Warning; mentions of harassment, violence, cursing

—————

"FUCK YOU!"

The crowd roared, excited at the sight before them. Adrenaline pumped through my veins as I threw my fist lazily.

"FIGHT, WOMAN, FIGHT!"

A chorus of "fight, fight, fight! " suddenly rang throughout the bar. Everyone was enjoying the entertainment, clearly under the influence of alcohol- including me, of course. There was a dozen more people than there was before.

"Get your fucking hands off of me!" The man under me spat. I merely chuckled as I dodged his weak punches.

Like a five-year-old, I yelled, "You started it!" Blood drew from his mouth and his cheekbones as I continued to swing my fist at him.

This wasn't what I expected. I should have seen it coming though. When I'm drunk, I lose control of myself.

20 minutes ago

The bar turned out to be a very popular site at midnight, and my alone-time was graciously interrupted by the big mouths of the newcomers.

I hated it.

I took a big gulp of (alcoholic beverage), sighing as they approached the bar. The amount of chatter that came from them weren't helping with my temper either.

Suddenly, I felt something cold on the small of my back. Chills ran up my spine.

"What's a lovely lady like you doing here?"

I immediately reacted by turning around and hissing, "Trying to get some peace and quiet." It was one of the loud men, a sheep straying from it's herd.

He chuckled, "Well, nothing's stopping you." His hands—cold as they were—were still there.

"Correction; you and your big ol' gang are. Get your hands off of me."

This time he let out a cackle, throwing his head back dramatically. "You're a funny one, huh?" He just can't take a hint, can't he?

I smiled at him insincerely, teeth bared. Tonight, I didn't want any trouble. I jumped off the bar stool, drink in my hand, and walked away.

"Hey! I wasn't done talking yet!" He grabbed me by the wrist, pulling me in close to his chest. His breath smelled like beer—it was obvious he'd been drinking way before he walked into this bar.

My reflexes kicked in and I twisted his arm as I pushed him away. He bumped into a nearby table and a bunch of exclaims came from the people vacating it.

"You'll regret that." He fumed.

Next thing you know, he pushed me against a wall, his face an inch from mine. He laughed, and I gagged at the smell of his beer breath. I was pinned by his hands on my shoulders.

I was getting more and more frustrated by the second.

"No, you'll regret that." I snapped, and whatever happened next passed by in a blur.

I had tucked my arms in and hit at his arms, once I got out of his grip I grabbed a nearby chair and smashed it over his head. That was enough to make him unconscious, but this guy was just so determined. He stood up, his balance obviously off, and pounced at me.

I saw it coming so I moved out of the way, ducking when his fist swung at me. I punched him back, hitting as hard as I could.

I went berserk. It wasn't pleasant. Now here I am, still throwing fists at the jackass. I wasn't planning on leaving any time soon.

My biggest mistake.

———

"Why me?" Pietro whined.

The team had flew in on the site where FRIDAY detected their target. There were security cameras all over the place, plus someone had uploaded a video a few moments ago from the bar. FRIDAY had detected the same facial features from their previous scan. They hit the jackpot; it was a rural area and there were no crowds for them to deal with.

"Because you'll fit in greatly." Steve said. They all decided that it was better for someone to get intel on the bar first. 'Coincidentally', everyone voted for Pietro to go.

"He's just trying to be nice," Clint smirked. "It's because you're the least famous out of all of us."

"Are you serious?"

"Very." The rest deadpanned. It was only him, Steve, Natasha, Clint, Tony and Wanda on the mission.

"This is an actual serious situation. What if I mess up?" Pietro huffed, "You do realise we really need to get her, right?"

As he was speaking, Clint had already tossed him an earpiece and an oversized coat, then gestured for him to put it on.

"Yes." Natasha called out from the pilot seat. "And we believe in you, speedster. Go!"

With a shake of his head and a roll of his eyes, he finally stepped out of the jet. When he looked back, there was nothing there. He was taken aback for a second before he processed that it was just the quinjet in stealth mode. It was even more invisible in the night.

He sighed, staring at the earpiece and the coat in his hands.

"Might as well put it on now." He sighed.

—————

When Pietro walked in, he was immediately greeted by a cheering crowd of people, gathered in a circle. Whatever spectacle it was they were entertained by, Pietro had to know.

"Maximoff, can you hear me?" He was startled by the sudden chime in his ear, but quickly recovered.

"Yup."

"Good. Now listen carefully, you need to scout the area." Natasha instructed.

He tried to casually sit down on a table. A waitress came up to him, asking him what he wanted in a slight southern accent.

"Just-"

"You need to not look suspicious. Order something common."

"Just whiskey. On ice." He smiled.

Pietro waited for her to walk away, far enough so he could talk to Natasha. "Why are you repeating everything you told me before?"

"Because you're bound to forget?"

"Then why did you even pick me in the first pla-" Pietro quickly stopped talking when he saw the waitress approaching.

"Here, hun." He handed her a bill, and downed the drink to avoid further chit-chat.

"What do you got so far?"

Pietro looked around, "Two entrances - front, back. Both open. About...six windows. All open."

"What else?"

"Bar's on the left side. A dozen seats. And there's a crowd here, so you might want to jot that down."

"Dang it. A crowd? "

"Very much so."

"Look for her. Don't persue alone. Give us the signal and we'll be there."

Pietro cleared his throat, trying to act nonchalant once again. But his attempts were failed when he heard the grunts and groans coming from the hoard.

He scooted closer, wanting to take a peek.

What he saw made him gasp. It was a sight to see alright. "A real bar fight!" Pietro whispered to himself excitedly.

He had seen his own teammates spar on the mat and in combat, but this was something else. This was pure rowdiness. Pure drunks, messing each other up in a real, live bar!

He dived into the crowd, drink in hand. He couldn't see, with all the people in front of him.

"YOU USELESS SON OF A -" then he heard a painful crack.

A series of roars echoed, fists pumping in the air to cheer on the one they were rooting for. Bets were being placed already.

Pietro finally pushed through, and when he did, he was shocked and confused. It was a woman and a man. He didn't realise it at first, but her long curls gave it away. The man—who's face was all bloodied up—was trying to get in a punch. Keyword, trying.

The woman looked pretty beat up too, but the smile on her face made it obvious she was the one winning.

Pietro didn't know what to think. Or to do. Should he help her? Surely everyone here thought that too. He felt a sudden sense of protectiveness over the woman.

So he jumped in and swung a fist at the man.

"What the fuck?"

The crowd booed, disappointed.

"I had to help you!" He explained, "What if you couldn't-"

But he was cut off by a very, very firm fist. The force of her punch threw him back. She smiled, wiping the blood on her lip with the back of her hand.

"I had him on the ropes, my dear Prince Charming." Adrenaline oozed through her veins. She was ready to get in another fight.

Pietro sat on the ground, looking up at her with wide eyes. He reached up to his put his earpiece back in place. She tilted her head in confusion.

"Natasha," he breathed. "I found her."