AN I don't know what to do help I'm feeling.

Another round of thank yous to my lovely beta, Red Bess Rackham.

Warning: Allusions to domestic abuse


"Same Mistakes"

Closing in on December
And it's hard to remember
All our plans got dismembered
But we ended up right here
Lost track of the timing
Looking for silver lining
Getting old and un-winding
But it's still not very clear
So it's true that we build up our
Lives around safety routines
So what's new
At the end of the day
We're well-oiled machines

Deceive me so sweetly
I need the innocent ones to revolt
Pull the wool from my eyes
Cause it takes the change
I never make
I don't want to make do
With same mistakes.

Eric Hutchinson


he calls for her the next day. she goes because she must pay the bills and because she really can't stay away.

Natasha couldn't have imagined the kind of terror she felt when she heard that Clint had called for her the next day. It made her feel actually sick, her stomach seizing and her throat tightening and her whole body pulling away from the girl delivering the message, like she would be able to distance herself from having to see Clint.

She knew this was just another part of her punishment, another show made by the Landlord. It displayed just how little he thought of the remaining fragments of her image and pride. She went where he told her, no matter how she felt or what had happened to her.

Her hand shook as she dabbed on the make up, thicker and thicker and thicker, trying to hide what had happened. Of course, it didn't work.

It snowed as she walked to the specified motel. She pulled up her hood, steps a little jerky from the cold and apprehension. A part of her wanted out of the cold as soon as possible, but she she found herself going slow, partially because she hurt too much to walk quickly, and partially because she didn't want this.

She waited a few moments before knocking on Clint's door, hand clenching and unclenching by her side, trying to steal a few more seconds of preparation. Her breath huffed out in front of her face, and her legs were shaking in the freezing air, but she waited.

Natasha liked the cold, liked how it made her focus on how uncomfortable she felt, rather than how she was expected to perform in front of Clint when she felt like wreckage inside. The icy air pushed past her jacket and flooded into her chest, freezing whatever was left inside. Natasha had tried burning it all away, tried indulging herself in Clint and allowing her reckless behavior to turn her insides to ash, but that hadn't worked. All that was left to her was the winter, the ice, and the snow. She could do this, she could do this. She was numb, she was disconnected, she was managing.

Natasha knocked on the door, the action making her knuckles sting. She waited the customary few seconds before Clint opened the door, and made her expression sultry and enigmatic as she told herself nothing had changed.

Everything had changed.

He was already smiling when he opened the door, like he normally did. He stopped when he saw the bruises.

Clint looked guarded and uncertain as he took her features in, noticing everything. She wondered what tipped him off first. Was it the split lip, the careful way she held herself? Was it the bruise under her eye, or the one marring her opposite cheekbone? Was it the empty, terrified way she looked at him?

"Natasha." The word was flat and questioning, and something she was completely unused to. She prayed her own smile didn't falter.

he asks what's wrong. she doesn't tell him. he starts to get upset, asks what. is. wrong? she says nothing.

She raised her eyebrows, and he remembered himself. He stepped aside so she could walk in, but she felt the way he watched her, like she was a poorly kept thing in a zoo, something to be gawked at and pitied and wondered about.

"What happened?"

She pressed her lips in a tight line, took a breath, then draped her coat on the table.

"Nothing," she said, giving him a dazzling smile. He wasn't dazzled.

"Natasha. What—is—wrong?" Each word was deliberate and hard, impossible for her to ignore. She looked at him, thinking that it was kind of strange for him to suddenly start paying attention now. He almost looked upset, with his eyes narrowed and his jaw set. She saw a muscle jump when she said, "Nothing."

"Fine," he bit out, going to sit on the chair. She sat on the arm rest, hand draped across the back of the chair. After a moment's obvious deliberation, he placed his hand on the inside of her calf. Natasha nearly closed her eyes in relief. She stood so she could position herself on his lap as usual, but he pulled his hand away.

Natasha looked at him, confused. He didn't raise his eyes from her thigh, so she carefully sat back down. After a moment, his hand was back on her leg, just touching her, just holding her. She swallowed, looked away.

