AN: Had a terrible time with this one. Many different versions. Some of them were terrible. Hopefully this is not terrible (and I would appreciate a review or two telling me what you think) and moves the story along.
When Natasha woke up the next morning, she saw Clint sitting next to her in her bed, one hand on her shoulder, the other holding a book so he could read. He felt her movement and nodded, "Morning." He motioned to the computer that was on the table, "You can work on your written deposition, I'm going to grab some sleep."
"Thank you," she said simply, getting up to perform the morning ritual she had developed in her time in the safehouse. She watched as Clint returned to his bed and dropped off to sleep without hesitation, wondering if he had nightmares about things he did.
Returning to her routine, she did a basic floor workout, thankful that the archer was asleep so she could try and process what she was feeling with a modicum of privacy. The nightmares had startled her. She couldn't remember dreaming before this, and the first nightmare seemed to have opened the floodgates. Now every time she closed her eyes, some horrible scene assaulted her, frequently one of her own creation.
Part of her wanted to curl up into a ball, or slit her wrists, or just do anything that would allow her to escape from having to deal with her past. Sometimes the urge was stronger than she would ever admit and she started cataloging the ways she could kill herself, her hands moving toward whatever object without thinking.
Then she would fill with anger; she hadn't asked for the life she was given and it felt like suicide was letting the Red Room win. That if they couldn't have her, no one would. They had taken so much from her, and she needed to beat them at something.
Natasha resented Clint, resented him for making her worry about right and wrong instead of just what was assigned. Frustration overwhelmed her finally and she let out an angry cry.
Clint was awake immediately, despite having slept through the noise of her workout. "What is it, Natasha?"
"How in the hell am I supposed to live like this, with what I have done?" She paced around the room. "I don't want to feel this!" She glared at Clint accusingly.
Clint watched her, nonplussed. "Do you think your victims wanted to meet the end that they did?"
She gave him an incredulous look. "You think that is going to make me feel any better about this situation?"
"No. And it's not supposed to. Embrace the pain. Pain means you are still alive."
"Fuck pain, I give pain."
Clint gave her an appraising look, "You've taken a lot of pain before and made it through. Pain can be a gift. But if you want to end it, then make it quick so I don't have to sit around this room any longer and don't have to face disciplinary proceedings when I return." Seemingly from nowhere, he pulled a gun out, getting up smoothly to hand it to her.
He was taking a big risk. He wasn't sure how to handle the situation but he suspected that a 'tough love' approach might work better for her. He also suspected her will to live was greater than she thought.
She took the gun, looking at it with contemplation. She couldn't even put it to her head; the thought of dying after all she had been through was impossible. Natasha angrily emptied the chamber of the gun, throwing the bullet at the infuriating person with her, acknowledging she couldn't commit suicide.
He calmly caught the bullet. "You could do good things, Natasha. Balance the books, if you will." The gun went back into hiding as he stepped closer. "You can't change the past. But you were never the one who did those things. That was always them using you. Hell, you're better than I started. My past isn't nearly so horrific and I know the kinds of things you see when you close your eyes because I see them too sometimes."
"I don't even know what to feel," she responded dully. Strip away her training and programming, what did that leave her? Nowhere.
The archer sat down, elbows on knees, "That's ok too. Walking out of here, it's a clean slate."
"The slate is never clean, even you can't be so naive to think it can be."
The truth was in his eyes: no, it could never be cleaned, it would always be stained with the blood of those they had killed. "Maybe not to the world, but to me, this can be day one." A cheeky smile came to his features and he got up suddenly and returned with a 1 zloty coin. He flipped it over to her, she caught it easily.
"Your one day coin." She frowned, not understanding what he said. Patiently, he continued, "We have a thing in America to stop drinking, Alcoholics Anonymous. When you stop drinking, they give you a token to remind you why you stopped."
"And so this is...Assassins Anonymous?" Somehow a smile crept onto her features.
He made an equivocal gesture with a grin. "Well, unless you quit the business entirely, you're still probably going to kill people. But, you'll have a say in it, you'll be able to decide whether sleeping at night will be easier or harder by going on a mission." He met her eyes. "I've never been forced to go on a mission I've not been 100% about. In this line of work, they know it has to happen that way."
"So you were 100% about taking me out." She watched him for signs of dishonesty.
"I was." It was true, but he bowed his head slightly, almost in apology. "I was wrong though. And I made my own mind up when the time came."
Oddly, she is reassured by his admission that he was ready to kill her. "And the nightmares?"
Now Clint looked more uncomfortable. "I tend to get mine more when I'm not working, not so focused. I use sleeping pills when it is too bad, but usually just alcohol and toughing it out."
"за сбычу мечт" Natasha muttered to herself as she pocketed the coin.
AN: According to Dr. Google, what Nat says at the end is a russian toast that is a play on words about all your dreams coming true.