Days passed into weeks, and weeks into months and Natasha was eventually trusted enough to be assigned individual missions. Clint and her still stayed close, and one was always at the gate when the other came back from a mission.
She easily completed all the missions she had to, until one day, a complication occurred and she was caught. Getting out of the cell she was confined in was easy, as was gunning down the guards. Yet once she reached the gates of the gang's camp, she noted that the camp was situated in a desert. Sand stretched out into the horizon for as far as she could see. Throwing a glance back at her pursuers, she realised that into the desert was the only way she could go. And so she hopped onto a nearby truck and began to drive. She was miserably lost within a day. Thankfully, there were rations in the back seat of the truck- a small knapsack of water and some bread. That would be able to last her for some time. She sent a signal to SHIELD, but she didn't really expect any reply. This mission did not have an excavation team. She had always known that.
Days passed as the truck ran out of oil and her rations gradually dwindled till nothing was left. Natasha lay against the desert ground, drained, parched, starving. She had survived all kinds of torture, the worst of ambushes, and now, she was going to perish in the hands of Mother Nature. She mused over how oddly fitting it was as she gradually drifted into unconsciousness.
She vaguely remembered being picked up from the sand as she struggled as a familiar voice murmured, 'Hush, hush, I'm here now'. She vaguely remembered a blanket and water and some food, but that was all she could get together before everything faded into black once again.
She woke up some time later on the bed of a SHIELD helicarrier. There was a cup of water on her bedside table, along with a note. 'DRINK' was scrawled in messy, familiar handwriting on it. She smiled slightly and drank it up. Pulling her blanket around her, she shuffled out of the room in search for Clint.
He was sitting on the floor of the training room, sharpening his arrows. 'You're up,' he stated as she entered the room.
'Hey,' she sat down beside him.
'You all right?' He looked over at her.
'There wasn't supposed to be an extraction team,' she murmured softly.
'You weren't back when you were supposed to. I got worried.'
There was this odd taste in her mouth. If this had been the Black Widow program, no one would have cared. In sensitive cases, the KGB would send assassins in to kill the failed agent. She had nearly died once because of that.
'You got worried,' she murmured.
'It may have included some yelling at Fury and stealing a helicarrier,' he added abashedly.
She shifted slightly towards him, 'You care.' It was such an odd concept.
He reached over tentatively, putting his arm across her shoulders, pulling her close. Gently, he tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear and pressed his lips gently against her forehead. She leaned against his chest, listening to his heartbeat as it went thudthudthud, holding tight onto her only anchor to this mess of a world.