Nuances

“So Thor’s back.”

Loki freezes for a moment--both literally and figuratively. He goes so still that Natasha’s worried she broke him, ice crawling up his bare hands and along the surface of the table.

“I see,” Loki says coolly, leaning back from the table and casually brushing the ice off his skin and the tabletop. Then he forces a smile--a smile in the sense of a predator, Natasha reflects, all teeth and threat. “How is my dear brother?”

Natasha shrugs. Thor's subdued underneath his usual golden cheer--Natasha’s guess is Asgard politics combined with not being allowed to know where Loki is or whether Loki is even alright.

“He’s keeping a good appearance,” is what Natasha settles on. “I more wanted to let you know; he’ll be keeping an eye out for anyone who fits your description in public. Let’s just hope Stark was joking about telling him to put up ‘lost brother’ posters.”

Loki looks like he’s just swallowed a lemon, breath picking up infinitesimally.

“Mostly, I bring it up so we can figure out how and when you want to deal with the team.” Natasha can’t say she’s minded the past two weeks since Loki’s return again; it’s comforting to know he’s avoiding the worst of the New York summer, just as much as she enjoys getting to see him and his texts again. It’s been two drama-free weeks.

It’s not that she’s in a hurry to ruin that streak, but nearly anything would be better than how the team first found out about Loki.

“Ah. Yes.” Loki frowns, relaxing again.

Sometimes, Natasha wants to laugh at how transparent he can be. At least he waited to find out the reason she told him about Thor instead of leap to assumptions. It’s progress--even if it’s small.

“I suppose sooner rather than later would be for the best,” Loki finally says, meeting her eyes again. “It’s not as if they are not aware that I’m off somewhere, and I’m sure Stark has at least figured out that someone has the tech he designed specifically for the frost giant again, considering.”

“True.”

“Though there is the question of your Barton?”

Natasha shakes her head.

“So long as you don’t go out of your way to antagonize him, he’s already told me he’ll deal if you showed back up.” Natasha eyes Loki. “He knows you rather well, all things considered.”

“Some things go both ways,” Loki says, utterly neutral. Natasha can recognize when no amount of prying will get Loki to talk about something; so far, everything prior to Earth in more than the most simplistic terms is one of those subjects. And she’s not going to ask Clint; he’s still getting past and processing everything that happened.

She’ll just have to wait.

“Do you have to call him my Barton every time?” she asks curiously instead, to give herself some time to try and think of the best way to reintroduce Loki to the team.

“You’re the one with the hand wave of a relationship with him,” Loki points out. “It only makes it easier to remember to at least sketch the edges of it.”

“Preempting your own jealousy?”

“Is it truly so difficult to believe me?” He frowns in annoyance. Natasha laughs, shaking her head and reaching over to touch one of his hands. They’re still shockingly cold from the ice reaction earlier--he’s hiding his distress better than she realized. She doesn’t comment on it, just rubs her thumb along the side of his hand.

“No,” she says. “Just surprising.”

Loki huffs, but he smiles at her, skin beginning to warm at her touch. He twists his hand so their fingers tangle together.

It is surprising. Natasha had sat down and tried to explain her relationship with Clint--harder than it should be, because there aren’t really words in any language that she knows for what they are to each other. It’s a tangled mess--not really a romantic relationship, but also not platonic. She’d ended up making the kind of wiggly hand gesture that Clint uses to describe it sometimes; Loki’s eyes had lit up at the gesture, understanding dawning as he said a word that sounded more like choking than anything coherent.

Apparently relationships on Asgard get… complex. She supposes that makes sense, when a person gets stuck with the same group of people for a couple thousand years. How utterly relaxed Loki is about having a romantic relationship with her while she also has her… choking noise thing with Clint is is what’s hard to wrap her head around. Loki’s always struck her as the jealous type, if only because of what she’s seen of his desperate need for his attention--it’s possible, however, that she’s misread just what the root cause of that is.

For now, she can’t really do anything but take him at his word that it doesn’t bother him; after all, as he pointed out himself, the relationship he wants with her is romantic and the one she has with Clint is something rather different--what’s there to be jealous of?

“Do you have any ideas how you want to do the team meeting?” Natasha finally asks, returning back to the more immediate concern.

“I will think of something,” Loki says, shrugging. “Perhaps whatever you think best--I’m as like to upset them as play nice.” He grins at her, eyes glimmering.

Natasha laughs, shaking her head.

“Do you want Thor there, for that first meeting?”

Loki’s grip on her hand tightens a moment, skin going cold once more--but it doesn’t freeze and his breathing manages to stay stable.

“Think about it,” Natasha offers. “I won’t start planning until I know.”

He nods.

“I will let you know.”

***

Thor.

Of course. Loki should have known--should have recognized that Thor would come back to Earth (what is he going to do).

Natasha has long since left and day is ending--and isn’t this just like Thor, that Thor’s mere presence (not even near him) does this to him, that Thor bends the universe to fit his whims and what will he do, what is he going to do, he cannot hide forever.

(Thor will want to find him.)

(Thor will see him—

Loki cuts the thought off, stops pacing in the middle of the living room. He forces himself to breathe. He tries to uncurl his hands, winces at the ice that’s crept along his skin unnoticed. His heart is still pounding, but he breathes. He examines his hands, turns them over to look at the lines that begin there and twine their way up his forearms.

There is nothing wrong with him. This is who Loki is.

(“When I’m king, I’ll hunt the monsters down and slay them all.”)

