rightly | open post.

At this point, he was actually considering going to that gala with only the shirt and suit, any sort of tie be damned. He figured Natasha would intervene before it got to that point, though. It's a matter of appearance, and even a hair out of place could be enough to give them away.

Really, he needs to learn how to tie these things eventually. "I don't know how to find the video," he points out, frustration winning out over his embarrassment that he's as bad as an old man when it comes to the internet. He has made remarkable progress with computers and technology, but even so he has his limits, and still a lot to learn.

He's relieved when he hears her stepping out of the bathroom, but it's a feeling that dissipates somewhat when he gets a look at her state of... well, not undress exactly. She's evidently not uncomfortable by walking around like that, but Steve's not really used to it, and his face turns a faint shade of pink as she moves closer to him.

Wordlessly he hands her the tie and ducks his head a little, glancing away and fixing his gaze on anything other than her. The carpet is apparently a source of deep fascination to him at the moment. "Thank you."

"It's in your bookmarks," she says, patient as she smoothes out the tie between her fingers. "We'll do another smart phone crash course when we get home." Her movements are just as efficient with Steve and his tie as they were with her makeup. She turns up his collar, buttons the tie at the back, and then tugs it around his neck and begins tying it. "Hold still. And you're welcome." She looks up from the knot to his face, and sees that he's very deliberately looking away from her. Which makes her smile. "You should be a lot more comfortable around your wife, you know. You can't look away from me and blush at this party, all right? This thing is even with the top of my dress, so this is the view. Top half of it, anyway."

He nods faintly, not particularly looking forward to staring at a small screen for hours again, but it needs to be done. These days just about anyone uses these things, and it's fairly important to their job. Steve can't afford to fall behind on things like technology, not if he really wants to acclimate himself and get back to work properly. God knows he's tired of doing absolutely nothing at all.

He glances back to her at her next words, brow raising slightly. "I know. I just... It'll be fine, at the party. I can handle it there." He's good at the whole acting aspect of it, at not showing surprise, embarrassment or any other sort of undue emotion. Here, however, in the privacy of a bedroom that's technically theirs (but not really), that's another matter. "But we're not at the party yet."

So, give him a moment to fluster and work through his embarrassment. He'll get over it soon enough.

"You're going to have to figure it out," she tells him, answering the thoughts he's leaving unspoken. "Especially if you want to do this job. Old school techniques are good, they're useful, but the game has gone digital. You're going to need to evolve." She finishes with his tie, and folds down his collar. "Either that or find a new line of work. Spend the rest of your life safely bored out of your mind."

It's not that she doesn't believe he can handle himself at the party. It's more that he really needs to get a grip on the rest of his life, too. Last Steve hid from the world until a major disaster forced him into the spotlight. It's a shitty way to attempt to get back into life, by skirting it. "Can you handle your own jacket and cummerbund?"

"I know," he nods, knowing very well that she's right even if he might not like it. "Safely bored isn't an option, so I guess I'll have to learn all about these things you all use." He just barely manages to stop himself from rolling his eyes as he says it. He almost feels like an old man, with his incompatibility with the more advanced pieces of technology, but that only serves as further motivation for him to want to learn more.

Her question is rhetorical, he can tell, more of a tease than anything, and he stares flatly at her. "Yes, I think I can manage that on my own." He moves to the bed and picks up the cummerbund, fastening it around his waist and tugging it into place before shrugging on the jacket. Returning to the mirror, he aligns his hair perfectly, making sure there's not a single crease in his outfit or wild strand of hair sticking out. It's all about appearances, and as nervous or out of sorts as he might feel tonight, what's important is that he can act otherwise.

"I'm ready when you are."

"No getting pissy with me," she says, clapping him on the shoulder. "I didn't invent it, and I'm not the one telling you you have to learn to use it." Well, she is at the moment, but it's not her idea. When he tells her he's ready to go, she looks down at herself. "A little under-dressed, at the moment, don't you think?"

