The Language Of Flowers And Silent Things

just because elphaba is gay doesn't mean she's a friend of dorothy. in fact,

here again now

Warnings: violence/aftermath of torture/recovery

Word Count: 7.9k (gif not mine)

Summary: Natasha is captured, tortured and left with insomnia. (Part 3/4

(pls note that the fic starts below and finishes on ao3 - i know how annoying it is to start on one platform only to have it finish on another)

A/N: Buckle up for a long chapter <3 in which everyone worries, Natasha struggles and Clint tries to help. The outside forces that aim to break Natasha down are revealed and small things are set right.

Not re-read my mistakes are my own <3

.

He doesn’t want to say anything as he breathes heavily, the fight not even lasting a minute as she stops as quickly as she started.

Clint watches her as she stares at herself in the mirror.

The slow touch of her hair, the dead stare and then the panic.

It’s starts with her pulling at the whispers of hair that are left, hard enough for them to come out.

A clawing at her skull.

He pulls her back from the mirror and holds her, stopping the harm that’s coming in waves.

She’s crying as she feels him behind her, a stuttering in her words.

“I can’t sleep,” she starts, “I can’. I can’t. I can’t.”

The words come over and over.

Clint doesn’t know what to do.

She’s still covered in vomit, still needs a shower, still needs sleep.

In this state nothing can happen.

She’s not present, not enough to do anything.

So he waits, holds her and hopes it’s enough.

.

Natasha can’t catch her breath. Every time she tries, she seems to only breath in smaller amounts. Even as she feels Clint surround her, it becomes almost a chore to suck it in and remember to push it out.

“Sedate me,” she breathes.

And as she says the words, she feels it’s the only way out.

“Sedate me,” she repeats.

If they drug her, she’ll really know then, when she wakes; if she sees the woman’s face or, if she’s back here.

She can’t breathe anyway.

Even as she’s encouraged by Clint.

Was she not loud enough in her request?

“Sedate me!”

The words louder now, even as they fall on deaf ears.

She struggles against Clint, trying to get a breath, black spots in her vision.

“Se..da..” she moans, pushing against him, running out of air on the words.

Natasha knows he’s talking, saying something to her but she can’t hear him, there’s a piercing white noise that overrides it and she can’t even hear herself, even as she repeats the same words over and over again.

At least, she thinks she is.

In a last ditch effort, she reaches for Clint’s face.

“Help,” she whispers.

He nods, his eyes glassy.

Holding up a syringe, he appears to ask her consent one more time as she nods pitifully back at him.

She can’t hear his words but longs for the black nothingness of drugged sleep.

She doesn’t care what happens to her body.

She just needs to stop thinking, stop moving… stop being.

To be held in the abyss for as long as possible.

Natasha knows she can’t keep going, not like this, not being able to tell the difference between awake and hallucination.

Clint encircles her again, holds her in a body lock as there’s a pinch on her left arm.

She looks over to it, and already the needle has been removed.

Clint holds her tight, rocking her gently and counts, knowing the repetition soothes her.

Only Clint knows that.

She’s home.

There’s no doubt now.

She starts to count with him, the abyss surrounding her.

.

Tony stares at the screen.

The van is parked not far, he sends out two drones to get real-time footage, and then triangulates all cameras from the time it dropped Natasha to follow the Van.

He wants to tell Clint, maybe Bruce too.

Turning his attention, he sees Clint lead Natasha into the bathroom.

He can’t reconcile her shaved head, even as he watches their movement.

Shaking his head, he sets Jarvis to keep an ear if Clint needs help and leaves the room to find Bruce.

He doesn’t go far into the bowels of the tower before Jarvis stops the elevator.

“Sir, they’re fighting.”

He doesn’t need to ask who is, because it’s obvious.

Tony detours back, opens the door to the infirmary and smells vomit and cringes.