"Why won't you tell me?" he asked after a while, the words a sad little whisper.

"There's nothing to tell, nothing happened. It's fine, I'm fine." The words tumbled out of her mouth, over the cut on her lip and the makeup on her chin and fell at his feet. Even from where Natasha sat, they seemed hollow and unimpressive.

he doesn't say anything, and it's loud enough to make her ears hurt.

Natasha glared at the opposite wall. Thinking about it all made her angry, suddenly, hopelessly angry. Why was he asking? What was it about this particular instance that was so troubling to him? He had seen it all before, there was no way he couldn't, not after all of the times they had met. The bruises, the scrapes, that damn air of shame that hung around her body, everywhere she went, they had all made an appearance, and he had always chosen not to comment. What made this time so special? Why did he suddenly get to stop being the polite gentleman that listened and waited, and suddenly become the pious knight that pushed and needled and tried to drag the answers out of her?

Clint looked at her, and she couldn't keep herself from meeting his eyes. They were tired, suddenly exhausted in the face of...whatever the hell this was. There was no mischievous smile, no bright cleverness, no jagged pain. It was like he was too tired to maintain any sort of facade, and was now just looking at her to see whatever he could.

She clenched her jaw, despising the whole situation. She didn't want this, this wasn't the time for her to be angry! He was the person that had taken all of the ice she had caked around her soul and had broken it up, getting his fire inside of her chest and consuming her. He was the one that treated her like a person, that valued her time and hadn't demanded her to continue on after she had collapsed in the shower. He was the one that had sat in the bathroom as she snipped at his hair, and quietly asked about her secrets, and let her give them if she wanted. Natasha didn't want to be angry.

Natasha leaned over and kissed him, needing to stop being angry and to stop thinking and to stop being looked at by those damnably beautiful and tragic eyes. Maybe if she just raced past all of this into territory they both knew too well, then he would stop being so upset.

She slipped onto his lap, pressing into him in way of anchoring herself, because she felt dizzy and everything inside of her was screaming that she stop, but she couldn't back out now. Their breath was tangled up between them, and she could feel his heart through his shirt, slower and more reasonable than the frenetic thing in her chest.

Natasha held his head in her hands, desperately pressing into his hair and jaw and skin, desperately trying to get him to understand that she couldn't talk about this, couldn't crack open this part of her life because it was too new, too horrific.

Clint kissed her, and for a beautiful second, she thought that she had maybe done it, but then he pulled back, biting his lip. The sickening feeling of having the ground pulled out from underneath her was all too familiar, because she had just done this, she had just done it all with the Landlord and yet she hadn't learned.

She closed her eyes and clenched her teeth, waiting, yet again expecting something horrible. This was when she would be slapped, or pushed off his lap. This was when he would tell her to go home, that she wouldn't be paid, that he would call the police.

Natasha opened her eyes after a moment, terrified, but needing to know.

Clint wasn't looking at her. He was biting his lip, chewing over the thoughts he was not allowing himself to say as he refused to acknowledge what had happened. Her dark lip stick marked his mouth, though, just as it marked her mistake. She sat up straight, hands slipping down to her lap. She had gone and messed things up, her recklessness completely breaking their routine. She never started first, and he always kissed back.

Natasha stood up, absolutely hating herself. She fell back a step, and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

She walked into the kitchenette to his right, making herself not look at him. She opened a cabinet and found a cup, and filled it with water to validify her movement, when really, she just needed to get away.

She could feel him watching her, eyes dark as they urged her to look around. She didn't, instead taking her time with the metallic tasting water and forcing him to wait. The silence that covered them was awful and oppressive, pressing against her skin and making her ears hurt.

he asks why she does this, and she is confused.

"Why, Natasha?" he asked after a moment, and she jumped. She turned to face him, wary.

"Why what?"

He gave one of his humorless laughs, a soft 'Huh' that just barely passed for a chuckle. Clint shook his head and stared at the ceiling, as if trying to find his answers there.

