"Again."
She wiped bloody hands down her shin, trying to still trembling fingers as she reached back for the needle and thread. Steady. She needed to be steady. Bringing her hands over to the new gash on her thigh she looked to her instructor for confirmation.
"Again." They repeated coldly. "Start from the inside."
Breathing slowly she punctured the skin, angling the curved hook through the deeper layers of tissue, pulling the thread until it was taut. Methodically she began her first few stitches, small fingers avoiding the previous rows of fresh stitching lining the rest of the meaty part of her upper leg.
"Neater, Natalia." Her instructor scolded. "Smaller and closer together."
"Sorry ma'am." She responded quietly, ducking her head closer to her leg, forcing herself to concentrate harder.
She managed a few more slightly neater stitches before the needle was yanked out of her hand, pulling her little leg up off the bed by the thread.
"Tsk. Poor. Like this." Natalia bit her tongue, silencing the cry that was threatening to spill from her lips as her instructor briskly pierced the needle in and out, creating several tiny and symmetrical stitches across the pale skin. "Your body is your greatest asset Natalia. It does not deserve to be tarnished by shoddy workmanship." She admonished, giving the thread a tug to reinforce her message.
"Yes ma'am."
"Finish the row."
She was handed back the needle and bent over her thigh once more, pushing back any reaction as more holes appeared to either side of the gash and she knit the skin back together until the wound was fully closed.
"Better." The instructor appraised, looking over the girl's latest work.
Inwardly, Natalia breathed a sigh of relief. She was running out of space to practise.
"Damn." She whispered, finding another sliver of glass beneath the one she just pulled out. She dropped the first one in the sink, hearing its hollow tinkle as it bounced around the ceramic before settling over the plug. Grabbing the tweezers, she reached into her calf, parting the flesh to grip on to the shard, barely even wincing as she slid it slowly out of the muscle, tossing it into the sink to join its partner. Checking there was no further damage, sure hands picked up the needle and thread and mechanically began to close up the muscle and layers of skin, working their way from the inside out. As she taped on a dressing steady fingertips ghosted over the faint lines on her upper thigh. They were barely noticeable, the higher ones slightly uneven, the ones by her knee perfectly straight – only really visible because she knew they were there.
"Hey, uh, Natasha? Are you in there?" Bruce asked hesitantly, knocking softly on the bathroom door. She rolled the tweezers between her fingers, considering, before setting them down on the side of the sink.
"Yeah. Give me a minute." Cool. Collected.
"Oh. Okay. Sure. I'll be here." He responded.
She smirked. Dork.
He used the time to look around her bedroom, staring from the threshold of the bathroom, feeling slightly guilty about venturing so far into her sanctuary, though convincing himself she must have left her door open for a reason, anticipating this trespass. The space was fairly barren, but every one of the personal items on display was a beacon of how settled she had become. Every object added was another declaration of how safe she felt here.
She arrived way before his time, manhandled into the base late one night under the shakiest flag of truce, clutching her Dansette in one hand and a borrowed SHIELD duffel holding the entire contents of her life in the other, more reminiscent of a wartime evacuee than a grown assassin. They removed everything from her possession and put her in a cell. Long months of interviews, evaluations, outbursts, confinements, loss, acceptance and trust went by before, one day, she was escorted to proper quarters and reunited with her meagre bag of souvenirs.
