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yesimwriting · 2 years

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A Red Widow

a/n i’ve been teasing this fic for like a year oops, decided that if i kept coddling it it’d never get done so with very cursory editing i snapped and decided to post it, i could give it a part 2 as it was originally going to be longer but i decided that my original idea was too long for a one-shot

i’m scared to post this, part of the reason i didn’t want to post it is bc i felt too close to it,, throwing it out like a grenade and then logging off for the night

Summary: former black widow reader and matt, what can i say,, this is all about trauma lmao

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y/n’s POV

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Before the blip. Tangier, Morocco.

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Nothing is enough to distract me from my goal, my mission. Not even the irritating humidity and the way it makes my suit cling to my skin. I’m going to need Yelena’s help pealing out of this suit when this all over.

“The target is passing.” Yelena’s voice rings through my ear piece, snapping me out of my thoughts. I adjust my grip on my weapon as I press my body further into the corner of the roof. “Are you in position, младенец вдова?”

Leaning forward, I frown at the nickname. “Baby widow? Seriously? I think I’m old enough for us to retire that nickname.”

“You don’t like малиновый цвет either.”

The nickname is almost enough to make me move from my position. Even though my black stealth suit completely covers my arms, the red scar that exists on the back of my left wrist begs for my attention. The mark has been there for practically as long as I can remember, and is the reason Yelena often tries calling me crimson.

I roll my eyes, leaning forward as the sound of footsteps echo around me. My mark is almost here. “I’m in position.” My finger is poised on the trigger. “They’re almost in my line of--”

My back hits the gravel of the roof so quickly I can’t even register how it happened. My rifle lands a few feet behind me and my assailant is standing over me. Great--our target has friends.

For support, I press my hands into the gravel. Creating momentum, I push myself upwards with all the strength in my body. My legs strike my attacker and I land in a crouched position. The person that attacked me is surprised, but not ruined. He lunges for me. I duck and strike the way I’ve been trained to. The attacker is persistent and I don’t have time for this. If I miss my mark...

No. I won’t. I let my assailant attempt to grab me. Instead, I latch onto his wrist, yanking him forward. I rotate his arm with all my strength, not stopping until I hear the sound of bone cracking. He winces and swings at me with his good arm. I kick him in the ribs. He stumbles.

“Y/n?”

Yelena. Has our target already passed? “Give me a second.”

“Do you need backup?”

The man kicks his leg forward, almost knocking me off balance. I spin, dragging him down by pulling on his broken arm. He lets out a low sound as he tries to use his size to his advantage. The man towers over me, so when he throws his weight at my center, I stumble slightly. He takes advantage, swinging his leg around my foreleg.

I fall onto my back. The man places his foot on my chest. Twisting to get on my side, I slam my heel into the back of his knee. The man’s leg buckles. With my other leg, I kick him down. I jump upwards before checking to see where he’s landed. I run towards my rifle, raising it on my shoulder the second my hand is on the cold metal. I can’t shoot my attacker because the noise could alert my target.

The stranger must know that because the moment he’s on his feet, he lunges towards me. I dodge at the last second, slamming part of my rifle into his temple. He grabs the end of the weapon, jabbing my rib with it in a way that makes me want to double over in pain. The man then throws the weapon behind him. I angle myself to the left, reaching for his broken arm. The man tries to punch me again, but I duck, moving one arm upwards. I wrap my arm around his neck and place a hand beneath his jaw. He tries one last kick of his legs, but it’s already over. I turn his head to the left as sharply as possible, snapping his neck.

He slumps, his legs going slack. I release him, letting his body fall limp onto the concrete. I run towards the rifle and get back to my position in record time. “I’m my own backup.”

“No, you’re ridiculous.”

Rolling my eyes again, I find my target in my scope. Taking a deep breath, I pull the trigger. And like always, my bullet finds my target perfectly. “The target is neutralized.”

“Alright, now come to the rendev--” My legs give out as pain rips through my body. My rifle falls as a pathetic sound falls from my lips. “Y/n?”

I’ve been shot. I crawl across the roof, ignoring the insatiable burning in my shoulder. Once I’m behind the apex of the roof, I slump against its wall. A shaky hand reaches forward, grazing where the pain is at its worst. My fingers come back bloody.

Yelena. I have to warn Yelena. “They have--they have people.”

“Did something happen?” My throat feels so dry and my limbs have become so heavy. “Y//n? Where are you?”

This wound puts me out of commission. My body knows what needs to be done. “Don’t come.”

My hand moves without me telling it to. I reach into the compartment on the thigh of my suit, pulling out a knife. My hand begins to move up, towards my throat. The edge of my blade presses into the side of my neck. I close my eyes, letting my hand fall prey to instinct.

Something strong clamps around my wrist. My eyes open in frustration as I try to free my arm. “No. Y/n, don’t do this. You’re fine--you’re going to be fine.” Yelena’s grip on me is insatiable, but my instinct is stronger. I continue to struggle against her. “Y/n, you’re not stronger than me.”

Pain rips through my shoulder as I try to hit her with my free arm. She catches the punch effortlessly. “Y/n, y/n, please.”

Everything in me wants to listen to her. I always want to listen to her. But I can’t. My body won’t let me. My leg kicks outwards in hopes of knocking her off of me. Yelena is faster than me, she always has been. She turns her leg and forces me to the ground in one move.