He closes his eyes, tries to remember to breathe, but his throat feels too tight (Jotunheim and Thor’s laughter (“Run home, Princess”) and Thor’s excuse to—) and he sits down abruptly in the floor, curling in on himself, one hand gripping his shin tightly.

What is he going to do?

(He wants to run, to flee (he cannot, he cannot, he promised Natasha), wants to bury himself so deeply that he doesn’t ever risk—)

He grips his shin tighter and ignores the ice slowly building up, shoulders shaking. He rests his forehead against his knees and rocks slightly

(“Brother,” and Thor’s hand on the back of his neck)

and chokes, not able to breathe at all.

He needs to—

He fumbles for the phone on the coffee table, sends it skittering onto the floor. He pauses, draws a breath. He focuses only on picking up the phone, pretends there’s nothing else that matters (Thor Thor Thor), nothing else that matters (what if Thor sees him)(“slay them—”) and picks the phone up as calmly as he can manage.

His hands very nearly don’t shake when he scrolls through his contacts. The phone rings and rings, he just needs to stay put (run, he needs to run, he can’t let—

There’s no answer. He presses his head to his knees again, grabbing his shin again tightly.

Thor will not find him here. No one will.

He has time.

(But what if—)

***

Loki calls once--the only call Natasha misses, the same day she told him about Thor, of course--but Loki insisted she’d only forgotten her coat when she calls back later.

Otherwise, he’s quiet. He doesn’t text much over the next few days, and when he does he doesn’t mention when or how he wants to be reintroduced to the team. She doesn’t let herself worry about it. He knows he needs to tell her if he needs anything from her, and she’s going to trust him to do so. That was the deal.

Instead, she keeps an eye on Thor and starts to sort out what would be the best way to bring Loki into the fold.

Thor is… he’s very good at pretending to be well, actually. It shouldn’t surprise her as much as it does, but then it’s easy to forget that he’s royalty--thus likely used to keeping up appearances. If Natasha wasn’t looking, she’d probably assume that he was fine.

But his smile drops usually a few moments after he thinks no one is looking, and there’s a certain lack to his usual golden glow. His smile never gets quite as wide, though he’s clearly willing to joke with the team, cheerfully putting up with both Stark and Clint’s antics.

“How are things back home?” Natasha asks him.

“As well as they may be.”

Natasha nods. It’s not an outright lie--he didn’t outright say that he’s not happy in Asgard. People (Stark) tend to forget that Thor’s smart, and good with people.

“And how are you?”

Thor smiles, a little sad at the edges.

“It is good to be among friends once more.”

Natasha nods. She won’t pry--but it’s not hard to guess where his thoughts lie. She just hopes he doesn’t have any particular Asgardian ways to track Loki down; nothing about Loki’s reaction to the news Thor is back suggested he can deal with Thor right now.

“That’s good to hear. You want to get Clint and Steve and have a sparring contest? You and me against them?”

“Thank you, Natasha.” His smile broadens a bit. “But I would rather not. I think I shall retire for the day.”

Natasha only can thank her training that she doesn’t show how shocked she is--Thor never turns down a chance to brawl. While she’s still processing it, her phone vibrates against her hip.  A quick glance reveals that it’s Loki--he wants her to stop by.

That, she can do. Thor’s going to take more thought.

Thirty minutes she texts back. Hopefully that’s quick enough. With one more glance after Thor, she pockets her phone again and heads for the elevator.

***

Loki doesn’t even bother to find out who it is when Natasha buzzes his apartment, just rings her in. She frowns a little as she gets in the elevator--ever since he’s gotten back he’s taken particular care in verifying whose visiting.

He also doesn’t answer the door when she gets to his floor. She knocks anyway, then when he doesn’t answer, pulls her copy of the key out and lets herself in.

“Loki?” she calls as she steps inside, closing and locking the door behind her. He’s not in the living area, but then considering the giant floor to ceilings windows, she isn’t surprised--he tends to avoid looking that direction and is far more fond of the kitchen and his bedroom, both of which lack windows at all. She isn’t sure if that’s a particularly Jotun thing or a Loki thing, but the thought that Loki of all people is scared of heights is a little amusing.

He isn’t in the kitchen either, and at first glance it doesn’t look like he’s in his room. At least not until she notices the bathroom door is cracked and a little light spilling out.

“Loki?” she repeats, making her way through his room to the bathroom. His breath sounds a little rough, uneven--she can’t tell if it’s because he’s trying to breathe quietly and failing or if there’s something wrong. “It’s Natasha.”

He doesn’t answer.

He had to have just rang her in and then gone straight here. She pauses a second, centers herself, then nudges the door open.

Loki is sitting in the floor, back to the wall. His legs are drawn up and head pressed to his knees, arms around his legs and one hand gripping his shin tight enough his knuckles very nearly look white.

He is also dressed and under a blanket.

“Loki, what’s wrong?” Natasha asks, dropping to a crouch next to him. She doesn’t touch him, not right away--his breath has hitched and she’s fairly certain that he’s holding it; touching him might potentially make things worse.

It’s not that Loki doesn’t dress usually, it’s that he doesn’t usually go for long sleeves. He likes to keep his skin exposed, and for the past few months shirts have been optional--and more often than not, he’d been choosing to go without. Add in the blanket, the boots, how the hand not gripping his shin has gripped the edge of his sleeve so that his skin is barely visible…

“Loki,” she repeats, firm. “Talk to me.”

There’s a slight shake of his head, another unsteady breath. She keeps her hands loose and arms resting on her knees and listens--it’s too quick, shallow. His phone isn’t too far away; she marvels a moment that he managed to send her the text at all.

