You know, even before the thought comes into your mind, that this is going to end badly.

Even so, you give it a shot. "You're sure you're not going to go green?" you ask. Maybe he'll change his mind, you think. But the truth is you're only putting off the inevitable and you know it. For all the lies you've spun as a part of your job, going back longer than you can remember, you've never been much good at lying to yourself. It's one of the few points in your depressingly small pros column, as opposed to the staggeringly long list of cons.

"I've got some pretty compelling reasons not to," he says, looking into your eyes, his own full of honesty and trust that you've always known that you don't deserve, especially with what you're about to do. It is that look of trust that will haunt you in the days to come, whichever way this goes. Assuming that is, that either of you lives to see another day. It doesn't change your conviction that it needs to be done. And so you do it, because that is the job.

More than the job, it's your mission, your life, your reason for being, the meaning behind your very existence. It's not just who you are, it's what you are. As always, your ledger beckons from the deepest, darkest corners of your mind, the long pages of red ink, written in the blood of people you never knew, whose names you can't even remember anymore. It is embedded in your bones along with all the other enhancements that the Red Room gave you, wrapped around the strands of your DNA until you can't envision a life where you weren't atoning for your past sins, though you know in your heart of hearts that your ledger will never be balanced. You've seen too much, done too much, to allow yourself even an idle dream.

(Though you can't deny that it felt good, even if only for a few minutes, to simply imagine, to pretend that people like you can get a happily ever after. But even then you knew that it was nothing but an idle dream. Fantasies are for children, you remind yourself, and you have never been one.)

And so you'll do what needs to be done, even if it feels like ripping your heart out with a dull blade. Because it's your penance, and because if anyone is going to get their hands dirty, it might as well be you. You've already got enough blood and betrayal on your hands, what's one more?

But before you do it, before you take that final irrevocable, damning step, there is one more thing you need to do, which maybe you should have done long before now. Maybe you would have if you weren't such a coward. But it's all come to a head now. It's a show of hands all around and you have nothing left to lose.

You pull him towards yourself and before he knows it, you wrap your arms around his neck and press your lips to his like your life depends on it. And maybe, in a way, it does. In every way that has ever mattered to you.

You put your heart and soul into it, in a way that you never have before and probably never will again. Because you have nothing else to give to this shy and gentle man, who has taken far more than his share of grief in life without having done anything to deserve it in the slightest bit and who, despite it all, continues to give back to a world that has been nothing but harsh to him. Of all the people who have come and gone from your life, both superhuman and otherwise, he is the only one you know who will go to great lengths to avoid a fight precisely because he knows that he will win. The world needs more people like Bruce Banner.

You need more of Bruce Banner in your life.

And so you give him a part of yourself, rip out a piece of your already bruised and battered heart, put it in his hands and seal it with a kiss. You almost wish that he'd pull away like he did before, maybe then it won't be so bad, maybe it won't hurt as much, but he doesn't. Of course he doesn't. The one time in her life that you want to be rejected is the time that you're accepted with open arms.

The irony isn't lost on you.

Instead of pushing away, he pulls you closer. The hand that is holding yours tightens around your palm. The other one circles around your waist and pulls you until you are pressed against him, along every inch that you can touch. His mouth moves against yours, shy and achingly sweet and tender. And it's like a piece of your soul that you didn't know was missing has come back to you

You've long since lost count of how many times you've had to seduce a target to complete your assigned mission. It's what you are, the seductress, the Black Widow who attracts her choice of mate, takes what she wants and then disposes of them when they have served their purpose. You are no stranger to this deadly dance, the seducer and the seduced. You thought yourself immune to the way it could lure you deeper and deeper in the maze, to make the victim want what they know they shouldn't. Fool that you are, you thought yourself hardened against the possibility of the pain and heartache that you've inflicted without a thought in the past, that your mass of scars would inure you from the possibility of further harm, that you were already broken to begin with.

Too late you realize that this shy, mild mannered professor has succeeded where entire legions of seducers and Casanovas have failed miserably. He has captured your heart, without even trying.

He pulls away from you and looks deep into your eyes, his soul bared to you. He knows what you are. Of course he does. How can he not? The details of your life are available on the net for anyone with a web browser to access. He knows, and he wants you anyway.

You are no stranger to affection, but always behind that affection were strings attached. Something expected for something given. You have been desired by many, for your looks, for your body, and in rare cases for your wit. But no one has ever looked at you the way he is right now. No one has ever wanted you for being you. You had long ago come to think of yourself as a blank slate, colored in to match the circumstances and wiped clean afterwards, only to be repeated over and over, but in essential characterless.

Until now.

Bruce Banner has done what armies of shrinks and psychiatrists have failed. He made you want to get up in the morning for something other than a mission. For a moment there, he made you believe that there could be more to your existence than just balancing your ledger, that you could actually have a life worth living.

And you are going to break his heart for it.

You cup his face in your hand and for a moment you let yourself imagine, the possibilities, the life that you could have had. Whatever happens afterwards, you want him to know how you feel. You want that one moment of honesty; so that you can look back on this moment and fool yourself into thinking that you are capable of being more than what you were built for, that the Red Room didn't take everything from you, that you are not the user and manipulator that you've always known yourself to be. You let the moment hang between you, timeless, as the rest of the world falls away and the two of you remain locked in each other's eyes, frozen in a single moment of time.

"I adore you…," you breathe, almost too softly to be heard, words you never thought yourself capable of saying in a moment of honesty.

And then you push him into the abyss.

His eyes go wide in an instant, and for that one terrible moment in time they find yours. A multitude of emotion flit in them, confusion, realization, betrayal.

But it is the look of horror in his eyes that hits you like a dagger in the gut, the last one you catch just before he drops out of sight.

Because for the first time he has seen you, truly seen you, for what you are – a user, seducer and a manipulator.

A Black Widow.

He made the mistake of thinking that just Natasha Romanoff was fond of him; he was safe from the machinations of the Widow.

You met his monster two years (a lifetime) ago, on that fateful day on board the helicarrier. Now at the long last he has met yours.

"… but I need the Other Guy," you whisper to yourself as you wait for the roar.

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