Now that Steve is fine (well, ready if not fine) she heads back to the bathroom, slipping on her dress and shoes and double checking her makeup. This time, when she comes back out, she's holding three knives in one hand, twirling a fourth in the other. "All right, come here." She slips all four knives into the plastic sheathes in the inner panel of his cummerbund. "Ceramic and wood. You hit metal or stone with these, they'll shatter, so be careful. Sharp enough to do real damage, though. That feel all right?"

"I'm not, alright? It's just— frustrating. I feel old, trying to use that thing." And he may be from a hundred years in the past but he's definitely not old. He'd dare say he's in his prime, even. He quirks an eyebrow, pursing his lips and tilting his head to the side as he smoothes the lapel of his blazer. "I don't know. You could prove to be distracting enough, and I could get my hands on everything we need while everyone's busy staring at you."

He's kidding, of course. They wouldn't even be allowed past the door if they didn't look their best. And as he watches Natasha step back out of the bathroom, he knows that won't be the case with her. He takes in the sight only briefly, before he's paying more attention to the knives she tucks into the sheathes in his outfit. "Got it. I'll be careful," he nods, tugging the fabric into a comfortable position, then he looks at her again. "You look lovely."

"Thank you," she says, smiling a little at the ways he reminds her of Steve 1.0, a collection of tiny details and subtle overtones. They're a generation apart, yes, but some things carried through. The way he straightens slightly when he sees her, like perfect posture is some sort of respect shown. It's the oddest throwback, but it's something Rogers does, as well.

When he offers her his arm, un-ironically, she slips hers through it. Another thing people don't really do any more, not without a sarcastic smile on their faces, an understanding that they think it's ridiculous. Steve means it. "Listen," she says, quietly, as they wait for the elevator. "You're not old. You're... vintage. There's nothing wrong with it. It's special. They don't breed them like you any more. Believe me, I'd know. Smart phone mastery is an easy skill to pick up, style is damn near impossible."

Her remark is well-meant, he knows, but it immediately draws a soft laugh from him. He nods vaguely at her. "Vintage. Just what a fella likes to hear." To him it only sounds as a nicer way of calling him old. "Now, stop that. Or else you're going to make me blush."

It's not entirely a lie. But then they're stepping into the elevator, and he slips into a different posture, a warmup before he has to assume the identity of the man he's supposed to be, even if only for a few hours. "Right, then. Time to face the music."

Show time. She knows that moment well. It's more internal for her, but still a thing. She pulls the personality and life of her cover identity around her like armour. When the doors open again, letting them out on the ballroom level of this ridiculously overblown hotel, she's ready. So is Steve, if the way he's carrying himself now is any indication.

The man at the doors to the party, lean and angry looking, asks for their invitations. He's serious security, as are the other two she clocks through the glimpse of the open door. None of these muscle-bound meatheads in dark suits with obvious earpieces. All bark and no bite. These aren't dogs, they're coyotes. They don't bark, they don't make a sound, they just go right for the throat.

Natasha just smiles at him, like she's too simple or trusting to know how dangerous he is, or maybe it's that she just doesn't care, that she feels so untouchable. "Honey?" she says, tilting her head toward Steve and then slowly shifting that smile to him.

Steve assesses them with a fleeting look, one that won't be given too much weight. Ideally they'd go in and get out without having to fight anyone, but he knows better than to not prepare himself for that eventuality. Past those doors there are likely more men like them, soldiers, spies and assassins more so than security guards, in plain sight and hidden away too, watching the party or waiting for an order to come out of their hiding spots. The moment anyone suspects them, Steve knows they'll have all of them on their tails.

He reaches into his jacket with a bland smile, handing the invites to the man. He steps aside and lets them in, and Steve offers a vague 'thank you' as he tells them to enjoy the party. It's a large and ostentatious space, with lavish decoration and fine cocktails and hors d'oeuvres as far as the eye can see. There's a band playing ballroom music on a small stage by the opposite end of the room, though for the moment no one is yet dancing. Steve's eyes glance around the room briefly, then he's paying attention to the people instead. "I'm starting to think I'm in the wrong line of business."