He must have missed it whilst he was concentrating on the van. Tony hovers outside the bathroom, hearing a Clint tell Natasha to stop.

He wants to go but his feet don’t move.

Voiced pleas that are inaudible but he can tell what they are by the cadence and fear behind them, the way that the response is nothing.

He hears Natasha’s calls to sedate her, and Clint trying to talk her down as he goes through the options of what’s going happen next.

Tony pushes the door ajar and looks inside.

Neither of the spies notice him, and Natasha’s distress is clear as she struggles against Clint, repeating the words to sedate her.

He closes the door and stares for a moment.

“Sir?”

Jarvis’s voice breaks through his thoughts.

He leaves the room quickly, finding Bruce with a syringe in his hand.

“Jarvis..” Bruce says, by way of explanation.

Tony nods.

“What happened? He said that Natasha needed propafol?”

Tony takes the syringe, offering no explanation and heading back into the room. He knocks on the bathroom this time and opens the door.

Clint looks up at him, he has Natasha in a hold and holds his hand out for the syringe.

Natasha’s eyes open and close.

Her breath stuttering.

“Help,” she whispers, reaching aimlessly for Clint.

Clint holds her head, uncaps the syringe and injects her. He rocks her slightly, counting with her.

Tony feels like a voyeur.

They both watch as her body fights it, then, she goes limp.

Clint looks exhausted, as he stares up at Tony.

None of them have slept, but Tony is used to it.

He also didn’t have to watch Natasha and be vigilant for her.

“What’s the time?” he asks, not moving.

Jarvis responds.

“It’s 6.16am.”

Clint nods.

“She threw up, I don’t know what happened next, but she started to fight me, then seemed to realise something was wrong when I didn’t fight back.”

Clint touches her arms, almost unwrapping himself from the hold position.

“She started pulling at her hair in the mirror,” he says the words monotonously, like telling a story.

“She said she couldn’t sleep, then asked me to sedate her.”

He seems to come to the realisation that he’s injected her with a drug that he doesn’t know.

“Propofol,” Bruce supplies, seeing Clint’s confusion.

Tony doesn’t even know when Bruce came up behind him.

If Clint is also surprised, he doesn’t show it.

He just nods slowly.

“How long do you think we have?” He asks, lifting Natasha.

Bruce shrugs.

“She shouldn’t have been given it in an injection like that. Jarvis just said it was an emergency and I didn’t think we wanted a reoccurring incident like last August; so it was this or nothing.. Someone will need to stay with her, just to monitor her breathing…”

Tony looks up and Jarvis responds in kind.

“I am monitoring her vitals,” the AI tells them, “she is stable.”

Bruce nods.

“How long do you want her drugged for?”

Clint carries her to the large arm chair, the one that reclines back and places her gently on it.

“As long as possible,” he says.

“We need to find out what’s happened, and then maybe we have a chance at helping her get over whatever this fear is.”

Bruce nods and leaves, Tony presumes to get more drugs, or maybe a way of sedating her further.

“She needs a shower, or to get her changed. I don’t know!”

His voice escalates.

Tony feels he’s never been in a situation where he’s had to be the one to make decisions for another. Perhaps another reason why he doesn’t want children, the responsibility weighs heavily of taking care of his friends.

“Okay,” he says, raising his hands.

“Let’s get her changed, we’ll do it together. Bruce will get her sleeping for a bit longer and you’re going to go to bed. I’m going to follow the leads of the van and we will work this out.”

Clint stares at him.

Tony feels he’s said too much.

“Go have a quick shower, and get the supplies for changing her, get her clothes and maybe some wipes.”

Clint still stares.

“Now.”

Tony says it as gently as he can, but the urgency in his voice makes his friend move.

Clint takes one last look at Natasha and leaves her with Tony.

.

