A/N: So this is my take on the beginning of Clint and Natasha, set after he brings her back to SHIELD. Semi-based on a portion of my story INSANITY, but not really.
Enjoy!
White.
Everything is white. The padded walls, the tiled floor, the band on her wrist.
She supposes it's for uniformity. So those who are not in their right minds can focus on something besides a color. Color is distracting, she tells herself, and laughs a little while she fingers a lock of her own hair; yes, colors are distracting.
It's too bright in the room and she closes her eyes, leaning against the wall and breathing deeply.
For a moment she forgets where she is, who she is. Is she anyone?
Natalia Romanova. Age: dependent. Origin: Russia. She repeats the information back to herself as she's been trained.
SHIELD Base. Atlantic Ocean.
Her eyes snap open and she scans the room once more. The camera in the corner should be hidden, but it's not; at least not to her.
Behind she knows is a man. Tall, dark skin, eye patch. Watching her, always watching.
For what, she can only assume.
Three feet and two inches above her head is a window. Small, rectangular, sealed closed.
The sky is a black void.
Dark is what she wants, she is the dark. The shadows.
With the dark she can be anyone, anything. The creak of a floorboard. A raccoon in the attic. The knife that appears just before you're gone. She doesn't even have to be real.
A door on the opposite wall opens and a man walks in. Short, fat, balding. Glasses are too big, pants too small. He wears his lab coat like a badge of honor.
She could kill him seven ways- nine if he dared step closer- and she recounts each in her head.
It's a test of willpower, she tells herself. Do not kill the man.
"I'm going to take a blood sample, just real fast," he says. His accent is heavy, southern. Tennessee.
They took blood yesterday, but she doesn't bring this up. Glares at him as he moves closer with another needle.
Another way to kill her.
Her reaction is so startling that he drops the needle at the same time she aims to knock it from his hand and her fist connects instead with his jaw and he stumbles backwards.
Willpower, she repeats in her head, thinking of the test. It's a training exercise, she's sure, and she can't kill him, no. She has to beat her willpower.
She backs into the corner, protecting her sides and gaining view of the whole room, the cell, in case there are more.
When he regains his balance and turns back to her, he is different. His hair is longer, thin and stringy. It grows even as she watches. Big round goggles cover beady eyes. Scars run up his neck. His mouth is moving and she hears his words not in her ears but in her head.
"Come here, sweetest. It work hurt but a pinch."
The needle he holds now is longer, sharper, thicker, silver-blue.
"It will be over soon and you will be better again."
She watches blood seep down the walls, turning the white to crimson.
He takes a step closer, a sickening smile growing on his face.
He makes a grab for her arm and she drops to the floor.
"Little Natalia, don't be afraid."
Panic.
She screams.
The crimson changes to white and the lights grow brighter within seconds.
The doctor is looking at her, confused, but his face is back to normal. "I'm not going to hurt you, Ms. Romanova. It's just a blood test."
Her instincts jump to protection and she pulls her knees into her chest, making herself as small as possible. Willpower and no fighting back.
Protect your arms. That's where they stick you.
Protect your hands. That's where they break you.
Protect your head. That's how they kill you.
The door opens again but she doesn't look up. Gruff whispering, defeated sighing, retreating footsteps. Someone slides down the wall beside her.
"They're all shitheads, you know. They think they know what's best, but they don't. Not in the slightest."
The fact she remembers the voice is enough to make her want to lift her head, and she does so slowly, checking for any weapons on his person.
Hawkeye stares back at her. The man who saved her life. "Clint," he says, pointing at himself. "Clint Barton."
She nods. She remembers now.
"I assume you have a name besides Black Widow? Not really an easy thing to be referred to by at all times, you know."
The short laugh that follows is genuine enough that he smiles. "I have a name, but I do not want it."
He doesn't say anything right away, instead looking around the room they've thrown her in.
White blinding, white confining, white trapped.
She keeps her eyes trained on his face, waiting for any sign that points to danger.
Clint motions to the door. "They aren't going to hurt you, not here."
"You do not know that. People lie."
He shakes his head. "I do know that. I won't let them."
His words take a second for her to comprehend. He said he would fight for her, she thinks.
Fight against his own people for her. She narrows her eyes- people don't work that way. "What are you, Clint Barton?"
"Broken. I am broken," he says, meeting her gaze. "And a little lonely, I guess. If that's the way we're looking at this."
She frowns at his response. Not the answer she was looking for.
"Why did you bring me here?"
"I didn't. He did," he says, pointing at the camera across the room.
Bastard has an answer for everything, she thinks.
"Why didn't you leave me there to die?"
Silence echoes around the room.
A crease appears between his eyebrows as he frowns. "Because you only die once, and it should be by relative choice, not because of some brainwashing effect and a paid hit team."
"So you spared my life?"
"Most people deserve second chances. I made a call- so far I think it was the right one."
"But you disobeyed your orders."
He shrugs. "Rules are made to be broken. Orders are given for the purpose of ignoring them."
She thinks this over for a second. He watches her eyes, looking for hints of emotion, anything.
Her walls are strong, old, built by years of lies and suffering and he doesn't want to know what else. Pulling them down will not be easy.
"I am broken, Clint Barton."
"We all are."
"You cannot fix me."
"I'd like to try anyway, if you'll let me."
"And if I do not believe you?"
He picks his words careful. She's one to trust easily, that he knows. "I am what I am, no lies. You deserve to be free of all that shit," he says, motioning to her head and she understands he is referring to the events of Paris. "After that, it's your choice to stay or go."
Narrowed eyes soften, revealing more of their deep green color.
"They will not hurt me."
"They won't, I promise."
The smile that briefly crosses her face is small, but it's a start.