Natasha leans in close on the pretense of adjusting Steve's tie. "Ah, but our line lets us sleep at night," she murmurs, brushing invisible dust off of his jacket shoulders. "Now, why don't you go get us some drinks, and I'll circulate and see if anyone wants to make things easy on us and take the bait? Always easier when they think they're hunting you." Natasha has a whole lot of experience being bait of all kinds. Her dress is a pretty damn effective lure, if she does say so herself. If they're lucky, they won't have to fight their way out of anything. Plenty of ways to skin a cat, and twice as many to extract information.

He lets out a soft sigh, pursing his lips a little and tilting his head to the side in an agreeing nod. "Yeah, I guess you're right." He hadn't been serious anyway, evidently. He's never cared about money or possessions much, and he values other things far more than that.

"Alright," he agrees, a wordless request for her to be careful in the look he gives her alone, and the kiss he presses to her cheek without thought or hesitance. He straightens up once she drops her hands, then makes his way to the bar so he can get them both drinks, though he's more focused on the rest of the party, and the path Natasha takes as she makes her way through the crowd.

She gives his arm a little squeeze. Reassurance. It'll be fine.

A slow turn of the room, keeping Steve in her line of sight. He's fine. He's a good looking guy, but not the only one in the room, and a tuxedo is a tuxedo. A striking woman in a red dress draws a lot more attention, especially one moving the way she is, knowing just how to pull the eye without seeming to try. She hooks a few. Two politicians and a film producer who might possibly be linked to the smuggling ring. Of course, she also draws the attention of a few men who they are certain are clean, just scummy. She'll need Steve's help to deter them at some point later on.

In the mean time, she meanders slowly back to him, holding out her hand for her drink. "Well, I feel like I need a shower. Do you think there's a single honest politician in the whole world?"

Steve's always been good at keeping to himself regardless, at not making eye contact unless necessary. People tend not to look at him and are much less likely to engage if their eyes don't meet, and that works in his favor tonight. She catches the eye of plenty of people a lot more, and he for one is glad to stand in the sidelines, simply watching but ready to step in and intervene if need be.

Glasses in hand, he sips from his own as she makes her way back to him, handing her the other. "Probably one of those with no funding, no support, and very few followers," he suggests with a mild shrug, humming as he takes another sip. "The gin is really good, though, I'll give them that."

The only honest politician in the world, someone whose voice will never be heard. "Well, that's a deeply depressing thought." Natasha takes a sip of her drink, letting the chill burn down the back of her throat. The men she's hooked are watching her, but what's interesting is that two men who were not at all interested are also now looking at her. Or, well, in her direction. Not necessarily at her. Oh, she's sure Steve is going to love that. Maybe she should get a few more drinks in him before she breaks the news.

"I figure anything must be pretty amazing after rationing. You should see what some of these boutique distilleries are coming up with, though. If you think you can handle the hipster of it all, I've got a few places in Williamsburg I should take you." Part of his cultural immersion, right? Drinking can be educational.

"Sorry," he offers with an apologetic smile. "I have to remind myself to be a little more optimistic at times." He somehow manages to balance the attention he's paying her while keeping some of the people in the room under watch, as discreetly as he can manage. He's spotted some looking their way, and he figures it must be Natasha they're looking at— can't really blame them for that, not with how stunning she looks. Frankly he can only hope that's the reason they're looking, and not because they're suspicious of the pair of them.

His attention is steered a little more towards her when she speaks again, though. "I have no idea what hipster is, you do realize that," he looks at his glass, eyebrows raising just so. "But if you're asking me out for drinks, then... I'd like that. Sounds like fun."

"You're not spending enough time on WIkipedia." Which has been his... all right, he's too old for homework. Regular people fluff up their useless knowledge base by clicking through wikipedia pages and getting sucked in, though. Why not him? It worked pretty well for Rogers. At the very least, it left him with a list of things to ask her about. A good jumping off point.

Natasha knows what someone trying to hide a lustful desire looks like. The studio executive currently looking over at the pair of them, the one who had absolutely no interest in Natasha, is very interested in Steve. This is going to be fun. "Hipsters are easier to show than tell, anyway." Nothing a person can say can ever prepare one for the utter ridiculousness. "So we'll have drinks, and expand your horizons a little. At least you won't have to wear a bow-tie."

