rightly | open post.

"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?"

"I'm trying to imagine you shaking your ass on the rooftop of The Standard. It doesn't quite work. If you think Wikipedia is too much..." She shrugs one shoulder, then steps back with one foot to brace herself, and does most of the work in a dip so low her hair almost brushes the floor. It's much easier to lead someone without looking like you're leading them if you're just walking, but Steve has a natural sense of the way his own body moves, a good read on the way hers does, and he thinks well on his feet. All in all, it could be much worse. They make quite the striking pair.

He huffs in something close to a laugh, cut short when she leans back suddenly. He follows easily enough, though, hand pressed to the small of her back when he realizes what she's doing, though she seems to hold most of her own weight perfectly without needing his support. Still, he applies a bit of pressure as she pulls back up, drawing her a little closer to him than he'd intended to.

"Is that one of those modern dancing clubs people go to these days?"

"Yes." She's smirking, and it adds to the image of the intimacy of the pair, but that's not the reason. "It's one of those modern dancing clubs. You know. For the young people. Which... I don't know, are you in your twenties?" She leans in closer, so that there's absolutely no chance of her whisper carrying to anyone but him. "Or are you in your hundred and twenties? Are you one of the kids, or the old man yelling at them to get off his lawn? Because that's probably going to heavily influence your social calendar from here on out."

He would look offended if he didn't know she's just teasing him right now. He feigns an upset huff, though, letting out a chuckle. His eyes dart vaguely across the room as they turn on the dance floor. "I am in my thirties. Early thirties, as you are well aware. Besides, I don't even have a lawn, so."

"Please. At your age, you are way past the time when you start fudging the birthday count. Start now. Maybe by the time you look sixty you'll have evened things out." She leads him to spin her out, then back in, in careful time with the music, skirt billowing out around her. "Besides, the lawn is metaphorical. You can still be the cranky old man. You don't even have to wear the socks and sandals. Which is a good thing. Not a good look on anybody."

The song ends, the light applause begins, and Natasha turns to join. The next song is much more sedate. "You're more of a sway-er, aren't you?" She holds out her arms in an obliging manner. They can sway for a little while. Not much to do in the way of showcasing assets, but Steve does seem to be enjoying himself, and they've got the time.

He laughs, shrugging. "Why would I lie about my age? Anyway, thirty isn't old. I'm still very fit and full of energy, thank you," he tips his head, winking playfully at her as he pulls her back in after that spin. "I don't have the habit of going around yelling at people and complaining about everything, no. So don't worry about that."

Matching everyone else, he applauds once the song is over, turning back to her when the next one begins. Maybe it's indulging a little, and maybe he shouldn't be enjoying himself while working, but there's no harm in just... one more dance. "I've never learned any proper dance steps," he admits, stepping closer and placing one arm around her, then the other when he sees the other couples doing the same. "But I like dancing. Swaying especially, yes."

One more turns into two, then three, drinks peppered in the down time between. Dancing is fun, and there's not a ton of other ways to kill the time. Natasha watches the crowd around them, a few faces in particular. She waits for the flushed cheeks, the slightly glassy eyes. She waits until gesturing hands begin to flail a little more wildly, until amused laughter turns raucous. This event is, on the surface, a fundraiser. That means that those in charge have a vested interest in getting people drunk enough to part with quite a large chunk of change, so their window is small. "All right," she tells Steve as the two of them sip another pair of drinks in the corner. "Time to go. You've got your four marks. Start with the one who was staring at you."

She's got her own lines to reel in. It's a throwaway comment, back over her shoulder when she's a few steps away from him. "Oh, and don't be surprised if he's got the same idea that you did earlier. You know, about getting you out of your clothes." Hopefully Steve is tipsy enough to just roll with this.

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