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Let's keep going with this thing..

Quinjet

With his legs stretched out across the bench, Clint snored gladly to himself, catching some shut eye before they landed in the troubled city of Abidjan. Natasha, seated opposite, was also stretched out with her head pillowed by a duffel bag. Unlike Clint, she was awake and reading a book.

Coulson was sitting in one of the seats at Clint's feet, carefully studying his files. After a moment, his eyes flickered up to rest on Natasha and he began, lowering his voice enough to ensure the conversation would only be shared between him and the agent across from him.

"You lied to me."

She tore her eyes from the book. "I'm sorry?"

"After Clint had that surgery on his shoulder, you told me you didn't have feelings for him."

She rose into a seated position and placed the book face down on her lap. "With all due respect, sir, I didn't lie to you. You asked me was I compromised. I said no. After Madrid, my feelings for him were inappropriate but I refused let anything happen between us at the time. I was not a compromised agent."

Coulson's eyebrows rose in curiosity. "At the time?"

"Yes, sir."

"And what about now?"

"I'm neither compromised nor distracted by our relationship. If anything, it has made us stronger as a team."

"Stronger?"

She shrugged her shoulders. "No more tension. No more childish crap. We've got our heads in the game. We're on the same level, finally, for the first time in a long time."

He sat back in the chair, simmering over her words. "I see."

After a couple of seconds, he sat forward again, resting his elbows on his knees. "I want you to know that I trust the both of you to be professional and to put the job at hand before your relationship. You understand that, don't you?"

"I understand, sir," she answered sincerely with a nod.

"Good," he nodded back. "Now get some sleep before we land. You two have got a busy schedule ahead of ye."

"Yes, sir."

Natasha lowered the book to the floor, turned onto her side, and settled her head further into the duffel bag. Before closing her eyes, she caught Coulson's line of vision once again. "Coulson?"

"Hmm?"

"Thanks for trusting us, and thank you for keeping it to yourself."

A faint smile grew upon his face and he nodded again. "Get some sleep, Agent Romanoff."

"Focus, Natalia."

Natasha kept her eyes trained on the wall opposite, her eyes alight with ferocity and determination. She breathed out a hitched breath but refused to let out the whimper that was begging for release. Weakness was not an option. She had to be strong. She had to prove that she able, ready.

"Focus." The voice hissed unflinchingly, severing what little was left of Natasha's youthful soul.

She was on her knees, in the middle of the concrete floor, her palms spread either side. The middle-aged woman, positioned behind her, was gripping the ends of her hair, pulling forcefully backwards towards her own chest.

Natasha could feel wetness starting to emerge from the corners of her eyes and she blinked forcefully to clear her clouding vision. The pain was spreading like a corrosive agent through her veins, burning and sizzling through flesh, building to an unbearable climax. She was certain her hair was going to rip from her scalp.

Tears began trailing down her cheeks as the woman continued pulling and gripping her flaming curls, her scalp now a crimson wreck from the training session. She couldn't stop herself from eliciting the weak sob that bubbled up from her throat.

The harsh voice penetrated the air again, "Natalia, focus!"

She bolted up in the bed, her chest heaving with panicked bursts, trying desperately to suck in precious oxygen. Her eyes darted around the room, taking in the surroundings blackened by the night sky. She clasped a hand over her mouth in a futile effort to calm herself, her damp palm meeting her sweat slicked face. The sticky, humid air suffocated her every thought, making her already pounding heart accelerate further.

She forced herself to freeze, allowing her vision to hover for a moment. Deep breathing became audible to her right, coming from the body that was stretched out beside her. Clint was facing away from her, one arm curled around the pillow his head was buried in. She hadn't woken him.

She let her hand drop and scanned her eyes around the room again, pulling herself together as best she could. She slid off the bed and tip-toed steadily towards the bathroom, flicked on the light, and closed the door behind her.

She twisted the tap, the squeaking noise breaking the eerie silence encapsulating the room. Water soon filled the sink bowl and she cupped two handfuls and splashed it against her face. A shuddering breath escaped her lips as the coolness soothed her panicked state. She reached for the cupboard above the sink and began searching, pushing against various pill containers, cotton wool buds, gauze pads and bandage rolls. She rummaged around until she felt the cool edge and hollow hoops.

Bingo.

"Natasha?"

She spun around, her wild eyes flying to his face, and wielded the only thing that she had in her grip.

She hadn't heard him opening the door. She hadn't sensed him approaching.