Continued…

I’ve noticed lately that it’s often Americans who leave tags like “I don’t even care if it’s made up” on posts I make that are not particularly unbelievable, but are pretty specific to my way of life or corner of the world (like the one about the cheese vendor). It reminds me of that tweet that was circulating, that said Americans have a “medieval peasant scale of worldview”—I mean, if you don’t want to be perceived this way by the rest of the world maybe don’t go around social media saying that if a cultural concept or way of life sounds unfamiliar it must be made up?

It’s the imbalance that’s annoying, because like—when I mentioned having no mobile network around here I had people giving me info about Verizon to fix my problem. I post some rural pic and someone says it must be somewhere in the Midwest because the Southwest doesn’t look like this. My post about my postwoman has thousands of Americans assuming it’s about the USPS. On my post about my architect there’s someone saying “it’s because architecture is an impacted major” and other irrelevant stuff about how architecture is taught in the US. This kind of thing happens so so so often and I’m expected to be familiar with the concepts of Verizon and the Midwest and impacted majors and the USPS and meanwhile I make a post about my daily life and Americans in the notes are debating like “dunno if real. it sounds made up”

Going online for the rest of the world means having to keep in mind an insane amount of hyperspecific trivia about American culture while going online for Americans means having to keep in mind that the rest of the world really exists I guess

Please reblog for a larger sample size.

the language of flowers and silent things

Whumptober 2023: Day 3 - Make it stop

Warnings: child abuse, domestic violence, brief touch on car accident that killed Clint’s parents and CPS

Word Count: 1.8k (Image not mine)

Summary: Clint Barton didn’t have an easy childhood, but one safe person made all the difference.

A/N: please read warnings attached to the chapter. There’s a reason there’s not too much before the cut starts, as it starts heavy and stays that way. Please take care of yourself.

Masterlist

Whumptober Masterlist

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1984

IOWA

“Make it stop,” he whispers to Barney.

Drunken footsteps are loud as his father shouts for more.

Clint can hear his mother opening and closing the fridge and the tirade of abuse continues.

“We can’t, okay?” Barney’s fists clench, his black eye from the week before still not healed and Clint knows it’s an unfair request.

“Not tonight, Mum will have to deal with him,” Barney looks scared and Clint doesn’t understand.

“Why?”

Barney looks down at his little brother and sighs.

“He’s not going to work tomorrow. He got fired.”

Fear and adrenaline dumps it’s poison into Clint’s veins.

“But…”

“Yeah; he’ll be here all day now.”

Barney finishes Clint’s thought.

A slap reverberates through the house and both boys cringe.

Clint can’t take it, he hates the thought of anyone touching his mother.

He’s at the door before Barney can stop him.

Opening it, he finds his father standing over his mother and they both turn to look at the movement and noise. His mothers face is red, hands touching the swelling of her cheek.

“Stop it,” he growls, smelling the alcohol and poison on his father.

The laugh of derision and dangerous smile that follows, makes Clint take two steps back, almost regretting his bravery.

“Stop it?” his father laughs as he repeats Clint’s words, picking him up and throwing him to the side.

“Fine,” he smirks dangerously, “I’ll ‘stop it’ but you need to go get me more beer, okay boy? She says we’ve run out.”

Clint feels like he’s been thrown a lifeline, a chance to get out of the house and away from danger; even if it’s at the expense of his mother.

He scrambles, Barney close behind him.

“We don’t have any money?” Clint asks.

His father raises a hand and Barney pulls him away.

“It’s fine,” he yells, as he pushes Clint out the door.

They run, only stopping when Clint pus his hands on his knees, out of breath.

“If he doesn’t go to work, he’s going to be at home with Mom,” Clint mutters, dragging his feet.

Barney grabs his hand.

“It’ll be okay, he’ll get bored and go out to the pub.”

Clint can’t see how that’s better, using their money to buy a drink that only leads to raised voices and sharp hits.

The shopkeeper stares at the two boys as they enter.

“Go distract him,” Barney urges, “and I’ll go get the beer.”

