AN I don't own Marvel or any of its characters!

At the tower, there were a lot of people who wanted to be his friends and even his family. They wanted to understand anything he would tell them. But none of them understood what he needed. The guilt was killing him, eating him alive. No one could help that. No amount of therapy could help that. And he was convinced there was nothing, no hope or point to any of it. Until Natasha walked in.

Natasha understood the guilt and the only thing that could take it away. She understood the need to be… punished. He'd been the one to teach it to her all those years ago, after all, so it was no surprise when the way she looked at him was immediately calculating and intrigued.

"I know your limits, James, and I will not push them if I think for a second that you're lying to me. Same rules as always. You tell me when." He just nodded, too afraid to look up from the floor. Fear was a rather new thing to him because it was one of the things they'd tried so viciously to program out of him. And to someone having grown up with fear every day, it wouldn't have been a big deal. But he couldn't remember feeling afraid or how he'd handled it and he lacked all those little fears and building blocks to let him cope with it now so it usually took him to his knees. Fitting, he thought, for repentance.

"You know the rules," she said softly, already pulling his shirt over his head and letting her fingers linger in his hair. "Count." She didn't waste any time. The second he was stripped and she could reach every inch of exposed skin, she was on him. Before he could even think to brace himself there was the sharp, hot sting of leather slashing into his back. He barely grit his teeth. She wanted to be gentle with him, he could feel it, and he understood that desire all too well but gentle wouldn't help either of them now. Gentle was for after.

"I know you can hit harder than that, Romanova." Anger flashed in her eyes-his intention-and the next blow left a welt. He sighed a bit and sank over the arm of the couch.

"One." He wasn't going to count any hit that wasn't hard enough and she knew that already because she'd done the same to him. She switched weapons suddenly and he felt the thud of a much flatter, much heavier bit of leather collide with his skin. It flared with heat, and tingled.

"Two." She was tense and he could feel it without even looking at her but she didn't say a word. She hit him again, and again, and then again. But the blows were spread out and varied enough that they only stung. He shifted and rolled his shoulder in place. She took the cue instantly and reacted-she wasn't hitting hard enough if a little positional discomfort was his main concern.

"You hurt all those people…" The words stung more than his aching skin for a moment but she stopped that with another thwack! He felt her put her entire body weight behind it and when the buckle of the belt hit his skin, he hissed.

"So many confirmed kills… I have to wonder how many never made it into the books." Thwack!

"Twenty six." She knew the words hurt more. It was the intention-he'd taught her that, too-but that didn't make the pain any more bearable. He felt the emotion fill his lungs like liquid and he was drowning in it, flailing and grasping frantically for anything he could hold on to. Another hit, and he steadied.

"Twenty seven." Again and again she alternated never giving him any warning between the dull thud of the leather or the bite of the metal buckle but that made it so much better.

"Bosnia."

Thwack!

"Tel Aviv."

Thwack!

"Tallahassee."

Thwack!

Every hit he took came with a place, even if she didn't say them all. He didn't remember names or faces of targets-as much as that killed him-but he remembered where because that information had been relevant and useful. Places, but never people. Every muscle in his entire body coiled tighter and tighter with every blow she dealt. He heard himself counting but it didn't register. All he let himself focus on was the heavy, reverberating thuds of the flogger against his back, his ass, his shoulders. It was easy to lose himself in the rhythm of it, taking shaky breaths between hits and bracing his muscles just because it made each blow hit that much harder.

"Count." Shit he'd missed one. She'd noticed, undoubtedly, and he knew she was scrutinizing his every hesitation and movement, watching for the slightest hint he wasn't okay.

"Sorry. One." She didn't say anything when he started over but he knew she was watching closely now. Had he started over because of his mistake? Or because he couldn't remember what number they were on anymore? He wasn't sure he knew the answer, was all starting to blur together and what felt like the sharpest agony he'd ever experienced one minute morphed into sweet, savory relief the next. It was fleeting, but it was starting. This was the routine, this was what they knew, and he was expecting her to stop the second he made a sound but, gradually, he couldn't stop himself from hissing or groaning into the couch cushion. She didn't stop, though.

At thirty one, the second time, he felt it. She used the thin, multi-string little whip sparingly because it drew blood faster and harsher than any other weapon but his genetic modifications kept his skin intact above all else. He felt blisters and welts rise on the surface while patches stretched so thin under the swelling he was sure they would snap but every hit only left bruises and red marks in its wake. But on thirty one, she drew blood.

The liquid seeped out from under his skin like poison and it dripped down his back, spreading warmth and a sick metallic smell with it. Fuck. Each drop that slipped out felt like arsenic pulled from his veins and he lost himself in it. Like sin escaping his body. It wasn't a lot of blood, but the slow trickling little drips felt better than any gush of blood could have. Slow, like it was drawing out his punishment. He ground his teeth together but focused on the hot liquid as it hit the waist of his sweats and soaked into them. A reminder of the punishment. But, at the sight of blood, she hesitated.