Yelena pins me down, ignoring the way that I struggle. My body won’t stop until the self termination protocol is completed. I kick her in the stomach. Yelena frowns, shifting so that she can pin down my leg. I take that as an opportunity to strike her forearm. The hand that’s still clinging to my knife twists in Yelena’s grasp. I blindly jab it in Yelena’s direction. She grabs my forearm and presses it into the ground with all her strength.

“Trained you a little too well.” She sighs as I continue to struggle against her. Yelena frowns, eyeing my wounded shoulder. “I’m sorry about this.”

She moves, placing one hand on the injury. I grit my teeth to prevent myself from screaming out in pain. Yelena then leans over, reaching for a case I’ve never seen. I continue to struggle despite the burning of my shoulder. My body is listening to a source outside of myself. Yelena holds a vile of something red above me.

I take a deep breath, relaxing for a moment before pulling my legs upwards. I push myself upwards with all my strength, knocking Yelena off of me. I run a few feet away from her, holding knife back up to my neck. Yelena is on me in a second, forcing me to turn around by grabbing my injured shoulder. I thrust my knife forward, cutting into Yelena’s arm. She lets out a pained noise and my stomach knots, but this is beyond me. I’m injured, my termination protocol is in motion. Yelena tries to kick my legs out beneath me and I try to twist her injured arm. She turns, grabbing my hurt arm and using it to give her the momentum she needs to flip me onto my back.

Yelena places a foot on my chest and cracks something over my head. I bend my arm, attempting to cut my neck again. Red powder floats in the air, falling over me as my blade reaches my skin. The powder dissipates and I have the will to let my arm fall slack.

What just happened? I-I fought Yelena. I cut her--I hurt her because she didn’t want me to hurt myself. As I lie there panting, Yelena removes the foot from my chest. She takes the knife from my weakly curled fingers. I let her. She wordlessly bends down, grabbing my leg and turning my thigh outwards. I wince when I feel the sting of the blade cutting through my skin. Yelena touches the wound and a moment later, she holds something out in front of me.

“Tracker.” I blink dumbly, sitting up slowly. What just happened? At least I’m with Yelena, and I trust her with all that I am. “You want to know what just happened?” She lets out a breath, casually moving to sit crosslegged right in front of me. “You want to know why your self termination protocol stopped before you hurt yourself?” I nod. “That red powder--it freed you from the control of the red room.” No. That has to be some kind of joke or fluke. That’s impossible. “Now, come on.”

“Where are we going?”

“We need to send a package to Natasha.”

Natasha. Our Natasha.

----

Hell’s Kitchen, New York.

Present day.

Post Blip.

----

The strangest part of life is the way that things change. Whether you want them to or not, whether you hold onto the past with all your strength or you attempt to push it away with all you have, you are not in control of that change. Things change by their own will, or by the will of the universe, I guess.

I think about this every time I do this. The widow uniform still fits, even after all these years. Don’t do this. It’s not your responsibility. My hands feel fragile as I adjust my braided ponytail. Braiding my own hair before going out like this feels wrong. It reminds me of how much has changed.

Natasha. Yelena. I haven’t seen them since the blip. I haven’t heard from them since the blip. I’m not sure I want to hear from Yelena again, but it would be a relief to know that she’s alive. And Natasha--I’d do anything to make her proud. Five years. For five years she made sure I had a safe place to sleep and that I always had enough to eat. She made me believe I could do anything. Natasha got me the paperwork I needed to start over as a normal person. She made Tony create school transcripts so that I could go to college and do something with my life.

Don’t think about this now. You can think about it after.

Turning from the mirror, I pace away from my bedroom mirror and approach the fire escape window. Taking a last look around my room, I sigh, pulling my mask over my face again. Another thing that’s different. When I was a widow, there were rarely masks. We knew we wouldn’t be seen by anyone that would survive and we had no other identities. Now, though, I have another version of myself to keep separate from this.

I shut the window behind me before throwing myself over the railing of my fire escape. I let myself drop two floors before swinging onto a lower level of the fire escape. Here, I can better make out the people beneath me. They walk around, happy to be lost in their own world. But things aren’t safe here, that’s part of the appeal of living in the city. I can try to be the kind of person Natasha would be proud of. Like that can make up for what you said to her before she left.

Sighing, I push down the negative thoughts like the poison they are. One day I’ll be reunited with Natasha, and she’ll see that I did good things, and she’ll be proud of me. And she’ll forgive me.

I jump down another floor. And then another. Soon enough, I’m on the sidewalk. There aren’t a bunch of people out at this hour, which I guess is a good thing. I walk down the streets, disappearing into an alley that I’ve stopped crimes in before.

Pulling myself onto a closed dumpster, I use it as a starting point to make it easier to throw my body onto the ladder of this building’s fire escape. I make my way upwards. I don’t stop until I’m high enough to blend into the night. To observe without being seen.

Someone’s approaching the alley. I hold my position, crouching a little further into the shadows. The person is alone, and walking with methodical patience. “I know you’re here.” My fingers ghost the pocket of my suit, preparing to pull out a throwing knife at a moment’s notice. “You’re not going to make me guess, are you?”

I swallow once, my body tensing even though I know no threat is near. I’ve run into this self-thought vigilante a number of times. I’m not exactly in the business of working with others, but I can’t exactly pretend to be unaware of the other masked person fighting in the same alleyways as me. It’s like sharing an office space, except our paperwork is crimefighting and instead of small talk he grills me about my intentions.

