There they were. Bruised and battered in the back of one of those high-tech jets S.H.I.E.L.D. did own. Only the sound of the gears and the shaking of the aircraft reminded her of where she was.
It was night. Through the windscreen one could have seen the stars. He had always loved the height, the speed. Flying was his thing. But she guessed that he was sound asleep on the other side of the cargo area. Asleep, like she wished she could be.
It wasn't that she disliked flying. But her mind was restless. Whenever she closed her eyes there was the muffled sound of screams and the hollow click of gunshots. Only memories. Nothing more, nothing less, she kept telling herself, but it wouldn't make them go away.
Her elbows were placed on her knees. Her left leg hurt where she was shot. Beneath the fabric of her suit there was bandage putting pressure on her wound. Clint had insisted on treating the graze shot.
Normally she was not the one ending up shot. But this mission had been anything but normal.
Her forehead rested on her interlaced fingers, her back hurting due to her bent position. But she couldn't care less. Her aching body at least kept her conscious.
The crimson hair concealed her face from the others on the jet and severely narrowed her sight, so that try as she might she could only see the ground of the aircraft. If she would have been able to keep her eyes open.
Oh Lord, she was so dead tired.
Again and again she was drifting off. And every time when she did, the memories came back, pictures of little bodies flashing through her mind. Little bodies covered in blood. Skinny. Abused. Tortured.
They had known that it was about human trafficking. They had known. But nobody told them that it was about children.
Barton and she had been overrun by a little private military force that had been watching the prison. That was the irony part, the fact that the children were kept hostage in an old abandoned prison, waiting until some horny old bag would choose one of the young girls or the youthful boys with their still girlish features and paid their price.
It had not been the first time that the spies broke into a prison. It had not been the first time that they had seen wrecked and ruined bodies, demolished and tortured corpses of those whom did not survive the shipment or the treatment. But it had been their first time seeing those bruised and battered bodies of children.
Even the living had been covered in dirt, sitting in their own excrements. Their arms and legs had been covered with dark bruises, the kind that would only appear when someone tried to defend themselves or was taken violently against their will. Those kinds of bruises that would vanish from their little bodies without leaving a mark.
Natasha felt sick.
After everything the spy survived in her long life, she felt so exhausted, that this flight back to headquarters felt like the most impossible thing to do. She could barely keep herself together. She felt numb. And guilty.
The readhead heard someone get up. It was Barton. The rhythm of his footsteps giving him away.
He walked past her, his boots appearing for a brief second in her field of view. She could tell that he was headed to the front section of the jet. She heard him talking to the pilot, but she didn't pay any attention what they were talking about with their lowered voices.
The conversation was short.
When the sound of his heavy boots once again interrupted her circling thoughts, she was surprised when they stopped next to her. Releasing a breathless sigh, Barton sat down on her right, leaning back.
Instantly she could feel the heat of his body next to hers, even though they did not touch. That was one of those things: Clint's skin was always warm. Not to say hot. He was radiating heat. Natasha guessed it was a male thing.
The silence between them thickened the air and relaxed Natasha's sour muscles. His presence calmed her, soothing her nerves.
Natasha knew why he came over. He had seen. Like always. Natasha could not hide anything from her hawk.
The redhead straightened her back and stretched her injured leg. When she turned her head a little to look at him their eyes locked.
Barton seemed eased. Eased but exhausted. She knew that Clint was not really relaxed, but he tried to give her the impression that he was. And he knew that she knew.
There were dark circles under his eyes and there was a cut on his right temple. The skin on his naked arms was scratched and bruised. Natasha knew that there were many more injuries on his body, but at least none of them was visible.
The ironic part was that it wasn't he who had been shot this time, but her. Somehow this simple fact amused Natasha. But it was a shallow feeling, which vanished before it could bring light to her vacant expression.
For a moment they did do nothing but looking at each other.
Barton had seen. He had seen the terror in her emerald eyes when they had discovered that the mission had been about children. Like he was able to see now, that Natasha needed comfort. Closeness. Something this strong woman next to him would never admit. Something he would gladly give her.
That was their little game. The more she tried to be for herself, dealing with everything they have been through alone, the more he would stick around, give her company. But normally they would be alone. The closeness they shared in their relationship was a thing known by everyone at S.H.I.E.L.D., but a thing no one ever had seen happening with their own eyes.
Natasha was the first to drop her gaze and leaned back as well. On the jet were only two other agents, one of them as a co-pilot, and the pilot itself. The other agent had been busy checking something on his small computer since Clint sat down next to the darkly-dressed spider. But again, Natasha could not care less.
Instead, she just closed her eyes and gave in, leaning her head on his shoulder, inhaling his scent. He smelled of blood and the dirt and the familiar fragrance that was him Barton's presence would keep the nightmares away. As always.