Chapter Text
The gala was the kind of spectacle only Tony Stark could pull off: chandeliers that seemed to drip molten light, champagne towers catching glimmers like prisms, music swelling and folding into laughter that echoed across the hall. People sparkled in sequins and designer suits, faces flushed with alcohol and the thrill of being in Tony’s orbit.
Natasha sat at the bar, turning her fourth martini glass of the night slowly between her fingers. She hadn’t taken more than a sip of this one. The cold bite of vodka should have been grounding, familiar - but at this point, it only reminded her of missions where she’d been forced to drink as a distraction, another weapon in her arsenal. Her stomach twisted, the same coil of unease she’d carried since returning from the mission earlier that day.
It hadn’t gone wrong - not technically. The intel was secure, the target neutralised. But the Red Room’s fingerprints had been all over it: coded communications she recognised too easily, the cadence of orders that belonged to a world she had tried to bury. It wasn’t failure haunting her; it was memory. The mission had opened a door she thought she’d sealed shut, and now the ghosts seeped through the cracks.
"Romanoff.”
She looked up to see Clint sliding onto the stool beside her, loosening the tie he’d worn only because Pepper had threatened him into it. His jacket was already slung over the back of his chair, sleeves rolled, looking more like the archer she knew than some gala guest.
“You’re about as lively as a tombstone,” he said, stealing one of the olives out of her glass before she could react.
“Don’t you have someone else to bother?” she asked, voice even but soft at the edges.
“Everyone else here either wants to pitch me a startup or tell me about their golf game. You’re the least boring option.” Clint leaned back, watching her with eyes that always saw too much. “Mission still in your head?”
She stiffened before she could stop herself. He knew her too well. Of course he did. They’d spent too many nights together in silence, communicating in the weight of glances, in the way each of them could tell when the other couldn’t sleep.
“Don’t,” she murmured, picking up her glass. “Not here.”
Clint nodded, as if that was enough. He knew how to back off when she needed him to. “Fine. But don’t disappear on me. If you ditch me, I’ll be forced to actually mingle.”
Her lips curved into the faintest ghost of a smile. “Wouldn’t want that.”
He left her not long after, pulled away by some mutual acquaintance with Stark. She watched him vanish into the crowd, and suddenly the noise pressed in closer, the lights sharper, like everything in the room had teeth.
She told herself she should leave. Go upstairs, peel off the suffocating dress, sleep - or at least pretend to. But her body stayed rooted to the stool, her fingers tracing condensation along the glass. Maybe she was too tired to move. Maybe some part of her wanted to feel normal, to sit in a glittering room and pretend she belonged.
“Rough night?”
The voice was unfamiliar, low and smooth, carrying the faint rasp of cigarettes. A man slipped onto the stool beside her, his cologne heavy, the smell of whiskey already on his breath. She didn’t look at him directly, not at first - just enough to register dark hair, an expensive suit that didn’t quite fit like Stark’s crowd usually wore.
She should have shut him down. Normally she would have. But her mind was still stuck replaying fragments of the mission, the faces she’d left behind, the Red Room’s shadow curling around her thoughts. His presence barely registered as a threat.
“Something like that,” she said distantly.
He slid a drink toward her, a tumbler of amber liquid. “On me.”
Her instincts whispered no. But she was tired, so damn tired. Accepting was easier than refusing, easier than brushing him off and starting another conversation she didn’t want. She pushed her half-finished martini aside and took the glass.
The whiskey burned on the way down. It should have cleared her head. Instead, everything blurred at the edges, like someone had smudged the ink of reality.
He was talking - she thought. Words dripping slow and indistinct. She caught pieces: a joke that didn’t land, a comment about how beautiful she looked in red. She wasn’t in red. Her dress was black. She wanted to correct him, but her tongue felt thick, her thoughts sticky.
A hand brushed her arm. Too close. She jerked slightly, but the movement came sluggish, as though underwater. The room tilted. The chandelier light fractured into stars she couldn’t quite focus on.
“Hey-” she tried, but it came out weaker than she meant.
The hand was guiding her now. Off the stool, through the press of bodies. She couldn’t orient herself, couldn’t pin down direction. The air was heavy with perfume and sweat, the floor unsteady beneath her heels.
Something in her screamed wrong. Her body knew before her mind could catch up. Every sound, every brush of skin made her stomach twist tighter.
There was a door. A hallway. Darkness.
She pushed at him, clumsy and weak. The world tilted again.
Hands. Around her wrists, her arms, her throat.
Her last coherent thought was of Clint - how annoyed he’d sound when she didn’t answer his texts, how he’d roll his eyes and call her dramatic. She wanted to tell him she wasn’t ditching him. That she didn’t choose this.
Then nothing.
