Nuances

This is unexpected.

If Natasha is perfectly honest, what she was expecting was to be locked somewhere deep in SHIELD and interrogated, but being an Avenger comes with a number of perks—one of them Steve Rogers himself. The Captain is by no means pleased, if his silence and staring at her like he might figure her out if he just stares enough is anything to go by, but he also isn’t going to allow SHIELD to simply take Natasha or Loki into custody and hide them away. Being Captain America comes with a great deal more sway than most people realize on any given day—including SHIELD.

She’s grateful. It means Loki is safely back at the apartment, sleeping off the last of the alcohol poisoning, even if there are SHIELD agents currently stationed to keep track of his movements, and it means she is here, in a windowed and well-lit room, trying to explain just what she was thinking in taking Loki in.

“Can I just point out it wasn’t me sleeping with the enemy?” Stark kicks his feet up on the table, lacing his hands over his stomach. “Because it wasn’t.”

“Shut up, Tony,” Clint snaps. He’s still glaring at Natasha, has been since she came back.

“If we’re honest, someone was going to. One of us has a track record, one makes questionable moral decisions all the time, and one is his brother,” Natasha points out mildly.

Clint only scowls more.

“That isn’t the point,” Steve says, at the same time Clint mutters, “I do not have a track record.”

Steve frowns and gives Clint a disapproving look before returning his attention to Natasha.

“I already explained my reasoning to you,” Natasha says.

“You did. And then you left with Loki in tow despite any and all objections.”

“Leaving him here after he requested to leave would have only damaged his trust more.”

“Yeah, about that—are you two actually sleeping together? Because he went from murder to cuddle pretty quick there,” Tony says.

“We are not.”

“Yet,” Clint adds. Natasha gives him a cool look, but it doesn’t shut him up. “If you’re telling the truth. You already admitted you were seeing someone, and he’s it, isn’t he?”

“If you are asking if I have some level of concern for his well-being, the answer is yes.” Natasha leans back in her chair, resting her chin in one hand. “If you’re asking if it’s romantic, the answer is no. You should know that, Clint.”

Clint’s mouth twists, nose wrinkling, but he settles back.

“Okay, so there’s a story I want to find out later.” Tony raises his hands, palms out, when both Natasha and Clint look at him. “Not now, of course. Right now we have the problem of Loki.”

“He’s not coming back into SHIELD custody,” Natasha says. “That means the small army of agents observing my apartment needs to go as well.”

“That isn’t going to happen, Natasha,” Steve says. “He’s a dangerous criminal who caused a great deal of damage to the city, killed a number of people, and hurt more. We can’t simply allow him to walk away once we know he’s around.”

“Which is exactly why I didn’t inform any of you when he first arrived.”

“SHIELD is involved. You know as well as I do that I can’t control them.”

“I think you have more pull than you think and you’re refusing to use it. Loki stays out of custody.”

“Is there a particular reason you’re so invested in keeping him away?” Stark asks, curious. “I mean, this ends up being less hassle for you.”

“Loki is going to meet the requirements set by Asgard to get his magic back.” Natasha pauses, makes sure everyone is listening—even Clint. “When he does, and it is a when, it is going to be in our best interests that he has every possible reason to like humanity.”

“She’s got a point. SHIELD has a terrible track record for getting people to like them,” Stark says. “I mean, even you don’t fully trust them, Steve.”

Steve sighs, the hard line of his shoulders slumping.

“I don’t like this. I don’t like not having him in custody.”

“That makes two of us,” Clint says, arms crossed.

“He isn’t going to do anything,” Natasha says. “He hasn’t for the past six months. He just wants somewhere he can be left alone.”

“Which is why he picked you, since you decided he’d make a great friend,” Clint says.

Natasha pauses, weighing what to tell them, how much to reveal. There are plenty of things she will leave in the dark, but right now truth will work in her favour.

“He picked me because he thought me most likely to kill him quickly and efficiently, out of all us.”

No one says anything, not for a few minutes.

“Must be as easy being blue as it is green,” Stark says first, but his mouth has turned down at the edges despite the humour in his voice. Steve looks no happier about it—Clint only maintains his scowl. She expected that, but at the least it gets two of three more in her favour.

“Frost giant,” Natasha says. “You’ve heard Thor talk about them. Asgard doesn’t exactly tell nice stories about them.”

“You’ll vouch for his continued good behavior?” Steve asks.

“Yes.”

“Okay. He can stay at your apartment.”

“And the agents?”

“Am I the only one who remembers what the hell Loki did?” Clint interrupts. “Oh, wait, it might be because I’m the only one here who was involved with it. Against his will. That must make it stick better in the memory.”

“Clint, none of us here have forgotten what Loki did,” Steve says. “Tony certainly hasn’t, considering how often he mentions being thrown out of a window.” Tony flashes a quick smile, but Steve keeps going before he can interrupt. “But Natasha has a point as well. Loki is being punished for what he did already; when that’s gone, we need him not to see Earth as a target again. Natasha has the most experience dealing with him out of all of us at this point, and you know that people are her specialty. If she thinks Loki won’t do anything because of this, and is willing to vouch for his good behavior, then I’m willing to trust her judgment.”

Clint stays silent for a moment, staring flatly at Steve.

“Fine,” Clint says, “but I don’t agree with it.”

“Noted.”

Clint stands from the table, leaving. Natasha rises as well.

“Coulson wants to speak to you, too,” Steve says.

Natasha sighs, sitting back down. She’ll have to find Clint later then.

“Of course he does.”

Stark and Steve both get up to leave.

“This is why we don’t keep former enemies as pets,” Stark tells her. “All the meetings. They’re practically murder.” He smiles at her, clapping her on the shoulder, and then is out the door after Steve.

A few minutes later, Coulson walks in, all apologetic smiles, and Natasha smiles back, steeling herself for a few more hours of being passed from one authority to another.

***

Loki wakes, alone, head splitting and bones splintering—feel as if they are splintering. The sheets rustle as he moves, ice riming the folds as he pushes himself up; his nose wrinkles slightly. He feels as if he has been struck by a stray bolt of lightning, reorienting himself upon finding consciousness, hours stripped neatly from memory. He is, above all, thirsty.

He leaves the bedroom, pauses outside the door. Tilts his head, listening, but it is quiet, in here at least. Something else is amiss, but what? Walks down the short hall to the main room, still trying to place what is amiss (there is something). Natasha—Natasha would know, perhaps better, what memories have escaped.

(Finds himself smiling for the memory of her, her taste, her scent—

Scent.

Someone else has been here. He stops, eyes searching the room, but there is no one here, not now, looks to the table and the missing laptop, the equally missing phone. His hands clench (memory stirs, slightly, fogged: the market, Mrs. Jefferson, alcohol. Begins to break down: alcohol, time slipping faster than before, Natasha, understanding, Natasha—after—after—)

Water. Water first. There is no one but him here now—it is too quiet.

(SHIELD.)

His stride nearly breaks, but he presses on, gets a glass, gets water. Closes his eyes and drinks, organizing his thoughts through the pounding in his skull.

SHIELD and their Avengers. He can only vaguely recall being dragged out of bed, being too hot, but he is clearly not in their custody now. Natasha must have—but no, that is not quite right (“You did not tell them?” “No, Loki. I didn’t tell anyone.”).

He refills his glass, drains it too.

Not a ploy, not by her—of that he is mostly certain (a relief, sweet and soothing).

Unfortunate, though, that his own carelessness has brought this about (how little it surprises him). It leaves the bitter question of what to do (because Natasha is yet mortal, because staying here would be foolish, because eventually Thor will return, because--).

He hears the door open, tilts his head towards the sound, places the stride. Natasha. He does not move from where he is leaned against the counter by the sink, listens to her steps head down the hallway. Waits.

“You’re awake,” Natasha says, blessedly soft. She has a bag slung across one shoulder. “Your things. Stark doesn’t like letting SHIELD get their hands on his custom-made tech.”

