Author's Note: Heeey, my dears! Thank you for your interest, hopefully you enjoy! ;)

SPOILERS FOR AVENGERS ENDGAME! I AM NOT KIDDING! PROCEED AT YOUR OWN RISK!

PLEASE READ THIS!:

This is technically attached to my Endgame fix-it "Withering Away", but you are more than welcome to read it as an a separate story with three things in mind: a) Thor dived into work instead of alcohol, b) when Thanos snapped, it separated Bruce and Hulk in half, and Hulk Vanished, c) rather than leave Clint running around for five years, the Avengers have been working with him since the snap.

Rated for: Torture, some suicidal ideation, paranoia on my part. Language is all K. No slash, no smut, no non-con, no incest.

Parings: Pepper/Tony

Summary: Clint went after the Japanese Terrorists with actual reason; this is what it was. Two months before Endgame, Natasha and Steve are captured by that same group and tortured, leaving them both a mess.

Disclaimer: I own nothing!

WARNINGS: Torture, sleep deprivation, lowered self-worth, paranoia from me, mention of suicide, mention of child death (but, like, when Thanos snapped), and brief mention of suicidal ideation.

*Note: As a polygot myself, it always frustrates me that people don't have Natasha speak in her native tongue in MCU, so...yeah. Translations (not that she speaks only Russian guys, but, I mean, this isn't exactly a walk through a daisy field for them), will be provided on the bottom.

Counting Numbers Instead of Sheep:

A migraine is forming between her eyes when she finally comes back into awareness, and this is followed by two observations: one, someone is cradling her head, two: whoever broke into her apartment last night didn't lock the door when they left.

She has no idea why this last one is so prominent to her, but she can remember vaguely in the midst of gunshots, drugs, and the pain of her head that, as she was dragged down the hall unable to do much else than curse, they didn't lock the door behind them. Her next door neighbor is going to call the cops because she's nosy, and Natasha "leaving" her door open like that is going to draw Mrs. Wenston's attention. (If the bullets didn't). So, whoever kidnapped her should have locked the door behind them when they left.

A hand smooths hair from her face as a low groan slips through her lips, and Natasha slowly blinks her eyes open, careful to be mindful of her headache. Headache sounds like such a trivial word to describe the ache, though, and the words "splitting of the skull" might have been a better choice.

She's not sure.

English isn't her mother tongue, and its metaphors have always felt awkward and mostly confusing.

This is not something she should be thinking about right now.

There's a face leaning over hers, but she ignores it in favor of observing what's behind them. The walls are poorly lit, but there's drywall which means that she's probably in a building. The room smells faintly of vomit, other body waste, and there's a distinct chemical smell that immediately makes her want to heave.

Makes her want to heave more, because the migraine is already doing enough in that department.

"Nat?" The voice is familiar, and for some reason plates are the first thing that comes to mind, and following that is a hat with the words "WWll Veteran" on it. She knows this man, but she can't grasp at a name.

Ste…? Stephan? Steppen? Stol?—No that one can't be right. She's pretty sure this has nothing to do with a table or desk. Syr? No, not cheese either. Oh, gosh, she can't think straight anymore. All that's coming to mind is a spasm of Russian words now, and none of them are helpful for naming this man.

She flicks her gaze to his face, hoping that will help with identification, but all it does is rouse a deep anger in her chest. His left cheek is bruised, and across his nose is a deep cut that's still leaking blood lazily. That can't be right, though, because of the Serum. It must have been recent, then, or perhaps something is preventing him from healing.

Like a larger injury.

Anxiety compresses her chest, and Natasha blinks again to try and ground herself—adjust—but despite her best efforts, she only makes it about three inches before her head has collapsed back onto the man's lap and she's groaning again.

The man's hand gently strokes her hair, mindful of the swelling on her left side, "Easy," he encourages, "you took quite a hit."

Natasha attempts to mutter out a response, but all that escapes is a rather undignified noise. She can't even really determine what it is. It doesn't sound like one of pain, or even an attempt at a word, just a noise her body decided needed to break open air.

Nice of it.

Natasha blinks, and then shakily lifts up her right hand to the man's face, attempting to ask her question without verbally saying anything. The man apparently catches it, because he gently prods her hand away, "I'm fine," he reassures, giving her a smile that is far from encouraging, "just a little scrape."

"...bl'd," she insists, and swallows heavily when she realizes her Russian brogue is thick. If she isn't paying attention, it slips into her voice like this and it's humiliating. A spy can't be effective in their job if they reveal their nationality with a few audible noises.

"Not much," the man reassures, apparently picking up that she was trying to say "blood", which is a miracle in of itself. Natasha makes a face despite his words, and the man sighs heavily.