Wearing an old grey t-shirt and a pair of navy boxers, Clint was wiping a hand over a confused and sleepy face. Upon taking in her stance, he blinked, his sleepiness abruptly wearing off. "Whoa, hey, it's me!" He raised both hands in submission and froze. Observing her shaky grip and weary gaze, he figured she had just woken up from some sort of nightmare. He reduced the volume of his voice to almost a whisper. "Natasha, it's Clint."

She blinked a couple of times, taking in his calm and soothing tone, and then lowered the scissors encased in her grip. "Clint.."

"What are you doing?"

"I-" she began, doing her best to think of a good lie to appease him. "I was just-"

"Nightmare?"

She cast her eyes down to her bare feet and swallowed, "Yeah."

She knew she couldn't lie to him. If she did, he wouldn't believe her anyway.

"Well let's keep the sharp objects out of the conversation, shall we?" He slowly approached and went to take the scissors out of her hand.

"No, wait-" She pulled away and frowned.

"Nat, what are you-"

"I want to cut it."

He shook his head, confused. "Cut what?"

"My hair. I need to cut it."

Clint regarded her with another contorted expression, puzzled by this sudden decision.

"Stop looking at me like I've two heads, Barton," she managed under her breath, dragging her eyes away from him, half-ashamed of herself. She hated being vulnerable in front of him. The last thing she needed from him right now was his pity.

His shoulders dropped and he let out a breath. "Why do you need to cut your hair?"

"It's too long. I can't move without it in my face all the time."

"And you decide this at quarter to four in the morning?"

"Clint, I just-" she let out a heavy sigh. "Just let me do this, okay?"

"All right. I 'aint stopping you. Do what you want." He backed away and folded his arms across his chest.

She slowly turned around to face the mirror and began gathering her hair together in a loose pony-tail. Fumbling uncharacteristically, her hands shook slightly as she gripped the scissors, fitting her thumb and index finger into the hoops.

"Do you need some-"

"Can it, Barton."

He threw her a faint smirk and a sleepy yawn.

Her grip grew white-knuckled as her hand moved forward to slice but she hesitated before cutting. A painfully forced cough came from behind her. She stopped and glared at him in the mirror. He was watching her carefully, his head cocked to the side, leaning against the frame of the door. She rolled her eyes and then focused once again on the strands of her hair.

Just a few more inches, Natasha. You can do this. It's just some fucking hair.

Before she mustered up the strength his voice interrupted again.

"Okay, you're giving me hives watching you do that."

"I don't remember anyone asking you to watch?"

"Give me the scissors, Nat."

"I can do this by myself."

"Give me the scissors.."

"Clint-"

"Just trust me, okay?" He took the scissors out of her hand, placed them on the closed toilet seat, and moved towards the bath. He twisted the tap and water began streaming out, spraying out a rushed stream of water. Placing a hand in the water, he tested the temperature, nodded after a moment, and gestured towards her.

"C'mere."

She let out an exasperated sigh but obliged, kneeled beside him and bowed her head over the bath. A calloused hand sifted through her hair, tousling through her scalp as he situated the nozzle over her crown.

The careful movements of his hand and the tepid spray of the water acted as a cool balm over the raw welts that haunted her scalp. She closed her eyes and sank into his touch, allowing him to massage his way through her hair. She could feel every ounce of the tension inside her dissipate immediately and for those few minutes, he had helped her forget the nightmarish memories of the Red Room, without him even realising it.

They remained silent throughout and once he had finished rinsing her hair, she threw him a gracious smile. A smile that echoed the words "Thank you".

She grabbed a nearby towel, placed it around her shoulders, and settled herself up on the closed toilet seat. He had retrieved the scissors and then settled himself beside her. He proceeded to cut her hair with precision and swiftness. Their eyes met from time to time and they both offered each other a light-hearted smile. A comforting gesture, an indication of mutual understanding, a sign of love for one another.

She found herself drifting off again, lack of sleep and the rhythmic accents of the scissors causing her to switch off for a brief moment. His agile fingers worked through the kinks in her hair, following the damp waves as he cut each lock away.

"That okay?"

His words brought her out of her impromptu daydream. She stood up from the toilet seat and looked in the mirror. Her hair was now half-dry and barely touching her shoulders.

"Perfect," she responded simply. "It's perfect." She sifted through to the ends of her hair and felt a weight leave her shoulders.

Clint gathered the rest of her discarded hair and deposited it into the nearby bin. He arched an eyebrow at her before exiting the bathroom. "You coming back to bed?"

"Yeah, I'll be right there." She slid the towel off her shoulders and began rubbing vigorously through her scalp, driving away the invasive memories of the Red Room, the horrors of many a nightmare she too often had to endure.

End of Chapter 7