"It's not that bad," Natasha says, which is only a lie because that bad remains undefined. It could be worse. She's had worse. She's had more than one gunshot in her life.

She does take his arm, though, and she moves gingerly, unable to ignore the sensation of the brackets inside of her, between her ribs. If she let herself focus on it too much, she might feel sick.

"You're worse off than I am, I think."

But she doesn't argue that they both need help.