Natasha stares at the blade held in her hand. It's held confidently, the cool grip a familiar friend. This blade has taken many lives. It's only fit that it should take hers, too.
She looks around, ensuring that everything is in place. The letters on her desk, the lock on the door, the blade held steadily in her hand. Why would her aim waver and shake now? It's been steady for so many years, it'll remain steady for its final seconds.
Because Natalia Alianovna "Natasha Romanoff" Romanova, the Black Widow, the Avenger, is tired. She is tired of it all—no. She is exhausted. She is exhausted of keeping her mask up every hour, every minute, every second of every day. She is exhausted of being a robot. She is exhausted of pretending that she doesn't care, that she doesn't have a single feeling beyond her icy calm exterior.
She. Is. Tired.
And she just wants to sleep. To make it all end. Because maybe, just maybe, once she is gone, no more people will hurt because of her. No more people will die because of her.
Natasha Romanoff will cease to be a threat to the world and its occupants. Now, in what is to be her final moments, the only threat she poses is to herself.
How fitting.
Raising the blade once more, she slowly brings it down on the flesh of her arm. The metal slices through her like a hot knife through soft butter. Red wells up. Drips down.
She raises the knife again.
Creates another slice, another cut.
And another.
And another.
She could easily make this end quickly, make the knife fall once and never rise again in her hand, but she thinks—she knows that she deserves to bleed. Maybe her pain, her blood, it will wash away the stains and caked blood that coat her hands. Maybe it'll lessen the burden. Maybe her suffering will help wipe clean the mountains of suffering she has caused.
She's not delusional, though. She knows she'll never be able to look the devil in the eye and tell him she doesn't deserve to be in hell—she doesn't want to. She could probably trick the devil, end up in heaven or ruling hell...
But she doesn't want to. She wants to suffer. Wants to atone. Wants to submit to the pain and let her head fall beneath the waves. Wants to have no more responsibilities, no more choices.
Because her choices always, always end in death. She doesn't want to cause any more death.
Blood. Such an interesting thing.
A watery liquid the color of the most vibrant of rubies, yet somehow infinitely more precious. You can take blood, spill blood, pass blood on, you can share blood, give blood, drain out blood. But everyone wants blood. Their blood, others' blood, both...
It forms a pool around her and she closes her eyes, not wanting to see ghosts or her life flash in front of them.
(She doesn't know that the next time she opens them, she'll be lying on a hospital bed, surrounded by sleep-deprived and distraught Avengers.)
She finds her peace, finally, alone and slipping into a deep, deep sleep that will cure her tiredness. Perhaps not on all days, but most.
(She doesn't know that Steve is walking down the hall, coming to ask her if she wants to join their movie night.)
She is ready. Ready for an eternity of pain and suffering, because she deserves it.
(Later, when she'll tell Clint this, he'll wrap her up in his arms and hold her tight, refusing to let go. Reminded of how close he came to losing his Natasha, his best friend.)
There is nothing left for her in this world, no path that doesn't lead to her survival at the cost of others.
(When she wakes up, this is what she tells them after learning that they saved her just in time. Natasha, unbreakable Natasha, will rage and cry and tell them they should've left her for dead. The rest of them, well, they'll rage and cry and tell her that they couldn't have kept going without her. Their Nat.)
She is tired. So, so, so tired.
She just wants to sleep.
So she lets go completely, loosening her tight grasp on life, letting years and days and could've-would've-should've beens slip through her fingers.
She doesn't hear the pounding on the door, doesn't see her teammates striken and pale faces as they shout for her to wake up, come back. She doesn't feel anything, except for the tiredness slowly slipping away, along with her life. Her blood.
She doesn't feel. Doesn't see, doesn't hear.
But she will.
She will, when she wakes up and sees them with her. She will, although she'll pretend sometimes that she doesn't. She will, even though some days she'll still be tired.
One day, there will be parting words for the notorious but awe-inspiring Black Widow. But not today. Not today.
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