A/N: This is a mix of a comic strip I saw on Tumblr, my own ideas, and Serena Bancroft's story "White" This is NOT a collaboration I am simply using her version of Natasha's back story and adding my own twist to it. This is a Romanogers fic, and it is an established relationship in case anyone is wondering
*Red Wolf is not mine. All character credit goes to Serena Bancroft*
*The art cover is mine, it can be found on my Tumblr (OTPTillTheEndEdits.)*
"We bury things so deep we no longer remember there was anything to bury. Our bodies remember. Our neurotic states remember. But we don't."- Jeanette Winterson
The room was overly bright as the sun streamed in through the curtain-less windows, the door closed behind the red head and echoed throughout the loft. Despite it being fully furnished it didn't feel like home to Natasha. Putting her keys in her pocket she walked towards her closet, mentally going through a list of things she would need. As she packed the suite case she let out a humorless chuckle. It seemed like she was moving in with him. Natasha Romanoff moving in with someone that just sounded ridiculous. Looking up from her folding, her green eyes caught something on the couch. What was it? Maybe one of the many reporters had finally broken in? But the lock was intact. Maybe someone picked the lock? That made her drop the blouse that was in her hand and walk over to the couch. Her heart stopped as she finally saw what it was. Lying on the couch was a single black rose, beneath it sat a crisp white envelope. Her throat closed up as her fingers wrapped around the stem, picking it up her green eyes studied every petal as her mind struggled with the memory.
We have no place in this world…
The hand that reaches for her faces pushes her down onto the gurney.
Cold gloved hands.
Pain. Pain is all she can feel.
She gasps, the rose slipping from her fingers, blinking back the memory she reaches down grabbing the envelope. Widow is all that's written on the front in red ink. Pulling out the card she opened it. The ink was clearly different from the one on the front of the envelope, the ink on the inside looked more like blood than ink.
Do you remember any of the people you've killed? What about Alisa Katayev? Or as you remember her Red Wolf.
It wasn't signed, but whoever it was knew intimate details about her. Details that were not in her file, details that had not been released onto the internet. Swallowing hard she let the card fall onto the hardwood floor. Walking back to her room she grabbed a black duffel back and started filling it with guns, ammo, Widow Bites, her Widow Lines, her extra suite and a few articles of clothing.
The loft was supposed to be a safe house. Thus nothing was personal. Having personal items meant you got attached. And she could not get attached. Emotions are a weakness, Widow. You cannot be weak. Her footsteps echoed slightly as she opened the door, letting it slam shut. Natasha didn't bother to locking it, she wouldn't be back. There was no evidence as to who lived there; the less evidence there was the easier it would be to lie about it. Making her way back to her corvette she threw the bag into the passenger side before getting in and starting the car.
"Damn it." She mumbled to herself as she looked at her phone. Two missed calls and three texts. Steve. She had said she would only take an hour, that hour had turned into two hours. Great. Now pretending she was ok was necessary. The Widow was the best when it came to facades. At least she hopped she still was.
To Be Continued . . .