Chapter Text
Your rocky situation with Natasha had an isolating effect on you. The anger and frustration you felt made you irritable. Your mood fluctuated from the smallest of instances regardless of their nature. You got angry and you got sad, you got happy and then broke down completely. You could not stand Natasha’s touch most of the time because it felt intrusive. You weren’t in control of your emotions, nor the sensations that you felt in your body, causing you to cling to the smallest bits of control you could gain access to. The recent change in your ability to handle physical connection confused you. It didn’t go according to your plans. It didn’t make sense. You hated being around anyone else but Natasha, feeling unsafe whenever you were at an arm’s length from someone, possessing an irrational fear that they would touch you for whatever reason. You didn’t quite understand it, especially since it had come so suddenly. You thought you had taken huge strides forward with your recovery process, but it seemed that you were right back to square one without an explanation. There was no logic behind the otherwise very reasonable trauma response. You tried to fight it, tried to stay close to Natasha and allow her near, but every time she approached you, you felt yourself pull away by instinct. Your body didn’t want to feel anything of the sort, automatically keeping you protected from the touch of other humans who could potentially harm you. After a couple of instances of trying to fight back against your instincts, you gave into it because it was more comfortable that way; you were more at peace when isolated and alone. What bothered you the most was having to reject Natasha constantly. The guilt ate you up from the inside even though you knew she understood why she wasn’t allowed to spontaneously hug you or kiss you. She understood it in a personal way that others could not relate to, yet you couldn’t help but to feel like you were being rude and neglectful toward her. It was the same feeling of guilt that you had experienced right after your rape. You had circled back to the starting point.
You felt abnormal. You were a freak of nature, your mind flooding with anger every time you were reminded of the fact that you couldn’t stand your girlfriend’s touch. The love marks Natasha had left on your chest had been a step closer to something better, or so you had thought. They had made you trust that there was hope for you, that you had a fresh start ahead of you, but to your utter demise the marks had carried no such indications. You knew you weren’t supposed to force it, you knew, but you were impatient, and your diminished hope made you desperate. There had to be a way to fix it, a way to flick the switch back to the position it used to be in. Maybe you just needed a few good bangs and shakes to the head to bring back the connection like a malfunctioning remote. You wanted your life back. You wanted to feel like it was worth living again. You wanted Natasha back, you wanted to sink into her arms, you wanted to kiss her all over, you wanted her fingers buried inside you. It wasn’t fair that you didn’t get to have her in all the ways you wanted her. It wasn’t fair that your relationship couldn’t live up to its full potential. You had been dating for just a few weeks before the unfortunate events had taken place. Your relationship had never stood a chance, had never been given the opportunity to flourish before you had been thrown headfirst into a dark and stormy sea. You had never even made it past the honeymoon phase and quite frankly you were mildly surprised that you had made it so far without everything falling apart. You wanted to turn back time and you were willing to try whatever was necessary.
You were uncomfortable before your fingers even made contact with your sex, but you disregarded the feeling completely, determined to do your very best to find something along the lines of pleasure from what you were doing. You didn’t bother to ease yourself into it, wetting your fingers in your mouth before sliding your hand down your pants, eyes staring at the ceiling above your bed. You felt your stomach lurch as you stroked yourself gently, your spit allowing you to glide your fingers over the otherwise dry folds. You looked around your room, finding it impossible to relax into the sensation, your mind searching frantically for something else to think about as your fingers moved against you in a steady rhythm. It felt like nothing, at least nothing good, your throat closing rather harshly as a warning of the tears that would follow, yet you didn’t pull your hand away. You needed to be normal, you needed to be whole again. You bucked your hips into your hand, trying to find even a semblance of pleasure from your touch, thinking about sexual acts that you used to favor during intimacy, thinking about Natasha, thinking about anything other than him.
Your lower lip trembled violently, your teeth biting down on it harshly, the act laced with unbridled anger as your tears spilled. You couldn’t focus on anything sexual or pleasurable, the movement of your hand starting to burn as you massaged the dry skin, still trying to rub circles over your clit to make yourself feel sexual desire of any kind, but it only brought you pain and frustration. A sob escaped you as your fingers slowly stilled against you, your tears streaming freely down your cheeks. You stared at the ceiling, finding the parallel a bit too triggering for your exhausted mind. You pulled your hand out of your pants, curling into a tight ball on your side, the sobs you tried to hold in coming out in rushed bursts as you allowed the disappointment and sense of failure to take over you. There was nothing you could do. A part of you had been stolen that night, had been destroyedyed, and there was no way for you to get it back. You used to enjoy your sexuality, having found it to be a source of energy, a source of joy. Now there was nothing left of that, not even a single indication of its existence. It was like it had been erased completely, its absence making you slowly forget what it used to be like. You felt so helpless, longing to crawl into Natasha’s embrace for any kind of comfort she was capable of offering to you, but she wasn’t home, not that you could have been able to stand her touch anyway, the contradiction seeming to haunt you every single day. It was hard for you to accept the setback you were forced to face.
