She'd gotten the message almost two months to the day since she'd departed company with the Winchester brothers, thanking them quietly but profusely for their hospitality and for saving her life. Their good-natured acceptance, along with a few blushed cheeks, back-of-the-neck rubs, and crooked little smiles had touched her amusement, and she'd headed back to her own abode still a little sore, a bit stiff, but more than ready to get back to work.
And she had. Natasha had returned "home" to seven contracts waiting in her inbox and on her answering machine. As she'd earlier promised Dean during her brief stay, she triaged the work and bounced a few on to the brothers--legitimate work that she would ensure they were compensated for, and wasted little time getting herself back on the job.
Weeks passed, and Dean actually surprised her by keeping in touch, as he'd told her he would. It was a little...disconcerting at first; she was too used to operating solo and holding 'radio silence' unless breaking it was absolutely necessary, but Dean Winchester apparently didn't have many friends to talk with, either. Texts soon evolved into actual phone calls, provided neither of them were working, and almost without realizing it, Natasha found herself looking forward to those hours of seemingly meaningless conversation, often lying away until sunrise with her cell phone tucked beneath her ear as she just listened to Dean's wonderful voice. The inherent growl in his tone seemed to vanish the miles between them and Natasha often imagined him lying right beside her, purring words right against her skin.
More than once she had to haul out of bed and take a cold goddamned shower after hanging up the phone.
Returning home after a particularly difficult hunt, Natasha headed straight for a hot bath and leftover pizza afterwards, scarfing down the remainder before turning off all the lights in her flat and slipped into bed--satin sheets, note--checking the time on her phone. Ten-fifteen. She had a quarter hour before it would chime with a familiar ringtone (Eye of the Tiger; he'd insisted) and the rest of the night would be considerably better spent than the day had been. Sighing softly, Natasha reclined against her nest of pillows, the satin feeling heavenly against her bare skin. A slow churning had been lurking in the pit of her stomach for a few days now; a pestersome happenstance whenever one was alone, damnit.
But long fingers slipped over her skin regardless, closing her eyes and shamelessly imagining another's hands doing the same thing, instead.
Cont. (or something)
And she had. Natasha had returned "home" to seven contracts waiting in her inbox and on her answering machine. As she'd earlier promised Dean during her brief stay, she triaged the work and bounced a few on to the brothers--legitimate work that she would ensure they were compensated for, and wasted little time getting herself back on the job.
Weeks passed, and Dean actually surprised her by keeping in touch, as he'd told her he would. It was a little...disconcerting at first; she was too used to operating solo and holding 'radio silence' unless breaking it was absolutely necessary, but Dean Winchester apparently didn't have many friends to talk with, either. Texts soon evolved into actual phone calls, provided neither of them were working, and almost without realizing it, Natasha found herself looking forward to those hours of seemingly meaningless conversation, often lying away until sunrise with her cell phone tucked beneath her ear as she just listened to Dean's wonderful voice. The inherent growl in his tone seemed to vanish the miles between them and Natasha often imagined him lying right beside her, purring words right against her skin.
More than once she had to haul out of bed and take a cold goddamned shower after hanging up the phone.
Returning home after a particularly difficult hunt, Natasha headed straight for a hot bath and leftover pizza afterwards, scarfing down the remainder before turning off all the lights in her flat and slipped into bed--satin sheets, note--checking the time on her phone. Ten-fifteen. She had a quarter hour before it would chime with a familiar ringtone (Eye of the Tiger; he'd insisted) and the rest of the night would be considerably better spent than the day had been. Sighing softly, Natasha reclined against her nest of pillows, the satin feeling heavenly against her bare skin. A slow churning had been lurking in the pit of her stomach for a few days now; a pestersome happenstance whenever one was alone, damnit.
But long fingers slipped over her skin regardless, closing her eyes and shamelessly imagining another's hands doing the same thing, instead.
Ten minutes. An eternity, alas.