WARNING. THIS CHAPTER IS RATED T. MENTIONS OF RAPE BUT NOTHING GRAPHIC AT ALL.
OKAY. I'D SAY ENJOY. BUT YOU REALLY WONT.
It was only two hours into the boat trip that Natasha started to lose her grip on the already flimsy control she had on her body's reactions. The shaking started in her clenched fists and crept up her arms, the nausea was starting to overwhelm her and all of that was frustrating her which wasn't helping the situation at all. It wasn't very long after that, that Clint couldn't take watching her fall apart anymore. As he worked on formulating a valid excuse for why he and Ciara needed to be alone, Andres smirked wryly at his bodyguard and quirked an eyebrow.
"Perhaps you'd like to check the perimeter of the roof? Take Miss Roison with you, I'd like a moment with my daughter." He suggested, the smirk intensifying all the while.
"Very well sir." Clint replied, clearing his throat. Andres nodded encouragingly.
"Addie, ven por favore." He called to the girl who immediately left her guard's side and skipped across the floor to her dad. Clint grabbed Natasha's arm tightly, giving her no room to fight him as he dragged her up the stairs to the roof of the large boat. He let her go once he was blocking her way down, only to watch her immediately race to the edge, grip the railing in a white knuckled grip and rock back, eyes squeezed shut.
"Tasha..." He called softly to be sure no one would over hear him. "Таща, ты в порядке?" He repeated a little louder in russian, taking another step onto the deck.
She nodded jerkily, her eyes not opening.
He stepped forward hesitantly and put his hand on her lower back. And in the same second she was vomiting over the edge into the blue water. Barton's eyes widened.
What was happening?
His arm slid around her waist in time for her to lose her strength as well as her balance.
"Черт побери, Наташа, что происходит?" He muttered in frustration. She twisted her body roughly out of his grip and stalked away from him. He watched her fists steadily clench and unclench while she fought human inclinations to panic.
She didn't panic.
She was the Black Widow for god sake and she was working.
"I'm fine Barton." She snapped coldly. And when she looked at her, she really did look just that.
Yet that's what tipped him off to her being completely and utterly not okay. Her mask was cracked, faulted, and it was never anything other than perfect.
"Natasha." He hissed. She whirled on him, eyes blazing with frustration, anger, irritation, and...fear? Clint faltered in his own anger.
Something was seriously wrong here.
"What Barton, what do you want?" She growled angrily. His sharp sniper eyes shifted to her subtly shaking hand that twitched towards her gun.
"Are you going to shoot me, Tasha?" He asked darkly. She glared silently. "Why are your hands shaking, Natasha?" His voice was approaching a tone that was almost as deadly as hers was.
"Shut your American mouth Barton before I pull the trigger." He'd been right in assuming what he saw in her eyes was fear. She was lashing out at him wildly, without the usually control she maintained while she was threatening him.
It was like dealing with a caged animal. And those he had dealt with. Those he knew how to handle.
The circus had taught him some messed up crap.
As well as how to shoot.
So he couldn't exactly complain.
He spread his arms wide and arched his eyebrows expectantly.
"Do it Romanoff." She watched him, face still deceptively calm. "I dare you to shoot me." Barton muttered dangerously. He watched her carefully, his expression never faltering as she growled in anguish then promptly whipped the gun over the side of the boat.
Clint drew his arms closer to his body but kept his palms facing her as he walked towards her. She didn't move as he approached her and stared him dead in the eye.
"Natasha." He breathed roughly. She wouldn't respond to coddling and he knew that. But it didn't stop him from putting his hands on her upper arms. He released the breath he'd been holding when she didn't break his neck. He shifted two fingers against her neck and felt her rushing pulse under his calloused skin.
His forehead furrowed in concerned confusion as she paled considerably and looked away from him.
He dropped his hands.
"You're freaking me out Tasha, what's wrong?" He asked carefully, childishly. "I will taser the crap out of you if you don't start TALKING to me Romanoff!" He growled.
And she lost her grip.
She caught herself on the railing and gave up controlling her breathing as she finally loses it.
For the first time in their partnership, Clint thinks he's watching the great Black Widow have an honest to god emotional breakdown. And it's downright terrifying.
Behind her eyelids, Natasha's watching his then short cropped dark hair flash in front of her eyes. She seeing his ice cold blue eyes burning through her with lust that made her skin crawl. She's feeling his dirt caked, blood soaked hands trail harshly over her bare skin and all over again it's making her want to vomit like he punished her for doing that night. And, shes smelling the salt water that penetrated her nose then and now and it's the worst of all because that ones real. He'd broken her rib at some point that night; the boat had tossed and he'd lost his control over his metal arm. She'd screamed and that had earned her a hard punched to the gut for her show of weakness.
"Natasha," Clint breathes her name again, with so much worry and pain that it snaps her out of it for a moment. "Tell me."
And before she can help herself, the words fall from her mouth without her own consent.
"He raped me on a boat, Barton!" She shouted furiously. The anger and volume is not what he expected to come from her mouth and frankly, it scares him.
But then he registers her words and his expression hardens and saddens simultaneously.
"He took my virginity when I was nine years old, Barton! He was twenty six when he did it the first time!" She spoke with such quiet fury and agony that it tore him apart inside. "Said I needed to learn, needed to be good at it. They said it was part of the job." She spat. Her eyes were so cold and hard, that his blood froze in his veins. "And let me tell you Hawkeye, it hurts like hell." She growled.
Now Barton's hands were trembling. With anger. He wanted to kill the sick psychopath who would do that to a child. He wanted to make him hurt.
He had never seen Natasha as utterly terrified as she looked now; whoever had caused that look to enter her eyes deserved a fate so much worse then death.
"Who was it Natasha," he asked dangerously. Her eyes steeled and he watched a wall slam down faster than should have been possible. "Who was it?" He asked a little louder.
"James Barnes." She answered before turning and walking back down the stairs to the boats living room.
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