It’s all right, he tells himself, she’ll be all right, and Tony told him it was just the arm, and it’s all that keeps him going for the next thirty-four hours. He’s on a mission in Astana and he used to think it was a beautiful city, but now it just reminds him far too much of Budapest.
When he gets home, he goes straight to the hospital wing. He knows there should be a debrief, he should drop off his gear, hell, he should shower, but when he heads for his quarters, he somehow ends up taking a left when he meant (or maybe he didn’t mean) to take a right, and then he’s down in medical and it’s the first time he’s ever been there voluntarily.
(Except it isn’t voluntary, not at all; if he’d been there, if he’d had Nat’s back like he was supposed to, like he swore they always would, then he wouldn’t be here at all and Natasha would be down in the rec room with the other Avengers and he’d be watching, watching her laugh, and she can never know how much he loves watching her laugh.)