After he was done with his task of calming the ballerina, Clint located Natasha, who was curled up on the couch in the living room section of the helicarrier. He sat down next to her silently. After a period of silence, Natasha eventually began to speak, 'Thank you.'

'What for?'

'Saving my life back there.'

'Same for you.'

His shoulder pressed against hers gently, reassuringly. 'I was-' she started. Her voice cracked and she lowered her head in shame.

'Natasha?' Clint asked. For the very first time, she did not correct him. No 'It's Romanoff' or 'fuck off, Barton'. She simply stayed silent for some more time, until finally she took a deep breath and began her story. He deserved to know.

After she was transferred from the Red Room to Bolshoi Theatre, she had (for a very brief period of time) hoped that life would become better, that maybe she could stop killing everyone around her and just prance about on stage. She couldn't have been more wrong. Not only did the training to become a spy continue, she also had to train as ballerinas in the most painful ways possible whilst being told that it would make her better as an agent, and for the sake of the glory of the KGB she decided to comply. In retrospect, the ballerina training had indeed helped. It was the reason why she could creep up behind people without them noticing (her lithe steps had been a result of sleepless nights and endless training, with painful punishments as a bonus if anything went wrong), why she could endure all kinds of pain under torture without breaking (for she had been through so much worse), why she could act so well (she would have to perform at night, a smile plastered to her face, despite how in reality the last thing she felt like doing was to smile).

All major ballet songs she knew could be traced to one painful memory or another, and watching the performance just now when they had to retrieve the ballerina with special powers was the equivalent of reliving it all. Yet the song that managed to trigger the most painful and vivid memory would be the one played during the finale, when they were fighting, when if it had not been for Clint and his arrow, she would have been dead by now.

That particular song was being played on loop one sunny afternoon (ballet songs were constantly being played on loop during the Black Widow program, so to make them seem like a ballet theatre), when she was summoned into Madame's office. She was thirteen then. She was led down a corridor to a black door and handed a gun. She had never used a gun before. She was given an earpiece, and she put it on. 'Open the door,' Madame told her. And so she did.

Drakov's six years old daughter was strapped to a chair in the middle of the room. Her father had angered the KGB, and just days ago Natasha was sent out to lure the child into the Bolshoi theatre with the promise of kittens and sweets. The child started to scream hysterically once she saw Natasha. Madame's clear voice came through the earpiece then, 'Shoot the child.'

Natasha hesitated. She had, of course, killed before. Yet the girls she had murdered on the training mat of the Red Room had been for the sake of self defence, and as for the hospital bombing, she didn't know that it would happen. This time was different. No it isn't, a voice within her head tells her, if you don't kill her, someone else will. Drakov's daughter had died the moment she set foot into this theatre. And so Natasha held up the gun with shaking arms. The child became hysterical then, 'No no no no no,' she screamed. Natasha took her first shot.

It was no clean shot- she had never used a gun before and she had no idea how to aim. The bullet lodged itself into the left shoulder of the child, and she began to yowl in pain. Natasha took a second shot then, desperate to end it all. That bullet missed the child entirely for Natasha's hands were shaking too badly. The third shot went a bit too low, and Drakov's daughter continued shrieking as the bullet buried itself into her chest. Natasha pulled at the trigger once again. There were no more bullets. Two men entered the room then, inspected the child's wounds, and left shortly afterwards. They did not treat her. Madame's voice rang once again in Natasha's earpiece. 'Broken collarbone, perforated lung. You have failed the child, and she will die a painful death because of you.' Natasha turned towards the door, and immediately Madame began to laugh chillingly, 'Oh no, dear. You will have to stay and watch. This is a lesson about how important it is to shoot accurately.' And so Natasha stood there, looking on as the child continued screaming and screaming and screaming until she finally began to gasp for air. Blood began to come out of her mouth then. It was choking her. And all Natasha could do was stand there and watch, until finally, the child's head drooped down and the screaming that once rang in her ears was replaced by deafening silence. But never would Natasha ever be able to forget the screaming, the gagging, the laboured wheezing. Never would she be able to forget the image of the bloody child, strapped to a chair, limp and lifeless in the middle of a spotless white room. Never would she forget how it was all because of her incapability to grant the child a quick death.

It was then that Clint reached over and squeezed her shoulder silently. She silently thanked him for knowing that words of comfort were worthless, that all she needed was a listening ear, someone who could understand.

'Now do you plan on dealing with that gash on your left arm, or do you just plan on bleeding out?' she commented lightly.

He looked down at it carelessly and chuckled, 'Good to know that you're feeling somewhat better.' He then stood up and left the room.