Sex wasn’t enough. You hadn’t been forceful enough. You needed more. You needed to try something else, clambering up from the bed to head to your closet. As if on autopilot, you yanked open the sock drawer, your eyes scanning for your desired pair, failing to find what you were looking for. You hadn’t done it since your hospitalization. You hadn’t done anything at all to yourself since flying a little too close to the sun regardless of all the opportunities you had had afterwards. You were on the fence about carrying out your intention, yet you continued your search to get the blades into your possession. You wanted to do it, but you suddenly felt nervous. The longer it took you to find the blades the more control the feeling gained in your mind. You didn’t want to admit to yourself that you were hesitating, that you were feeling anything other than the need to hurt yourself. You grew even angrier, yanking the entire drawer off its hinges, the wood thumping loudly onto the floor as you knelt beside it, throwing aside the ordinary pairs of socks until you found the one pair you had been looking for. You grabbed it, feeling its lightness in the palm of your hand, your brows drawing into a frown. Despite already knowing that you were not going to find your desired blades, you unraveled the ball, only to realize that they were not hiding anything at all, any sign of your blades completely gone. You stared at the pair of socks with a perplexed expression on your face, slowly looking around as if your blades could have grown legs and walked away by themselves. You looked inside the drawer, moving around all the socks you owned, quickly going through the entire drawer but you came up short. The blades were gone. The shocking turn of events made the world still for a moment, drawing attention to your mental state. You felt very unstable, your mind bouncing between two different reactions like a ping pong ball. Your mind went blank before flooding with rage, with blinding anger that drowned out any other emotions you felt, covering up the relief you found in your ruined plan. You could barely function with the onslaught of emotions that immobilized you to sit in your spot on the floor of your room. You couldn’t believe it. You couldn’t believe that Natasha would ever touch your personal belongings, let alone confiscate or discard them; whatever she had done to your blades. Your mind was screaming, so full of violence, anger, betrayal, disappointment, and relief that it took you a good while to sort yourself out before you were capable of cleaning up the mess from your floor. She had promised she wouldn’t meddle. She had promised to back off yet had failed to mention that she had gone digging through your belongings without permission. The offense only aggravated you further after the recent agreement you had come to with her, functioning as a fuse to the flames of anger that swallowed you whole.
You knew what you had to do, now more than ever. Your touch was brutal, relentless, as you hit yourself wherever you could, your punches loaded with raw hatred that coursed through you, blinding you, desensitizing your bodily senses, slowly numbing you from the outside until you felt no pain. You felt nothing but the ubiquitous burn that heated up your skin, wrapping you in its warmth where you felt safe, where Natasha’s betrayal didn’t hurt quite as much, a place where it didn’t feel like you were lying to yourself. You weren’t relieved that you couldn’t cut, no. That was ridiculous. You wanted it and you were upset that you hadn’t gotten the chance to make yourself bleed. It wasn’t relief that you were feeling, no. It was anger. You were angry. You were so angry at her. You were offended and hurt by her actions. The front door clicked softly, footsteps sounding in the living room, disturbing your process of expressing your unbridled anger. You halted in your movements, a sudden stillness entering the room as you listened for her movements. Your body was stiff, the pain slowly making its way into the forefront of your mind. It hurt so much. All of it. Everything hurt so much in every way possible. You stood up from the bed, gasping when you shifted your body weight on your trembling thigh, sharp jolts of pain shooting up your leg, but it didn’t stop you from walking to the door to find the culprit to your suffering.
“What did you do to them?” You asked harshly, the accusatory tone catching Natasha off guard, her brows drawing into a soft frown as she backed away from the kitchen island where she had discarded a stack of files.
“What are you talking about?” She asked evenly, sensing the conflict that she had walked herself right into.
“Don’t play dumb”, you huffed, leaning against the doorframe for support, but you only found more pain as the hard wood dug into the muscle of your bruised bicep, forcing you to omit your wince. When she didn’t respond you clarified what you meant. “My blades. Where did you put them?” You watched understanding cross her face as she took a gentle breath.
