Nuances

The apartment is compromised.

She draws her gun in a smooth motion, eyes searching the space, nudging the door shut with one foot. The kitchen is the only entryway she can't see from the door—she knew that was going to be a problem. She'll beat herself up over it later.

There isn't anyone in the kitchen. If she's very lucky, there isn't anyone here at all—a burglary because someone noticed how rarely she comes by, already here and gone.

Natasha does not expect she will be very lucky.

She comes out the kitchen and pauses, adjusts her aim for the fact the person just come from the hallway is taller than her.

"Bravo, Ms. Romanoff. I would expect nothing less of you."

Loki. The bone structure matches, the hair, the voice. She doesn't remember the blue skin or red eyes.  His smile is wrong, creaking the edges of his usual mask. Three things out of place; it makes her hesitate.

Loki doesn’t give her time to try and place that extra element; he pounces, a difficult to track blue blur. Natasha ducks, thrusting the heel of her hand into his ribs, and twists away.

Loki follows the motion, adjusts for it, and she finds herself hitting a wall—but he doesn't disarm her. Interesting. She rolls to her feet, putting distance between them, and his eyes flick ever so briefly to the newly aimed gun, but he doesn't make a move to get it out of her hands and it doesn't make him back down.

If anything, she'd say he seems pleased.

"Loki," she says, but he cuts her off by attacking again, wide and open—it would be an all too easy shot.

She doesn't take it.

Instead, she dodges aside again, keeps dodging, taking in Loki's growing frustration and even desperation, thinks of how Thor said adopted, what Thor has said of a certain people that share the trait blue, connects it to the jaggedness of Loki's smile. Her mouth tightens slightly; Natasha dislikes being used.

Of course, she might be wrong, in which case this is one of the single stupidest ideas she's had this year.

She waits for Loki to get close enough—not difficult—and grabs a fistful of his hair, yanking his head back and shoving the barrel of the gun into his throat. She should absolutely not be able to pull this move off, let alone hold it, but she does and she can; Loki’s face goes lax with relief for half a second.

“If you want to kill yourself, here,” Natasha says, letting go and stepping back. She flips the gun over in her hand, offering it to him.

For a moment, she thinks putting it to voice may have been too much, but no. Loki doesn’t grab her, only tightens his hands into fists, eyes shining and teeth gritted.

“Good show though,” she adds, and she isn’t even being dishonest. She suspects near anyone else would have missed what was wrong with his smile and shot him first, before he had a chance to attack.

Loki smiles tightly, glare sullen. He knocks her hand and the proffered gun away, eyes carefully avoiding looking at the motion. No, not the motion—avoids looking at his own skin. Interesting. This whole situation is interesting, and the part of Natasha that enjoys collecting knowledge and information with ruthless efficiency is intrigued.

“What,” Loki finally asks, “gave me away?” He’s studying her, but there’s honest curiosity underneath his annoyance. She respects him, a little, for wanting to know.

“Your smile. You looked at the gun when I aimed it at you. You didn’t disarm me. You let me get the gun to your throat.” Natasha ticks them off one hand, holstering her gun with the other. He snorts at her list, looking away, starting to pace and then stopping just as abruptly. “Seeing as you aren’t going to kill me, do you want to explain what this is about?”

“That is rather presumptuous of you, Agent Romanaoff,” Loki says, eyes focusing sharply on her, baring his teeth in what almost passes for a grin. Part of Natasha, quiet and kept well controlled, finds the look fearsome—whatever reason Loki looks the way he does, the red eyes stand bright against blue skin, and his teeth are sharper than a human’s. The grin stretches the lines on his face, makes the curves as angular as his cheekbones.

“Then this is the perfect opportunity for you to monologue before you try to take over the world again.”

That gets a startled laugh, him reaching to put his fist to his mouth before he notices his hand—the blue, she thinks—and frowns, amusement dulled. He glances at her again, studying her while his face stills, unblinking.

“No,” he says, “I don’t think I will, even if convention says I must.”

Natasha raises an eyebrow.

“What, do you think I’ve never touched a Midgardian book before?” Loki scoffs, tilting his chin up a bit imperiously—but she can see a little of a precocious boy underneath it. “No, Agent Romanoff, I will not make the mistake of underestimating you a third time.” He studies his nails, lips twitching down slightly in distaste, and Natasha realizes that these are habits—the fist to his mouth, studying his nails, pacing—and he is either relaxed enough or distressed enough to not realize what he’s doing, or what they convey about his situation.

“This is your punishment,” Natasha says, making a quick gesture to encompass all of him. Loki shrugs, attempts at nonchalance, but his shoulders tighten, and the anger in his eyes only makes him more intimidating. She thinks of what Thor has said again—Loki being adopted, stories of frost giants and old fights, of Earth’s last ice age. Thor circles around frost giants—Jotnar, he calls them—with the same guilt she’s seen Stark regarding his old weapons manufacture. If it’s because of Loki, whom Thor still loves dearly, then it makes things a bit clearer.

“Perhaps,” Loki says, but he’s lying; Natasha is sure of this.

Natasha shrugs like she doesn’t actually want to know what is going on, but it does leave with her another problem. Loki is here—in her safe house no less—and despite the complexion change she isn’t sure what else he has access to. Even if he doesn’t have his magic, he looks like a mutant; all the world needs is Magneto or Mystique recruiting him to their cause. She can’t very well let him walk out, but she doesn't have enough time to get SHIELD here either.

Does not want SHIELD here anyway—this is a safe house, meaning away from them as well, and Natasha hates the hassle of moving locations.

She makes a show of examining his features, lets her eyes trace over the lines that mark his face, and he scowls at her, brows tight, stepping back.

He doesn’t want anyone seeing him, either, perhaps just barely less than he wants to see his own skin. Natasha can work with that.

“Enjoying the view?” Loki asks, but there’s a tremor of defensive anger under the mockery.

“You came here because you were trying to think who would be most likely to kill you if provoked. For whatever reason, you can’t or won’t kill yourself.” She lets her voice slip to analytical—she suspects it’s less likely to set Loki off. “You don’t have any resources. It’s unlikely you have access to your magic, otherwise I suspect your appearance would be a bit closer to how you last appeared.”

“Very good, Agent Romanoff,” Loki says, dipping his head slightly towards her, eyes narrowed.

“I have no intention of killing you. Do you have any plans past that?”

He shrugs.

“I am sure I will make do.”

“Stay here.”

“What?”

“Stay here,” Natasha repeats. This is a worse idea than the one she had during their fight, but she also has more observational evidence to back it up—namely how Loki keeps getting uncomfortable when she makes it obvious she’s staring, and his distaste when he sees his bare skin. He wants to be seen like this as little as she wants him running loose; it’s different entirely from the grandstanding and attention seeking behavior he displayed before.

It is also, she will admit, entirely selfish—if Loki takes her up on the offer, she will be able to keep her safe house a secret from SHIELD, avoiding the hassle of finding and setting up a new one. That it will keep Loki from causing more problems on Earth is purely a bonus, a pragmatic solution for both parties.

Loki is looking at her like she’s gone utterly mad; it makes her smile, because it’s such an… innocent reaction.

“And do what exactly?” Loki asks, but she’s got him—he’s interested. If his curiosity is anything at all like hers, then that should be all she needs. He doesn’t seem to have the ability to just turn it off the way she can when working.

She shrugs.

“You are more insane than I thought. Pity that it isn’t useful.”

“You’re stalling,” Natasha says; he looks sullen that she realized. “Stay here. Or don’t.”

“This is a hide out,” Loki says. Natasha nods, because there’s little point lying to him about it. At the least it might convince him a bit more she has no desire for anyone else to learn this location. “You would no doubt have rules.”

Natasha shrugs with one shoulder, tilting her head with the motion.

“Well out with them.”

She does not allow herself to smile at his impatience. Clearly if she won’t kill him, somewhere to go to ground is just as good.

"First, I can add rules as needed." Natasha pauses, then realizes she doesn't actually have any other rules.

Loki cocks an eyebrow when she doesn't continue, then smiles. It's genuine; where his scowls make the lines on his face hard, the smile softens them.

"With such gracious terms, how could I refuse?" he says; he's mocking her, a little, but she smirks anyway.

This is going to backfire spectacularly.

Loki is a frost giant—Thor has at least confirmed as much, shortly after his most recent return from Asgard.

There are very likely a number of internal issues related to the fact—Natasha is no stranger to rediscovering the self abruptly and it being someone a great deal more monstrous than who she thought—but she has little interest in addressing them. Supposing Loki manages to stay long enough and they don't murder each other, there will be plenty of time for him to deal with those issues later. No, she is a great deal more interested in the immediate practicalities of housing a frost giant.

"What do you eat?"

"I am not a pet," Loki spits, then slams the bedroom door in her face.

Natasha stands outside the door, arms crossed and eyebrow raised. The door at least didn’t crack.

"You're being difficult," she tells the door.

She doesn't expect a response; instead she walks to the kitchen and begins to go through the cabinets. There isn't much in the way of fresh food, but there's plenty of nonperishables and Loki must have eaten at some point in the last day.

"What are you doing?" Loki asks from the door. He's dressed; Natasha recalls how quickly he got out of sight when she arrived, compares it to the fact he had been shirtless when she came in, and files away that she is going to need to make sure not invade wherever in the apartment he’s decide is safe. Probably the bedroom.

It’s likely for the best she doesn’t sleep here often.

“Seeing what you eat,” she replies. Except she’s beginning to suspect he hasn’t.

“I am not a pet to be fed and watered,” he says again, resentment better hidden this time.

“I also recall telling you I wasn’t going to kill you. Seeing as you are currently stuck in the apartment, negligence is a possibility.” Natasha closes the last cabinet, turning to face him.

“I recall no rules of needing to stay.”

Natasha raises a brow and looks at his hands, but she doesn’t voice the point. Loki scowls and crosses his arms, straightening from where he’s leaning; she expects he’s about to stalk off again.

“You’re right,” Natasha tells him before he can. “There aren’t any rules about you leaving. You can walk out at any time. But as long as you’re staying here, you’re my guest.”

That works. Slightly. His eyes have widened, and he’s studying her with the rest of his face blank. Natasha can work with that—she didn’t expect him to be as abashed about guest rules as Thor can be because Loki is very much not Thor, but there’s something to be said for being raised in the same household.

“Fish,” he says, finally. He looks away from her, eyes roaming the cabinets. He looks like there are more words, but this is not the same Loki who talked for no other reason than to do so, who took a certain delight in it. “Fish,” he repeats, and then he leaves.

It’s much quieter, this time, when he shuts the bedroom door.

He should leave.

(No. What he should do is what he did not before; what he should do is rend flesh from bone, should have taken her offer and her gun, should do this himself, except—)

He should leave. There is little to do, and he grows bored and restless (wants to claw at his skin, but then sees black nails and does not and does with such equal fervor that it leaves him dizzy), paces the spaces, wants for newness. The television can be interesting, but it isn’t enough

(monster, what should he care about enough)

and he should leave.

He has caused wars in this mood before, for no other reason than boredom, and he chafes at being restricted to only this space, these rooms. Three rooms, a bath (with now shattered mirror), the kitchen. He has walked worlds (look at him now, hiding and caged and—) and this space feels so small.

(but if he leaves, then—)

No. He is quite fine in the spider’s web.

(A bright spot of interest, bright as her red hair (red is—). Clothes, food, and—when he doesn’t hate her for seeing him (hate himself for allowing her to view him while he is so weak)—company.)

(He should be grateful.)

“You’re bored,” she observes, and he snorts and makes a gesture at the room, at the lone bookshelf with books he has already read

(he feels strange, off-kilter; exhausted, and he does not know why)(does not know many things and does not want to know them)

and tells her

“How could I possibly be bored with such bounties at my fingertips”

so dryly his lips feel they might blister.

She snorts—how that amuses him, almost… pleases, that she does not take offense, does not grow confused, has he wanted for clever company for so long?—but then it is a day later and there is a laptop and a phone with a single number. He raises an eyebrow at her.

“I thought you were only making sure I do not die, Agent Romanoff,” he says.