“I need to know what I can do to help.” Natasha eases closer, and reaches out to get him to look up so she can rest her hands on each side of his face. “Look at me. Up. Look.” She doesn’t leave room for a choice--keeps her voice stable and sure even as she tries to sort out what triggered this, what she can risk without setting off his temper, what to do. Loki’s never reached out to her before while panicking.

He does ease up, eyes lowered and avoiding hers. His skin is icy, but there’s no ice. She frowns, takes in the dip in his brow--it’s a conscious effort on his part. He’s trembling from the stress of it. There’s a deeper, nearly sick blue beneath his eyes, a flush across his cheekbones, and his breath is still short and choppy and too shallow. 

“Close your eyes,” she says. “Close. Them.” She moves her thumbs up, brushes them along the outer part of his brow bone, and watches his eyes shut. Tension drains, then his shoulders tighten again. Natasha moves his face, lifts his chin, examines the rest of his face and notices the flush getting deeper, darker, spreading down his face.

Shame. Ah. She should have realized sooner--it’s been so long since he’d had anywhere this extreme a reaction to his being Jotun, though.

“Breath in,” she snaps. “Hold.” It’s more of a gasp than an actual breath, but Natasha doesn’t care. She rubs her thumbs along his cheekbones, presses her forehead against his so he can feel her warmth. “Out. And hold.”

She keeps repeating, counting off the seconds in her head for each, and moves a hand back, to cup his neck--his breath almost immediately breaks the rhythm she’s given him and she slides her hand up into his hair and grips a fistful, twisting. Not to hurt; to draw his attention away from the inadvertent trigger.

His breath eases. Her lips quirk, a little, satisfied.

“Good,” she hums in the scant space between them. “Keep breathing.”

She runs her other hand along his face, reaches up to push the blanket off, twisting his hair again when he tries to flinch, stops him from pulling away and keeps his forehead resting against hers.

“Breathe,” she says. “That’s it. In, hold, out, hold. Steady. Good. Don’t stop.”

When he listens, she relaxes her grip and runs her nails lightly against his scalp. She runs a hand down to his shoulder, along his arm--keeps the pressure firm and sure, gives him sensation to distract from thought.

“That’s it. Now tell me what’s wrong.”

“Thor,” Loki whispers with a shudder. Natasha grips his hair again and he starts to breathe. She leaves the quiet alone, just keeps touching him, pushing his shirt sleeve up to trace over his forearm.

“No one followed me,” she says, certain. A little more tension drains away. “I won’t let him hurt you. You don’t have to see him, he doesn’t have to be involved when you get reintroduced to the team.”

“Thor,” Loki repeats with a slight shake of his head. He sounds so helpless. Natasha tightens her grip in his hair, twists sharply; Loki gasps, then starts to breathe again, weight pressing more heavily against her.

“Look at me,” Natasha says, watching his closed eyes.

He opens his eyes, red and miserable, meets hers then immediately tries to dart away.

“Look at me,” Natasha snaps.

His eyes meet hers once more.

“I’ve got you. And I will not let Thor do anything to you. He won’t take you anywhere. He will not hurt you. I won’t let him.” Natasha pauses, considers how Thor is the golden son and Loki the second, the adopted monster in his own mind, how quickly Thor makes friends and how few Loki has. “He is not immovable. I am not going anywhere. I am here for you. Not him. You. Always.”

Loki swallows, a low, animal whine in his throat, shaking.

“Breathe,” Natasha reminds gently. “You’re my favourite, not him. I’m not going anywhere, I promise. And if he says one word about you, I’ll sock him one.”

Loki laughs. It’s wet, choked, but it’s laughter, has his shoulders shaking for a reason other than panic, and Natasha reveals in the satisfaction that gives her. She smiles at him gently.

“There you go.”

“You will try,” Loki says, closing his eyes and moving so his face is pressed against her collarbone. Natasha adjusts, shifts so she’s sitting in the floor and can wrap her arms around him, keeping one hand in his hair and the other stroking along his lower back.

“I’ll win,” Natasha says; she smiles as she does, leaves it warm, but she makes it sound fact, gives him the foundation that he needs.

He chuckles again, relaxing. Natasha feels how his skin is starting to ease away from ice to his usual cool to the touch and presses a kiss to his temple.

***

“Thank you,” Loki murmurs when he finally leans back. He looks up at her, still drained, dark and ill-looking circles beneath his eyes.

“Thank you for letting me know.” Natasha studies him for a few moments. “When’s the last time you slept?”

“I want to meet them soon. I do not want any to know where I live. I will go there if they need to confirm my existence,” Loki says instead.

“Loki.”

“I do not wish to discuss it,” Loki says tightly.

Natasha sighs.

“And Thor? How do you want to handle that?”

“I want him there.” Loki’s jaw tightens, meeting her gaze head on. “I will not—” He takes a breath, holding his hands out, looking down at the blue skin and paler lines. “This is who I am.”

Natasha puts a hand over one of his, lacing her fingers with his.

“Okay. If you’re sure.”

“I am.”

She nods.

“I’ll get it set up.” She studies him, but he only flashes her a tight smile.

“Thank you,” he repeats.

***

Natasha leaves.

Loki stays seated, listens to the lock clunk into place. Alone again.

He sighs, putting his head in his hands, rubbing his eyes.

(Best to get it done with. Quick.)

Natasha is certain. Natasha is what matters.

(Thor—)

He cuts the thought off, pushes himself to his feet and heads into the bedroom.

