"My file says there was a fire. That they scouted me for a 'ballet program.'" She scoffs as she says it. "I don't have any memories of my life before. Maybe some… flashes. But I don't know if they're real or made up. When we were young, they told us it was an orphanage for kids whose parents didn't want them so we would make up stories about what they were like and how they would shower us in presents for birthdays, clap as we did our first pirouettes, and hug us all the time. When we were five, we started training. It was just basic survival skills, that's what they told us. That was the worst year because we weren't performing yet, so they hit us a lot." The men exchanged a few worried glances and they pulled chairs around her bed. Clint grabbed her hand and gave her a firm squeeze of reassurance. "Then just before I was seven, they told me about a man. I remember it so vividly. They said this man had set fire to my house and killed my parents, which is why I was there. I was a pretty angry kid at that point and I was protective of all the younger kids. They told me that he was planning to burn down a few more houses, but that I could stop him and save those kids from having to come here and becoming a bad kid that they had to beat to make them behave well." Her words faltered a bit.
"They told you that you were bad kids for losing your parents?"
"Well, they said we let them die. That we were bad because we didn't save them…"
"You were three! You couldn't save them!" Steve cried in outrage.
"I can stop…" she said guiltily. "I know it's difficult to hear, I don't mean to be a burden."
"Steve, imagine how hard it must have been to live that. You can sit here and just hear about it. Continue, Nat."
"Um, alright… Well, I wanted to make sure those kids could save their parents, so I spent three days learning how to draw him away from a crowd and kill him by tying his own necktie around his neck so tight that he couldn't breathe. They gave me a gun, a little one that was easy to operate, for emergencies. He had a friend with him who wouldn't leave him alone, so I lured them both away and when they tried to take me, I shot them both. They didn't let me eat for three days after that because I made too many waves and raised suspicions."
The silence in the room was heavy as they processed the information they had just heard. Clint was beginning to understand what exactly he had saved her from, although he had always known that things were.. bad.
"Well, we know what happened when you were ten, so what happened from seven until then?"
"Those years were pretty easy, really. After we started going on missions, they started the eliminations. A few girls each year would fight with each other until one of them died. There can only be one Widow from each class. The first year of eliminations was the hardest because we had foolishly made friendships. We talked about our parents and played games in the dark and tended to each other's wounds. After we started killing each other and exploiting weaknesses we had shared in confidence, nobody talked much. We went to school every day, went to ballet practice, and had physical training. We went on missions every few weeks, always alone with close monitoring. The only punishment they had then was beatings, extra conditioning, and starvation or not giving us water. We never thought that we would long for those days." Her voice almost sounded wistful as she said this, but her body told a different story. Somewhere in the middle of telling the story, he hand had found its way to her stomach and she was picking at the scabbed over cuts with the hand Clint was not holding.
"Natasha," Tony said cautiously. Her whole body flinched involuntarily as she was pulled from the memory and back into the moment. "You're picking at your cuts and they might reopen. You can't lose blood right now."
"Oh, it's fine." She says. "I do this all the time, it just helps me stay focused when I'm having a hard time with a memory of thought."
"It's not okay," Bruce interjected. "Tony is right, you could reopen a wound and you can't afford to lose blood right now. We've been doing some research and working to find some safer alternatives for you. I think, since you're already talking to us, writing would not help. But, if I get you a rubber band that you could snap against your wrist and cause a little bit of temporary pain, would that help?"
"A blade would be better," she said snarkily, her eyes not leaving the white blanket draped over her legs.
"Okay, so that's not going to happen." Tony reiterates. "Here, why don't you try the rubber band?"
She hesitantly takes the band and places it around her wrist. The way that it hangs loosely against the small bone of her arm is not lost on any of these men. She pulls it back as far as it will stretch, ready to release it when Steve interjects.
"How is this helpful? She's still hurting herself and you're letting her!"
"This is temporary pain and causes no immediate physical threat to Natasha. It is a much safer alternative than her cuts or burns."
"Nat, maybe you could start with a smaller snap."
"Even this one won't hurt enough. Please, just let me do what I need to do. I'm trying your idea instead of trying to find something to cut myself with, can't we count that as a win or are you still not happy with me?"
"You're right," Clint concedes. "I'm sorry. I'm glad you are trying something less harmful than your usual methods of choice."
The snap of the rubber against her wrist is deafening for the people surrounding her and Steve physically flinches away from the motion. A small smile spreads across Natasha's face as the pain reaches her brain from her nervous system, a welcome relief from what felt like weeks of being unable to relieve her urge to dig a blade into her skin. She continues to snap the band against her wrist as she begins talking once more.
"Anyway, you know what starts happening after that. I was having intercourse with men by my eleventh birthday. It wasn't exactly the best birthday present, but most of the first few men who fucked me were at least gentle when they made love."
"I would hardly call that making love, Red," Stark scoffed.
She paused as the room filled with a pregnant pause. "What do you mean? They were gentle. Some of the later stuff was kinkier, but this was… pretty fine."
"Did you want to have sex with them?"
"I mean, I don't know? I don't remember if I did."
"Did you know that in most countries, children under the age of 16 cannot legally give consent to sexual activities?"
"Okay, but this was a bit of a special circumstance, I don't understand what you're trying to say, Stark." The panic was rising in her throat and she could hear the monitor beside her beeping more rapidly as her heart rate increased. She snapped the rubber band more quickly now, not pulling it back as far, but not allowing any resting time between snaps that was afforded by the larger distance between the band being pulled further back.
"You don't think that was actually sex, right Romanoff?"
"What else would it be?"
"Rape, Red. It was rape." Snap, snap, snap, snap, snap.
"It wasn't," snap, snap. "I'm not some" snap, snap, snap "little victim" snap snap snap "that couldn't handle herself" snap, snap, snap, snap. "I could have stopped it, I didn't." Snap, snap, snap, snap, snap. "That means I must have wanted it. I let it keep happening." She pulls the rubber band back too far this time and it breaks, but she needs the pain. Her hands dart to her stomach before anyone can catch her and she begins ripping at her stomach, tearing open old wounds and letting blood start to trickle. Her wrist is swollen and red from the snaps she had inflicted while talking and, even as Clint tries to pull her hands away, she continues scratching. Bruce has to push a sedative through her IV to get her to calm down and her eyes flutter shut once again as she slumps back against the bed.
"Nice going, Stark," Steve comments.
"What? You want her to keep believing that THAT," he spits, "was sex? It's disgusting. They brainwashed her into believing she wants it. I mean, I know I thought she was a slut for having sex so young, but after all the research we've done… It's not the same. She needs to know that."
"Yes," Bruce says. "But she needs to get adjusted to it. Clearly that's a trigger point for her. We need to figure out why the idea of it being rape is so uncomfortable for her and work on fixing it before we label it that and shove the label down her throat."
"We can try again in the morning," Steve points at the clock, which shows that it's nearly 10 PM. "I'll watch over her tonight while you all get some sleep."
None of them wanted to leave the room, especially Clint. But one by one, their fatigue won them over with a promise of rest and the knowledge that Steve would ensure Natasha's wellbeing with the medical guidance of JARVIS available if necessary.