"Thirty one." He repeated, clenching his fists in the material of the couch so tightly he was sure they would break. She continued, moving back to the heavier fogger out of fear of doing actual damage, but it didn't matter. The leather didn't thud anymore, it splattered. The blood worried her, he knew, but he didn't care. He gripped the couch cushion tighter, grit his teeth, and continued counting.

"Thirty nine." But he barely heard himself say the words, he was too focused on the pain. With every splat or thwack he felt the dominos begin to fall faster and faster inside his chest. Every drop of blood that spilled felt like a thousand sins being lifted off his shoulders. Every hot, dizzying flash of pain made him breathe. He had done a lot of things but he rarely ever tortured-he killed-and, while that was far from right, it was more peaceful. He didn't draw it out. He was quick and clean-mechanical. They'd never felt this pain, not from him, and that was what let it settle into his bones and hold him in a sick embrace.

"Forty nine." For some reason, the nines were always what did him in. Maybe it was the anticipation of the next, bigger number or the fear that she would emphasize the multiple of ten with a harder hit but the nines were always what broke him, even if it was gradual. Tears started down his face.

He couldn't help it, really, and he didn't care but she saw it and hesitated. Fuck didn't she understand how much he needed her to keep going? He tried to take deep breaths and compose himself but the pain seared into his muscles until he felt like a balloon seconds away from bursting. But he was still rigid, holding the couch so hard he was shocked he hadn't broken any part of it. She ran a worried hand through his hair but he hissed and arched away. Not yet.

"Forty nine." He repeated again, almost commanding in his tone. They were both surprised by the strength there, given the tears on his face and the blood dripping down his back, but he just swallowed whatever begging he was prepared to do. His voice wavered and it was choked with tears but he'd said it-he hadn't said the magic word, she couldn't stop. Not yet, not when he was so close. She sighed but stepped back into position and hit him again, just as hard as all the others so he would count it but with a little less determination behind it.

"Fifty." He was shaking uncontrollably, his hands balled into white fists and his entire body spasming in protest at the beating, but she kept going.

"Fifty one." She managed to hit a particularly sore welt and the contrast of the sudden, sharp pain made him stifle a sob.

"Fif' two." He was slurring his words, now, and shaking even harder. But he'd reacted so violently to her gentle touch before that she didn't dare move out of position again. Another hit.

"Fif' tree." Fuck he felt like he was on fire. His muscles burned and his own blood was cold on his skin as he trembled against the air.

"Fif' four…" He chest screamed in protest and refused him oxygen. His vision began to blur and he wobbled, teetering on the edge of oblivion, but he didn't say it.

"James…" He snarled at her, though, and got another hit hard against one of the bloody whip marks on his ass. Fuck so close.

"Fif-five." The metal of the buckle hit just below his shoulder blade and sent another round of sickly sweet warmth through his body. "Fif-six."

"James."

"Fifty six." Another hit straight against his spine that shot electric agony through his entire body and it was so damn close to Zola and his chair that he nearly collapsed. He couldn't breathe. It took a full minute for him to get the strength to speak.

"Fifty seven." His ass again, thank God. It distracted him from the memory and let him focus. Penance. The pain slide through his muscles like honey and singed his insides until he felt like he was disintegrating but this was penance.

"Fif' eight." He could feel his body anticipating the nine, tensing and bracing against it as if making it hurt more would help. She hesitated. But then the whistle of leather whipping through the air hit his ears and the sweet, sweet agony of the metal buckle collided against his skin so violently he felt it leave a mark. And that was all he could take.

He never even got out the words fifty nine before he just crumbled right then and there over the arm of the couch. Relief washed over him. Sobs racked his body and he arched and curled in on himself, trying to get away from the pain before she dealt another blow, but she'd stopped. She was beside him instantly.

"James." But he didn't flinch away or hiss at her to keep going. He leaned into her palm and shuddered.

"S'enough." She ran a hand through his sweaty hair and made him look her in the eyes, if only for a moment, to make sure he was alright. When he didn't speak, she moved away. Her absence beat into him harder than the leather ever had and the only thing that stopped him from screaming for her was the touch of her hand to his shoulder. Painful, but anchoring. She cleaned his wounds-gently-but they were already healing. He refused any kind of pain medication, only accepting the water she gave him, but didn't dare try to move from where he was hunched over the arm of the couch. Slowly, she coaxed him and lifted them both up onto the cushions. He collapsed, one leg thrown over hers and his face pressed into her chest, but she just held him even as his body was ravaged by sobs.

"Shhhhhh James… It's okay." But, strangely, it was okay. His body throbbed and stung but his chest was lighter than it'd been in years and finally he felt like he could breathe. He could breathe. She ran her fingers through his hair and lingered at the nape of his neck but he merely sighed into her. Guilt wasn't pressing down on his chest, squeezing away his every bit of oxygen. The only thought he could manage through the haze was thank God.

Thank God she understood.

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