“I threw them out”, she answered calmly, a wave of emotion flushing through you, your angry frown evaporating from your features as a small sigh escaped your lips almost as if in a mixture of relief and disbelief. You couldn’t even respond to her, your eyes filling with tears as you turned away from her, intending to go back into your room to hide, the choking sensation in your throat prompting you to retreat in order to protect yourself, but before you were fully out of sight you turned around slightly hesitantly.
“You had no right to touch my stuff”, you grumbled bitterly, your voice breaking as you stared at her through your tears. Natasha stood still, unsure of what to do, silently watching you return into your room.
“Y/N”, she tried gently, walking after you.
“I want you out of my home!” You countered immediately, unwilling to hear her out. You weren’t in control, the external pressure causing you to lash out in an attempt to help you get back in charge.
“You can’t be serious.” Natasha raised her tone slightly to match yours, pushing the door open to follow you into the bedroom.
“What makes you think you’re allowed to touch my belongings, let alone throw them away?” You asked angrily, Natasha clearly refraining from returning your anger.
“You don’t need them.” She sounded sure, standing firmly behind her decision.
“You don’t know what I need”, you hissed, staring her down as if to emphasize your words.
“You have to let go of this habit. It’s going too far”, she reasoned, any softness starting to evaporate from her tone.
“No, I don’t!”
“You’re being unreasonable”, she countered evenly, walking closer to you. “Was hospitalization not enough? How much further do you need to go?”
“Don’t try to boss me around”, you warned her immediately, ready to back away in case she didn’t get the message through your body language. Natasha halted in her tracks.
“I’m not bossing you around”, she huffed in disbelief.
“Then stop telling me what to do”, you retorted, Natasha raising her brows to give you a very specific look of incredulity.
“I’m trying to help. I’m not here to boost my ego by telling you what I’d like you to do”, she stated, the frown that appeared on her face telling you that she found your behavior odd.
“Yeah, right.” You were picking up a fight, trying to hide behind anger and false accusations to distance yourself from her care.
“Y/N, you have to realize that what you’re doing is unhealthy”, she began.
“What about what you’re doing? It’s not like you’re so healthy yourself!”
“No. Do not turn this on me”, she countered immediately, very displeased by your constant retaliation. “This is not about me.”
“You’re acting like you’re some fucking saint who knows what’s best for me. You don’t see it the way I do!” You reminded her, frustrated by your differing opinions.
“You’re sick!” She exclaimed loudly to overpower your voice. “You’re sick, Y/N, and I’m trying to fucking keep you alive!”
“I am alive! There, you can stop invading my privacy now”, you grouched sarcastically, Natasha shaking her head gently, unsure of what to do with you.
“This isn’t about the blades”, she hummed, much quieter than before. “No, you’re deflecting”, she whispered as if to herself only. It angered you that she could see through what you couldn’t even fully understand yourself. She saw something more in you, something that you couldn’t see, let alone understand, another flush of rage going through you.
“Get out. I don’t want you here”, you stated suddenly, walking toward her, your hand finding her bicep to shove her out of the room. She didn’t protest, didn’t say anything, just let you manhandle her out of your room, the door slamming loudly behind her. She let out a heavy sigh, bringing her hand to cover her eyes as she gathered herself before heading to her own apartment. She had no more fight left in her, the poorly slept nights draining her of all her energy.
Natasha felt numb, tired and exhausted, the sheer amount of emotion in her far too much for her to process. She couldn’t tell what she was feeling, the messy haze in her brain providing her with the freedom of not having to feel anything at all. She carried on with her evening like normal, almost robotically completing each step of her night-time routine with no difficulty at all. She focused on herself, on the strict and very particular routine she had. She undressed herself, discarding her clothes to the side to later take for cleaning, heading into the shower to first wash herself. Everything was perfectly normal. She felt normal, as long as she ignored her slightly elevated heartbeat that seemed to be the only indicator of something out of the ordinary.