“Not behind the dumpster, because you like the arial advantage.” It wouldn’t be a big deal to respond. Some of our interactions have bordered on friendly, or as friendly as one can be to a stranger they only know through vigilante activities. “Not on the left fire escape because that’s still a residential building and you like to keep away from civilians.” I’m not in the mood for interactions tonight. The days have been harder than normal, and I don’t trust myself to be the person I want to be. I can feel myself being pulled somewhere dark, and the less people that witness that the better. “You’re on the fire escape of the building to the right of me.” He walks forward until he’s right beneath me. “I know you’re above me.”

Rolling my eyes, I grip the railing a little tighter, and not out of fear of losing balance. “I’m not in the mood for company tonight.” I’m being much shorter than usual, which is a fact he’ll pick up on. I need to add something lighthearted so that I can get left alone a little faster. “This is Hell’s Kitchen, I’m pretty sure you can find another alley to virtuously lurk in.”

“Virtuously lurk?” Normally, I’d make fun of him for making fun of me. Tonight isn’t normal. Not after what happened this morning. The flash back came out of nowhere and still lingers in me, a phantom desperate to take form. “You don’t want company, but what about a job?”

“You pay now?”

He tilts his head upwards, the corner of his lips turning upwards slightly. “It’s more of a community service opportunity. Which is, as I understand it, why you do what you do, Crimson Widow.” There’s something about the way he says my alter ego name, like there’s a joke he knows about that I don’t. “This involves teenage girls. Hurt and scared teenage girls, they won’t respond well to a man that seems violent, and they won’t be trusting.”

Hurt and scared teenage girls that don’t trust men. Guilt prods at that thing in my stomach that’s always asking: what would Natasha want me to do? I sigh, standing so that I can drop down. Before I know it, I’m on the top of the dumpster just like I was in the beginning. I slide off of it easily, landing right in front of the devil himself.

“I was right.”

He’s feeling easy going tonight. Or maybe he just feels the need to compensate for my unusual dryness. “Aren’t you always?”

“That doesn’t mean I can’t celebrate my victories.”

I roll my eyes. “That’s a particular mind set.” Crossing my arms in front of me, I watch him cautiously. Just because he’s given me no reason to be wary of him doesn’t mean I’m letting my guard down. “That paired with the way you analyze things makes me wonder...does your day job involve you being a detective or something?”

He almost smiles, or at least I think he almost smiles. “Or something.”

I inhale, dismissing the partial kinship that something in me is desperate to cling to. “You said something about teenage girls in trouble?”

“Does that mean you’re trusting me?”

That word seems to be everywhere. “It means...you said something and I’m saying something in response to that. Which is how all conversations work, so I guess it just means that we’re having a conversation.” He’s quiet, but something about his body language tells me that my sarcasm isn’t as off putting as it should be. At moments like this, I find myself wishing that I could see his face. The fact that I care in any capacity makes me a little more wary of his presence. “You are aware that if this is some kind of trap, I’m capable of crushing your windpipe so quickly you won’t even have time to realize you’re suffocating let alone time to stop me, right?”

The corner of his mouth turns upwards. “You’re that sure you could take me?”

His voice is lower than it was earlier, more assured. I hold my ground, angling my chin upwards. I nod once, desperate and unwilling to break eye contact. “I’ve taken on scarier things.”

“So will you help?”

The less involved I am with other people when I’m this version of myself, the better. But there are children, little girls who are suffering in ways similar to the way I did. “As long as that’s the only question you ask me.”

I’m not sure if I like the fact that my tension doesn’t dissipate as we walk together. I should be content that the walls I’m building are standing, but I can’t quite bring myself to feel relieved by the silence. Walking without speaking, preparing for a secret fight in the night. It’s too familiar. Too close to what it was like to be a widow.

Daredevil turns with no warning. A part of me wants to ask questions. To ask how he knows about these types of situations and what made him think to ask me for help. His claim was logical, young girls in these situations won’t exactly want to trust him. They’re going to see his capacity for violence and they’ll already be wary of men. They’re likely to see my violence, too, but they’ll be more likely to listen to me. And I’ll know how to approach them. But does he have reason to believe that I’ve had experience with this kind of thing?

The longer we walk, the more unnerved I feel. It’s not the situation--though I am at a tactful disadvantage, considering I’m following a man I don’t know that well blindly--but the lack of...I don’t know. Natasha. Her absence, her unexplained silence, it’s starting to suffocate me. Could she still be mad about our fight? And Yelena--I sent her away. I told her I don’t want to see her, and I don’t, not after what she did to me. But that doesn’t mean my heart knows to let her go.

Five years. They could have disappeared with half of the universe. They could be back now, feeling completely displaced. Yelena freed me so that I could do what I want. Natasha helped me find a place in the modern world. Would this disappoint them? I’m trying to do something good--I’m trying to fight for the good, but would this disappoint them?

I’m still wearing the widow suit. I’m still staining my hands with blood. I’ve yet to consciously kill, and I’m not even sure if I’m okay with that. To take a life by choice, is that really so much different from killing because of Dreykov?

Something hard strikes the back of my legs. I stumble back, just barely managing to regain my momentum to turn my fall into a kick. My assailant is thrown off, but they recover quickly, moving to punch me. I catch their fist, twisting their arm until I hear something pop. I then flip them onto their back, the way I’ve done hundreds of other times.

