As they emerged into the bright desert sunlight, both of them shading their eyes against the glare, Clint doubted that anyone would have the first clue about the extent of what she had endured. Natasha, like himself, was an accomplished liar and she was lying to everyone in the way she stepped out into the light and gave the impression that she hadn't been through hell. He admired her for it, truly he did. She was the strongest, most resilient person he had ever known.

Medics rushed forward to greet them, voices colliding in their eagerness to get their patient stabilised for transport. Clint listened only vaguely, too preoccupied with the mechanics of helping his partner to put one foot in front of the other and making it look like she wasn't seconds away from falling to the floor.

The others gathered around, field agents, STRIKE team members, everyone that had pulled together to look for her, concerned expressions making an appearance as they got close enough to see how pale she was, how unsteady she seemed. Sunlight only served to highlight the contrast between her skin and the blood that stained it, lighting her up like a million kilowatt spotlight.

"Good to see you Romanoff," Rumlow announced, clapping her on the shoulder. He meant nothing by it and Clint knew that but his palm landed on her injured shoulder, the one that had been close to dislocation and Natasha's response made his protective instincts rear up and snarl. As Rumlow's hand landed on the injured joint she stumbled, reflexes kicking in as she twisted her body away from the contact, pressing in against Clint in such a way that he had to adjust his hold on her or risk taking them both down to the ground.

"What the hell Rumlow?" he demanded, his voice becoming like one of his arrows, threatening and sharp. "Give her some room man."

Hands were raised immediately as Agent Brock Rumlow took a step backwards, his expression carefully blank so as not to show pity for Natasha's condition or to incite the anger of her partner. He appeared genuinely confused by the reaction.

"S'okay Rumlow," she exclaimed, leaning into Clint's body and allowing him to anchor her. "Shoulder's injured that's all."

The explanation was readily accepted, relief passing through the expressions of the agents around them. An injury was something that easily explained a reaction that was out of character, a slip in the Black Widow persona that they all recognised.

Clint held her steady, his arms coming around her to keep her upright while she shook violently, muscles tightening in response to the panic. Her back pressed against his chest and he could feel the expansion of her lungs with every breath, the thundering of her heartbeat; she wasn't as calm as she appeared. Far from it.

The chief medic on the flight pushed her way through the gathered agents and stopped a few feet away, no doubt assessing the slightly wild look in the eye of both agents that stood before her. Clint knew that he wasn't being rational, it wasn't realistic to think that he could protect Natasha from everything that was waiting for her, but that didn't mean his subconscious had got the memo.

"Agent Romanoff my name is Clare Callaghan," she explained quietly, "I'd like to get you onboard so that we can transport you back to base. We can leave whenever you're ready."

It was a stroke of mastery to put the decision into Natasha's hands, when given control of the situation Natasha seemed to regain her equilibrium slightly. Fingernails still biting into the exposed flesh of Clint's arm, she nodded her agreement and took a one faltering step toward the waiting aircraft, then another.

"Stay close?" she asked, as he moved forward with her. On another day he would have informed her that it would have been difficult for him to do otherwise while she had her nails embedded firmly into his flesh, but instead he nodded silently and moved with her until they reached the jet.

Natasha submitted to the medics without complaint when they insisted that she enter the makeshift infirmary area and sit on the gurney but her grip on his arm remained strong. Doctors unnerved her at the best of times, it was to be expected that when she was feeling particularly vulnerable she wouldn't want to be anywhere that she felt less than comfortable. Given her long history of being abused by those responsible for her physical wellbeing, her lack of resistance was testament to her exhaustion.

Callaghan, perhaps aware of the Black Widow's near legendary distaste for medical, worked quickly to assess her for transport. While the medic worked Clint sourced them both a bottle of water from the supplies and handed one of them to his partner.

"It would be better if we set up an IV to deliver fluids," the medic announced, easing the water bottle out of Natasha's grasp, "that way we can be sure that she's getting everything she needs. Oral hydration at this point would potentially make her sick." She turned to look directly at Natasha, making and holding eye contact. "I could give you something for the pain Agent, it'll make you a lot more comfortable."

