Natasha looked down at the Afghan desert, a sprawling mass of dull gold and brown, punctured by occasional mountains that rose out of seemingly nowhere, sometimes gray masses of rock but more likely the same brown that the rest of the land was. Three months of searching for Stark by jeep or by helicopter, and the landscape was still undistinguishable to Natasha. They could have been searching the same section of land or been all over the desert for all the difference she could tell. And there was still no sign of Stark, not even a clue as to where his captors had taken him. Hope of finding the billionaire alive was almost nonexistent, and it was only at Rhodes's insistence that they were still looking.

Natasha had gotten permission from the lieutenant to join the search, on the condition that she stayed back if it came down to any fighting. She was the only one of Stark's bodyguards that had stayed behind; Smith and Adams had gone back stateside in two weeks, and Miller joined them within the month. Not that she could blame them; if she had been a normal bodyguard instead of an assassin under the cover of one, she would have done the same.

She had been tempted, more than once, to steal a vehicle and go looking by herself. But she knew that it was suicide; she was more likely to get lost in the desert than to find Stark by herself. So she had, for once, done as she was told and stayed with Rhodes's search team. Even if the lack of progress made her want to break someone's jaw.

She was prepared for a fruitless day of circling identical sand dunes, as identically fruitless as all her days these last three months. After all, Stark was taken by terrorists, and was likely to be dead already.

Then, above the roar of the chopper, Rhodes yelled, "There!"

Natasha leaned forward, gripping the edge of the seat, her heart pounding. A long figure stumbled across a dune. He dragged his feet, staggering like he was about to fall and lie on the burning sand and never get up were too far away to make out his features, but the body type looked right, even if it was darker and leaner and not clad in an expensive suit.

Natasha's blood was roaring through her ears, louder than the whirl of the helicopter as it descended. The man collapsed onto his knees, his face against the sand. The chopper's blades sent the sand around him in a swirl and his dark hair fluttered madly in the gale. They landed a few yards away from the fallen man – who was now close enough to be discernible as Stark. Darkened and gaunt and haggard, but unmistakably Stark.

Natasha's heart pulsated in her throat as she ran out the chopper on Rhodes's heels. The instant the sun hit her face she felt like she was blistering from the heat; she had trained in the snow in a tank top and shorts, but heat was foreign to her pale Russian skin. Even through her combat boots she could feel the heat of the sand, which radiated through the thick soles of her boots. The heat was almost visible in a shimmering haze. Stark had been wandering through the desert in what could have been hours. It was a miracle he was still alive.

"Tony!" the lieutenant shouted. Stark looked up, his eyes shining with hope, like he couldn't believe that his friend was there, and struggling rose to all fours. Rhodes clasped a hand to Stark's face. "How was the fun vee?" he deadpanned, before clasping Stark in a protective hug. "Next time you're riding with me," to which Stark nodded shakily.

"Let's get you back to base," Rhodes said as he helped Stark to his feet and got him back into the helicopter. Natasha sighed as they reached the coolness inside. Even though the fans left much to be desired, being out of the sun was already a huge relief. Stark, too, let out a shaky breath as he was seated and buckled up.

"Let's get back to base," Rhodes said to the pilot. "Mr Stark needs a medic."

"Yes sir." The team was all buckling up. Taking the seat opposite Stark, Natasha had a chance to take a closer look at him. His skin was tanned and sunburnt, dirtied with soot and ash and dried blood. There were scrapes all over his body, most of which were closed up and healing, apart from a few deep ones, two of which were on his arm; he cradled it against his chest.

"Natalie," he said around a cut and bleeding lip.

She didn't reply in words, she didn't know how to. Instead she took a damp towel and slowly, almost afraid that he was a mirage that would disappear, reached towards him. She was aware that her hands were shaking slightly; from the adrenaline rush, she told herself; nothing to do with Stark at all.

Stark didn't protest when she gently wiped at the dirt around his wounds. She started with the arm – those unhealed gashes needed attention soonest. That they let her avoid his gaze for longer was also a bonus that in no way affected her decision. She focused on her task, letting the silence lapse between them and pretending not to notice the amounting tension it caused. His wounds were mostly clean, except for the sand in them, which would be easy enough to wash out once they were back at base and had a proper medic. They also looked fairly new; he was lucky that he was rescued before they had a chance to get infected.

She worked her way up his arms, wiping the dirt from the other wounds. He was brawnier than she'd realized, his arms more muscle than softness. She dimly recalled something about his engineering work. He didn't mind getting his hands dirty, though more literally than most billionaires and just as figuratively.

Her towel was soon stained with blood and sand. She wet it again and moved onto his neck. It was laced with wounds, though fortunately none were more than skin deep. His goatee had grown out and was extending down his neck in a thick, uneven stubble. It made it more difficult for her to clean the wounds. She could feel his Adam's apple bob as she moved her towel over it, feel the pulse of his jugular vein. He tilted his head up to give her better access to the vulnerable skin and she carefully cleaned the wounds on his throat.

Then she had to move onto his face. Her hands had stopped trembling; the adrenaline must have worn off, she told herself, but some part of her, where not even her consciousness was aware of, was proud of her control over her emotions. She studiously wiped the dirt from his cheeks, and the dried blood from his nose and lips, when he said in a hoarse voice, "why are you here?"

Startled, she made the mistake of meeting his eyes. She wasn't prepared for what she saw there. They were more sincere than she had ever seen them before; their brown seemed to contain more depths than they had before. But those depths were empty. Hollowed. Like the cocksure genius that previously animated them was gone and left a shell in his wake.

She was completely honest when she answered, sounding almost as lost as he looked, "I don't know."

Notes:

You get two chapters in as many days because I'm feeling nice :]