I turn around. Daredevil is fighting off another attacker. He throws the man off of him and into a shipping container. The man is preparing to charge, I grab his arm before he can get more than a few steps away. He tries dismissing me by delivering a swift kick to my ribs. Yelena’s kicked me harder than that in training--this man is weak. I twist his arm, forcing him to bend down enough for me to deliver a swift kick to his chest. The man lunges for my leg, I twist before he can grab me, using the momentum to flip him onto his back.

“You’re welcome.”

“I was fine.”

“Tell that to your bloody no--” I’m forced onto the ground at a speed so fast my instincts don’t register the fact that someone touched me, let alone threw me. The explosive sound of a gunshot cuts through the air. A bullet hits the spot where I was just standing.

The bullet came from above the nearest shipping container. How did I not notice the other person’s presence before Daredevil? And more importantly--how did he move fast enough to tackle me before I could notice? Living a relatively normal life must be weakening me.

I inhale as calmly as possible, the last thing he needs to know is how much he’s surprised me. It’s been a long time since someone overpowered me. That’s a fact I wish I could keep secret, but something about the way he’s still on me, hands keeping my wrists pinned above my head, tells me he must know. His body is pressed against mine, steady and hard in case instinct takes over my senses.

“How--” One of his hands moves down in order to cover the lower side of my face. It takes him a moment to truly cover my mouth.

It’s clear that he wants me to be quiet. I get it, the person with the gun is still above us. They have the advantage I rely on most--arial. The seconds pass us in pure silence. He doesn’t move. I focus on the sounds around us instead of the feeling of his weight and the warmth of his body on me. Or at the very least, I’m trying to.

When two full minutes pass, and there is only silence, I realize that the only way we’re going to be productive is by devising some kind of plan. I gesture with a nod of my head that he should shift off of me. Daredevil doesn’t react. I try being a little less subtle, but he doesn’t move until I turn my head. Which is something he can feel because of where his hand is placed.

Wait...

Daredevil’s hand moves off of my face. I stay silent, shifting my free hand forward. He doesn’t react until my hand is near his face. He moves to catch my wrist and I let him. I don’t--I don’t think he can see. How did I not notice that before? How can he do all the things he does without being able to see anything?

After a moment, he releases my hand. I move slowly, as unthreateningly as possible. And then I grab his shoulder, squeezing it once. He takes the hint, shifting off of me as quietly as possible. Okay--our silent understanding is a good first step.

I keep my hand on his arm as I sit up. Our target is above us. I need to level the playing field. Squeezing his arm once more to signal that I’m about to move, I push myself into a standing position. Creeping forward, I make it to the side of one of the shipping containers. Without making a noise, I climb onto the lowest shipping container. I swing my body upwards, climbing until I’m right below the shipping container that the gunshot came from.

Crouching down, I let my vision adjust to the darkness. I can see the outline of someone large, a rifle hoisted onto their shoulder. In true spider fashion, I pull myself onto the same shipping container. They remain unaware of me, just like I planned. I grab the man by his forearm, throwing him back.

He panics, his fingers searching for the trigger of his rifle. One kick to his stomach and that’s no longer an option. The man loosens his grip on the rifle, I lunge for it. My assailant grabs my shoulder, rotating my arm at an unnatural angle. He tries flipping me, but I’m faster, hooking a leg behind his knee. He stumbles, adjusts his hold on his rifle, and slams the base of it against my head. I won’t let the pain stop me. I grab the weapon, yanking it forward to the man’s surprise. I push it back, forcing him to stumble. My leg comes out, sweeping forward and forcing the man to fall off of the container.

I’m still holding his rifle. I haven’t touched a gun since...well, since Natasha thought shooting practice would be a good way to get me to open up to her again. It worked in the moment, but holding this feels so much different. It’s similar to the types of weapons the widows used. The part of me that’s better wants to throw the weapon as far as possible. To have it away from me.

But the part of me that’s all muscle memory, the part of me that will always be hardwired for violence knows what letting go of the weapon would mean. The second you let go of a gun, you’re inviting someone to use it on you.

“Still up there?”

My hand ghosts the weapon, my finger inclines towards the trigger. I want it gone. I want this rifle in the ocean. Footsteps appear out of nowhere. In a single motion, I turn and expertly hoist the rifle onto my shoulder. My finger finds the trigger with the ease of the trained killer that I am.

Daredevil raises his hands, open and clear. “Just me.” My mind blurs the words into memories of the past. Time looses its linear quality. Before, after. Now, then. Am I really safe here? Is this now or then?

“It’s okay.” His voice is steady. Assured and solid. “You can set the gun down, Crimson.” The nickname is familiar, but not in the way the rest of this situation is. I inhale, fingers unwilling to let go of the weapon. “Just set it down.”

I don’t know why, but I trust him. Swallowing once, I find the strength to ease my pointer finger off of the trigger. I take a step forward, lifting the gun off of my shoulder. Something in the distance bangs. I don’t know what it is, but I know that it’s the sound of violence. A high pitched scream echoes around me. I turn on instinct, adjusting the weapon back into place. I find the trigger with no effort.

“Don’t.” My body is running on something else. Pure instinct and adrenaline rush through my body as I pull the trigger.