What is his name?

This is important, because he is important, and the fact that she forgot is frustrating her. She looks up a little, but winces as she catches the light from the single bulb dangling towards the center of the room, and Steve—Steve, his name is Steve! Look she remembered!—shifts to block some of the worst phosphorescent.

Natasha doesn't bother with trying to get up or move. She adjusts her position so her neck isn't straining as much, and lets the weight of her leg rest on Steve's leg.

"...we're…?" Natasha trails, trying to remember what her question was.

"I don't know," Steve answers anyway, and the declaration reminds her that she's in an unfamiliar environment and trying to place it, "I woke up here with you about half an hour ago. Your head was pretty bad, I wasn't…" Steve trails, but doesn't finish the thought.

Natasha doesn't press.

If Steve wants to talk, he will.

"I already tried the door, but it was locked, and nothing I did put a dent in it," he appends further, and Natasha nods a little, immediately regretting it. Ow. Given that, they must be being held captive somewhere, but for what purpose and where is still unsolved.

The men that broke in last night weren't speaking English, or a language she's awfully familiar with, so she's guessing it wasn't Americans. Natasha pats down herself for a second, trying to determine if she has any remaining weapons, but she can't find any.

She was sleeping when they broke in, and her pajamas aren't something she has a surplus of weapons with. There's still the thin knife or two and Widow Bites, but her gun was under her pillow, and the electric batons on her kitchen counter. By the time she'd gotten there she was drugged.

Natasha adjusts herself a little, discomforted by this fact.

She's guessing that she wasn't just a random victim if Steve is here, too, which means this probably has something to do with the Avengers. And, in turn, likely Thanos. The thought makes her recoil, but she doesn't shun it. It's better to embrace that possibility on her own than have it forced on her later.

She licks her lips, and realizes how much she wants water suddenly, "What's the lassst—" she catches herself on the slur, and tries again: "What's the last thing you remember?"

Steve's lips tilt down a little, "I went running, but after I passed Central Park, some guys pulled me into an alleyway and shoved a needle into my neck. I tried to fight and someone knifed me in the face. That's pretty much it until now. I have faint whispers, but not much else. You?"

"They left my apartmen' door open," Natasha grumbles in annoyance, "my neighbor's cat is goin' to get in and ransack everythin'."

"Of course that's what your worried about," Steve sighs, "you're impossible."

Natasha grins weakly, "Cap," she chides, "be nice to me. 'M injured."

Steve winces and rubs at her head almost subconsciously, "Sorry."

Natasha waves a hand to reassure him, "'ine. Was sleepin', some guys dragged me out under drugs, an' lef' the door open."

Steve nods, but his brows furrow a little, "I'm...Your voice is slurring a lot and I can barely make out what you're saying, I think that you have a concussion."

Ah—so she wasn't as successful in removing her accent as she was hoping. Natasha sighs and squeezes her eyes shut, "'rry," she mutters, but Steve gently nudges her head.

"Don't do that. You haven't done anything wrong. You didn't ask for—how did this happen?" Steve questions, and Natasha's lips thin a little with embarrassment.

"Fell against da' counter," she explains, and peels her eyes open to look up at him. His lips are thinned tightly, but she can see a little bit of mirth in his eyes.

"Remind me to drug you next time we spar," Steve says halfheartedly, and Natasha glares at him.

"You 'etter hope that Serum reee-grows fingers."

Steve shakes his head a little, "We need to figure out what's going on here. We can argue about who's losing what body part later," he addresses, and Natasha gives a tired thumbs up, squeezing her eyes shut again, "There aren't any windows and the door doesn't have a knob on this side. The vent isn't large enough for anything but hands, and the ceiling is tall enough that I can't reach it. When you're feeling better, maybe I can lift you towards it."

Natasha gives another thumbs up.

Steve continues his verbal thinking, and she's quietly grateful for it. Despite how lackadaisical her brain is insisting that she remain about this, a deep thread of worry has taken route in her stomach. It isn't the first time she's been kidnapped or held hostage, but typically it's by her own choice, or she has some sort of warning that it's going to happen.

She's never been pulled from her apartment in her pajamas without her shoes before.

Her apartment was supposed to be safe. She didn't live there as Natasha Romanov; she was Natalie Rushman, and Tony assured her that he buried her address deeply. Apparently, not deep enough because whoever this is knows how to use a shovel.

Kudos to them.

Steve's quiet ramblings are giving her data that she's too exhausted to seek out, and she needs it.

Steve explains the layout of the room: not much bigger than the average U.S. prison cell with a toilet and sink, the former of which Natasha is trying to convince herself she doesn't want to throw up in, and the door is on the wall to their left. The room is cold, but not freezing, and Steve's thoughts are a cellar, but the drywall throws him.

