Safe Place

14: Unloved and Lying

Natasha's POV:

I'm so freaking stupid.

I thought that there was a chance Wanda liked me. She kept blushing when I talked to her, and looking at me funny, and there was that one time where we were just stuck staring at each other. And those times where she was flirting with me. She was flirting, I'm sure of it.

I thought I had a shot. I thought that I could be someone other than Black Widow, emotionless and loveless and closed off. When I looked at Wanda, I thought I could actually love. And maybe, just maybe, be loved back.

Turns out, I'm unlovable. I'm a monster. I'm a freak destined to spend the rest of her life shutting out the rest of the world. Not because I want to, not because I have to, but because that's all I know how to do.

You're overreacting, I tell myself sternly. You're lovable. You can be loved. Just because one person didn't like you back doesn't mean you're broken.

I snort bitterly. Yeah, you know, people tend to love a woman who was raised in a warehouse full of assassins, doesn't display emotions, and carries six hidden handguns and two secret knives. Even when I'm arguing against myself, I lose.

I don't mean to beat myself up, but it happens often. Before I joined the Avengers, right after Clint rescued me, I was in a terrible place. Day in and day out, I barraged myself with hatred and guilt. 

I was worthless, I reminded myself constantly. I was a killer.

I didn't deserve to be saved. Don't come near me. I'll hurt you, I told Clint.

He came near me anyway, and honestly, he saved me. He pulled me out of a dark hole that I couldn't have gotten out of on my own. But now, in this narrow hallway, still running away from Wanda and Vision and that horribly-perfect-looking kiss, I feel like I'm falling back in.

Hot tears escape my eyes, just two, one to trace each cheekbone. I wipe them away angrily, frustrated at myself for crying over a tortured, fragile, somewhat emo girl that I met a month or so ago. 

I slide down against the wall and let more tears trickle down. It's emotion, after all. But it feels so weak and pathetic to be crying alone in a hallway, sun still up, lights still on. Any one of the guys - or, god, even Wanda - could walk by and see me.

It's funny. I don't want to be the emotionless, cold-hearted killer that they made me to be. But at the same time, I can't be weak, or vulnerable, or seen without my mask up. I can't be seen. 

Not for who I really am, anyway. Not for the Natasha below my surface, buried deep beneath the black bodysuit and the guns and the punches I pack. 

The only person I let see a fraction of Real Nat was Wanda Maximoff.

And apparently, she didn't like her at all.

A low sob threatens to break out of my throat, but I force it down. Letting out a single, nearly silent sniff, I stand up and start to make my way back to my room. 

I sit on my bed, and I've only just pressed in my earbuds when the door flies open.

Of course - of course - it's Wanda.

I have to play it cool. I can't let her see me like this, so breakable and broken. 

I can't hurt her. I'm so mad at her - for leading me on, for not loving me for who I am, for being so beautiful and doe-eyed and perfect. But she doesn't deserve to take on my pain, too. Not when she's already muddling through so much on her own.

"Natasha, oh my gosh," she wheezes, clutching her side. "Hang on. Give me...a...sec..."

She straightens after a minute. "Are you okay? I saw you see us, um, kissing " - she whispers the last word - "and then you ran away? What happened?"