Joan’s hands were small and capable, warm beneath the smooth coolness of the sunscreen she spread along Natasha’s back and shoulders with all the careful diligence of a doctor, and Natasha felt herself relaxing further beneath her friend’s smooth administration. The intelligence of Joan combined with the warmth of her was a rarity, she had to think, and Natasha looked at her over her shoulder as Jane worked. To call Joan “pretty” would be the worst sort of understatement, as she was the sort of woman who was not merely anything, and for whom new words had to be invented all the time, Natasha was sure. She struck Natasha as the sort of put-together woman she might’ve aspired to be, if she’d lived the lifestyle for it. Natasha liked being around her. Like Clint Barton and Steve Rogers, Joan Watson was the caliber of person that made Natasha feel better about herself, just for being her friend.

“Ahh,” she said at Joan’s explanation. “I haven’t had a roommate really, since being an adult. Is that rough?” She supposed that Clint could sort of count as a roommate now that they were in the Nexus together as sometimes they wound up sleeping over more often than not, but it was more of a whimsical decision than any sort of conscious decision to ration and share space. Passing out on each other’s couches hardly seemed to count in the way Joan was struggling with.