Cold. That was the first thing she felt when she came to. Cold floor pressing into her side, cold air clinging damp against her skin. For a moment, she thought she was still in some dark interrogation room, another Red Room nightmare bleeding into reality. Then the sharp smell of cleaning chemicals cut through - stale detergent, cheap wood polish.
Her eyes opened to pitch-black. The space was cramped, a narrow line of light slipping under the door, slicing across the floor. A storage closet.
Memory clawed at her, broken into jagged pieces she couldn’t hold all at once. The bar. A drink. A man’s laugh, rough with smoke. Hands, too heavy, too strong.
She pushed herself up, every muscle groaning. The thin strap of her dress hung loose off her shoulder, twisted out of place. She tugged it back up, then stopped when she saw her wrist.
Bruises. Purple already, in the exact shape of fingers.
Her stomach turned.
She touched her neck and flinched. Tender. The kind of ache that told her exactly what she didn’t want to admit. Her cheekbone throbbed, skin hot under her fingertips. She didn’t have to look to know what she’d find - marks, evidence etched into her body like a confession.
She shifted, and a deeper pain settled low inside her, undeniable. She froze. For a heartbeat, she tried to tell herself maybe it was from the mission, from fighting, from some old injury flaring up. But her body knew better. Her body always knew.
The closet walls pressed closer.
Her bag caught her eye, tossed carelessly in the corner as if discarded after being ripped from her. She crawled to it on shaky knees and dug for her phone. The screen lit her face too brightly, too harsh.
3:02 a.m.
Two texts from Clint.
Where are you?
Guess you ditched me. Couldn’t handle my dancing, huh?
One missed call.
Her throat closed. She imagined him on the gala floor, scanning the room for her, shrugging when he couldn’t find her. Assuming she’d slipped away because she was bored, or tired, or - anything but this.
She almost typed something back. A lie, maybe. Something quick to ease the guilt. But her fingers wouldn’t move. The words wouldn’t come.
The glow of the phone only made the closet darker. Natasha set it down like it burned and pulled her knees to her chest. Her dress clung, rumpled and wrong, every thread whispering what had happened. She wanted to tear it off. Burn it. Burn herself if it meant scrubbing away the memory of hands pinning her, holding her, stealing the air from her lungs.
Her breath came faster, shallow, the beginnings of panic rising. She squeezed her eyes shut and forced herself to count. One. Two. Three. Control your breathing. You’ve done this before. Survive the moment. Survive, then decide.
But she wasn’t on a mission. There was no enemy to kill, no objective to complete. There was only the hollow echo inside her chest where her control used to live.
Her phone buzzed again, startling her. Another message.
This time from Tony.
Tell Barton I saved you from another Stark speech. You owe me.
The lighthearted tone twisted like a knife. If he knew. If either of them knew.
Her fingers hovered over the keyboard again. She almost typed help. Just four letters. But her hands shook, and she deleted nothing into the void.
No one could know. Not tonight.
Natasha pressed her back against the wall and stayed there, listening to her own shallow breathing, until she could finally force herself to stand. Her legs trembled, but she pushed through, because she always did.
She turned the knob, opened the closet door. The hall was empty, silent except for the faint throb of music far away. The party was still alive, but in a different world, one she couldn’t step into again.
She stepped out anyway, one unsteady foot at a time, and headed for her room.
The closet door swung shut behind her.
The compound at night was never silent. Even when the parties ended, when the guests filtered out and Stark’s music cut away, the building itself seemed to breathe. Vents hummed, distant machinery clicked, the echo of footsteps carried too far down polished corridors.
Natasha moved through it barefoot, shoes dangling from her hand. Her heels had become impossible, her feet unsteady enough without them. The hard floor bit into her soles, grounding her in a way that felt almost cruel.
Every few steps, she thought she heard something behind her. A shadow shifting. A door creaking. She knew it wasn’t real - the compound’s security systems would have flagged anyone moving this late without clearance - but the memory of hands on her wrists lingered too vividly. Every sound was a phantom.
Her body kept replaying fragments she hadn’t given it permission to: the scrape of a laugh in her ear, the rank smell of smoke, the hot press of breath where she didn’t want it. She tried to shake it off, tried to focus on counting her steps, but the images forced themselves in anyway.
She passed the elevator and didn’t take it. Too confined. Too much like being shoved into that closet. Instead, she found the stairs, gripping the rail until her knuckles whitened. She moved slow, deliberate, fighting dizziness with each landing.
Her phone was still in her bag. The weight of it burned against her side with every step. Clint’s texts replayed in her mind, his voice easy to imagine - half joking, half concerned. Where are you?
She could picture how it would go if she called him right now. He’d answer on the first ring. He always did with her. He’d hear her silence and know something was wrong before she even tried to lie. He’d come running, no questions asked, bow and arrows be damned in his half-buttoned shirt.