"They took my shoes," Steve notes out loud, and sounds almost offended by it, "and my phone. Clint was supposed to meet me later today to talk with Coulson. He had a mission he wanted us to look at. If...whoever this is was trying to remove us anonymously I don't think they succeeded."

"'Eft moe apartmen' door open," Natasha agrees, "idiots."

She can almost see Steve's eye roll, "It's a door, Nat."

"Rude," she insists.

Steve only sighs in response. Her eyelids keep drooping, but Steve apparently decides that if this is a concussion that it's better not to let her fall asleep. He keeps talking and forcing her to engage in the conversation. They don't see their captors for the following seven hours and the tension growing between them is filled with mindless chatter that would have annoyed her to no end on other days.

She hates small talk, but it's the only thing that's keeping her from falling asleep.

Eventually, both of them realize that the room is getting colder, and Natasha curls in on herself to bury her toes beneath her body as best she can and is quietly grateful that flexibility is a part of her job. Steve still has socks and offers them to her, but she refuses.

Steve is beginning to slip off as well when hour ten hits, and the talking has becoming less frequent between them. If Tony or Clint was here, they could have kept it going, but neither herself or Steve have been very talkative in the first place. Even Bruce, given enough of a push, could have kept speaking.

The silence is more of a gaping hole that anything else.

And it gives time for her anxiety to fester.

She's lost feeling in her fingers when the door to the room finally opens, blowing in a blessed wave of hot air, and a tall Japanese man steps inside. His hair is slicked in a way that indicates to much product and far to little showers, but he carries the aura of someone important.

He closes the door behind him, and the little warmth it offered is cut off again.

He comes to a stop in front of herself and Steve, offering a thin smile. "Steve Rogers, Natasha Romanov," he tilts his head in recognition. His accent isn't quite as thick as she was expecting, but it's still there.

Steve's hand tightens on her shoulder, and Natasha tilts her head to properly stare at the Japanese man.

"What do you want?" Steve questions, and his breath puffs out visibly.

The man tilts his head, giving a grim sort of smile, "Are you truly so ignorant?"

"Enligh'en us," Natasha commands, cursing the slur silently.

The man tucks his hands into his pockets, and then muses: "I suppose I shouldn't be so surprised, given your nature. Your ignorance has cost me. Dearly." A scowl fixes on his face, and he pulls a roll of paper, throwing it at their feet. It's a local newspaper, written entirely in Japanese and Natasha can't quite make it out from this angle. "Last Saturday Iron Man, Captain America, Hawkeye, and Black Widow defended us from another threat. Do you know what I did last Saturday, Ms. Romanov, Captain Rogers?"

Natasha shares a glance with Steve.

The man walks forward, and squats down uncomfortably close next to them.

"I visited the grave of my wife and my daughter," the man says, voice clipped, "we lost our daughter among the Vanished at six years old, and my wife shot herself a week later. You are not heroes. You claim fame for a world you could not even protect when it truly mattered. I've read all about how Thor missed the head, selfish idiot."

Natasha's lips thin.

Steve's stance tightens a little, "I'm sorry about your loss, I really am, but I don't—"

The man backhands Steve across the face, and Natasha's entire body tenses. Her mind screams for retaliation, but her headache prevents her from doing anything more than making a little mewling nose.

"You're not sorry," the man growls, "if you were sorry you'd rid us all of your awful presence. I'm taking matters into my own hands. Worry not, the Avengers can all die together, as miserable as they should have been from the loss they caused. I loved my family, Captain Rogers, and you took them from me."

The squirming guilt that has resided in her stomach since 2018 does a funny little clench. Admittedly, he wouldn't be the first to try and kill them, but...this is...it's Thanos. All the blood she took by her own hands is nothing compared to what she should have stopped.

Nonetheless, this man must be so terribly ignorant to think that he's going to achieve different results than what anyone else has.

Steve turns his head back, seeming unfazed, but his fists are tight, "It wasn't my intention to anger you."

The man scoffs. "I'm going to enjoy your suffering, Captain. So very much. I just wanted you to know who I am avenging with your slow, agonizing deaths. I hope you're good at math," he snears the last part and Natasha shares a bewildered look with Steve.

Math?

What does math have to do with any of this?

"Enjoy your stay here," the man addresses, "I don't imagine it will be very pleasant." The man sits up, and Natasha manages to untangle her tongue at last: "You won't get the rest of them," she warns, "the team. They aren't stupid"

The man shrugs, "Perhaps, but I got some and I will be satisfied with that knowledge."