He is Loki. He is Jotun, and he is (not fine, monster)(slay them—) Loki.

He does not need Thor to approve of him.

(There is nothing to fear, nothing nothing nothing.)

***

“I need a neutral space for a meeting that may go sour,” Natasha says.

Pepper sighs.

“Already?”

“Yeah. Thor has his feathers in a ruffle.” Natasha frowns. “He was having a panic attack when I got there.”

“And of course he wants Thor there.”

Natasha grins; Pepper sounds as unsurprised as she feels, and just as unimpressed.

“What is with men wanting to do everything the hard way?” Pepper asks.

“No idea.”

“I’ll let you know,” Pepper says. “Give me a day.”

“Thanks, Pepper.”

“You owe me lunch.”

***

Natasha waits until Steve is in a part of the tower where there isn’t surveillance to bring up Loki.

“He’s wants to meet the team. He’s okay with visiting us, if we want to keep an eye on him, but he wants his home to be private.”

Steve looks rather unimpressed with her.

“How long has he been back?”

“I’m not sure,” Natasha says. “I didn’t even know he was back until a few days ago.”

Steve shakes his head, looking down at the waffle maker like it might speed up if he just wills it enough. Or maybe to try and infuse the waffles with his disappointment; Natasha isn’t sure.

“Pepper already has a neutral space. And we don’t have to.”

“I know what you’re doing,” Steve says dryly. “We.” He sighs. “You’ve been planning this with him, haven’t you?”

“I’m looking out for his mental health. I also think that we could benefit from him being willing to work with us. He’s smart, and he’s changed.” Natasha hesitates. “Look, I get why that’s hard to believe. I do. But at least this time, nothing about what you want and what he wants really conflict. Sure, maybe you want him under more surveillance than he’s willing to be under, but you also don’t want him to harm anyone--and he doesn’t want to either.” Natasha pauses to take a breath, gauging Steve’s reaction--his stance is still relaxed, a slight frown, the little dip between his eyebrows that gives away his focus every time. “I’m not picking the team over Loki or Loki over the team. I’m just trying to find a place for you to meet in the middle so you both can see that.”

Steve shakes his head.

“Okay. I’m going to regret this, but okay. Let’s do your meeting.” He pauses, gives her another look. “This is because Thor showed back up, isn’t it?”

“We were going to find a way to reintroduce him anyway. Didn’t want another disaster.” Natasha meets Steve’s eyes, hesitates.

Steve’s a friend. They’re a team, even if it’s felt stressed lately.

“I’m a little concerned about Thor being there, to be honest. Loki’s insisting, but he still hasn’t convinced me it’s the best idea,” she admits.

“Do you think things might go sour?”

Natasha shrugs.

“I don’t know, which is why I’m telling you.”

“Okay. Thanks.” Steve sighs. “You’ve got to stop springing this stuff on me while I’m alone. I just wanted to make some waffles. Why do you all do this? Why do you all think that catching me when I’m hungry will make me easier to bring around?”

“Because it is.” Natasha grins. Steve shakes his head.

***

“You were right,” Natasha tells Barton as they’re walking back from the training room.

“I’m always right. Wait. About what?”

“Loki.”

“Told you.” He scowls.

“He wants to meet the team.”

“And you told him about our…” Clint waves his hand around.

“He took it well so far as I can tell. Even had some weird Asgardian word for it.” They both go quiet, Natasha letting him digest that tidbit of information. “We’re doing a team meeting with him in two days.”

Clint looks unimpressed, but then he usually does. Natasha certainly can’t say she blames him.

“You don’t have to be there,” Natasha adds. “And it won’t make you weak if you aren’t.”

“We’ll see.” Clint runs a hand through his hair. “We’ll see. Damn it. Why can’t I ever be right about good things?”

***

“Tomorrow,” Natasha says.

They’re laying in bed, her fingers running through Loki’s hair. The sensation is distracting, for which he is grateful, and in the dark he knows she can’t see how his eyes keep darting behind closed lids, chasing thoughts that run circles through his head.

“Tomorrow,” he repeats after her, voice quiet and careful.

(It’s so much easier to handle the word with all the care and delicacy it warrants in the dark.)

(Tomorrow. Twelves hours until he sees Thor.)

(until Thor sees him)

He rolls over, twisting away from her, suddenly too hot and too shaken.

“Are you sure about this?” Natasha asks. Her voice is so neutral. “You know you don’t have to.”

“Best to get it done with,” he tells her.

(Thor will—)(he can run, he can still run, what use is there—)

Her hand touches his back, runs down his spine; he startles.

“Breathe,” she murmurs. Her hand keeps running up and down his spine.

Loki focuses on that, on the sensation.

“If you’re certain.”

“As I can be.” He stares at the opposite wall, runs a thumb along the lines on his hands. He swallows.  “It is only Thor.”

Natasha chuckles, pressing a kiss to the top of his spine, but she does not contradict him.

(Oh how he loves her, still and yet and more.)

“You’ll be fine,” she says instead.

He wishes he could believe. That he will be fine. That it is only Thor. That there is no reason to fret.

(His skin is too blue, eyes too red, he is too much not Aesir and Thor is—)

(what is Loki without Thor?)

“I hate him,” Loki says aloud, tasting the words, unspoken since he last saw Thor. “I hate him.” His voice shakes.

(It is dark. She cannot see, though she can hear. It is dark and for now, he is yet safe. It is Natasha. He can tell her this.)

