After Clint put his shirt back on, Natasha had lifted the edge of her blanket and mentioned for him to scrawl in next to her. A few of her team members looked shocked and her fingers shook as she did it. She still couldn't quite look him the eyes and not feel terror run down her spine about the power he could hold over her if he tried again. But deeper and more powerful than that was her instinct to comfort her teammate, to make things right for him, if she couldn't do it for herself; nothing he had done would ever deserve the pain he was inflicting on himself and she knew that because only she deserved it and she had done worse. Much worse.
"Why?" She asked softly.
"After I found out about New York…" he sighed, laying on his back and staring at the ceiling. "I think I understood how you felt. It hadn't made sense before - why you would believe something was so bad, so terrible a thing that you did, and to believe so deeply that you deserved to pay for it as to hurt yourself for it. Like that would fix what you had done, if you could just punish yourself enough, enough to wipe out all the bad you had done. So I figured… One for every day. It didn't feel like enough, but I just thought that if I could give myself even part of what I caused you for every day you had to live with it. It's not the same and it isn't enough to makeup for what I did, but… it helped."
"But it won't make up for it."
"I know," he said sadly. "Nothing I can ever do will make up-"
"You didn't let me finish," he was silent as she continued. "Nothing will make up for it because you don't need to make up for it. It might take awhile to… get back to where we were. I can't promise I won't be… scared sometimes. But it wasn't YOU that did those things. It was your body, but it wasn't you. You are the man who pulls me out of bed at 4 AM to go to Waffle House because you can't wait until breakfast for good coffee. You are the person who would jump off a building, literally, to save his teammates. You are the man who hides in the vents and plays pranks on his teammates just to bring some joy out of a rough day. You are the friend who would drive across town just to find a 100 Grand bar when I'm PMS-ing. That's who you are, Clint Barton. Not what he made you do."
"But what I did to you… It's unforgivable."
"Even if it was your fault, and it isn't, I don't judge people on their worst mistakes."
"Maybe you should."
"You didn't." They share a meaningful glance at each other as Natasha wraps her hand around his in the plastic hospital bed. "You are the one who saved a scared, murderous 16 year old from some of the worst years of her life. You are not a bad person because of what you have done. If we wrote out all of the good things you have done and all of the bad, you have more than wiped the red out of your ledger, Clint. You probably saved more lives than we can count just by bringing me to SHIELD. If you stop now, before it becomes a habit, it will be easier for you. Promise me you won't hurt yourself anymore."
"Can you promise me the same?"
"Clint…"
"Nat"
"It's not that simple for me. It's been years. Not days."
"You don't have anything anyway, what's the harm in trying?"
"But what am I supposed to do now if I can't workout, I have to eat, I can't leave, I can't really be on the team, and I can't hurt myself? What's left?"
"You can talk to us, Red. That's the point of the sessions with the team."
"And if that doesn't work?"
"Then we'll try something else. Something that isn't harmful. Speaking of which," Bruce lifts his eyebrow. "I need to see your wrist."
She reluctantly extends her left arm toward him in a very jerky motion. The blood has mostly dried to her arm at this point, but the scratches and half-moon shapes from her nails are not fading quickly.
"When Bruce finishes checking you out, we'll have breakfast upstairs. Clint," Steve motions for the archer to go upstairs with him and Tony. "Let's get started on something light. Eggs, toast, and fruit maybe. We'll have breakfast and then get back to talking in your first session."
Dr. Banner is efficient when he is acting as like her doctor, making quick work of cleaning off the dried blood with an antiseptic wipe, spreading an antibiotic cream over the area, and covering it with clean wrappings, all without saying a word.
"Bruce?" She asks hesitantly.
"Yes?"
"Thank you. For taking care of me. I've never," she let out a ragged breath. "Nobody has ever really done all this and not… called me stupid or threatened me."
"Natasha, look at me." He lifted her chin to meet her eyes with his. "I will never, ever threaten you or ridicule you for struggling. You have been through so much and you are one of the strongest people I know, but even strong people break sometimes. This," he motions to her scarred and broken body. "Does not make you any less worthy of quality care or help. The only regret I have is that we weren't able to help you sooner and that you spent so much time suffering alone when we could have helped you."
"You guys will figure it out soon." She said, dejectedly, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed. "You can't help me. They made sure of that, there's too much damage."
"That's not true. But I know you don't believe that right now, so I'll have to believe it enough for both of us." She looks around the hospital area as Bruce puts away his medical supplies. A quick scan reveals that almost all of the cabinets have some kind of lock on them, so she won't be able to access anything she could use to harm herself. Bruce notices her looking after a few moments and gives her a pointed look, so she has to think of a quick cover. She averts her eyes, like she was embarrassed.
"Um…" she says carefully. "Is there… another rubber band lying around here somewhere…"
To her relief, Bruce almost seems proud of her for asking and he pulls one out of a drawer next to him.
"Try to only use it when you really need it, Nat."
They head toward the elevator together, Natasha wheeling her IV pole with her as they walked. Her mind was whirling with the possibilities that laid in front of her and she could hardly bear the thought of telling the team even more about her time in the Red Room. After she turned eleven until Clint rescued her, things were much worse than most people would be able to imagine and some of it she didn't even remember because of the drugs they forced into her system. She shuddered at the thought of having to explain to Clint who Megan was and why, exactly, it was her dying wish that she knew her sister loved her so much. She would have to tell them that she was responsible for Sasha's death, and the thought of that was enough to make her want to give in all over again. The elevator chime drew her out of her trance and she offered a weak smile to Clint, who led her to a seat at the kitchen table. The plate at her seat was filled with eggs, two slices of toast, and grapes.
"You only need to choose one thing to finish today," Bruce said reassuringly next to her. Again, she forced a small smile and began to pick up one of the grapes off the plate in front of her. As she bit into it, she was alarmed at the foreign texture of food on her tongue. The juices of the fruit exploded into her mouth and she gagged involuntarily, spitting half the grape back onto the plate.
"That's disgusting," she made a face at the team. "Can I please do something different?"
They all stifled a laugh at the face she made and let her choose another item. This time, she selected the toast. It scratched her throat as she swallowed it, but taking sips of water made the texture minimally bearable. She chewed each bite exactly 11 times, making the consistency almost like oatmeal before it slid down to her stomach. If she had to eat, she would be sure she was eating as little as possible, chewing it well, and making them think she was constantly eating. Bruce was frowning when she announced that she was done after eating approximately half of a triangle of toast and the rest of the team exchanged worried glances, but brushed it off as the first day. They had scheduled an end of day meeting each day to discuss her progress, they could talk about it there where she wouldn't be able to deceive them or brush off their concerns.
"Okay," Bruce said. "Let's head to the living room to talk, then."