"They'll come for you," Steve murmurs softly, "you can stop this right now."

The man looks back at them, and raises a dark eyebrow, "You could have stopped Thanos before he snapped, but you didn't, so why should I? Good day." He slips out of the room and pulls the door shut behind himself, and the lock clicks audibly.

Natasha rarely sees him in the following thirty-three days.

She and Steve spend the first night trying to safeguard their fingers and toes against the cold, and end up sharing Steve's jacket in order to hide from the chill as best they can. It doesn't really help. Steve helps Natasha to the toilet so she can throw up anything she ate yesterday, most of which she can't remember, and both of them are relieved to realize there's working plumbing.

They're grumpy and cold when what Natasha's assuming is dawn approaches.

Few words are spoken through the next hours, but the worry is there. The tension. At every creak or groan that Natasha hears outside her body freezes at, and it's exhausting. Her head doesn't get much better, and Steve gets up to pace. The sound of his socks treading across the ground almost lured her to sleep, but the deep unrest in her gut refuses to let her.

This is not a safe place, and she cannot rest now.

A surveillance of the ceiling with her carefully balanced on Steve's shoulders reveals no immediate exits, but it does help her locate a video camera in the corner. She gives it a wide smile and then a rude gesture before letting Steve know that she's ready to come down.

The state of her head doesn't improve very much in the following hours.

Admittedly, she was expecting someone to open up the door and fill them full of bullet holes, but that isn't what happens. A group of men enter and one offers Steve a waterbottle. Natasha's managed to sit up by this point, but Steve's defensive position in front of her is still blocking her view properly.

If this headache would just go away…

The man murmurs something Japanese, and Natasha grits her teeth when her brain refuses to translate. Most field agents in S.H.I.E.L.D., by the time they get to Level Eight, are required to know five of the most common languages fluently, and Japanese is one of those. Apparently her brain is disagreeing with the hours she spent studying it.

Everything still feels strangely muffled.

Neither one of them have had water since...a long time ago, and poisoned water is better than dead. Steve twists the cap off and drinks first, and then offers the rest—roughly half—to her. Natasha rubs at the rim with the edge of her shirt, wary, and then drinks the rest.

Someone else says something, and Steve's entire body tenses—she has her doubts that he understands anything, Steve's language skills are thin; the sheer amount of hours she spent teaching him how to roll his tongue for Russian keeps coming to mind—and he leaps forward and tackles someone to the ground.

They hadn't discussed escaping.

Not really, but some things don't need to be spoken.

Natasha struggles to her feet and throws the plastic water bottle at one of the six's heads, and staggers forward like a drunk man to attempt to help Steve fight. Her expectations are hopelessly high in this. She reaches the group of men and has only thrown one punch before someone grabs at her hair and tugs, jerking her back and presses a handgun against her chin.

Her breath escapes her softly, and the puff of cold air rises far to slowly.

A man shouts something in Japanese—Captain, look—and the second man that Steve is fighting nails him in the throat and drags his head up by his scalp, pointing towards Natasha. Steve's body goes rigid, and he heaves out a gasping breath hands coming up to his throat.

Natasha bites at her tongue and withholds a rather nasty comment towards their captor's mothers. "Steve," her voice is careful.

Steve looks up at her, trying to gasp through his wheezes, "Shh," she instructs, "breathe. Breathe." The barrel of the gun is digging into her chin uncomfortably, but she ignores it in favor of trying to calm her teammate. (Her brother). "You're going to be okay."

Steve's eyes are wide, and it takes her a second to realize that it's for her.

She smiles a little, but it feels fake and thin.

The men get to their feet and then tug Steve's hands above his head. Any attempts Steve makes at a struggle are met with the gun digging deeper into her chin or a backhand. The men wrap Steve's wrists in layers of rope before throwing it over the rafters of the ceiling Natasha didn't realize was there until they did so, and pull it tight, forcing him to his feet.

Steve's lips thin with clear discomfort as his shoulders are strained, and his toes twitch uncomfortably despite the socks. Natasha's eyes meet his with a strained emotion that she can't quite place. Maybe panic or wariness.

It's really the first thing that she processes before the first blow slams into her stomach. The gun is pulled away as she gasps sharply, leaning forward to wrap an arm around the bruised area, but it only leaves her back exposed. The fist slams against her spine and she topples onto her knees, realizing what's going to happen distantly in the back of her head enough to wrap her arms around her head before the blows start.

Steve's voice raises the more her senses blur with pain, and by the time the men have finished, Natasha is heaving and choking on blood. Most of its from when she was biting at her tongue during the beating, but some of it does spawn from her throat. Her stomach and back are a mess, and someone got her foot pretty good at the end, too.