His gaze landed on her chest of drawers where a small but neatly assembled collection lay, every object evenly placed and spaced apart. It reminded him of a well-curated museum case. Her collection of vinyls occupied one edge, stacked vertically and propped up by two nondescript dull metal cubes. To the side, and slightly in front lay a postcard-sized drawing. The artwork was clearly done by a young child and the subject matter almost indecipherable, though the squiggly mass of red hair coming from what was possibly meant to be a person was easily identifiable. The feeling of guilt heightened in his chest, as though these objects were too sacred for his eyes, but he found he could not look away. There was a Christmas card at the back – a vintage drawing of New York City in winter with Best Wishes for 1989 written elegantly across the front. A photograph of her and a slightly younger Clint – his grinning face filling the foreground whilst she was smaller in the background, sitting at a table scattered with files, half-frowning, annoyed by his antics, though Bruce knew that was the face she made when she was trying not to smile. A standard issue name tape, to be sewn into SHIELD gym gear, bearing the name P. Coulson. A theatre ticket for Shostakovich's Concerto from 1966. A second photograph – one Bruce recognised – taken recently by Tony, a single candid snapshot of the newly christened Avengers sitting around the breakfast table, all relaxed and smiling at the camera, hands holding various dishes as they paused for the photograph. The intimate reliquary was from the 50s or later, Bruce noticed. Souvenirs of Natasha's adult life when she was able to hold on to things that mattered to her – when she was finally able to learn what mattered to her. He moved his gaze to the last object, which looked older than the rest. It was small and simple yet he was transfixed. It was not even particularly exciting to look at. At the opposite end of the chest, away from the vinyls and the child's drawing sat a trimmed part of a simple, faded red ribbon. There were two short lengths of a stiff cross bow tie, pinned together with a tack bearing the hammer and sickle of the USSR. It reminded him of a smart school uniform. He sucked in a breath.
She pulled open the door to find him three inches away from her face. Oh. He meant exactly here. She watched as he stumbled backwards, stuttering out an apology.
"Easy Big Guy. Take a minute."
She sauntered towards him, backpedalling him towards the chair. She checked in with her body - there was barely even a twinge from her calf as she put her weight on it. Practise makes perfect.
"I just wanted to apologise to you…for before. I didn't mean to end up on top…for when you were under…" He almost slapped his own hand over his mouth to shut himself up.
He was terrible at this.
"It's fine, I enjoyed it." She was toying with him. Falling back on her wiles to avoid exposing the raw nerve that was real feeling.
"Are you okay Natasha?" He asked, instantly seeing through her tough exterior. She faltered slightly as he looked so earnestly up at her.
She eased herself down on to the bed beside him, debating her next move. "I think we are about to get our asses kicked." She offered, testing the waters, not ready to show how truly vulnerable she was feeling. "I think we just got our asses kicked." She elaborated.
"I meant you personally."
She looked down towards the floor, wiggling the toes on her bad leg, testing her range of motion. "I got a little banged up." She finally admitted. "But I'll heal. You?"
"Just a bruise or two. You broke my fall." He added apologetically.
She laughed softly. He wouldn't ever tire of hearing that sound.
"Thanks for dragging me down. I mean, pulling me off the bar." He amended hastily.
She dragged everyone down, though they would never reach the hellish depths she had.
"You're welcome."
"I hope next time we get a drink it's a little quieter." He said it casually, throwing it out there like it was no big deal. He wanted it to be more. She wanted it to be more too.
She turned slightly to face him, baring her heart in his direction, willingly exposing herself to injury if things went wrong. "Well, I can't promise anything, but a little less minor surgery in the aftermath would be nice." She smiled at him. A small, genuine little tug of the lips. The kind reserved for moments like this. Not the feral snarl or seductive smirk she more frequently displayed.
He filtered through her words. "Wait. What? Surgery. Are you really hurt?"
She placed a hand on his thigh. "It's nothing, really, I've sorted it."
He eyed her closely but decided not to press the issue, knowing she had a very warped definition of what constituted 'nothing'.
"Hand me that hoodie would you?" She asked, seeking a diversion.
He pulled over the grey zip-up, noticing the tiny shifting of weight as she stood up and steadied herself, trying not to show any reaction to the twinging of muscle.
"Ready to get our asses kicked again?" His tone was mostly resigned, though she detected an undercurrent of something else. Something that suggested he knew what they were up against.
"Do you know what that thing is?" She questioned slowly. She slid her gaze sideways to peer at him, eyes narrowing when she realised he was withholding a response. "Bruce?" She interrogated, an edge to her voice.
He sighed. "We need to get to the lab."