2013-11-13 - Coffee and Beignets

No matter where in the multiverse one hails from, the best breakfast in existence after a late night of drinks and emotions--high, low, or anything in between-- is Café du Monde in New Orleans, Louisiana, United States, Earth. Not the largest of places, nor did they have much variety-- but what they do, they do well, and what they do is beignets and coffee.

The clientele vary in dress from club-goers just staggering in for a brief pick-me-up before crashing into the arms of Morpheus for the day to businessmen and women dressed in their suits and ties, carefully eating the warm pastries in way that preclude the mountains of powdered sugar from tumbling onto their clothes.

So it is not strange to see a woman in dark sunglasses and a casual, but well-fitted black and red dress, eating from an order of the sweet treats, sipping at a warm mug of café au lait while looking over a handful of tourist brochures at a small table near the edge of the open sitting area. Her long, red hair is worn pinned up, as a method of escaping the oppressive humidity of the area, which is, at least in part, being relieved some by the nearby body of water that the café overlooks. It is warm and cloudy-- typical for even this late in the year, this place in the world.

Food was that one thing which everyone must subsist off of but America had long ago given up on just subsisting. She'd learned to delight in every single second of every bite, to indulge in the mingling of flavors and of food cooked well. And it had been a long time since she'd visited New Orleans to do just that. It wasn't much of a flight alteration on her way back from Malibu--South instead of North and she drops down into one of the many alleyways that the city was riddled with.

With her head tipped back just enough to draw in the delicious smell of the café America steps out onto the sidewalk approaching the café and slipping inside without a look at those already dwelling in the open area with their purchases. It only takes her a short while to obtain, of all things, a café au lait along with her own order of pastry delight to head for one of the few empty seats she saw.

Only to grind to a halt as she finds herself staring, with quite some puzzlement, at ... "Natasha?"

Hearing her name-- in a place most unexpected to hear it, at that!--Natasha looks up, startled. "..America?" she asks, a myriad of emotions crossing her face as she sees the younger woman.

She sighs, gesturing to the open seat, her voice cheerful for anyone who might be listening. "Please, join me! I did not expect to see you here. And how many times must I tell you, it is /Natalia/, dear." Her Russian accent is more pronounced than normal, either she is not making the effort to hide it, or she is purposefully working it.

A cover. America wasn't so dense as to not be able to figure that out by the way she was greeted. Her head inclines however as she plays along putting her own smile in place though it was a bit cooler perhaps--But it could be allowed. Her coffee was as of yet untouched. "Oh you know I just enjoy teasing you about it," she responds lightly only to sink down in the chair with a dip of her head.

"I was just on my way back from visiting a friend and had to make a detour to hit this place again. It's been ages."

False niceties aside she raises her mug between both hands to take a sip... and her eyes shut for just a moment as she enjoys it as much as she'd ever planned to. There was no faking here--It was a damn good drink.

"Yes. I had been here once before, and decided it would be an excellent place for coffee." Natasha lifts her own cup of café au lait, sipping with a similar look of rapture. "Coffee-- nectar of the gods, mm?"

There is an uncomfortable silence between the two for a few moments.

"Actually, the gods I know prefer milkshakes and bacon," America responds before taking another small sip causing the foam on the latte to shift and twirl as it's lowered. Her tongue flits over her lips wiping off that delicious bit of milk and she sets the cup down lightly. "It is good though. Some of the best food in this city. Everywhere else has imported food from different cultures. Here they've made their own." As she speaks the corners of her lips quirk with a fond sort of smile--It had been too long since she'd ventured down here.

"Yes. This is an interesting place," Natasha says, thumbing her brochures. "So much to do, so much to see. I wonder if I will ever get it all in."

She takes one of the beignets and bites into it, powder dropping onto her dress. She swears under her breath in Russian, using a napkin to try and wipe it off to no avail. Resigned, she sighs, and simply finishes the pastry.

There is another awkward silence. "I understand you were at Tony's," she says finally. "He said he told you what he told me."

"I thought he was a bit distracted. Wondered if he was working on a project or something else at the same time," America mutters though it's not with any real surprise--Since she learned of Tony's abilities it was getting easier to recognize when he was splitting his attention and multitasking. "Yes, I went to visit Tony. Mostly to talk. I mean, I appreciate the advice, but there's the small fact that... It's Tony."

