"You alright?" Clint asked, coming up beside Natasha as she stood in the entrance to the Mess, unmoving.
She didn't answer, continuing instead to look around her, the smallest beginnings of a child-like smile on her face. Clint tracked her gaze, confused as to what could have caught her attention so absolutely. Eventually it clicked, and he moved around to stand in front of her.
"Have you never seen Christmas before?" He asked slowly, unsure as to whether that was the right approach.
"Not up close" she answered softly, not taking her eyes off the room.
It was the middle of December and overnight the Mess had been decked out for the holidays. Tinsel and lights had been strung up around the walls, decorative centrepieces had been placed on all the tables and a large Christmas tree dominated one corner, its lights twinkling softly and a large SHIELD eagle perched on top in place of an angel. Most of the ornaments on the tree were baubles in shades of silver, though tucked away out of sight of the superiors was a single round bauble painted to look like Director Fury, created as a joke by a Junior Agent one year and had since become a traditional fixture.
"Wait 'til next week," he said enthusiastically, "when they start rolling out the Christmas dinners. Then it looks really special in here."
After getting their breakfast Clint steered her to the table closest to the tree so she should get a proper look. He kept slipping her tiny glances whilst they ate but she never noticed him, transfixed by the smell of the pine and shimmering of the tinsel, not even once looking down at her own plate to see what she was picking up. He watched her in fascination. Since she had completed the recruitment programme and managed her first few months as a Probationary Agent Clint found being beside her through each of her new experiences a wondrous and heartbreaking time. He found that whilst she was familiar with a lot of American culture she had never been able to enjoy any of it, or choose what she did or did not want to see. The knowledge she had was enough to execute a decent cover during a mission, but she had only recently starting developing proper passions. Much to his chagrin he had also yet to see her perform badly at anything new they had done together, being thoroughly thrashed at table tennis, dodgeball and table football in quick succession.
"Hey!" He said brightly, snapping his fingers. She blinked and turned to look at him expectantly.
"We should decorate your room!"
"What? Why?" Natasha answered, looking confused.
The grin on Clint's face slipped a little.
"Because it's Christmas? It would look nice." He said, regaining his enthusiasm.
"But no one will see it." She responded, unconvinced.
He dropped his head to his chest with a groan.
"Ugh. You're hard work. But you will see it and it will look lovely and feel all Christmassy. I'll help you. I have stuff leftover from last year in a drawer somewhere. Anyway, I've seen your room, it could do with a little cheer."
She huffed, leaning back in her chair and turning her attention back towards the tree.
Later that evening Natasha was showered and changing into sweats when there was a knock at her door.
"One minute!" She called out, rolling her eyes to herself as the knocking didn't even pause.
All of a sudden she flung back the door to reveal a startled Clint, hand raised mid knock.
"What?" She said coldly.
He meekly held up a cardboard box and gave it a little rattle. She sighed, but stepped back to allow him in. Better to let him get his way than listen to him whine about it otherwise.
"This is all I could find. But it will be a good start. We'll have this place spruced up in no time."
She continued to stare at him as he gazed disapprovingly around her bare space. Bozhe he was cheery.
"Go on," he said, gesturing to the box he had placed on her desk, "have a look, see what takes your fancy."
She reluctantly walked over to her desk, unsure about what was making her hesitate so much.
"It's not gonna bite." He said with a grin on his face as he watched her pause. When she didn't respond his smile dropped. She never let an opportunity for a quick retort go to waste – even by her standards Clint could see she was quiet.
"What's up?" He asked quietly, lowering himself on to her bed so she could see his face.
"Its. I don't. I mean. I know what Christmas is," she finally said, a sharp edge of defensive defiance to her voice, "I'm not an idiot. We were taught it. I've just never...been...in it. I don't feel..." She trailed off.
"Christmassy?" Clint ventured.
"I suppose." She answered, gently sifting through the items in the box, a distinct feeling of inadequacy rising up in her as she realised she was so broken she couldn't even relate to something as big and unifying as the festive period. How could she ever articulate that? She didn't want him to realise she was broken and toss her aside like a toy. She heard her bed move as Clint rose to stand beside her, reaching past her hands into the box.
"That's okay, we'll start small. What did you like about the Mess?"
"The lights." She answered softly.
"Okay." He said, rummaging through the various ornaments until he pulled out a miniature fibre optic tree. "What about this?"
