PTSD

She, Natalia Romanova, had wet the bed. And she was terrified. They would drag her away, beat her, kill her, maybe. All for a simple mistake most kids her age made at least once in their lives. It wasn't fair that her little 7-year-old self should have to worry about such things. But she did. And that was life.

The sun was peeking through the dim, curtain covered window at the end of the narrow bunk room. Other girls were beginning to stir. Soon the headmasters would come in to un-handcuff the girls from their beds and give them their daily morning inspection. Natasha squirmed in her bed, growing uncomfortable as her bottom continually touched the puddle of her own urine. The doors banged open loudly, and keys jingled and bootsteps thudded down the aisles between beds.

She took a deep breath and steeled herself as one of the cruel women stopped at her bed and unlocked her wrist from her bed rail. She pushed aside her covers and stood before her, cheeks flaming red with shame.

"You nasty girl," the women sneered, taking Natalia by the wrist and dragging her out of the room. Natasha knew better than to struggle; it would only make her predicament worse. She was taken to the courtyard, her little feet scrabbling at the floor in an attempt to keep up with the woman's fast pace. Then she was left there for at least 10 minutes by herself, shivering on the doorstep, before a large man came out the door and grabbed her up. She was unconscious before the second blow came.

When she came to, she was still outside, drenched in water. Madame B stood over her, empty bucket swinging from her hand.

"Get up. You have lessons to attend to," she ordered, opening the door and shoving Natalia inside once she had shakily gotten to her feet. She was allowed to dress quickly, stripping out of her bloody white nightgown and into her uniform.

That day was hard. She hadn't been allowed to wash up before class, and walked around with blood crusted to her entire body. Every so often, during combat training or ballet, a cut somewhere on her body would burst open through the weak scabs and send fresh blood cascading away. Natasha was weak from blood loss.

When bedtime came that night, she fell gratefully into her bed only to find the sheets had not been changed, and her mattress reeked of urine. With no choice but to lay on it, she closed her eyes and quietly cried herself to sleep.

...

Natasha bolted upright in her bed with a shriek. She frantically looked around, trying to figure out where she was. She on her home helicarrier, drenched in sweat and lying in a pool of urine. The digital clock on her nightstand read 2:47 in bright red numbers.

"What in the heck?" she muttered to herself, peeling back her blankets and staring down at the stain on her lap. She flopped back on the pillow, sighing in embarrassment. What would they other agents think if they found out newly accepted Agent Romanoff wet the bed? No one, not even Clint, knew how bad her PTSD was. She shook her head and shuddered, a few strands of wavy red hair falling in her eyes.

"'Tasha?!" Clint burst into her bedroom through the secret door connecting their quarters. Natasha jumped, and quickly pulled her blankets back over her lap. She looked up at him weakly. "Hey, sweetheart, are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Natasha muttered, squirming in her seat. She reached over to snap on the lamp on the bedside table.

"Are you sure? That was a pretty loud yell," Clint replied, moving to sit on the edge of her bed, near her waist. Natasha cringed.

"I'm fine. How did you hear me?" Natasha leaned over a bit to check his ears. He had one hearing aid in. The other was nowhere to be found.

"I always sleep with one in," he replied sheepishly, reaching up to touch his hearing aid.

"Oh." Don't get wet, don't get wet, she willed him silently as he slid closer. Clint reached for the covers over her lap.

"Come on, we'll go back to my room and I'll make you something to drink."

"Clint, don't!" Too late. Clint pulled the covers back and reached for her hand. His eyes widened when they settled on her lap.

"Oh, 'Tasha," Clint whispered. Nat's cheeks flushed in embarrassment and her eyes welled with tears. "Hey, now, don't start that. This happens to the best of us. Come on, let's get you cleaned up." Clint took her hand and tugged her gently out of her bed, guiding her to her bathroom. He quickly turned on the shower for her while she stood there miserably.

"Thank you," Natasha whispered as Clint slipped out the door, closing it behind him. Natasha stripped off her clothes and got under the spray, turning the water temperature to scalding. She stood under the water for a while, just allowing it to run down her body. She heard the door crack open and something soft was dropped on the floor before it was closed again. She turned off the water and got out, pulling the towel off the nearby hook. She quickly dried, then looked down at the bundle on the floor. A pair of Clint's sweatpants and one of his t-shirts sat on the floor. She smiled a little and pulled them on, breathing in Clint's smell of bow grease, Axe deodorant, and aloe vera sandalwood aftershave.

She poked her head out the door to find Clint perched on the edge of her bed, holding a steaming cup of hot chocolate. He beckoned her back to the bed and she crawled onto it, settling into his side. He pressed the mug into her hands and she took it gratefully, taking a tentative sip.

"Thank you," she whispered, laying her head against his shoulder. He cupped her cheek and pressed a gentle kiss to her temple.

"Anytime, sweetness." Clint stayed with her until the half-drunk mug of chocolate grew loose in her grasp and her chest rose and fell with gentle breaths. He took the cup from her fingers and set it on the nighttable. He eased her down from her sitting position and pulled the covers over her. She sighed blissfully. He pressed a kiss to her forehead, turned the lamp off, and slipped out.