#lol heres some trash where i project my issues onto an ooc natasha

[natasha-romanoff-deserved-better]

Title: Looking Back

Summary: When you grow up surrounded by abuse, it can be hard to tell exactly what was abuse and what wasn't.

Or, the 5 times Natasha struggles to realize just how fucked up her childhood was, and the 1 time she finally does.

TW: Mentions of child abuse, Mentions of child sexual abuse on #5.

Words: 2,658

1.        

Deliberately ingesting poison is usually something people try to avoid while on missions. Apparently, Natasha had missed the memo.      

             Their mark had been suspicious when she handed him the cocktail. Just as any decent mob boss would have been. Natasha had sensed his reluctance, and so she copied exactly what Clint did for her when he made food or drinks- drank a sip of it herself to prove it wasn’t poisoned.

             It was enough to convince him. And Natasha had smiled, carried on their conversation seamlessly as the pain inside her grew. She’d known the poison wouldn’t kill her, it was one of the ones she had been continuously exposed to in the Red Room training, slowly building up an intolerance over the years. However, just because it didn’t kill her didn’t mean it left her perfectly fine. As soon as the target had crumpled into a heap on the floor, she’d walked herself out of the building and then collapsed in the back ally.

             Clint reaches her as she is struggling to push herself up on her elbows, and wraps an arm around her chest to steady her. She whispers out a small thanks to him, before promptly vomiting on herself, the ground, and half splashing on Clint’s leg.

             She cringes at herself and tries to push Clint away as she croaks out apologizes to her partner.

             “Nat, stop. It’s okay. I’d rather you get it all up now anyways rather than have it damage you in any way.”

             Natasha nods shakily, though she still doesn’t look happy about having to be held up as she vomits onto the sidewalk. They sit there together for twenty minutes, the sun slowly setting around them. On minute eight, Clint had pulled them backwards to lean against a wall while they wait it out, Natasha leaning against him as she gags.

             “Why are you so okay with this?” She asks.

             “Because you’re my partner? And I’m not sure about you, but I’d rather have an alive partner than a dead partner.”

             “Hmp.” She frowns. “Last time I threw up on someone they beat the shit out of me.”

             “I- what?” Clint sputters. He hadn’t expected that from her, but he guesses he shouldn’t be surprised. “Then he was an awful partner and a shitty person.”

             Natasha shakes her head. “No, no.” She moves to sit up straighter, some color beginning to return to her face. “Not a partner. It was one of the ballet teachers. When I was a kid.”

             “Oh.” He tries not to show his horror at this new revelation. He knows her childhood was messed up, that it was filled with awful and abusive adults. But every now and then, the things she says still manage to shock him. He knows she doesn’t mean too. When you grow up surrounded by the horrors she did, the abuse becomes normalized. “You didn’t deserve that.”

             Natasha shrugs halfheartedly. “I shouldn’t have eaten before class.”

 2.

             Clint pulls the blankets tighter around himself as he huddles next to the heater vent. The blankets were wrapped around him in a cocoon so that only his face was peeking out, as if he was a child curled up in a safety blanket.

             Bruce checks him over again before leaning back onto his heels. “Well, you got pretty lucky Clint. This could have been a lot worse.” Clint grumbles at him, but Bruce continues. “I’m serious. You were probably about fifteen minutes away from the starting stages of frostbite.”            

             Natasha hums in agreement from the counter, where she is mixing two cups of hot tea in her and Clint’s matching mugs. “That’s true. Getting frostbite is seriously a bitch.”

             Behind her, Tony snorts.

             “Yeah? And how would you know?”

             Natasha shrugs. “I’ve had it. Nearly lost my right hand. Glad I didn’t though- It would have been a death sentence.”

             Clint furrows his brow. “When the hell did you get frostbite, Nat? You’d think I’d remember that…”

             “You don’t remember it because you weren’t there, Clint. I was eight.”

             “Jesus, eight? What the hell happened, did you get lost or something?”

             Natasha tilts her head. “I mean, in a way, I guess. It was my own fault though. My handlers caught me staring out the window one night during class. So they loaded me up into a car and drove me ten miles out, dropped me on the side of the road. Said if I wanted to be outside so badly then I could walk back.” She shrugs again as she thinks back on it. “It wouldn’t have been that bad if I’d had my coat, but I was still only in my leotard, so I guess that didn’t help any.”

             Natasha finishes stirring her tea and raises it to her lips to take a sip as the team stares at her. She is completely unbothered. It’s Bruce who breaks the silence first.

