Red. Natasha was akin to it. Her hair. Her personality. The accents on her uniform. The 'red in her ledger'. Even the blood on her hands. She was no stranger to the color. She favored it most of the time. Except, that is, on the nights when she awoke in a cool sweat, hands shaking and throat tight. The dream of the hospital fire was so vivid that she relived it every time. She 'butt-dialed' Clint on those nights. They both knew she meant to call – each and every time, but he never said otherwise. Thank god for Hawkeye.