"Why...why do you lie to me?"

"I don't lie," she said. She blinked a couple of times, questioning herself for a second because the habit had forced the words out of her throat, not actual thought. But she was right, she didn't lie to him. How could he even imply that, after everything? She had thrown her history and everything else she had at his feet, and not once had she changed the truth.

"You lie about being fine, about now needing help," he answered, voice tight. She looked away from him, stomach dropping, because, okay, she had never acknowledged that she had needed help. But that wasn't the same thing, that wasn't lying, it was just...it wasn't lying.

"You never, not once, admit that you need help, Natasha, and I don't—what can't you tell me? What is too horrible for me to know?"

Natasha snapped her gaze back to him. His voice had risen on the last bit, his anger getting the better of him. And though it made her flinch, because, in her world, a man yelling at her was generally accompanied by some sort of perverse punishment, it reminded her of her anger. He was lecturing her about not asking for help? He, who had had the living shit beaten out of him on a regular basis by a loan shark and his lackeys, was criticizing her for not broadcasting her own problems into the world?

How many times had she asked him? How many sticky notes had traded hands until he finally acknowledged that he was being brutalized? And even then he wouldn't really tell her why, merely that he had 'become involved', whatever that meant.

How could he even act like this was his place to look down on her and her selfish, idiot ways?

Natasha just stared at him, pouring all of her words into him without saying anything, because she was too afraid, because she knew that this burned more. He clenched his jaw and turned his head, still looking at her. He knew exactly what she was thinking, and for a moment, Natasha found a sick moment of pleasure because finally, he was the one that got to writhe.

Clint shook his head, and broke eye contact. He rubbed his face in his hands, then stood up.

"Alright. Don't tell me, then," he said, and walked out the door.

Natasha continued glaring at the door after it closed, because there was steel in her blood and she wasn't ready to give it up just yet. But then she realized that her hand was shaking and her lips were pressed together to keep a pathetic, mortified scream from escaping, and her head felt light and she thought her legs might give way again.

She set down the cup, stumbling back and bracing herself against the wall. Her heart was once more screaming in her chest, and she couldn't think, she couldn't think, she couldn't think. Had she just done that? Had she just chased her client away? What was she supposed to do? Had he left for good, was she supposed to leave as well? If she went now, she would probably run into Clint again, and she knew that she wouldn't be able to handle another confrontation. She had already claimed her miracle, in being able to face him down so beautifully, so stupidly.

Natasha crouched down against the wall, hands pressed over her mouth to muffle the sound coming out of her mouth.

What had she even done? What did this mean for her? If he was really gone, then she wouldn't get paid, and the Landlord would give her absolute hell. But no, no, she didn't have to go home empty handed. She could find another client in a bar or somewhere, and make up the difference. When Clint stopped calling, the Landlord could assume whatever he wanted. Regulars had stopped calling before, it wasn't anything new.

Natasha braced her wrists against her temples, trying not to hyperventilate and to just think. What was she going to do now? Take a chance and wait for Clint to come back, or go out and find another client?

She stood up and walked to the foot of the bed. She shifted from foot to foot. Clint had walked out of the room, but he hadn't left a sticky note. And his things were still there, but then, this was his hotel room, he could come and go as he pleased. But something inside of her was convinced that he intended to return. He had done this before, had left the room before he actually intended to leave. She thought about the heinously awkward situation it had been, him leaving and then coming back to find her awake and drinking his coffee.

She nodded to herself, convinced. If there was no sticky note, then he wasn't really gone. He probably expected her to still be there.

Natasha sat down, feeling a moment of sunny relief. Then, what was supposed to be a simple inhale turned into a choked gasp, and she was suddenly sobbing. She put her face in her hands, both to hide the tears and smother the loud sounds she was making, then she remembered that there was no one around to know that she was crying. Natasha tipped her head back, suddenly feeling miserable. But of course, she should have expected this. Her life was only staying true to form, souring the one good thing she had?