She does not say anything. He reminds himself to breathe, follows the rhythm of her hand rubbing along his spine, in as she moves her hand up, out as it slides back down. Recomposes. He hates Thor. He hates him. He doesn’t need his approval, does not need him, does not care—

“It’s okay,” Natasha says, breaking his thoughts. “To hate what he does to you. To be worried about what will happen.” She pauses and he tries to remember to breathe. “You don’t have to lie to me, Loki. It’s okay.”

He swallows, squeezing his eyes shut and making a fist.

“What if—”

“Let’s see first,” Natasha interrupts. “Okay?”

He nods.

“Don’t forget to breathe.”

He inhales and presses back so he can feel her warmth along his back, the slide of her hand over his hip to wrap an arm around his waist. Her hair brushes against bare skin.

She doesn’t hesitate. She so rarely does.

He focuses on that. On her.

(There is Natasha.)

***

Loki looks harried right up until they walk out of the door; then the mask comes up and the only thing to give him away is the manic gleam in his eye, the nervous twitch of his fingers. Natasha examines him for a moment, then pulls him down and kisses him. She nips his bottom lip, gets him to open up, explores his mouth until he’s nearly sagging into her, hands coming up to squeeze her waist possessively.

“There we go,” she says, pulling away. The set of his shoulders is easier, more natural, his eyes a little calmer. “Ready?”

“Always,” he says, offering her his arm. She smiles and takes it.

Now just to get through the meeting.

***

Natasha had agreed with Steve before that they were going to keep Thor from sitting next to Loki. Pepper picked out the space--and couldn’t have done a better job of it, really; the table is set up so that it doesn’t feel like Loki is under attack by anyone asking him a question, the room relatively close to the ground and the blinds partially drawn. There’s coffee, tea, a tray of cookies--including peanut butter--that doesn’t particularly draw attention to itself.

Better, Natasha thinks, to have comfort food on hand, even if Loki usually tries to avoid grains since the Cookie Incident.

She’s quick to note that Clint isn’t there, Stark is sitting on Loki’s other side, and Steve’s got himself between Stark and Thor. That leaves three chairs: Loki’s, Natasha’s, and the empty one between her and Thor that was meant for Clint. Thor’s farthest away and almost directly across from Loki at the round table; it’s not ideal, but it is good for making sure that Thor doesn’t just reach across the table--he gets physical when he gets impassioned.

Natasha goes in before Loki, keeps Loki’s attention on her so that he can’t see Thor’s very first reaction.

Better safe than sorry. She’s heard too much incidentally from Thor to think he’ll be able to keep shock off his face when he first sees Loki; she only hopes that’s all he shows, and he puts the rest away. This is supposed to be about Loki, not him.

Except, well. Thor.

“Loki,” Thor says, standing up partially. He looks gutted, eyes sweeping over Loki’s features in all their Jotnar glory, frowning and heart bleeding on everything. Natasha shoots Steve an annoyed glance, Stark looks awkward as hell about the display, and Loki—

Loki just stops walking. His face is utterly blank, meeting Thor’s gaze. His stance widens a bit, shoulders going back and chin up, half a dare written on his face.

“Thor,” he says evenly, and his lips twitch towards cruel.

“Loki, thank you for coming,” Steve interrupts, tugging Thor. Thor glances at him, frustration evident, but he sits down and Natasha breathes an internal sigh of relief. The last thing they need is Thor trying to touch Loki right now--the way Loki’s mouth is pulled, she suspects he’d freeze his brother out of spite, nevermind he wants Thor’s approval so much he’s driven himself to at least one panic attack that Natasha knows about.

Idiots, the both of them. Natasha wishes she knew why she bothers.

“Yeah, I gotta hand it to you really. I mean, we kidnapped you while you were nearly dying of alcohol poisoning and you even want to see us again?” Stark grins, cocksure and attitude right back in place, winking at Loki over the top of his sunglasses. “I barely even want to look at people who wake me up from a hangover, let alone kidnappers.”

“One of us must be the better person,” Loki says dryly, sitting down between Stark and Natasha. He gives Thor a lazy look, another panther smile.

“We thought it might be a good idea to get everyone on the same page,” Natasha says. “Isn’t that right?”

“Oh, well yes.” Loki looks very nearly bored. Why did Natasha let him convince her that having Thor here wouldn’t be a bad idea?

“Natasha mentioned you didn’t want us to know where you live,” Steve says, stepping into the empty space before Thor can. Natasha watches Thor’s mouth close and the tight press of his lips. He’s starting to pull himself back together, even if his heartbreak is still clear in his eyes. “Is there anything else?”

“Oh, the usual. No one trying to follow me to find out where my home is. Not being abducted. Being left alone.” Loki glances at black fingernails; it draws Thor’s attention--of course it does, and of course Loki notices, a sharp smile on his face as he watches Thor.

He likes the attention, Natasha realizes. Specifically Thor’s attention, even if it’s not good.

“Abducted?” Thor says slowly, a low rumble. Loki very nearly preens.

“Why yes, didn’t you hear?” Loki chuckles. “It was quite an interesting experience. Why, I thought for certain that you would do something, but I do suppose you have better to worry about than a frost giant runt, don’t you?”

“I would never have left you if I’d known,” Thor says, leaning forward, meeting Loki’s gaze head on and utterly oblivious to the way that Loki’s trying to prod a reaction from him. Stark drops his head back against his seat, and though she can’t see it Natasha knows there was a pretty epic eye roll going on. “Loki, it does not matter what you are, you are—”

“--here to discuss how he’s going to interact with the Avengers going forward,” Natasha interrupts, drawing both Thor and Loki’s attention to her. “Which is why we invited you, Thor.”

