[It's a 'rip the band-aid off' situation to be sure. Better deal with the sharp and immediate pain than do it slow and let it linger and fester. She's done enough of that already.
The gentle touch to her temple is a surprise. Shouldn't be perhaps, but she expected he'd touch her hand again. Maybe if she'd braced for it, it would feel a little less intimate. But then again, maybe there's no way for someone slipping into your mind to feel less than intimate.
Except, she doesn't feel much at all. There's the light touch of his fingertips. Something she can't quite put her finger on, and then his hand drops away and they're done.
It doesn't feel big enough for what just happened. Sharing the memory with him was infinitely worse in comparison.
Natasha doesn't know what she expected. Maybe a blankness. A wall. Something cut out. It's neater than all that. She knows she's missing time, between being in the spacecraft with Clint, and waking up in the van with fake blood dripping down her chin and throat. But it doesn't feel like it. It's not a cut as much as a transition. Smooth. No jagged edges.
There are patches of her memory that are locked away from her. Not many. Just enough for her to notice, and they feel like a sore tooth. Something niggling and uncomfortable if she lets herself think about it.
This is different. She knows why it's locked away. Knows the shape of it. The weight of it. Knows it's waiting for her when she needs it. She feels lighter. Like she can finally draw a clean breath again.]
It's gone. [Natasha echoes unknowingly, turning her head to meet his eyes. No tears. No tension around her eyes. No impenetrable blank mask. Just her. Not open by any means, but not closed down tight either.]
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The gentle touch to her temple is a surprise. Shouldn't be perhaps, but she expected he'd touch her hand again. Maybe if she'd braced for it, it would feel a little less intimate. But then again, maybe there's no way for someone slipping into your mind to feel less than intimate.
Except, she doesn't feel much at all. There's the light touch of his fingertips. Something she can't quite put her finger on, and then his hand drops away and they're done.
It doesn't feel big enough for what just happened. Sharing the memory with him was infinitely worse in comparison.
Natasha doesn't know what she expected. Maybe a blankness. A wall. Something cut out. It's neater than all that. She knows she's missing time, between being in the spacecraft with Clint, and waking up in the van with fake blood dripping down her chin and throat. But it doesn't feel like it. It's not a cut as much as a transition. Smooth. No jagged edges.
There are patches of her memory that are locked away from her. Not many. Just enough for her to notice, and they feel like a sore tooth. Something niggling and uncomfortable if she lets herself think about it.
This is different. She knows why it's locked away. Knows the shape of it. The weight of it. Knows it's waiting for her when she needs it. She feels lighter. Like she can finally draw a clean breath again.]
It's gone. [Natasha echoes unknowingly, turning her head to meet his eyes. No tears. No tension around her eyes. No impenetrable blank mask. Just her. Not open by any means, but not closed down tight either.]