Natasha gasps and heaves, eyes watering as she can't find any position to alleviate it. "Steve…" her voice barely sounds like her own, and she swallows thickly. Steve's murmuring words she hardly hears.

She drags herself to the toilet and vomits, but most of it's just the water she had earlier and dry heaves.

It still hurts.

Deeply.

Steve tries to talk to her, but she curls into a small ball of misery beside the pipes of the sink and slips into unconsciousness.

000o000

She drifts in and out of sleep, sometimes waking to Steve's talking, other times to the Japanese shouting. When she manages to maintain consciousness, her head feels a lot better than it did before, but her entire body is stiff and sore. Her face is a mess of dry, crusted blood, and she wipes at it with the back of her hand as she lifts her gaze up towards Steve to assess him.

If they beat her this badly, then—

No.

Steve, physically, hasn't really moved since the last time she was awake. He's quietly muttering to himself—numbers, maybe?—and his eyes are shaded, but he otherwise looks fine. Relief so sudden slips through her that she can hardly grasp at it.

She exhales, and then forces herself into a seated position, slowly.

"Steve?" Her voice is still raspy.

Steve's head snaps up to her, "Sixty—Natasha! You're awake," his voice is filled with his relief, "how bad is it?"

Natasha shakes her head, "I'll live. Are you okay?"

Steve blinks a little, like he's trying to focus on her. "Mmm. Fine. They...haven't let me sleep. Fifty...fifty..."

Natasha quietly curses, but outwardly she gives a nod. "Okay. Let me see if I can stand and we'll figure out a way to get you down," she says. Steve only hums in response, continuing to mutter the numbers to himself, though she hasn't the faintest on why.

Any attempts made to get to her feet end horribly, and Steve finally submits to defeat after they hear the clean snapping of her left hand's pointer finger when she tumbles against the ground for the sixth time.

She swears sharply in her native tongue.

"Language," Steve reminds tiredly. "Sleepy. Ninety...ninety..."

Natasha shoots him a scowl from the floor, "Shut up."

Steve shakes his head and closes his eyes, "'M, tired, 'Tasha,"

"I know," she agrees, softening her voice, "you can rest, Steve, I'll be okay. We're both going to be okay. We'll get out of here once you've slept, okay?"

000o000

They don't let him sleep.

Steve begins to really nod off and a Japanese man storms back into the room and douse him in water. Steve sputters and gasps with obvious panic, and Natasha's fists clench tightly at her sides despite her swollen hand.

"Seventy hours. You didn't get to one," the man states in a shaky English, and Steve makes a little strangled noise.

"Please," he pleads, "onegaishimasu..."

Natasha narrows her eyes and scowls deeply into the back of the Japanese man's head, quietly wishing she could make his hair light on fire with only her gaze.

The man shrugs, "I cannot, Captain. You must reach one."

Steve gasps sharply, "Ninety...ninety-four, eighty-eight, eighty-seven—no, wait—"

The man looks back at her and shakes his head a little before exiting as Steve continues to meet some sort of pattern and fails. Their captor returns five minutes later with a fetid smelling bowl of rice and assures her that "eat, or be starved" before exiting. Natasha holds the bowl in her hands and Steve stares at her.

She doesn't want to eat it if Steve can't.

Steve shakes his head, "Don' be stupid; eat it. One of us needs to be able to leave. Ninety..."

Both of them are leaving, period.

She's barely taken a few bites before the sensation of wrong begins to fill her entire body. The rice tastes oddly acidic and chemically, and it makes her want to vomit. She stops and then realizes what the awful smell from the bowl is: bleach.

Poison.

She knows that she's not supposed to force toxins from her body forcefully—Bruce has ground it into her head enough over the last decade—but it's that or letting it sit there. Natasha forces the food from herself this time, and Steve's reassurances fall on dead ears at her purge.

Her body is exhausted, and she just wants to sleep.

She stays up with Steve—still muttering those numbers—until she can't.

000o000

They, from what she can count, leave Steve strung up for about four days before pulling her to her feet and tying her wrists in the same position he was in previously. Apparently aware of her ability to slip out of most restraints, one of the Japanese men smiles at her sweetly and lifts up a package of needles, "We will make it stay in your skin, Ms. Romanov, and that will be uncomfortable."

To say the least.

Natasha spits in his face, and receives a heavy blow for it, but she doesn't regret it. This was the man that woke Steve the most, and her growing desire to hit him hasn't lessened since this whole mess started.

Steve slumps against the ground and doesn't get up until, twelve hours later, with a knife, the Japanese men leave him screaming. Natasha only lasts five minutes quietly watching before her mouth opens and begs for them to stop fall from her.

