Shadow of a Bullet[Natasha, Orion]

Uh-oh. Well, she'd be damned. What was once a playful attempt at humor, was now a present reality as her bloodied body was swept up in his arms. The sudden nature of it was enough to elicit a shade of red across her already crimson-stained cheeks. An impish grin formed across her lips as the man made an expedient march toward a nearby infirmary. Patting a palm against his chest, she chuckled in that same playful tune of delirium.

"Aw, shucks. Didn't think you'd take me seriously, darlin'. I'm all bloodied up, bein' carried to safety by my strong knight and shinin' armor, Orion. How heroic~"

Where was left? Where was right? Unanswered questions, all of them. What she was aware of was being carried in his arms, and no silly state of mind would prove potent enough to stop her from exchanging banter during the trip. Curious to see if she could get that stony expression to shift, if only just a little...

Orion took the situation seriously, seeing her banter as nothing more than an antic to keep aware. Usually the medic would keep the person talking to keep their body parts functioning. Natasha's not in danger of dying, despite how she looked, but he can appreciate her tenacity. Someone of less guts would have probably fainted by now. If only her need to keep herself centered didn't rely on poking at him. Can't she think of anything else besides poking and prodding?

"I'm not heroic. I'm just doing my job."

And despite trying his best to keep professional, he had played along with her antics. Though, to his chagrin, he's not the best at innuendos or allegory. Straight forward, he told her the truth about the situation, and just because it sounded like what the main character in a book would say doesn't mean one should run with it and try any harder to push their fantastical viewpoint. Either way, the hospital is not too far away. Natasha should hush up and be a good bleeding out soldier.

"Ohoho~ That's certainly what a good-ol' fashioned hero would say, wouldn't they? 'I'm not doin' this for heroism, I'm just doin' my job. Queen Natasha appreciates the gesture, darling..."

The bloody soldier held her ground against the looming hand of slumber. Adrenaline was indeed the primary source of strength at play here. Hushing up would have certainly been easy for the Texas sharpshooter leaking blood all over the place, yet it wasn't nearly half as entertaining as humoring herself with harmless banter. Of course, rather than prodding at his chest, she upped the ante by running a hand along his chin.

"My Hero~"

What should he even say to that? Insisting anything else would just open him up for further teasing. She's obviously enjoying his discomfort, and he may not mind it because of her injuries, but he's just no good at banter. It makes him feel like he's always on the backfoot, and with his programming, being on the backfoot is bad. A part of him couldn't help but be angry that he's not good at this, and maybe she'd notice the way his brow knitted. Maybe she wouldn't.

Either way, they'd reach the infirmary, his bloody soles stepping onto the premises with her before someone took notice of them. He remained stoic while explaining the situation, and someone quickly came with a wheelchair to whisk Natasha away. Though, if she had noticed his frustration, she'd also notice the way his eyes softened as she was taken, a brief window of the worry in his eyes.

And it was brief, for he turned away as she's wheeled away for treatment. She'd not see him step outside, and she'd not see him place a hand on his cheek. He's never had a mother. He's only known the harshness of man. It's strange how soft a person's touch could actually be, but that's something to ponder for another time. He has work to return to.