She watched as he flicked a switch on the base and set it on her desk, then moved over to turn her bedroom light off. He took her hand and pulled her back to the bed, tucking them both against the wall, side by side. They both sat silently, watching the slowly twinkling colour changing lights make patterns across her wall.
"You don't have to feel anything," he said quietly, and she felt herself relax, like the pressure inside her was slowly being released, "just look at it sometimes and enjoy it."
He knew she found it difficult to feel. To know what she was supposed to feel. And he wasn't asking her to. She sat staring at the little object, Clint's weight reassuringly next to her and she thought she felt something awfully close to contentment.
The weekend before Christmas he invited her ice skating. He had slowly been introducing her to 'The Holiday Spirit' and felt this was an essential part of her education. She had taken to most of the experiences like she approached every other aspect of her life – with a dedication and discipline he would be envious of, if he wasn't aware of how that dedication and discipline had been ingrained into her. He'd barely sat down on the bench to put his skates on when he saw a red blur sweep past him out on to the ice. When his brain finally caught up and his eyes focused he realised he was staring at Natasha who, skates donned had slipped on to the rink and was gliding smoothly around its edge.
"God dammit. One thing. There's gotta be one thing she can't do." He muttered to himself, pushing himself upright to join her, determined not to be outclassed yet again. As he reached her she spun around, skating backwards in front of him. Sensing that she had yet again surpassed his expectations, she shrugged a shoulder.
"I'm Russian," she said nonchalantly "we are raised on snow and vodka", before spinning back around and gliding off.
The rink was quiet and they spent the time trying to outdo each other, pretending to be speed skaters doing fast laps, and figure skaters choreographing their own little routines. They both had impeccable balance and moved around the space freely, already fairly in sync with each despite having only recently started working together. They circled around together holding hands and twirling about, taking it in turns to lift each other, Clint almost passing out with excitement when he conned her into lifting him over her head so he could recreate Baby's famous pose. Flushed and out of breath Clint stepped off the ice to change into his shoes, watching Natasha as she flew around a few more times with an ease and grace he found almost hypnotising. She wasn't particularly smiling, but as she whizzed past Clint could see her usual stony expression looking more relaxed than normal, more flesh than marble. He looked over to find her towards one end of the rink executing a neat layback spin before seemingly being satisfied with her performance and slowly gliding over to leave the ice and join him on the bench.
"Thanks," she said "that made me happy", giving Clint a quick glance before standing up to head off towards their car. For a moment, Clint forgot to breathe, his heart bursting with a feeling he couldn't quite describe, something akin to immense pride and overwhelming love. He could have shouted out his joy at hearing her say she was happy, but he knew how much effort the admittance had taken her and not wanting to belittle that or embarrass her, settled for a quiet 'you're welcome and stood up to walk beside her.
She shivered under her duvet, tightly curled up into a ball, one hand tucked beneath her chin and the other raised in its usual position beside her head clutching her bed frame with a white knuckled grip. She was sweating profusely, soaking her clothes and bedding, her whole body vibrating with the effort of trying to fight off some unseen enemy. With a gasp she awoke, sitting up too quickly and sending her contracted limbs into cramp with the sudden flexation. She sat in the darkness, teeth chattering, trying to push back the memories that had overwhelmed her, the feeling of ice crawling slowly up from her feet, freezing in her place where she stood. It was too much. It was all too much. Fumbling she forced one arm over to grab her phone, pausing beside the small light up tree Clint had gifted her, the other hand remaining tightly wrapped around the bed frame. Without thinking she switched it on and clutched it desperately in front of her, trying to force herself into taking a deep enough breath as she stared wildly at the changing colours, gripping it so hard as if letting go would cause to her slip back down into the icy clutches of her mind. At length she uncurled her hand from its base and made a shaky stab to where she thought her phone was, jabbing through her directory until she found the number she was after.
Clint was dreaming, some meandering story about reindeer having to pass the SHIELD Physical Assessment Phil had assigned them. "No," he was muttering in his sleep as he watched several reindeer teeter along the balance beam, Phil standing beside them holding a clipboard, "not Blitzen. Don't fall. You can do this." He punched the air triumphantly as all the reindeer passed the test, the victory being punctuated by a loud melody he thought he recognised. Coming to he realised the melody was real and emanating from his phone, lit up on his bedside table.