Nervously, Clint walks to the front of the shop.

“Can I help you?”

Clint nods and tries to smile.

“I.. uhhh.. Need something,” he starts, unsure what to say.

“You need something,” the man asks, suspiciously.

“Yeah,” Clint looks around, “I need those,” he points.

The man chuckles.

Clint shrugs.

“Do you know what I should buy?”

He knows nothing of the product he’s pointed too, knows that he’s seen it in his bathroom before, and there’s many types on the shelf; so the stab he’s taken doesn’t seem like a bad one.

“You need.. Pads?” The man questions, still smiling at Clint’s ignorance.

“Yeah?”

Clint thinks he can keep it going, make the man distracted enough; until…

There’s a clink and a crash and Barney swears as the man moves to back, Clint hot on his heels.

Spilled beer cascades and Barney looks up, guiltily.

Standing frozen, Clint doesn’t know what to do. The man takes a step forward.

Clint weaves in and stands between his brother and the shopkeeper protectively.

“You’re the Barton brothers aren’t you?”

They both look at the floor, and Barney speaks for the both of them.

“Yes sir,” he says softly, “please don’t call the police.”

The man shakes his head.

“Your father is not a good man, is he? Hmm? He send you out here?”

“He hit our mum because we ran out of beer,” Clint tells him, only to get shoved by Barney.

“Is that so?”

The man motions for them to move out of the glass.

“It shouldn’t be like that,” he tells them, handing a beer to Barney.

“You didn’t get that from me, okay?”

Clint’s relief is palpable, and Barney can’t stop staring at the gift they’ve been given.

“Thank.. Thank you,” he stutters, stuck on the spot.

Clint smiles, “yeah, thank you,” he repeats.

The shopkeeper it seems isn’t done in his generosity.

He hands them each a chocolate bar, and then on a whim throws Clint a box of pads.

“Give them to your mother,” he smiles, “she’ll be thankful you got something for her too.”

.

Gus the shopkeeper is wirey, thinning hair with dark eyebrows.

Clint finds him funny and kind and when walking home from school, he always gives him a piece of fruit to munch on.

Barney doesn’t like it.

“People don’t do things out of the goodness of their hearts, baby brother.”

Clint ignores the warning, trusting his own instinct of people. He doesn’t agree.

He does things out of the goodness within him, why wouldn’t others?

He tries not to impose on the man’s friendship, wanting to always be around Gus but knowing he probably shouldn’t be.

Sometimes his piece of fruit is all he gets for dinner.

The summer comes too quickly, and Barney gets a job delivering papers. It leaves Clint with too much free time, which he inevitably spends at the shop.

His mother encourages it.

She kisses his forehead and tells him to remember their code.

If his father is on a bender then she’ll put flowers in the window, if he’s not the window will be clear.

It’s a system that’s saved both boys a black eye or concussion a few times. Sometimes though, no amount of code words and secrets saves them from the wrath.

Gus seems to understand.

In the heat of the summer, he finds Clint sitting on the side walk, and invites him in.

Cold drink in hand, Clint grins at the pictures on the wall.

“You used to be in the circus?”

Gus nods, a wistful look on his face.

“Acrobat,” he comments, pointing to picture.

Clint looks in awe

“Those days are long gone now.”

“Can you show me something?”

Gus laughs.

“Something acrobatic?”

He shakes his head, “no, but I can show you something useful.”

Suddenly, there’s a coin in his hand and then it’s gone.

“Magic?” Clint scoffs.

“It’s a skill,” he defends.

Clint’s wallet is suddenly in his hand and Clint’s brain almost short circuits in how useful learning pick pocketing might be.

“You have to teach me,” he exclaims.

“Please!?”

Gus laughs.

“Okay, fine, come back tomorrow.”

.

They start easily.

The summer nights pass quickly with Gus.

Barney notices it, and he seems glad that Clint has somewhere to go.