Despite her attentive focus on mundane tasks, her head slowly filled with memories from long ago, mind flashing with images of cold showering rooms that she remembered very vividly, nude girls lined up next to each other, herself included. It was cold there, so incredibly cold and dark, the walls covered by a thin layer of slime, the surfaces never truly getting the chance to dry up. There was a stagnant, cellar-like smell that swallowed her whole, someone sniffling quietly, the clatter of teeth sounding in the room. She looked to her side, the girls attempting to cover up their prepubescent bodies with their hands, ashamed of themselves, scared for themselves. It was so cold. She got shoved forward harshly, her feet struggling to find a footing on the slippery tiles, freezing water flying into her face and dripping down her chest as she found herself from under the shower head. The cold burned her skin, her mouth opening in a sharp gasp, filling with water. Her body began to tremble violently, the water pressure far too strong to let her breathe. The cold rippled across her skin, sinking through her flesh to her bones, her lungs straining for air. It burned, it burned, it burned. Her body grew numb, the expanse of her skin covered by a prickling sensation. She couldn’t see, yet she saw everything. It hurt. It felt too real.
She snapped back into reality when the feeling grew too intense, her eyes blinking at the stark lighting in the bathroom of her apartment, her hand fumbling for the faucet to stop the boiling spray of water. The shower stall was filled with thick steam, her skin still burning from the heat of the water, carrying a bright red, angry blush on every inch of her body. She gasped for air, exiting the shower as fast as possible, grasping her towel swiftly to wrap herself in it despite the harshness of the material against her sensitive skin. It was suffocatingly hot in the bathroom, but she couldn’t bring herself to touch anything cold to relieve the ache. She took deep breaths, heading into her bedroom to find clothes for herself, dressing up as quickly as possible to get to the next part of her routine, to find a new way to distract herself from her feelings and the memory that had unexpectedly invaded her mind.
She headed into the kitchen, turning the kettle on before grabbing her favorite tea mug from the cupboard. She found two different types of tea from her painfully empty kitchen that was the result of all the days and nights spent in your apartment. She opened both of the bags, sniffing the earthy scent of a mango green tea, followed by the scent of an intense lavender tea to see which one she was craving more, eventually settling for the rich lavender. She measured the right amount of tea leaves, preparing her drink in a pretty teapot you had gotten for her after seeing the way she used to make it in a glass measuring cup. Natasha stared at the pot with empty eyes, patiently waiting for her tea to stew, aggressively fighting back the memory of receiving the teapot from you to avoid any emotional pain that it could’ve caused. The silence of her apartment was deafening, but she liked it that way. She loved the peace and quiet, thrived in it, every movement she made nearly silent as she moved around the kitchen, finding herself some fruit for her dinner. She hadn’t eaten all day, her stomach rumbling loudly at the sight of the cold grapes she found from her fridge. They might have been slightly past their best before -date but there was no mold and she had nothing else that would have been light and fresh enough for her to stomach.
Natasha stared. She stared ahead, her face void of emotion, the scent of mold creeping up her nose. Her arms prickled with goosebumps, mind growing petrified from the cold that spread across her chest. She could feel the trickles of ice-cold water down her bare skin. She could smell the pungent mildew that festered in the corners of the slimy showers. There was no place for her to hide. Her hands were not enough to cover her, warm her, protect her. She glanced to her side to see a girl of eleven beside her, her thin lips blue, eyes bloodshot. The girl said something, but Natasha couldn’t hear. She couldn’t remember what the girl had said, but she knew it to be a warning. Natasha felt a sense of panic start to build up in her chest. She didn’t want to know what was coming her way, what had happened in the showers. She didn’t remember. She didn’t remember. She was not going to remember. She refused to remember. She blinked her eyes rapidly to bring herself back into the moment, relieved to be once more in the present where she could focus on the contents of the material world.
Everything was okay as long as she managed to focus on reality with the utmost vigilance to avoid giving room to any negative thoughts. She stood by the counter, her hip leaning against its edge as she sipped her scorching hot tea that nearly burnt her tongue, but she was just too hungry to wait any longer, the sip followed by a couple of grapes. She tugged a few more off the stem, one rogue grape rolling off the counter and bouncing across the kitchen floor, coming to a stop beneath the oven. She stared at it for a moment before a quiet whimper fell from her lips, instant tears streaming down her cheeks in small rivers. She brought her empty hands up to her face to wipe her tears, biting her lower lip as she tried to prevent any more from escaping, but every tear she dried was replaced by a fresh one. She was so tired, and exhausted, and burnt out. She felt helpless and frustrated because there was nothing she could do to make herself feel better. She couldn’t rest, she couldn’t nourish herself properly, she couldn’t crawl into your embrace, she couldn’t talk to you, although she wouldn’t have opened up to you regardless of the conflict you currently had. She was failing. She wasn’t being perfect. She wasn’t being efficient. She was deteriorating slowly and there was nothing she could do, her hand reaching for a pill bottle from one of the kitchen cabinets. She didn’t care what was going on in the world anymore. She just needed sleep.