“And he thinks it is any safer with me?” he asks, genuinely surprised.

“He thinks you’re less likely to figure out the best way to kill people with it. He doesn’t know you very well.”

He smiles thinly, refilling the glass once more.

“You’re staying here,” Natasha says.

He raises an eyebrow, taking a sip of water.

“SHIELD isn’t going to take you back into custody. I’ve spent most of my day in meetings.”

“I imagine they were not particularly pleased when you brought me back.”

“No. There’s going to be an agent or two floating around the neighborhood.”

“Dependent on?”

She tilts her head, as if she is unaware what he is asking (another time he might be amused, pleased, but his head aches, he aches--her… coyness only irritates).

“Don’t play dumb, Romanoff. I am aware how these situations go.”

“Nothing you need to concern yourself with. As far as you’re concerned, the rules are the same as they were when you arrived.”

He downs the rest of the water (turns the words over in his head, prods at them, anger bubbling in his chest, chill and sharp).

“They are not,” he says, setting the glass down, turning to face her fully. “The rules before involved no one knowing I was here—this is a fundamental change, no matter how you try to hide it.”

“You aren’t going anywhere.”

“But how does this affect else? There was never a rule I could not leave and then return—has that changed? Where are the boundaries, Romanoff, if you will not say? Certainly your first rule is moot, that I may leave for good should I so choose. SHIELD will not be satisfied to allow me to disappear and go where I will.”

Natasha’s mouth tightens, knuckles briefly going white on the strap of the bag, and he smiles thinly.

“I did not think so.”

“You should have thought of that before threatening a civilian in public."

His mouth thins and for a moment he simply regards her. Words writhe on his tongue, sharp-edged and angry, but he does not speak them—holds them in until there is a sour taste on his tongue (remembers what it is to always hold his tongue).

(He should have left.)

“Let me be clear,” Natasha, and he is grateful insomuch as it keeps him from saying else to make his situation worse than it currently is (because at least she yet appears to be on his side), “I am doing everything I can to mitigate this situation, at great personal and professional cost both.”

“Is this supposed to make me feel indebted to you, Romanoff? Should I fall to my knees in gratitude that I have been allowed a more comfortable cage?”

“If you want to disappear,” she continues, as if he did not interrupt her, little more than her eyes narrowing to give her irritation away, “then you can. Is that what you want?” She sets the bag by the doorway, walks closer; he regards her carefully, does not lean away or forward, does not cross his arms.

“What use is leaving if I will only be followed?”

“That isn’t what I asked. Do you want to disappear?”

(Disappearing only begs the question of where he would go; for all an online persona he may have created these last months, he would not count upon anyone to take him in.)

“Not yet,” he says (not no).

Natasha examines him but a moment, then nods.

(If he does disappear, he should not tell her. What if--)(she came for him, she cares she understands she did not betray him)(--she would tell? Mustn’t allow sentiment to let him grow incautious, not again.)

“For what it’s worth, I tried to keep this from happening,” Natasha says, stepping and turning away.

He very nearly tells her… what? That he forgives her? That it was his fault for not holding his temper? There is little words will do to make the situation any less than what it is.

“I am sorry,” he says, when her back is turned (when she cannot see to be sure he has spoken), quiet, because he can at least say that much.

(because he cares too much, and does not want her to blame herself; no matter that he knows she will not (she is not him), he offers the words aloud anyway, a confirmation)

To her credit, she does not turn, only bends to grab the bag and carry it with her out of the kitchen.

“It’s alright,” she says.

***

Clint tracks her down to talk before she can do the same to him. Well. He calls. Just as she’s getting in the car, not too terribly long after leaving the apartment, interrupting her thoughts on Loki’s… brooding, which doesn’t bode anything good.

“Really, Natasha?”

She does not allow herself to sigh, though her lips thin.

“Let me buy you a drink,” she offers.

***

Thirty minutes later, she sets the jug of non-alcoholic cider on his coffee table and says,

“Really, Clint.”

He scowls at her, opening the jug and drinking straight out of it. She takes her coat off and gets comfortable.

“You were there,” Clint says.

“I was. I haven’t forgotten.” She crosses her legs, setting her hands on her lap.

Clint doesn’t say anything, just stares at her; Natasha doesn’t look away. She will admit that Clint knowing about Loki was not a situation she ever wanted to deal with--especially not finding out this way.

“Goddamnit Natasha,” he finally says, recapping the cider and getting up to go to the kitchen.

Natasha doesn’t follow him. She stays in the living room, waiting on him, listening to him rustle around the kitchen, cabinets opening and closing and dishes clattering, movement for no other reason than to seem busy. Or he’s putting his dishes away--she’s considered the possibility before the only reason he ever gets any dishes done is a result of him getting upset with her.

“What do you even see in him?” Clint asks, wiping his hands off on a towel.

“What did you see in me?” she asks.

He scowls again.

“Thanks for the cider.”

It’s a dismissal, but at least he’s still willing to thank her for anything. At least he's willing to talk to her. She can deal with that.

***

A bit surprisingly, she manages an entire night’s sleep before anyone tries to get in touch with her. More surprising, it’s Loki that contacts her first. Just a text—we need to talk—but it’s still the first thing before even Steve’s phone call at eight.

“I’ll see you later,” she tells Steve over the phone, grabbing her jacket. She doesn’t put it on right away—the weather is actually warm outside—but she’ll want it when she arrives at the apartment.

“Natasha,” Steve starts, but she interrupts him, ignoring his huff of irritation.

“My priority is Loki right now. Considering that if he doesn’t think I have his best interests in mind things could get considerably worse than they are, you shouldn’t have a problem with that. I’m surprised no one else has realized that.”

“Placating him doesn’t resolve the threat he presents.”

“Really? It seemed to do pretty well there for half a year. Look, Rogers, we can talk about this later, but at the moment I’m a touch more inclined to make sure the resident Jotun doesn’t feel like he’s backed into a corner.” She hesitates a moment, leaving the keys in the ignition of the car without starting it. “You’ve already seen first-hand what his anxiety can do,” she adds, neutral.

“Anxiety—Natasha, are you suggesting that Loki tried to take over Manhattan because he was anxious?”

“People have done worse for less legitimate reasons,” she says, giving a quick shrug though Steve can’t see it. “Anyway, I’ll swing by after I’ve seen what it is he wants, but I need to go now. Shouldn’t drive and talk on the phone at the same time.”

Steve is silent for a long moment, likely debating whether he should call Natasha on the fact she drives and texts all the time, which is far more dangerous.

“Alright,” he says. “Just let me know when you’ll be by.”

“Roger, Rogers.”

He huffs, but he’s smiling a little, too—it’s in his voice.

“See you later, Natasha.”

***

He hears the door open and nearly jumps out of his own skin. Ridiculous—he isn’t a boy, it’s only a question, idle, nothing more or less (his pulse still pounds at his throat, nearly strangling him).

(What if she meant it? That he is… interesting, and all that implies.)

(Then… then… perhaps staying will be alright. Enduring the tags and collars, all of it, if--)

“Natasha,” he greets, warm as he can manage, lets himself smile (it is easier than he would like to admit). “Peanut butter?” He offers her the jar, grins a bit wider (goes to thin it when he remembers his teeth and forces himself to stop).

“No thanks.” Natasha moves around the couch, raising an eyebrow in what might be amusement. “You look like you’re having fun. Did you get any sleep?”

He blinks at her; her eyes slip past him to the coffee table and a soft ‘ah’ escapes her throat.

“Coffee?” he offers, though he knows most prefer not to have it cold.

“No.”

“Your loss,” he tells her, and returns his attention to the coffee table. Natasha watches for a few moments, sitting down on the arm of the couch.

“Where did you even get that many legos?” Natasha asks after a moment, a touch fascinated.

“Mrs. Jefferson had them. Gave them to me last night, after you left.”

“She have you over for dinner?”

“She has not tried to eat me, no.”

