My eyes had long since quit interpreting what was happening on the TV.

I had been confined to my room for two days already, and grew sick of television after the first hour. Never having been much for watching something for no purpose, I fell asleep immediately after, not waking until Clint carried in my breakfast the next morning.

But, after that breakfast, I had grown bored, and entered the never-ending cycle of napping and TV-watching. I had also nearly thrown up the smiley-face pancakes—Steve's attempt at cheering me up, most likely, since Clint said he was the one who made them—so my stomach had very little food in it at the moment.

Throwing up would be another sign of weakness, one that I didn't want to show.

As I glowered blankly at the screen—which depicted some crime show that verged on predictable—I heard the door open. Assuming it was Clint, with food I would pretend to eat but then scrap, I said weakly, "Hey."

"How are you, Natasha?" It wasn't Clint after all; instead, Pepper Potts stood in the doorframe, holding a tray with a grilled cheese sandwich and tomato soup on it. Stepping into the room, she handed me the food, giving me a tight smile. Her face seeped with sympathy, which made me want her to leave, and now.

"Fine," I replied shortly, turning back to the TV. Whatever show was on was way better than listening to sympathy speech again. I'd already gotten it from too many people to count.

Standing awkwardly for a moment, she finally asked, "Do you want some movies? I'd be glad to put something on for you. Or, I could ask JARVIS to connect Netflix to this TV. Would you want that?"

Netflix sounded like it would be worse; way more options, and way longer programs to commit to. So, I shook my head at her, continuing to watch the TV. "I'm fine."

"No, you're not," she pointed out, coming to sit on the corner of the bed. "Honey, you've eaten less these last couple of days than Tony. If you beat Tony, then that's saying something. Natasha, can you look at me?" Her voice was so hurt, I couldn't resist. Not when she had done nothing wrong.

I was just too afraid of breaking down again.

My lip was trembling as I turned to stare at her face, but that was the only sign of emotion I let slip through. The rest of me was cold, aloof. I was forcing myself to behave like the Black Widow again, to embody her and not let Natasha Romanoff, the weakened woman, slip through.

Inhaling and exhaling deeply, she seemed to consider saying something to me, something deep with great impact. But, she must've realized how much of a waste it was. So, instead, she said softly, "Just make sure you eat the food."

I nodded; this time, I would actually eat it. I didn't want to cause her any more grief. She already looked like she was going to cry any second.

Just to reassure her, I lifted the grilled cheese to my mouth, and took a bite. A small smile formed on her face, and she got up, satisfied. "Thank you," she said, beginning to leave. But, just as she reached the doorframe, she turned around and informed me, "Clint is on a mission, and will be gone for a couple of days. And I've got to take care of some Stark Industries stuff. Hope you don't mind Steve or Bruce caring for you."

"Don't mind at all," I said, my heart sinking. Masking it with a grin, all I could think as she left was, He left without me.