“I would prefer you didn’t tear the place apart because you were bored,” she responds easily, her hands skilled over the machinery as she opens it up to show him how it all works (oh what a delight, newness and unknown).

“You would no doubt be cross,” he says (wants to say I am no beast that needs be entertained else it pisses the rug)(today he does not).

“Very much.”

“You could simply make a rule,” he points out idly, watching as she types into the computer.

“You’d break it to be contrary,” she replies, and he laughs.

“Perhaps,” he tells her, still chuckling, and reaches for the laptop (fingers itch-itch-itch, he wants—).

She lets him take it with a huff, but there is no reproof, no words about taking care, about how he does not know what he is doing—for a breath, a space, a moment, there are no thoughts, no tearing and twisting and writhing things that try to claw out of his skull

(no blue)

and she gets up.

“I’m getting a drink. Do you want anything?”

He shrugs, fascinated by the screen in front of him (by human cleverness, oh how clever, worthy enough creatures indeed for all his talk of animals), another hand fumbling for the remote, for background noise, and he places her movement away only so much as he always is aware of those around him.

(peaceful—or something like it, something close, tantalizing)

Except it’s ruined—as it always is—because nothing lasts forever (because he cannot touch anything without destroying it)

“Loki,” Natasha says, but she does not come in, does not—he can tell, her voice has stopped, she has, but he does not

(shame and anger; the ice crawling along his fingers—he can’t make it stop)

move. Too hot, suffocating perhaps, but it is grounding and a reminder of what he was, even as he watches ice crawl along his hands and he does not know how to stop it, does not know how to control it, does not know

(does not want to know)(needs to know)

and the ice thickens. He shudders.

“It’s easy enough to fix,” she says, but she does not move closer.

(some small part of him is grateful)

He should go. Leave. He cannot stay here. North—north there is dark and cold, is there not, some echo of how the realms are laid out.

“How?” he asks, because it has not even been the measure of a day. He makes his voice shake and lets anger fill it because it is (weak to be so affected) not despair, because he is in truth angry and all the best lies are told with this measure of truth—even if the lie is only in his tone.

“I work with Stark,” she says. She says it amused, and he does not know if she is mocking him or if she simply wishes to make this moment normal. “There’s no tech he can't make. I’ve been known to take cold weather missions. Give me a day, maybe two.”

He snorts at that, but does not say anything. He closes his (red, they are red now) eyes so he does not have to look at his (blue) skin, closes his fist, and feels how the ice presses into his skin—skin that barely feels it, skin that feels so different from what he remembers (what he knows). How it thickens.

He hears her take a breath to speak and waits for words, cajoling, attempts to placate his anger (worthless, misdirected), and instead:

“I’ll be back soon”

and he can hear her move away, hear her movement, hear the door shut.

How weak—but then she has already seen him this way, has she not?

(He should leave.)

(he will. He will.)

“Stark, I need—”

“Absolutely not, I’m busy, how did you even get in here, you aren’t supposed to be able to get in here.” Stark pulls his welding goggles up for a moment to look at her, then pulls them back down. Natasha looks away before he gets back to work, examining the rest of the workshop before finding a chair to sit and wait him out.

"You're still here," Stark says nearly half an hour later.

"I am," Natasha agrees without looking away from her book.

He huffs.

"Fine, out with it."

"I need equipment that can withstand extreme cold weather. Tech, specifically. Laptop, phone." She glances up at Stark; he at least looks interested.

"You can buy that. How cold are we talking here?"

"Last time I was out this particular way, ice formed on all that cold weather tech on the market and ruined it." It's a bit of lie, but at the least it should account for Loki's apparent ability to spontaneously cover things in ice when agitated. She shrugs. "If you can't do it, you can't do it."

"Ah-ah, I see exactly what you're doing there."

"Me?" Natasha asks, stilling her face to wide-eyed innocence. It makes Stark laugh.

"Do you still have the busted equipment?"

"I thought you saw what I was doing."

"That doesn't mean I won't do it. There isn't any tech I can't make, now hand over the goods. When are you leaving?"

"Thursday." Not technically a lie; she will be going on a mission then, and it will be somewhere cold.

"Two days, I can work with that." He snatches the laptop bag from her, dumping the phone and laptop both onto one of the work benches, already starting to examine them. He gives a low whistle. "Hope you're dressing warm."

"Warm enough. Need anything else from me?"

"No, shoo." Stark waves a hand at her; Natasha smiles, private and to herself, and show herself out.

Easy.

He shuts the door behind him and stands still for a moment, hand still on the doorknob. The air feels… strange—too hot, nearly too hot (his mind thinks no no this is the cool he grew up with, it is not hot)(even the trees he can see are gold and red, vibrant—autumn).

He is not going to stay.

(He is yet Loki, and he does not need some mortal woman’s pity—

“Oh, hello there!”

He looks up, caught, grateful that he is wearing clothing Natasha purchased and not his own, but still wary (wants to duck away, get out of sight, grasps for change that used to hum beneath his skin and it slips away)(how he hates).

He forces a thin-lipped smile but he does not let his guard down. He is not entirely an idiot (has seen how humans will treat those who appear different, caught glimpse on quickly passed over news of mutants).

“Hello,” he allows, smooth (even if this makes it more difficult)(he should leave without anyone to see him, to make it so—)

“I was wondering what I’d been hearing. I’m your neighbor." She gestures and the bags she carries rustle as she points to her door; Loki does not point out he had guessed as much. She is short, perhaps shorter than even Romanoff. “Mrs Jefferson.”

“Lefferson,” he replies (because it is ready, because it mimics hers, because he has not thought of this, thought of how to blend, names)(fully and wholly unprepared)(how does one blend when they look like this?). “Luke Lefferson. A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

If possible, she beams brighter.

“Aren’t you a dear,” she says. “Oh, but silly me, holding you up, you likely have places to be.”

(Places—but does he?)(like this, when people will see)(catches glimpse of his skin and thinks no no no)

“No,” he says, the word escaping without his notice. “No, I was only just returning. Do you need assistance?”

(Bored—he’d only be bored if he returns now, left with his thoughts (with blueand red), perhaps she will be interesting)

“Oh, I’ve a few more bags in the car, let me set these down and I’ll show you.”

(Perhaps she is a murderer, and she plans to (attempt to) kill him. That would be interesting.)

She is not, as it would turn out, a killer (he is only a little disappointed). Her home is… warm (not hot, not, this is comfortable, it is), and though the layout is the same as Natasha’s, the feel is entirely different, crammed to the brim with a mortal lifetime’s worth of goods.

(He wants to touch, to run his hands over the surfaces, to take down books so worn their spines are no longer readable—this is a trove, cluttered and full)(how he itches, but he does not touch)

He helps her put away her goods (look how low he has fallen)(“No, dear, one shelf higher, with the pastas”), and before he can leave (undo this foolish choice), he is waylaid with a cup of something steaming hot (hot, burns his hands, and he leaves it politely on the table instead of risk touching it again, hands aching)(tea she called it) that he most certainly does not risk drinking considering his current… state. But there is also a glass of milk, and (the coup de grâce) a plate of cookies. (Peanut butter, he has been told, but he isn’t even sure what peanuts are, let alone how one gets butter from them.)

They smell wonderful, and he is intimately aware that he does not remember the last time that he ate.

(He has not desired to eat, has not been hungry, not the same way—hunger feels different now, eats at his bones but not his stomach, if his stomach is even in the same place, and it is so very easy to ignore).

“I meant to bring them by sooner,” Mrs. Jefferson informs him, setting down in her own chair with a cup of tea, “I just simply haven’t had the time.”

He blinks at her, unsure if he understands the implications (surely she did not make them to bring over, to him, a stranger and one with his… appearance, no less).

“Well go on, try one. It’s been ages since I made peanut butter cookies, I think I might have made them a touch too salty, but not like I can tell these days. You get to my age your taste buds just go right out the window.” She takes a sip of tea.

Having nothing else to do (wanting for something to do with his hands anyway), he takes one. They are thankfully not hot, not like the tea he carefully avoids, and they are soft to touch. They seem to have some sort of nut in them—perhaps, then, it is not so unlike almond paste, made from crushed almonds.

The cookie tastes as wonderful as it smells, more. It is sweet—he does not think he’s ever had anything so sweet (surely it is not sweetened with honey, which leaves the question of how it is sweetened), but more (better) is the salt. His mouth waters (embarrassingly), and he finishes the cookie perhaps a bit faster than polite (wants to lick the crumbs from his fingers like a child, chase the last of the salt, makes sure not to lose any of it)(is suddenly ravenous).

“They are quite perfect,” he tells her instead of making a fool of himself, reaching for the glass of milk (whole, she said, but he does not know what that means, either).

(Milk—he’d never much enjoyed it, before (when Aesir), but there’s something rich to it now, a different taste—a taste he most certainly has never tasted before, much as he had never tasted salt (feels like he has never truly tasted salt before this moment), and it is the first (only) thing he finds pleasing about his form, these new flavours that make things taste more. This is interesting and he can pretend it is new realms of experience no one else has ever explored, something purely his.)

It’s a pleasant enough way to pass the time, and she seems to have no expectation for him to do more than occasionally say yes or no (how ridiculous, that he finds this entertaining).

“Do you want some more milk, Luke?”

He starts (embarrassed)(did not mean to drink nor eat so quickly, but he still feels ravenous).

“No,” he says. He forces a smile, more honest this time, careful that it does not show his teeth. “Thank you. I should likely be getting back before… Natasha returns. I was not planning to be out so long.”

A few short moments later, he finds himself standing with a plate of cookies in hand, blinking in the hallway between the apartments and not entirely sure what to make of the little woman.

He was meant to be leaving this place.

(He cannot remember why. He feels… nearly relaxed, heavy from the milk and the cookies, feels as if he needs a long nap to recover from so little (how strange).)

He very nearly sets the cookies on the coffee table, then decides against it, taking them with him to the bedroom, setting them atop the dresser instead. No need for Agent Romanoff to be made aware of this little excursion out, certainly not as he decided to return after all (just for now; he will no doubt remember why he was leaving and change his mind once again). Besides, he has little desire to share them (he well remembers living with others).

There is some investigation of the ‘fridge’, but there is no milk—whole or otherwise, he certainly is curious about that—and he snorts. It likely spoils, it is clear enough this is not a place that is often lived in. An investigation of the cabinets yields a jar of peanut butter—'extra crunchy' (which means it has chunks of uncrushed peanuts in it—how pleasing)—and since he’s not entirely at the mercy of his stomach (yet), he also gets a spoon. On the notepad on the counter (“Just write what you want”), he adds milk, letters sharp and angular (how odd Midgardian script is with its curves). A moment, then he adds one of each next to it, because surely there cannot be that many milks, and he wishes to find out what the difference is between whole and all of these others. Then peanut butter and peanuts—surely the source of peanut butter is equally salty (thus equally satisfying).

Investigation complete, if partially failed (unfortunate), he heads back to the room with a newer book—a spy thriller that Romanoff left behind, fascinating enough and one he has not read yet—and proceeds to settle himself amidst the blankets, cookies and jar of peanut butter by his side, and (for the first time) feels content.

Stark certainly cut it close—she barely has half a day before she’ll be leaving. At least it’s enough time to drop off a wider range of supplies as well as the tech.

If she’s perfectly honest, Natasha isn’t entirely comfortable leaving town barely two weeks after Loki arrived, but it isn’t going to matter if she’s in town or not if Loki decides staying hidden isn’t in his best interests. The laptop will give him the wide world of the internet to roam and stay entertained, the phone an easy way for him to contact her as well as what looks to be a near endless source of music.

Because of course Stark decided that he might as well add as many bells and whistles as he could. She hadn’t expected anything less, including the not quite obvious tracking that she’d quickly disabled.

Loki isn't in the living room when she comes in. She sets the laptop bag on the couch, then heads to the kitchen with the handful of groceries she thinks might tempt him to eating. It's all educated guesses, extrapolating from what an ice realm might have for food, because she’s convinced Loki's change isn't just cosmetic no matter how Loki is acting like it is.