Since you had already had bigger fights with Natasha before, you knew what to expect from yourself as the adrenaline and emotions slowly died down. You knew you had to go and apologize to her, push your pride aside and tell her that she had been right. It was rather obvious. You had never before really had a temper and had rarely been confrontational. The entire fight had been a distraction from your anguish and from the reality of your emotions that you didn’t want to accept. At times you didn’t recognize the person you were becoming, upset by your lack of control over your actions. You knew Natasha was always rational, and from what you could tell, she knew that it wasn’t you who had thrown her out, but that didn’t mean it couldn’t hurt her feelings just the same.
You huffed softly as you plopped yourself down onto your bed, your fingers finding a thick, white sweater that had been discarded on Natasha’s side of the bed. It was large and fluffy, your fingers playing with the beautiful knit-pattern that consisted of delicate curves that overlapped. She wore that thing all the time, especially at home, the too long sleeves cuffed around the wrists to save the fabric from becoming stained in the kitchen and around the apartment. You pulled it into your arms, burying your face into the floppy wool of the turtleneck, Natasha’s scent engulfing you in an instant, the intensity of her perfume making your head spin. You felt your eyes prickle with tears as guilt slowly crept up your spine. You hadn’t intended to be mean, you just felt threatened. You took another deep breath, filling your lungs with her scent, trying to think about how to solve the situation in your foggy brain that somehow refused to think fluently. It was incredibly frustrating, but you had at least decided that you would go apologize to her that very night unless she didn’t want to see you. The thought made your heart clench desperately, but even that wasn’t enough to hinder you from respecting her choices.
You needed to get up immediately and do something or you were going to get stuck to the bottom of your bed where you would wallow in your guilt and self-pity, which was definitely not what you currently needed. You were starting to have more energy during the days and daily chores were supposedly going to help you recover quicker from the damage the sepsis had caused, so you headed into the kitchen, pulling a block of butter from the fridge, moving to the cupboards to find the rest of the ingredients you needed for your stress baking. You picked the easiest thing to bake which was gooey chocolate chip cookies. You knew the recipe by heart, and it was something that you could easily lose yourself into while measuring ingredients and mixing the dough. As you whisked a couple eggs into the butter-sugar mixture you thought about what you were going to say to Natasha, trying to both sort out what you were feeling as well as figure out what she needed to hear from you and what you needed to apologize for.
You ate nearly half of the chocolate chunks you had chopped up for the dough, scooping a big clump of the finished dough onto your finger and sliding it into your mouth. You continued to steal nibbles of dough every now and then as you divided the batter into decent sized cookies, pushing the filled baking trays into the oven and setting a timer for ten minutes. You sat onto the kitchen counter with your bowl, scraping up the leftover dough from the sides as a way to make time pass while you waited for the oven to do its magic. You cried, allowing the tears to stream freely down your face as you recalled all the ways you had first hurt yourself and then Natasha, your achy body a constant reminder of the emotional pain you were in.
It was raining outside, the melancholy late-summer weather ironically enough matching perfectly well with your inner turmoil. It was gray and foggy outside, the water droplets splattering harshly against the glass as the wind altered their course. You sat in the stillness of your apartment, the scent of cookies slowly wafting into the air, filling the kitchen and living room with a mouthwatering smell that would have usually brought you comfort, but you were too nervous to fully appreciate it. The timer went off in the silence, nearly making you jump with its sharp ring, alerting you that it was time to remove the cookie trays from the oven. They were perfectly cooked, crispy on the outside but chewy on the inside. You folded a piece off one of the cookies, hissing quietly at the way it burned your fingertips, but you were too impatient to wait for them to cool down, blowing on the melted chocolate so you wouldn’t burn your tongue before plopping the piece into your mouth. You wiped your tears into your sleeves, moving to the fridge to find yourself some dinner. On the menu that night was leftover tomato soup and bread with butter. You put your bowl into the microwave to heat up, tearing a piece off the paper-wrapped baguette that rested on your kitchen counter. You halted.