Daredevil is fast, but it’s already over. I shot the gun. He tries to tackle me, and i’m still lost to that bad part of myself. I jab at him with the hilt of the gun. He catches it easily. Indignation pulses through me, memories of Yelena and Natasha telling me to push myself ring in my ears. You were meant to be my greatest creation, but you are a disappointment, y/n. Dreykov’s voice floods all of my senses as I strike again. Harder and more brutal than before.

Daredevil staggers back after I hit him in the nose, but he doesn’t let go of me. It doesn’t matter how much I thrash, how much I kick and claw at him. He holds on, and he...he doesn’t try to hit me back. He blocks the punches as best as he can without letting go of my waist, but he makes no move to incapacitate me.

The confusion makes me want to fight even harder, but something else in me is tired, and it feels safe enough to take over. When my thrashing calms down, Daredevil reaches forward, taking the gun. I squeeze it until he places a hand over mine. He takes the rifle, and I let him place it to the side.

I’m panting and only some of it has to do with physical exertion. He’s still holding me down, but I’m okay with it now. “I’m--I’m sorry.” Swallowing once, I try to expel all of my thoughts. “Sometimes I’m not myself.” The honesty claws itself out of my throat.

His lips part like he’s going to say something, but all I can focus on is the blood trailing down his face. Guilt twists my stomach. I did that to him. My hand moves upwards instinctually, towards the gash on his lip. I stop when I’m halfway there...something’s shifted. And he knows that too, he’s moving, but he’s not going to be fast enough.

I know what I heard. Someone is preparing to shoot at us. I twist my body, throwing him off of the top of the shipping container. His body lands with a heavy thud at the same time a gunshot goes off. I stay on my stomach for a long minute. When nothing else happens, I jump to my feet, landing in a crouched position.

As silently as possible, I move from one storage crate to the next, heading in the direction of the shooter until I’m behind him. The advantage of surprise is needed. A part of me is surprised that Daredevil hasn’t come back. He doesn’t seem the type to stay put. So he’s either fighting someone or I threw him off of me a little too hard. Okay--focus, by getting rid of these threats, I’m helping him.

He was patient with me when I was out of control. Sure, I had a gun in my hand and got in a few good hits, but when he caught me by surprise we both realized that he has the ability to overpower me. Okay, there’s a chance he already thought that, but I didn’t. I thought he’d be a worthy opponent, but that if I made up my mind to beat him I’d be able to do it without issue. Yelena and Natasha could take him, and I’m supposed to be as good as them if not better. Dreykov designed me that way.

But that’s not the point. The point is he could have stopped me. He could have hurt me to save himself the energy and physical pain. It would have been easier to fight back, more efficient. But all he did was restrain me until I was no longer a risk. He’s a better person than I thought. I don’t know what’s going to happen next, but I’m not leaving him here.

The second man with a rifle is easier to take down. I don’t have another episode. A third assailant appears and I get rid of them just as swiftly. Daredevil has yet to appear. I climb to the top of a shipping crate and make my way back to where we were. Jumping off of the same crate I threw Daredevil off of, I land about three feet from where I suspect his body of having landed. He’s not there...that’s a good thing, right? It means he got up. Or that he got taken.

The sound of something slamming into the metal of the shipping crate behind me jars me out of my sense of peace. The fight’s not over. I brace myself, turning the corner as another ‘bang’ sound erupts. I’m ready to attack, but when I see what’s happening, I’m surprised enough to stall.

Daredevil is attacking another man in all black. And he’s spending a lot more time making sure the person he’s fighting will be out of commission than I did. With a final punch, he lets his opponent slump to the ground. Okay--so no guns, but beating someone within an inch of their life is perfectly acceptable. What an odd moral line he lives on. Still, I’m jealous that he knows where he stands on these kinds of things.

“What?”

I feel my posture straighten. “Nothing.”

He walks away from the unconscious stranger easily. He paces past me and towards the front of the shipping crate. I watch as he works on breaking off the lock on the crate.

“Mind if I...” He’s confused enough to pause. I grab the lock, and with two firm tugs, it breaks off. Being biologically modified has its perks. I let the rusting metal fall at our feet. “Don’t ask.”

Disgruntled squeals interrupt us. I pull on the door to the crate until it creaks open. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to what’s cowering in the dark, but once I do a wave of nausea runs through me. Girls, children, are cowering, huddled together in a way that’s much too familiar.

My eyes land on a girl whose wide eyes make me feel like I’m watching a ghost. “H-how old are you?”

She blinks, shying into the crowd of taller girls. “Nine.”

Something in my stomach spikes.

“Get out of here.” His voice is authoritative, unflinching. The youngest looking girl winces. “Now.”

I make a point of standing between them. The girls that are paralyzed in their fear watch me as the rest of them try to disappear into the back of the crate. Stepping forward as gently as possible, I approach them. They’re untrusting, and I get that.

“You’re okay now.” I hold my hands out in front of me. “It’s over--and I know you don’t believe me right now, but it is.” I take another step forward. “You’re going to be safe, but the sooner you’re out of here the better. So go, and I promise you’ll be okay.”

The girls are understandably hesitant. But then a girl who can’t be more than 14 steps forward. And then another girl follows her. The rest join in, spilling out of the crate and disappearing from the docks. The farther they get from here, the better. I stand to the side as they flee, my nails digging into my palms. This is a good thing. I did a good thing.

