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Natasha Romanoff.
Natalia Romanov.
Natalie Rushman.
Black Widow.
It didn’t matter what mask she was wearing.
Whether it was those ones or one of the dozens of others she had created over the years.
There would always be blood on her hands.
Maybe that is why God gave her red hair.
To reflect the amount of blood she would spill.
Some days she hated herself.
But she refused to dwell on it.
She had a job to do after all.
Trigger after trigger pulled.
Blood splattering walls, floors, windows, any and all surfaces really.
She liked to think it no longer affected her.
That wasn’t true though.
She was nothing more than a killer.
That was all she was raised to be.
The red in her ledger was something that could never be wiped out.
No matter how much she pretended to be a mighty hero.
Why the Avengers chose to keep her around was beyond her.
They were all so good.
And she was just a spy and assassin.
Someone with so much blood on her hands that it was crusted under her nails.
Quite literally sometimes.
More blood for a ledger already dripping in the stuff.
Kids looked up to her.
Something no one should ever do.
Let alone a kid.
If they wanted a hero they should choose Steve.
Or hell even Tony would be better than her and he’s a suicidal, egotistical, billionare.
At least he didn’t pretend to be someone he wasn’t.
All she had were masks upon masks.
Lies upon lies.
Blood upon blood.
Enough ghosts to fill a graveyard.
Which is why she couldn’t let Clint sacrifice himself.
She knew no sacrifice she made would ever wipe her slate clean.
There was just too much blood.
But maybe- just maybe, if she could save the first person to ever save her, she could wipe out some of that blood.
They sparred.
Both trying to save the other.
But Natasha couldn’t let him win.
He had already saved her once.
It was about time she repaid the favor.
She tackled him as he jumped.
Firing one of her grappling hooks and attaching it to him.
Ensuring he couldn’t die.
Then the bastard had the audacity to catch her.
“Damn you!”
She smiled sadly as she watched her oldest and best friend struggle to try and save her.
“Let me go.”
“No please don’t!”
In the same voice she would use to comfort a scared child she whispered.
“It’s okay.”
Then she kicked off the cliff face, forcing her hand to slip from Clints.
The last person’s blood Natasha Romanoff would ever spill would be her own.