A/N: Written for a prompt on the kinkmeme. Fic contains PTSD and references to both child abuse and the violent death of a child.

Title derived from Mike McGee's poem "Everyday", specifically from this bit:

time will teach me to pick up her pieces
put her back together
and remind her to click her heels
but she doesn't need a wizard to tell her that I was here all along

time has taught me to pick up her pieces

"I can't get the blood off my hands," Natasha said.

"Yeah," he said, quietly. "I know."

– –

This wasn't his kind of mission. Tuxedo and schmoozing and pretentious classic music, and who did S.H.I.E.L.D. think he was, James Bond? He got to be up close to Natasha wearing a wine-purple gown with a plunging neckline, but she'd slipped out of being 'Natasha' and into 'Nathalie Renard' with Romanoff lurking behind her eyes. The game was on, they were all business, and his appreciation was mostly for how she'd disguised a blade in her hair ornament.

This wasn't his kind of mission, until a car backfired as the band played something classical and Russian. Romanoff's face went tight in ways that had nothing to do with mission and, just like that, the mission went off the rails.

– –

"He made us clean it up. They took her body away, but we had to- we had to scrub the blood out of the floor. Off the mirrors. He left the music on. And I can't...I can't get the blood off my hands," Natasha said.

I fucking hate the Red Room, Clint thought; "Yeah," he said, quietly. "I know."

– –

Barton wasn't James Bond, but he could lie and pretend like any other agent, and he knew how to hustle someone out of the room. He spun bullshit like a boyfriend worried over his pregnant girl, put his arm around Romanoff's back and escorted her out of the ballroom, into the elevator, and he didn't ask what was wrong.

She was pale, breathing ragged, eyes too wide and too dark; she was running her fingers over her palms like she was trying to rub them clean and, yeah, he didn't need know the details to recognise when an agent wasn't up to a mission.

He didn't need to know the details to know when his partner was really not okay.

– –

"I can't get the blood off my hands," Natasha said.

I fucking hate the Red Room, Clint thought; "Yeah," he said, quietly. "I know."

She shifted her head on his shoulder, fingers skating over his arm. "It was just...it was the car," she said finally, and he hated how much her voice was shaking. "The backfiring and it was that exact piece of music, and I, I just-"

"'Tasha, I get it. You don't have to-"

"Marishka was my friend. Clint. We were ten."

– –

Natasha – no Nathalie now, and Romanoff's left the building – headed straight for the bathroom and shut the door. He contacted their team, talked about the mission and being compromised and how he's pretty damn sure he got Romanoff out before anyone got suspicious and no, he had no idea if the mission was salvageable, sir.

She didn't respond when he knocked on the door, nor when he called out a minute later. He could hear water running, and they were in a hotel with some very bad people; he opened the door.

And paused.

Natasha was huddled on the floor of the shower, still in her (now ruined) silk dress, clutching her knees to her chest and shaking underneath the water.

– –

"'Tasha, I get it. You don't have to-"

"Marishka was my friend. Clint. We were ten. And I can still feel her blood on, on my...hands. And I can't get it off, and."

"I know," Clint repeated, voice still quiet and gentle. To say anything else would be a patent lie, and he's not going to do that to her. Instead, he took her right hand in his and then, pausing only to turn the hot water on a bit more, wrapped his left arm around her.

They couldn't stay here forever; they were in the middle of a mission, they needed to see if she could pull herself together to complete or if they needed to abort. They were in danger. But he had two guns on him, and Natasha still shivering beside him.

They could sit in the shower in silence for the time being.