That was it. You were going to wait for the cookies to cool and then take some to Natasha alongside your apology. You wouldn’t be able to sleep through the night before at least attempting to make things right. A surge of nerves took over you as you sat down to enjoy your dinner. What if she was unwilling to forgive you? What if she didn’t want your company for the night? Your brain began to go over all the different ways Natasha could possibly reject you and your apology-cookies. You imagined the way she would either swing the door in your face or throw insults your way. Maybe she would break up with you altogether, or maybe she would shoot you in the head, it was possible, although you did recognize that your intrusive thoughts were starting to take over. She would never hurt you, at least not the way you had hurt her, which perhaps made it all the more painful. She wouldn’t lower herself to your level. She would never act like the scumbag that you were. She would never resort to such sad and pathetic defense mechanisms. She would never go as low as you had. She would never forgive you, not that you even deserved her forgiveness. You were foul, disgusting, evil… You shook your head to keep the bad thoughts away, finishing the last bite of your buttered baguette before taking your bowl to the washing machine. You packed up your baked goods and left the apartment.
Natasha heard a knock at the door, her head turning to where the sound had come from. She put down the mission report she was using as a distraction from her small breakdown. She had spent hours fully immersed in her work, writing the most detailed and thorough report anyone had ever seen. She let out a groan, straightening up her legs, her knees aching under her weight. She yawned heavily as she headed over to the door rather automatically, already aware of who it was, but she suddenly halted before it when the thought reached her conscious mind. She began to hesitate, her hand resting over the doorknob as she looked within herself to see if she was ready to talk to you again. She knew that you were there with good intentions otherwise you wouldn’t have been there at all, yet she found herself stalling to open the door. She wasn’t sure if she had the energy to talk, to properly communicate with you in a way that was beneficial to the both of you. She wasn’t sure if she had it in her to forgive yet. But then she thought about the way you were right there on the other side, hoping to work things out with her. She knew you felt bad, she knew you hadn’t meant it, the weight of her hand pressing down on the handle out of empathy, the door creaking open. Had she been in your shoes she would have wanted you to open the door for her.
“Hi”, you croaked with a voice so quiet she heard a mere squeak from you, her gaze dropping to the small package in your hands, a thin yarn keeping the folded-up parchment paper together.
“Hi there”, she hummed, quirking the corner of her mouth up in an attempt to smile but she could feel it wasn’t convincing.
“Can I come in?”
“Yes, of course”, she hummed, opening the door wider to let you in.
“I brought you cookies”, you said meekly, insecurity shining from your demeanor as you set them down on her kitchen island, Natasha frowning softly, finding the gesture very sweet, but the inflamed nausea she felt in the pit of her stomach was most likely not going to allow her to enjoy them.
“Thank you, that’s so kind of you”, she mused, a gentle smile appearing on her face.
“Look, I’m not even going to try to be casual because the way I treated you is eating me up from the inside and I need to apologize right this second”, you started, staring down at the package, your fingers playing with the yarn. Natasha walked toward you, finding a spot across the island to lean against, clearly waiting for you to go on. “I am so sorry. I don’t know what came over me, I just… when I realized that you threw them away I… freaked. I don’t know… I just- It’s not even about you invading my privacy. I really don’t care. You’re up in my stuff all the time anyways and it’s never bothered me”, you explained, albeit with a bit of challenge despite having been set on what you wanted to say since exiting your apartment. “It’s not a problem if you dig through my closet, you’re welcome to wear whatever you find in there, I just wish you would have talked to me first before just throwing my stuff away like it meant nothing.” She was nodding along to your words, attentively hearing you out to better understand your point of view.
“I know why you threw them away and I understand your reasoning, but I hope that you also understand where I’m coming from”, you continued, occasionally glancing up to see her face, her eyes glued to you. “I think you were just trying to protect me, and I really appreciate that. I’m not saying you deserved my outburst, but I’m asking you to never throw away any of my belongings again without my permission.” You sighed, glancing away for a moment to collect your thoughts. “I shouldn’t have kicked you out and I’m really sorry I did, even more sorry that I put my hands on you”, you lamented in shame, feeling mortified for your actions even if it had been a mere nudge to get her moving.
“I know it was very extreme, but I’m not sorry for what I did. I didn’t know what else to do. I could’ve brought it up with you but what would you have done had I confronted you about the blades? Would you have let me throw them away?” She challenged, your head moving side to side in a gentle shake. “I hope you know that I would never do that with any other item. This was entirely for your protection”, she replied firmly. “You don’t ask an alcoholic if they want their drinks poured down the drain. Everybody knows their answer to that.”
“So now you’re comparing me to an addict?”
“Well, you are dealing with addiction”, she countered gently, sensing the hostility that was starting to build up between you again. She found it more than understandable, but she was still hoping you wouldn’t let it get a hold of you.