Natasha flinched away from the medic's careful touch. Exhaustion made her words run together, "no drugs."

At the first indication that Callaghan was about to argue, Clint straightened Natasha's arm and rolled up the sleeve of her suit to reveal the puncture wounds at her elbow, then edged her hair aside to show the one in her neck. "We don't know what's in her system right now," he explained.

It was only half of the reason that Natasha didn't want the pain relief though, she very rarely allowed anyone to give her drugs - yet another legacy of growing up within the clutches of a covert government operation. Drugs dulled reactions and made her vulnerable, therefore drugs were to be avoided in all but the most serious of situations. Neither Clint nor Natasha enlightened anyone else of that happy little viewpoint.

"I understand," she acknowledged, "but I'm going to need a few minutes alone with Agent Romanoff to assess the injuries that she's carrying. You can wait in the main body of the aircraft."

There was an expectation that that instruction would be followed without protest but she didn't look too sure of herself, perhaps because she'd heard stories of how flexible Strike Team Delta were with the rules. Clint raised an eyebrow, ready to face off against anyone that pushed too far at Natasha's compromised defences. It was his partner's agreement that stopped him from causing a scene.

He crouched in front of the bed, bringing his gaze down to her level and waited until he was sure that she was focused on what he was about to say. "Right outside," he told her. "You need me," he pointed to the curtain, " I am right there."

Emerging from behind the screen that separated the treatment bay from the rest of the jet, he found several of their colleagues already aboard and preparing for takeoff. The flight back to base would take a couple of hours and he suspected that given the narcotics in Natasha's system it would be a while longer before they were willing to release her.

"Hey man, about before …"

Clint glanced up to find Rumlow seated across from him, his athletic frame way more at ease than should have been possible in the surroundings. It was the beginning of an apology and the other STRIKE team leader looked like he felt as awkward about it as Clint did. Scrubbing a hand down his face, Clint sank into the seat beside him and kicked his feet out in front of him, stretching tired muscles. "You couldn't know she was hurting," he replied, accepting the apology even though it wasn't his to accept. He had overreacted and they both knew it but Rumlow knew how hot emotions could run in such situations. Accepting the olive branch would go a long way towards making things okay between them.

"Any word on how they managed to take her down?" he asked, genuinely curious no doubt as to how an agent of Natasha's calibre had been subdued and held for any length of time. "Did she say anything about the guys responsible?"

Clint clenched his jaw, counted to three and then swallowed his instinctive response. "She's not really conversational right now," he replied. "Looks like she was drugged."

"She okay?" Rumlow asked.

Clint wasn't sure what to say. Was she okay? Far from it. Would she be okay? Too early to tell. He couldn't say any of those things to anyone on this mission though; his fears for Natasha were rooted in their close relationship, he could see the cracks in her, the bloodstains, the ghosts in her eyes. "She will be."

To discourage further attempts at conversation, Barton put his head back against the wall behind him and closed his eyes. Images flashed, blood and surgical implements lined up on a table. He sighed, opened his eyes again and instead focused on the opaque screen directly opposite him. A second medic disappeared behind the fabric and the murmur of voices drifted out into the belly of the jet where the passengers, experienced agents all of them, tried not to hear.

They'd been in the air for about half an hour when Clint became aware that all was not well in the treatment bay. He could hear the medics trying to persuade Natasha to let them do something and his partner's flat refusal. The rustle of fabric followed and then the sound of a surgical package being opened. Tension uncurled within him and he braced himself in the seat, well aware that for Natasha anything medical was a minefield of emotional and psychological triggers - and that was without the experiences of recent days. He had no way of knowing what he would walk in on if he were to step behind that curtain.

"Agent Barton could you step in for a moment please?" Callaghan's voice called, an edge of tension beneath the calm.

