Acquiescing the reply with a slight nod and a gentle shrug, Natasha eased further into the small kitchen, controlling her wince with master aplomb, and came to gingerly take a seat at the table, resting her arms on its cool surface.
"That's true," she admitted quietly, gazing off into the middle space. "I suppose I owe you one, this next time." Her lips quirked with the thought. These two weren't unfamiliar, though she'd never lingered long enough to be considered introduced. Safer that way; she didn't need friends, she only collected enemies. But considering that she was in their fortress...
"Natalia Alianova Romanova," she intoned, the Cossack inflection thick in her voice, especially with her given name. "Anglicized to Natasha Romanoff," she added, dialect disappearing to leave her tone comfortably middle-American. "And you must be Dean Winchester, and that's your brother Sam, snoring in the library." She acknowledged him with another light nod. "I've heard of you."
Her back twinged just then, and this time she wasn't able to hide the soft hiss of indrawn breath, nor the moue of discomfort that crossed her brow. "I'm...all right," she insisted, but sat up a little straighter to keep from stretching the edges of the gaping gash. "That last ublyudki marked me pretty good before you beheaded him." It had stopped oozing blood, thankfully, but the wound was still raw and sore.
"I don't think it needs stitches, but it definitely hurts like hell." Hard to admit, but there was no use in posturing, not here or now. Still, she did opt to make light of the situation, saying, "Twelve hours will see me right as rain, and I'll be out of your hair, sooner, if possible."
no subject
"That's true," she admitted quietly, gazing off into the middle space. "I suppose I owe you one, this next time." Her lips quirked with the thought. These two weren't unfamiliar, though she'd never lingered long enough to be considered introduced. Safer that way; she didn't need friends, she only collected enemies. But considering that she was in their fortress...
"Natalia Alianova Romanova," she intoned, the Cossack inflection thick in her voice, especially with her given name. "Anglicized to Natasha Romanoff," she added, dialect disappearing to leave her tone comfortably middle-American. "And you must be Dean Winchester, and that's your brother Sam, snoring in the library." She acknowledged him with another light nod. "I've heard of you."
Her back twinged just then, and this time she wasn't able to hide the soft hiss of indrawn breath, nor the moue of discomfort that crossed her brow. "I'm...all right," she insisted, but sat up a little straighter to keep from stretching the edges of the gaping gash. "That last ublyudki marked me pretty good before you beheaded him." It had stopped oozing blood, thankfully, but the wound was still raw and sore.
"I don't think it needs stitches, but it definitely hurts like hell." Hard to admit, but there was no use in posturing, not here or now. Still, she did opt to make light of the situation, saying, "Twelve hours will see me right as rain, and I'll be out of your hair, sooner, if possible."