He rubs his little brothers head and encourages it.

“Hey Barney,” Clint asks, one night, “teach me how to fight like you?”

Barney shakes his head, “nah, little bro, you’ll fight like someone different. But I can teach you the basics.”

Clint’s heart leaps.

He hugs him spontaneously and Barney pushes him back.

“I’ll catch you later okay?”

Clint nods, his smile big.

.

“Try again,” Gus tells him.

The watch sits on his wrist and he holds it out.

“It’s harder if you know it’s coming,” Clint complains.

Gus laughs.

“Fine take it, you need the practice anyway.”

Clint nods, taking it off his friend’s wrist.

“Same time tomorrow?”

Gus nods.

“You better practice,” he waves, and Clint nods.

Clint walks off, heading home, playing with the watch on his wrist, the clasp coming away easier.

He walks to the door and hears it, his mother shouting, his fathers fists hitting wood.

He cringes as he opens the door and tries to sneak in.

He forgets the second stair squeaks in his haste and the sound of footsteps makes him freeze.

“Boy,” his father bellows, “where have you been?”

Before he can even answer, he’s back handed into the stairs.

“Where’s your brother?”

Clint grabs at his face.

He’s better now at not letting the tears fall, even when he wants them too.

“I don’t..I don’t..” he stutters.

“You don’t know?”

Harold seems to grow twice as large as he points to the garage.

“Get in the car, we’re going to go find him.”

Clint can smell the toxicity of his breath, but is powerless to say no, as his mother gathers him up, kisses his cheek and tells him it will be okay.

It’s not though.

The red light.

The other car.

Screams.

Blood.

His head hurts.

He thinks there’s a bright light coming for him.

.

“They’re dead,” he opens, the shop doors opening for him as he stares through Gus.

The older man runs to him, and gathers him in a hug.

“Where’s Barney?”

Clint holds the watch in his hand.

“They’re taking us, but I stopped them because I needed to give you this.”

He holds it out.

“Oh Clint,” he holds him at arms lengths, sees the kindly lady step out of the car, and Barney deliberately not looking towards them.

“Keep it, borrow it, and when we see each other again, you can give it back to me.”

Clint’s eyes well up with tears and hugs Gus again.

“Can you take us?” he asks.

Gus shakes his head.

“Not yet,” he whispers.

“But this is not the end of our friendship, okay?”

Clint steps back, unable to look at him, disappointment radiating off him.

“Keep practicing and come back when you can.”

The woman calls for Clint to come and he backs up slowly.

“Goodbye,” he whispers.

“Good luck,” Gus whispers back.

.

Gus growls.

“I tell you, he’s got potential, get him out of foster care and you’ll see.”

Swordsman hums, contemplating his words.

“And you’d vouch for him?”

Gus swallows, knowing the heaviness of his words.

“And his brother, yes.”

He pauses.

“Clint has aim like I’ve never seen it, has a reason to fight and his brother just needs a mentor to channel all his rage.”

“Aim huh?”

Gus nods into the phone.

“Trickshot would do wonders with him.”

He wonders as the words come out of his mouth if he’s further dooming the Barton brothers.

Swordsman thinks on his words.

“Fine, but he’s in foster care now, how do you propose we find him?”

He shrugs.

“He’ll find me again.”

“Okay, then keep him with you and we’ll come to you, it can’t be now, we still have the operation to finish here, give us a year, and then, if he’s willing and able and maybe can add to the crew, then we will take him.”

“Thanks,” Gus sighs in relief.

Clint has his watch. He’ll come back.

“Oh and Gus,” Swordsman counters, “don’t forget to send the money through.”

He swallows, “uh. Yeah. Of course.”

Swordsman laughs, “you have to pay to stay out, otherwise we’ll welcome you back when we welcome the two boys you so desperately want us to save.”

“I’ll have your money, when you come get them.”

Gus hangs up, deal done, and gets the deposit ready in savings.