"Natasha?" He said groggily, running a hand over his face.
There was no response.
"Natasha?" He said again, slightly frantic this time.
"C..Cl..nt." He heard the distress on the other end of the line. He'd never heard that tone before.
Swiping his keys he bolted from his room, bouncing off the walls as he steered his way around the corridors to reach her room.
"Shit." He muttered, fumbling through his set of keys until he found her spare, jamming it in the lock. Gathering himself he slowly opened the door and tiptoed in, not wanting to startle her. He had no desire to surprise an assassin.
Natasha had retreated into the corner of her bed, knees tucked up beneath her chin, eyes staring unfocused in front of her. She was shaking, her head bumping against the walls behind her. Her pillow and duvet had been flung across the room and her sweat sodden sheet was half ripped off the mattress. She had one arm curled around her legs but the other remained firmly affixed to the bed frame, the muscles and tendons straining as they stretched across the distance.
"Jesus." Clint whispered as he took in the scene, his eyes flitting between the mess on the floor, the little tree knocked sideways on the table, and finally settling on Natasha. He had never seen her this far gone before. Even in her early days of de-programming and supervision under Hill her outbursts of anger and panic were usually terrifyingly intense, but short-lived. He found himself squinting as he tried to recognise the person in front of him. It certainly wasn't his friend. Whoever had replaced her was a pretender, a scared and vulnerable thing clutching desperately at the bed. Slowly he made his way across the room, crouching down beside her bed to look her in the eyes.
"Natasha," he began softly, "it's me. It's Clint. We are in your room. Can you talk to me?"
She didn't even blink, and for a moment he wasn't sure she had even registered he was in front of her. Then, agonisingly slowly he watched as her head lifted a fraction.
"C..co..cold." She shivered "'m cold."
"You're cold?" He asked, eyeing her damp hair and face, and flushed cheeks.
"'m c'ld." She slurred out again.
"Okay." He said gently. "Let's get you warm. It's just me, Clint, okay? I'm going to get you warm."
He slowly stood up and retrieved her duvet, as well as a couple of sweatshirts and thick socks and moved towards her, keeping his hands where she could see them. When he was almost up against her and she had made no move to startle away, he reached towards her to begin wrapping her up, pulling off the wet bed sheet as he went.
"We have to get your wet clothes off and into some dry ones."
He pulled off her pyjama bottoms without any resistance, or help, and eased on a pair of sweatpants and cosy socks. He kept looking at her to check she was okay but only ever received a catatonic stare in return. All was going well until he had wrestled one arm out of her pyjama top and was reaching over to prise her hand off the bed frame. Before he understood what had happened he found himself on his backside on the floor.
"No!" She shouted, before going back to staring blankly at the wall.
"Natasha. It's me. We have to get you dry. I need to change your top." Clint said again as he rubbed his shin, pushing himself back to his knees and shuffling back over to her. He went to touch her hand again but she batted it away, more feebly this time.
"No." She whimpered.
"Why Natasha?" He asked, stroking his hand over her fingers but making no effort to remove her vice-like grip.
"Can't let go. Not allowed. She'll find out. And she'll...she'll." Her voice hitched as she choked back a sob. "She'll put me back outside. I don't want to go outside. Cold. 'M too cold. Don't put me back outside."
She sounded so helpless. Clint felt sick. Closing his eyes he ran his palm up his forehead in an effort to push the nausea back down and gather himself. He needed to be firm. He needed to force out this poor imitation and bring back his friend.
"Hey. Listen to me. We are gonna stay inside for as long as you like. I'll make sure you don't go anywhere, I promise. I just want to get these jumpers on you and then we'll wrap you up okay?"
His thumb stroked over her fingers once more and after several more minutes of coaxing he saw her grip relax a minute amount. Bringing up her other arm he placed her hand around the bed frame to make her feel anchored.
"Is that okay? Look. You're still holding on see? You never let go. You're doing really well. You've not done anything wrong."
One by one he prised her fingers off the bed and pulled her top off over her head. With gentle hands he slipped her arm into one of her sweatshirts and brought it back up the bed to let her cling on, before repeating the action with her other arm and getting the sweatshirt on fully. She sat dumbly through the whole performance, neither helping nor hindering, only moving by herself when she would frantically reach back to the frame to reattach her grip. Clint picked up the second sweatshirt, noting as he did so that it was larger than the first, too large to be hers. Squinting in the darkness and holding it near her little tree for some light he looked in the collar to find a label reading 'Barton' sewn inside.