Even when they’re all gone, I still don’t feel what I thought I would. I’m just as directionless as before. I don’t feel the guidance of either of my sisters. The haunting feeling that I may never know who I am without them settles in my bones. I unclench my hands, forcing myself to look at my palms.

Blood coats my fingers again. I wonder if something happens frequently enough if there’s still a point in using tenses. My hands were bloody; my hands are bloody; my hands will be bloody. If it’s promised to happen again, was I ever really free of its stain?

The fighting is done. At least it is for now. Tonight was not particularly hard, in the physical sense. I’ve attacked people more prepared for someone of my skill level. I’ve attacked people with more dangerous weapons. I’ve been more violent, more brutal. But the people that lay near me, still breathing but broken, something about them sits with me incorrectly. They are a rib out of place in the chest.

Wow. I’m not making any sense, not even to myself. I look at my hands again, the blood of my knuckles has combined itself with the blood of those I hurt. I can’t bring myself to feel sorry for them, but grief still burrows itself into me.

These men were hurting girls. Children. There was a time in which I was the frightened little girl, forced into a shipping crate with other frightened girls. Back then, all I had wanted was for it to be over. All I had wanted was for some kind of savior to break through the metal and fight off the monsters so that I could be anywhere else.

Tonight I was that savior for those girls. I should feel better. I did something good. Natasha...she’d smile at me if she was here. She’d look at me and tell me that I did good. That should make me feel content, more focused, like there’s some kind of direction I know to move in.

But it doesn’t. All I feel is her absence. I even feel the loss of Yelena, and I’m the one that told her to stay away. My fingers curl inwards, nails digging into the palms of my hands.

“That was efficient.” His voice is a reminder of why I can’t lose it here, on the abandoned side of the shipping docks.

Turning enough to look at him, I force myself to take a deep breath. A patient breath. There was something almost awkward about the way he said that. “You wanted my help.” I helped. I should feel better. “And I played by your rules. No one died.” The final word feels off. “I won’t apologize for my efficiency.”

He’s still, watching me like he sees right through me. The part of me that clings to a life beyond bloody hands wants to shrink away. To vanish until it’s morning. With daylight comes the promise of normality. The day will let me shed this mission suit and replace it with the business casual wear of an intern of a law firm. I like that version of me better...she’s whole.

“No apologies necessary.” I blink, fighting the urge to turn even more. He’s closer than I realized. “I’m just curious.”

Of course. That’s the problem with team ups or even just temporary mutual existence. The other person always wants to ask questions, and I can never offer them answers. I’m a former black widow assassin isn’t the kind of phrase that just rolls off the tongue. Especially not in front of him.

The devil of Hell’s Kitchen, someone that everyone here knows to fear, and yet he doesn’t...he doesn’t kill. If he knew all the blood that stains me, if he knew about all the red in my ledger...

“And I’m just reminding you that my one stipulation to this was no questions.”

I knew this was a bad idea. Even when we just happen to run into each other he expresses too much interest in who I am. Why I can do the things I can do. I know that he feels like he’s protecting his neighborhood by making sure that I don’t have any ill tensions. The false sense of security is a good thing, it means that we can both co-exist in peace. But tonight I’m not in the mood to play coy and skirt around the words I won’t say, revealing just enough to appease him. I’m also not in the mood to draw a line in the sand and make him think I’m a threat. He’s proven that he’s capable of overpowering me with the element of surprise, but surely I’d be able to defend myself and escape if I needed to. He’d be a worthy opponent, but not an unbeatable one. But maybe I don’t want to beat him. Maybe I don’t want to fight anymore. Maybe I just want to put my widow suit on the top shelf of my apartment’s closet and never look at it again.

We should part ways. The bad guys have been taken care of. The girls have been freed, the way I could have been years ago. There’s no reason for both of us to still be here. There’s no reason fro him to be less than an arm’s length away. And yet, we both stay still.

“You’re normally more open to friendly conversation.” The words snap me back to reality. I’ve been playing too close to a line I can’t cross. The last time I trusted someone, I learned to never do risk that again.

I force my hands to ease at my side. “We’re friends now?”

“I don’t take down human trafficking rings with just anyone.” He’s joking. He’s just trying to ease me into our normal dynamic. But the words still strike me in the heart. Memories of the day I got Natasha back and the day I stopped seeing Yelena as my protector wash through me, a torrid, unforgiving current.

It’s been years now. Years of silence. I haven’t seen Nat since she told me what she was planning to do with the Avengers. I haven’t seen Yelena since she told me the truth of the day I became a true widow. The end of the red room was the first and last familial moment I got. “For the record, neither do I.”

“And I’ve never taken anything down that fast.” He pauses, testing the waters. “If you were always around, I’d have time to pick up a hobby.”

He’s trying to appeal to my usual attitude. I have to give him something. It’s not his fault that the memories are hitting me more frequently than usual. And if I don’t seem at least somewhat stable, he’ll start thinking I’m planning something. He may start seeing me as some kind of threat. “Is the mysterious day job followed by nights of crime fighting not fulfilling enough?”

“The day job isn’t as interesting as you’re making it seem.” There’s an easiness to his words. He’s taking my attempt to act normal.

I shift on my heels, almost relaxing. “I wouldn’t know because you won’t tell me what it is.”

