The next few days pass without incident, and Natasha agrees to a small meal once or twice a day if they're lucky. She manages to resist her urges to harm herself by scratching her arms or snapping the rubber band, both of which, as long as she's careful not to break the skin, do not alert JARVIS to the harm she is inflicting. Despite his initial reluctance, even Bruce is persuaded to let Natasha train for an hour each day if it is with one of her teammates. They fall into a sort of easy routine, with the only small problem of Natasha's reluctance to share any further information or trauma with her teammates.
"I don't see why we need to talk about it if I am getting better," she says, picking up the Glock and pointing it downrange at the moving target while Clint picks up his bow and arrow.
"If we don't talk about it, then you will go back to your old habits as soon as we relax the observations on you. Which means we can't loosen any restrictions until you open up to us."
"Steve doesn't have to open up and he's been basically brain-dead since we found… him." She shudders as the image of the Winter Soldier re-enters her mind.
"Steve hasn't been hurting himself as far as we know."
"That's not fair! You hurt yourself and you don't have to talk about it and you haven't found anything that would say I've been doing anything either! So even if I'm not hurting myself, you wouldn't be happy and you would still be forcing me to talk."
"Nat, I don't want you to start-" he pauses and lowers his bow such that the arrow is now pointed at the ground. "Hang on. Did you say 'if' and how come you said we haven't found anything instead of 'I haven't been hurting myself?'"
"Clint, you're overthinking this. I just said it weird, it doesn't mean anything."
"Show me your arms," he says, gently placing his bow on the ledge in his lane and walking toward her. She hesitantly flips on the safety and places her gun facing downrange in her own lane.
"This is ridiculous, Clint."
"Maybe," he says distractedly. She rolls her lightweight long-sleeved shirt midway up her bicep, as far as she can without messing up the IV in her left arm. The scars that lie on her arms are ugly to her, with varying shades of purple and red, brown scabs, and irritated red edges. Although some had broken open from the rubber band and she had slightly bruised skin in some areas, there were no new cuts for him to inspect.
"Are you happy?"
"I'm not stupid, Tasha. Pull up your shirt and roll your waistband down." She winced at his tone but complied with his request. The cuts she had made weeks earlier were healed and beginning to scar well, but she didn't like to look at them anyway. He ran his fingers delicately over the ladder she had painstakingly carved into her sunken body. "Thighs, now," he whispered more gently, slightly tugging at the waistband.
"Clint," she hesitated, but even she couldn't ignore the heat beginning to form in her lower body as she inched her leggings down to her knees. The mass of scars was worst here, where she had been doing them and where so many men before him had made their own marks. She was too ashamed to even look as he examined them, once again running his fingers lightly over each mark.
"It's okay, Nat," he said quietly.
"It's not," she let out a shaky breath. "I know you hate them."
"I don't hate them."
She scoffed at his response. "I know you do. It's okay, I hate them too."
"I don't hate them, Tasha. I hate that you feel like you need to do this and I hate that things are this hard for you. But these," he said, running his full hand up and down the scars across her legs and lower stomach. "Don't bother me one bit."
She let out a small shudder as his fingers lightly brushed the waistband of her black silk underwear, a small luxury she had made sure to prioritize to at least feel good about one part of herself.
"I can get dressed again," she said calmly. "I still have another 20 minutes of training today."
"Or you could let me look at you a little longer," he says cheekily. "We don't have to do anything if you don't want to, but you don't have to hide on my account."
"Whatever you want, Barton."
"No, Tash. I want you to decide. What do you want to do right now?"
"I… I don't know."
"What feels right?"
"I think… I want you to kiss me."
"Like this?" He says, softly brushing his lips against hers, skin touching skin for only a few seconds.
"Yes," she says breathlessly, putting her hand behind his head and pulling him closer. In a few moments, her shoes, socks, and pants were strewn across the room and she was laying with him on top of her between her legs.
"I don't want to do anything you don't want to," he momentarily breaks the kiss to tell her.
"Shut up," she says.
"No, do you want to do this?"
"Barton," she groans. Pushing him away and letting her hands fall in between her legs.
"What are you comfortable with?"
"I don't know? What am I supposed to be comfortable with?"
"Nat, that's not what I asked."
"But that's what I asked. I don't know what's supposed to be normal, I don't know what I want. I thought… I thought I wanted the things that happened in the Red Room when they were gentle, but Tony… Maybe I didn't? I don't know what it means."
"I think we should hold off on… this. Until you've had a bit more time to decide what it feels like to want it, to really want to have sex."
"Should I at least take care of you? I mean, you aren't supposed to get boys all hot and then just leave them, right? That…" she says, looking at his tented pants. "Looks uncomfortable."
"You can if you want, Tash, but you do not have to. You are allowed to say no and you're allowed to think you want it or not know and then change your mind. You don't owe me anything just because we kissed."
"I don't? Even though I got you hard?" She says, legitimately confused by his words.
"No, Nat. Let's get you dressed." He sits back and begins searching the room for her clothes to give her. He doesn't notice it until she moves to put on her socks, but then he sees at least 40 still-red cuts on her ankles and a long cut where the edges did not touch on her foot.
"Natasha!" He cries and she is momentarily confused before pulling her legs underneath her to hide the cuts. "JARVIS," he says, sighing. "Can you get the team down here?"
"Can I at least get dressed first?!" She cries and he tosses her leggings to her gently.
"Roll up the ends to your knees."
"Clint…" she says, tears beginning to fall from her eyes. She slides the black material easily over her legs and rolls the ends up to her knees as he asked.
"No," he silences her. "Not right now, Natasha."