Glad to be pulled from his thoughts, Clint was out of his seat and across the space before the sentence was out of her mouth. Or he was glad, but that was until he realised why they had called for him. Rounding the edge of the screen, he found Natasha hyperventilating on the bed, her body folded over and arms braced against her knees, a position that he knew from experience would not feel good with bruised or busted ribs. One sleeve of her suit had been detached and a blood pressure cuff encircled the limb above the elbow.

"Her pulse is all over the place!" the second medic announced, pulling the earpieces of the stethoscope from her ears.

Clint assessed the situation in a heartbeat and recognised the situation for what it was. "Anxiety attack?" he asked, already moving forward. "Was there a trigger?"

"We were about to put a line in to deliver some fluids," Callaghan explained, "nothing that should typically cause a reaction like this."

He hated to see her suffering and knew first hand how debilitating it was to lose control when panic surged inside your skin. After the events with Loki, Clint had lost hours, days even, in a state of constant anxiety as the memories started to surface. "Give me a minute," he instructed.

"We need to get a line into her ASAP," the second medic argued, standing her ground.

"And we will," he stated with enforced calm, "once I've calmed her down."

Callaghan, apparently recognising that this was an argument they wouldn't win, backed down and drew her colleague away from the bedside. "Give him a minute or two …"

"Why, what can he do? We should give her a shot to calm …"

Clint rounded on the two medics. "She said no drugs," he reminded them. Knowing that time was of the essence, he laid it on the line for them. "I can do more for her than sedatives right now if you'll just give me some space."

Whether it was acceptance of his claim or down to the sharp tone of his voice, Callaghan ushered her colleague out of the area and gave them some privacy.

Natasha moaned low in her throat, her throat working convulsively as she tried to regulate her breathing. Gasping for air, she searched for him as he said her name aloud, her eyes wild and glassy. Clint didn't think, just reacted. He sank down so that he was directly in front of her, his knees on either side of her own, and took her arms in his. His fingers rested over the pulse in her right wrist, mindful of her injuries, measuring the furious pounding of her blood.

"Look at me Nat," he told her, his voice retaining a level of calm that had long since fled both of them. He raised two fingers to point at his eyes, drawing her gaze where he needed it. "Right here, that's it. Just look at me."

Her hand shot out and grabbed the front of his shirt, knuckles white as snow against the fabric beneath the layer of dried blood. She was falling, grasping for something, anything that was familiar and calming, and he gave her the only thing that he could. He offered her himself without any reservations whatsoever.

"C'mon Nat, breathe," he urged. "Breathe with me, come on. In …" He took a deep breath in. "... and out. C'mon Tasha, you can do this."

He repeated the process over and over, relieved when her breathing fell in time with his own. She was shaking beneath his hands, her eyes locked on his as she followed his instructions. In and out she breathed, following him, letting him guide her to where she needed to be. Slowly, her pulse started to calm. "That's right, just breathe. Just breathe."

As she regained her composure, Natasha leaned into him, her head coming to rest against his shoulder. With her face buried in his upper chest, Clint felt every spasm of her muscles, every tremor, every breath that escaped her lips. Carefully, not wanting to spook her, he moved one hand to rub her back. "Easy Nat," he reassured her, unsure of whether the words were for her benefit or his own, "it's just me. Just breathe for me. Just breathe."

When she lifted her head again, still breathing with exaggerated calmness, there was a plea in her eyes that he couldn't ignore. "Can't do this alone," she managed to whisper.

"You don't have to," he replied, climbing up onto the mattress beside her. She leant against him and he wrapped an arm around her shoulders. The shivers subsided and after a few minutes of simply breathing together, he called the medics back in, making a note of their surprised expressions. Whatever they had expected to find it apparently wasn't a relatively calm and compliant spy.

He was right there as they put in the IV to deliver fluids into her system and though she wasn't quite back to being her usual self, she held it together while they did what they had to. She let Callaghan inspect and bandage the wounds to her wrists. She let the second medic, whom they learned was named Fallon, clean the cut on her brow with something that stung enough to make her eyes water. She let them take her blood pressure and probe her injured shoulder but the haunted look stayed in her eyes for the rest of the journey and her blood stained fingers clung onto his hand like her life depended on it.