“I mean—“ she pauses, then snorts, and he smiles. “You’re being difficult.”

“Mmm. You could at least offer to help. Perhaps I would not then.” This is not what he needs to say, but already he thinks he shouldn’t say it at all. There is no reason to ask this question, not really, he trusts her, she did not betray him, has not.

(not yet)

“So what do we need to talk about?” Natasha asks, as if sensing the movement of his thoughts. He keeps himself from frowning, turning his attention to looking through the pile of legos next to him for the appropriate colour and piece.

“Can I simply not wish your company?” he asks, innocent.

“You can. That isn’t what it sounded like from your text. You would have just asked if you wanted it.”

“Hardly.” He grabs the piece he needs, snapping it onto the slowly growing wall before him.

Natasha hums. Then,

“Yeah, you’re right. You would have complained you were bored instead.”

He glances at her, unsure if he should scowl or smile that she’s noticed (but then, if anyone would, it would be her, and isn’t that the crux of his problem?) She is smiling, just the barest curve of her lips to indicate it amuses her and she is not mocking—a true smile, for her.

(He is not a boy, he should simply spit it out.)

(he doesn’t need to know, it is not worthwhile, it will make no difference, she did not betray him, she did not turn him over, she brought him back, she--)

(but what if--)

“Loki?” she prompts, and he looks away, to his slowly growing lego castle on the coffee table.

“Did you mean it, when you said you found… that I am interesting?” He looks at her, straightens his shoulders, but he does not quite meet her gaze, does not look at her beyond what he needs to read her. As if he will not still wish to believe her if she tells him what he desires to hear.

(He needs to know.)

“Ah.” She leans back, folding her arms. Thinking. He keeps himself still, eyes heavy-lidded as he watches her. "I should have—“ she bites the words off, frowning.

“Ah,” he echoes with more bitterness than he means to, lips twisting into what might pass for a smile if he were only a better liar.

“No,” Natasha says sharply. “I meant it. I do find you interesting. I didn’t consider the meaning behind saying it the way I did, but I meant it and I do mean it. I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

“Is that so, Romanoff?”

“Yes.” That, at least, she says without hesitation, but the weight pulling his shoulders is still just as heavy as it was before.

“Then what, pray tell, did you mean?”

That, she does not answer immediately, arms still folded across her midsection as she frowns. Thinking. He keeps his tongue still instead of goad her (because she is giving consideration to him, to explain her own words properly)(too rare a gift to simply toss aside).

“You’re asexual,” she says, finally, pausing so he has time to nod warily. “But that doesn’t mean your body can’t get aroused, or that you don’t enjoy touch.”

He frowns just slightly, but does not interrupt.

“There are different reasons to enjoy touching someone, and they don’t have to involve sex.”

He nods again, wondering just what point she is trying to get at.

“I’m not the same as you. I enjoy sex, it’s not just a tool to me—it can be just because I’d like it, too.”

He considers, tilting his head slightly, brows drawing together.

“I do not understand what point you are making,” he says at last. “You—can find me interesting and still enjoy sex. It’s not as if it would be the first time such occurred.”

“Like you, Loki,” she says, smiling slightly, and he scowls at her—even as his chest warms, pleased, to hear the words aloud. “I can like you. But that’s assuming that we mean the same thing when we say interesting, and I don’t think that we do. You want a relationship, probably romantic?”

“I would not be opposed to the idea,” he says, but he keeps some measure of reserve and caution to his words. “Looking past your human life span and company you keep.”

“How generous of you. But that’s my point—when you say fascinating, you mean romantic love.”

“As opposed to?”

“There are different kinds of love, Loki.”

“If you want to say that you don’t return the sentiment, then spit it out,” he snaps. “I am not some child who will take offense.”

“I find you interesting,” Natasha says evenly, not breaking her gaze. “But that means something different for me than your ‘fascinating’. I don’t experience romantic love, not like what you do.”

“What?”

“I’m aromantic.”

“I—why? It is not as if you did not know what I meant—you’ve certainly displayed as much—and yet you parroted back my words—why? Because it was what I wished to hear?”

“I said ‘interesting’, not ‘fascinating’, to start—“

“Semantics,” he snaps. “And you know it. You said as much just a moment ago. You knew—“

“Just because I can’t love you romantically doesn’t mean that I don’t love you in other ways.”

“As if you would be familiar with the word. What was it that you said? Love is for children—is that how you view those who feel the emotion, Romanoff?”

“Loki,” Natasha says, voice cold and emotionless, and oh why did he ever think—

(foolish, to think, just like always, to believe that perhaps there were something to her actions beyond manipulation—ah, but isn’t he always hoping?)

He pushes himself to his feet, restless, not caring that it shows his agitation—all this time, of course she’d be aware when he’s agitated even if he weren’t pacing, she’s had months to figure him out and of course he thought, perhaps—

“One only needs to be as broken as you to truly move beyond such a petty thing as love, do they not?” Loki asks, and he smiles, baring his teeth. “Which moment was it, I wonder? Before or after you found Barton? Perhaps earlier than that, surely you were taught all the failures of that emotion long before then.”

Infuriatingly, Natasha does not react to the words, not in a way that would ease any of his hurt, any of this betrayal of months (but then why did he expect that, knowing what he does now). She only tilts her head slightly to side, eyes relaxed though her arms are still crossed over her torso.

“Are you done?” she asks.

“I could continue until we are sure of the moment, but what would it matter?”

She shrugs with one shoulder, head dipping to match the motion.

“Then I’ve got a question for you.”

He does not like her questions, with their tendency to redirect the conversation, to turn it upon its head—how clever she is (how much he adores her cleverness even now), but what does it matter? What could she possibly say now that would change this hurt?

“Then ask,” he says.

“What broke you?”

He raises an eyebrow, because for all he might sometimes be given to the thought, she has never before suggested it of him.

“What made it so you can’t see sex as anything but a tool? Was it Thor? Older brothers do things to younger, if they’re sick enough—I wouldn’t peg Thor for the type, but it’s always the ones you suspect least, isn’t it? Or was it Odin?”

“How dare you—“ he starts, but she interrupts him smoothly, head tilted and eyes distant, as if she is only examining an insect that has started to speak.

“It was probably family, wasn’t it? They’re the ones most likely, and who’d believe the liar prince if he said anything? More, what would anyone be able to do, even if they believed you?”

“There was nothing and no one that did such to me! My lack of desire for sex is not the creation of some tragedy, but a part of myself, no more and no less, and how dare you suggest otherwise!” he hisses, stalking towards her, incoherent and blind rage (it is his flaw, none else, and to dare suggest that he was made victim, to suggest that Thor of all people might--). Natasha does not move, only tilts her head so she can still see his face, and her lips twitch in a cruel smirk.

He stops, mind echoing her words by his own only minutes before. His scowl softens to a frown, but he does not yet speak, doesn’t move closer. Just stares at her, half-smothered by shame welling up in his chest and throat and leaving his tongue too heavy.

(He should have known, from his own experience if nothing else, and yet…)

He closes his hands into fists, ignoring the thin layer of ice that crunches at the movement.

“I care about you. I love you in the ways that I can love a person. I understand on an intellectual level that for you love means romantic love, and that romantic love is tangled up in a mess of actions, words, and more. I told you I find you interesting because those are words you would understand.” Natasha pauses, the distance on her face breaking to something more familiar, kinder, but he can barely stand to look at her (can barely stand himself). “I am telling you I’m aromantic now because I need you to know I can’t give you what it is you’re offering me, not the same way, not if you want anything beyond how things were before between us. That whatever test your question is, I didn’t betray you and I won’t because I love you in the ways that I can, and I find you interesting in all the ways that mean I would be willing to try a relationship that could meet both of our needs.” She reaches out, to touch him he thinks, and he steps back only to stop short as he nearly comes down on the pile of legos.

“Don’t,” he chokes out as she stands, shaking from anger and hate and upset (idiot).

(he should not have stayed)

“Is that what you needed to know?” she asks, stopping (because he asked; he doesn’t deserve her).