And Tony - Tony would be furious. Not at her, never at her, but at the idea of anyone touching what he considered his family. He’d tear the compound apart, turn his genius toward hunting down a ghost. The thought of his anger should have been comforting. Instead, it terrified her.
Steve, she wouldn't be able to handle seeing the pity in his eyes, and Bruce, well no one would be able to handle his reaction.
If she told them, everything would change. She wasn’t ready for that. Maybe she’d never be.
The corridor stretched endlessly, lined with doors leading to bedrooms and offices. The compound suddenly felt too large, like a labyrinth she could get lost in. She paused at an intersection, pressed her forehead to the cool wall, and breathed.
Don’t think. Just move.
Her reflection caught her off guard in one of the darkened glass panels. For a second, she didn’t recognise herself. Hair mussed, makeup smeared, the faint outline of bruises already darkening against pale skin. She looked like someone else entirely. Someone weak.
She turned away before she could think too long on it.
A door opened somewhere down the hall, spilling light. Natasha froze, heart climbing into her throat. But it was only one of Stark’s bots, whirring as it collected abandoned glasses from the gala. The little machine chirped as it passed her, oblivious.
She let out a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding.
By the time she reached the residential wing, her legs felt leaden. Every step dragged, but she forced herself forward. Her room waited at the end of the hall, a sanctuary she wasn’t sure she deserved but needed all the same.
She reached the door, hand trembling against the keypad. For a moment, she considered turning around, walking to Clint’s room instead. Knocking until he answered. Letting herself collapse in front of him, admitting the words out loud.
Her fist hovered in the air, imagining the knock.
But then she saw the bruises again when she glanced down. Felt the ache in her body. And the shame slammed back into place like a lock clicking shut.
She lowered her hand and opened her own door instead.
The hallway went silent again behind her as it slid closed.
Her room should have been where she stopped. Shut the door, bury herself in the safety of oversized sweatpants, pretend the night hadn’t happened. But her body wouldn’t let her. The ache was too sharp, the bruises too raw, the sickness in her stomach clawing up every time she tried to convince herself to stay put.
By the time she stripped out of the ruined dress, shoved it deep into the back of her closet, and pulled on a hoodie large enough to swallow her whole, she already knew where she was going.
She hated herself for it. Hated that she was walking willingly into Medical when every cell in her body screamed against it. The Red Room had taught her long ago that doctors weren’t healers - they were interrogators, experimenters, wielders of scalpels and syringes that never came with comfort. Medical was a place where pain was catalogued, not relieved.
But tonight she needed proof. Evidence. Confirmation that her body hadn’t been permanently broken by the hands she couldn’t even put a face to.
The compound’s halls were quieter here, colder. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic, too sharp against her senses. At the reception desk, a young nurse looked up from her monitor, startled. Natasha never came here unless forced.
“Agent Romanoff?” the nurse said cautiously, like Natasha might vanish if she raised her voice.
“I need Dr. Anderson.” Her own voice sounded flat, like it belonged to someone else.
The nurse hesitated. “Do you - do you need urgent care?”
“Dr. Anderson.” The repetition came sharper this time, enough to silence further questions.
Minutes stretched before the door opened and Dr. Anderson appeared. Older than most of the staff, silver streaking her hair, eyes lined but steady. She was one of the few Natasha tolerated - because she never asked more than was necessary, never looked at her like a puzzle to solve.
“Natasha,” Anderson greeted softly. “This is unexpected.”
Natasha followed her into one of the small exam rooms, the door shutting with a click that echoed too loud. She perched on the table, pulling her sleeves down over her hands as though that could hide the bruises already forming.
Anderson pulled a stool closer. “Tell me why you’re here.”
Natasha stared at the floor. Her throat felt like sandpaper. She forced the words out anyway. “I need to be checked. For… STDs.” The syllables felt jagged in her mouth. “And… my neck. Bruising.”
Anderson’s eyes softened. She didn’t ask. She didn’t push. She just nodded, stood, and gathered supplies with quiet efficiency.
The examination was clinical, methodical. Swabs, vials, gloves snapping into place. Natasha hated every second - the sound of packaging tearing open, the sterile brightness of the light overhead, the way lying back on the table made her feel small and exposed. She clenched her fists so tight her nails cut crescents into her palms, but she stayed still. She always stayed still.
“Almost done,” Anderson murmured, the same way she might to a frightened patient.
When it was over, Natasha sat up too fast, needing to reclaim her space. Her hoodie hung loose around her, a shield she wanted to disappear into.
“I’ll rush the results,” Anderson said, removing her gloves. “You’ll know tonight.”
