Being a light skinned red head had always been Natasha's distinctive features – the obvious ones, that is. She liked them, she enjoyed this physical difference which distinguished her from the sea of tanned blond girls living here. Here being Los Angeles, California, and for the first time in a very long time, being a pale ginger was not an advantage.
She had been dragged here a week ago by her friend Yelena against her will. She had insisted they needed vacation and thought that spending a couple weeks in the city of angels was the best of ideas.
“Город Ангелов, мою задницу!” Natasha had grumbled when Yelena had waved two plane tickets before her eyes like there were winning tickets of the lottery. “This sounds like ginger Hell!”
[Город Ангелов, мою задницу! - City of angels, my ass!”]
But her friend simply gave her an award winning smile and shrugged back her luscious blond hair before turning on her heels. Natasha, with her hands on her hips and her foots tapping on the floor of their shared apartment, knew there was nothing she could possibly say to make Yelena change her mind, and when the clicking sound of her friend's heels were out of eavesdrop, Nat headed back to her room, silently swearing under her breath and started digging out her summer clothes.
She almost turn around and went back to the airport when the hotel receptionist greeted them with a smile so white it put to shame toothpaste commercials and said “Welcome to the Hotel California! You'll see, it's a lovely place!” And then she winked. She winked.
Torn between making a rude comment in Russian so the overly joyful young woman would not be able to understand, or simply snort and grab the room keys, Natasha made a clicking sound with her tongue and looked at her from under her pretty nose. Her intense gaze scrutinized the innocent girl, not missing a detail – she wore a colorful tie-dye shirt and a fringe sleeveless jacket, paired with a skirt Natasha couldn't see the length of because of the counter, and she smelled of herbs and lavender. Her blue eyes never once left Yelena, who was signing the register. Maybe she was just hitting on Yelena, Natasha thought, raising both her eyebrows.
She was used to this – although being a beautiful woman herself, whenever she went somewhere with Yelena it was like she walked around with a paper bag on her head, nobody saw her. It was pretty convenient most of the time, Natasha wasn't one to like drawing the attention to herself. This difference in character was even more evident when you considered their respective specialties. Yelena was a modern jazz dance professor and Natasha a former prima ballerina who retired after an injury and now teaches ballet in a girls' boarding house.
And the two women were now trapped in this hotel for two weeks of holidays in this over populated oven of a city and as if things weren't already bad enough, the receptionist had to quote the lyrics of Hotel California. Not that it was a bad song – it was just so lame to use it on clients. And then – then – it became even worse, because the song actually played in the elevator all the way to the sixth's floor where their room was. Lavender girl said they had a view on the Hollywood Hill as if it was a huge favor she did them – nothing to do with her definitely giving the bedroom eyes to Yelena – and Natasha couldn't help but think that, at least, she would have something to stare at while spending the next fourteen days locked in her room, enjoyed the air conditioning.
“Помоему, блондинка смотрит на тебя,” Natasha said, smirking while intently watching the floor numbers go up and up.
[ Помоему, блондинка смотрит на тебя – I think she has the hots for you]
Her friend's neatly groomed eyebrow went up and she simply offered a cheeky smile as an answer. Damn her and her doll face, she probably noticed and returned the poor girl's bedroom eyes just to have a better room. That was how she got through life.
The elevator stopped at the fifth floor and the doors opened on a rather bulky guy. His hands were dived in his jean pocket and his hair slicked back under a baseball cap. His face looked like it hadn't seen a razor in a while, though it was easy to guess what handsome man all this gruff was hiding.
“Up?” Natasha asked when he stepped in between the two woman. She was the closest to the buttons, her fingers raised already, waiting for the man's answer. He nodded sheepishly and then seemed to realize the red haired woman was waiting for him to tell her a floor number.
“Ugh- yes, eighth floor,” he eventually said, his voice deep with barely above a whisper.
It was the last floor.
