#rosa diaz #youuuuuuuuuu light up my liiiiiiiiiiiiiife #brooklyn nine-nine#someone write me the marvel/b99 crossover where rosa and natasha go around scaring people
Ahhhh yesss and then they go to some hole-in-the-wall bar where the bartender knows Natasha on sight and just pulls out a bottle of vodka from the freezer and sets it next to two shot glasses and the two of them get drunk together and laugh and swap stories about crazy prima ballerinas (even tho Nat’s not sure if hers are real) from back in the day and the best ways to make a man cry in less than three syllables and the bullshit that comes from working with a bunch of dudes who don’t always get it
and then they makeout and have crazyhotsex.
Vodka Wednesdays, Rated PG-13, Warning for Implied Violence, Rosa Diaz/Natasha Romanoff, Melinda May
Natasha gets to the bar first because she’s punctual to a fault and if she’s late, it probably means the world is ending or Stark happened. Vinnie, the Wednesday barkeep, sees her coming and grabs the shot glasses from the special shelf, disappearing into the cooler to fish out the bottle of vodka with the Cyrillic lettering. He has to order it special, Natasha knows, but they tip well and he overcharges them for it anyway. They choose to ignore that detail and he chooses to ignore that they’re the reason most of the bar furniture is held together by duct tape.
And Clint claims there’s no true loyalty in Brooklyn.
This time when Vinnie sets the bottle on the bar, though, he shakes his head. He disappears once more and comes back with a fistful of sani-wipes. “No drinks until there’s no blood,” he says, looking disapprovingly at the red splattered on her neck and the side of her face.
“It’s not my blood,” Natasha points out.
“I don’t care. That shit’s unsanitary.”
Natasha only grumbles a little but, she wipes off the blood, using half of the stack of wipes. When Vinnie declares her passable, he sets the bottle in front of her. “Where’s the other terror twin?”
“Late,” Natasha says.
“Uh-huh.” Vinnie wisely takes himself to the other side of the bar, where there are a couple of hedge fund manager types slumming down. Natasha will probably have to actually put one of them down by the end of the night.
She’s almost looking forward to it. Rosa will definitely enjoy it, that’s for sure.
And speak of La Diabla, Rosa’s strides eat up the space between the door and the stool next to Natasha in a remarkably short amount of time. She’s already shrugging out of her leather jacket as she sits down. “Traffic sucks worse than Hitchcock’s jokes,” she says.
“Yours?” Natasha says, gesturing at the red on her chin and collarbone. Rosa snorts. Natasha tosses the rest of the sani-wipes at her. “Clean that up, that shit’s unsanitary.”
Rosa wipes away the blood with the ease of practice as Natasha pours the first drink. “What are we drinking to?”
“Partner fell off a building again,” Natasha says, raising her glass.
Rosa clinks her own glass against it. “Sister’s hosting Christmas this year and there’s no getting out of it.”
Both women grimace and throw the vodka back. The same brand has sent a man to the emergency room with a long, difficult recovery ahead, but they don’t even cough. Instead, Natasha reaches for the bottle again. When the door to the bar opens, she simply changes the trajectory of her hand to pull out a third glass. She fills that one, and the other two, to the brim, and slides the first down to the bar.
Melinda May catches it without spilling a drop. She raises it, rolls her eyes heavenward, and says, “Skye,” and it’s all the explanation the other ladies need.
“Santiago,” Diaz agrees.
“Barton,” Natasha says, and they all drink, and keep drinking well into the night, after Natasha’s stuck the heel of her stiletto into the hollow of some frat dude’s throat and Diaz has broken a bottle of tequila over a stockbroker’s thigh. Regular gripes arise (Simmons has managed to almost kill Ward with some sort of new biochemical terrorist drug, Clint has shot himself in the foot with his own boomerang arrow, Jake Peralta exists), joining the ‘in the trenches’ stories and comparisons of Rosa’s time in the Company vs. Natasha’s time on the stage (maybe. She’s a little fuzzy on that bit, but the vodka fills in the gaps nicely). Since it’s Melinda’s turn to pick up the tab, she only sighs and throws a couple of hundreds on the bar top to cover the damages.
“Same time next week?” Natasha asks.
“Provided I’m not at the ass-end of the planet,” Melinda says, and she leaves first like she always does, so that she can maintain what she likes to call her plausible deniability.
The minute she’s gone, Rosa raises an eyebrow. “Your place or mine?”
“Yours. Your team hasn’t figured out where you live yet.”
“And yours has?” Rosa asks, snorting as she arches an eyebrow. When Natasha doesn’t deny it, she shakes her head and laughs. “Getting sloppy, Romanoff.”
“Captain America’s puppy dog eyes might even work on your cold, twisted heart, Diaz.”
“No, they wouldn’t,” Rosa says, linking her fingers through Natasha’s as they leave the bar.
Natasha shakes her head. “No, they wouldn’t,” she agrees.