"I don't care," she lies. Her lies are usually seamless, impossible to detect, but the crack in her voice and the way she looks anywhere but at Steve makes this one obvious. "I don't want to hear about it. I'm done, Steve."

She sits down on an old, motheaten chair across from the bed, resting her forearms on her knees and letting the gun dangle by its trigger guard from one finger. The set of her shoulders is defeated, tired. She's silent for a long minute, hair hanging over her face, before she looks across at him.

"Every sin I've committed," she says. "Every person I've killed. Every betrayal, every moment of my life - even the ones I don't care to think about any longer. It's all out there now. It was worth it at the time, but...how do you come back from something like that? Better to start over. And that means no Avengers. No Black Widow." Her mouth twists, tasting unpleasantness with the words. Reluctance. "I can't do that without being constantly reminded of what I did before. I thought I could when it was secret, but..." And she trails off with a sigh, palming her forehead and shutting her eyes for a moment.

So tired of running. She wishes she didn't feel as if she has to.