A year.

Clint just has to survive the year.

.

Hello!

If you like the word “queer” reblog.

Kiss the Dread

Clint flits between anger and sadness. He lays down, his back towards her, trusting she’s likely not going to kill him.

It’s cold in the vents, the occasional blast of warm air floating through making the air dry.

They need sleep.

Rest.

Something.

Fatigue makes for bad decisions.

He wants to check that she’s sleeping too; but his anger keeps him stationary.

He falls into an uneasy sleep, eyes closed, breathing like a sniper.

It’s easy when you know how to put yourself into a trance.

He hears rustling of a wrapper and is glad that she’s at least eating something.

They’ve been on the go for around 24 hours and he doesn’t think either of them got much sleep the night before.

Clint drifts into an uneasy sleep, dreams are unkind and he sees girls with braids, blood and bombs. He opens his eyes and breathes shallowly.

Read More

ignite your bones

After the fall of General Dreykov, and the remnants of the Red Room still at large, Natasha first year at SHIELD is anything but healing. Labeled a traitor and a turncoat, Natasha tries to find her footing in a strange new world.

Whumptober 2024: Day 24 - I never knew daylight could be so violent. (No light, no light)

Warnings: whump/angst/therapy

Word Count: 2k (gif not mine)

Summary: Olivia needs help; but then again so does Natasha.

Masterlist

Whumptober Masterlist.

.

Pain shoots through her abdomen and and she bows to it.

She doesn’t allow herself a cry of pain, only a huff of a breath and closes her eyes.

Her hand shakes as she empties the last of the tryptophan her heart sinking as she feels nauseousness rise and tremors shudder through her.

“Fuck,” she swears.

The night is going to be long.

She takes one of the last two tablets anyway knowing it’s only delaying the inevitable.

She sighs, laying down and trying to breathe through the pain.

Shield had the medications that she needed, but she didn’t quiet trust them.

Pain thrusts its way through her, making her clench her fists and forcing breath in and out consciously.

She decides in the moment to find Coulson or Fury. Shield is not safe but the two men would perhaps help.

She owed them, they owed her, and she’s sure she could call in a favour.

.

The seizure leaves her on the floor, her head pounding as she feels her consciousness return to her.

Wiping her mouth, she pushes herself up.

Hands still shaking, Olivia takes the last pill, hoping it makes her functional.

She knows she’s running out of time. She didn’t realise how close she was running out when she left.

Stupid, she berates herself.

Living in America had made her soft, dependant… Compliant.

If she was on her own, she’d have stocks, but instead, she’d just worked through the emergency medication knowing she’d have access to more.

Allowing herself a moment of self pity, she wonders just how to find the others, and slowly dresses herself.

The number she’d memorised for Fury may still work, and she contemplates if she’s able to make it to the closest pay phone.

The small apartment’s furniture helps her to move on shaking legs, and the walking stick she keeps in the closet feels like a good option.

Armed with a knife and sunglasses, she makes her way out to the harsh light of day.

Nauseous, she descends the stairs, tremors still wracking her body.

She can do this, she’s done much harder things.

One hundred steps, she tells herself.

When she reaches that, she counts 100 more.

At 345 she stops, breathing labored at the public pay phone.

“This better fucking work,” she mutters to herself, dialing the number.

Four rings in and she feels bile rise in her throat.

On the fifth, the phone picks up and she closes her eyes in relief.

“It’s bad,” she opens, “I need… what you owe me.”

Fury seems to understand.

“Safehouse six. I’ll organise for it to be sent there.”

He pauses.

“You owe me too. Don’t think I won’t collect.”

The phone hangs up and she groans, sinking to the floor, holding onto the walking stick and feeling another seizure coming on.

.

The knock at the door sets them all on edge.

Even though Fury calls to tell them that Olivia is coming, they all stand. Maria’s hand on her gun, Clint close to his bow and Natasha stands near the draw with the knives.