Thor frowns, but he sits back. At her side, Loki’s stiffened; Natasha can only imagine what it was he heard when Thor said that bit about it not mattering what he is, none of it is good. His smile is gone, face blank. Thor doesn’t talk in ways that Loki gets, and Loki only ever hears the worst of everything--and yet he’s still itching for Thor’s focus, even with having heard whatever terrible thing it was he heard.

She seriously needs to reconsider ever trusting anything Loki says about Thor again.

“Tony thought it might be interesting if you could help stress test some of his tech,” Steve says. “Right, Tony?”

“Yeah, that would be great. I mean, I saw what you did to that laptop that Natasha brought by—” Steve’s eyebrows go up, giving Natasha a look, but Natasha ignores it. She’ll let Stark field that one later. “--and it’s incredible. Maybe we can improve the stuff I gave you, tweak it, you know, that sort of thing.” Stark grins. Loki is blinking at Stark--floored, at least to someone who knows him. Natasha smiles, just a little.

“I threw you out of a window,” Loki says.

“Don’t remind him,” Steve groans. “That’s all he talks about.”

Stark flashes another signature smile.

“In any case, that would get you in the Tower sometimes,” Natasha points out, carefully nudging Loki’s thigh under the table. “Steve would get a lot of peace of mind from having you check in sometimes.”

“I would,” Steve admits. “At least for a while. You didn’t make a very good first impression.”

Loki still looks puzzled--Natasha has a feeling that none of his scenarios for this involved the team being this… willing to communicate, and featured Thor far more.

She’ll keep it a secret how much of this they planned beforehand.

“That is reasonable,” Loki says at last. “I am at the least amenable to the idea.”

“Amenable,” Stark says. “Do you listen to yourself talk?”

“Stark,” Thor says, a low rumble.

“Frequently,” Loki snaps, but his glare is directed at Thor.

“And you’ll have plenty of opportunity to do the same, Stark,” Natasha adds. Loki relaxes just slightly. Natasha pretends not to notice the way that Thor is considering her and Loki, how his brow has furrowed just a little.

“Great.” Steve grins, holding a hand out. “I’m glad that was so easy.”

Loki hesitates a moment, then notices Thor’s surprise at Steve’s offering his hand and gets a set to his mouth just before he reaches out to shake Steve’s hand.

Natasha sighs, resisting the urge to cover her face at Thor’s surprise, and--a first--finds Stark throwing her a sympathetic glance.

***

“That went well,” Stark says. Loki’s in the restroom, Steve is talking with Thor, and so Natasha finds herself stuck in Stark’s company and not, for once, minding overmuch.

“And suggests needing to plan out every possible interaction involving Thor in the future,” Natasha points out. Thor doesn’t look very happy where he’s talking to Steve.

“Yeah, well, you handled it. Practically your own pet frost giant.”

Natasha blinks, looking at Stark. He’s busy examining the tray of cookies, picking out ones he wants to eat and sipping at his cup of coffee.

“Man, Pepper’s a gift. This bakery never does catering.”

“I called in a favour,” Natasha says, grabbing a few peanut butters for Loki.

Own pet frost giant. Now there’s a thought. She turns it over, considers. Remembers the panic attack only a few days ago, the way Loki eased into her last night. Considers that it’s been quite a while since she found anyone to actually scene with, let alone that she wanted to scene with, or that she fell into that pattern naturally with.

Loki wants romance. Natasha can give him a dom’s attention; it’s not quite the same, but there would be enough overlap from his perspective that maybe, just maybe, Stark’s accidentally presented a way for her and Loki to make their relationship last long term.

“I don’t think Thor’s very happy,” Steve sighs. “And I can’t tell what he’s more upset over, to be honest--Loki or that no one told him we knew where he was.”

“Both,” Stark says. “Did you see his face when Loki walked in? Awkward.”

“Mmm.” Natasha looks at Steve, then glances around the room and notes Thor’s gone. “Where is he?”

***

Loki breathes in, leaning his head back and wiping the water off his face. He sighs, looking at himself in the mirror.

He feels… lost. Adrift. He had expected so much more strife, and yet this went nearly pleasantly.

(But Thor, Thor felt the same, as soon as Thor spoke, just like always.)

So how did it go so differently, if Thor was the same?

(“It does not matter what you are—”)

He snorts.

(Of course it matters. It will always matter. Only Thor could think that he could say it doesn’t and make it so.)

He shakes his head, recomposes, and heads out the door to go back to the conference room. Perhaps he’ll be able to slip a few of the cookies out, despite how it will make Natasha frown, he’s certain—

He runs straight into Thor.

Heat, he thinks, dazed. Heat and heat and heat. Gold and golden and blinding and brilliant, broad and immovable--it is not Thor who takes a step back from the collision, but Loki (just like always). Even a few steps back, he can feel Thor’s warmth near radiating off his skin (has he truly never encountered an Aesir in this flesh? But no, no, he ran as soon as—)

“Loki,” Thor says, reaching out, and Loki snarls, tries to step back and instead hits the wall. His shoulders tense, but Thor just steps forward, determined and mouth set and oh how Loki despises him.

(that Thor always can touch, that Thor never notices where Loki’s boundaries are, that he assumes—)

“Do not touch me,” Loki hisses, trying to slide away and out of Thor’s grasp even as Thor clasps one broad hand on his neck, heavy and hot

(familiar and loved, all of Thor’s attention on him—)

and Loki freezes, teeth grinding and half-bared.