“The roof?” Natasha asked after pushing the button. She didn't intend to ask this aloud, it simply came out, and if he wasn't up for small talk, they would be out in two floors anyway – the torture wouldn't last long.
“The bar,” he said. He must have noticed her surprised expression. “The bar's on the eighth floor, not the first. It's all explained on a note in your room,” he explained quickly, briefly meeting Natasha's stare before looking back at his feet.
As a non-native speaker, Natasha deciphered the faint East European accent in the man's voice, although he spoke English flawlessly. It took one to recognize another. The conversation stopped there and soon the elevator's doors opened up again – it was their floor. Right as they stepped out dragging their suitcases behind them, Yelena felt the need to comment on Nat's little interaction.
“Тогда могу сказать тебе он несомненно хочет тебя,” she laughed right before turning left.
“Shut up.”
[Тогда могу сказать тебе он несомненно хочет тебя – Well I can tell he certainly has the hots for you]
Neither of the women saw the man's smirk grow as the elevator's door close up on him, nor his eyes following the red haired woman 'til she was out of sight.
*
“You should go to the bar,” Yelena sing-sang as she unfolded her closes and put them in the small closet. “Put on your red dress, order a white Russian...” she trailed off as if mentally picturing the whole scenario. “I bet he would love hearing you talk dirty in Russian, you should have seen him he heard your accent!”
“I don't have an accent,” Natasha replied, glaring at her friend who always tried to play match-maker with her. “And I won't wear that dress, it's the middle of the day!”
“But you would consider wearing it!” Yelena spun on the ball of her feet and placed her fists on her hips. “And he totally heard your accent!”
Yelena often pointed out Natasha's Russian showing through her speech – it wasn't her fault, Yelena sometimes frustrated her to no end, and her native language peeked when she was upset. Also, Yelena moved to America years before Natasha and her English sounded more natural than hers. Nat didn't like it, it stung her pride.
“You're insufferable! Без пизды!” Natasha barked. “Can you please wait until we get settled in before starting to get on my nerves?”
[Без пизды – I swear (to God)!]
“You know I can't,” the beautiful blond quipped. She dodged a piece of clothing Nat threw at her and laughed, resuming her unpacking.
And thus begun those goddamn holidays.
The girls weren't much of tourists, visiting crowded placed fulled of non English speaking persons taking photographs was the exact opposite of what they considered fun and chill. Yelena dragged Natasha in the bar and clubs and basically decided what to do whenever the sun went down, and Natasha forced her to try all the restaurants she chose and to visit the fancy museum and art galleries during daylight.
Yelena never missed an occasion to call Nat “a fucking cliché” because she was always “such a ballerina”. It's true that they were polar opposites and sometimes Nat wondered how the hell they didn't tear each other's faces off, but they managed.
Once again running errands, probably off to flirt and break a few hearts, Yelena made the most of the night. Meanwhile Natasha sat in the hallway, on one of the many plushy sofas there, reading a book. She was four chapters into War & Peace when something caught her eye and she looked up from her book.
Her gaze fell on the elevator stranger. She immediately noticed he had shaved and wore significantly more elegant clothes than last time, to the point where he looked nearly out of place in this cheap hotel. Than again, so did she. Natasha dressed everyday like it was her last day on earth. The air was still stiflingly hot, even if the sun went down an hour ago. She wore a waist high flared white midi skirt, with a black top tugged inside it, and shiny black toe pointed pumps. And this was her dressed down attire.
She would have returned to her reading weren't it for the familiar tune softly playing and distracting her.
“Ты, должно быть, шутишь!” She said, realizing she might have said it too loud when the man's eyes met hers.
[Ты, должно быть, шутишь! - You've got to be kidding me!]
But when their gazes met, she didn't look away and instead put her book down next to her and crossed her arms on her chest.
“Hotel California? Seriously?” She huffed, amused.
