and landed in front of any of several theatres.
“The best part is how clearly you can hear the buzz,” said the not-retiree.
Natasha cocked her head as if to listen.
A contralto chuckle came from the depths of the most decadent of the room’s seats, a deep armchair upholstered in butter-soft white suede. The voice was clear and crisp, the elegant tones warm with amusement. “The buzz of events. The whooshing of the world’s political and social and economic lifeblood, chugging through the veins of London.”
“You can hear that in other cities, you know - New York, Hong Kong, Singapore - ” Natasha started to answer.
“But London still has a special charm. Speaking of special, have a drink.” A slim hand waved above the decadent armchair, indicating a sleek sideboard with its sparkling array of bottles.
Natasha examined the lineup with approval. She didn’t need to bother asking where the ‘good stuff’ was kept. Like Tony Stark, Emma Peel couldn’t be bothered with stocking anything that wasn’t the ‘good stuff’.
Natasha picked up the bottle of Luksusowa. “How the hell did you get this in the UK?”
“Good contacts. Isn’t that the whole point? Come and sit down. I had the housekeeper do up a platter of zakuski for later; it’s in the kitchen.”
Natasha brought the bottle with her, settled into another chair whose luxurious upholstery didn’t actually make it slow or difficult to get up quickly, and poured herself a drink in a diminutive crystal shotglass.
“I’m relieved that it was the right brand of vodka,” Emma said. “They actually tried to send some of that dreadful flavoured stuff.”
Natasha made a face. “New York’s awash with it. Too many hipsters.”
Emma shook her head. “Hot and cold running affectations and pomposities. I suppose they all order their martinis ‘shaken, not stirred’.”
The third woman in the room finally spoke, her tone crisp and acerbic. “Believe it or not, that’s not an affectation. Properly done, it affects the temperature, the flavour, and the texture of the drink. Of course, if you then gulp it down in one mouthful and order another, it hardly seems to matter.” She set down her own barely-touched drink and beckoned to Natasha. “Let me look at you.”
Natasha slid out of her chair in one smooth motion and stood, towering over the older woman, meeting her steady gaze.
“So you’re Romanov. Is that your real name?”
“Does it matter?” Natasha could feel Emma, behind her, catch her breath, but she pressed on. “Does your real name actually start with ‘M’?”
M shook her head faintly, but a smile quirked the corner of her mouth. “When I think of some of the more ridiculous grandstanding we went through during the Cold War . . . and here you are, on British soil, asking for my help.”
“I’m not asking for anything.”
“No. Emma here did the asking. Much more effective that way.”
“I certainly thought so,” Emma said.
Natasha ignored her. “Thank you for coming.”
“Emma asked me,” said M. “How could I refuse?”
“Easily enough. You don’t owe me any favours.”
“But I do owe her. I owe her a great deal.” M picked up her drink again.
Emma smiled and waved regally. “It’s mutual. Don’t worry, Natasha. You asked for help for yourself and two associates - ”
“Your fair-haired boy and his wingman,” M put in.
Emma glowered faintly. “Two associates. You all need to go poking around behind what used to be the Iron Curtain. Is it just me, or is the map looking a trifle ferrous again? I thought we’d left all that behind.”
“Everything old is new again,” Natasha said. “Can you help? I still have some contacts scattered around the area, but too much of my old network is compromised.”
“Caught in a compromising position. So you’ll need papers, covers, and probably funds. We can swing it. Even a couple of old retired biddies from the dusty vaults of the Cold War can still find a few markers to call in for a friend.”
“Speak for yourself, biddy,” said M in a less tart voice. “I’ve only just retired, and you never officially did at all.”
“That’s because I had nothing official to retire from. Much simpler that way.”
“I thought you were supposed to be dead,” Natasha said to M.
“Oh, I am. It’s much tidier that way. You should try it.”
“The way things have gone lately, I may have to,” said Natasha.
“Your Director’s done a nice job of it. Oh, don’t look at me like that. One hears things. I know bloody well that he’s still above ground. Damn him for ducking out while we’ve still got that frightful mess in Greenwich to finish cleaning up. Speaking of hearing the buzz, I’m not sure how you can hear anything in New York these days over the crashing and banging of catastrophic property damage.”
Natasha shrugged. “It’s cut down on street crime.”
“Only because you have hardly any streets left. At least that damned alien ship landed at the ORNC instead of Chancery Lane.” M took another sip of her drink. “We got out of the business in good time, Emma. I’m not sure I’d care to face the brave new world.”
“That hath such creatures in it?” Emma turned to Natasha again. “Speaking of all that, I do have one question.”
“Name it.”
M smiled at the immediate reply, but the smile wasn’t exactly amused. “Nicely done. A quick reply that isn’t actually a promise to answer truthfully. Or at all.”
Natasha shrugged.
“Ah, yes. A good old-fashioned Slavic shrug. An even more eloquent way of not saying anything.”
Natasha turned back to Emma. “What’s the question?”
Emma Peel leaned forward. “What was it like to fight that green giant person - what do they call him? The Hulk.”
Natasha paused for a long moment and emptied her glass before she answered.
“Honest.”
M nodded in the silence that followed.
“Also, uncomplicated,” Natasha added. “I didn’t even have to worry about whether or not to kill him.”
“How refreshing,” Emma said.
“Unpretentious,” M declared. “In the real sense of the word. No pretense. No pretending that the fight isn’t what it is. No gallant, tacit lies about the brutality.”
Emma laughed. She reached forward, snagged Natasha’s bottle of vodka and filled her own glass with a generous splash. “They never do realise it, do they? No matter how many rounds you go in a fight, no matter how much strategic maneuvering or intellectual probing or verbal sparring you go through before it finally comes down to blows. Somehow, they always think they’re crossing a special line when the fists start swinging.”
Natasha held out a hand for the bottle. “So it’s always been that way?”
“Oh, yes.” Emma passed her the bottle, and Natasha poured for herself and M.
M nodded her thanks. “When a man hits a woman with everything he’s got - whether it’s brute physical strength or heavy-handed intellect - ”
“Or strategic finesse, or refined martial arts,” Emma interrupted.
“Oh, yes, that too. Or raw testosterone-edged emotionalism tucked behind a mask of cool presumed authority.” M downed her vodka.
Emma sipped hers. “They always, always assume, when they hit a woman, that she’s never been hit that way before. That she’s never actually had a man hit her as hard as he can, with everything he’s got.”
“Damned fools,” said M.
“Poor fools,” Emma corrected. She downed her drink and held out her glass for a refill. “It never occurs to them that we’ve been hit with everything they’ve got since we learned to stand upright.”
~ fin ~
The prompt was from pedanther: The Avengers/James Bond, any characters, M appeal. But it also owes an important debt to this exchange of comments about the fest, which means it's partly sidlj's fault. Because there's more than one band of Avengers.
Very special enthusiastic thanks to lost_spook, not only for running the fest, but for helping me figure out where Emma Peel's flat was located, and then betaing the fic and making sure I wasn't sounding like a bloody Yank.