(he should have left, for her own good if not his)

(should leave, and oh how it aches that the answer he’s been given has only confirmed it, if not for the reasons he thought)

“Why?” he asks, but he isn’t sure what he is asking, what answer he hopes for—if he even hopes for an answer.

She is quiet a breath.

“You’re interesting. Why else do you need?”

He snorts, looking away, eyes roaming without seeing the coffee table, the room even.

“Think about it. I’ll be back later. Try to sleep—you don’t look like you have.”

He forces a smile.

“Of course.”

She leaves, though he doesn’t look at her. Only paces the apartment, turns her words over, tries to think though thought is slow and quick to twist back upon itself. He paces the apartment from end to end, tries to turn on music, on television, on anything, but nothing manages to smother the sick feeling in his chest and throat, nothing to tell him he should not have left as soon as he was sure she was gone.

He stops in the middle of the living room, looking around. Leaving will, perhaps, be slightly trickier with SHIELD aware of him, but….

***

She’s angry, when she leaves, even if she managed to keep it as contained until she was in the car again. Loki’s offense and words shouldn’t mean anything to her—it’s not like Natasha hasn’t dealt with people accusing her of being broken before—but the issue is, of course, that she cares.

Which means it matters.

She stays in the car when she gets to Avengers Tower, grinding her teeth and hands still gripping the steering wheel. Loki lashes out at any perceived betrayal, particularly when it’s one that actually hurts him—she knows this, his volatility is part of why she finds him as interesting as she does.

That doesn’t mean she has to like it when he decides that means her. When he doesn’t use the same intelligence that she also admires to think two seconds, to look at what she’s done for him and realize even if she can’t love him romantically, she cares.

Even if he seemed to realize what he was saying after she pushed back, it doesn’t ease the anger. About this entire situation, from SHIELD to Loki’s need to be sure she cares to the team debating whether she’s on their side. Everyone needing to know whose side she’s on, and not listening despite Natasha saying that she’s on all their sides because—shocker—their sides don’t conflict.

Not this time, at any rate.

She takes a few more deep breaths, finally able to start to work through her fury and set it aside for when she can work it out physically. She’s going to talk to Steve, see if she can’t get him to help more—because like hell is she going to let Loki upsetting her keep her from proving him wrong that she can't care—and then spend the night in with bad movies and cheap take out.

***

Talking to Steve is in actuality being lectured to by Steve. Eventually, he peters off, staring at her like he just might manage to figure her out.

“At least you’re being honest now,” Steve says with a sigh.

“Lying would only make things worse,” Natasha points out.

“How so?”

“Don’t play dumb, Rogers. I lie to you now, you’ll think I’m compromised. I lie to Loki, he’ll lash out. There’s a time and place--this isn’t it.”

“Until we stop expecting you to lie and you can hide things again? That isn’t how trust works.” Steve frowns, eyes sad.

“I acted in everyone’s best interest,” Natasha says as gently as she can. “Including my own. I have never claimed to be a good person.”

Steve rubs his face, looking away.

“You said something about anxiety, on the phone.”

Natasha nods.

“Explain, please.”

“He’s volatile. You knew that already. He fixates and loses sight of the other details involved. Everything turns from happening to other people to being an attack on him.” Natasha pauses, eyes narrowing as she studies Steve’s face. “Don’t think for a second he’s not dangerous. It's just he wants somewhere to hide right now. He has no interest in making a second attempt and from what he’s said, he only did the first because he was both bored and it was a chance to get home.”

Steve’s eyebrows shoot up, mouth opening then closing. His brow furrows.

“You asked him about the invasion and he answered?”

Natasha gives a quick shrug with one shoulder and a brief nod. She can’t stop the quirk of a smile that touches the corner of her mouth.

“I was even straight-forward about it.” Mostly; she did ask directly about the invasion, even if it ultimately wasn’t the information that she was looking for. “Being clear and honest with him is the only way to effectively handle him, Rogers. How else do you think I kept him confined for six months without any help?”

“Thank you,” Steve says. “Just… be careful, okay? You don’t have to keep everything hidden, you know. We’re a team.”

Natasha smiles, this time genuine and small.

“I know,” she says. “I’ll see you later, Rogers, unless you have any other questions?”

“No. See you later, Natasha.”

***

It's a foregone conclusion Pepper knows what's happened--after all, Natasha was the one to recommend she be given any clearance Stark was. What Natasha doesn't know is how Pepper's reacting to it. She has guesses, but she'd prefer certainty.

She can’t really be blamed for being cautious when Pepper acts like nothing’s happened over dinner. She’s worked with her before, after all--how Pepper sounded on the phone isn’t much to base her assumptions on.

Pepper doesn't bring Loki up.

Natasha knows this means that she should, but it's nice to pretend for the hour that nothing's changed at all between them--even if Pepper's lack of comment means things almost certainly have.

"Do you know what you're doing?" Pepper asks just as they're finishing dinner.

Natasha raises an eyebrow; she's never been one to assume what she's being asked about. 

"With Loki," Pepper clarifies.

Natasha shrugs.

"Sure. More than anyone else who's involved now anyway."

Pepper nods.

"Anything else?" Natasha asks when it's clear Pepper isn't going to say anything else.

"Be careful. One person I care about getting thrown out of a window is enough." Pepper taps a finger against the table, lips pursing. "Don't let how much you care get in the way."

Natasha nods instead of comment on how Pepper doesn't do the same. Pepper smirks like she’s fully aware she doesn’t listen to her own advice.

“Let me buy you dessert,” Natasha says, smiling back. “I hear it makes up for all kinds of things.”

***

“For what it’s worth,” Pepper says later, just before getting in her car, “I think you’re doing the right thing.” She smiles just slightly, her self-aware one that Natasha loves best. “Not that you need to hear that from me.”

“I’m glad that you think so all the same.”

“I’ll spin it for Tony.”

“I’ll make sure no more people get thrown out of windows.”

“Deal,” Pepper says with a wink and slips into her car.

Natasha stands by herself for a few moments after Pepper leaves, putting her hands in her coat pockets and watching traffic go by. She’s still smiling, but then, Pepper always has been able to get that out of her. If she’s entirely honest, she was worried about her friendship with Pepper. Whether she can get by without Pepper isn’t the point--that’s one bridge she’d prefer not to burn.

She shakes her head, pulling out her phone to text Loki that she won’t be by tonight after all. Maybe, if she’s lucky, the time to sit a bit longer will keep him from being entirely unbearable later.

***

By the next morning, Loki still hasn’t replied to the text. Natasha doesn’t let herself think anything of it--she’s got another psych eval that SHIELD wants her to go through for all the good it will do them, and after that is one of the weekly training sessions with the team. She’s looking forward to the excuse to work off some of her frustration. That it will be another pointed reminder to the team they need her around doesn’t hurt either. Lunch with Pepper--a surprise and thank you for the night before--and then a little quality time with Clint on the practice range leaves her feeling nearly normal if she disregards some of the tenser smiles and quiet unease that had started off nearly all of the meetings. She pretends not to notice she's been taken off the more sensitive work she had originally been on, pretends that it makes a difference to how much she knows.

It’s nearly midafternoon before she realizes that her growing sense of unease is directly tied to how she still hasn’t received any response from Loki.

Natasha is aware that he’s ashamed of himself. She also knows she’s more likely to get an apology out of Stark than she is Loki. That he’s refusing to even text back, though, is uncharacteristic, particularly considering Loki’s own fretting that a message hasn’t been seen until it’s been responded to.

She’s being ridiculous. It’s not even been a full day. If he wants to sulk about his ability to shove his foot in his mouth, she’s not going to bother him, no matter that she’s not particularly angry at him anymore.

But maybe she’ll stop by this evening anyway.

***

My apologies for what I said to you. Thank you for your hospitality, and farewell.

Natasha holds the note for a few long moments, then picks up her phone.

