AN ahahaha it's been a month

I feel like I seriously misled you guys, when I said I'd update really soon. I was so ready to rip everything out and shove into your hands, but then I realized that this particular section of the story needs a lot of care, so I've been working very hard to make sure everything's just so.

"Refuge"

When it's cold outside
There's no need to worry
'Cause I'm so warm inside
You give me peace
When the storm's outside
'Cause we're in love I know
It'll be alright

'Cause you give me peace
In the middle of the storm.

John Legend

it is warm, and she is wet. he closes the door behind her.

Natasha stepped inside, feeling very out of place. She forced herself not to look back and stare at Clint, anxiety climbing up into her throat. She paused at the edge of the entryway, stealing glances at his home.

It was comfortable, with soft looking carpets, dark, luxurious furniture made of wood and leather, and cool colored walls. Most importantly, it was warm, which only reminded Natasha of how freezing she was.

The door shut with a soft click, and she finally allowed herself to look at Clint. His eyes were on the floor, but his expression was serious. When he glanced up at her, his smile was fleeting and empty.

Natasha adjusted her grip on her bag. She was suddenly choking on the urge to burst into tears, but she was tired of breaking down in front of him.

What was she supposed to do? Where did she fit anymore? She had left her grandparent's small apartment, been cast out of the boarding house, and was now huddled inside Clint's expensive townhouse. None of them seemed to suit her in her mind, each one scraping against her skin and making her acutely aware of what a catastrophe she was.

Clint edged past her, and Natasha drew away. She watched him cross the room, go past the brilliant looking kitchen, and turn down a small hallway. Natasha took a step to see where he had gone, then froze, glancing down at the pale carpet and her filthy, soaked shoes. She stepped back onto the entryway tiles.

"Here," Clint said, reappearing a moment later. He tossed a towel at her, and it felt almost sinful against the skin of her hand, soft and warm and thick. She took a moment to soak in the foreign nature of its luxury, then set down her bag and slipped out of her coat.

Natasha squeezed some of the water out of her hair, then wrapped the towel around her, knowing there wasn't much else she could do at that point. Clint watched her, expression still deeply troubled. She couldn't quite bring herself to meet his eyes. This was such an intrusion, and she had no right to ask it of Clint.

"What happened?"

Natasha gave a weak start at his voice, then glanced down at herself. Her life had imploded, as it was wont to do, that's what had happened.

She shook her head, unable to bring herself to speak.

"What the hell happened?" he asked, voice dark and angry. Natasha tensed, instinctively wanting to recoil from his voice, but a quick look told her he wasn't angry with her. Not directly.

she looks away, unable to speak.

Natasha turned her face away, staring at the back of his dark leather couch, hating how weak she was being. Tears stabbed at her eyes, and she clenched her teeth, trying to will them not to fall. She wasn't ready to cry in front of him, she had done that enough, she wasn't ready, she wasn't ready, she wasn't ready.

She did, anyways.

Clint watched her for a moment, watching her quietly sob to herself, then sighed. This was the point when he would walk away, would drag himself up the staircase in the corner, because it was late, he was tired, he didn't need to deal with her pathetic drama right now. He would come back down in the morning, when she had had time to compose herself.

Clint walked over, and wrapped his arms around her. Natasha gasped, still completely shocked that he would even bother to give her comfort, much less reassurance, and then her face was in his shirt. He ran a hand over her wet hair, the touch soft and painfully sincere.

"It's alright, Natasha," he murmured, "it's alright, it's alright, it's alright. You're safe here, you're okay. I'm here, I'm here, it's alright…"

The words were repetitive, the things that might be whispered to a distraught child, but Natasha didn't care. He pressed his lips into her crown, then rested his chin on top of her head. She pressed herself into Clint, trying to soak up as much as she possibly could of…whatever the hell this was. This was what she wanted, to be held and consoled and handled with care. She wanted this, she wanted this from Clint.

Clint waited her out, arms firm around her as she wept out her grief. She had touched him thousands of times before, had felt his skin and hair, and sometimes his very soul, but she had never felt him stand so strong. After a point, Natasha just leaned into him, her tears slowing and becoming quieter.

Finally, she pulled her face from his chest. She blinked at the tear stains on his shirt, and the creases her hand had made from clenching the fabric.

