Natasha swears, if one more idiot comes at her with an oxygen mask wanting to check her pulse and look down her throat with a flashlight, she is going to scream. Only not really, because even talking hurts right now. Maybe she'll kick them. Point is, she doesn't need or want the attention. She's fine. She doesn't need anyone poking at her. She just needs to sit here a moment and wait for her heart to stop racing. Because of the adrenaline, not because she's still sunk deep into traumatic memories with no possible hope of clawing her way out of them. No, definitely not. So that racing heart should be slowing any moment now. Any moment now.

She takes another deep, shaky breath. Shaking because of the amount of smoke she's inhaled, of course. Only to be expected. See, it's already getting easier to breathe. She doesn't need anyone hovering. She just needs a moment to regroup and collect her thoughts. Even though that 'moment' is coming up on fifteen minutes at this point.