Steve Rogers blinked, trying to clear his head. His eyes adjusted quickly to the blackness around him and jagged edges of reinforced concrete greeted him. Missle. He shook his head, willing the slow choppy thoughts of the percussion to disappear. He had to be able to think clearly, their lives depended on it.

Their. He shifted and winced. He was pinned and twisted to the right. His right hip on the ground, his left arm and shoulder up, still shielding their heads, now supporting the weight of layers of destroyed concrete.

Their. She was crumpled underneath him. He realized his hip wasnt on the ground, but jammed into her abdomen.

"Natasha?" Silence.

He shifted again, only able to move less than an inch, and rocked his shoulders until he was able to prop up on the heal of his hand. He used his feet, braced against the concrete ruin in front of them, and lifted his hip off her side. Carefully, but quickly, aware that precious moments were slipping by, he heaved his entire body weight into the shield. Once. Twice. Three times before the debris wall shifted. Another time before he was able to break through into the smokey night air.

He crouched over her, quick cat like reflexes for such a big man, checking for and finding a pulse, lightly feeling for broken bones, making note of any severe trauma. Satisfied it was safe to move her, like there was any other choice he reminded himself, he scooped her up and took off for the dense woods straight ahead. The smoke was thick and acrid and made for good cover. Still voices echoed in the distance. The ground team was closing in rapidly. Steve calculated SHIELD would cut off the south and east entrances to the Camp, expecting them to go out the way they had came in, or to be disoriented in the choas and run right at their trap. He adjusted on a northwestwardly track, satisfied it would give them the most time to escape, and ran as hard as he could. His arm wrapped tightly around Natasha's head, trying to keep it from bobbing with the impact of his strides.

"Stand up," The black shadow yelled at her. She tried, making it to her hands and knees. He kicked her. Pain, blinding pain coursed through her body. Red stabs of light filtered into her vision.

"Stand up," She couldn't see his face. She couldn't see anything, only pinpricks of red every time his boot connected with her side.

His voice, angry and mocking, pressed her down, "I said stand up. Or do I need to stand you up?" She couldn't find the strength to stand, to even try to stand. Her breath came in ragged wheezes, guttral chokes from deep within. The click of boots on concrete stopped in front of her face, toed at her chin. The shadow man crouched in front of her. This was it. This was her end. Strangely, she felt greatful. His fingers ran thickly through her hair, behind her ear, burrowing deeper. She waited for him to pull, yank her to her feet, stand her up to face...

"Natasha...come on Tasha, I need you to wake up. Come to me, follow my voice."

A familiar voice. Not the shadow man. Blonde hair. Blue eyes. Soft hands. Steve. She blinked.

"Hey," his hand smoothed her hair away from her eyes, tucking it safely behind an ear, "you had me worried Nat. You've been out for awhile."

She looked around, taking in their surroundings. Trees. Dead leaves. The woods. Or the edge of the woods. A few houses sat off to their right. "Steve. Where..."

"About 2 hours from the camp. Do you remember anything at all?"

She nodded. A computer that knew their names. SHIELD. Hydra. The computer kept talking, stalling...

"And the missle," he finished. "Compliments of SHIELD. They had strike teams on the ground, but I managed to get us out. I took a northwest track to buy us some time."

"How did we get here?" Natasha rubbed her temple. The movement sent a tidal wave of pain rushing down her left side.

"I ran."

She looked at him. "Ran? How did I get here?"

"I carried you. Listen, I think you have a concussion, and two possible broken ribs. I'm going to get us out of here, but I need you to do exactly as I say okay? No questions Nat, we're going to borrow that gray car," he pointed to a bland looking Buick parked next to a darkened house, "We can't be out in the open that long and you can't move fast enough right now, so I'm going to carry you. And when I put you in the front seat I want you to stay as low as possible, head below the dash," his fingers gingerly brushed across her injured side, "or as low as you can get okay?" He waited, expecting her to disagree, but was suprised.

"Okay," she said simply.

But as he stooped to hoist her against his body he saw an emotion flash across her eyes he had never seen before. Fear.