“It’s so not the same”, you scoffed.
“No?” She leaned her elbows down onto the counter, getting more comfortable since it seemed like you were going to be there for a while. “You’re practicing something that is harmful to you, you can’t go without it for longer than a few weeks, sometimes not even that. You get defensive and behave inappropriately when your addiction is threatened, you let it make decisions for you, you’re emotionally dependent on it. That doesn’t sound like addiction to you?” You remained quiet, not daring to even look at her, feeling like you were being chastised by a parent. You felt that same feeling of anger and panic within you, biting your lip to keep yourself from acting like you had earlier.
“Honey, I’m trying to help you”, she whispered, rounding the kitchen island, noting the wary glance you gave her. She settled beside you, far enough to leave a proper gap between you.
“I don’t want help.”
“I know”, she lamented, truly feeling sorry for just how little you seemed to want her help. The conversation was clearly over and neither of you had anything beneficial to add.
“Well, here are your cookies”, you mumbled, pushing the package toward her before getting ready to leave. “You don’t have to forgive me right away, but I do hope you’ll forgive me eventually when you’re ready”, you said evenly, looking at Natasha who held your gaze just the same. You stepped to the side to walk past her, not really wanting to leave but wanting to give her her space since it didn’t seem like she was going to forgive you anytime soon.
“Stay. Have some cookies with me”, Natasha suggested suddenly, filling in the silence, the rustling of the parchment paper letting you know that she was opening up the package. You turned around to see her as if to assess how serious she was being. She shot you a small smile. “I forgive you”, she whispered.
“You do?” You asked in disbelief, backtracking to the kitchen island.
“Yeah.” She didn’t add anything, didn’t explain her point of view or reasoning. She simply forgave you. Natasha had been treated much worse in her life. She saw beyond your exterior, capable of understanding what made you behave the way you did. She wasn’t happy about it, and she would have been lying if she said it didn’t hurt, but she wanted you there, sure that she would find the cookies much more appetizing if she was sharing them with you. Besides, if the sleep medication she took a while ago was going to kick in she would rather fall asleep in your company than alone in her cold bed that never seemed to warm up properly without your presence. Hopefully you could keep her warm and safe from the cold showers that reeked of mold. It wouldn’t do anyone any good to hold grudges against the other during a time when you needed each other more than ever.
“Thank you”, you sighed in mild disbelief, walking over to her, opening your arms to wrap them around her neck tightly, pressing your body against her own. She needed a hug, and if you were going to force yourself in every other way, you could at least use it to her benefit. “Thank you so much.” You felt the way she hugged you tighter than normal, her arms holding your waist in a firm grip as she tucked her face into your neck. There was something behind that hug, something that stuck out to you, but you couldn’t pinpoint it. You felt like you were comforting her, the grip of her hands clinging to you. It was a strange feeling, something that you rarely got to experience with her because she never seemed to need your consolation, never seemed to want it, but you could feel it clearer than ever; her grip was desperate.
It bothered you that she wasn’t sharing her thoughts and feelings with you. She didn’t tell you how you had made her feel, or what she had done after your outburst. She seemed sad but you couldn’t really tell if you were imagining it or not. She was untouchable. You couldn’t reach her emotionally at all. It made you feel unworthy of her trust, creating a sense of imbalance into your relationship which had started to affect you progressively more the longer you had been together. Sometimes you wondered if you even knew her at all because there were so many parts of her that you didn’t have access to, meanwhile your entire life was splattered all around you, out in the open for her to observe all she pleased. It made you feel pathetic, like she had it all figured out. She was always so calm and collected, cool-headed and efficient. Despite the soft side you got to see of her, sometimes she reminded you of a robot, an artificial intelligence that had an objective to accomplish. Why did she never come home after work and sink into your arms while she sobbed away the stress of the day? Why hadn’t she told you about her sleepless nights? She always settled for vague truths whenever you asked about her sleeping or eating habits. Why didn’t she trust you enough to let you in?
“You’ve been crying”, she hummed, pulling back from the hug to see your face, her thumbs brushing underneath your swollen eyes.
“When have I not?” You chuckled, shying away from her gaze, hearing her huff out a small laugh. “I’m getting really good at it.” Natasha pulled you closer by your arm, planting her lips on your forehead.
“I can’t have my girl crying”, she muttered, her words sending a spark of excitement through you, providing you with a reminder that you so needed; you were still hers.
“What are you doing?” You asked in confusion when Natasha pulled away from you and headed for the freezer, grabbing something that she placed onto the counter before finding a large spoon.
