Chapter 27
Clint's anger bubbles into rage as he all but runs out the door.
An hour ago she left.
An hour.
There was blood in the sink, on the floor.
No weapon, no other person just Natasha and her knives.
Where would she go?
He thinks at first the water.
She’d go somewhere that grounds her.
But then he thinks if she was truly trying to run and hide, she’d go to the train station.
Grand Central is in walking distance, she could have walked, taken a cab.
He just doesn’t know.
The train station sounds like a better bet, so he hails the first cab he can and asks them to get there quickly.
In hindsight, he thinks, as the cab is stopped at the light, he should have just driven himself.
.
The wooden bench is cold underneath her. Body curled in, Natasha holds her breath, releasing it in lots of five.
Control over herself is all she has, even as the voices in her head tell her she has none.
“Jump in,” the silky smooth voice of the black widow says. “It’ll help.”
Natasha stays far enough away from the edge that she has time to back off if her legs carry her close, the seat uncomfortable but gives her a place to stay.
Dreykov was alive, now he’s dead.
“How many more?”
The voices don’t stop, sometimes crashing into each others in their malice as she watches the water come in and out.
“You could have stopped it, you sat in your ivory tower whilst more girls burnt, whilst they killed each other, whilst they were tortured, raped and recruited.”
She licks her lips and swallows hard.
The red room is back.
Still is operational.
Killing Dreykov didn’t end it, not then, not now.
“It’s too much. The cold of the water will make all this stop, the pain, the hurt. You can leave. This is permission to stop fighting.”
There will just be another to take his place, another politician; bureaucrat or man that feels like they can overpower little girls and use them for their gains.
“You should jump in. Let the water take you.”
The voice repeats, and Natasha holds on tighter to the bench, willing her legs not follow the instruction.
Whispering to herself she tries to override the voice repeating the same phrase, just as the therapist taught her all those years ago.
“My name is Natasha Romanoff. I am in New York City. I survived the red room and Dreykov is dead.”
It’s ironic that the phrase is as relevant now as it was then.
Again and again, she repeats the words, until the words don’t mean anything and the push and pull of water leads her into dissociation.
.
He forgets how big Grand Central Station is.
Clint wanders around looking desperately for the shock of red hair, anything to tell him Natasha is here.
He’s sweating, the artificial temperature too much.
If he was Natasha, where would he go?
He thinks she’d watch the trains, but if she’s running; it’s likely she’s gone.
He knew he should have put a tracker on her, she doesn’t have her phone, doesn’t have anything to with her, he doesn’t even know what she was wearing.
Clint gets as high as he can, and looks down, eyes scanning the atrium and the halls as much as he can.
Tony, he thinks.
Pulling his phone out, the call is answered on the first ring.
“She’s at the pier,” Tony says, by way of hello, “I was calling you.”
Clint looks at his phone and see seven missed calls.
He hadn’t even heard it ring.
“Which one?”
“Pier 76, there’s a car out the front waiting to take you.”
Clint rubs his face, thanking the world for his friends.
He should have gone to the water first.
He should have trusted his gut.
He’s so angry at himself, he wants to punch something.
.
Clint sees her as soon as he exits the car, body swaying standing at the edge of the water.
His heart sinks.
She looks so small in the enormity of the world.
“Nat?” he calls, feeling the danger in the motion.
His words do nothing except carry on the air.
Moving closer, he approaches her carefully, he needn’t have worried though; she’s lost to herself.
Clint heard the whisper first, her name, New York, red room, Dreykov. Then.
“I should have done more.”
The finishing statement floors him.
“No,” he tells her, grabbing her hand and pulling her back.
“No.”
Dead eyes look at him.
“My name is Natasha Romanoff,” she starts again.
“I know Nat, I know.”
He stands in front of her blocking her view of the water.
He lets her finish the grounding phrase which does nothing to ground her. He takes her in and sees blood on her clothes, her thigh, her torso.
Gently, he pushes her over to her the bench, unsure how to help; making her sit, even though he’s sure she doesn’t realize.
It’s clear she’s stuck.
Scared.
Does he break her out of it?
Does he let her work through it herself?
The forth time she starts, he grabs her hand and holds it tight, then starts tracing arrows on the back of her hand.
It’s more for him, he needs to go something.
Her words slow.
“I am Natasha Romanoff?” The question hangs as he waits for the rest. It doesn’t come.
“You are Natasha Romanoff,” he confirms.
“I am in New York?”
He swallows, understanding dawning.
“You are in New York.”
“I survived the Red Room.”
He touches her face, movement slow to reach up to turn his face towards him.
“You survived the Red Room,” he confirms.
“Dreykov is dead?” She asks, eyes searching, a tear leaving.
“Dreykov is dead,” he replies vehemently.
“I should have done more?”
The last question breaking him as he can feel the tears on his own face in her anguish.
“No Nat, there’s nothing more you could have done. We can’t change the past, as much as we want to.”
He’s not sure what else to say.
.
They sit with Clint tracing shapes on her hand. The cold chill in the air making him shiver intermittently but he ignores it waiting for her to do something; anything.
Tears slowly drip down, they have been for the past half an hour.
He hopes they’re more cathartic than due to pain or the intrusive thoughts beating her up.
He wonders if he should say something, and works up the courage to do so.
She needs to see their therapist. Probably as soon as she can.
The look in her face so lost in pain, he can’t help. He can support her, be with her and walk with her as she navigates this, but he’s not in her mind.
Clint knows from experience that he’ll never have intimate insight into her thoughts, which is probably a good thing for his own sanity.
“Does your leg hurt?” he asks, unable to take the silence any longer.
It takes a second for her to react, and then look down to the blood on her leg.
“Do you know why we wear black widow suits?”
She doesn’t wait for the answer.
“We used to wear white ones, before graduation, they could see any blood. We would be punished for bleeding.”
“Then.”
“After.”
“It didn’t matter anymore.”
“We graduated, and then we got our black widow suits.”
She stares and removes her hand from his, touching it, her hand coming away bloody.
Natasha takes an audible breath.
“How do you make the pain go away?”
The question feels cryptic.
He can’t do cryptic right now. He hates that she’s stuck in a world of thoughts.
“Will you come with me?” he asks, hoping the plan that’s forming in his head is the right one.
He wants to get her away from the dangerousness of the water. The pull of harm.
Clint offers her a hand, waiting; always waiting for her to make the next move.
Natasha watches him, so gentle with his actions.
The voice tells her to kill him and run. That it would be safest.
She could even throw his body in the water.
But it’s in that thought, in that moment, she knows that it’s not her thinking those things.
It can’t be.
It’s a break and a realisation all at once as she really looks at him.
The thoughts quieten.
Thank you for keeping me safe, she tells the voice, for taking all the punishment and hurt; but I can do this, I can do today, and tomorrow.
She swallows hard, staring at the hand he offers and stands to take it.
“I am the monument of all your sins,” the voice whispers.
She nods to it gently, “and I am Natasha Romanoff,” she whispers back, “I survived the red room and I can take over from here.”
.