"Are you kidding? That... website sucks you in. By the time I looked away it was dark outside and I had a horrible headache. I'm not going through that again." He'd be the first to admit that technology had evolved in many wonderful ways, but computers and the internet were horribly addictive.

He sipped on his gin, his eyes meeting the man's across the room, brow knitting in mild confusion when the single glance got a wider smile from the man. And yet, he was not getting it. If and when Natasha spelled it out for him, he may just turn tomato red right there. (Well, at least it'd help their disguise. Probably. No spy should be that easy to embarrass.) "Mm, that's true. Can't tell you how badly I want to get out of these stuffy clothes."

"Getting sucked in is the point. It makes learning... well, I'm not sure if it's fun, but it's almost addictive. You can't just stop. Set a timer or something, but please keep with it."

Natasha notices the little exchange between the two men, and hides her smile with another sip of her drink. A smile that only grows when Steve talks about getting out of his clothes, obviously not realizing what he's saying. She can only hope he keeps saying things that unintentionally inflaming when she sets him loose on Mister Hollywood. "Look, we don't have to stay all night. Sober people don't give up much, and truly drunk people don't give up as much useful intel as you'd think. After a certain point, there won't be anything more to glean here."

He huffs and rolls his eyes almost imperceptibly, his frustration kept between the two of them. "Fine. But I'm definitely setting an alarm. I'm not wasting a whole day on a computer again."

As for his other words, it doesn't even cross his mind that they can be taken in a different context, and he doesn't really spot the difference in her smile enough to ask her about it. "We should stick around a little longer. Probably not a good idea to go poking around with this level of security, but— best to blend in. If we leave too early we'll stick out like a sore thumb." And not in a good way. Steve would rather make it back to the room without anyone tailing them. "Besides, that fella there is looking at me funny. Think there might be something to it?"

Natasha nods her head slowly. "Yeah, I think there is. You should talk to him later on, after he's had a few. People should be letting their guards down by about ten. Everyone will be completely hammered by midnight. That's our window for working the floor. After that, I'm going to have you distract the senator while I get up to his room." At the moment, it's just a hunch, but her hunches tend to pan out.

"So," she takes his arm and checks his watch. "We've got an hour before we'll get anything useful. Want to dance with your fake wife?"

The fact that Natasha agrees with him leaves him feeling a little surer about his suspicions. Not that he doubts his instincts, but he is a little... rusty, you could say. It's nice to know he hasn't completely lost his touch, and that he's adapted well enough to the current times that the smallest things don't trip him up or distract him from his objective.

He smiles a little at her question, tipping his head. "As long as you can cope with me actually enjoying it." He offers her his hand, then leads them to the dance floor. It's not overly crowded yet which offers them plenty of room to move, although as the music plays on a few more couples join in, likely motivated by the ones already dancing.

"Are you kidding me?" Natasha throws back the rest of her drink and sets her empty glass on the tray of a passing waiter before taking Steve's hand. "In this dress, I'd be a little insulted if you didn't."

She's not sure if he realizes that she's using him to show herself off. There's a fluid quality to the fabric of her dress. It ripples like there's a current in it, a swelling tide. It's what helps to camouflage the fact that she's surprisingly heavily armed. It has other uses, though. She's not one for swaying, but he doesn't have to do much. She can use him like a prop, as long as it's something she can fold into the cover. Not all men can dance. SOme are absolutely hopeless, so why not this fake woman's fake husband?

He does look pretty happy, though. She wonders how long it's been since he went dancing. Then, on the heels of that, she wonders what he'd make of dancing today. The idea makes her chuckle.

He does realize what she's doing, yes, but he doesn't mind it much. Especially in this context. As much as he enjoys her company, they are here for work before anything else, and she's playing a part just like she must. As is he, of course. If he so happens to enjoy having her close to him like this, well... that's doing no harm, now is it.

He's not a terrible dancer by any means, but it's obvious he doesn't know any proper steps, and he seems to have a tendency to sway more so than dance. She keeps up, though, sometimes taking the lead and change the steps a bit.

Her chuckle draws him out of an odd thought or another, and he lifts an eyebrow at her. "What's so funny?"

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