She usually slept deeply and well, but today true slumber remained cruelly elusive. Six hours later, staggering into the bathroom and gazing at her haggard reflection in the mirror, Natasha snarled a Slavic curse and blamed her throbbing temples on a certain wolf parked right outside of the still-closed bedroom door, if her nose wasn't playing tricks on her frazzled senses.

Four packs of plasma later, she scrubbed her teeth and rinsed her mouth, needing coffee now that her immediate hunger had been sated. (Wouldn't do to attack her companion for his deliciously supernatural blood, now would it?) Clad in a sensible violet sweater and black slacks, she emerged from the bedroom, sensing the twilight even through the thick curtains.

Her eye immediately went to Barnes, and Natasha swallowed a knot of sheer, pure desire. Stop it, idiot. This is work, nothing more. Leave it alone. "Hey," she heard herself say in greeting. "Everything quiet so far?"