"That's not true," he says quietly from her behind her, still holding her wrists and gently rubbing them where she was snapping the rubber band. "You are not at fault for what happened to you. It does not make you dirty or damaged or any less worthy of all the love, respect, and friendship we can give you. The people that don't deserve any of that are the people who did this to you."
"It wasn't their fault, though. They did it because of the Red Room," she sputtered out between coughs.
"Natasha," Bruce says calmly. "If you are saying it wasn't their faults that they assaulted and tortured you, how would it be your fault that you were assaulted and tortured?"
"Those are people's urges and they shouldn't be faulted for being violent or wanting sex. But they do those things to people who are bad, do bad things, and deserve the violence and the sex."
"Natasha, what's the point of sex?"
"To satisfy the other person. To do something good to help make up for a bad."
"Is Pepper a bad person?" Tony pipes in.
"Of course not."
"I have sex with her. And she didn't do anything she needs to make up for."
"Well…" she stumbled over her words. "Pepper didn't kill her parents or anyone after that, so she is one of the people who deserves to use people like me for pleasure."
"So should I be… used in that way for killing people in World War II? Or in New York?"
"Of course not."
"So what is the difference?"
"I…" She shifted uncomfortably and pulled her arms from where Clint was still holding them. There was a subtle feeling under her skin she could not ignore that was begging her to cut. It was like there was something just under the surface of the delicate skin of her forearm pulling at every cell in her body and sending signals to her brain that she needed to cut. She opted to use her nails to scratch at the skin, hoping that it would afford some relief from the gnawing feeling. Instead, she found that it made the urge stronger and supplanted it from just her arm to a panic that was rising through her chest like a hot air balloon. This was more than wanting to punish herself or regulate her emotions. Her body physically needed a cut and she had never felt the urge this strongly before in all of her years, but she had also never even gone this long without any form of harm.
As if on some miraculous cue, JARVIS announced that Nick Fury was in the elevator and headed up with a mission assignment. The panic in her throat worsened as she realized that her bandaged arms were on full display, but Tony quickly pulled a blanket from underneath the couch and threw it at her, which Clint haphazardly arranged over her.
"You're sick," Steve said to her, leaving no room for discussion or argument.
"Oh, good. You're all here." Fury said as he glided into the room, followed by Maria Hill. "We have an assignment for you, a lead from Viktoriya."
"What kind of lead?" She sat up quickly but was careful not to lose the blanket wrapped around her.
"You," Steve said, giving her a daring look. "Need to rest. This doesn't concern you."
"Romanoff is on this mission, Cap."
"She's sick, Bruce has been taking care of her."
"If she's sick, she needs to be evaluated by SHIELD medics to decide her status for missions."
"I said no."
"You," Fury spoke dangerously. "Do not make the decisions around here. She can be put on noncombatant co-pilot duties, but you'll need her."
"Fine. What is the mission?" He begrudgingly concedes.
"You'll be flying to Russia to these coordinates," he hands a flash drive to Stark to project for the team. "We believe there is a sleeper cell here with soldiers created by the Red Room to emulate the abilities of you, Captain. They called it the-"
"Winter Soldier Program," Natasha finished for him, staring straight forward and with no intonation in her voice. The team shot worried glances at her and she said nothing, maintaining a state of numbness as Fury filled them in the specifics of the mission. Her brain felt like it was suddenly submerged in 10 feet of water and the sounds around her were muffled by the water as she entered her mind and let the memory take over the room.
"Natalia," the overhead speaker in her room woke her suddenly. She was not sleeping very heavily these nights and immediately sat up to receive the set of directions she would be given. "Report to training room 001 in two minutes."
The lack of further directions meant that she was not being given time to change, put up her hair, or even wipe the evidence of sleep crusting over her eyes before running to the room on the other side of the compound. This room was designed to get her in trouble and no one would convince her otherwise. It was nearly half a mile away, but her body was much faster after the last few rounds of injections they had given her.
"Hello Natalia," a strange man greeted her from across the room. When she realized she did not recognize him, she felt almost embarrassed in her short nightdress which left her legs completely exposed and would show most of her backside if she raised her hand higher than her stomach. Of course, many men had seen her naked and enjoyed her body, but she had never been in such a state of undress before a man whom she had not met outside of the confines of her bedroom.
"W-who are you?" She kept her arms glued to her sides to retain what little modesty she could.
"I am from a new program. The Winter Soldier Program."
"Am I supposed to kill him?" She asked, looking up at the ceiling expectantly.
"You couldn't if you tried," he smirked. His hair was longer than any man she had seen before and his cheeks caved in slightly under the cheekbones. He had a bit of a height advantage on her and at least 100 pounds of muscle more than her. A black mask covered the lower half of his face, but his eyes were a steely blue and his rugged appearance made her think he had been here a while.
"People have a habit of underestimating me because I'm small or a girl. But I was trained to kill, probably just like you."
"I'm not here to kill you," he said menacingly.
"Then why are you here?"
"I think you know, Natalia." He advanced toward her slowly, before quickly pinning her arms above her head and pressing her against the wall of the large room. In a few seconds, he had discarded both her nightgown and his shiny silvery armor and his rough fingers were rubbing her small mound lazily. His length was pressed against her left leg and she could absently tell that it was larger than most of the men she had felt before.
"Stop!" She screamed out. "I want a different punishment. What did I do?"
"You stupid little bitch. You don't get to choose. You're my reward."
"Please stop," she cried. She rarely cried after the first few years, but pressed against this wall with the man before her who was so much more violent than those she had before. He moved his left hand up to her throat and squeezed tightly, her eyes beginning to roll backward as she tried to breathe out another plea.
"Shut up, bitch. I earned you. Now you're gonna do what I say or your class will be forgotten with no Widow."
"Kill me," she croaked out. "I don't care. Just please, don't do this."
It was the first time she begged for death, but not the last. She barely remembered the rest of the interaction, except her head hitting the hard floor repeatedly as he moved from choking her, to thrusting violently or some combination of both. When she limped back to her room with no clothes and blood dripping from her backside down the backs of her legs, she pulled a loose screw from the cabinet outside the infirmary. The infirmary was rarely used since they were left to survive through whatever pain they had received, but they would never be so merciful as to let them die from what would have been slowly fatal injuries. You either died from a fatal injury or you were repaired just enough to be sent back out. She had noticed the loose screw a few weeks prior when she carried a younger girl to the infirmary after her first mission went south and she returned more blood than girl.
On the way back to her room, she sliced her wrists vertically, crudely with the dull metal. It wasn't deep enough to die, clearly, she thought when she woke up the next day with the screw missing and a lock on the outside of the door. She was escorted to and from her rooms after that.