Natasha woke slowly, as if from a dream where the horrors of the past few days were temporarily forgotten. He was no longer in the apartment. Whispers of memory, words spoken in soft murmurs, informed her that he had gone out to get supplies but that he would be back soon. She pushed herself upright, wincing around the ache in her ribs, she had no idea how long she had slept, no clue as to the passage of time which seemed to move strangely around her. Minutes could feel like days and then if calendars and clocks were to be believed hours would pass by in what seemed like seconds.
The injuries were still painful but they would heal, she knew that when she stretched her limbs beneath the sheets. The chorus of aches was not as loud as it was when he first brought her back there and for that she was thankful. It was about the only thing she was thankful for. She didn't lift the sheet and turn her face toward the light to look at the bruises that still marred her, she didn't need to, they were imprinted in her skin, as were the broken memories of how she obtained them. He could never know what she went through, not for sure. She wasn't sure that she even wanted to know the entirety of what happened to her in that room. The truth, she was sure, would break them both.
The events of recent days and the drama of the previous evening swirled together, leaving her trying to process a dizzying swirl of unwanted emotions, violence and blood. Natasha gripped the sheets with numb fingers and tried to sort through the barrage of memory that assaulted her. Red blood on tile. Blood on bed sheets. Sterile surgical implements. Bone cracking under blows. Shackles. Rough hands on skin. Barton's face above hers. Needles being forced into her veins. Vile whispers in her ears. Soft words in the dark. Cold chains against her skin. Warm skin against her back. Past and present shifted around her as her breath caught and a sob tried to force its way out of her throat, settling instead in her chest where it choked her and made her feel like she couldn't breathe.
Forcing herself from the bed, she moved around the apartment trying to force her body into some sort of normality. Movement, she needed to move, needed to feel the burn of exertion in her muscles rather than anxiously waiting for the fragments to realign. Forgoing her usual cup of coffee, Natasha returned to the bedroom and searched through the drawer which Clint had set aside for her in each and every one of his hideaways, a courtesy that she returned in each of her own apartments, until she found what she was looking for. Once she was dressed in her workout gear, wearing one of his shirts over her usual attire to hide the bruising, she felt decidedly more human.
Returning to the kitchen she snagged a bottle of water from the fridge, scrawled a quick note for him so that he wouldn't worry when he returned and found her gone and headed for the door. She made it to the top of the stairs before her heart started to pound and her chest began to feel so tight she could barely breathe. Sweat made her palms slick and the foyer swirled around her, forcing her to grab onto the banister to stop herself from tumbling down the seven flights to the lobby below. "Come on Romanoff, get a grip on yourself. You've survived way worse than this," she scolded, forcing herself onwards.
By the time she reached the ground floor and the street exit of the building she was exhausted, shaking and sweating as though she'd run a marathon. The room around her swam, walls closing in on her but she felt an enormous sense of achievement that she hadn't given up. She'd never been the kind of woman who allowed fear to dominate her and she had no intention of starting now. After stopping to lean against the wall for a moment, she pushed on and out into the street. She had every intention of taking a run through the park, just a gentle jog to clear her head and help her feel some semblance of normality, just a chance to feel the sun on her skin after days in the dark. Taking a deep breath and ignoring the shaking of her legs she slipped on her sunglasses and set a gentle pace.
Good intentions only carried her so far. As soon as Natasha reached the park, jogging along its well-defined paths, she found herself avoiding other members of the public and picking up the pace. It wasn't intentional but she found that the faster she moved the easier it was to focus on the ache in her muscles and the pain in her ribs than the thoughts she wanted to avoid. Back when she had been with the Red Room she'd survived worse she told herself, of course back then she hadn't always had to live with the memories of what had been done to her, memory altering drugs had seen to that. At least they had spared their girls the full horror of what they had done to them – almost considerate when she thought back on it.
Although she knew that she should stop and heed the warning signs that her body was giving her, she also knew that the moment she stopped moving she would have to face the emotions that were bubbling and simmering inside of her. Natasha was not the kind of woman who processed emotion well, even when the emotions were her own. Running until she was too exhausted to stay upright was infinitely more appealing than having to face reality. Nevertheless she would allow herself one more lap before she headed back to apartment. Broken ribs aside, there was only so much running she could do on an empty stomach and she didn't want to make any of her injuries worse by pushing too hard.
She almost collided with him on her third circuit around the lake, not noticing him deliberately placing himself in her path until she was almost on top of him. One glance was enough to tell her exactly what her partner thought of her behaviour and he was not impressed. Even through his sunglasses she could feel the disapproval in his stare and when combined with the frown that he wore and his tense posture, she could tell that he wasn't happy with her. Worse still, almost as soon as she stopped running, her body seemed to shut down on her, heart pounding, ribs aching, limbs shaking. She clutched her ribs and bent over, trying to get her breath back and failing. "Needed to clear my head," she explained, hoping that the words would be enough to explain what she knew had been a reckless decision.
Clint nodded once but she knew he was holding back. "Next time, wait for me," he said finally. "Now come on, since I know you didn't eat anything before you came out here I'm going to make you breakfast."