***

“--told you this would—”

“I just don’t get how he managed to—”

“--need to organize a search for—”

Natasha watches the others argue circles, arms crossed. She doesn't bother to add to the conversation, if it can be called that, only listens and keeps her face still. It's amazing how quickly Loki has riled her again, interesting in its own way, and makes her wonder vaguely if Clint had half so much trouble with her all those years ago.

She tells herself it's interesting, but not surprising.

"Natasha?" Steve asks her. Natasha doesn't startle, but her lips tighten a moment as she realizes she lost the thread of what they were saying.

"Yes?" she asks evenly.

"What do you think would be the best course of action?"

"Let him go," Natasha replies, shrugging.

"Why the hell did you bother telling us then?" Clint asks; for all his language, there's no heat to it. He's looking to weigh the answer.

“Where’s the value in it? You already know he’s not here, and it wouldn’t take much to realize that he had left with the apartment under surveillance. Not to mention it proves my point--he wants to be left alone, not lead another invasion. If the apartment hadn’t been under surveillance, none of this would have happened in the first place.” Maybe it’s petty, letting her temper show a little, but she can’t help it. It’s been a trying couple of days.

“Unless he’s escaped so he can try to do something else crazy,” Clint says, ignoring the pointed comment. It’s measured, though; he’s considering this like he would a target, not like it’s Loki, and Natasha is intensely grateful that he’s managing to put aside his understandable dislike to listen.

“In which case he won’t stay hidden for long, we capture him, and bring him in,” Steve says. “Natasha, if that happens—”

“I know,” Natasha says shortly.

***

Natasha doesn’t look for him, doesn't even bother asking Mrs. Jefferson about her suspiciously missing car. Not because she herself is under surveillance--she knows exactly how to slip past that.

But she told him, before, that if he wanted to leave she would make sure he could. Maybe she didn’t arrange how he left, maybe it took her by surprise, but he’s made his choice.

Natasha keeps her promises, at least when she can. When it counts.

It doesn’t stop her from missing the idiot.

***

A few days later, she forgets she doesn’t need to buy more food for Loki. For a few long moments she stands in the empty apartment with the fridge full of nearly spoiled things, bags of new supplies by her feet.

She throws everything out. She keeps her face still although there’s no one there to see.

Every now and then, her jaw tenses. She ignores it.

***

“How do you think he’s managing the heat?” Pepper asks her over coffee two weeks later.

Natasha takes a sip of her own, ignoring how her stomach drops at the mention of Loki and heat. Today it broke the eighties; she knows that if he doesn’t have proper shelter and air conditioning—

She cuts the thought off.

“Who knows?” Natasha says coolly instead of confess her worry. “He can be a fair hand at planning when he thinks of it.”

“Mm. Did he think of it though?”

Natasha shrugs and pretends not to care, not to notice the way that Pepper’s watching her.

Two weeks is plenty of time to force herself to forget all the ways she enjoyed his company. To let go of her worries and idle thoughts and the overwhelming absence of his texts, of him.

“It’s not as if I can just go check up on him, is it? He made his choice.”

“True enough,” Pepper says. “I wouldn’t want to be under SHIELD observation knowingly either. I don’t know how you manage.”

***

He’s made a mistake.

(Only one?)

It is hot. Miserably, horribly hot, and without somewhere he can stay where it is cool--without being able to risk the city and it’s cameras and people no doubt looking for him, he is fully and utterly aware of it. His head is splitting from all the light, skin aching and likely burned based off its slowly purpling hue and how sore he is.

(Everything was going so well, but the last town he was staying, he saw recognition and he’d needed to leave, nevermind the car Mrs. Jefferson had given him was still being repaired. He can’t risk—)

He’s thirsty. Constantly, horribly thirsty.

(It is for the best. It’s a dull thought, repeats and throbs in his skull in time with his migraine, constant and steady as a drumbeat. It is for the best.)

(He doesn’t deserve—)

He swallows, opening his eyes to look at the trees around, the road that keeps going forward like a promise if he can only follow it far enough.

(He doesn’t want to die. He’ll stop when he gets to the next town along the road, long enough to cool off. One of the little ones, where there is little chance of anyone knowing his face. Just a while. Then to--north. North. It can’t be this hot if he just keeps going.)

It’s effort, to get back to his feet, but he does. He just needs time to regroup.

(To drink a lake, he is so thirsty. If he could only stop this damnably instinctive need to cool off, the ice that keeps crawling over his skin in some poor attempt to cool down. To think he’d begun to have some contr—

Water. He needs water.

He starts to walk once more.

***

He gets off the road when there are cars. It’s so hard though, so much effort. He stumbles as often as he manages to crouch.

One foot—

He trips, falls, and lays against the dust and rock and asphalt. His skin hurts, he hurts, he is thirsty and tired and all he can hear is the dull thud of his pulse, hard and painful against the inside of his skull. He swallows, but there’s nothing there, just sandpaper and dust and he is—

The air shimmers and Loki wonders if this is what it is to go mad. Again.

(Falling, falling and falling and fal—

He hisses and curls in on himself at the sharp pain beneath his skin, the thin layer of frost that manages to leak across his skin. He’s not falling, only dying--truly dying, there’s no landing, no talking his way out, no no no—

A touch on his arm. He cracks his eyes open, wonders vaguely if this is a mirage, realer than any illusion he’d ever managed to cast.

“N’tasha?” he says, tries to say, but his voice creaks and rasps and nothing at all intelligible comes out. Red hair, lovely red hair, but the shade is all wrong, it’s too straight, did she change her hair? She turns her head away, is talking to someone, and he tries to follow but the world reels.

He’s so tired. This all so much effort and he hurts and he’s thirsty and he can’t, he can’t—

***

When Loki wakes, it’s cool. Not comfortable, not truly bearable, but relief from the heat that radiates beneath his skin and that was smothering him before. His mouth is still dry, lips cracked, but he doesn’t feel…

He’s in a bed. He jerks upright as he realizes. The room is unfamiliar (he failed) and he hisses as his eyes land on someone he doesn’t recognize--broad and bald and in a suit, hands up as if to try to placate him.

(Of course--of course he was caught, how stupid, he cannot truly expect to ever esc—)

Natasha walks in. No--not Natasha. He recalls vaguely the wrong before he collapsed and realizes that this must be who he thought was Natasha. She has red hair, but the hue is wrong, more gold than Natasha’s own bloody red that matches his eyes.

“It’s okay, Happy.”

The man--Happy, who looks anything but--gives Loki a dubious look. Loki returns the favour, because he has no idea who these people are but he recognizes this--one will play nice while the other won’t, try to get his guard down.

But why?

(What if they are not SHIELD, what if he has landed somewhere worse, what—)(he deserves worse, it’s all he deserves—)

He forces his hands still. Without the surge of adrenaline from when he first woke, he already can feel himself beginning to tire again, notice all the aches and pains, the searing internal heat of his burnt skin.

The woman smiles.

“You’re probably confused. I’m Pepper Potts, a friend of Natasha’s.”

Loki’s eyebrows shoot up.

“No, she didn’t send me.”

Loki settles back more against the bed, scanning the room. It’s a motel room (they haven’t taken him back), but that means there’s really only the one door and window out. He isn’t sure he can trust his legs to hold him long enough to get past both of them or if he should yet.

(He’s so tired. Everything hurts and the room wavers at the edges--exhausted and…)

“Here,” Pepper says. She’s holding out a bottle of water. He watches it, eyes flicking between her and the proffered bottle.

(A friend of Natasha’s.)

He takes it.

***

Pepper doesn’t say anything when he drinks through the first bottle of water, nor does she say anything as he drinks the next two. She doesn’t even looked surprised or frightened when he’s hydrated enough to actually be able to produce ice again.

It makes his skin ache, but it’s not the sharp needle pain of trying of before. He feels light-headed for the instinct, but it’s far too much relief to avoid it.

“Do you want anything to eat?” Pepper asks politely.

Loki shrugs.

