Natasha's never much been the sort to celebrate her birthdays. Wasn't even when she was alive and aging. Call it the result of not having anyone to celebrate with. Family had all died when she was young, and growing up in thin times, in and out of orphanages and boarding schools, there weren't many people interested in splurging to buy her presents or take her out to dinner. She could count the number of birthday parties she's had in her whole like—seventy-eight years today—on one hand and still have fingers leftover.

She's not sure why she's thinking of it at all this year. Maybe just because there's been so many changes. New city. New allegiances. New friends, maybe. New life, maybe.

Maybe she just didn't actually expect to live to see this one after she fled Russia.

Whatever it is, Natasha goes out drinking tonight with purpose, making the rounds and her regular bars and drinking a toast at each of them. Sometimes she drinks them to herself. Sometimes she drinks them to the people who didn't make it this far. If, along the way, she runs into anyone she knows? In the event that happens, they might find themselves with a bottle of beer or a glass of whiskey being set in front of them, a silent invitation to join her for this round.

If she doesn't, then she has her drink alone and moves on.