The purr of the quinjet engine was reassuring, a familiar sound like the distant rumble of a coming storm. Clint had always loved the freedom of flight, the exhilaration of being high above other people and looking down on them from a distance. He had been one of the first to volunteer when Fury had been looking for agents to go to flight training. Natasha had been right behind him.

Looking at her now, curled into a ball in the co-pilot seat, it was obvious that she was exhausted. It was equally obvious that she was happy with the silence that had descended. In refusing to speak about what had happened to her she could continue to deny its effect on her, something that would protect her in the first instance but wouldn't last forever.

Mentally he ran through the list of places that he could take her, safe places where nobody would think to look for them in the coming days. Between them they had a surprising number of safe houses and apartments, some of which were on SHIELD's radar and others which were strictly off limits to the outside world. They maintained most of their hideaways in the names of various aliases and the only people that ever stepped inside them were the two of them. One of his properties was so private that not even Natasha, who knew almost all of his secrets, knew of its existence.

With the quinjet at their disposal he could have taken her anywhere but he didn't want to keep them in the air too long. A SHIELD aircraft was relatively easy for the agency to track - even if he had made a point of disabling the tracking signal before takeoff. Natasha had a safe house in Massachusetts, a cosy apartment in an old Victorian house in Lowell, but he wasn't sure that she'd want to be seen by people who knew her in her current state. His New York apartment seemed like a good bet, discreet, quiet and probably the last place that SHIELD would look for him given their association with Stark and the fact that he associated the city with the Chitauri attacks. Nothing triggered PTSD like place memory.

"Is my place in New York okay?" he asked, already knowing that she didn't really care where they ended up as long as it didn't involve a trip to medical or a SHIELD base.

Natasha stirred and looked at him, surprise registering in her expression. "You never go there anymore," she remarked.

Clint shrugged. "Whenever we've been in the city we've stayed with Stark."

He didn't tell her that the only reason he kept the apartment was so that he could escape from Stark when the billionaire got so annoying that he had the overwhelming itch to put an arrow in him. Stark liked secrets, particularly those that belonged to other people. Clint might be willing to trust him in the field but he wasn't ready to open up his entire life to the guy.

"Exactly," she countered. "We each have a whole floor of the most exclusive new York real estate and you maintain a tiny eighth floor apartment where the neighbours barely even grunt at you when you pass in the stairway?"

Glancing across at her he offered her a brief smile. "It suits me more than a tower of glass," he replied. "Sometimes I just prefer the quiet and the view from the roof is amazing."

She looked at him in that direct way of hers and he wondered whether his thoughts were written all over his face.

"Besides if SHIELD look for us in New York they'll look to Stark first," he explained, returning his gaze to the windshield and the sky beyond. "Nobody will look for us at an apartment they don't know I have."

"Quiet is good," she replied finally. "New York it is."

It was early evening when they arrived. The apartment was just as he had left it over a year ago, minus the layer of dust that would have accumulated in his absence. The old lady along the hall kept the place neat for him when he was out of town, an arrangement that allowed him to keep his privacy and her to earn a little extra money.

Natasha, moving stiffly and solidly out of breath after the climb up the stairs from the floor below, moved between the items of furniture as if seeing them for the first time. Dark circles hung beneath her eyes as they bounced from wall to wall. As she moved further into the room, she switched on all of the lights as she passed, ensuring that every corner of the room was lit. She looked like a hunted animal, as if she were waiting for someone to jump out at her from the corners.

Her hand clutched her injured ribs, the ones that she had insisted were just bruised but Clint was convinced were actually broken, as she reacquainted herself with the space. One of the main reasons that he had brought her to this particular apartment was the fact that she had stayed there several times, both with and without him. Familiarity could only help matters in the days that would follow.

Excusing himself, he checked over the rest of the apartment to make sure that it was secure and then left to inform Mrs Capretta along the hall that he was home and therefore the apartment wouldn't need any attention. He returned to find her sitting in the armchair, still clutching her ribs, her hands shaking. The trauma of recent days was catching up with her, leaving her shaken and bringing her emotions to the surface.

"Do you want to try and get some sleep?" he asked, crossing the room and crouching before her. "Take the bedroom, I'll crash out here."

Natasha shook her head, "don't think I could sleep even if I wanted to." Her voice was not her own, too many hours of biting back screams had changed its tone. Unconsciousness was no substitute for real sleep and it was a fair bet that her body was running on empty right about now.

Silence settled over them, oppressive and tinged with a discomfort that they couldn't break without bringing the current situation back to the fore. She was obviously uncomfortable, her expression shuttered and closed off to him. Clint didn't know what to do for the best and the helplessness that he felt was doing a fine job of feeding the anger that simmered in his gut. He wanted to hurt something, badly, as long as it wasn't the woman on the other side of the room.

