natasha x daughter one shots

lovely

warnings: mentions of self harm, suicidal ideation

age : 16

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Y/N's POV

Isn't it lovely? All alone.

Here I am once again, stuck inside an endless trail of thoughts. How'd I even get here? A few months ago, I was fine, I was happy even. And now I'm sat here in my bed, just staring at the ceiling whilst Friends plays quietly in the background. I just need to feel something. Anything. I'm tired of this empty nothingness that consumes me every second of every day.

I can tell my mom is getting concerned about me, she checks on me a lot more frequently than she used to and every time it's the same answer: 'I'm fine.'

I know I'm not fine and that I should probably tell someone, yet any time someone asks if I'm okay, I can't seem to find the words. So, instead I've taken it into my own hands to make myself feel better.

It's not the healthiest way to cope, but feeling that blade slide across my skin makes the thoughts go quiet. Well, at least until the guilt sets in, then the darker thoughts come in. You know, the one's that are all 'why are you even here' or 'no one really cares about you.'

Maybe the thoughts are right. Maybe I shouldn't be here. I've not got much to live for anymore. I have my mama, of course. She's my rock, but sometimes I can't help but wonder if she'd be better off without me. Maybe it would give her more time to focus on work instead of her pathetic daughter.

Slowly, I make my way back to my bathroom. What's coming next isn't gonna be pretty.

NATASHA's POV

I've been worried about Y/N recently. She's definitely not herself. For the past few weeks, all she's done is lay in her bed all day, only leaving when it's mealtimes and even then, she's not talkative. I know she hasn't been doing her school work either, she's home schooled but I've been getting emails from the programme she's with, asking where her work is. Luckily, I've been able to convince them that she's just sick, but I'm not sure how much longer I can keep defending her. I haven't spoken to her about it yet because I can tell she's not up for it. I've tried to figure out what's going on but she just brushes it off every time.

I know if the others were here, they'd be able to see that Y/N is off, too. But since we moved to an apartment instead of living at the Compound, they're not here to help. So I've decided that today is the day. I'm going to talk to my daughter and get some answers so I can help her. I can't stand seeing her like this anymore. Which leads me to now, knocking on her door with the hopes of an answer.

"Y/N?" I ask but don't get a response. "I'm gonna come in, okay?" Again, no reply. I gently push her door open only to see her not in her bed, but then I hear heavy sobs coming from the bathroom. The sound of my daughter crying will never not hurt my heart. I take a deep breath, preparing myself for this conversation, and go to knock on the door with little force, hoping not to startle her. "Y/N/N, sweetheart, what's going on?"

"Nothing, I'm fine," I hear her reply in a quiet voice, sounding rather defensive.

"That's bullshit. I can hear you crying. Honey, please just tell me what's wrong. I can help you," I plead. There's a long silence before I realize that she isn't gonna do this the easy way. I wouldn't ever walk into her bathroom without her permission, usually. But right now my child needs me, even if she can't bring herself to admit that. "I'm gonna come in now, detka," I inform her. I hear a series of 'no's and 'stop's as I slowly push open the bathroom door. I freeze at the sight before me.

There my baby is, sitting in the corner of her bathroom, head in her hands, sobbing her heart out whilst blood is dripping down her arms and onto the pale floor tiles. I mentally kick myself for not realizing sooner. How did I miss this? She only ever wears long sleeves, even when it's over thirty degrees outside.

She must see my worried expression because she starts apologizing profusely.

"Hey," I start and crouch down next to her on the floor, taking in hold her bloody hands. "We don't ever apologize for our emotions, okay? Not ever," I assure her but with a stern tone so she knows I mean it. I don't say anything else, I simply pull her onto my lap and hold her as she cries into my chest. I can tell she's been bottling it up for a while so I figure it's good for her to let it all out. After around twenty minutes of her wails, Y/N finally calms down and speaks up.

"I got blood on your shirt," she says, sounding guilty. I haven't even noticed her blood on me, I've been too worried about her.

"Don't worry about that. It's washable. But right now my priority is you," I say and kiss her cheek. Without a word, I lift her up onto the counter and start looking for things in her bathroom to clean her wounds. I find some antiseptic wipes and some bandages to use, also some steri-strips for the slightly deeper ones.

As I get to work on her arms, I decide that now is a good time to talk about it, whilst I've got her in her most vulnerable state. I gently ask what's been going on and how she's been feeling. My heart shatters at her responses. The fact that she doesn't want to be here anymore, and that harming herself seems to be the only way to make it better. I'm holding in my own tears at this point.

Soon enough, I manage to finish cleaning her up and I carry her back to her bed and lay next to her, bringing her head to my chest knowing that it's always calmed her down. We spend a lot of the evening talking about ways I can help her and she seems pretty open to most of them.