"Why don't…why don't you head up and take a shower, warm up," Clint said vaguely, gesturing at the stairs. He was looking somewhere near her elbow, expression unclear.

Natasha lingered for a moment, then nodded. She glanced around at her bag, and starting rifling through it, pulling out the things she needed. Natasha leaned over to take off her shoes, then remembered what the mess she had tracked into his house.

"Oh, I should…" she mumbled, but he waved his hand, taking her towel and coat.

"No, it's fine, I got it. You go get warm. Then get to bed, you look like you need it," he said. She paused, and finally looked him full on in the face. Natasha searched desperately for the anger, or the annoyance, or embarrassment or pity or anything that might be lingering in his face, but she couldn't find it. He just looked at her, his little boy blue eyes laying her bare, yet again. They looked unimpressed.

she goes, unsure but not wanting to disobey.

Natasha nodded again, and moved towards the stairs. Not listening to him seemed like more of an infraction than not cleaning up after herself. Besides, if she knew how to take care of herself, she wouldn't have knocked on his door. She glanced back at Clint when she reached the bottom step. He looked lonely, hanging up her coat and putting her towel in the laundry. He looked tired and lonely. She went upstairs.

Clint hadn't explained the layout of the house, but she discerned his room right away. It was the only one that looked like it had more than dust as a visitor. His room also shared the floor with a guest bathroom, what Natasha guessed was a linen cupboard, and a study. But no other bedroom.

Natasha stood on the top step for a moment, chewing her lip, then made a decision. She moved into his bedroom, and turned on the light to the master bathroom. It was nice, like everything else in Clint's home. The counters were of a dark grey tile, and the walls were a crisp, light blue. All of the appliances were white, giving a bright, clean feeling.

Taking a deep breath, Natasha set her things down on the counter. She closed the door, and then crossed over to switch on the water. With that done, Natasha turned back to face the rest of the bathroom.

The door stared at her, large and judgmental. She fidgeted, suddenly feeling the anxiety of her situation catch up to her.

Did she need to lock the door? This was Clint's house, was she allowed to do that? It wasn't like he was going to walk in on her by accident, though. He knew where she was, what she was doing. And he respected her privacy, at least, that's what she had come to more or less believe. This wasn't like the boarding house, where girls flat out didn't care.

He wasn't like the girls. He wouldn't inconvenience or hurt her like one of them. But he was still able to.

The Landlord's face suddenly flashed into her head, and Natasha practically bolted for the door, locking it tight. She stood there a moment afterward, forehead pressed against the wood. She was almost panting, and when she pulled her hand from the knob, she realized that it was shaking. Natasha closed her eyes, wishing she could push the image of his hands and sneer and vicious eyes from her head.

Natasha searched quickly for a towel and wash cloth, then started pulling off her clothes. She stepped into the shower, and then slid the glass door back closed. The water was nice against her skin, steady and warm and comforting. It stung when she let the stream fall directly on some of her bruises, but she didn't mind.

Using the bar of soap on one of the ledges, she washed off, trying to rub some heat back into her toes. She lathered the soap through her hair, suddenly needing to clean all traces of the boarding house from her.

She stayed in the shower just long enough to warm up, and then Natasha got out. She wiped off the water, and scrubbed down her hair, then glanced at herself in the mirror.

She was a sight, just as she had predicted. Her split lip had stopped bleeding, but it still looked raw and unhappy. A couple vague bruises had formed; one on her cheek bone, some on her arms, and a few on her sides. She looked thin, her arms and legs seeming bony and useless. She could clearly see her hips, and a shadow of her lower ribs. Natasha wondered why anyone would look at her, and see something desirable, why anyone would look at her legs, or what she passed off as cleavage, or the hard line that was her shoulder, and see something worth coveting. She wondered why anyone would want to take her clothes off, when they should really be putting them back on, hiding the skin that was stretched too tight against her bones.

A thump came from down stairs, and she flinched, glancing at the door. It was locked, she reminded herself, she was alright. Bathrooms may not have been safe like her room—like her old room—but if they were locked, no one could get in.

Natasha clenched her teeth at the thought, and started putting on her clothes. She took the time to brush her teeth, scrubbing them over and over and over, trying to wash out the bad taste that had risen in her mouth.

