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Jaybird and Itsy Bitsy
The shot isn't for Natasha, but it comes close anyway. Jason figures, by the skill which Natasha fights, she'll be able to let it roll off her shoulders. Right? No biggie. Not when the head of the guy running for a good ol' Nat attack blows apart in every direction.
Carefully, Jason pulls the lever back and expels the shell, loading another one into place as he releases it. The stock goes back up on his shoulder, and he peers through the scope. After their buddy's noggin got minced, the rest of the guys aren't too keen on rushing out after Natasha into the open.
The branded crosshair swivels up and swallows a sneaker on the top level of the closest warehouse. Jason's shot splits the guy through the chest, and he flops over only to tumble and skid down the metal roof and off to the ground.
Another shell leaps out of the rifle, and a third bullet eases into place.
How many bad guys does it take to kill a spider? comes through Natasha's frequency in her ear. Another man lets loose a twisted yelp as the bullet flips him around and takes him out. More than this because they don't have bug spray.
Carefully, Jason pulls the lever back and expels the shell, loading another one into place as he releases it. The stock goes back up on his shoulder, and he peers through the scope. After their buddy's noggin got minced, the rest of the guys aren't too keen on rushing out after Natasha into the open.
The branded crosshair swivels up and swallows a sneaker on the top level of the closest warehouse. Jason's shot splits the guy through the chest, and he flops over only to tumble and skid down the metal roof and off to the ground.
Another shell leaps out of the rifle, and a third bullet eases into place.
How many bad guys does it take to kill a spider? comes through Natasha's frequency in her ear. Another man lets loose a twisted yelp as the bullet flips him around and takes him out. More than this because they don't have bug spray.
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"Or, you know--why don't you just get 'Director Stark' to make you some gauntlets that clean themselves? Problem solved."
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It's Dick who has a messy apartment and never does laundry!
"Well, I got to put bullets into quite a few dudes, so I'd say it was worth it. Don't tell Bats, though. He's not too keen on the whole 'killing' thing. He'd try to ground me for a week." It was worth it. The SHIELD crew isn't so bad, okay! No matter how much Bruce scowls about them, especially about them in Gotham.
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"Sure, if you like greasy, completely terrible for you fast-food," and there's a bit of a smile in his voice. "I know several places." Is this a--? It totally is, isn't it? "Are you asking me out on a date?"
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i'm not bucky he screams as he turns out to be exactly like bucky
But Natasha doesn't have to worry! Jason won't make them walk. Not when the two of them can ride a bike. He cajoles her about riding her own instead of riding him with, but then lowkey appreciates that she isn't quite that trusting of dorito-shaped boys she doesn't know. He wouldn't be trusting of dorito-shaped boys either.
So he eases onto the sloped seat of the black bike licked up the sides from back spokes to front bust in candy-apple red. It's nice. New. The chrome has been blacked out so nothing gleams but the glossy finish of the obsidian paint job. It houses a little more: a GPS, two semi-automatic barrels beneath the front fairings, a motor encased in coolant material so it doesn't pick up on thermals.
And enough throttle to race Natasha through the streets playfully.
But unfortunately, Natasha is the only one of the two of them that can go out to eat in the same outfit she kicks ass in. A lot of people know Red Hood. A lot of people at least know the stylized bat smeared across his chest.
It's a risk, but one he can take knowing he'll just double-back and relocate later like he does when he takes any of his 'brothers' to a safehouse. It's not one of his permanent ones; he's fine, even with the Widow. It gives him a chance to dump a majority of his bulk and his infamous hood, but keep a solid kevlar under his shirt, his guns, and his jacket.
The hood he comes back out with isn't The Red Hood, but it's still typically red. Of course. An actual bike hood with half as many upgrades as the Ninja itself. Natasha can laugh if she wants; he won't care.
The 'best place in town' is a dried-up seafood joint that tastes a hell of a lot better than it looks. Open at this time of night because, by the docks, it caters to working fishermen and seamen that live and breathe the ocean running into Gotham from the Atlantic. It's probably why the grizzled old men hanging about give them a couple of once-overs before going about their business.
"Well, shiver me timbers," teases the man up front. Huge, broad. Grey-haired and grey-bearded, not unlike an old lumberjack in suspenders and a dirty apron instead of plaid. "What tentacle-waving kraken drug you outta the sea, Red?"
"The domestic one," Jason says, sliding a fifty bill over the counter. "Moonlight Serenade, Pops. Just the two of us."