As she closes the fridge, she notices that the list she'd left out—that Loki had very much not added to, just like he hadn’t eaten the food she got the week prior—has been moved. She raises an eyebrow at it; sure enough, when she checks the jar of peanut butter is missing from the cabinets. She goes ahead and tears the page off, folding it and shoving it in her pocket—she should have enough time to pick these up before she leaves.

A quick check through the apartment shows Loki's in the bedroom—door left partially open and, when she looks, she can see one blue foot stretched past the bed in the floor. Asleep, probably; she leaves him alone.

She fully intended the trip to get Loki's list to be short. Absolutely. And it had been going quickly as she  grabbed a few jars of peanut butter and a can of peanuts.

The milk though.

One of each.

She very likely shouldn't have. It's going to be an absolute pain to get everything up to the apartment alone. Glancing in the rear view mirror though, she can't help but smile. He really should have known better.

When he wakes, he feels like he is waking from a coma, disoriented, all time sense lost (feels as if he has fallen through—), and pushes himself up, breath heavy and too hot.

A bedroom. Midgard. Romanoff's. He is in the floor, blankets pooling around his waist (not falling)(tries not to shudder); catches sight of blue skin (shudders anyway) and closes his eyes. The blankets are damp when he fumbles blindly over them (thinks they are, he still is unsure if what he perceives as wet and damp is actually so). His fingers brush against the book he was reading and he grasps it tightly.

He was reading. He fell asleep while he was reading.

(When did he last...? A child, surely, he does not remember; how he hates the way exhaustion steals over him now.)

He draws his legs close to him, gripping his shin with one hand tightly, realizes what he is doing—stops. Opens his eyes (empty, safe—no one to see), and does it again, pressing his face into his knees (allows himself to shake, shudder; forces himself to dwell-take in-move on—he fell once and it is done, he is caught in this form, he will survive)(how much easier said than done).

(he can learn to live with this, can and will--he is Loki and it takes more than.. more than his own skin to make him bow to Asgard's notion of justice.)

Eventually, he stands (forces himself to leave his shirt off, he cannot allow such weakness as the nausea that rolls through him mind and soul when he sees this now-skin).

Romanoff has been by—can smell the traces of her scent even if he lacks the words to name it. More, there are both a new phone and new computer set upon the coffee table, a note stuck to the laptop.

Rule 2: no making explosives

Well isn’t that curious, but he supposes it is a valid enough request. Careful, he opens the laptop and then laughs as he sees what she left up, deep and from the stomach.

A... website, she called it. A website detailing how to make explosives with apparently common household goods on Midgard. How utterly delightful. There is another note on the screen, next to the website:

I know you can, but don't. I actually like that apartment.

I left up several tabs that might interest you. There's music on the phone—Stark is nothing if not thorough. There's a charger for both in the outlet by the side table.

Amused (pleased, because this leaves plenty for him to investigate), he turns his attention to the phone. He can tell, already, that these items are made differently—they are warm to the touch and seem to have no vents or openings to them. A bit curiously, he remembers the last set (sparks irritation)—ice crawls across the surface, but, unlike the others, the device doesn’t sputter to a stop. Indeed, he dares speculate that it was designed with exposure to such ice in mind.

How clever.

(He wonders what she said to Stark to get this, uneasy and wary.)(Nothing. Romanoff is clever, likely nothing that references him, not if she truly wishes this place kept away, but what if—)

He pushes the thoughts aside, leaving both phone and laptop on the table and heading to the kitchen. Focuses on his curiosity, because if Natasha has been by there is some (small) chance she noticed the list, though he is unsure how long she was here.

(It makes him uncomfortable that he did not wake, compared to prior, when so little would wake him.)

Indeed she had—his list has been torn off, and instead her own curving script is on the paper, another of these little hints she has left that leave plenty for him to explore.

(As if she is aware what it is to be trapped in a single place. He is not sure if he is pleased or irritated)(ashamed he needs such entertainment—that is easy to push aside; new experiences are a kind of knowledge)

Peanuts and peanut butter are in the cabinet. Milk is in the fridge.

Excellent—he certainly is thirsty, and perhaps Midgard has goat's milk; he is curious how it will taste now. He opens the fridge, then stops, blinking and trying to process (mind goes silent).

He starts to laugh—more, deeper, harder than when he opened the laptop, so hard he must lean against the fridge, head resting against his forearm. Laughs so that even the sight of his skin cannot disturb his simple joy.

One of each—he should have known better. Jugs and cartons of various materials and labels, some brightly coloured and some not, side to side, across all the shelves and a few in the door. When he can finally manage to breathe, still smiling, he starts to sort through them—soy, whole, 2%, coconut, sheep’s, goat’s, strawberry—and has to stop, chuckling, because there are yet more.

(Oh, how clever and how amusing, and suddenly he does not mind so, that it is her that he has found himself with, does not regret his choice or her decision—he may later, but now, in this moment, he does not. He is too amused.)

Curious, he checks the freezer as well (almost disappointed), but while there is not milk there, there is another note, laid atop a carton. He pulls both out.

I was hoping you’d check here. This isn’t milk, but it’s made of it. Try it.

No, his decision to stay was not a poor choice at all.

Loki doesn't mention the milk to her, but when she drops by with yet another type--buffalo, a treat to track down--he smiles, honest and amused, almost childish glee bubbling at his edges.

"Still missing yak's milk," he tells her, lips twitching in the attempt at gravity.

Natasha nods, equally serious, and says, "Working on it."

Natasha can't say she’s surprised by the self-loathing or the volatility—she had observed both even with the first trip she got to meet him, before he started to live in her safe house.

She’s a touch more surprised the self-loathing doesn’t bother her more. It is, perhaps, one of the largest hurdles she had and has dealing with Stark; while it’s purely a result of her background, Natasha can’t help but feel it would be much more practical to set the self-loathing aside in favour of moving on. Pity it doesn’t work that way for the rest of the world.

Loki doesn’t quite manage her perspective, but she suspects it’s something he strives for, considering how absolutely stubbornly he’s still reading his book on the couch despite her arrival and his lack of shirt. He’s not looking up at her, his shoulders are tense and drawn in, mouth set in a thin line, but his voice at least does little to betray his tension.

“Enjoying the view?” he asks—she recalls him saying it earlier, and suspects she isn’t meant to.

“Yes,” she says, to see what he will do and because—if she’s perfectly honest—she does. Loki is all long limbs, but he still looks like liquid steel wrapped in flesh, panther-lithe instead of bear-broad. A predator.

Natasha is not ashamed to admit she has a type.

Loki looks up at her, scowling and brows drawn tight together; she catches sight of his muscles tensing in an aborted move to rise, and a little thrill of adrenaline runs through her veins.

“Do not mock me,” Loki says, a growl touching the edges of his voice—against his will, if how he suddenly goes silent and grows more agitated is any indication.

Natasha is also not ashamed to admit her type is a fairly active risk to her health.

“I’m not,” she says, moving to sit by him, watching how he can’t decide if he should draw away or threaten her. Oh this is far too interesting—she’s going to need to be careful. While this likely isn’t in her best interests, she keeps pushing, “You look dangerous.”

He keeps scowling, but he’s otherwise stilled so she won’t be able to get a read off what he will do until he does it—clever. He’s not quite so raw and open as he was two and a half weeks ago; even though she isn’t sure what he will do now, it makes her smile.

“It’s a compliment,” she tells him.

“Did you know,” he says silkily, “that on Asgard they tell stories of frost giants to scare children?” He smiles, tiny and vicious, eyes unchanged and the lines on his face all sharp angles. “I am well aware of how I look, Agent Romanoff.”

Natasha considers this, then shrugs, standing again.

“Good,” she says. “I expect you realize dangerous things are beautiful too, then.”

He blinks, the scowl vanishing, face markings returning to light curves, eyes widening slightly. He licks his lips, brief dart of pale over jewel blue, but he doesn’t say anything; his jaw just tightens a little, annoyed, threat of violence gone.

“Perhaps,” he says, and she smiles, because she’s starting to recognize the way Loki says perhaps is the way she shrugs to acknowledge a point.

She leaves him with his book and goes to get herself a drink and check the grocery list. Granted, other than milk and peanut butter, she’s yet to see anything else get added to it, but the moment she stops checking will be the moment Loki decides to throw a fit she isn’t looking.

There is more than enough to keep him entertained. Midgard feels vaster than when he first visited, and where once there were only tribes and thinly scattered kingdoms, now there may well be entire worlds, bursting with languages and culture and music enough that he could spend days studying.

Ants, he called them, but ants are not quite so fascinating.

Which leads to music (at first he attempts chronology, but time means so little)(instead leaps back, from one sound to another, tracing patterns, delighted and pleased to slowly strip away complexity to simplistic roots), to television, to books, to anything and everything, throws himself headfirst into the rich rush of it all (forgets, for a while, himself).

It is almost enough.

(almost)

(notes, in between breaths, splash of red (like his eyes)(some days the thought does not fill him with loathing), quick words and a clever mind that makes it all stop, for a spell—such a fascinating mind)

Except it is not. His bones feel as if they itch (not hunger, which is slowly driven distant ache), he cannot focus—words blur and twist and suggest other things, boredom slips and drips into the spaces. He steps outside, but the humidity feels like drowning and sticky autumn heat (unbearable) makes him want to return straight back to the (cage) apartment.

(and at the front of all is blue, blue that he sees in his peripheral, that he cannot stop seeing in his peripheral, so that even if he tries he cannot help but remember, mirrors or no—blue and red and monstrous)

“Luke, dear, how are you today?” Mrs. Jefferson asks, smiling—

a distraction

--and he says, “Bored,” says truth before he can stop himself.

“Is that so? Why don’t you come to the store with me? Just need to pick up some things for the shelter, I have a few coupons, be a waste not to help someone with them.”

Amazing, how quickly everything turns to silence, united in (terror) common purpose to avoid being seen. He very nearly scowls at her and her suggestion, except she seems to recognize his tension before he even has chance to react.

“Not that you have to, I know it is—well I don’t, can’t presume to at any rate, but nevermind that—how it is going out in this society. Things have been a bit better since those X-Men and that Xavier have come along, but still not enough done if you ask me. If you’d rather, you can come over for some tea—no, not tea, you didn’t even touch your cup last time, milk, wasn’t it?—and board games if you need a distraction.” She smiles at him, gentle and kind and sincere (he cannot stop staring at her).

(thinks of staying, thinks of pacing endlessly, thinks how he has no desire to sit, how his bones itch—

thinks of blue skin, thinks of paler lines that curve across his flesh, his face—

He shakes himself. He is Loki, he is a prince—fallen though he may be—and is he not trying to deal with his now-skin? Intended to be cowed, he reminds himself, and smiles at Mrs. Jefferson (he will not be cowed, he will not, he is Loki and he is Jotun and he will continue to be so for the foreseeable future. He always was)

“A trip out would not be so bad,” he tells her, and she smiles, pats his forearm, genuinely pleased by his acceptance of her offer.

Such a strange little woman.

(And when they pass by another resident on their way to her car, he does not allow his shoulders to draw in, does not allow himself to lower his eyes, does not allow himself to flinch though everything in him wishes it.

He will not allow himself to be used against himself.)

I am bored.

Natasha eyes the text for a few minutes, refraining from rolling her eyes.

She can’t say that she’s opposed to Loki being marginally less… cold, fine, cold, she’s only human, it’s a joke worth making. Which is not to say that Loki is always pleasant—far from.

It makes her skin crawl.

Then do something, she texts him back.

Not that Loki friendly is bad. Logically, she is fully aware why Loki would be friendlier, or at least attempting civility on the days when he is decidedly not—the joke with the milk went over far better than she expected.

Too hot and this time she does roll her eyes.

She’s going to need to stop by again soon, because—yet one more reason she finds him interesting, one more reason she enjoys his company—Loki is restless, constantly; an incredibly intelligent panther that, when not sleeping, needs to have something happening, and she is very rarely bored because of it.

It’s no wonder he tried to take over the world, if he fell through a void like Thor claims. He probably went half mad just from the sheer dullness of the fall.

By the time she does arrive, Loki’s asleep.