(She doesn’t flinch under his scrutiny. She doesn’t look up from what has her attention, she doesn’t prod.

As mysterious and blank as when he first met Natasha. It sets him ill at ease.)

“Why are you here?” he asks instead.

“Natasha mentioned you don’t deal well with heat.”

He narrows his eyes, but she only continues to look serene.

“A report came in that you were in the area. Your car was still in the shop when we got there.” Pepper makes a dismissive motion with her hand and Loki realizes he had tensed instinctively. “It never made it to SHIELD. I’ve had Jarvis keeping an eye on anything relating to you just in case something like this happened.”

“What do you want from me?”

“Nothing.”

Loki raises an eyebrow. He finds that hard to believe--she could have simply sent someone in her place, or brought him here and left before he woke.

“I want you to come back,” Pepper admits.

“Absolutely not.”

(He can’t, he doesn’t deserve that, doesn’t—)

He tries to make his stomach settle, tries to breathe, tries to ease the panic in his chest.

(What if she makes him? What if he doesn’t get a choice? What if—)

“Hey,” Pepper says, and he realizes that she’s closer, closer than she was, leaning on the bed and a hand half outstretched towards him. He tries to lean back from her (coward), then stops moving (pretends he was not startled). “Breathe. In and out.” She frowns, a little dip forming between her eyebrows, concern making soft features softer. “I won’t let anyone take you and I promise I won’t force you to go back. But she misses you.”

“I do not miss her,” Loki says, the words thick in his throat.

(Liar-liar-liar.)

(Her laugh and her smile and her hair and her touch and her kindness and her knife edge and her)(he does not deserve such, he knew this this is why he asked and he—)

“Breathe,” Pepper says.

“I cannot go back,” Loki says instead, not meeting her eyes. If he only says it enough, perhaps he can make this true.

(If only it were so easy.)

“Why not?”

He shakes his head. Admitting he cannot is too much; to voice why to anyone but himself would be to expose too much of his innards, leave himself more defenseless than he is.

He can see Pepper frown in his peripheral, but she does not press again. It is a relief--he almost wishes to thank her for it.

“At least come back. I can get you set up in an apartment that no one knows about, out of the heat, have a doctor look you over. There’s no way that three bottles of water is going to fix everything wrong with you. I can keep it off the record. If you collapse again, get found again, there’s no guarantee that will be the case.”

Loki closes his eyes.

(It sounds so nice. To rest. To not need to keep going. To hide.)

“You will not tell anyone.”

“I promise. Only if you ask me to.”

Loki swallows.

(He is so tired.)

“Alright.”

***

“Do you know why he left?” Pepper asks.

They’re doing lunch again; they almost always do on Thursdays when they’re both available.

Natasha considers lying. She knows that SHIELD doesn’t have this place bugged--Pepper and Stark both have been incredibly vigilant ever since Natasha managed to infiltrate, much to SHIELD’s despair. Natasha had known that would happen; it’s one of the many reasons she’s glad she’s friends with Pepper now.

“We had an argument,” Natasha says at last. Pepper is her closest friend after Clint, has been the most sympathetic about Loki; more, there’s no one else Natasha would ever be willing to tell this.  “If you can call it that.”

“It wasn’t quite that, was it?”

Natasha smiles tightly.

“No.” She thinks back, shifts in her chair and lets the silence pool. It’s not uncomfortable; Pepper just waits, calm and serene. “He wanted to know if I was telling the truth about liking him, which seemed as good a time as any to tell him that I’m aromantic.”

Pepper winces.

“He practically tried to eat his own foot. I pointed out the issue with his reasoning.” Natasha shrugs. “So, to answer your question, shame. He left a sincere apology and skipped town.”

Pepper worries at her lip.

“He doesn’t think he deserves you?”

“He probably doesn’t.” Natasha gives a dry chuckle. “He’s not a particularly kind person.”

“No. But he’s your sort of person.”

Natasha pauses a moment.

“Yeah,” she says quietly, “he is. I care about him—”

“--all the ways you can. You don’t have time to go chasing after him every time he does something stupid. You’re not his keeper, he made the choice he thought was right without asking you or waiting to see what else you thought. It’s okay. It’s not your fault.”

Natasha looks at Pepper; Pepper just looks back. She’s so steady, so steel and sure; Natasha wishes, briefly, more people knew about the foundation that Pepper provides, her surety.

“Damn straight,” Natasha says. “Want another round of drinks?”

***

The apartment is spacious. Far more spacious than Natasha’s.

(He misses the sound of neighbours, a soothing white noise of not-alone that he did not need to interact with. He misses the kitchen with its too small counters, he misses the traces of Natasha’s perfume, misses the space between the bed and the wall beneath the windows, misses—)

He thinks it must take most of a floor, if not the entire floor. There’s so much light, so much space, and it is unnaturally high off the ground.

(He avoids looking out at night, at all the glittering stars, at the fall that waits.)

Mostly, he sleeps. His skin is healing, the purple slowly fading back to blue. The aches fade and he can hardly feel them, but he doesn’t know what else to do.

Sleep, at least, comes easy.

(He should see her, he should apologize, he should ask--)

***

“Hey.”

Natasha spares a glance from where she’s working over a practice dummy. It’s nothing difficult, just raw physical effort for a while, so she can stop thinking about how today it broke ninety Fahrenheit. Loki can take care of himself. He chose that. Natasha isn’t worried.

Clint stands just out of reach--wise--with his hands in his pockets.

Natasha ignores him and goes back to her routine, one last roundhouse kick sending the dummy flying.

“What is it?” she asks when he still hasn’t said anything. She catches the towel that he throws to her, wiping sweat off.

“I want you to know if Loki shows back up for some reason and he’s not blowing stuff up--or doing anything…” Clint wiggles his hands “you know. Dastardly shit. That you’ve got my support.”

Natasha blinks.

“Not him. Just you. I still hate his guts.”

“What brought this on?”

“He still hasn't resurfaced and there's nothing on fire. When you went AWOL after you started, I would have lost my job if it wasn’t for Coulson believing me when I said you needed space. You did a lot of shit that had a lot of SHIELD calling for your blood before I vouched for you, but I didn’t let it stop me.” He pauses, looks down. “I get it. Where you’re coming from.”

Natasha nods.

“Thank you,” she says when he’s looking back up.

“He’s still an asswipe.”

Natasha tries to suppress a smile, fails. Clint smirks back at her.

“I’m sure certain members of SHIELD think the same of me.” She puts a hand on his arm. “But really, thank you. I don’t see him showing back up, but I appreciate it.”

Clint rolls his eyes.

“Have you looked in a mirror? He’ll be back. No one else can keep up with that bag of cats for a brain anyway.”

***

Loki wakes to Pepper standing in the main room, phone pressed to her ear. Loki watches her move around for a few moments, trying to gather himself together enough to care that she’s here, to wonder what it is she wants.

He doesn’t move.

He’s nearly fallen back asleep again when Pepper stops next to him. Loki opens his eyes, glances up at her uncertainly, then back down at the phone she is holding out.

“It’s for you,” she says, maddeningly serene as ever.

(She reminds him, a little, of his mother.)

He takes the phone, presses it to his ear. There’s a little nervous buzzing beneath his skin—

(he’s too tired to manage more than that)

“Luke, dear, are you alright?”

He freezes. Mrs. Jefferson. He smothers the ice that tries to creep along his skin just before he destroys the phone, tries to remember the dullness he has been drowning in, the apathy, but his throat is tight and he does not know what to say--he failed, she did so much for him and he-he--

“Ms. Potts there was just letting me know that she picked you up, that you’d had a little fuss with the heat and the sun. Such a dear, she told me that you were doing fine, but you know, I just insisted to talk to you, you’ve been having such a hard time of it lately—”

--her car, it was being repaired, and what of the money she loaned him, and finally, finally, he manages to swallow the panic caught in his throat to interrupt.