They don't listen, and their too far for her to make any physical comebacks.

Natasha is forced to watch Steve writhe on the ground for hours after the men have left, heaving and the Serum unable to do much without actual energy—food—to run off of. Her body is still tired and sore from a few days previous, but that is suddenly so insignificant.

She hasn't slept in thirty hours when Steve wakes up again, and meets her eyes. He refuses to answer her questions, quiet and curled on his side, and she bites at her lip sharply, "The team is coming, Cap," she reassures. Privately, she only begs anyone listening above that she's telling the truth, because she doesn't see herself or the super soldier walking off from this by themselves.

They arrive later to backhand her when she dozes, and she snaps into attention when they kick Steve in the shins.

"Vashe telo budet izurodovano," Natasha hisses under her breath in a tired, cold promise.

The meaning of her threat is lost to them, but the intent is fairly obvious.

Her feet are cold.

000o000

"Fifty hours, little spider," one of the men murmurs to her and tucks a piece of her bloodied hair behind her ear. She snaps her mouth out to bite him, and he draws his hand back. "Are you tired, Spider? Do you remember sleep?"

Natasha glares at him, "Shut up," she whispers.

"Sleep?" The man prods in Japanese. "I'll make you a deal: If you can count back from one hundred by sixes, all the way to one, you can rest."

Natasha deepens her scowl.

But at eighty hours she finds herself desperately whispering it: "Ninety-four, eighty-eight, eighty-two, seventy-three—no. Ninety-four, eighty-eight, eighty-three—net!"

No! Stop it!

"Ninety-four, eighty-seven—net. Balvan—Natasha!" The numbers become a chant, a desperate plea, and she finds herself blinking back tears of frustration the longer it goes on. "Ninety-three, eighty-eight—net!"

Steve watches her with a mournful expression from across the room.

000o000

They aren't Avengers for nothing, and their escape attempt fails about as quickly as it began. In the midst of the trade off between herself and Steve for the sleep deprivation, she throws a blow towards their captors and she and Steve make it to the hall before their swarmed on.

Steve still goes back to the post, and she gets a mop's bucket of boiling water dumped over her head.

Sixty-three hours later, the Japanese men offer Steve the same promise they did her. Backwards with sixties from one hundred, and he can sleep.

The pattern continues for nearly four weeks, one of them trading out the other. The person at the post gets little sleep, and has to watch the other be violently harmed.

The Avengers do not come for them.

Come day thirty, and she can feel her body giving out. Words become few and far spoken between herself and the captain, and the only escape either of them dream of now is death. Steve doesn't mention a word of that, but she can see it in his face as he whispers the numbers back to himself, unable to reach one like she can't.

They are so very pathetic.

Seventy-three hours without a wink. Natasha has been standing and rubbing her wrists as she murmurs back from a hundred when it happens: The door opens, and her mind seizes as she snaps her jaw shut and prepares to gather herself and retreat to the back of her mind to avoid Steve's screams.

The Japanese terrorists aren't who step into the room.

Clint and Tony are.

Her mind seizes, and for a long second she thinks that she's finally snapped and hallucinating. And then Clint is suddenly in front of her, and she's still muttering the numbers like a mad woman. The pressure on her shoulders suddenly eases, and she slumps forward, unable to stand upright on her own anymore.

Her feet are still cold, and her shoulder blades are swollen.

Clint's real, living hands wrap around her shoulders, catching her before she can fall, "Tasha, oh—Tasha," Clint's voice is barely above a whisper, "What did they do to you?"

Natasha doesn't answer, not sure if she can, and instead begins to cry. She feels like a small child who's wailing at some foolish injustice, but she can't get herself to stop. Her body slumps against Clint's chest and she gasps out the numbers because she is so terribly tired, and she needs to rest. She can do it. She'll get it right this time. Steve did, once, and they let him sleep for six hours—oh how terribly she wants that. "Ninety-four, eighty-eight, eighty-two, seventy-six, seventy, sixty-four, fifty...fifty-three? Net, no, net—pozhaluysta, pozhaluysta…"

"Shh," Clint presses a finger to her mouth, "hey, you're okay. You're going to be okay."

"Ninety-four," Natasha whispers between her sobs, "Eighty-eight, eighty-one—pozhaluysta. Ya ne mogu! Ya ne mogu...spat'...spat'...pozhaluysta..."

Distantly, her exhausted brain picks out Tony helping Steve to his feet, one of the super soldier's arms slung around his shoulders; and she briefly wonders where all the Japanese men are.

