Does Not A Hero Make. [alpha]

Natasha couldn't decide if she found solace in the mundane. She knew many heroes, comrades, even SHIELD agents, whose ideal moment would be doing something plain and 'normal'. Something at complete odds with their life on the Helicarrier, or behind the mask. Walking in the park, sitting in a quiet library, even spending an afternoon at a laundromat. Black Widow felt more indifferent about simplicity, she thought.

At that moment, for instance, as the redhead sat at a street side cafe, swirling the contents of her cup, inhaling the aroma wafting from the cranberry muffin that lay untouched on a plate at her elbow, perusing an article on page four of the Daily Bugle. The scenario was dull, compared to her normal hobbies - espionage, infiltration, hand-to-hand combat - but it was refreshing. For one afternoon, at least. Widow thought that she would bore of such an easy existence after just a short time.

Foot traffic drifted along the edge of the cafe. Other customers came and went. The waitresses bustled to and fro, from table to table, back into the cafe and out with orders. Black Widow sipped at her mug, leaning leisurely back in her seat. The paper was curled in one hand and propped partially against the knee of her crossed legs. Perhaps this mundane moment would last? Natasha never put much stock in the reality of lasting tranquility, but it wasn't exactly impossible, she mused.

Andy was taking the long way home. The very, very long way home. He had just needed to get out of the house. His parents still paid little attention to him, even after the whole Alpha-thing. They had made a point to spend time with him the first month or so after, but soon they had gotten wrapped up in their lives again.

He got a couple glances while walking down the street, but mostly these days he was invisible again. He was forgotten. It didn’t feel nice. Well it was better than being the kid that got fired by Peter Parker. At least people didn’t mumble and gossip about him when he was invisible.

There was this small little café he often passed by on this street. He hadn’t eaten at it before, but it didn’t look that expensive. Then again, what would it have that he would like? He stumbled forward a bit when someone bumped into him from behind. He looked around, but the stranger was already gone amongst the city crowd. Typical.

[ooc: omg I’m so sorry this post sucks ><]

Black Widow was not a fan of people watching. At least, not in the standard sense of the pastime. She did not like being watched by passersby as a rule. Of course, her background had a lot to do with that opinion, and even sifting through a throng of foot traffic, the Widow could go by almost invisibly, even to the most nosy old codger. Therefor, Natasha did unto others as she would like done unto her. Or, not done, perhaps. That didn't mean that the Russian was ignorant to what went on around her.

Natasha knew that the man two tables to the left, and three behind her had dropped his phone accidentally into his coffee cup. She was aware that the waitress standing before the corner table was flirting, in quite an unapologetic manner, with a sharply dressed middle-aged man who was, in turn, too preoccupied eyeing a busboy bending over nearby to clean up a mess which, the Widow knew, had been made after a sickly woman had sneezed while holding her cup of tea, dropping it.

All the while, paying heed almost subconsciously to her surroundings, Natasha skimmed an article concerning Anthony's most recent public statements. Some field or another that his money was being directed into, which meant that a breakthrough in said field was inevitable, with Stark Industries involved. Black Widow's web spread out to encompass much of the city block, and as if through some kind of sixth sense, the most subtle twitch by those ensnared in it was noted by the Russian.

It was through this cunning omnipresence that Natasha noticed a young man who didn't quite mesh with the pedestrians swelling past the street side cafe. Black Widow couldn't put her finger on it exactly. Perhaps it was his pensive, almost mournful air that failed to sync with the business-like, hasty ones of the general public? His tread wasn't quite as efficient as those around him, causing New Yorkers to press around him, shooting irritated looks that he didn't note through his thought.

The individual stopped, as if suddenly realizing that a cafe was before him, and was therefor tousled by the crowd. He almost fell, being shoved by a burly man who snarled in passing - causing a terse twitch at the corner of Natasha's lips, almost imperceptible, even to her. The Widow turned a fresh page in the newspaper and detached a crumb from her muffin, which she slipped in her mouth, not really tasting the star burst of flavor on her tongue.

When you'd tasted the world's delicacies, and supped in the finest restaurants in your travels, a simple cranberry muffin from a middle- to high-class street side cafe didn't much matter to your stubborn taste buds.