Specifically, Loki is asleep on the couch.

He doesn’t wake up—she is beginning to acclimate to that, that he doesn’t wake at the slightest noise like she would expect. No, it looks like he fell asleep in the middle of three or four tasks. Like he was drugged.

She cases the entire apartment, but the only one who has definitively been here is Loki; while Loki has been getting more comfortable with being seen, she highly doubts that would include a total stranger breaking in.

She frowns at where Loki is very much still asleep on the couch, one foot hanging off and—at this point—face down and wrapped around one of the throw pillows. At least Stark makes his things sturdy—the laptop appears to be fine despite having fallen to the floor whenever it was Loki rolled over. Other than the laptop, there’s no sign of any struggle. It’s… odd.

"Loki."

He doesn't stir.

"Loki," she says again, louder. That at least gets a muffled noise as he rubs his face against the pillow, but he goes still right after.

“Loki,” she says, a third time, mildly irritated, and reaches out to shake his shoulder.

Mistake—she can tell as soon as she touches him.

Loki practically explodes into motion, and the skin beneath her hand goes from pleasantly cool to blisteringly cold—keeps going; she tries to pull back, but Loki tracks and follows the motion, a hand lashing out to pin her by the throat, ice taking shape across his skin. Not good; she forces herself to relax while he stares at her for a few long minutes, red eyes wide and still not entirely awake. She is going to get frostbite if he doesn’t let go.

“Loki, it’s Natasha,” she says, calm, keeping herself limp. He blinks, slow and heavy, then the burning cold eases up so it’s just cold and not health risk. There’s no recognition, not quite, so she adds, “Romanoff.”

“Romanoff,” he echos, still blinking, then his eyes wander to the plate of cookies by the table. “Have a cookie,” he says, hand dropping. Peace offering, she realizes. An incredibly exhausted peace offering.  His eyes are still on her, even if they’re unfocused, so she grabs one of the peanut butter cookies she’s gotten used to always seeing near him.

She makes herself not spit it out, because it’s salty enough it might have been soaked in the ocean and sweet enough her teeth want to curl up in self-defense.

The single bite and her polite ‘thank you’ is enough to soothe the upset, and his eyes start to droop closed again, resting his head on his forearms despite the awkward position and the fact she’s right there.

Interesting.

“Loki.”

“Nnn.” His eyes slip partially open for a moment, bright red slivers against blue skin, then close.

“Go to bed. You’re going to be irritated if you wake up like this.”

She almost thinks Loki fell asleep again, but then he twists and slides the rest of the way to the floor—nearly landing on the laptop—before starting to push himself to his feet.

Which is exactly as far as he gets before he’s asleep again, half curled up on the floor.

Natasha puts both the cookie and laptop on the table, considering what to do next. She’s not going to be moving him—he’s far too heavy, to start, and he’s not staying awake long enough to even begin to help. He’ll be irritated later, undoubtedly, because he’ll assume she saw him like this since he’s fallen asleep in the living room. Irritating, since there’s nothing she can do to avoid it, and Loki is easier to deal with when he isn’t overly antagonistic to hide his own weaknesses.

She grabs a blanket and spare pillow out of the closet. The pillow she leaves by his head; the blanket, she tosses over him. He doesn’t need it, she knows he doesn’t, but he seems to like them.

That done, she turns her attention to the plate of cookies. Half gone, if she counts her cookie she most certainly won’t be finishing; she’s half-curious if he’s actually eaten anything besides them lately. Just over a month of this diet; it makes her curious if malnutrition is part of his problem. A month to show effects—interesting, and it raises some questions on how quickly he’s processing food, how long it takes to build up.

She checks on Loki again—still asleep, and this time doesn’t even twitch when she touches him.

The fact that his mind doesn’t classify her as threat enough to stay awake, she files away. Perhaps not an entirely useless visit after all.

“Do you actually eat anything other than peanut butter and cookies?” she asks a week and a half later, mild interest turned to actual concern at how often she’s found him asleep and unwell.

Not that she should be concerned, but explaining to Thor that his younger brother died of malnutrition isn’t a task she particularly wants when Thor finally decides he’s tired of giving Loki space and goes looking for.

“What does it matter?” Loki replies, not looking up from the flash game that’s apparently caught his interest—momentarily—on the laptop. True to form, a jar of peanut butter is next to him. Extra crunchy, which seems to be his favourite; Natasha will admit that he at least has taste. “Frost giants can eat anything,” he adds after a few seconds delay, one brow dipping in concentration.

Natasha rolls her eyes though he’s not watching her.

“Just because you aren’t dead now doesn’t mean you won’t be later. You can’t survive off cookies, peanut butter, and milk.”

“I dare say you sound like you care.”

Natasha watches him—it’s interesting how different he sounds when he’s relaxed, when he’s not paying attention, how words are multifaceted when filtered through him. Another time, his statement would be an attack; now, it’s only an observation.

Careful, she reminds herself. He isn’t that interesting.

“You’ll get sick,” Natasha points out. “Last I checked, we don’t have many doctors that can help if you get sick.”

“Or anyone who even knows anything about frost giants,” he adds, tongue poking out slightly and brow dipping further in concentration.

Natasha stares at him.

“Damn,” he says, leaning back, disappointed frown crossing his features. He glances over at her, blinking. “Yes?”

“Do you actually know anything about frost giants?”

His brows furrow in confusion as he replays the last few moments of conversation back, then grimaces. Natasha crosses her arms, entirely unimpressed.

“I know how to kill them,” he offers. “I would hardly say that Asgard was ever particularly… friendly with Jotunheim. Certainly no diplomatic meetings when I was a child.”

“So you don’t actually know if you can survive off a diet of milk, peanut butter, and cookies. In fact, I’d think you can’t, considering the way you keep falling asleep.”

If she weren’t annoyed with him for pretending a knowledge he doesn’t seem to have, she’d find how put-out he looks amusing. As is, she wants to swat him upside the head.

“Fine,” he huffs. “I will endeavor to eat more than cookies, peanut butter, and milk.”

“Like fish.”

“Like fish,” he says, disdainful.

“You were a picky eater as a child, weren’t you?”

“I was no such thing. I simply had taste. I would hardly count fish among the finer things in life.”

“Then why did you tell me fish when I asked you before?” she asks, exasperated.

He shrugs.

“Jotunheim is an ocean world primarily covered in frost. Like that moon around one of your planets, which is it? You give them so many names. I imagine most life is in said water. It was certainly not above ground when we… visited.”

Natasha raises an eyebrow.

“Aren’t you meant to be the one always studying?”

“I had better things to do than study Jotnar,” Loki sneers. “Barely better than beasts.”

Natasha raises an eyebrow, makes a point of drawing her gaze down his form, then back up to his face; his neck and cheeks have both stained a darker blue, mouth a thin line and shoulders drawn tight and very much not taking his gaze off her. Just in case he catches sight of his own skin most likely.

“But you know how to kill them.”

“Yes.”

“And if I recall correctly, Asgard had quite the war with them. Thor mentions it from time to time.”

If possible, Loki tenses even more, jaw twitching as he grinds his teeth together.

“Yes,” he spits.

She could, very easily, hurt him. She probably should—her offer for Loki to stay here did not include being kind to him, no matter what she’s said of hospitality to get his cooperation or the actions she’s taken to keep him from boredom. A Loki who accepts himself and doesn’t twitch any time someone looks at him is one that promises to be more dangerous; she has firsthand knowledge that what doesn’t kill a person makes them stronger. Yet Loki is interesting, and for all his occasional distemper, she has found herself amused and fond more often than not.

“You regard Asgardians as the highest of the realms. Defenders?”

“Get to your point, Romanoff.”

“Frost giants can’t be quite so beastly if the highest realm in the lands thought them a threat, can they? That requires thought, planning, flourishing on an ice planet. They wouldn’t have lasted particularly long in a war against Asgardians if they weren’t clever, considering they aren’t quite as strong as them physically—supposing Thor’s stories are anything to go by.”

“That doesn’t—“

“And there’s you,” she says smoothly, ignoring his interruption. His teeth audibly click as he shuts his mouth. “Clever enough to talk his way from the other end of the universe and nearly take over a realm with a half-cocked planned and resources gathered on site.”

Loki stays quiet for a moment.

“What do you want from me?” he asks.

Natasha shrugs.

“I don’t want anything. Maybe help me figure out what we’re eating for dinner.”

He looks away, down at his hand, eyes tracing complex lines neither of them know the meaning of. Natasha waits.

“I,” he finally says, “can assist with that.”

There is power in knowledge.

Unlike, say, Thor (an entirely random example), Loki is not one to mock the creation of new words in order to describe things. Knowledge is power, and words are just one of a host of methods to contain it. Knowing has perhaps always been a particular flaw of his (wanting to know).

Midgard—Earth—has so very much knowledge.

(He is not afraid to say that he was, perhaps, mistaken; that he perhaps based too much of his knowledge of them upon distant observation. He certainly never knew of their webs of communication they have spun as finely as an invisible spell around their realm—how quickly they communicate (almost so quick as he thinks))

Midgard—Earth—has so many words; he sorts through them, parses, adds to his collection, adds to what he knows. He thinks

(how long has it been since he had time to think instead of react?)

and in truth it is thinking that he is mostly doing, until he finally does not wish to think anymore, requires some thing (one) else to distract him. Natasha had a fair point—Asgard has never felt a need to war with a realm that wasn’t a worthy opponent—and if he will make sure his skin is not used against him, he needs to find some way to accept that he is, in fact, Jotnar. That this will not end, that he will always be this beneath what glamours he casts when he has his magic once more.

(thinks about words—racism, internalization, colonialism, oppression—and how they transfer and how they don’t and tries-tries-tries to understand (to not flinch when he looks at himself, to quell the immediate threat that still comes to mind first instead of this is myself)(to find the worth in that which is not Aesir))

And if it takes time to understand the knowledge—well, hasn’t it always?

(Except for someone (her), maddening, because she has not betrayed him, not given him over. Because she is fascinating and he does not know why.)

(because instead of taking his weakness and twisting it more, she pushed and suggested another way, gave a reminder of what he had not considered)

(Perhaps touch? Warmth, which feels nearly too hot. Not that she touches, but he remembers, half-dream (all haze), that she did (was he falling asleep?), hands not soft, no (she is far too active for that (is that why?)), but touch and she did not flinch (he doesn’t remember—it is all so distant), he did not hurt her, and there was warmth part of him longed to curl around for no other reason than it felt safe.)

(that can’t be it, it can’t only be touch (her hair, red, like fire, like his eyes, a twisted up merging of trying to approve of himself and doing it through others who share the hue even if just with their hair) and he cuts himself, distracted, trying to decide what it is (words, words, clever quick words that trip him, drag him back, that create order from the chaos but an order that does not strangle, one that feels like silence)—snaps back to what he’s doing and shoves the thoughts (her) away angrily)

“Are you okay?” she asks and he forces a smile.

“Just a scratch,” he assures her and watches blue blood slick over his finger. Hesitates, then tastes it--salt, thick, sweet, cool. Another difference (remembers hot, particular taste of iron, red, but that is not his now, will not be again).

“Bandages are in the cabinet,” she says, not noticing (not commenting, she does that, he has realized, does not focus her attention without thought).

(Perhaps that is it.)

“So who are you seeing?”

Natasha doesn’t bother looking up from cleaning her gun. Actually focuses more on cleaning the gun, letting her movements slow and grow more methodical, considering the question and all its implications.

“Or don’t answer. That’s cool. Probably some criminal mastermind.”

“Are you jealous?” she finally asks, looking up at him.

Clint looks entirely unimpressed with her. The corner of her mouth twitches up before she can control it.

“Of course not,” she says at the same time as him, and he grins.

“But you are seeing someone.”

“According to you.”

“Sneaks up on you, doesn’t it?” he says; he sounds wistful, fond, and Natasha wonders what exactly he’s talking about for a moment.

“Who are you seeing?” she asks, because Clint doesn’t talk relationships without a reason.

“No one,” he says, grinning. “You’ve just seemed happier lately. I wouldn’t mind meeting him.”

You have, Natasha thinks but she doesn’t say.

