She'd been on the live end of a weapon too many times to count. Bows and arrows, knives, guns, fists and the occasional medieval pike all blurred together.
Her recollection of her kill count was perfect, however, etched in her mind like a scar. Over the years, practice and a few close encounters had perfected her technique - she had knives and her Widows' bite at her disposal, of course, but Natasha Romanoff preferred guns.
Guns could be used for a shot of precision, or the spray-and-pray usually adopted by the army. Natasha liked a single shot better; less of a mess with only one bullet casing clinking its' way to the floor by her feet.
Guns were better, because unlike knives, you didn't need to feel your target die. She was all about precision, a sense of control, and they gave her that like nothing else could. There were too many variables otherwise.
Clint enjoyed his bow despite the countless issues that Natasha had with that kind of weapon, and he hadn't hesitated to call her approach to eliminating a target "lazy" in one of their many arguments. Despite all of this, Natasha had helped him develop better arrows, fletchings and recurves that wouldn't snap off in the heat of a battle, because neither of them knew how many times they'd find themselves in the middle of one. She had a ledger to wipe clean, after all, and she rationalized that helping with the tech in her own way would ease her debt to him.
Like his weapon of choice, Clint Barton had been a variable of his own in the first months and years that they'd known each other. Weapons and objects were easier to deal with than people; they had a limited number of variants and could usually be traced back to a factory or place within an hour or so.
People, however, were less reliable. But after years of training and fighting alongside Clint, she allowed herself to place him under the "known" category. She knew what he liked to eat, depending on the day. She knew his favourite places were high up and usually padded with cushions he'd stolen from Tony Stark's many couches.
Even Fury and Steve were becoming more predictable. Natasha knew she'd never entirely trust Fury; he had allowed her into SHIELD and given her a place to stay, but he was still an authority figure and she had issues with those.
Steve, however, was becoming a fast friend. He was a boy scout in all the senses of the word. He was slowly losing his rose-coloured glasses, but he was honest, optimistic and had proved time and time again to be her conscience. He had her back.
Among all these people, there was one person who was a constant thorn in her side. Any other problem like this, Natasha had analyzed and broken down like an old cardboard box. It was effective and efficient and suited her just fine.
The Winter Soldier refused to be analyzed.
It infuriated her to no end.