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“How are you holding up?”
“I’m fine” Natasha's voice was low and flat, responding automatically to well-meaning but useless concern. She was alive, therefore she was fine.
Steve just stood and watched. Her body slouched, her hand getting paler and sweatier as it presses the dressing into her shoulder. She wasn’t meeting his eye, she actually wasn’t even looking in his direction. It wasn’t very convincing.
“Clearly.”
She finally looks up, but it’s still not at him. Steve watches her eyes trace around the room, like she only just noticed she was somewhere new. The concrete floor, the florescent lighting, the bolted metal doors.
“They kept us in a bunker like this.” Her eyes continued follow every line of every wall, like she was measuring out her cage. “It’s where we hid while Russia fell down around us.”
The blood begins to soak through the dressing, Natasha only noticing when it began to stream down her arm. She forgets about the conversation again, pressing down hard with her hand until the trickle of blood stops. Too tired even to wince at the pain. She just goes back to staring into the corner, her voice as empty as her eyes.
“It’s apt”