A couple notes about this one: I myself am not trans* so please, please tell me if I got this wrong/did something problematic. There's also definitely an argument to be made against taking canonical ladies, especially in canons like this one with very few canonical ladies, and making them not ladies. I personally have decided that making him trans* instead of just applying Rule 63 counteracts some of those problems, because I'm still writing about a group of people who are seriously underrepresented, but I'm totally open to counterarguments. I'd really appreciate it if they were phrased respectfully, but I am not the tone police and I will not take your opinions less seriously if you end up shouting at me.
The Avengers and The Black Widow are the property of Marvel Comics.
He calls himself Nat. Nat Romanoff, Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. Nat Romanoff, assassin, spy, traitor, deadly with any gun ever invented. Nat Romanoff, owed a partial debt by the world and with so much red in his ledger that a thousand thwarted alien invasions wouldn't clear it up. Nat Romanoff, with breasts to die for and a trail of men who've done exactly that.
He doesn't own much that doesn't directly relate to his job. The guns are well cared for and maintained out of practicality (don't get attached, never get attached, attached gets you killed) and the wardrobe of tiny dresses and towering heels are kept free of moths and inspected for tears for the same reason. What he does own he bought himself and keeps hidden in the false drawer not even Clint knows about. There's a tie, skinny and made of silk so fine his calloused fingers can barely feel it, and a pair of custom-fitted dress shoes he spent three months salary to buy. A useless expense, really, since he never has occasion to wear them out of his room.
He gives his covers feminine names and dresses them to match. He goes undercover as Natalie, as Isabelle, as Sophia, wearing tight black dresses and ankle-breaking heels. He paints makeup over their faces to accentuate their features, mixing his powders like an artist does paints. They wear fishnet tights and flirt with their targets, accept frilly drinks and bat their eyes coyly at improper advances. Nat keeps himself back, boxing himself up and shoving himself into the back of his mind to better live the cover (be as stone, let nothing in, you were not made to feel). The Black Widow flaunts her curves, bats her eyelashes, and enjoys the heady rush of power that comes with reducing a grown man to babbling nonsense. She can kill a man with her thighs while wearing a strapless dress and six-inch heels, and she can do it without smudging her makeup. When the assignment is done she methodically strips out of the clothes, out of the cover, and lets Nat back out to survey what he's done.
When he was younger the come-down would make him sick. He would throw up everything in his stomach and stay bent over the toilet or the ditch or the filthy corner, eyes closed and chest heaving. With age and experience he channels the turmoil into anger, locking himself in a practice room until his knuckles bleed and his feet ache and his throat is raw. Everyone knows not to disturb the Black Widow after a mission; no one realizes that every punch is aimed at a pronoun, every kick at a wolf-whistle, every superhuman feat of acrobatics at the very body performing the acts.
He wonders, when it's late at night and he's not too tired to think and Clint's away somewhere, what he's scared of. The Black Widow fears nothing but Nat, Nat's scared. He hates to say he's scared of rejection (everyone leaves, you are not worthy of loyalty, attachment gets you killed) so he says he doesn't want to deal with the questions. That's not a total lie, not really. All lies have a grain of truth, and he's never been patient with people asking questions. He keeps the others at a distance, holding them at arm's length and masking his separation with cutting comments and withering looks – he and the Black Widow have a shared repertoire of ways to dissuade unwanted persistence. When their closeness becomes too much he retreats and spars himself bloody against a helpless dummy, letting instinct take over and tucking Nat into a box in the corner of his mind. Sometimes, when someone makes a joke about his code name or right after Clint's made the kind of tasteless comment only he can get away with, he wonders why he doesn't just leave. He's got the skills to survive anywhere and he's repaid the debt he owes to S.H.I.E.L.D. several times over. But he's got red in his ledger and a never-ending stream of people who'll never breathe again because of him and a partner who makes him feel almost human. He inspires a generation of women to find their courage, to pursue their dreams. It's not enough, but nothing ever will be. He stays. He lies. He perseveres. He survives.
(you can play any part, minds exist to be molded, you will do whatever is necessary to carry out the mission)