"You can sleep, Tash," Clint promises and he leans forward a little to scoop her exhausted body into his arms in bridal carry. She should be embarrassed, she thinks, but she can't draw up the energy, "You can sleep," Clint whispers.

Natasha murmurs the numbers until she falls asleep in his arms.

000o000

When she wakes up, she's in the medical wing of the Avengers Compound, an IV line in her elbow, other fluid lines and various equipment are also attached to her, but it doesn't do anything to help the panic attack that immediately follows.

She's crazy.

She's finally lost it and pulled up this whole little fantasy to appease her mind and they'll be back to wake her up soon, and she doesn't know if she can handle and less sleep because she doesn't want to go back. She doesn't want to—

"Natasha." The voice is familiar, but she can't place it.

It's not important amidst everything else that's—

"Natalia," Natasha's eyes whip up at that, and she sees Clint standing next to her bedside with an expression she can't read. Distantly, she can make out a fired fury. "Look at me," Clint commands, and his voice is all hard edges.

She flinches away from it.

"You are in Avengers Compound," Clint continues as if he didn't see, "you are perfectly safe. You are safe."

"Gde…" her voice catches, and she forces herself from her native tongue. "Where's Steve?" Her voice is hardly above a whisper. Clint shifts a little to reveal Steve on the medical bed opposite of her, quietly breathing in and out with an oxygen machine.

The sight makes her sick.

"He's fine, too," Clint promises, his voice is softer this time. "You're both going to be okay. Bruce is here, and so is Tony and Rhodey. They're going to look out for you for a little while," his hand squeezes her own gently, "I'll be back, I promise, but right now you need to focus on getting better. The men aren't going to hurt you again,"

Natasha's brows meet in confusion, but he leans forward and presses a kiss on her forehead. Like an older brother would his younger sister with the knowledge that he was going off to his death. She chokes a little at that, and grabs at Clint's hand.

"Don't...leave," she pleads, "please. Stay until I fall asleep."

Clint hesitates, but nods, and scoots the seat between her and Steve's beds into the middle of the room and sits on it, keeping her hand clasped in his own. He stays until she's asleep, and it's when she wakes up and he's gone that she wishes she'd made him promise to stay longer.

000o000

Tony is there the next time she drifts into consciousness, and he gives her a gentle smile, "Hey," he murmurs, "Bruce said that you might be strong enough for water now. Do you feel up to it?"

She nods a little, still a little dizzy and strangely...floaty.

Taking the cup of water makes her hand shake, and unnatural panic begins to thrum in her chest because this water is poisoned, too, and she's going to get sick again and—the cup is snatched out of her hands. "Natashile," Tony lifts up a hand, "hey, breathe, it's fine. See?" He takes a sip of the water before handing it back to her.

The relief is there, but not enough to stop her from gagging it down.

Tony wouldn't poison her.

Tony wouldn't hurt her.

It's fine.

"Steve?" She murmurs.

"Off of oxygen and woke up a few times asking about you," Tony explains, "you guys have been pretty out of it the last couple days."

Maybe she should be more surprised than she is about the fact that it's been days, but it feels like days, and this still doesn't feel real. "How…?" She trails, suddenly far too exhausted to finish the thought out loud.

"Ah, um," Tony waves a hand, "how did we find you?"

Natasha nods.

"FRIDAY's scanners were useless, and we were pretty sure we were going to be looking for bodies...I just...sorry...that I couldn't get her to locate you. Who got you was virtually impossible to determine, and false locations kept popping up. Clint finally got fed up enough and went to Thor and explained what was going on a couple of days ago—"

"No one told him before?" Natasha murmurs, confused. That's...odd. She would have told him before a month into someone's disappearance.

...Unless, in her delirium, she wasn't counting correctly and it hasn't been that long.

Tony waves a hand, "No. Anyway, Asgard has these...tracker—spell—things, I'm not really sure how it works, which is annoying, but they pin-pointed you and Steve so we packed up and stormed the castle." Tony's face falls, any mirth slipping from his eyes, "They're lucky they abandoned ship when they heard us coming."

Natasha says something to him she can't remember much of, and feels herself slipping away again.

000o000

Steve wakes up officially the next day, and they spend that night sitting on his bed together, staring up at the ceiling wordlessly. Their silent for a long time, unable to say much of anything that will help solve this.

She doesn't know what can.

"Ninety-three, eighty-eight," Steve breathes out quietly, "no—that's not right."

"Ninety-two," Natasha shakes her head, "ninety-four, ninety…"

"Eighty-eight," Steve breathes out.

They spend hours working on it, but don't make it to zero.

Neither of them sleep that night.