             “Nat…” He says softly, a frown on his face and eyes gentle. “That wasn’t your fault. They shouldn’t have done that to you.”

             Natasha finally seems to notice the concern on her teammates faces. “Oh,” She sets the cup down on the counter. “No, don’t get all sappy on me now. Looking back it’s kind of more funny than anything. Really, guys, it wasn’t that big of a deal.”

             Steve looks like he is about to argue with her but is cut off by Clint asking for the heat to be turned up. Steve agrees and moves it up a few more degrees, but only after he has promised to not fall into freezing water again.

 3.

               They’d watched Stand By Me tonight, as part of their new Friday night routine in the Tower. Tony starts the conversation as the credit roll, with a tidbit about how at age ten, he and a friend of his had snuck into his father’s lab and accidentally blown a hole in the roof after misreading chemical names.

             The conversation spirals into talks about their childhood friends and adventures. None of them had had too many, but there had been enough. Clint remembers a young girl from his elementary school, named Lilly. She had been the only deaf girl in the school, and it was through her that Clint had begun to learn sign language, a skill he’d never imagined he would end up needing for himself one day. Bruce had known a younger boy, one he seen himself in and had taken up protecting. Steve recounts a fond memory of him and Bucky being chased by a flock of angry geese.

             Natasha, high on pain meds thanks to the recent bullet wound in her ribs, is sprawled on the couch. “Me and my best friend used to steal bread from the kitchens at night. We would pass it out to the smaller girls.”  She smiles a bit at the memory, despite the bittersweet taste it leaves in her mouth. She remembers those nights well. The handcuff key her friend had stolen, the secret glances between them as they silently snuck through facility, their own little hand signals they’d developed so they wouldn’t have to speak out loud during their nightly quests.

             Clint puts a hand on her shoulder, gives it a small squeeze to bring her out of her thoughts. He’s learned better than to ask about her past.

             The others, however, have clearly not.

             “Honestly, I’m surprised they let you guys have friends there.” Its Tony, because of course it is.

             Natasha quirks an eyebrow at him. “Of course they did. Made it hurt worse when we had to kill them.”

             Steve chokes on his drink, and Bruce slaps him on the back. Tony’s face drops into one of horror.

             “Oh, god, Nat. I’m sorry I didn’t know…”

             Natasha cuts him off, waving her hand flippantly in the air. “It was a long time ago. It doesn’t matter now.”

3

               Natasha’s ankle is broken.

             For the most part, it’s slightly her own fault. She hadn’t really needed to jump off the building to avoid the Hydra goons headed for her, but according to her, she didn’t want to risk it. To her credit, she made no sign of her ankle being broken until after everything was said and done and the base cleared out. It was only then did she radio in, asking for Clint to come meet her at her location because she needed help walking.

             They’d made it back to the Quinjet fine, Clint supporting most of her weight. Bruce was waiting for them, and pointed her to the table he had cleared off for her. The medical kit had been pulled out and opened, bandages and a splint sitting out.

             She hoists herself onto the table, ignoring Clint’s offer to help, and hikes her leg up to start pulling out the laces on her boot. Bruce suggests cutting them off but is quickly silenced by her famous death glare.

             She finally works her boot off, only wincing once. Her sock follows.

             Bruce gapes in shock.

             “Nat… your foot.”

             Natasha follows his gaze, no longer on her ankle, but instead locked onto her foot. Her toes are misshapen, knuckles bulging out and joints swollen. Natasha frowns at his concern.

             “Oh, that? That’s just from so many years of ballet. It’s fine.” She shrugs. Bruce frowns deeper.

             “Ballet isn’t supposed to do that to your feet, Natasha.”

             “Well, no, not if you’re not dedicated to it. But I was. Got on Pointe when I was six years old because I was so good.” There’s a small on her lips, almost as if she is proud of the damage.

             It’s Clint who speaks up. “Nat, six? Lila does ballet and I hear teachers at the studio talking about it all the time. You’re not supposed to start until the age of like, eleven, or something.”

             Natasha rolls her eyes. “Well, I’m sure those kids don’t practice as much as we did. We practiced hours every single day. I was ready.”

             “It has nothing to do with skill, Natasha. Kid’s bones are too soft for pointe shoes. That’s why your feet look like that. And you were a child, you shouldn’t have been made to practice for hours every day. This isn’t something to be proud of, Tasha. That’s abuse.”

             Natasha presses her lips together. “It was hardly abuse, Clint. Not compared to-“

             “Uh, guys? I hate to interrupt but, Nat- your ankle is swelling more and more by the second and we really need to get this splint on it.”