“I am not frightened, Brother,” Thor says, eyes blue and earnest.

(Because Thor’s thoughts are all that matter, they always are—)

“I am not your brother,” Loki hisses, shoving Thor’s hand away and letting a touch of frost chase his touch, pushing Thor away and reorienting so that he can insure he does not run into another wall and get trapped again.

“You are, Loki, even if you are cursed for now. It doesn’t matter to me, it doesn’t matter what you are. Loki, I have missed you, and worried, and to hear—”

Loki’s mouth falls open, shocked and suddenly, blindingly furious.

“For now?” he demands, pushing back into Thor’s face, teeth bared, ice threatening to coat every inch of him. “For now? What makes you think I would give this skin up once more? It is mine, or did Odin not tell you the truth of my unwanted birth?” He shoves Thor, startling him into the wall this time, nearly vibrating with fury (to think Thor thinks this a curse, thinks this temporary, that everything he feared is true and Thor sees him only as he was, will not see him for what he is and always has been, that Loki thought, that he thought—) “You lot forced me into the body of my birth, stole my ability to shift shape and my magic both, and you have the gall to call this a curse, as if you can lift it!”

“Loki, stop twisting my words!” Thor scowls. “You always do this, that is not what I meant and you know—”

“Then say what you mean, oh Odinson, ever eager to hunt the monsters down and slay them all.”

(He will kill him, he will, this time, he is done with this, with Thor’s never understanding, there is nothing-nothing-nothing that should hold him back, he will gut him and revel in it. Oh how he hates Thor.)

(how it hurts to hear such from--)

“Thor, Steve’s looking for you,” a cool voice says.

They both look. Natasha is watching, face calm as if there is nothing unusual about this situation.

“If you have a second,” she adds, an afterthought.

Loki steps away from Thor, shooting him one last venomous look, then forcing the rest of himself to at least appear calm. Thor scowls back (clearly he has not missed Loki so much), then gives Natasha a sharp nod.

And then it is only he and she. He wonders what she saw, what she will say.

(What everyone always and ever does when he and Thor fight, how it is his fault, how he should just listen, how he should--.)

“Let’s go home,” she says. She smiles. “Oh, and I saved you some of these.” She offers him a napkin. He takes it, careful not to touch her skin, and unwraps the bundle. He chuckles a little--acid and bitter, too tight in his chest.

“Thank you,” he says.

“I thought you might need some. Anything else you want to do before we’re done?”

He shakes his head.

“Lead the way,” he says.

***

Natasha waits until Loki’s had time to calm down and eat before she brings up the idea that Stark so inadvertently handed her. In truth, she was planning to wait a few days to think it over more before she brought up the suggestion of dominance and submission at all, but Loki calm doesn’t mean he’s any less upset.

Just sullen.

She’d rather he have another idea to turn over.

“For us,” she starts casually while he’s mid a glass of milk and she’s nursing her own cup of tea, “I was thinking.”

That gets his attention.

“Oh?” He looks cautious, almost alarmed.

“It’s nothing bad,” she says, smiling and reaching over to clasp one of his hands.

He waits anyway, eyes focused and sharp.

“The other day, when you were upset, I took control of the situation and you relaxed into it. I’ve been thinking about that, and if you want, we could make that a foundation to work from.”

“You mean like dom and sub,” Loki says, eyebrows furrowing.

Natasha blinks.

“Why do you always act as if I will not know these terms? Even if it wasn’t common on Asgard, which it is, all I have most days for entertainment is the internet,” Loki says dryly. “I do not live under a rock.”

Natasha laughs, squeezing his hand.

“Fair enough. What do you think then?”

He goes quiet, looking at his half-finished glass. He thumbs at it, spider web frost patterns running up the side for a moment before melting.

“It seems sound. There’s overlap, is there not? With what I want and what you desire.” He frowns. “Not sexual.”

“No,” Natasha confirms.

“It could work.” He looks at her again, skin tight at the edges of his eyes. “I will give it thought.”

Natasha nods.

“Do you want me to go?” she asks.

He hesitates.

“You can tell me, Loki,” she says, smiling.

“No,” he says. “But… I do not have much desire to talk.”

“Okay. I can do that.”

He nods and forces a smile.

***

“So what do you do with it exactly?” Stark asks, and this time he even pauses long enough that Loki could say something if he chose.

Stark is… distracting. Constantly talking and moving, and Loki would find it more annoying if not for how the man has a clear talent for his craft, a passion for it.

Loki can understand that particular type of drive all too well.

(Could.)

“I use it,” Loki says.

Stark snorts.

“Yeah, I got that, thanks. But how? I mean, Natasha showed me that first laptop? How the hell did that happen? Is it because your blue?”

(Stark has so few qualms about prodding that subject--it’s almost… refreshing.)

“If I lose control of my temper, I tend to freeze things.” Loki watches Stark carefully.

Stark just looks fascinated.

“Are you still stronger than humans? I mean, not to beat a dead horse--which can I say that? Is that offensive, there’s some myths with you and a horse—”

“Stark,” Loki says mildly, “you’re point?”

Stark presents him a phone. It looks rather like his current one.

“I want to stress test what I gave you.” Stark turns the screen on, revealing a lone app on the home screen. “You haven’t broken it yet, but I want to know exactly how far we can push this until it does.”

“Why?” Loki asks.

“Why not?” Stark grins. “I like blowing things up. You like blowing things up. It’s science as long as we write it down. Come on, it’ll be fun.”