"I've been looking for this," he huffed, smiling softly at her, tugging it over her own sweatshirt arm by arm.
Once he had her fully dressed he scooted her down gently until she was lying down and pulled the duvet over them both, holding her close. She curled up against him, head tucked under his chin. After a while he was pleased to realise she had stopped shivering and her breathing was becoming steadier. He thought perhaps she had exhausted herself and drifted off to sleep when he felt both of her hands on his body, one gripping the front of his shirt and one wrapped over his waist. He smiled into her hair and pulled her closer.
"It's okay. I've got you."
Feeling secure, Natasha let out a shaky breath, taking the risk to trust that what she was about to say next would not be met with judgement.
"When I was little," she began, her voice so low she felt Clint push back a touch to hear her properly, "I was handcuffed to my bed at night". She kept her eyes down, not wanting to see Clint's reaction. She wasn't sure she would be able to handle his rejection of her. His grip didn't waver however and it gave her the courage to continue.
"There was one night. I hadn't been there very long, maybe a year or so, I don't know. I was feeling sick and I didn't want to throw up in my bed so I slipped the cuffs. I was so scrawny. God I don't know where I found the courage to do that. I saw another girl get out once and I never saw her again. I raced to the bathroom but I didn't make it and I threw up all over the floor. I tried to clean it up but Madame B., the Headmistress, found me before I could get back to my bed," she shivered involuntarily in Clint's arms, "and she, she grabbed me and pulled me away towards the front door. She cuffed me to a railing on the front stairs and left me there, saying if I was going to act like an animal I deserved to be outside. I was so little. I was there for hours. I remember my feet tingling on the stone, and I couldn't stop throwing up, but I was too numb to move so I kept being sick on my shorts. When she came back it was still dark and she dragged me back to the room. She cuffed my leg too and told me that if I ever slipped out of them again she would kill me."
She paused, opening and closing her mouth a few times, feeling Clint's strong hand stroking her back and finding comfort in his touch.
"I think I must have panicked. I don't know. Maybe it was just because I was ill. Maybe I had gotten too cold. But I suddenly felt a lot worse and without thinking wrenched my wrist out again and rolled over to be sick over the side of my bed. All over Madame B. I remember staring at her, frozen with terror, realising that my hand was free. She reached over to me and I thought she was going to kill me, but she undid my leg again and yanked me off the bed. She carried me back outside – my feet were too cold and I couldn't keep up. She chained me back up and left me outside for the rest of the night and the whole of the next day. I remember seeing all of the other girls walk past me the next morning, none of them wanting to look at me in case it happened to them too. It was so cold. I was so small and it was so cold". She finished with barely a whisper, shaking her head slightly to rid herself of the image. She could see it so clearly, staring down her ruined vest and shorts, to her tiny livid red feet, shivering, unable to cry because that response had already been beaten out of her.
Clint felt his heart ache. They'd barely even scratched the surface of her upbringing and he wasn't sure could handle it if they ever went deeper. He kept his grip on her, determined to let her know that he wasn't going to let her go. As much as she appeared to have enjoyed being at the rink, being on the ice had clearly dredged up old memories. He hoped this wouldn't completely taint that experience for her.
"You're not there anymore. You were so brave and you've done so well. You've had a busy day with the skating and everything, and it's muddled up all your emotions that's all. I'm not surprised you're all mixed up. But you're safe. You are warm and you are safe and no-one is going to cuff you outside anymore."
He felt her wriggle a little but she didn't pull away. He knew how badly she must be hurting if she was allowing herself to be held for this long, still unused to physical contact that wasn't associated with discipline.
"Are you warm enough?"
She gave a small nod.
"Good. Let's put your tree on and watch the lights. I'll stay right here. No-one is coming to take you anywhere I promise."
He rolled over to flick the little ornament on then cradled her back against him, tucking her against his side with her head near his heart so she could hear the steady rhythm, watching over her until she fitfully drifted off. Once he was sure she was asleep he allowed himself a long silent exhale of breath, turning his head to one side so the tears that leaked out dropped on to the pillow rather than into her hair.