Natasha knew what it was to be haunted by memories that she couldn’t fully grasp. Some were fragments, some were complete implants and not her memories at all, and none of it was easy to deal with. She never really thought about anyone from S.H.I.E.L.D. suffering from the same thing, and she felt her heart go out to Clint.
“Sometimes you don’t need to remember to know it was bad,” she said.
It was always the worst when children were involved. She had been still a child herself when she had first killed, but the blood of children on her hands hadn’t stopped as she’d gotten older. They were always the best incentives, the best statements. Kill a man, it may get noticed; kill a child and the world listened.
Some days the things she had done turned her stomach, but she couldn’t dwell on it or she would be lost. She had to keep moving forward. She could never take back what she had done, but she could try to make sure there were fewer people out there doing the same sort of thing.
“Well, at least with me you don’t have to go that far,” she said, turning her head toward him to place a kiss on his stomach through his shirt. In many ways it was a relief knowing that Clint didn’t want children, as she would hate to think he wanted them but gave it up because she couldn’t have them. In other ways it was sad. She hated his father, hated what the man had done to him and all the trauma that had been left. She knew in her heart that it wasn’t true, that Clint could never be like that, she just knew it, and it saddened her to think that he believed so strongly that he could.
Rolling onto her side, she slipped one arm around between his back and the sofa and buried her face in his stomach. “You are a good man, Clint Barton. One of the best I’ve ever known. Don’t you ever forget that.”
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“Sometimes you don’t need to remember to know it was bad,” she said.
It was always the worst when children were involved. She had been still a child herself when she had first killed, but the blood of children on her hands hadn’t stopped as she’d gotten older. They were always the best incentives, the best statements. Kill a man, it may get noticed; kill a child and the world listened.
Some days the things she had done turned her stomach, but she couldn’t dwell on it or she would be lost. She had to keep moving forward. She could never take back what she had done, but she could try to make sure there were fewer people out there doing the same sort of thing.
“Well, at least with me you don’t have to go that far,” she said, turning her head toward him to place a kiss on his stomach through his shirt. In many ways it was a relief knowing that Clint didn’t want children, as she would hate to think he wanted them but gave it up because she couldn’t have them. In other ways it was sad. She hated his father, hated what the man had done to him and all the trauma that had been left. She knew in her heart that it wasn’t true, that Clint could never be like that, she just knew it, and it saddened her to think that he believed so strongly that he could.
Rolling onto her side, she slipped one arm around between his back and the sofa and buried her face in his stomach. “You are a good man, Clint Barton. One of the best I’ve ever known. Don’t you ever forget that.”