“Your car—”

“Just fine. Ms. Potts had someone bring it by the apartment, it’s right as rain again. She’s offered to get me a new one, you know that? I told her not to fuss, but she’s insisting. Don’t you worry your head about that, not one bit. I wouldn’t have given you anything I expected to see back--no offense, Luke, but I didn’t think to hear from you again.” She pauses a breath. He blinks, tries to swallow the sentiment welling in his throat again (bewildered, that she still cares so, that she, she—) “Now how are you doing?”

(Tired-tired-tired, he wants to sleep, he hurts, a constant dull ache in his breast, a failure and he does not deserve this, he wishes he could simply—

“I have been better,” he admits.

“Oh Luke. Honey. If you don’t mind, I want to come see you. I’ll bring you some of those cookies you like so much--not too many, mind, we both know you can’t eat too many--we’ll have a little chat. What do you say? You don’t have to, you know you don’t, but you sound like you aren’t up to going out again and you need the company. It can’t be good for you to stay cooped up all the time, I don’t care what anyone else thinks.”

“I…” He swallows. “I would like that.”

“Good. You hand the phone back to Ms. Potts and we’ll take care of all the details. You just take care of yourself for me, you hear? I’ll see you soon.”

He nods, though she can’t see it, offering the phone back to Pepper. Pepper takes it from him with a smile, already talking to Mrs. Jefferson, nodding and humming mhm’s to whatever the older woman is saying on the phone. He stares at his hands for a moment, tries to assemble his thoughts.

He gets up, ignoring the glance that Pepper gives him, and walks into the bathroom. He stands for a moment at the sink (weak and sentiment and he’s done nothing to deserve her kindness) and stares at his reflection for a few long moments.

He looks so tired. Dark circles beneath his eyes, too thin, hair a mess.

(He is tired. Exhausted. But she has done him so many kindnesses, that this--to look as if he hasn’t let himself turn to nothing but sleep--this he can try to do.)

He starts the shower.

***

Pepper always has secrets. Natasha takes this as a given; Pepper is aware that there are things that Natasha cannot or will not share with her because it’s simply part of the jobs that they do. They tell each other what they can, but knowing everything about each other is more work than it’s worth.

“I have something I need to tell you,” Pepper says. She doesn’t shift in her seat, only folds her hands in her lap and waits for Natasha.

Natasha hesitates a moment.

Natasha cares for herself because if she’s not in top shape then she can’t do her job, can’t be as efficient and deadly as she needs to be. If she’s honest, she is fairly certain she can’t deal with anything else going wrong. She needs rest. She needs to stop her mind circling around the absence Loki’s left behind. Perhaps both, but if she can’t get one, she’ll settle for the other.

“I don’t want to hear it if it needs investigated,” Natasha finally says.

“No, no, it’s nothing like that. I’ve been keeping it from you because, well. I don’t know how you're going to react if I’m honest.” Pepper gives an abashed smile, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I found Loki.”

Natasha goes still. She scans Pepper’s face. She looks for the tells for the lie, looks for anything that might suggest another angle; it takes an effort of will to stop trying to analyze all of Pepper’s micro expressions to find out what it is she wants.

“Oh?” Natasha says, lifting an eyebrow and pushing down the voice that sounds suspiciously like Clint crowing I told you so.

“I’ve been keeping an ear to the ground.” Pepper shrugs. “Just because SHIELD said that they wouldn't take him back into custody doesn't mean they wouldn't behind the Avengers’ back. I was only making sure that never became an issue. I spoke with him and convinced him to come back with me.”

“I’m impressed.”

“He’s doing better now. He’s out of the heat, almost fully recovered physically. I thought you would like to know.” Pepper watches Natasha face. Natasha doesn’t bother pretending a smile, just gives a short nod.

“Thank you.” That, she does mean.

Pepper doesn’t say anything. Natasha takes the silence for the gift it is, tries to put together what it is she should be feeling in this moment, determine what she is feeling, decide what to do with this knowledge.

He’s okay. He’s safe--there’s no one on the planet that can keep him safe from SHIELD better than Pepper Potts. Relief.

He hasn’t said anything to her. Bitter. A little bitterness. But Pepper said that he’s physically recovered, which implies there’s more to it than just being convinced to come back to New York. Not to mention Loki’s shame, which likely still has a play in things. Worse if he was physically incapable when Pepper found him.  

She almost wants to demand to go see him. Part of her does. She smothers it. That isn’t an appropriate response. She doesn’t have time to constantly reassure his ego, particularly not when he’s not communicating with her in the first place or when he chooses to leave. Not to mention he chose to come back because Pepper likely gave him an offer it would be stupid to turn down.

She told him if he wanted to leave, she’d make sure he could. He still hasn’t come back, not to her, and so while it hurts to some extent, she can manage.

“Thank you for telling me,” is what Natasha ultimately settles on. “And thank you for watching his back.”

“I'm watching yours.” Pepper tilts her head. “Do you want to talk to him?”

Natasha shakes her head.

“Okay. I’ll let you know when he asks.”

Natasha’s eyebrow shoots up, this time surprise. Pepper just gives another of her small grins, half mischief, one of the ones that always gets Tony pointing and yelling about the menace that is Pepper Potts.

Oh, this is going to be interesting.

***

Seeing Mrs. Jefferson is a relief.

“Another cookie, Luke?”

He shakes his head; he barely has an appetite for anything at all. Can still barely look at her.

(He is glad she is here, guilty and selfish, but he is not alone. He has missed her and her chatter)

“You know, my husband used to take off all the time.” Mrs. Jefferson helps herself to the cookie she offered him moments before. Loki wonders if he should say something (surely, she paused), but he has no idea what to say. She gives him a sweet smile, reaching for her cup of tea.

“Why?” he finally settles on. There’s no… curiosity (truly) but it is an easy question, which means he will not have to speak at all.

(Why did he ask her to come, why did he let her talk her way into it, why—)

“Stress mostly. He’d get these ideas in his head, they would eat away at him, and then next thing you know he’d be heading out of town. It cleared his head.”

“And this didn’t bother you?” Loki asks, confused.

(He can see what she’s doing, what she always does when she brings up her husband with him. He has no idea if her husband is real or just a fiction, a carefully concocted tool, though he wants to believe her.)

“Oh, sometimes. Usually when he’d just take off without so much as a note. He always came back the same day, though, so it wasn’t ever too much trouble. He just needed the space, really.”

(Worst is that it works; already he’s looking at her again, engaged in whatever nonsense she decides to say.)(Starved for it)

“It was not… space,” Loki says. “That I needed.”

Mrs. Jefferson nods, as if it still makes perfect sense to her. He finds himself frowning, trying to temper it from the scowl it wishes to become.

“It was…” he trails off. How does he tell her—

“Whatever the reason, it’s fine dear.” She blinks at him over her cup of tea. “You needed to get away, so we got you away. Though I am very glad that I get to see you again, I did miss your company.”

He swallows (it is not choked at all--sentiment).

“I think that’s it good you got away when you did. You were so, well, pardon my frankness, but you were so miserable. I was worried about you. Did something happen between you and your Nat?”

He doesn’t want to think of that. Doesn’t want to think of the shame that bubbles in his chest, the embarrassment at how he responded to her when she treated his own lack of desire for sex as worthwhile, as not broken.

“Dear, if you don’t mind me asking… why did you want to leave?”

He blinks at her. Is it not obvious? After all he did…

“Now, I’m not saying that you have to tell me, don’t you think that for a moment, but you didn’t mention before. You seemed awful distraught, so of course I didn’t want to ask, it seemed very important to you.” She offers him a smile, a gentle pat on one hand. He thinks to pull away--doesn’t.

He left because of… Not Natasha, he could not blame this on her (this was never her fault). Not SHIELD--he barely remembers what drove him to left, but he does not remember thoughts of them predominating.

