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***
The Barton family was falling apart with dramatic style and impressive speed.
The whole world was struggling to process the results from the presidential election. They were not immune from doom-scrolling under the influence of insomnia, but recent events made sleep impossible.
Bursts of emotion, episodes of aggressive behavior and altogether difficult days where absolutely everyone lacked the will to try were common, if not frequent occurrences. Yet, this was different.
Natasha forced herself to breath, but fear twisted her intestines. Muscles she could not name clenched as she tried to rationalize the situation.
Under normal circumstances, Laura and Clint did their best to take turns having breakdowns, so the household could continue functioning. The children are less considerate with their outbursts, but Natasha had learned to cope with the chaos.
Now Natasha finds herself seeking comfort in a place she hasn’t used in months.
The antique clawfoot bathtub smells like soap and mildew. She is huddled at the bottom, using one of her arms as a cushion for her head.
Her hip and shoulder ache where the joints are pressed against the tub. Discomfort is grounding. After all, she was programmed to crave pain.
Texts vibrate in the kangaroo pouch of her sweatshirt. The damned phone would not shut up!
Natasha was tempted to smash it against the tile until shards scattered around the space like technological shrapnel.
But what would that temper tantrum solve? Nothing. Yelena wrapped her arms around her ribcage, laughing as Natasha tensed. Ghosts could kill, there was truth in that belief.
‘Tell them they are weak, soft doughy American sheep.’
Yelena’s thoughts hijacked her own.
‘We were made strong. Monsters fucked us, hollowed out our bodies to control…but you know what?’
They were the same desperate sestra, destined for a life of restlessness.
‘We wield their weapons better.” She grinned, dots of blood speckled her teeth. She spit a wad of flesh and giggled. ‘Yuri tastes worse than Mina’s vodka.’
Her sestra yanked her braid. She seethed, making sure Natasha paid attention. “Womb-less, not less of woman.”
***
The Americans in her orbit behave like shellshocked soldiers.
Laura is in crisis. Clint is angry. Steve and Bucky hunkered down, going radio silent to preserve what was left of their collective sanity.
Most people would look to their own experiences as they processed the future of the country.
Politics had never been of any interest to her. Widows received orders and executed them perfectly or suffered the consequences. Opinions meant nothing when you weren’t recognized as a person with agency.
Who could relate to her? Yelena kissed her forehead. Her sestra’s haunting was a kind of comfort, a chain that tethered her to the guilt that drove her life.
Skye would understand her confusion around the concept of consent. But it was inappropriate for her to talk to a child survivor about such things.
Several nights a week, they sat in uneasy silence when nightmares kept them from sleeping, but comfort differed from discussing the abuse directly.
Natasha knew that Skye deserved safety. She would tear anyone apart who threatened her nieces and nephews. But she and Yelena had childhoods in the USSR. Her body never belonged to her.
The Red Room thrived on punishment and force. Monsters took what they wanted without fear of repercussions.
Natasha believed America had merely caught up to what had always been true for her and her sestras.
Safety and choice were illusions, dreams of an impossible life always just out of reach.
***
“I’m glad Lila doesn’t understand. But what do I do with Skye and Jemma? How do I explain the people elected to protect us, can’t be trusted?”
Natasha wrung her hands. Her nails left little crescents imprinted in her skin. She sweat, flinching at the intensity of Laura’s emotions.
“We aren’t safe here. I work in medicine and the amount of my co-workers who voted against their own interests is…staggering!” She dropped her empty mug against the smooth surface of the kitchen table.
The sharp sound of ceramic against wood had Natasha clapping her hands over her ears. Normally Laura apologized, but her frustration made her blind to her friend’s distress.
“How did you, how do we move forward?” Her face reddened as she tried not to cry.
The truth would burn Laura like acid. Natasha accepted her powerlessness. For years she worked in the shadows, protected Yelena and plotted their revenge.
***
Insomnia intensifies the ache flashbacks bring to Natasha’s body.
The weight of hands squeezing, pushing and choking make it impossible to lay down.
Her room is a prison in the dark. Shadows play tricks on her hypervigilant mind.
She walks around the farm consumed by racing, irrational thoughts. Clint’s animals are bedded down and resting. Most of the kids are in REM cycles.
Per a recent conversation about boundaries, Natasha was no longer permitted to perform ‘checks’ on Clint and Laura. She could knock or text but would not open the door without explicit permission.
Crickets trill as she picks her way down the path to Winter’s barn. He wouldn’t mind her company, especially since she brought a treat. She rubs the skin of the apple and tosses it like a stress ball.
Nature comforted Clint, he found solace in the farm and the work. Laura and the kids saw the property as a home.
Horses had terrified Natasha when she arrived as Clint’s latest project. Time and patience worked wonders for her and Skye.
“Hey.” Natasha offered Winter the apple. His tongue scraped her palm, and she shivered. Grounding techniques came in all forms, but some methods were way more gross than others.
He whinnied, tail swishing as he stomped in his stall.
“Yeah, was that a decent midnight snack?”
The horse pressed his nose against her chest. His warm breath steamed as it met the frigid November air. Natasha tensed, barely daring to draw breath. The giant creature before her was indeed gentle, but she struggled to remember that.
“Did I wake you, or were you already up?”
Animals registered anxiety. They were more emotionally intelligent than the Red Room agents who raised the Widows.
Lucky and the barn cats had been acting crazier than an ER under a full moon since the news broke the zeitgeist. Natasha’s mind brought forward an image of James’ service dog. The smart poodle stabilized his life in unpredictable ways.
Watson proved how valuable his skills of perception were through his work as James’ partner-in-health. Therapy with Winter was less painful than traditional therapy sessions.
The scent of warm hay, oats and poop whirled around her, keeping her in the present as her brain buzzed with chaotic activity.
“Sorry. I wanted to talk to someone and you…well, we’ve done this dance before.”
Winter coaxed Bucky out of his traumatized shell in the early days of his recovery. Winter sheltered Skye when fear had her running from her newly appointed foster home. Winter had listened to Natasha before without judgement.
“I’m scared.” She whispered into his neck. One ear flickered at the sensation of her voice. Natasha combed his mane and tried to slow her racing heart. “How do I fix this? How do I protect them?”
***