Coulson opens it, and finds Olivia standing there, just as Fury had said.

He opens the door wider, letting her in and showing the others that they have nothing to fear.

She enters, and Clint frowns.

“Are you… are you okay?”

The woman waves him off, and says something quietly to Coulson. He walks to the back room and returns alone.

“She needs some privacy and sleep,” he announces, much to all their confusion.

The shower starts running and Clint thinks of all the scenarios that could have had her looking so drawn and pale.

He turns back to the game of cards that he had been playing with Maria and swears as he loses again.

“I’m bored,” he complains.

Maria shares a look with him.

“How do we know Fury is okay?” she asks, much to Coulson’s annoyance.

“He’s okay,” he assures, “but if you want to go help, then fine, I can’t stop you.”

Maria grins at Clint.

“I’ll let you know how I go.”

“He’s gonna be angry,” Clint assumes, throwing the cards to the container.

“Nah; he’ll be appreciative. Who reads the lackies of Shield, better than me?”

Coulson sighs.

“I should go with you.”

He looks to the door that Olivia just moved through, and sits back down.

“Go. Call me in four hours and tell me what’s happening.” He looks at time.

“Four hours okay?”

Maria grabs the keys and a piece of pizza.

“Yeah yeah, I’ll call,” she smiles, pleased to have something to do.

The evening feels early, even though it’s 6pm, the sun moving to sleep. Maria reveals in the fresh air; and heads for shield.

.

Natasha lays on the couch. She’d opted to take first watch.

Olivia was still in the room, door closed having not come out since she went in.

Coulson in the other room, and Clint gently snoring on the other couch.

She doesn’t feel tired.

Probably, would be unable to sleep anyway.

If nightmares plagued her like they did in the cabin, she would have the whole house on edge.

At least the cell was soundproofed.

Here, she thinks she would wake up the whole apartment block.

Clint has eyed her when she’d offered to take first watch, and she had nodded assuringly.

Maria had called to say she was with Fury, he hadn’t sent her away much to Coulson’s surprise.

Coulson had decided he’d return in the morning, barring no incidents during the night.

Natasha was determined to just let them sleep.

She liked the darkness, and with others around, she was sure she wouldn’t be seeing anything… anyone.

Lost in her own thoughts, she catches movement on her left and stands to confront it.

“It’s me,” Olivia announces quietly.

Natasha sits up straighter.

The psychiatrist moves into the dimly lit room, and then to the kitchen finding water and taking a sip.

She downs two pills as Natasha watches on in interest.

“I’m defective,” she says, noticing Natasha watching her.

“They experimented with us, trialing… god knows what, to try and make us better soldiers. And they succeeded but at a cost.”

Olivia’s eyes rake over Natasha.

“Shield has drugs that help combat the symptoms. The Red Room would have just killed me.”

She feels scrutinized and wants to hear so much more of her experience of the Red Room.

It’s like piecing together bits of her own history, things she’s forgotten, things that have been wiped.

Part of the debrief had asked so many basic questions that she should know, but couldn’t retrieve it.

Experimented was right.

Natasha moves to seat at the bench to sit across from her.

Her face itches where the cut on her forehead is healing, and she suppresses the urge to touch it. Her whole body is itchy, uncomfortable and foreign.

Olivia looks to Clint, and deciding he’s asleep enough, starts to make coffee.

Natasha watches practices motions and refrains from talking.

She wants to ask her so much.

Waiting until Olivia sits, Natasha takes an offered coffee and they sip it together.

“Ask, if you need to,” she tells her, voice tired and resigned.

Natasha has so many, she thinks of the last couple of days. How impaired she had been to take care of herself, of Clint and how, if she was back in the red room, she would have been killed ten fold by now.

“How do you stop the nightmares? The flashbacks? How do I… I can’t sleep and then when I do… it bleeds into the day. I try.. But everything in me keeps remembering.”