“Oh, nevermind—”

“I do not remember,” he finally says (better than to admit he finds himself unworthy)(that he will always be so, always be so undeserving). The words loosen something in his chest, his head, makes the room feel a little clearer. He can guess what made him feel so unworthy, but the shame alone of hurting Natasha--he does not deserve her, but he cannot remember why it was so overwhelming as to drive him out.

He shakes his head, looks at Mrs. Jefferson and gestures with his hands, palms up, helpless.

“I don’t know.”

“Oh, well. Best not to dwell on it then. I’m sure it was very important at the time.” She reaches over, gently squeezing one of his hands. “I’m sure your Nat will understand if you get in touch and talk to her.”

“I am not so sure she would even want to see me again,” Loki admits.

“Won’t know unless you give it a go. Why don’t you write her a note, that’s an idea. Worst she can do is say no if you’re careful about how you ask her.”

“True.” Loki considers Mrs. Jefferson, her smile and the twinkle in her eye and the kindness and joy written in her skin. “Thank you.”

He’s still exhausted, but he can think. Can recognize that his decision to leave was poorly thought out--that for all he knew to take into account the increasing heat of spring into summer, he didn’t plan properly.

That maybe--maybe…

(deserving or not isn’t what matters)

He can’t remember why exactly Natasha’s answer and his own ineptness meant that he could not stay. Not because he does not try--oh no, he tries, and sorts--but it’s lost, whatever it was.

Perhaps…

“Now you let me know when I can visit again, I know you’re trying to stay out of sight.”

“Of course,” Loki says, pulling himself out of his thoughts. “As soon as I’m able.”

“There’s a lad. You’re such a sweet young man.” She pats his hand again. “Now are you sure you don’t want one of these cookies? One or two won’t hurt you, Natasha was very thorough about mentioning after that last incident.”

“I suppose just one would be alright,” he says. They do look rather delicious, and he hasn’t allowed himself peanut butter in quite some time.

***

Natasha sees Pepper when she’s on her way out of the building. Pepper smiles at her, they exchange hellos, and then Pepper trips and bumps into Natasha. Natasha blinks, too trained to ever fully display shock, then feels Pepper press a slip of paper in her hand.

“It’s these new shoes,” Pepper says. “No traction.”

“You should change them. You’ll break an ankle, Tony will get more unbearable, and then where will we be? You’re the only one who keeps him in line.”

“Hey, I take offense to that,” Tony says--of course. He saw Pepper slip. Little else gets his attention so quickly.

Natasha waits until she’s left and is in the privacy of her own space to look at just what it is Pepper felt the need to slip her.

It’s a note. She recognizes the handwriting immediately--sharp and angular, unfamiliar with the rounded curves native to the modern Latin alphabet.

Natasha-
I would like a chance to speak with you. I understand if you would rather not.
-Loki

There’s a post-it at the bottom in Pepper’s neat handwriting:

Just a matter of time.

Natasha considers their lunch, Pepper’s certainty. Natasha smiles.

She rubs her thumb along Loki’s note for a while, debating what it is she’d like to do. Does she want to speak with him?

Yes. Of course she does.

But what is she walking into? She doesn’t have any idea--which has always been Loki’s appeal.

Natasha picks up her phone and calls Pepper.

“How’s Thursday?” she asks.

***

Loki’s jittery when Natasha first sees him. He was clearly pacing before she and Pepper arrived, stopping in the middle of the room when they walk in. His eyes focus on her immediately; Natasha gets a good look at him before anyone says anything.

“I’ve got some work to do, if you don’t mind,” Pepper says. “I’ll just be in the spare room if you need me.”

Pepper flashes her a quick smile before she goes. Natasha returns it, then looks at Loki.

Loki crosses his arms, shoulders rounding in, but he doesn’t look away. He looks worse for wear, skin purpled in places and healing in patches, dark circles under his eyes like he either hasn’t been sleeping--or has been too much. He’s thinner, hair loosely pulled away from his face. Natasha matches his pose--mostly. She doesn’t hunch but instead broadens her stance.

She isn’t going to coddle him or leap into his arms. He wanted to talk; she wants to know what he has to say.

“I am sorry,” Loki says first. He shifts his weight, glancing down before forcing his gaze back up to her. “Truly. For what I said and for leaving. I…” He stops, glancing around as if to make sure they really are alone.

“You?” Natasha prompts.

“I don’t remember why I needed to leave,” he admits quietly, the blue of his face deepening to a flush. “I was upset. Confused. It seemed… I did not think that—” He shakes his head. “I am sorry.”

Natasha tries not to let her shock that Loki’s managed to verbally apologize show on her face. But then, is it really such a surprise? She knows that he cares--probably more than he’s ever going to admit aloud. This isn’t the first time he’s told her something she’s sure he’d die before admitting to anyone else.

“Sit down,” Natasha says when he just keeps standing there awkwardly. She sighs, sitting down next to him. He watches her out of the corner of his eyes, hands fidgeting, and she takes one of his in hers. “Look at me. Please.”

He does, eventually, but he’s tensed, ready to bolt. Apologies don’t come naturally to him, let alone sincere ones.

“I won’t keep doing this.” Loki starts to nod, but Natasha cuts him off before he can relax. “I mean it. I don’t have the time or the patience. I get that me being aromantic threw you off, and apology accepted on that front. But if we’re going to make this work, I need you to understand right now that this can’t keep happening. You can’t run off every time you get overwhelmed or whatever happened in your head. You can’t lash out every time that you’re upset. I’m not going to put up with it.”

“I… I understand.”

Natasha squeezes his hand before he can start to pull away, reaching up with her other to brush a stray strand of hair out of his face.

“Talk to me. Okay? Even if it’s just to tell me that you need space or that you’re upset. I’ll give you the space, I’ll give you whatever I can, but I can’t help if I don’t know. And I promise I'll do the same for you.”

Loki nods again, gaze focused firmly on his own hands. Natasha waits--because this she does have patience for. She does want to try to make things work with Loki, try to find a way to satisfy them both, and she’ll make the time she needs to do that. She only wishes that she’d started it off right the first time and not let him get wrong impression with interesting against fascinating.

“You do want to… do this, then?” Loki asks finally, slowly. “Even though…”

“It was shitty of me to rely on semantics. And I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for you to think I meant the exact same as you and should have cleared that up sooner,” Natasha admits. “But yes. I do want to try things with you still.”

“In a way that works for us both.” Loki’s watching her fully now, red eyes intent.

“Exactly. I’m not sure what that’s going to entail, but I want to give it a shot.” She smiles at him, reaching up to rub a thumb along his cheekbone. “I do care about you. You're interesting.”

“I—” Loki breaks his gaze, eyes flicking down. “I know,” he says quietly. “I will try. To tell you more.”

“I’ll let you know when I can’t tell you things. And I’ll try not to say what it is you want to hear without clarifying what I mean.” Natasha lowers head a little, looking for Loki’s eyes. “Hey, look at me.” She gives a soft and silly smile when he does, getting a slight quirk of his lips for the effort. “It’s okay. We’ll figure it out. Us, SHIELD, what we’re doing next.”

He gives a short and sharp nod.

“I know. I just… I missed you.” Loki grimaces as he says it. Natasha laughs, tries to contain it at the wet cat look of offended that crosses his face and finds herself laughing harder; only Loki would find missing someone so distasteful.

“Come here,” Natasha says, tugging him from where he’s sitting. He falls a little awkwardly into her, but they quickly get sorted out on the couch. She undoes the loose ponytail and starts to run her fingers through his hair, planting a kiss on his temple. He’s quick to wrap his arms around her, burying his face against her neck. She notes how his skin is still a little warmer than it should be, determines to make sure he doesn’t go out in the sun until its back to normal.

They stay like that for a while, Loki slowly relaxing more and more into her until he’s dozing. At some point Pepper stops by to check on her--Natasha doesn’t make the mistake in thinking Pepper is checking on them--but she leaves again quietly and Loki doesn’t even stir.

This… this is what she missed. This is what she wants to keep.

She kisses Loki on the head, listens to his breathing as he dozes, and hums.