A small smile tugged at his lips and he took a few steps in her direction, stopping at a reasonable distance. He shrugged, taken aback by the woman's initiative to talk to him.
“Aren't you tired of hearing it? It's playing in the elevator,” she pointed out, leaning back against the couch. “I'm Natasha,” she said, offering her hand for him to shake.
“Bucky,” he said, taking her hand. He blushed suddenly, and mumbled, “I mean, my name's James, but people call be Bucky.”
Natasha smirked and her hand fell back on her lap. She glanced at Bucky's left hand, which she noticed was gloved, and this swift peek didn't go unnoticed. He didn't say anything though.
“And I know it's playing in the elevator. That's why I've had it stuck in my head for the entire day,” he grinned before gesturing to the spot on the couch, silently asking permission to sit down next to her. Bucky's eyes darted on the book Natasha cradled against her chest.
“Tolstoï in the original Russian? That's a bit...”
“Cliché?” She guessed , her ginger locks bouncing up and down as she tilted her head to the left, a clear laughter falling from her lips.
“I was going to say dense, but it's very cliché yes,” he chuckled, seemingly gaining confidence as the conversation carried on.
“'twas my bedtime story when I was a little girl,” she replied.
“Oh, by the way, I should probably tell you I understand Russian,” he confessed sheepishly, referring to Yelena's comment about him 'having the hots' for her. Nat's incredulous expressing must have spoken for itself because he laughed it off and told her it was alright, that he didn't mind.
“Well, the very least I can do to make it up to you it to apologize on behalf of my friend and pay you a glass of... whiskey on the rocks?” She tried to guess. He looked like a whiskey guy and it was too hot to drink anything without ice.
“I never refuse a drink, especially if a beautiful woman is inviting me,” he answered, rising to his feet and offering her his hand to help her stand up.
“Lead the way then,” she said, her arm looping around his elbow and following him to the Hotel California playing elevator - suddenly Natasha couldn't remember why she didn't like the song.
Somewhere between the second and the fourth glass of Black Lady – which Bucky teased her for ordering because it was a vodka based cocktail and she had completed the stereotype of Russian people – Natasha's inhibition left her. Her smooth hand glided over the oak of the counter until the tip of her fingers brushed his Bucky's hand. She saw him flinch and realized it was his left hand, the one with the glove.
She was no beginner, and she had a keen eye. The dog tags around his neck caught the light at some point and she realized he must be an army veteran – and she knew she shouldn't be aroused by that but she was a few drinks in and he was very attractive, she couldn't help herself.
“Easy soldier,” she cooed soothingly, gently interlacing their fingers with one hand and brushing her leg against his until he relaxed. “I'm not going to ask questions you don't want to answer.”
He gave her a thankful nod and squeezed her hand. They talked the night away, not realizing how late it was before the bartender asked them to leave. And when they stepped into the elevator and that song started playing again, Natasha realized they were about to part and she didn't want to. Before she could give it a second thought and shy away, she pushed the alarm button, causing the elevator to stop in its tracks. And she kissed him. Her hands flew up and grabbed him by the collar, feeling the dog tags in her palm, Natasha kissed him senseless, she kissed him so deeply and so long she barely realized it when the elevator started moving again, all the while playing the song.
“My room?” Bucky asked when Natasha pulled away long enough to do so. “Wouldn't want to run into your friend.”
She smirked and nodded, sealing the deal by capturing his lips again.
“All nighter, you and me?” She suggested teasingly. “The first one to fall asleep buys the other dinner.”
She didn't give him a chance to say no.
*
The next morning, Natasha sneaked back into her room, only to find a snoring Yelena. It was almost noon by the time she woke up, and although she hadn't slept much, Natasha was wide awake and ready to cease the day. When they were both dressed and ready to eat breakfast, the two women hopped into the elevator and oblivious to Yelena's dumbfounded expression, Natasha begun to softly hum to the tune of Hotel California while doing her best to conceal the smile on her face.