She laid down where she sat, and drew her knees up to her chest. At this point, she couldn't be bothered with Clint walking back in and seeing her, she just wanted to cry and not deal with anyone hearing or seeing or conspiring against her.

It was dark when she finally sat up, her tears reduced to nothing but vague trails on her face. She walked into the bathroom, and tried to remove a bit of the catastrophe that was her make up.

She sniffed and wiped at her nose, and forced herself to just look in the mirror. Her nose was red and running, and her eyes weren't much better. The concealer she had used to hide her bruises had smeared off, and the injuries jumped out at her, dark and unhappy. She kept huffing through her mouth, trying to get her breathing under control, trying to reclaim some semblance of dignity. But then, she hadn't had much to begin with.

The worst thing, though, was that Natasha figured she could still be called pretty. That was the terrible trick about her trade. The girls always looked so nice on the outside, belying the absolute wreckage on the inside. The bits that made her human were gnarled and stunted and pathetic, and she honestly didn't know if there was a way to ever fix them.

Natasha cleaned off her face as well as she could, then went and found her cup. She sipped at the water, knowing that she very well might start vomiting if she didn't.

Natasha turned off the lights in the room, then dragged herself back to the bed. She leaned against the edge as she pulled off her clothes off in the dark, and tossed her pumps towards her coat. She climbed underneath the covers, too tired and miserable to care about what she was and wasn't supposed to do.

She closed her eyes, and just listened. She listened to the sound of her breathing, and her heartbeat, and to the sound of the cars and the people outside.

She wondered where Clint was.

the next morning, she can feel him there beside her.

Natasha opened her eyes, then grimaced and closed them again. She took stock of herself for a moment, hardly surprised to find that her injuries still really hurt. She pulled her legs up to her chest, not wanting to have to get up and deal with the day.

There was something warm near her back, and her heart thrilled at the idea that Clint had returned. Natasha let the idea swirl about her head for a second, because she didn't care that she had to face him now, didn't care that they had to deal with the repercussions of last night, didn't care about any of it. She was just happy that he had come back. He had come back into the room, and had seen her in bed. Clint had climbed into bed beside her, had hopefully touched her cheek, or brushed her hair. He had returned, maybe not for her, but he was there nonetheless.

Natasha gave a soft sigh, signaling that she was awake. He didn't move. Natasha waited, aching to roll over or change positions, but she remained patient. Eventually, Clint got out of bed. He didn't touch her, didn't say anything. He acted the same as normal, but things weren't normal. Something had changed and Natasha didn't know what, but she did know it could never go back.

She squeezed her eyes shut even tighter when she heard him get dressed and quietly left the room. She bit her lips, wishing that he had spoken to her, wishing she had done something other than wait to be acted upon.

Natasha sat up, barely noticing the cold. She looked around, feeling her happiness dissipate yet again. She rubbed her face, then stood up. She got dressed just as he had, silent and acting as if nothing special had happened.

Her stomach dropped when she noticed the bottle of orange juice on the table. A pastel yellow sticky note sat on the wide green lid, quietly waiting for her attention. She braced herself against the table, taking a slow breath.

He had remembered. She had told him once that orange juice was her favorite, months ago, and he had remembered. She bit her lip, willing herself not to start crying again, and a long moment passed before she could continue.

Natasha slipped into her coat, unable to keep her eyes from drifting back to the bottle. Once she was ready, she just stood there, trying to figure out how to approach things.

Natasha pulled the sticky note from the lid and stared at it. There were a lot of words on that little piece of paper, even though it was blank.

She carefully set it in her pocket, and allowed herself one last breath to calm herself. She picked up the bottle.

Of course, the money was underneath it.


AN This is definitely another tipping point in the story. Clint and Natasha haven't really spoken to each other, but there are things in the open now that they both are going to have to face, and soon.

I find it interesting that, although they are arguably more familiar with each other, to the point of being almost personal, they are having a more difficult time actually speaking to each other. Before, when they were talking about their past, everything was fairly easy to deal with. Now, though, the present is so much more daunting and dangerous, because it is really the only thing that can effect their futures.