Natasha nodded, eyes fixed on the floor.
They sat in silence until the computer chimed. Anderson scanned the screen, then turned back. “You’re clear.”
The relief should have been overwhelming. Instead, Natasha felt only emptiness, a hollow pit where gratitude might have lived.
Anderson hesitated, then slid a small pamphlet across the counter. It was thin, pastel-coloured, the title soft in its lettering: Resources for Survivors of Sexual Violence.
Natasha stared at it. Didn’t touch it.
“I know,” Anderson said gently. “You won’t read it. But I need you to have it.”
Natasha finally reached out, pinched it between her fingers, and shoved it into her pocket without looking.
Anderson studied her another moment, then asked, “Do you want me to call someone? Barton? Coulson? Maybe one of the other-”
The thought made her chest constrict. She shook her head once, sharp. “No.”
Anderson didn’t argue. “Then at least promise me you’ll come back if anything feels wrong. Physically or otherwise.”
Natasha didn’t answer. She slid off the table, tugged her sleeves down again, and moved for the door.
“Natasha,” Anderson called softly. She paused, hand on the handle. “What happened tonight - it wasn’t your fault.”
The words stung more than anything else. She left without replying.
The hall outside was colder now, empty in a way that mirrored her chest. She walked quickly, not looking at anyone, not letting herself stop until she was back in the residential wing. Her room was waiting, the shadows inside ready to swallow her whole.
The door slid shut behind her with a hiss, locking out the sterile smell of Medical, but the air in her room felt just as suffocating. Too quiet. Too heavy.
She stripped off the hoodie and sweatpants in jerky movements, throwing them onto the floor. Her skin itched with invisible fingerprints, and she didn’t want fabric clinging to her. She stood in front of the mirror for a second too long, eyes catching the dark bloom along her neck, the shadows on her wrists. The sight made her chest constrict, and she yanked the mirror door closed before she could look again.
The dress - her mind flashed back to it, twisted, ruined, in the bottom of her closet. She wanted to burn it, watch the fabric curl and blacken until nothing remained. Instead it sat there, a corpse in her room.
She pulled on another hoodie, this one grey and shapeless, the sleeves dangling over her hands. Sweatpants again. Her armour.
The bed was too soft, too open. She lay there anyway, staring at the ceiling, willing sleep to come. It didn’t. Every time she closed her eyes, she felt it all again - the weight pinning her down, the heat of breath that wasn’t hers, the choke of air cut off. Her body jolted each time like it hadn’t escaped at all.
Her phone buzzed once. She ignored it.
She thought about Clint, probably back in his room by now, rolling his eyes at the unanswered texts. He’d shrug it off tonight, but tomorrow he’d ask. He always asked. And Tony - Tony would laugh about her disappearing act, tease her for ditching the party. None of them would guess the truth. None of them could.
She rolled off the bed before the pressure in her chest crushed her. The kitchenette in her suite was small, barely used, but the bottle of vodka tucked away above the fridge wasn’t for parties. It was for nights like this. Nights she prayed wouldn’t come.
The first swallow burned down her throat, sharp enough to make her eyes water. The second went easier. By the third, the ache in her chest dulled to something she could almost stand.
She carried the bottle into the bathroom and turned the light low. The tub was cold porcelain against her legs as she climbed in fully clothed, curling against the side with the vodka still in her hand.
Silence filled the room. It wasn’t peaceful - it was deafening. Her mind replayed everything she was trying to drink away, looping the fragments until her stomach churned.
She pulled open the drawer in the cabinet beside the tub and found the small box she kept there, hidden beneath toiletries no one else would ever touch. Inside, a single razor blade gleamed under the dim light.
Her hand trembled as she picked it up.
She didn’t want to die. She wasn’t sure she wanted to live, either - not with this night etched into her skin. What she wanted was silence. To drown out the memories, the smells, the bruises that felt like brands.
She pressed the blade lightly against her thigh, just enough to leave a red line blooming in its wake. The pain was sharp, immediate, something she could control. Control - what she’d lost tonight, what she needed back.
Another line. Shallow, but it steadied her hands.
She chased the feeling, the way the sting cleared her head more effectively than vodka ever could. She told herself she was only scratching the surface, that it wasn’t serious, that she knew how far to go. But the truth sat heavy inside her: she didn’t know where the line was anymore.
The bottle sat half-empty by the time her arms sagged against the porcelain. The blade slipped from her fingers, clinking faintly against the tub before settling in her lap.
Her vision blurred at the edges. Whether from alcohol, exhaustion, or tears she refused to acknowledge, she didn’t care.
She leaned her head back against the cold tile, hoodie damp against her skin, and closed her eyes.
For a moment, the silence she’d been chasing wrapped around her. Heavy. Final. Almost enough.