He filled a glass of water for her and then went to sit by the window, pretending that the book in his hands could hold his attention in the same way that she did. He thought about heading out to the store to get some supplies but she seemed worse when he wasn't within sight, instead he settled for watching the traffic moving on the street below, allowing the movement to calm his thoughts.

"Any chance of some of those meds you stole?" Her voice carried across the room, husky and soft.

When he turned his head, already moving to fulfil the request, she was paler than she had been and her micro-expressions betrayed the discomfort that she was feeling. He wanted to ask where the pain was but was afraid of the answer. The question could be entirely too personal.

He brought her a couple of options from which to choose and handed her the untouched glass of water, letting her take her time over the decision. As expected Natasha opted for the weaker of the two medications. She had never been a fan of the weightless feeling that narcotics caused, something that he suspected had much to do with her KGB background. She shivered as she handed the glass back to him, her muscles trembling violently beneath her skin.

"Do you want some tea?" he asked, lost for what else he could offer her. Something warm, something comforting.

Natasha nodded gratefully, pulling her knees further up to her chest and leaning back against the cushions only to shift again a moment later when a new ache presented itself.

He took his time, allowing the impotent anger to seep away while he waited for the water to boil. His partner needed him and he would be there until she didn't. Simple as that. Even if he was bleeding quietly on the inside from the reality of what happened, he would hold it together for Natasha.

"Here," he told her, offering the mug. Natasha straightened in her chair and offered him a weak smile. Her hands shook alarmingly when she reached for the mug and he had to steady her grip so that the liquid didn't spill over them both. After placing the tea on the floor, he helped her to settle into a more comfortable position with her head on the arm of the chair and her body curled up within the seat. His jacket hung over the back and he pulled it down to cover her, hoping the the warmth would ease some of her aches or at the very least stop her shivers.

Natasha's lips quirked into that ghost of a smile. "It smells like you," she told him, tugging the material closer to her chin. Unsure whether that was a good thing or a bad one, he smoothed her hair away from her face and lowered himself until he was sitting on the floor and she no longer had to look up at him.

"If only that was the only thing I had to apologise for," he said ruefully. Her fingers crept out from beneath the material of his jacket and grasped his wrist. There was nothing delicate in her eyes when their gazes met, just a determination that told him everything about how she had survived what life had thrown at her. Clint felt the connection then, the shared experience of overcoming whatever came their way.

"Don't do that," she told him firmly, "I've had it worse. The next few days are going to be rough but ..."

The fact that he knew she was telling the truth did precisely nothing to make him feel better. The fact that her time in the bunker had opened up old wounds as well as creating new ones was almost more than he could stand. "I'm not going anywhere."

"I mean it Clint," she sighed.

"So do I," he replied, equally firmly. The silence stretched out for a moment, heavy with implication while they tried to figure one another out. Generally it wasn't a problem, whatever it was that had made them, Clint and Natasha were the same. Survivors. Warriors. Partners. Family.

"Do you need anything else?" he asked, needing to take the weight out of the moment. The trust that wavered beneath the pain and the remnants of fear in her eyes made him too aware of himself, too exposed to her. His emotions were too stirred up for him to let her see them.

Natasha released his hand, slipping her own back beneath the jacket. She adjusted her position slightly and sighed, eyes never leaving his. "Just time and maybe a little patience," she replied wearily.

He didn't bother reassuring her that everything would be okay because it obviously wouldn't, but he did give her the reassurances that he would have needed in her place. " You took a heavy hit Nat," he told her seriously, "it's gonna take time to walk it off. Just know that however long it takes, wherever the journey takes you, I'll always have your back."

He rose to his feet then, moving across the room to give her some space. She needed to rest if she was going to heal, she needed time to process things without him monitoring every expression that crossed her face. He would go back to his seat by the window and distract himself with the traffic, the birds, the neighbours, whatever was available.

He couldn't tell her how to process the gamut of emotion that she had to be feeling. Natasha would have to figure it out for herself, to choose her own path as it were. There was no magic pill, no tea and sympathy, that would make things miraculously okay. Even sharing his own experiences in the wake of Loki's control over him would do little to illuminate the path that was right for her. It hurt to think about those days, about how close he had come to losing his mind and his understanding of who he really was, but if she needed him to go down that road then he would do it without a thought. If he had to share with her the worst experience of his life to help her get through hers, then he would. This was Romanoff, his partner, his best friend, he would lie down and die for her if the situation called for it.

"You'll be close by right?" she asked as he walked away, a slight note of apprehension in her voice.

He didn't turn back to look at her, it wasn't necessary. Natasha was now a grenade with the pin pulled, throw her in one direction and everything would work out fine, let her roll in the other … different story entirely. He knew the risks, he would accept the consequences. It was up to him to steer her in the right direction and hope that they both survived the fallout. "Right here," he replied simply. "I'll be right here."