“Ice cream sandwiches “, she smirked, getting you both small plates for the cookies. “To turn that frown upside down”, she hummed playfully. “You want one?”
“Oh, absolutely”, you nodded immediately, coming closer to her, copying what she was doing with the cookies and ice cream.
“There’s also cherry and rocky road in the fridge if you don’t want this”, she informed you, showing you the tub of butter-pecan before starting to scoop a big glob of ice cream onto her cookie. It made you smile. She really loved that flavor, so you decided to have some of it as well. You knew you made the right call when you saw the way she looked at you as you grabbed the carton and the spoon, warmth spreading all over you at the small, pleased smile she had on her face. Silly how something so small could have so much meaning.
You sat down in the living room with your ice cream sandwiches, deciding to watch something on TV while you ate, Natasha pulling your legs across her lap to feel their grounding weight on her body. You could tell that she was clingy, carefully trying to get closer to you without making it too obvious. She knew she couldn’t ask for more. She couldn’t ask to be held by you, she wouldn’t dare, not when you had been so sensitive lately. She didn’t want there to be any extra pressure on you, but her heart hurt. She needed solace and comfort. She yearned for your touch, your hands on her body. She wanted to feel your warmth and the sturdiness of your frame, and it became even more evident once the sandwiches were gone. She grew more touchy, leaning closer to you, her gentle fingers brushing over the skin of your shins, not daring to quite do what they wished to do. She yawned multiple times, her eyelids growing droopy as her comments regarding the show became much less frequent. Her timid advances revealed their true colors a few minutes later when she slumped down into the crevice formed by your legs and the couch backrest, the effects of her sleeping meditation finally starting to wear her down. She curled up against your legs, halfway into dreamland, her face buried in the side of your thigh. Her hand found your shorts, fist curling around the fabric to avoid touching you more than she already was. She needed you. Her meek demeanor made it obvious, her unconscious state finally allowing you a tiny peek at the most raw and vulnerable version of her you had yet to see. It saddened you that she never really knew how to ask for your attention. You wished she would have asked you to play with her hair or cuddle her until she fell asleep, but she always wanted to hold you instead, and stroke your hair and back until you were the one who fell asleep. It was evident to you that she did crave it, but it seemed like she didn’t quite allow herself to have it. You brought your hand to the side of her head to caress her cheek and brush aside her hair, looking down at her face that rested against your thigh. She was fully relaxed, just moments away from sleep when her entire body flinched harshly, her eyes blinking themselves open as if needing to scan her surroundings.
“Shh, I’m right here”, you whispered gently, brushing your hand over her fluffy curls, tucking a strand behind her ear. Your heart broke right then and there, allowing you to push aside your own discomfort of being touched. She deserved that much. “You can sleep”, you assured her, watching how her eyelids fluttered back shut. She adjusted her position, pressing herself closer to you, letting out a heavy sigh as if trying to rid herself of the sudden jolt of stress and anxiety she had experienced. She was so warm against you, her breath heating up the skin beneath your thin shorts as you continued to pet her gently. Your eyes welled up with tears, but you refused to let them fall as a confusing mixture of guilt and sorrow took over you. She deserved more than the touch of your hands. She deserved to be enveloped in your embrace where she could be lulled asleep by the steady beat of your heart. She deserved to feel the safety and security of your strong arms, feel the gentle caress of your lips on her forehead and cheeks. She deserved to have someone to properly lean on, someone reliable to take care of her at all times, not someone fickle who couldn’t be trusted. Natasha flinched again a few minutes later. She was beyond groggy and barely awake, her mind intending to keep it that way. You hushed her gently, bringing your hand to her cheek to stroke the silky-smooth skin.
“Try not to think about anything”, you hummed, hoping to make up for your lack of physical comfort through words. “You’re a cloud in the sky. You’re weightless. Everything is okay here. You don’t owe anyone anything. Let sleep take you.” She relaxed again but flinched herself awake not even a minute later. “Shh, baby, think about the clouds. You’re a pretty cloud, gorgeous even. You’re the most beautiful cloud in the sky, and most importantly, you’re free.” You didn’t know where the metaphor came from, but you hoped it was guiding her closer to sleep. You didn’t know if she could even properly hear you, but you didn’t care. You wanted to do everything in your power to help her get even a wink of sleep that night, and you would gladly sacrifice your own sleep to do so. Maybe someday she really would be free from you, from all the pain you brought her.