“Maybe one day,” she says, returning her attention to the gun.

This is a problem. Keeping Loki contained and her safe house secret were the primary objectives. They still are, but there’s more that’s crept in while she wasn’t paying attention—salt caramels and movies and the particular satisfaction of Loki’s unmitigated joy. This is not how one is meant to interact and maintain distance.

She’s let her guard down. Not difficult—Loki is interesting.

She could feasibly get rid of the vulnerability, but she has, in general, attempted to do that less since she met Clint and took his offer. She does not need to eradicate all weaknesses anymore, reinvent herself every time she begins to form relationships. This means that occasionally she gets hurt, but ultimately she’d rather the reminders that she’s human.

But this is Loki--there’s a conversation that needs to be had foremost before she decides one way or the other.

That afternoon, she arrives unannounced. Loki’s head turns from where he’s on the couch, notes her despite the television, the music, and whatever is on the laptop. It sounds like a mess to her, but she recognizes that less would likely leave him bored and, in turn, more apt to do something catastrophic.

“Romanoff,” he says, voice warm if a touch surprised, and he does not flinch as she looks at him. Good; he’s in a good mood. He’ll be both more tractable and easier to manage when his temper makes an appearance. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

He’s not an idiot; he’s being polite without sarcasm. She usually tells him when she’s stopping by.

“We need to have a talk,” Natasha says. She takes her jacket off, more to make a point than because she wants to—Loki gets grouchy if the temperature gets above sixty Fahrenheit and it’s just on this side of uncomfortable for her. She throws it over the arm of the couch and he actually does move so she can sit down, setting aside the laptop, turning things down or off entirely and focusing on her as he gestures for her to sit.

“Why the attack?” she asks.

“Why not?” he asks, grinning even as the corners of his eyes tighten. “Power, a realm under my control—tell me, what is there not to enjoy?”

“Stop being coy. We both know that wasn’t the reason—you were as convinced you wanted power as I’m convinced I’m still a professional ballet dancer.”

“Why do you wish to know?”

“I need to know the likelihood of you trying it again.”

The smile drops, his face going blank as his eyes search over her features carefully. Natasha does not move, allows the examination and allows him to take his time to respond.

“This did not matter when I first arrived.”

“Circumstances change. I half-expected to come by and find you dead when you first started to stay here.”

“And since I seem to be handling things so well, naturally now would be the time to ask, would it not?” He bares his teeth.

“That is some of it.” Natasha does not give him the pleasure of reacting to his aggression.

“At least you are honest,” he says, face relaxing again to stillness, eyes focusing just past her head. “How novel. And the rest, if that is not your only reason?”

“Answer the question first.”

“I was bored and unhappy and I had few other avenues open to me to return to this part of the universe. I saw an opportunity and I took it.” He gives her a thin, crooked smile. “Unless the opportunity presents itself once more, I have little desire to conquer your realm, Romanoff. Fear not. Ruling has never particularly been one of my designs, no matter what Thor may tell you.”

Natasha considers this. It sounds true, though there is still plenty that could be hidden under such a broad response. More certain is that he sounds more rueful than anything, self-deprecating.

“I find you interesting,” Natasha says, and, before he can say anything, based off how his brow just furrowed, she adds, “Why Clint?”

That halts his question.

“Is this,” he asks, voice silky and eyes lazy, “the moment you ask if I regret my actions, Agent Romanoff?”

“No. You saying that you feel bad or not has very little value to me—you know just as well as me how to put on a pretty face and pretend. Your guilt isn’t relevant to this conversation.”

“Fascinating. Very well—I chose him because he was convenient, and he stood up once more. Dedication is valuable during an invasion and Barton has it in spades.”

“And why you let him go?”

Loki freezes, shoulders stiff and eyes wide. Natasha allows herself a smile that does not touch her eyes.

“Don’t tell me he served his purpose,” she says. “He would have been an asset after the hellicarrier incident; I’m not blind to how good a soldier Clint is.”

“Do you know what it is to unmake someone? To take all of a man and direct it to one goal, above all the things that he most values?” Loki pauses, licks his lips and eyes searching before looking to meet her own gaze again. “Barton had—has—great dedication. Heart, I believe I said. Even directing him as I did did little to change that.” He attempts to shrug, but the motion is aborted, face serious. “I repay kindnesses, Romanoff, most especially when they were given despite all directive indicating to do otherwise.”

“You were doing him a favour.”

“I was making sure he did not break, and that there was a Barton left to recover,” Loki corrects. The distinction between the two is not lost on her.

Natasha considers for a moment, then nods.

“Thank you,” she says. “I’m glad that was all it was.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“Well, considering how slapdash the rest of your planning was, I couldn’t be sure you letting him go wasn’t part of it,” she says, grinning in truth, and he smiles back, amused.

“Not my best work, I admit.”

“Lucky for us.”

“Yes,” he says, voice quiet and a touch full of wonder, “lucky for us indeed.”

He is caught (fascinated), because there was an honest conversation that did not devolve into anger and spite (feeling lesser), because she believes him (never mind it is true, what he said of his reasoning, she believes without him having to prove it), because what walls she had been keeping up are less because because because—

Absolutely maddening because he does not know why.

"Look," Loki says, finding her in the kitchen, carrying the laptop. "Stop cooking for a moment, this is amusing." He's bouncing on his feet, staying just out of range of the warmth of the stove. Natasha raises an eyebrow at him, because as flimsy excuses go he's done better. "I don't know why you insist on cooking," he adds, almost a complaint.

She snorts, checking to make sure nothing looks like it's in danger of burning before joining him. It's not about what he wants to show, though she will admit it's amusing enough for a cat video.

Even expecting it, his touch is a shock after the heat off the stove, making her flinch before she catches herself. Loki tenses, though his attention for all intents seems to still be on the video and he’s still half-smiling.

“Cute,” Natasha says, stepping away from him but brushing a hand against his wrist before he can do the same. He shrugs her off as his shoulders relax; she hides her smile.

Touch. Constant little touches which she isn’t quite sure how to place or what she said to make them acceptable, pretended accidental brush of skin to skin. It’s not like Loki is explaining himself, though she suspects it may have to do with getting used to himself from how he’ll withdraw or flinch if she reacts in a way that seems negative.

There’s no harm it, at least not more than there is in a Loki who doesn’t despises himself.

“What are you making?” he asks, settling by the doorway to the kitchen.

“I thought you didn’t care about what I’m making.”

“I said I do not know why you insist on cooking. It’s unbearably hot.” He glares at her like it’s her fault, but then his attention is snagged by the laptop again. Another reason she suspects touch is more for his own sake than it is anything else—he’s been making a point of actually vocalizing traits very much tied to his being a frost giant. At least it’s led to figuring out his diet, slow digestion and all; it took nearly a week from when he stopped eating only peanut butter and milk to stop drifting off.

It’s… odd. Not unwelcome, but unusual. She wouldn’t have thought the Loki who showed up that night would ever be at such a point, yet here he is; more, she doesn’t feel like she needs to police her own interest and investment in his actually managing to get a handle on himself since they spoke about the invasion. If anything, she admires him for his efforts—she always has had a soft spot for survivors, particularly when the odds were entirely against them—and kept an eye out for small things she can do to at least support him.

Like touching him back when he initiates and the coolness startles her.

“Cookies,” she says, laughing out right when his head snaps up to look at her. “Careful, I’m going to start to think you have a weakness.”

He stares at her for a few moments, lips pressed tight, then the corner of his mouth goes up and he sniffs, haughty and ridiculous.

“As if any would believe you. A god with a weakness for cookies.”

“They’re chocolate chip with sea salt,” Natasha says, checking the oven as the timer goes over.

“They aren’t peanut butter.” His voice is dismissive, but she catches a note of disappointment underneath.

“There’s more to life than peanut butter.”

He sniffs like he doesn’t quite believe her, but when the cookies are finally cool enough for him to eat, half the batch is gone before she realizes.

Loki isn’t at the apartment when she arrives. The cash she gave him—he’s been on a sushi kick—and the laptop are both still in the apartment. So are all of his clothes, including what he originally arrived in, so she doesn’t think he’s gone for good.

It still raises the question of where he is now.

She hears talking and people on the walkway outside; one of them sounds like it could be Loki.

Natasha pauses a moment to take in what she’s seeing—Loki, with a few cloth totes, and a woman who is at least two inches shorter than Natasha herself, older. Loki is attentive, focused on the little old woman who—apparently—lives next door. Jefferson, Natasha thinks; that tenant hasn’t changed since she originally got this place.

“Out for some shopping?” she asks, crossing her arms and leaning against the doorframe. Loki looks up, the almost… gentle cast of his face going entirely blank, mouth ticking down before opening his mouth to speak.

“Everyone needs to go out sometime, stretch their legs, especially someone quite so tall as Luke, isn’t that right, dear?” Jefferson says, casual and sweet and entirely silencing Loki, but Natasha is not totally oblivious to the way she settles herself between Natasha and Loki. When she glances up, she catches Loki looking at the older woman, too.

“Yes,” Loki says when it’s clear that both the women are waiting on a response. He looks at Natasha, smiles without his eyes, but his shoulders have drawn in slightly. He’s worried—Natasha isn’t sure she doesn’t blame him.

Him going out was never part of the agreement. Even discounting few people would recognize him at a glance now, he’s still Loki and, if anything, calls more attention to himself with his blue skin and the pale lines sweeping over his flesh.

Not to mention the eyes. Even if they weren’t red, Loki has a distinctive glare.

“I see.” She keeps any inflection out of her voice, not looking away from Loki.

“You must be Natasha,” Jefferson says, keys jangling loudly in her door before she pushes it open, drawing Natasha’s attention back to her. “Luke’s told me quite a bit about you. You know, you’ve had this place all this time and I don’t believe we’ve ever met. Luke, why don’t you go set the bags down in the kitchen?” She holds one hand out for Natasha to shake. “Mrs. Jefferson, dear.”

Loki doesn’t protest, just gives Natasha one last look before smiling at Jefferson—Mrs. Jefferson apparently—and disappearing into the old woman’s apartment, leaving the two of them out on the walkway.

“A pleasure to meet you,” Natasha says, taking the offered hand, pausing when Mrs. Jefferson doesn’t immediately let go.

“Now I’m sure you’ve known him much longer than me, Natasha, but I just want to make it very clear to you that Luke is a perfectly well-behaved gentleman when we go out. And you’re doing him a lovely turn, from what little he’s been willing to say.” Mrs. Jefferson smiles, sweet, but her grip tightens slightly on Natasha’s hand and the edges of her eyes go tight. “I promise you’ll be very sorry if you upset him over this, because these trips out do far more good for him than whatever safety you both think he needs hiding in your apartment.” She squeezes Natasha’s hand again, then pats it, letting go and stepping back as Loki arrives outside once more.

Natasha blinks at Mrs. Jefferson, genuinely surprised, amused, and--if she’s honest--concerned. Perhaps she hasn’t shaken her irrational fear of little old grandmothers being capable of cursing people after all.

“It should all be put away,” Loki says, head tilted so he can keep Natasha in his peripheral.

“Thank you, Luke. You have a lovely evening now.” Mrs. Jefferson smiles at Natasha again, looking at her when she adds, “You let me know if you need anything at all, you hear?”

Loki actually does look at Natasha, then back to Mrs. Jefferson before a smile curls his lips, an eyebrow raising in amusement.

“Of course,” he assures her.

“You go grocery shopping,” Romanoff says, deadpan, as soon as the apartment door closes.

(He wishes, very deeply, he had not gone with Mrs. Jefferson, not today, but restlessness clawed beneath his skin, left him feeling caged.)

“What, did you expect I allow myself to stay here all day? I am a god, Romanoff, not a pet.”

“And what’s your plan if someone recognizes you? You know just as well as me how easy it is to find your face—you’ve used that before.”

He forces a smile--bares his teeth--because he has seen himself in the mirror (begun to make habit of it).

“Because I am sure you pathetic mortals are expecting to see me as I look now, blue skin and all? Your race is hardly so observant and have short memories, Romanoff, else they would have noticed long ago.”

