Her dress is bloody, barely scraps of torn material held together. Her skin is bloody, only a fraction of the blood her own. Her hair is bloody, tangled and snarled and appearing to have ensnared a knife. Her stilettos are hanging from her hands, no heels. But bloody.

There was a mission. A diplomatic mission. A mission that wasn't supposed to end in bloodshed.

But it did.

It ended in blood everywhere and no one standing—no one but the bloody Black Widow in an already red cocktail dress.

The Avengers silently track her with their eyes as she trudges across the space, refusing to acknowledge any of them where they are sitting, playing a game of cards.

They know how this mission was supposed to go.

But they also know that their Nat is covered in blood that is most likely not hers.

She leaves a trail of it to her room.

Red drips and smears across the once pristine floor.

Tony can't bring himself to complain or even tell his precious robots to go clean it up.

Natasha Romanoff walks on, not really seeing where she's going, but not really caring, either.

This was her chance at redemption.

Fury had told her that specifically. It was her chance at redemption, she just had to make it through this meeting and come to an agreement with them, no bloodshed.

So, of course, she ended up killing the entire party.

She had been so sure that she could do it. She had gone in there confident and as icy cool as ever, she had kept her head during the worst of the arguments… But then one of them pulled a gun on her, her training reciprocated, and it all evolved into a bloodbath, sprays of red mist everywhere as continuous gunshots rang through the air. Screams, groans, grunts.

Everything she was used to and nothing she was not.

Because at the end of the day, that is what she was made for. She was bred to be a killing machine, a spy, an assassin. She was a diplomat, yes, but every diplomatic mission was tasked with the intent to kill the diplomat you're arguing with.

So why should this one have gone any differently? Through sheer force of will?

A tiny voice inside of her head tells her that maybe it was because she had wanted to change. She had wanted to walk away from that blood, if only for a little while. Maybe because she had actually thought that she could do it, and she was looking forward to it if only for the purpose of proving that she could.

That a Black Widow could complete a mission without hurting a single soul.

Although, she supposes, she did go through without hurting anyone. Her shots were dead on, the receiver of the bullet died instantly. No pain.

So she didn't hurt a single soul. She just killed twenty.

She stops in front of a room. She thinks it's hers.

She reaches out to the doorknob, grasping it in the hand not holding her stilettos and tries to twist it.

Tries again.

And again.

And again.

The still fresh, still slick blood on her hand won't let her turn the doorknob. No matter how hard she tries. Her hand just slips on the metal.

(She doesn't hear Tony's AI's offer to open the door, doesn't hear the Avengers as they jog closer, her hand just twists more and more frantically as she tries to get that door open.)

Soon, she's twisting the metal with a dangerously fervent intent, shoving at the door with the other hand, her bloody, heelless stilettos cast aside.

Then, when the door just won't open she falls heavily against the door. Slides down it.

A smear of crimson blood is left behind.

None of the Avengers remark on it.

(Clint carefully grasps the blood-covered doorknob with his shirt, managing to open the door.)

Natasha doesn't move, simply crumpling inward into her rooms.

Because what's the point? What's the point when she is just a bloody, assassinating, killing machine? She keeps getting chances, but what's the point when she knows that she's going to fail every time?

How many chances can a murderer get when they just keep on murdering?

She doesn't deserve these chances, so why does she keep getting them?

She had her second chance. She had her third, too. And her fourth. And her fifth. And her sixth.

She's had so many chances that she doesn't know exactly how many she's gotten.

All she knows is that she didn't deserve a single one of them.

(She doesn't know that she spoke that last sentence aloud.)

She doesn't deserve her chances, no, not a single one.

(They did understand that sentence, unlike the latter.)

She deserves to die. She deserves to hurt. She deserves to have people do to her exactly what she's done to them.

Except they can't.

Because they're dead.

(She doesn't hear Clint as he tries to convince her otherwise. She doesn't hear when the others chime in.)

She palms the knife covered in the dried blood of the diplomats, a knife that used to be disguised as a stiletto heel.

She deserves to hurt.

Without seeing the Avengers still talking to her, without seeing the blood trail or the room around her, she lifts the knife and plunges it into her forearm.

She revels in the pain. She revels in her blood. She revels in that knowledge that she is hurting like she has made others hurt.

But when she lifts the knife again, a large, warm, calloused hand catches her arm before it can fall.

And this time, she does hear. She does hear as Clint outlines exactly why they need her, as he reminds her of all the good she's done.

In a raspy, scratching voice, she refutes every single claim and offers hundreds of stories of bloodshed and violence.

They sit there. They listen to every single one.

And, when she is finished, they still sit there. They're still there.

They tell her that they know what she's done, now.

She waits for the condemning words, the blows that will undoubtedly follow.

She'll deserve every one.

But they don't come.

Instead, they tell her—in rare agreement—that she'll get more chances. And she'll deserve every one. Because even if she's failing, she's still trying.

And they'll let her have as many chances as it takes until she succeeds.

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