When she could no longer stay in the bathroom, Natasha dragged in a breath, then unlocked the door. She stepped out into Clint's room, a little stunned by the darkness. She blinked a couple of times, trying to adjust, and stumbled to a chair she had seen earlier. She placed her things in it, then turned toward the bed. Clint had told her to lay down, and she needed to sleep. But was she allowed to use his bed? There might have been one in the other room, the one she had thought was a study, but she wasn't sure if she wanted to search the rooms to find out.

Finally, Natasha just flopped onto the bed, body almost crying at how comfortable it was. She rolled over, and looked at the door. Light from downstairs was seeping up the steps, and she could hear the soft sounds of Clint moving around. He didn't seem to be headed in any time soon.

she huddles under the covers, closes her eyes.

The bed smelled like him, like spice and comfort and safety. She closed her eyes. When had he become associated with the word 'safe' in her head?

Natasha curled up under the blankets. She wrapped her arms around her legs, unsure if she felt strange because she was in someone else's bed just to sleep, or if it was because she was wearing clothes to bed.

She couldn't sleep. Her mind kept running loops, throwing images of the Landlord's rage, the other girls' apathy, and Gracia's misery into her face. That was all gone now, that was the past. She wouldn't have to face that ever again, so why couldn't she stop thinking about it?

Natasha held herself tighter, as if that might be able to press the thoughts away from her. She felt like a child again, when she would curl up tight underneath the covers, not moving for fear of the monsters lurking in the dark. Only now, the monsters were in her head, and she was too wise to think that laying still would keep her safe from them.

Natasha opened her eyes, and watched the lazy shadows snow was casting on the blinds. As cold and unforgiving as it had been to her just an hour before, she couldn't help but be entranced by it. Huge flake after flake wandered down, making little drifts of dark against the orange glow of street lights. It looked so peaceful, each glob of snow gently covering up the world, and its ugliness, and its grime, allowing everything to be nice and quiet and safe. All of the bad thoughts were cooped up inside, chased away by the beauty of the cold. It was alright. She was alright, she was fine, she could sleep…

A sound came from the hall, jerking Natasha out of her trance. She hissed in a breath, suddenly panicking and thinking only of the Landlord, returned to make her truly suffer, then she remembered where she was. She was in Clint's house, in his bedroom, underneath his covers. The Landlord couldn't find her, the Landlord didn't know where she was. It was just Clint.

He didn't say anything as he moved into the bedroom. Clint shifted around in the dark for a few moments, not bothering with the light.

What was he expecting? What was he going to do, now that he had Natasha in his bed? Was he expecting her to sleep with her, in exchange for room and board? Natasha didn't know if she would be sick or punch him in the face if that happened. Possibly both, anything was possible at that point.

She clenched her teeth as he pulled back the covers, and climbed in beside her. She was completely stiff for a moment, waiting, waiting, waiting. If he touched her, she would scream. That's all there was to it, if he so much as placed his hand on her side, Natasha would scream and run.

Clint sighed, then fell still beside her. She waited a few seconds more, then realized that he hadn't changed, either. He was still in his day clothes, the fabric of his jeans just barely touching her foot.

she smiles, even though he can't see it.

"I didn't know that you'd kept them," he said, the words breaking through the silence like an ice pick. "Or, rather, I didn't think you'd keep them. The sticky notes, I mean."

Natasha blinked, a little shocked that Clint would have gone through her things. Now that he had, what did he think of her? What impression could her paltry possessions give, on top of her hopeless desperation and blatant abuse?

"I wasn't ever sure you'd keep leaving them," she admitted. She didn't turn to face him, just handed the words over, regardless of how small they sounded in the air.

"Of course I would," Clint whispered, rolling over to wrap an arm around her, like usual. "I always would."

Natasha broke into a smile, glad that he wasn't able to see it. She raised a tentative hand, and then took hold of the one he had slung in front of her. Clint didn't say anything, just ran a thumb over the back of her hand.

Natasha watched the snow's shadow for a few moments, then closed her eyes. Clint breathed beside her, each one slower than the last.

They were both laying in bed, side by side, quiet, tired, completely clothed...and Natasha loved every minute of it.

AN Something I really want to convey with this chapter, is that just because Natasha's out of the boarding house physically, she's completely stuck mentally. There is a gross amount of damage done to her, and she doesn't know how to function as A Normal Human Being. There is a lot of work to be done, before she can just settle down and be happy.