The man whistles gently, then quickly wipes the sweat from his forehead and tries to fix his coarse beard. "Miss," he says politely in greet once Jason's big head is out of the way and he can see Natasha behind. "Thought you were in trouble for a minute, but now I think he might be the one needin' the help." The man grins, flashing a silver-capped tooth.
Unperturbed, Jason sashays out the side door to the deck that sits smack over the edge of the water. Not the best smell in the world, but it's fitting. Salt, water-hardened wood, seaweed and fuel. He fiddles with the wick of kerosene lantern hanging low above the uneven table--the one with a surprisingly wide hole in the center. Donut table, don't laugh.
omg jason PLEASE
Her suit isn't exactly date night wear. It's made out of some sort of fancy, impact resistant weave that Tony had explained to her once, but she doesn't remember the specifics. It's not meant to block bullets, because if Natasha is getting shot at, she's not doing her job well enough. She's a spy, not a super soldier or a billionaire with a menacing cape. Still, when they arrive, she does pull a jacket out of the compartment under the seat of her bike and throw it on, which hides her gauntlets. She unzips her suit a bit, too, from her throat down to just below her collarbone. It manages to make her look very slightly less S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. She's used to people recognizing her, though. It's nothing new.
She smiles, inclining her head a little at the man who greets her, but she doesn't joke back before she follows Jason out to their table. It's nice, actually. Impressive. As much as Natasha loves expensive restaurants and fancy food on tiny plates, she has to admit that she loves this, too. She has a feeling the food is going to be good. It usually is, in places like this.
Natasha sits down as Jason lights the lantern, her eyebrows raising at him. "Do you take all of your dates here, or just the ones everyone tells you to watch out for?" Teasing, of course.
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Using his boot, Jason turns his chair out so he can sit down, sliding the zippo into an inner jacket pocket. "Don't worry, if you were supposed to be dead on my terms, you would have been already. I don't really wine and dine the prey.
"I might be an asshole, but I at least don't do things in bad taste." He picks up a forgotten, discarded oyster shell left on the other edge of the table. Tosses it over the railing of the balcony and listens for the plop of it into the water.
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He tries really hard to make eye contact with her, only for it to fail. He ends up crossing his arms and leaning back in the chair, eyes rolled over to the canal.
"It's okay if one of your fantasies is--" he starts, but the door swings open, and he jerks his head around about the time the big man from before comes out, arms loaded.
The hole in the middle of the table was implemented for a reason apparently. The man settles a traditional, black stove pot in it, filled to the brim with good ol' Creole shrimp boil. The hot steam is spicy enough to tingle the eyes. It gets a smile out of Jason. The man drops a bucket on the ground beside the table between them before offering each a large, thick cotton napkin. The only utensils are two long-handled buffet forks.
"Damn," Jason says, "this smells delicious, Pops."
"It'll put some hair on your chest," the man says, then sneaks Natasha a wink. "Hopefully. Drink?"
Jason lifts his eyes to Natasha. "Mike's Hard Lemonade for me."
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"Do those even have any alcohol in them?"
She doesn't want to make him squirm too much.
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The older man laughs.
Dramatically, Jason rolls his eyes, flapping the napkin open and shoving it across his thigh for safe keeping. "Very funny." Cutting his eyes at the other guy. "Don't knock them until you try them, Miss IPA." The old man has his hands up in surrender. "The watermelon ones are amazing. Hey," before the other man can get back in through the door. "Bring me a Root Beer, too, while you're at it." The man continues in, shaking his head, and Jason eyes Natasha for a second or two, ready for the jokes.
Instead of using a fork like a polite boy, he reaches into the pot to pluck up a poor, boiled shrimp with his fingers. It's hot as fuck.
He drops it lightly down onto the table in front of him, hissing.
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He picks up the shrimp with his fingers and Natasha laughs as he drops it, then reaches out with her fork to spear it for herself.
"Manners, Jason. I thought you wanted this to be a date."
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"Manners smanners. Don't be a prude," he says, swishing a hand at her in case she tries to sneak back in for another go at his shrimp. "This is a Southern boil. You're supposed to eat it with your fingers. That's the best part." Hot or not, Jason starts peeling the poor shell off the shrimp, combing it free of its legs and chunking the hull into the bucket at their feet. He grins.
"You can't enjoy the food if you don't enjoy the kill," he says, biting off half of it. HOT, hot hot hot. Lowkey blowing in his mouth.
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