Natasha and Clint had taken to training together in Avengers Tower early in the morning, far before any of their other teammates were awake. It was an easy sort of routine; they would warm up together and spar in hand-to-hand combat for an hour before moving onto weight training and target practice, Natasha with a Glock and Clint with his favorite bow. Clint insisted that Natasha start seeing this as real training, instead of her insisting that the only "training" she had done was the intense, brutal regiment she followed in the Red Room. Truthfully, she had only shared bits and pieces with Clint about her time there when it was unavoidable. He had learned that she had killed innocents as "training" after a particularly intense mission in which they had incurred a civilian casualty and she had a full panic attack in the helicarrier on the way back to the compound. He learned that they chained her to the bed to keep the girls from escaping when she was restrained to a medical bay bed when she refused to stop thrashing away from doctors. A few bits and pieces had been inferred along the way and he attempted at every turn to convince her that it was not her fault and that the Red Room "training" was cruel and not true training.
Natasha was notably missing from this morning's session and Clint was concerned. Usually, he could find her stretching or running when he came in to start their morning routine, but she was in neither area. He checked the range to find her finishing her session, covered in sweat and breathing all too quickly.
"Tash," he said slowly. She whipped her body around quickly to face him, gun still raised and eyes darting between Clint and the door. He raised his hands above his head in surrender. "Tash, you're in Avengers Tower. It's me, Clint."
"Avengers Tower," she muttered under her breath, a thick Russian accent leaking into her voice.
"Yes. Avengers Tower. And I'm Clint, your partner. Can you lower the gun, Tash?"
She slowly lowered the gun and sighed deeply, closing her eyes and allowing her shoulders to fall with her breath. She flinched when fingers touched hers as Clint wrapped his hand around her gun and took it slowly across the room, out of reach.
"Tash, what happened?"
She slowly opened her eyes and met his, her eyes silently pleading him not to ask more.
"Nothing," she walked toward the door out of the range as Clint grabbed her wrist to stop her from leaving. She wrenched her wrist and flipped him on his back before she could even think to stop. The resounding bang of his back on the floor seemed to snap her out of her trance. "Clint… I'm so sorry."
He searched her eyes as he nursed his back and stood quickly. Trying to lighten the mood, he cracked a joke, "Glad I took the gun when I did."
"I could have killed you and you make a joke," she said breathily, taking the opportunity to sprint out of the training area and up the stairs to her floor.
"JARVIS," she spoke aloud to the AI. "Secure my floor. No one enters until I leave." She didn't listen for a reply or Clint's banging on the stairway door, but continued her quick strides to the bathroom. Even though the floor was secure, she still felt like she had to close and lock the door, double checking that no one could interrupt her before rummaging in the medicine cabinet for the Midol bottle hidden among other painkillers and post-mission supplies. Even if the boys had been smart enough to pick up on her little habit, they would never dare touch such a feminine product as period medicine. She twisted the lid off quickly and reaching for the metal inside, instantly calming her racing heartbeat.
She didn't do this often, only when she couldn't shake the memories of what happened in the Red Room. Not the small things she had shared with Clint or the occasional things Tony figure out, but the deepest, most horrifying things that ebbed at the edge of her mind until she could no longer ignore the memory. She hadn't slept in three days, if you could call the twenty minutes she had gotten in the days preceding those three "sleep," because the nightmares would not stop. Finally, last night she decided it was time to resume her training without Clint, her real training. So, after all the other Avengers had wandered off to bed, she snuck down to the training floor and put her body through three hours of ballet, two hours of running at top speed, and finally an hour of target practice. Now, she would complete the training by giving herself a Red Room punishment for every miss, every slip of her ankle, and every break she had to take on the treadmill. Thirty-seven in all, gracefully etched into her thighs where the boys would never see. Not nearly perfect enough for the Black Widow, she was better than this, she had to be. Tonight, she would be better.
The habit was part punishment, part practicality of a distraction that worked to push her memories deeper into the depths of her unconscious. It was messy, addictive, and becoming more frequent as the flashbacks and triggers that sent her spiraling into a panic became unmanageable, but it worked, even after several years. She had mastered hiding her habit and even let her teammates see some of her tamer panics, like in the infirmary or helicarrier, to convince them that they were "helping." She hated lying to them, especially Clint, but they would never understand the Red Room and why she had to do this. So, thirty-seven cuts cleaned and wrapped later, she emerged from her floor of the tower ready to face a confused partner and spin a convincing lie.