(A little late, to lie now, as the words pass his lips, but he does not care, not even slightly.)

“How long have you been doing this?”

He shrugs (forces casualness through his frame), idle, studying black nails and whorls of white that twine complex across his hands (patterns he suspects, more and more, mean something), then says “A month since I began to stay? I am no longer quite sure. Time passes so quickly on your realm.”

He glances up, catches Natasha’s mouth tightening, knuckles going white slightly where her arms are crossed, blinks.

(Truly?)

“You worry,” he says, and does nothing to hide his disbelief.

(If she worries, then perhaps, perhaps—

(no, he does not care, no matter how fascinating she is, he does not—

“It’s not just you endangered when you do that. I’m the one giving you a place to stay, or do you keep forgetting that?”

He laughs (of course not, of course she is only concerned with herself, isn’t that the way of things?).

“You think I would tell them where I have hidden myself away?”

“I would plan for it, yes. Whether you would or not would depend on you, wouldn’t it?” She tilts her head (feels as if she is examining his every secret) and he smiles at her thinly.

“You said if I were unhappy I could leave.”

She nods, eyebrow raised and waiting on him to continue (oh how he adores her, how she does not interrupt, how she knows he has a point to make).

“You did not say I could not return. And I have, have I not?” He tilts his own head, mirrors hers, lazy smile on his face. “I was discontent, left, and then I returned when I was no longer discontent.”

She frowns at him, then shakes her head, letting her arms drop and walking past him towards the kitchen.

“Fine,” she says, but she’s smiling, slightly, and his own grows more sincere for it. “Fine. Just be careful.”

“How long has it been?” he asks.

“Then keep being careful. I’d rather not need to come bail you out.”

He lets his smile grow to a grin, pleased.

(Perhaps….)

He is thinking, watching as Mrs. Jefferson debates between this or that cereal, wondering how much longer he will be able to venture out (the weather, only the weather--it is growing warm; the memory of his invasion is distant, fogged further by the skin he wore then that reacts nothing like his own skin; even so he remembers heat) before he will be bound to (wonders of mortals) the air-conditioned apartment.

(Wonders if he will go stir-crazy in such a small space)

He is thinking, and there are people, and while some look at him, he ignores them (that, that is easier now; will he forget what it is to roam like this, after staying indoors for the summer?). He is thinking, trailing after Mrs. Jefferson, and so does not quite catch what is said when someone passes him, does not care (because he did not hear).

But Mrs. Jefferson does, head snapping to look at the young man who made the comment in question, and it stirs his focus away from his thoughts. It must not have been particularly pleasant, whatever was said.

“Young man, you apologize right this instant,” Mrs. Jefferson says with all the authority she has--which is quite an amount, Loki has found.

(Not for the first time, he marvels a little (and resents)(mostly marvels) that she is so ready to defend, nearly charming in her steadfastness.)

The young man stops, frowning at her, eyes flicking to Loki; Loki smiles, lazy, but more relevant, he thinks, is defusing the situation. No need to draw attention.

"No need for any of that," he says, generously enough, smile charming and toothless.

"But Luke--"

"Mrs. Jefferson," Loki interrupts, still smiling and finding her need to defend decidedly less charming.

"You should listen to your pet monster."

(Monster.)

His smile drops.

Loki regards the young man flatly, taking a step towards him. The young man doesn't step back--admirable--just tilts his chin up slightly and refuses to look away.

"They shouldn't let freaks like you out in public."

This time, when he smiles, there are teeth (teeth he knows are too sharp for a human mouth).

"Is that so?" Loki asks, polite and mild.

"Luke," Mrs. Jefferson says at his side, a too hot hand at his wrist. "Don't do anything to prove the young man's point."

"He doesn't actually believe what he's saying. Do you?"

“Sure I do. I wouldn’t have said it otherwise.”

“No,” Loki corrects, “you do not.”

“Luke,” Mrs. Jefferson repeats, insistent, then yelps, letting go of his wrist. He barely notices, shoving the man against the aisle with one hand, crowding his space, smile vanishing. Ice spreads across blue skin, follows the pale lines on his hand to the young man’s shirt, branching out into snowflake fractals.

“You see, if you did, in fact, think me a monster—something to fear—you would not provoke. You would duck your head and hurry past, because monsters do not care for your petty social norms that keep them from harming you in broad daylight.” Loki smiles, bright and charming, pulling the man’s chin up with one fingertip. “So do you believe me a monster?”

“No,” the man says, voice shivering.

Loki tilts his head, considers him, but he keeps smiling, allows it to touch his eyes.

“You are lying. How charming.” He steps back, lets go, ice melting away. “Yet I think you may have learned something quite valuable today.” Any friendliness to his demeanor vanishes, voice hard and cold and regal, eyes flat. “Do not forget it. Not all monsters are so kind as I. Now apologize to her for upsetting her shopping trip.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am.”

“Very good.” Loki steps fully out of the man’s space, turns his attention to Mrs. Jefferson (ignores how she is looking at him), entirely dismisses the young man from existence. “Shall we?” he asks Mrs. Jefferson, forcing himself to meet her eyes (bubbling beneath, twisting and nauseous and roiling, look at what I am).

She studies him, then the man that Loki is ignoring. She nods.

“I’ve almost got the whole list, shouldn’t be too much more, dear,” she says, and she smiles.

(He very nearly startles when her hand touches his elbow, not just for warmth but for the contact, the lack of hesitation.)

It doesn’t occur to him until they are in her car, on the way back to the apartments, how utterly stupid it was of him to react as he did in public in a store where he is well aware there are security feeds, knowing as he does how poorly people take to those who appear mutant. He snaps back from his mild discomfort with how Mrs. Jefferson has proceeded to act as if he did little wrong (mild disapproval at his methods, but not him) and shudders, hands gripping tight in the cloth of his pants until his knuckles go white as they once were.

“Are you alright, Luke?”

“Fine,” he says, short, because there is less for his voice to shake on.

(Idiot, imbecile—why, because someone called him what he has always known he is? Someone who had the courage to say, at least until he proved to them what the word means. Not as if he has honour left to defend, as if any would think him less for allowing the insult—no one here of Asgard to know--)

 “You,” Mrs. Jefferson says, interrupting the flow of his thoughts, “look like you have a case of nerves. Why don’t you come in and have a drink, dear?”

He frowns a bit at her diagnosis.

“I have nothing of the sort.”

“Of course not. I’ll get you a drink and you can tell me all about the nerves you don’t have. It will be very relaxing, bit early in the day, but with how exciting this morning was it won’t hurt a thing.”

“Very well,” Loki says, but when they arrive back, he follows her inside her home, sits where she points on the couch covered in lace things he isn’t sure have a name but she seems always to be making, and waits patiently while she busies herself in the kitchen (does not think of keep being careful, does not think of Natasha at all, of disappointment and irritation and how very surely he has jeopardized—). Mrs. Jefferson comes back with a mug he eyes a bit warily, but it isn’t steaming and isn’t warm to the touch when he takes it from her.

“You do drink, don’t you?” she asks, not quite letting go of the mug yet.

That makes him smile, once he realizes what she is actually asking.

“Yes,” he tells her, but he appreciates the warning nevertheless.

“Oh excellent. My husband, he used to abstain himself, you know. Did terrible things to his temper, he thought it was much better to not drink at all. Ahead of his time, still is, the state of the world today. Do you not like it, Luke?”

“It’s quite interesting,” he says, because Loki cannot tell if he likes it or not. It’s so strangely bitter—coffee, he thinks—and the alcohol is there, he can taste it, but it tastes… different than what he can recall. Almost an absence of flavour, but he spares examining that more in favour of the cream he can taste, running through it all, that makes the coffee near bearable. “Enjoyable, at the least, for that alone.”

“Such a dear,” she says, smiling and crows printing the corners of her eyes—he can’t help but smile back, a little easier than he was.

She’s waiting on Clint, reading in the common area. They’re meant to be getting lunch, and with him late he’s either got himself stuck in one of the air ducts again—which would be entirely his own fault—or there’s a work-related emergency. She’s beginning to lean towards the former, considering she hasn’t gotten a call at all, when he comes in.

“Hey, Natasha,” he says with a tired smile.

“Tony set more traps in the air ducts?”

“Ha-ha. No. Work.”

She raises an eyebrow, but even with the Avengers, it’s not uncommon for them to not be privy to the various SHIELD related tasks they both still have. She isn’t expecting an answer, not really.

“Mutant incident got passed all the way up the chain.”

“I didn’t hear anything about Magneto and friends being in town.”

“Yeah, that’s because they probably aren’t. Looks like Loki almost.”

Natasha doesn’t miss a step as they head for the elevator.

“Looks like? Do you not think it’s him?”

“He’s not blue.” Clint shrugs. “No one got hurt, there weren’t any speeches about ruling. Face matches, at least what we can tell of it. Grocery security cameras aren’t what I’d call high tech, though they’re better than they were. Intel’s doing more digging, but I think it’s just a scare. You remember how many Loki reports we got right after the invasion?”

“You would know best,” Natasha says. “Did you make up your mind what you want to eat?”

It’s exactly three hours and twenty four minutes before Natasha can, without raising any suspicion, duck out to at least call Loki. She pauses as she pulls out her phone—three texts, all from Loki’s number, which read apologies, did you kno, and stupid, in that order. There’s also one missed call, but no voicemail.

There’s no one around to see her eyebrows shoot up.

She calls him, not entirely sure if she expects him to answer, breathing a sigh of relief when he does.

“I need to move yo—“

“So that’s how that works, I was right,” he says, oblivious, smug and slurring—actually slurring—over the phone.

“Are you drunk?” she asks, momentarily forgetting what she was going to say.

“Possible,” he says. “Not entirely sure. Can’t feel my tongue.”

“Why are you drinking? Where did you even get alcoho—. You hung up on me.” She stares at the phone again. Well then.

She’s relieved, when she arrives, that Loki is, in fact, still in the apartment. She’d hazard a guess that he got the alcohol from Mrs. Jefferson—car conveniently not in the lot, which suggests she ran out before Loki got drunk—but it doesn’t put her any more at ease. She’s specifically made sure not to have any alcohol in the apartment since she has no idea what it will do to a frost giant.

No time like the worst time to find out.

“Loki?” she says as she walks in, closing the door softly behind her. The television is on, though he isn’t in the room; there’s light spilling from the kitchen doorway. She walks around to it, pausing in the doorway and crossing her arms. Loki leans back a bit from the cabinet he’s digging through, blinks at her with unfocused eyes, then smiles widely.

“Roma-romann—N'tasha!”

“You’re drunk.”

“We're out of peanuts,” he tells her. She isn’t even sure he’s ignoring her or if it simply hasn’t processed yet. “I am not,” he adds; the latter. Unfortunate—it will make getting any details out of him entirely useless. Then he half-runs into the fridge trying to open it, scowling at it like it’s at fault for his lack of coordination.

She restrains her sigh; she can’t risk taking him and finding a hotel room while he’s this drunk.

“Loki, go sit on the couch. What are you trying to get?”

“I can get it,” he says, annoyed and stubborn.

“I know you can. Now go sit on the couch. Find something to watch.”

He stares at her for a moment, swaying on his feet, exaggerated scowl that doesn’t do more than make him look like an offended cat, then sniffs and walks past her. Stumbles, and she resists the urge to grab him by the elbow and keep him steady.

“I want a glass of milk,” he tells her gravely, then proceeds past her and back to the living room. She hears him fall onto the couch and shakes her head. “Whole milk!” he calls.

The flipping between channels he was doing gets derailed as soon as she comes in—all of his attention darts to her, the remote falling to the floor, a hand reaching for the milk. She waits until she’s sure he’s got a good grip on the glass before she lets it go, ignoring how his fingers brush over hers in the process.

“You’re warm,” he tells her, then downs half the milk in one go. “Did you know,” he starts, then stops, eyes searching her face.

“Did I know?” Natasha prompts patiently. At least he isn't as bad as Stark.

She might be able to work this from the inside. Or they may be slower in following up—Clint had been called in, suggesting they wanted his opinion; none of them are quite so familiar with Loki excepting Thor, who’s currently in New Mexico, and Clint doesn’t think it’s Loki.