             Natasha is grateful for the distraction. She pretends she doesn’t see Clint shaking his head.

5

             They’re all bit drunk, with the exception of Steve, and strewn clumsily around the common area. Tony and Rhodey are sitting on the main couch, Bruce sitting on the armrest to the couch. Steve is sitting on the loveseat, having claimed it for himself as his own special sober island. Clint lounges on the ground, his back leaning against the ottoman. His legs are pinned to the ground by Natasha, who had decided to use his lap as a makeshift pillow. She is nursing her very own bottle of Russian vodka, has drunk more than usual tonight.

             “Sixteen.” Tony.

             “Twenty two.” Bruce.

             “Nineteen.” Clint

             “Also nineteen.” Rhodey.

             “Aha! So I win, then.” Tony does a messy fist pump, accidentally splashing some of his drink onto the couch fabric until Rhodey forces his arm back down and confiscates his glass. “I knew it!”

             Tony turns to stare at Steve. “Nothing to add, Capsicle? You still waiting for the right girl then, hm?” Tony thinks for a second, then backtracks. “Or, man. Or, like, neither. We don’t discriminate here.”

             “No.” The voices comes from below Clint, female and slurred. “You still lose.”

             “Tasha…” Clint warns under his breath.

             She doesn’t listen to him, and Tony ignores a slightly worried look from an unknowing but well-meaning Steve, who doesn’t like where this seems to be heading.

              “Oh yeah? How old were you then?”

             Natasha sits up and levels Tony with a stare. “Eleven.” She deadpans. Then drunkenly smirks at him. “I win.”

             The room freezes, everyone except for Natasha going deadly silent. They wait with bated breath for her to laugh, to say she was only joking, to make up some just wanted to see what you’d do excuse, even if it wasn’t true. But she doesn’t- just continues to stare at Tony as his demeanor deflates at the new information.

             “Natasha.” It’s Steve who speaks up this time, the most levelheaded one of them all. “That doesn’t count. That’s not what we were talking about-“

             Natasha twists to look at him behind her. “Yes, it is. Don’t play dumb with me just ‘cause you don’t like my answer. You,” She looks at Tony, “asked what age we lost our virginity and I answered! I won.”

             Bruce chimes in, coming to Steve’s defense. “That’s not what sex is, Natasha. That’s rap-“

             Natasha rolls her eyes as she takes another shot before cutting him off as well. “It literally doesn’t matter. I don’t understand wh-why you are all getting your panties in twists.”

             Clint stands and moves closer to her. He carefully pries the vodka bottle from her hands before dragging her up with him. “That’s enough, Tasha. You’re drunk.” He turns to address the team. “I’m going to take her to bed before she says anything else she’ll regret in the morning.”

             “I don’t have regrets, ‘Lint.”

 +1

             It’s Lila that breaks her.

             Lila is prancing through the house high on her tip toes, her braids pinned up into a messy bun. She’s wearing a baby blue leotard over some light pink tights, a long run going up the side of her leg where her small fingernails had caught on the thin fabric as she pulled them up. Kidz Bop is playing softly in the background.

             Natasha stares at her from the table, where she and Clint had been going over the latest files before Lila had appeared from upstairs.

             “Nat,” He calls to her, and she snaps her attention back to him. The color from her face is gone, her eyes wide, and he knows they’re not getting any more work done even before she stands up and exits the room in a haste.

             He finds her outside, sitting on the back porch with her knees drawn up and elbows resting on them. She’s staring out into the distance at the horizon, doesn’t acknowledge him as he lowers himself down beside her.

             He knows she’s not going to start the conversation herself, so he does it instead. “What is it?”

             She chews on her lip a second, debating on whether to answer him or not. “She’s so small.” She settles on.

             “Yeah.”

             “I couldn’t…” She takes a deep breath in. “It’s easy to look back and blame myself for the things that were done to me as a kid. At that age, you feel so grown up.” She plucks a piece of grass from the ground, begins shredding it. “But then I see someone- her- and it reminds me how young I actually was. And I look at her and think how... How could someone ever do those things to a kid? It was all so wrong. All of it.”

             He wishes he had an answer to give to her, but the truth is he doesn’t know either. He could make up something about some people having no hearts, could call them evil until his voice gives out, could say something about how fear and greed corrupts people. But they know it’s not true. They had known exactly what they were doing to those kids. They just hadn’t cared enough to stop.

             “None of it was your fault, Nat.”

             She looks over at him for a second, before looking back out towards the sky. She drops her head onto his shoulder.

             “No, no I guess it wasn’t.”