000o000

Bruce clears Steve for leave, and he collects a few things from his apartment and returns back to the Compound to stay with her until she gets better, but he isn't improving mentally, despite all the leaps and bounds his body is making. He doesn't mention anything, but she can see it in his face and the way that his hands keep stiffening or fidgeting.

The way that he still murmurs the numbers almost subconsciously to himself when he isn't focused on something else.

Tony tries to talk to him about getting outside help, but it dissolves into an argument that oddly leaves her in tears—memories of Japanese men yelling at her to wake up—and next time Tony approaches it, he has Morgan and Pepper.

Morgan hops up to her on the hospital bed and sits, quietly keeping her company as Pepper softly explains that going to therapy is probably the best decision Steve can make right now to the soldier.

Steve meets her bloodshot, wet eyes, for a long second and she gives a small little nod.

Then, he agrees to go.

000o000

Clint doesn't come back, but reports of what he does in Japan do.

She can't bring herself to be as sickened by it as she should be.

She just wishes he would come home.

000o000

Thor sends her a letter in apology that he can't find time to visit—apparently some sort of outbreak of a disease in New Asgard—but it's clipped and phrased oddly.

000o000

"You can sleep, N.," Rhodey assures her carefully as she keeps sobbing, and grips her hand tightly. "You can sleep, nothing bad is going to happen if you try, I promise, I won't let it,"

"Eighty-eight," Natasha gasps out, "Eighty-two, seventy-six, seventy, sixty-four, fifty-five—no—no!"

Rhodey holds her close that night, but she doesn't sleep.

She doesn't make it to zero, so she can't.

000o000

"I hate counselling," Steve admits to her one afternoon, "I feel so naked, but they want us to keep talking. I hate it."

"I thought you were doing group," Natasha notes, flipping the page in her book.

"I am," Steve agrees softly, "but it's grief counseling, not trauma. Tony's making me do that one separately...Nat...I'm just...I don't know how to move on with everything that happened. I would think about her, you know," he admits in a murmur, "that man's daughter. I couldn't stop."

Natasha never even thought twice about the child, and maybe she's an awful person for that.

Or maybe she was too numb to care.

"It wasn't our fault," Natasha assures him, "we didn't kill her, Thanos did."

"We should have stopped it," Steve breathes out, "why couldn't Thor have gone for the head?"

Natasha shakes her head a little, "I don't know," she admits, "...but pinning the blame on him doesn't solve this, either."

The blame game is for children. Thanos's escape is on the Avenger's heads. All of them.

000o000

She's cleared to leave medical and returns to her apartment to change into a pair of clothes that she owns. Her apartment is a mess, as predicted, and her neighbor makes haste to bother her relentlessly. The woman means well, but after a jab about something Natasha barely remembers, she spirals into a panic attack and vomits all over the floor.

Mrs. Wenston gasps out apologies and promises to clean it.

Natasha stumbles to the bathroom and tries to breathe. She can't stay here. She thought she was ready to be on her own, but she can't stay here. She needs the open space of the Compound with Rhodey and Steve or she's going to drive herself insane.

Resolve settled, she packs her bags and slams the door to her apartment closed.

She stays at the Compound for a month, quietly taking on her Avenger duties again and sends Thor a handwritten card of thanks for finding them. She keeps up correspondence with Rocket, and begins to talk with Nebula, Carol, and Wakanda again.

The disasters she's supposed to be working on.

Food is still a mess, and she, unlike Steve who never had a problem with readjustment, can't really eat much more than a handful of items without having to purge from panic later. Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches is one of those.

She's never liked peanut butter. Not as much as Thor does, but the food reminds her that she's in the U.S.A. and that's enough.

After one of the worst days since their rescue, Natasha ends up a gasping, crying mess in Steve's room as he tries to calm her without much avail. After more than an hour of this, he shoves her onto the couch and puts in a Star Wars movie that both of them hate, but it's entertaining enough and gets the pounding in her heart to stop and her shaky gasps to come out as full breaths.

Steve holds her close, and Natasha tucks her knees up to her chest.

After the movies over, they both sit in the silent darkness of the room, barely daring to breathe. She doesn't know how long she's in her brother's arms, trying not to spiral into another attack, before she parts her lips and quietly begins to whisper: "Ninety-four, eighty-eight, eighty-two—"

"Seventy-six, seventy," Steve joins her in the quiet count a moment later, and together they make it to zero.

Author's Note:

Japanese word:

onegaishimasu: Please

Russian words:

Stol: Roughly table/desk; Syr: Cheese; Net: No; Pozhaluysta: Please; Gde: Where; Ya ne mogu: I can't; Spat': Sleep; Balvan: Dummy, idiot, cretin, etc.; Vashe telo budet izurodovano: Your body will be disfigured.