HEALING || NATASHA ROMANOFF

|ONE|

Donna hisses as she presses the cotton swab to the bullet hole in her arm. The angry red absorbs into white, blotting relentlessly. It just missed the brachial artery, but there's still hot blood oozing out through the cotton she's holding on it. The liquid had migrated down her arm before she could properly apply pressure, and now her tank top is stain crimson. she knows she'll have to dispose of it. 

"Pa-pa-pa-poker face, fuh-fuh-fuck her face..." she murmurs along to the song in her head, the beat matches to her slowly decreasing pulse.

There's a lone fly buzzing lazily above her head, the small noise it's making is causing pain in her temples. Maybe it's the blood loss, but she doesn't think about that too hard. She pulls herself off of the sofa, grabbing her cane. She stumbles a little on the carpet, her thick boots catching on the fuzz. There's gotta be painkillers somewhere around here. She rummages through the drawers in the kitchen. Nothing. Metal tongs and silverware, dusty from neglect. 

She sighs, gripping the handle tighter. She'd had to replace the cane multiple times, smashing it against anything she could find in her blind anger, waking from endless night terrors, only to return her grip to the familiar wood and plastic and throw it against the wall. She barely made a sound, never gasped, never cried, but one thing she could do, was batter that goddamn cane. Besides her bum leg, it was the one tell that she isn't who she used to be. It makes her sick. 

Nothing is more infuriating than going from the country's most feared assassin to someone who can barely walk.

They must be in the bathroom, she rationalizes, and she walks carefully toward the dark hallway. She can't switch on the light with both hands occupied, so she fumbles in the dark, shoving her elbow against the wall and sliding it up and down. Eventually, the switch is found, and she sighs with relief.

She leans down and fingers the cabinet drawer open, the stone counter ice cold against her wrist. There's a box of individually packaged Advil that catches her eye. That'll have to do. She leans against the counter, balancing her cane on the wall before popping three of the tablets dry. Her dark hair falls in wisps around her face. She brushes it away with shaky fingers.

Donna continues scanning the house. Not too much space, a single bedroom, a kitchenette, a bathroom, a minimal living area. There was a couch at least, not fuzzy, but not leather. Leather was the most goddamn uncomfortable thing to sleep on. She plants her feet on the kitchen tile, readying herself for the inevitably empty cabinets. If anything, there'll be canned goods, maybe some miscellaneous bars of some sort, perhaps some alcohol. 

There are a lot of beans, a couple cans of corn, and a single tin of Campbell soup.

Her arm is still throbbing under the cotton swab, even though the bullet had been extracted when she'd first arrived at the safe house. There was a pile of bloody napkins and tweezers on the table to prove it. She'd been shot before, too many times to count, and it irks her that it still stings. She presses her thumb harder into the sensitive flesh, wincing. If the bleeding doesn't stop soon, she'll just amputate it. She can go without another working limb.

She's not a medic, only ever received training from google and several, several encounters with brutal injuries, using the search engine to hastily type 'how to treat gunshot wound'. Wiki-how was surprisingly helpful in her dire situation. 

She slides toward the faucet, leaning over the rusty sink and drinks from the tap. Lukewarm, of course. She wipes her mouth lazily and peers across the kitchen at the open blinds. 

There isn't much of a chance that she'll be spotted. There aren't many reasons to travel into the middle of the Polish wilderness, but even so, she slams them shut.