Natasha Romanov. Natalia Alianovna Romanova
Natasha has two lives.
Well, more precisely, she has one that's split cleanly in half.
There is Natasha, and then there is Natalia.
She doesn't define them any further than that. Clearer distinction is not worth the memories.
Her life branches out from those two categories, splits out into smaller, overall less important subcategories, like before S.H.I.E.L.D. and after S.H.I.E.L.D.
Well, maybe there's one category that isn't less important.
She fingers the silver arrow around her throat, smiling softly and almost imperceptibly.
There is but one branch that matters just as much, if not more than Natasha and Natalia.
That branch is before Clint and after.
The archer had changed her life, ripped out her rotten and decayed roots and gave her the chance to grow new ones.
She doesn't remember when she started to trust him, but she doesn't mind, because it's the best thing she's ever done.
Clint gives her a purpose in life, a way to hold onto all that she has now, all that she’s ever had.
She remembers the past, remembers, vaguely, a fire, in Stalingrad, the shatter of glass and a weightless flight through the air, remembers warm arms and a soothing voice. She remembers Ivan, remembers a few years of care and warmth, of flowing music and pointe shoes, a life of pale, soothing pastels, before everything goes blood red.
She remembers metal and guns and death, remembers pain, blood, agony. There is the pain of the Black Widow serum, the pain of training. She remembers, vaguely, a red star, a shining metallic arm pushing her to the very limits of her physical and mental abilities.
And although she can’t remember it, she knows they wiped her memories, brainwashed the emotion from her very soul, her very heart.
It’s been ages since she’d shown her emotions, even though she’d slowly regained the ability to feel over the years. But it’s getting easier, less of a conscious effort now.
But she’ll never forget the red, the blood on her hands, screams echoing in her ears and reverberating through her chest and body, pleas and cries and the crunch of bone and squelch of blood.
If there’s one thing Loki was ever right about, it’s her ledger. It’s dripping, it’s gushing red. She’s never going to get it out, no matter what she does.
But maybe it’s not about that anymore. Maybe she’s not an Avenger because she wants to compensate. Maybe she likes helping people, maybe she revels in the ability to fight for good, the chance to be trusted.
Maybe that’s all she’s ever needed.
Maybe, it’s all she ever wanted.