Despite the muggy heat of the tropics, even with the storm clamoring about outside, the temperature in the small apartment did drop a few degrees when Barnes mentioned The Scar. Natasha grew still, but only for a moment, then her customary nonchalance resurfaced and she foisted off a slight shrug.

"It did," was her easy response, resuming the chore of bathing the back of her neck and slope of shoulder. "I really wasn't a fan of yours for a good long while, after that little incident." Not to mention the loss of that Iranian engineer. Her career had been hanging by a thread as it was, before that assignment. Having a hold in her side helped explain her failure, but the rehabilitation that'd followed hadn't been pleasant.

"But," Natasha drawled then, shifting about on the couch with a resigned sigh, "that's the nature of the job, isn't it?" She didn't blame him, not in the least. He'd been programmed, after all, and besides, he could have killed her outright. "...you could have killed me," she told him, voice quiet. Then a soft smile followed, "I'm profoundly grateful that you didn't. James."