[ (She likes that he agrees and assumes all at once. Things are easier when there's less questions.) She turns to him, the window peeled down and red flies in her vision, hair blown by dry winds and warm air and she smiles at him — small, undeniably Natasha in that's a certain kind of sparse — but genuine. Well-meant. Friendly, even. There's something almost smug in the set of her mouth. ]
I'm Russian, [ she tells him, one arm resting out the window, fingers splayed open as they cut through roads and air. ] What do you think?
[ And it's as easy as that.
It's not until she's showered and changed, sporting just a white shirt and her underthings, lazily smoking a cigarette that she looks— better. Less desert dust and wind and more smooth, healed skin, sitting at the end of her bed and idly flipping through tv channels. (Natasha's hair, still wet and knotted at the nape of her neck, looks the color of old blood.) Maybe she'd pulled a piece of sharpnel out of her thigh, the wound already sealed over so she'd had to cut it open again, a suture needle clenched between her teeth while Bond was only a few steps away in the shower; maybe, after she was finished, she'd watched him with a mild sort of interest. But she had left, only coming back in to use the shower herself, leaving him to the bath.
No, bodies and nudity don't bother her; yes, she wants to sleep with him. The thing is — it's always a balancing game, trying to figure out which is the safer bet. 007 or just a man named James.
When Bond finally joins her, she does nothing but exhale, sending a thin stream of smoke through the air. At her feet, as promised: two bottles of Russian Standard vodka, unopened, and three small bags of peanuts stolen from the mini-bar.
no subject
I'm Russian, [ she tells him, one arm resting out the window, fingers splayed open as they cut through roads and air. ] What do you think?
[ And it's as easy as that.
It's not until she's showered and changed, sporting just a white shirt and her underthings, lazily smoking a cigarette that she looks— better. Less desert dust and wind and more smooth, healed skin, sitting at the end of her bed and idly flipping through tv channels. (Natasha's hair, still wet and knotted at the nape of her neck, looks the color of old blood.) Maybe she'd pulled a piece of sharpnel out of her thigh, the wound already sealed over so she'd had to cut it open again, a suture needle clenched between her teeth while Bond was only a few steps away in the shower; maybe, after she was finished, she'd watched him with a mild sort of interest. But she had left, only coming back in to use the shower herself, leaving him to the bath.
No, bodies and nudity don't bother her; yes, she wants to sleep with him. The thing is — it's always a balancing game, trying to figure out which is the safer bet. 007 or just a man named James.
When Bond finally joins her, she does nothing but exhale, sending a thin stream of smoke through the air. At her feet, as promised: two bottles of Russian Standard vodka, unopened, and three small bags of peanuts stolen from the mini-bar.
It'll have to do. ]