“And you won’t tell me how you learned to...be so efficient.” He’s referencing the way I fight. I can’t blame him for pressing this issue so much. A random girl shows up in his city, his neighborhood, with brutal skills and strength that would better suit someone twice her size. Of course he feels the need to ask questions.

I inhale, wondering what my next move is. I could remind him that the less we know about the other, the better. That I know not to ask questions as long as he does the same. But the thing is, I don’t want to. Maybe it’s because he’s faceless. Maybe it’s because when I wear this suit I don’t feel like I’m me anymore. Or maybe it’s because I’m tired of pretending my past isn’t tearing into me more and more with each passing day.

“Would you believe me if I told you it’s a family thing?” The honesty threatens to leave my throat raw. I’m treading on a dangerous line. “That I learned everything I know from my sisters?”

He tilts his head slightly, exposing the side of his jaw--which is something I shouldn’t be as aware of as I am. “So an entire family of people like you? Fighting for the good?”

I don’t have it in me to think about the way he says that. The words are stomach twisting enough. Fighting for the good. Is that even a fair thing to say now? Natasha certainly started fighting for the good. I don’t know where Yelena is. And I--I’m just trying to make up for everything I’ve done, everything I’ve been forced to do.

“What if we weren’t always doing that?” My throat burns, the way it often did when I would tell Natasha about the memories. When I would tell her about being a ghost in my own body. “Fighting for the good?”

I regret the words as soon as they’re out of my mouth. Dropping my head, I prepare to step back. To disappear in the shadows in the way I’m used to. He starts to move. To his credit, he’s faster than a normal person, so he does manage to place a hand on my shoulder, but not before my fingers wrap around his wrist. It’s his move next. I’m tense, expecting some kind of attack.

“I would say that you’re doing that now.” I watch him, he stays quiet. When nothing else is said...when nothing else is done, I find it in me to unclench my fingers and let my hand fall to my side. He still doesn’t move. “And that counts for something.”

Does it really? I guess it does if someone like him thinks so. Swallowing back the thought, I feel my body tense. Don’t think of him like that. If I think he’s good, I’ll find myself trusting him. “If--” A scream cuts me off. A high pitched, child-like scream.

The sound resonates in my chest and pulses through my bones. It cuts through all of my common sense and appeals to an instinct embedded deep in me. I take off, pushing past Daredevil. His hand extends outwards, but I’m no longer the version of myself capable of weakness. I pivot, forcing him to just barely miss me.

I make it to the source of the screaming in record time. Another man in all black...and a girl. The girl that spoke to me. She’s thrashing against him, the light of the moon catching her red hair. Her fear, her resistance, the look behind her eye. I’m with Natasha all over again.

I rip his arm off of the girl with a ferocity I haven’t felt in years. Something snaps, likely his bone. The man grunts. His good arm makes contact with my lower jaw. I step back instinctually before round kicking him in the throat. The man chokes, the sound is a lot more gratifying than I thought it’d be.

The man comes close to stumbling, but at the last second he lunges with all his force. I dodge, throwing my weight left. His hand remains clenched, like he doesn’t care about grabbing me. I don’t realize why until I feel it...a knife cutting through skin and flesh and striking bone.

I wince, hand moving to my side. My attacker grins, blood coating his cracked lips. He will not have the satisfaction of my pain or victory. I grab his broken arm, twisting the appendage at an angle so unnatural I’d be nauseated in any other setting.

His groan of pain brings me no anguish, no guilt. “What?” He’s panting. He knows what’s coming. I yank the knife out of my side before raising it to his eye line. “Surprised I didn’t say ‘ouch’?”

He inhales sharply. “I can feel your youth.” What does age matter when you’ve been training to be a killer since the age of 5? “Do you know what the problem is with young people?” My fingers squeeze the knife harder. The man shifts, I dig the point of the blade into his throat. The familiar sting of a knife wound takes over my senses. He stabbed me again. Where did he get the second knife? “Pride--that’s the problem with the idealistic youth.”

I bite back my pain, forcing myself to fight against the way the edges of my vision blurs. The knife in my hand is pried from me. I barely register the sound of metal falling to the ground. He’s trying to slip from my grasp. I knee him with all my force. The man nearly escapes, but I’m more determined than ever.

He reaches forward, but I’m ready for that. I knee him in the stomach, again and again until he’s forced to his knees. He’s holding his hands up in defense, but I’m nowhere near done with him. I punch and I kick and I scratch even though it’s beneath me. Any form of inflicting pain. Any method of attack. Russian curses fall from my lips. My fists ache. There will never be enough harm to cause.

The man coughs, blood splattering onto the fabric of my widow suit. I rip the knife out of my side and throw it to the ground. “I’d rather hear your neck snap.” One of my hands grips his jaw and the other holds his head in place. It’d be so easy to end it now.

Something touches my shoulder. My head snaps to the left. “Don’t.” There’s an understood urgency in Daredevil’s voice. I’m surprised I stopped myself from attacking him on instinct. “He’s done.” I don’t care if he’s done. I’m not. “He’s done and so are you.”

“Because you said so?”

“Because I know what you’re feeling.” Like he could ever know. This guilt and urge to do better and be better. It’s suffocating. “The adrenaline, the justice turned into blood lust.” I want to scream. I should end it. I’ve done it before...I’ve killed more than I’ll ever really know.