“Did you know,” he begins again, “that this cow doesn’t eat grass?”

Natasha stares.

“She doesn’t,” Loki says, a touch defensive, shoulders going up. “You can taste it. Grass makes the… the fat, I think, taste sweeter. It’s very good.” He finishes the glass, setting it on the floor, then focuses on her again.

“Did you find anything?” she asks.

“Hmm? Oh, here, you pick something. It all looks rather dull to me.”

She does, eventually, ignoring his protests when she leaves the channel on a wildlife documentary, pointing out he let her pick. He grumbles some, folded up and hunched in and sulking on the other corner of the couch, but he’s not really paying attention to the movie; he hasn’t been paying attention to much besides her since she came in. Natasha isn’t an idiot. She’s perfectly aware that Loki has at least developed some attachment for her, though she isn’t necessarily sure how far it goes.

Which is why she isn’t particularly surprised when he stops sulking. Or when he starts to edge closer. The eventual slide over her lap, head resting on her shoulder—in what passes for stealthy considering he’s drunk—however, is.

She goes still, observing and noting weak points in easy reach, but Loki either doesn't notice or doesn't care. Maybe both. His hands are chill when they push against the edges of her shirt, but they don't keep roaming; they stop, finger pads resting on flesh. He rubs his face into her throat, low content hum vibrating against her collarbone; she puts a hand at his throat and applies a warning of pressure against his collarbone.

"Loki," she says calmly.

Loki doesn't move, other than a sigh of cool breath over her skin; she can feel his lashes brush against her throat as his eyes close. He hums again.

"Loki," she repeats, sliding her hand from his collarbone to the back of his neck, "while I appreciation the affection, that doesn't clear up just what are you doing."

"You like me?" he asks, leaning back quickly enough that he nearly over-shoots and falls off both her lap and the couch. She steadies him with the hand on his neck as his grip tightens on her waist, notes the almost aggressive tone. No, not quite aggressive—even drunk Loki is apparently very good at hiding desperation with anger.

"I didn't say that," Natasha says evenly.

"No, no of course you don't," Loki says, smile twisted and lopsided and hardly a smile at all.

"I didn’t say that either."

He goes still, or as still as he can, still swaying slightly. Very carefully, she presses against the back of his neck, pulling him closer.

"Why," she asks, "does it matter?"

She expects that, even drunk, Loki will not answer this question—he doesn't seem the type that alcohol makes spill secrets, particularly not personal ones. She doesn't need him to admit it at this point, not if she wants to know—no, his admittance is purely for her own ends, because Loki is interesting in every sense of the word that can hold Natasha's attention, and this is at least mild distraction from the endless scenarios running through her head that she’s realizing more and more she can do very little to change.

"I—you are..." He trails off and Natasha raises an eyebrow. "You are fascinating," he says.

"And you’re interesting," she says, watches realization creep into his eyes, across his face, before he smiles, slow and drunk and pleased—and when he's smiling, just like that, she pulls him in and kisses him.

He doesn't taste like alcohol—he tastes like bitter coffee and sweet cream, and under that the sensation of fresh mint that chills her spine. Alien, yet still familiar, drunken and a little sloppy on Loki’s part, Loki's hands pushing further along her back as she maneuvers them both more firmly onto the couch. One broad hand presses along her ribcage, the other hand cupping the back of her head. He settles himself against her, sharp teeth nipping lightly at her lip, and she tugs his hair, tugs him back, because while she perhaps does not have morals like most, she's come to care about Loki in her own ways.

“No,” she says to his frustrated noise, getting a firmer grip on his hair as he tries to press forward again and making sure her other hand is near the bundle of nerves in his shoulder. “You’re drunk.”

Loki looks absolutely bewildered by her statement, eyebrows drawing together and eyes darting over her face. His hands, though, don’t move—they don’t stroke or pet her skin, he doesn’t press further against her, doesn’t try to coax her with his body to change her mind, and it catches her off-guard. Loki has absolutely no problem using any means to get what he wants—particularly in regards to the things he enjoys—and yet….

He’s drunk. It should be his first thought—Natasha’s dealt with enough men in this situation to know—and yet….

“But what does that have to do with anything?” Loki asks. He’s frowning now, upset, temper beginning to show because he hasn’t managed to figure it out himself.

“Sex,” Natasha says, blunt, and she can see him switching gears, scowl deepening as he processes the word.

“I wasn’t aware that I needed that—that tool with you.” His voice is low, shaking, and he’s moments from lashing out or breaking down. Perhaps both. “Or do you simply think I cannot perform to your desires?”

“Not that,” Natasha says, thinking, readjusting, trying to add this to what she knows. It isn’t that it’s difficult—it’s that it’s a surprise, considering the number of stories there are in myth of him sleeping with other people. Tool, Loki said—she certainly knows enough of that aspect of sexuality.

He’s impatient, shifting, starting to pull away, face and neck darkening indigo, and she moves her hand from his hair to his neck, rubbing her fingers next to his spine. It gets him to stop.

“Asexual,” she says, but she leaves it open, gives him room to put whatever words he has for himself in the space. “You don’t desire sex.”

He considers her, eyes drooping a little as she keeps rubbing his neck though he hasn’t yet gotten less tense.

“Yes,” he says. He doesn’t say anything else for a moment, and she feels him shudder, just slightly, beneath her hands.

“I apologize,” she says.

“What? For my being flawed as ever?” He laughs, short and sharp.

“For assuming without asking.”

He stares at her.

(Tries to orient around the apology, finds he can’t—what is north, when it is not him flawed, but her?)

Her hands slide over skin he is finding increasingly numb (not just the more usual distance of his frost giant flesh, but more, the alcohol—he did not drink so much, did he, only a cup, two, there is something amiss--), fingers pressing into his neck, along his shoulders into tense muscle, and he goes, willingly enough, when she pulls. Blinks as she kisses him on the forehead, disoriented (more), realizes the noise is his own, escaping without his leave.

“I find it interesting.”

(Interesting, fascinating—hair and eyes and mind, clever and quick, and she understands, does she not, doesn’t she always, listening--)

He kisses her, wants to touch, to sear her warmth into too cool skin, sink it into bone memory (not forget, not ever, that for a moment she understood)(to not be flawed). Her hands smooth down his sides, press into his waist, she is smiling against him, pleased and amused, kisses back—tongue and teeth, mapping, exploration for the sake of knowing—

because it is fascinating—

—until he rests his forehead (dizzy and drunk and delighted), laughing against her skin breathless, near unpleasantly warm and comfortable (understood) while her hand brushes through his hair.

Lies there, tangled against her human heat and human warmth, eyes closed as the room dips and sways, mind entirely, blessedly, silent.

He has no idea how long they lay there (time fleeting even when his thoughts don’t slip slick from his grasp), only that, vaguely, a thought keeps returning, quiet, tugging, thorn rubbing against what is otherwise contentment.

“You,” he starts, then stops, pressing his tongue against over sharp teeth, not quite feeling the pressure, opens his eyes and realizes, dazed, that he does not think he has ever been quite so intoxicated.

“Loki?”

He blinks, sits up though the room almost goes sickening for the motion. Distantly, he realizes that Natasha still has a hand in his hair, that she is frowning at him. (Concerned?)

“You called,” he manages, focusing on the words. “You called. What happened?”

“Someone who looks enough like you to raise some flags at SHIELD caused a scene at a grocery store.” Her voice is neutral, leaves space, but he is not sure what to fill it with.

(Recalls monster and shudders, anger flaring bright and hard and hurting--)(anger should not hurt, there’s another sensation to anger now, what is it, something is amiss--)

“Loki,” Natasha says, soothes, fingertips pressing into his scalp, a thumb smoothing along one of his throat markings. “What happened?” Her eyes are on her fingers, she is frowning (of course she would be disappointed, did he not say he would be careful, had he not, and here, one time someone voices what he knows they think—)(what may be truth) “Loki. Tell me.”

“Childish,” he says, sour.

“Maybe. But you wanted to know why I called. Now tell me.”

He eyes her.

(wants quiet and peace and warmth again, wants to not think again)

“The more I know, the better I can plan.”

(sensible Natasha)

“I was bored. Thinking. Some… peasant thought to insult me.” He goes quiet, blinks at Natasha, at the clearly suppressed smile. She shakes her head, keeps her mouth firmly closed, so he keeps going. “I… did not care, not at first, but it upset Mrs. Jefferson.”

Natasha nods.

“Then he insulted her?”

He does not remember (only monster), but nods anyway.

“And you?”

“Threatened him.” He pauses. “Very Thor, brutish, physical harm. Nothing interesting. Nothing beyond him.”

“Not very Loki.”

He smiles (preens) that she would notice (know) the distinction.

“No, not very Loki.” She hums, eyes going distant, cold and calculating and beautiful; he sighs, leans down against her once more, presses his face against her throat.

“Get up,” she finally says.

He snorts into her neck, but stands—tries to stand, nearly falls over, entirely off-center, turning his head in confusion, grasping for balance. Finds Natasha, instead--she has an arm at his back, grabs his chin to study his face. Cross-eyed for a moment, his vision finally focuses on her, blurred at the edges.

(amiss—something is amiss, even when competing with Thor he has never been so--)

“Bed,” she says. “You’ve attracted enough attention today.” She makes a frustrated noise, letting go of his face to push her hair back. “I’m going to have to hope no one comes looking around here until you’re sober again.”

“I am sorry,” he tells her, mournful, unable to decide if a hug would be welcome or not and instead swaying on his feet between the two choices.

“I know. I know. Come on.”

If he were more sober (wrong, something is--), he would be appalled at how drunk he is, how he is stumbling over his own feet, barely able to walk. He does not remember leaving Mrs. Jefferson’s apartment in this state (remembers feeling warm, daresay cozy, pleasant as hot cider in midwinter, but sure of himself), but as is he can barely focus enough to keep what momentum he has.

Would prefer to say he lay down upon the bed when in truth he fell, soon as his knees pressed against the edge.

He rolls over onto his back, blinking at the ceiling, looks for Natasha, finds her staring down at him, arms crossed, face caught between amused and frustrated (worry, in the set of her lips).

“Stay,” he demands (pleads), a hand reaching for her, memory of her warmth an echo across his flesh. Pauses, then, “Unless—“

“I still find you interesting,” she interrupts, slight smile winning over the worry, for a moment. “I’ll stay for a while. You probably shouldn’t be left alone right now anyway.”

“I need neither your interest nor company,” he sniffs, twisting away from her, and she laughs, a hand running down his spine; forgets he is meant to be proving he does not need her company and presses into the touch with a shiver, rolling back over and wrapping an arm around her waist.

"Get some sleep," she says, hand resting at his neck again, heavy and grounding and comforting, and though he wants to protest, his eyes are heavy, her scent sweet against his face, and sleep sounds so sweet.

She wakes, not entirely sure what has woken her but already tensing—then Loki gives a low, pained noise, pitiful if not for how it sounds like he's dying.

"What's wrong?" she asks; Loki keens, twists over and presses into her hard, hard enough she slides across the bed a little. Natasha flinches before she can stop herself—Loki this distressed means ice—but then realizes there's no ice, just like there hadn’t been earlier this evening. He’s panting, short and sharp, and she realizes he’s running warm—for him, at least.

"Loki, tell me what you need," she orders, sharp enough to hopefully get through. She turns the bedside lamp on to get a better look at him. Loki hisses at the light coming on, flinching and then stilling. "Loki."

His eyes open again and she tilts his head up to get a better look at them—glassy, unfocused, pupils still adjusting for the sudden light.

"What are the nine realms?" she asks after a second.

"Midvanasjuheim," he slurs, then stops, panting; she can see him press his tongue to his teeth. "N'tsha. Canfeel my to-ton—"

"Tongue," she finishes for him, then lets go as he starts to twist with a choking noise.

"You have alcohol poisoning,” she states, rubbing his spine as he dry heaves—it's been hours now, the clock is showing four in the morning; he's not going to throw up anything at this point.

