The Road Home (Clintasha)

4. Discovery (Natasha)

(A/N: Hey guys! An actual note from the author! If you're still reading this, thanks for sticking with it, real life tends to make writing very difficult because there's usually no time. This chapter was a lot easier to write than Chapter 3, but it was probably just because I could really get going and spit out like pages at a time on this one. Oh, and speaking of Chapter 3, if you've been keeping up with the story...sorry about that Clint, it gets better, buddy, I promise! This chapter introduces a certain character that I've loved since I picked up the Hawkeye comic, so this one was a joy to write, and hopefully all remains in character. Some of it's a tad indulgent, and there's a question or two I'd like to answer in future chapters, but overall I'm satisfied. Enjoy!)

AVENGERS TOWER, NEW YORK CITY, MIDNIGHT

TWO DAYS LEFT

Natasha sat up in her bed, breathing heavily. She was sweating; her tank top clung to her like a second skin. They'd returned again tonight-the nightmares of Russia, the Red Room. They came and went occasionally during the night, flashes of a former miserable life. Tonight's dream, however, was worse than usual. She saw it all vividly in her mind-herself and hundreds of others, stripped of childhoods, all in the name of being taught the best, bravest, and most brutal ways to kill people. An art, her trainer would proclaim in a Russian drawl filled with brutal relish. There is art in what we do. We are painters, we are shadows, we are death to all who oppose the Motherland.

They had implanted fake memories in her, of course. They had implanted fake memories in everyone. They justified it as the crowning element of effectiveness in a deep cover agent-and an easier loose end to tie up in light of failure. No secrets to tell if you believed your own cover story, and no one to tell them to before they took you out of the picture.She remembered this and all the rest of her nightmarish training in the Red Room, and yet she also remembered being trained in ballet at the Bolshoi Theater, and while one predominated her dreams, the other would interject itself occasionally in flashes, fighting for control of her head. She couldn't decide which unnerved her more: the things she remembered, or remembering that people had rooted around inside her head and made what she remembered entirely unreliable. Or what you don't remember at all.

All of this didn't make sleep easy, which meant spending the first few hours of the morning wide awake. This time, there weren't any comforting whispers or spoken reassurances from a certain person to calm her down. She had to tough it out on her own tonight. Unfortunately, it was nothing new. She'd had lots of practice.

She didn't remember drifting off, but at some point her body must have given in, because when she found herself awake again, it was 7:30 in the morning and the rays of sunlight shining directly on her face felt almost painful and, considering the marvelous failure of sleep the previous night, a little insulting. The entire morning was conspiring against her, and the racket from the common room certainly wasn't-wait, racket? Why a racket?

   "Hmmmlglmph." She slid out of bed and shuffled slowly towards the disturbance.

   The Avengers common room didn't even look like the same room anymore upon her entering. The walls were peppered with assorted banners and streamers all the way up, and impressive fest considering how high the ceiling was. Stark was busy hanging up a large banner about ten feet up, and Thor and the Vision were adding some sort of extension to the bar (three guesses whose idea that was). Steve was the first to notice her arrival.

   "Hey Nat. How are you feeling?" She sleepily poured a cup of coffee.

   "Honestly, like death. But it'll get better."