I grind my teeth together when I notice the shifting of the man’s head. Wait--he’s not moving by his own will. My hands are shaking. Why are they shaking? “He doesn’t--” The words are acid in my throat. “He doesn’t deserve it.”

The hand on my shoulder becomes a little more assured. “No, he doesn’t.” Daredevil lets the words hang there. “But you do.” The man’s face is starting to blur. All of my vision is starting to blur. My body feels wrong...I don’t know how to be in control of myself for as long as I have been. “You’re not a killer, and you deserve better than letting him make you one.”

I laugh, or maybe I choke on a sob, or maybe I do both at the same time. “You really don’t know me.” My grip on the man’s jaw tightens. Finish it. Terminate your target. “You don’t know what they made me do. Who they made me be.”

“What matters is who you are now.” His voice is harsh enough to cut through the wave of uncertainty I’m drowning in. What’s real and what’s false is still unknown, but I know that he’s here. “Let him go, Crimson.”

It’s not fair. It’s not fair. It’s not fair. Why should he get to live? Why should his entire species get to thrive when all they do is hurt people? Break little girls and turn them into monsters? I can still see the hollow look in Natasha’s eyes after I came back from my first mission. I can feel Yelena patching up my scraped knees after training. I can hear her telling me to trust the men that wanted me to lay on the operating table.

My hand moves off the man’s jaw. My fist makes contact with his lower jaw. The punch is weak and pathetic but I don’t care. I hit him again and again. The blows lack structure and efficiency. I keep going, my body scared of what would happen if I stopped.

“Okay,” Daredevil catches my wrist before I can hit the stranger again. I push against him numbly. “You’ve done enough.”

I don’t care. I don’t care. There will never be an enough. “It’s not fair.” He says nothing. I’m too aware of how pathetic I am. My entire body is shaking, practically seething. I’m coated in blood and sweat and I gave up on keeping tears from falling from my eyes. “It’s not fair--she-she was just a kid.”

Exhaustion takes hold of me with no warning. I find myself struggling to not let my knees buckle. I stumble away from the criminal. The girl is gone now, but I can still see her. The terrified fear behind her eyes and the way the moonlight caught her red bob. She was Natasha. The ground feels less stable, like it’s trying to open up and swallow me whole. I take a sharp breath as my knees give out.

I never feel the scrape of gravel. Something strong latches onto my arms. Daredevil. He’s holding onto me, keeping me up. Normally, something like this would have my skin crawling with vulnerability. But now I just extend my hand gently squeezing his arm in a silent understanding. I move to a sitting position, pulling my knees upwards loosely once I’m given the space to. A part of me wants him to leave me here, to rust like the shipping containers surrounding us.

"And what were you?”

His voice is easy stone--not rough or callus, yet not soft either. He’s speaking to me with a smooth firmness characterized by a distant enough gentleness to ease me. I blink, the words washing something over me. “What?” My voice is coarse, the kind of thing rough enough to scrape skin and leave it bleeding.

I can make out the stiff line of his lip in the dark. “What you’re showing is more than empathy. She might have been a kid, but so were you.”

Swallowing, I stare at him for much longer than I’ve ever let myself. I know he can’t see me, but the strange sensation that he’s aware of my blatant analysis still cuts through me. There are a lot of things I don’t let myself think about. Easier that way, Yelena once said when we were still programmed killers, sometimes I wish they’d make us forget, like the Winter Soldier. Natasha didn’t like thinking about things either...she was strong and strong people leave weaknesses like that behind. And if they have to think about it, they don’t do it while extremely vulnerable to someone who is little more than a stranger.

I wipe my hands on the fabric of my stealth suit. “Well I’m not one anymore.” The words are muttered, sharper than they should be as I push myself to stand. Without checking to see if he’s stood, I turn. “I need to--I um I’m gonna--” Nausea spikes in my stomach, a chill that has nothing to do with the weather running through me. “I need to go.”

He lets me walk away. I move to jump onto a shipping container the way I normally would, but my body caves forward before I can. Falling to my knees, palms scrapping against the ground, I find myself thinking how much weaker I must be becoming.

“You pulled a knife out of yourself to attack someone.” A part of me is upset that he didn’t leave before my collapse. My pride is deeply, deeply wounded. “Which was resourceful, but not the best self preservation tactic.”

Something in me wants to laugh. Self preservation was the last thing the Red Room cared about. There was always another widow, another stolen girl to replace you. It’s strange to think about that now, as I struggle not to pant. My eyes don’t seem to want to stay open. Daredevil crouches towards me, one hand slowly extending towards me in the dark. He’s treating me akin to the way one would treat a wounded dog found in an alley. “You’ve lost a lot of blood.”

I should push him away. There’s nothing to be gained from this. "I’m fine.” That’s not something I’m completely sure of. I wasn’t trained to heal, I was trained to kill myself if I was put out of commission. “There’s no reason to go soft on me.”

He ignores my joke, moving his hand until he finds my cheek. “You’re cold.”

It takes me a moment to force out the words, “It’s November.”

Daredevil’s hand doesn’t move. My eyes flutter shut. “Crimson.” I barely manage to squint my eyes open. “Stay awake.” His voice feels farther now than ever. “Open your eyes.”

I manage to just barely listen. I see him for a brief moment before everything fades to black.

#matt murdock x reader #matt murdock x y/n #Matt Murdock #Daredevil #daredevil x reader #marvel #mcu #mcu x reader

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