Except. Throwing up is a perfectly normal human response to alcohol poisoning, and probably Asgardian too for that matter; Loki’s more than proven he’s willing to fall back on patterns he knows to relieve stress, whether they’re effective or not. Frost giants take so long to process any food—she thinks of his slow slide to more and more intoxicated before, despite having drank early in the day. Surely frost giants have ways of getting rid of toxins, even if throwing up isn’t one of them.

Ice.

She stares at where her hand rests on—too warm for Loki—blue skin, Loki shivering, and how for all his stress earlier there was no ice. Still isn’t any.

"Fuck," she mutters, then to Loki, "Stay."

He manages to focus on her long enough to glare before his eyes close again, one arm wrapped around a pillow like it’s the world—it might be with how he's feeling. She leaves him, goes and starts a cold bath, then heads to the kitchen and the freezer.

Of course there's no ice.

She stares at the freezer, debating what to do. She shouldn’t risk leaving—if SHIELD does come by, she’s going to be able to defuse the situation. No one will—should—think to call her if they break in and find Loki.

Loki keens again, awful and grating and low, cutting off sharply.

“Dammit,” she mutters, closing the freezer.

She stops by the bathroom, checks how cold the water has gotten. Cold, to her, but it’s not going to be cold enough to lower his temperature—she hopes that the elevated temperature is what’s keeping him from being able to make ice. Shuts the water off, since if she’s going to leave she’s certainly not leaving Loki unsupervised in the bath right now.

Loki is dozing and still panting, curled around the pillow he’d been gripping when she left; he doesn’t stir when she touches him. She kisses his forehead, hopes he stays asleep until she gets back, and heads out.

Maybe she’ll be lucky—SHIELD still hasn’t come by, and it’s early in the morning yet.

He wakes to noise, to movement—not Natasha—head pounding, opens his eyes (disoriented). It’s so loud, too loud, ricocheting around the room and making him feel nauseous and off-balance, but at least now when he blinks the room settles to some extent, blurry mess that has a promise of coherence in the edges that keep overlapping-blending-parting.

There’s several (he thinks, can’t tell, can’t focus), and they are talking—loud loud loud. Someone—metal, not hot (he is so hot)—grabs him by the arm, is saying something (“wrong…know how many parties.... something isn’t right—“). He pulls back, shoves (tries to create ice), then curls in, aching-aching-aching, hurts, he hurts, like every fiber of his being has been pulled at once, sharp needles driven beneath flesh and muscle, leaves him dizzy and blind and nauseous for a few horrible moments until his vision steadies (much as it can).

Focuses again and there is red and blue and white, filters dazed through what he knows (“made it sound like” “he was I don’t know—“) thinks the Captain and yes, yes, that is red and gold and he feels ill (further, beneath, he is angry-hurt-betrayed), tries to push himself away on shaking arms, looks for splash of red (like his eyes), but it isn’t there (she isn’t here)(spider, why did he trus—)

“N’tsha,” he says, tries to say, but he still can’t feel his tongue, still can’t feel his own shape, feels dizzier for having moved. The room twists beneath him, there’s a hand on his arm again and he tries to shake it off, tries to grab at fury and respond, but he can’t, he’s floundering, barely able to control himself, find himself, and the room is spinning-spinning-spinning and then it isn’t spinning at all.

Natasha pauses a moment before she parks the car, then takes the time and trouble to park a block away, walking back.

She’s right—those are SHIELD cars. Generic, black, easy to pass over, but Natasha is familiar with them and how many there are isn’t making them stealthy. If she weren’t more concerned about Loki, she’d make a note to have them retrained on proper procedure.

There are agents telling people to return home, that nothing is wrong, and Natasha slips by them unrecognized, playing the part of nervous civilian right up until she turns down the walkway to her apartment. She straightens, jaw tightening as her mind flicks from the night prior to Loki's current state to her own ill-timed absence. She wants to swear, because of all the times for them to come by…

She does not.

“Ma’am, you can’t—“

“Natasha! Finally someone reasonable.”

Natasha looks at Mrs. Jefferson, notes the relieved looking agent that she had cornered slipping away, and gives the old woman a slim smile.

“The Avengers came and snatched Luke up! Can you believe the gall of these men, no warrant, nothing at all, claim Luke’s a dangerous criminal and needs to be taken in! Luke!”

“Is that so?” Natasha asks, staring at the junior agent that’s staring at Natasha over Mrs. Jefferson’s head.

Mrs. Jefferson pauses—clever woman—then glances between Natasha and the junior agent.

“Can you get him back?” Mrs Jefferson asks. “He didn’t look well at all, dear. For shame, those men taking him like that.”

“They had sincerely better hope so,” Natasha replies, still staring at the junior agent, and watches him visibly flinch. “Do keep an eye on these men for me, Mrs. Jefferson. Do you want a camera?”

“Got one here, dearie, don’t you worry about me. You just get Luke back safe and sound.”

“Of course, Mrs. Jefferson.”

She is, above all, furious.

She does not allow herself to show it. She keeps herself under control, locks it away tightly, and makes her way to the tower, to the common area, and yes, there they are—Clint and Stark and Rogers. She wonders, briefly, if Thor had been around if he would have allowed this capturing of his brother while Loki is very clearly not well, but the thought is useless and she refocuses on the current situation.

“Boys,” she says. Rogers and Stark look up; Rogers more briefly, a quick nod that she returns because it would be unusual if she did not. Clint doesn't, focused as he is on the feed to one of the holding cells.

Very briefly, her vision goes a bit white at the edges.

“Tasha,” Clint says, “tried calling but you didn’t answer. We found Loki.”

Stark is looking at her, a bit pale, but he’s keeping his mouth shut—he recognized the laptop and phone. Considering that Clint does not currently look betrayed, he hasn’t yet told the other two.

“I see that,” Natasha asks. Her voice is too cold, too neutral, but it isn’t what catches their attention. “Would someone like to explain why you ransacked my apartment to do so?”

No, it isn’t her tone that gets their attention.

“Your apartment? Wait, what—wait, is this the guy you’ve been—“ Clint’s mouth snaps shut, jaw ticking, and Natasha meets his gaze coolly, levelly, in total control—

Clint looks down and away first

—perhaps not.

“Would someone like to fill the rest of us in?” Steve asks, calm and reasonable, ever the peace-maker.

“I was,” Natasha says, “giving Loki a multitude of reasons to trust me, learn to like humans, and not cause us more problems down the line."

"You could have told us," Clint says, looking up at her again.

"I made an agreement with him."

"So what? He's an asshole—"

"So are you," Natasha interrupts; Clint's mouth snaps shut. "So are you. In fact, as I recall, you made a similar offer for me despite SHIELD’s recommendations."

"Tasha, don't, this isn't like that at all."

"We're a team, Natasha," Rogers says, voice a little hard.

"A trust exercise requires trust," Natasha fires back. "I made my call based on the information I had at the time he approached me, and deemed it unnecessary to risk him deciding I was lying by getting anyone else involved." She meets Rogers gaze, steel. "We all knew Loki was--is—volatile at the best of times, and it was certainly not that when he arrived."

Rogers nods after a moment. He never has been one for distrusting his teammates' judgment—or rather, not hers. It doesn't mean he's pleased, but she'll deal with his lecture later. Not now.

Her eyes drift to the feed again, the curled up form of blue.

"Where is he?"

None of them answer—not right away, not fast enough, and she returns her gaze to them, tries to keep her face calm. It must not work—Stark is trying to slide down into his chair, has been uncharacteristically silent. Complicit, even if he hadn't meant to be.

"Sub-basement two," Stark says first.

"Thank you," she says, "for your cooperation."

He aches—his head, his eyes, his muscles, his—his chest. (Of course. How could he think she—the smile—she left, she must have known, planned it with that woman, Mrs. Jefferson, they must have planned it from the start)

(how could he be so foolish)

The room, at least, is stable, if he stays still, if he does not turn his head too quickly, even if he is still unbearably hot, and he can think, a little.

(Does not want to think because it hurts)(she must have known, Natasha is clever and does not leave things to chance (oh how he hates her), months of this and oh how he fell, was drawn in, how like the beast he yet is, clinging to a little kindness—

The door opens, and he looks up, the room taking a few seconds to slide with him until it focuses and there is splash of red (like his eyes)(beastly should have known) and there is her.

(hurts hurts hurts how could she how could she and how could she not?)

"Natasha," he slurs instead, because (weak) he still does not have full command of his tongue back, and he smiles at her like he is amused by her (deceit) cleverness. Unaffected (lie).

She considers him for a moment, and oh, he may be a fool, but he still knows well enough what she is doing—waiting for him to give her more to work with, just as he always has, but no. No, he is well and truly done with clever minds that catch his attention (that he loves), should never have—

"Loki," she says (his heart twists)--how he hates her.

He forces himself to his feet unsteadily, slowly (there is power in height and perhaps it will silence the part of him that still cares)(he thought—). The room is less balanced than when he was sitting, but he hardly cares now, because there are so many other things to make him nauseous (fury and hurt and spite and love)(oh clever clever Natasha).

"You plan quite well." He forces the words past stumbling lips and half-numb tongue, forgets he should not be talking to her at all, should allow her to speak first. "Especially when so much was put together quickly. Perhaps I should take notes?" He moves towards her, but she stands her ground, arms folded and quiet. "Was it only your plan, or did your pet hawk relish the opportunity? See the one who pushed his mind brought low at last. Well?” His voice is hoarse and speaking makes his head throb anew (he wants to lay down, wants to weep, to mourn), his breath rough and ragged and whatever control he had pretended when she first walked in is gone (weak and weak, and oh how they must rejoice to see him this way, beast and monster and—

"Loki," she says again, evenly, and reaches out to touch. Telegraphed entirely; his eyes flick from her to her hand too quickly, dizzyingly, cannot decide if he wishes to break her wrist or not. Settles for the middle ground, grabbing her by the wrist and squeezing, feels bones begin to bend, to grind together, and she winces (a show, like everything else?).

“Why?” he snarls, not even sure what he is asking.

(setting himself up to be lied to just like always)

“I went to get ice.”

He blinks at her, settles back on his heels confused, grip loosening (not much) enough she puts her palm to his neck, thumb stroking the skin (warm, warm, and even too hot it is a comfort)(salt in the wound).

“You were—are—running hot because of the alcohol. Your temperature needs to go down. I went to get ice because there wasn’t any in the apartment.”

He blinks again, more slowly.

“You… you—the alcohol, Mrs. Jefferson, you left—“ He shakes his head, tries to make himself step back and nearly stumbles instead. “Let me go. I won’t—don’t—believe you, you planned this.”

“With Mrs. Jefferson?” Natasha asks. He snarls, pushing her hand away, yet Natasha keeps talking, calm, reasonable (as if she takes him seriously, not as if she is trying to mock), “She didn’t know. She’s worried about you. I think she’d be here if I hadn’t shown up.”

He pauses.

“I had every opportunity to give you over months ago, Loki,” she says, taking a step towards him, and this time he does not catch her hand when she raises it to his neck. “I have had every opportunity. Why would I wait until now when you’ve been worse than this? If I wanted to hurt you, I would have turned you over that first week, not waited for you to find yourself.” Her fingers rub along one of the patterns on his skin, and though he doesn’t reach for her, he is leaning forward, drawn to her as surely as the tides to the moon. “Why,” she asks, “would I risk finding you interesting by keeping you around?”

“Because,” he starts, but he stops, because he does not know and his head hurts, his chest, his limbs. All of him.

(here she stands, fascinating, calm and measured, not accusing him of being unreasonable, a hand at his neck to soothe)

“I am sorry,” she says, as if she has anything to apologize for.

“You did not tell.”

“No, Loki. I didn’t tell anyone.”

He closes his eyes, rests his forehead against her shoulder though leaning down to do so makes the room spin again, his hands on her waist for balance.

“I want to leave,” he whispers.

“Then let’s go,” she says.

And, despite vague fears that rise up--of being prodded, of not leaving, of being stalled and questioned and a thousand other things (of her lying)--that is all. They leave despite the protestations (each protest  proof that soothes), her hand at his elbow to guide and to steady, until they are finally, finally, home.