Several Nightcaps Later // WandaNat Bartender AU

5

Wanda hated Mondays. Not in the way a typical business person hates Mondays, where the first day of the work week was like being splashed with cold water and unceremoniously thrust back to reality with a hangover. No, Wanda hated Mondays because nobody ever came to her bar. It was monotonous and maddening and more than boring. Okay, so maybe it was exactly why everyone else hated Monday. Dull, exhausting, and all around cheerless.

The only perk of Mondays was that she usually had time to goof off with her favorite coworker, a young bellhop named Peter. Rarely did newcomers check into the hotel on the first day of the week, so Peter and Wanda found themselves with way too much free time on their hands and far too many oblivious tourists to prank. Sometimes, they would plot subtle things like slipping a random tourist-y shirt from a different city or country into stray luggage, or switching out people's toothpaste brands. But most of the time, it was prank calls. That bedside phone was a messenger of the gods, and Wanda wanted to kiss whoever's idea it was to put a little landline phone in every room.

"Aren't you getting a little old for this, Wanda?" Peter teased as he entered the lounge, rolling up the sleeves of his white button up.

"Don't wanna hear it, Parker," Wanda replied, hopping up to sit on the bar, a bottle of whiskey in hand. "Delinquency and tomfoolery has no age limit."

Peter reached for the bottle, but Wanda snatched it away, out of the young man's reach.

"Aw, come on," he frowned, "I thought you were a delinquent."

Smiling, she took a swig straight out of the bottle. "Sorry, not that much of one."

Peter rolled his eyes playfully. "Whatever. What do you have planned for tonight, anyway?"

"I thought you were supposed to be the smart one?"

Chuckling, Peter took in the sight of Wanda sat atop the bar, a half full whiskey bottle in hand. Her hair was messy, as always, but not untidy. One shoulder was almost fully exposed as her red Henley was slipping, one sleeve was rolled up, her sneakers dirty.

"I guess I am. You're the mess."

"I prefer 'lovable rapscallion'."

Peter shook his head, taking a seat at his favorite booth wedged in the corner. It sat next to a window, so when even the pranks got boring, he could at least watch cars speed by and pedestrians stroll hand in hand.

"Hey," Wanda said gently, noticing her young companion's tired eyes and ruffled hair. "What do you say we just play pool tonight?"

Hopping back up, Peter rubbed his hands together in anticipation. He practically ran to the old pool table just outside the lounge, grinning like a child. Well, in Wanda's eyes, he was still just a kid. So he grinned like a younger, more excitable child.

"I've been waiting for this for a long, long time, Maximoff," he chattered excitedly, already grabbing a cue stick and lathering the end in chalk. "You're going down."

Wanda slid off the bar, whiskey bottle still in hand. "That's what you said last time, kid. I beat you in like, two shots."

"Yeah, well, I've matured since then," Peter dismissed, racking the balls.

"We'll see."

It turns out, Peter had not matured. Not in pool, anyway. Wanda crushed the poor kid, winning eight straight games with ease. Not a cruel woman, Wanda did not even go full force; she tried to throw a few games, but Peter was just that poor at pool. With each loss, Peter would sigh dejectedly and eye his cue with disdain, but would play another round. Whether it was because he thought he actually stood a chance, or just out of boredom, Wanda didn't know, but the pair spent hours like this. No patrons to prepare drinks for, no tenants to carry luggage for, just two people with little better to do. At around one a.m., Wanda suggested they hang it up and try to see if they could sneak to the arcade on the other side of the lobby, but a raspy voice stopped her.

"You gotta stop picking on this poor kid, Maximoff."

Wanda turned with a smile. "Natasha. Didn't think you were coming today."

"You know better than that."

"I don't really know you at all."

Natasha winced ever so slightly, and Wanda bit her lip.

"No, I didn't mean-" Wanda started, but was cut off by Peter's not so conspicuous whisper of, is that her?

Chuckling, Natasha stepped forward to grab a pool cue of her own. "Rack 'em up, barkeep."

"Finally, a worthy challenger." Wanda made a face at Peter that meant scram, kid! so scram he did, flitting off sneakily to the arcade. Well, as sneakily as Peter Parker could manage, at least. He was about as subtle as neon billboard.

Natasha watched the boy scuttle off, then returned her attention Wanda, who was chalking up the end of her cue.

"Who's he?" Natasha asked.

Shrugging, Wanda removed the triangle rack from the green velvet table. "A kid who works here. We goof off on slow nights. He's sweet."

"Yeah," the spy agreed. Natasha leaned down, lined up her shot, and broke. She scoffed. "I'm out of practice."

"You play a lot?"

"Used to."

As usual, she didn't elaborate, and the game went on. The pair traded shots and anecdotes, though Wanda felt like she gave more than she received. All of Natasha's conversation felt forced and hollow, like she was acting. Finally, when the game got down the the wire, and Wanda only had the eight ball to put in, the bartender decided to say something.

"Natasha," Wanda started as the spy lined up her shot, though she paused to lock eyes with the bartender. "Can I ask you a question?"

"Sure, Wanda," she replied after a long moment, standing up straight.

"What exactly is your deal?"

"My deal?"

"Yeah, your deal." Wanda took a long sip out of the whiskey bottle she had neglected for the past hour and a half. "You come into my bar for three weeks straight with and all I know is your name. Sometimes you're bleeding out of your forehead. You have bruises everywhere. You're alone. And don't think I don't notice what's on your hip all the time."

Natasha's hand instinctively went to the concealed handgun at her side. Sloppy, Romanoff, she chided herself. What was this bartender doing to her?

"I don't know what to tell you, Wanda," Natasha said with a well worn sigh.

"Just tell me the truth. Why do you keep coming back? And what are you so afraid of?"

The spy but the inside of her cheek, unsure of what to say or do. There was no protocol here, no mission report. She was hopelessly alone and even more clueless.

"Come on, Natasha," Wanda whispered, stepping closer to the spy. "We both know there's something deeper here."

Every fiber in Natasha's body was telling her to take a step back, to create some distance as she always did. To guard herself and her many, many secrets. But she stayed planted as Wanda searched for something, anything, on Natasha's face. This was so outside of Natasha's comfort zone she almost laughed. The Black Widow, the greatest assassin of her time, was afraid. Killing, lying, stealing? No problem. Intimacy, on the other hand...

"Say something," Wanda continued, reaching a hand up to cup Natasha's cheek as she had just a few days before when she tenderly cleaned the spy's wound.

Surprisingly to the bartender, Natasha didn't jerk back. The spy, almost imperceptibly, leaned into the contact for a split second before gently covering Wanda's hand with her own and letting it down. The bartender frowned deeply, the spy's face was unreadable.

"It's late, Wanda," Natasha whispered, hand intertwining with Wanda's at her side. "I need you to listen to me, though. I'm not used to this."

Wanda nodded, though she didn't really understand.

"It'll come, Wanda, just please be patient." Natasha planted a chaste kiss to Wanda's cheek. And with that, the spy was gone, striding off the the stairwell, leaving Wanda and her bottle of whiskey alone in the lobby.