Natasha holds back, the feelings and worries that have been plaguing her, she wishes she knew how to articulate them.

She feels like she’s going insane.

Wounds wide open and she can’t stop remembering.

Olivia looks at her, takes a slow sip of her drink.

“Your mind is an open wound, they’ve dug into in debrief and left it bleeding.”

Natasha nods.

It’s exactly what it is.

She feels like an exposed raw nerve.

Olivia sets down her coffee.

“We don’t have a lot of time together. Not what you need anyway.”

She sighs heavily, fatigue seeming to weigh her down, but the kindness and patience that she has always shown to Natasha remains.

“It’s not fair, that you have to deal with this. So the coping mechanisms I’m going to say to you I want you to use when and where possible. There are going to be a myriad of times, where they don’t work, but for a lot of the times it will.”

Natasha swallows, understanding what she’s saying.

“We haven’t the time so I need you to listen. To hear me. Okay?”

Olivia doesn’t even wait for her to respond.

“Being triggered, doesn’t apply to you because your nervous system is always going to be heightened, walking on eggshells, and when they crack, is likely going to be when you will feel it. With or without flashbacks, the emotions will come, and you won’t always understand it. When this happens I need you to note that it’s there, label it and stay with it, even for a moment.”

The urgency in her voice makes Natasha give undivided attention.

She doesn’t notice that Clint sits up, moves closer; but Olivia does.

“Emotions, they try and tell us something, things we aren’t subconsciously aware of, they sit in our body, in our chest, sometimes like a weight, sometimes like itch you can’t scratch. They can sit in our minds; numbing us to the world that’s happening around us. In small ways, in big ways too.”

Natasha feels her face grow hot.

Olivia’s words are true and she knows it.

“Work on finding where the emotion is in your body. Close your eyes, for a moment and extend your mind out. Learn Natasha, learn about emotions, their labels and how they feel. The Red Room didn’t care and the words you have for emotions mean nothing. You have to learn beyond happy and sad.”

Natasha swallows.

“Learn what happiness feels like, and remember it so you have something to compare it to. Learn anger, and how it’s different to hatred. Disappointment. Anxiety. Frustration. You know these in a sense, but your education on them is poor.”

Olivia stops, taking a breath and then a sip of her coffee, acknowledging Clint.

“Accept help from those that are willing but don’t trust blindly. You have your own thoughts and feelings and they matter too. Do you hear me?”

Olivia talks softer.

“They never taught you, because they never wanted you to know, how smart and powerful you are. The feelings and emotions and the rawness of it all won’t last forever. But when it comes do something with it. Do something with your hands like shooting a gun at the range, clean, shower, breathe. Anything that you can do that acknowledges the feelings but doesn’t erase them.”

She reaches across and grabs at Natasha’s hand, pulling her sleeve up to expose raw handcuffed chaffed wrists.

“Nights will be the hardest,” she acknowledges, “but they will get better.”

Natasha pulls away, embarrassed.

“Feel it,” encourages Olivia, “try not to hide from it.”

The silence in the room extends; but it doesn’t feel uncomfortable.

“What if I can’t?” Natasha whispers.

Olivia smiles.

“Then you can’t. And you try again next time. This is not pass or fail. This is not the stakes of the Red Room. You won’t die because you can’t do something; even though it might feel like it.”

Finishing her coffee, Olivia stands.

“I’m truly sorry, Natasha, for everything you’ve been through. I can see why you’ve made it this far. I believe our paths will cross again, but it might not be for a while.”

Natasha nods, biting down on her lip.

The one person that understood her and everything she had been through… disappointment and grief floods her.

She feels it.

Olivia touches her hand again.

“You’re not without support.”

She nods to Clint.

Coulson bustles in and looks at the two women and Clint.

Daylight streams through the windows and Natasha feels herself withdraw.

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no third option you have to pick one, reblog after voting <3