She can’t get out of her head. A day where everything that’s wrong, all the bad that she’s done and all the bad that’s been done to her won’t leave her.
It follows her into safe spaces, the shower and then the car.
She can concentrate in meetings and avoids eye contact with Maria.
She knows she needs to contribute and nods and smiles like she’s been taught.
Natasha bites the inside of her mouth, regretting being amongst people and wishing that she could avoid the day all together.
Two hours and then she can hibernate.
Not be a person.
She catches herself staring, her mind stuck on the smell of cigarettes and alcohol and it reminds her of men in the red room.
She closes her eyes and forces herself to take a breath.
Not there.
Here.
Ground here.
She tells herself to find five red things.
Santa hat.
Bauble.
Coffee mug.
Regina’s shoes.
Blood.
Wait.
She shakes her head.
That’s not right.
One more.
Not blood.
Ribbon.
Red ribbon in their hair.
The ribbon is on the table.
The flashback hits with braided hair and red ribbons.
Wrong colour, she thinks.
Hear.
Four things.
She tries to isolate the sounds of the office.
Christmas music.
Maria talking.
Pen tapping on a note pad.
The computer whirring.
Better, she tells herself.
Three things she can touch.
Easier this time.
Clint’s tiny basketball, he uses to throw into the net on the door.
She picks it up and lofts it.
She scores and for a moment it’s all there is.
Natasha looks around.
Her pen.
It’s smooth under her touch.
She looks around for something textured.
She sits on her hands and feels the leather of the chair.
Better.
Moments have passed without her thinking of …
Her mind flashes and a headache pulses.
Two things she can taste? That’s what’s next? Or is it smell?
She swears.
There’s a metallic taste in her mouth.
She wonders if it counts.
Natasha steals one of Clint’s breath mints, and tells herself it does.
It’s enough for that to be taste and smell.
Her hands are still shaking and she decides she needs to leave.
She can’t push back the onslaught any more.
Every corner seems to hide a trigger.
She nods to someone, the stairs seeming safer than the lift, and she holds on the rail as she stumbles down the seven flights.
Natasha fumbles for her keys, finding the one that opens her car and all but climbs in.
The first time she drove a car flashes across and she wonders idly if Yelena is alive. Just like she does every other day.
She makes her way home.
She wonders about her own mother.
Her real birthday.
What her life would have been if she wasn’t predestined for death.
She’s sweating now.
Face flushed, body hot.
She’s going to be sick.
Wait, she commands herself.
Mechanically she locks the car, walks up the stairs to her apartment, opens the door and she can’t hold it. Vomit in the sink and she hunches over dry retching. Once. Twice.
More comes up.
She hates it.
She thinks of the moments after graduation. Being stuck in the hospital room with Ana.
The pain.
More vomit.
“Nat?”
Clint’s voice is a surprise in her apartment, and she frowns.
She needs to be alone.
But….
She orients herself to the space and sees Clint’s scraggly Christmas tree that they picked out last weekend in the corner, his clothes strewn on the floor and then his form, watching her carefully.
“Nat? What are you doing here?”
She startles and doesn’t have the words to defend herself. In her haste, she’d gone on autopilot and come here.
He must notice how out of it she is.
“Um..”
He takes a strap forward and she steps back.
He stops.
“Oh.”
He side steps around her and turns on the Christmas tree lights, then turns off the bigger lights and moves to the couch.
“It’s okay, you’re safe here,” he reminds her.
She nods.
“I’ll leave,” she says quietly.
“Please don’t,” he replies.
“Come sit.”
She doesn’t move but wills her legs forwards.
He switches on the television and waits for her to come. When she does the Grinch is halfway through and he covers her with a blanket.
“We can stay here for as long as you need,” he whispers.
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