The moniker she let slide; she didn't really mind either way. She'd had nicknames before. The Black Widow, for one. One of the KGB's most ruthless assassins, a weapon created from an institutions of little girls, homeless with pale hope of any sort of future.

Dark green eyes flicked up when he moved, automatically noting every shift of his body; professional habit that. To her credit, she didn't reach for the weapons stashed beneath her--his--clothing; and the tension which had gathered behind her shoulders subliminally eased as she sensed he'd moved only to assist her with her injuries.

"...if...you like."

She wasn't one to ask for help--she'd learned to either tend to herself or die in the process of 'soldiering on', but it was damned hard to see, much less reach the middle of her back, so Natasha eased up from the chair and turned to perch a hip on the corner of the table, grimacing as she pulled up each side of the t-shirt, the movements stretching the rent skin beneath.

Dusky skin sported several small, light scars, and a few fresh cuts and scratches glared here and there, but the main issue ran very close to her spine, perhaps eight inches long, expanding to almost two inches at the direct center, where the claw had gouged the deepest. It hurt, yes, but she'd had worse. But the creature responsible had been destroyed, as had the rest of its filthy compatriots. And there was a hefty payoff waiting, which reminded her...

"How did you know to come to that farmhouse?"