With a vaguely amused grin she looks across toward Natasha with a single eyebrow raising. "You really think he's going to give the greatest advice on that subject?"

"Not really," Natasha shrugs. "Did not stop me from taking it. Not that it helps-- I knew it would not beforehand, but I knew I must at least try."

She looks at America, a bit pained. "I do not know how much you know about... ah... what happened with us. I do not know if he would even want you to. But it does not matter now." She sips her coffee, her gaze wandering-- always keeping a wary eye out. That is the life of a spy.

"You and Tony or you and...?" America leaves it hanging there for now as she reaches to pluck up one of her own mini-donuts. She wasn't so picky about where the powder ended up but then her clothes weren't half as dressy as Natasha's. "I know you've got a history with both. That's about it. I haven't pried. Everyone has a past, after all. And personal issues are personal issues." The fact that Natasha admitted to trying with Clint doesn't seem to surprise, or bother her. Heck she would have too in her place.

The donut is popped into her mouth and she lets out a satisfied sigh enjoying the pastry. "I'm usually not a big fan of sweets but these are so good."

"Either." Natasha shrugs, looking distant.

She eats another beignet, agreeing. "I am more of a spice and savory myself, but these are very good."

"I killed him, you know," she says after taking another sip of coffee. "Shot him. In the heart. Well, the lung, but everyone thought it was heart. He comes, he tells me how he feels, I shoot." She chuckles darkly. "Then he chases me, you see? As soon as he was able. 'Please,' he says. 'Come back, Nat. Do not do this thing.'" She takes another sip of coffee. "So I shoot him again. In the leg. Eventually, I come back, and everything I did was for nothing-- the ones I had caught escaped again... and I had lost his trust. For me, all is duty. And I put what we had on the altar of duty to sacrifice."

She carefully eats another beignet. "It does not matter what I felt. What I did was unforgivable, and I know this. I just ask you-- do not shoot him. Or hurt him. He is good, truly... and you were right. I still love him-- but he does not want me, not ever again. I ruined it for duty. So." She looks impassive, uncaring, as she finishes her coffee.

While America eats, she listens. Quietly, impassively. It may even seem as if she wasn't paying attention at all for all the attention she focuses on her treat, but she was listening. Lightly she licks her fingertips clean of sugary powder before reaching for a napkin to clean up further. "Pete Wisdom and I were an item not so long ago." What did Pete have to do with anything? She continues though, staring down at her plate with a difficult to read expression. The coffee is taken up again so that the scent of it carries up toward her as she holds it between both hands.

"I travel. That's one of my abilities. All over the multiverse. I decided to settle here--Partially because of him, partially because of Tony doing all he had done to help me establish myself here. Partly because I don't have anywhere else to go." The corners of her lips twist into a frown as she murmurs, "I've 'known' Tony in many worlds though not personally. I've run into doubles, duplicates, altered versions of everyone and anyone. It's hard to keep track at times. Part of why I liked Pete was I /hadn't/ run into him before. He was new, and a surprise, and... then I ran into him."

Lightly she sips at her coffee. From behind the rim of the mug she murmurs, "And his wife and kids." At this she risks stealing a glance up to look across the table at Natasha. "I couldn't give him that sort of life, or happiness. So I left. Because it was 'the right thing' to do. And now he can't even stand to be in the same room as me."

Natasha scoffs. "I am not called 'Black Widow' because I am a good girlfriend or wife. I am called this because I crush the hearts of those I touch-- including those I may actually care for. I am a destroyer of happiness-- it is not for me to ever have it myself. Too much blood on my hands, I think." She shrugs. "I am Russian. We understand these things." She actually reaches across the table to squeeze the younger girl's hand reassuringly. "I do not know how I would handle seeing such things-- so many of the same person, but not the same. Like masks. Which one is true?"

"You can't possibly have as much 'blood on your hands' as I've inherited," America states only to realize just what she'd said. Another sip of coffee is taken, but she nods in thanks to the squeeze to her hand trying to reassure. "Anyway. I don't plan to hurt Clint. Or anyone. I just." She just what? America looks a bit frustrated as words escape her. This wasn't her strong point, having a heart-to-heart of any sort. It seemed at least that they were getting to a point of having some kind of truce. "Thanks."