Loki eyes the phone, eyes the app. Flappy Bird.

“Fine,” Loki says. “Though I have little idea how this could at all help with such.”

Stark laughs and hands him the phone.

***

She keeps an eye on Loki. While it might be a touch closer to baby sitting than she particularly likes, she doesn’t like seeing her friends upset.

It’s not anything big. Just a text from Jarvis if Thor happens to be alone in the same room with Loki so that she can get there--or get someone else can if she can’t.

Thor… smothers. She doesn’t think he realizes that he does it, but it’s so obvious that he’s not aware of boundaries that he’s crossing. Even with her, Loki can be cagey about touch, but Thor just… doesn’t seem to recognize any of the signs that Loki doesn’t want to be touched, and Loki certainly never just tells him he doesn’t want to be touched either. Not until Thor’s doing the touching at any rate.

And that’s just one of the ways that Thor smothers. He’s, well, bright. He’s used to being the first son, he used to being listened to and not listening. Thor has no idea how Loki manages to get the hurt he does from what Thor says, and only makes it worse because he doesn’t understand that telling Loki he’s wrong instead of listening is the wrong thing to do.

Of course, it might be easier if Loki didn’t seek Thor out.

“Why do you do that?” she asks him, when they’re leaving the Tower together after she’s successfully gotten him away from Thor.

“He’s insufferable,” Loki says, still half snarling. One hand reaches up and rubs at his neck where Thor had put his hand--again. Thor runs a bit hotter than the average human; she wonders what that feels like to Loki now, if Thor has always felt that way or if not it’s even more intense. It likely is more intense; everything she knows of him before suggests that Loki was biologically Aesir, that this was a true shape shift.

“You look for him because he’s insufferable?” Natasha asks mildly.

Loki scowls at her, mouth pressing tight. Natasha just stops by the car, a hand in her pocket to pull her keys out and looks back up at him evenly, waiting.

“You would not understand,” he mutters, looking away first.

“Maybe.”

Loki shakes his head.

“If you want to talk to him, I can help you.”

“I can talk to my own--to Thor.” Loki’s glaring at her again, so Natasha just looks back at him, taking him as seriously as she can.

Brothers.

***

“This is infuriating,” Loki snarls, flinging the phone across the room for the umpteenth time in as many days before he snaps his mouth shut and grinds his teeth together. He glares at where he’s thrown the phone, tempted to go find it and see if it’s survived, because he will not be bested by some stupid app.

Dum-e has already done the work for him him, beeping as Tony pokes his head over the workbench again.

(Smart of him.)

Loki seethes in Tony’s direction, but his breath is starting to come evenly again. He clenches his hands, cracks his knuckles, and then nearly delicately takes the phone back from Dum-e.

“Thank you,” he tells the robot.

(He does not think he truly means it.)

“You know the air temperature drops around you when you get pissed off?” Tony asks, popping a blueberry into his mouth. His fingers fly over his display, data turning into a rich network of charts and readings. The human is casual about Loki’s display of temper, as if there is no risk to him (as if Loki is not a temperamental monster), brown eyes flicking momentarily from the data points to Loki then back again. “I mean, it’s a million degrees out and you basically are the lab’s AC whenever you visit. Pretty cool.”

“That was not even vaguely funny,” Loki says, moving to take a look at what Tony is seeing.

“Ah ah, phone down first.”

Loki rolls his eyes, but listens (worth it, to see what has Tony so intrigued). The phone isn’t on the surface more than a few seconds before Tony has snatched it up and cracked it open to take a look at the insides. Loki lets him, poking at the readings above.

(He dare says he… enjoys Tony’s company. Obnoxious, rude, insufferable as the human might be, he is clever. Sometimes it even manages to shine through.)(He is not frightened of Loki. Does not blink at his skin, not in Loki’s presence. Modified all the touch interfaces to deal with the fact Loki runs too cold for many to notice his touch when he is angry, which is often because of the nature of what they are doing.)

(It shouldn’t mean anything to him, and yet…)

“Well it half-made it this time,” Tony announces.

“Pressure or temperature?” Loki asks idly.

“Little of both.” Tony tilts the phone towards him; Loki looks down, sees a touch of ice that had slipped into the phone’s seam, the neat crack in the glass. “Or, you know, you throwing it did it. Either way, another one down. By the time we’re done a freaking three year old won’t be able to break one of these phones. Nintendo will be begging me to find out how I did it.” Tony flashes him a cocksure grin.

“How delightful,” Loki says dryly.

***

It doesn't take much for Natasha to determine she loves scening with Loki. Loves the exploration, loves when things go well--because there have been some things that they’ve tried in the weeks since she suggested BDSM that don’t. Blunt force that was abandoned almost as soon as Natasha connected the one time they tried it, Loki recoiling in a way that didn’t suggest his usual comfort, a twisted up fury just barely masking terror.

But when they go well, when what they’ve discussed and decided to explore works, there is a joy to it that Natasha loves. There’s always a fight to get him to just let go, one that reminds her so much of his viciousness and brilliance and simple survival instinct she can’t help but respect, can’t help how much joy she takes in pushing back against, because she recognizes it for what it is. The slow push and tug and pull as she undoes him entirely, bit by bit, forces him to discard the parts of him that he clings to because he doesn’t know how to stop thinking about everyone else….

until it’s finally only Loki, as he is at his core, eyes gentled, love and trust making him loose and languid.

So much trust. He trusts her not to hurt him in a way he does not want, trusts her not to use him, to stab him in the back, and here, in the bedroom after a scene, his breath slow and shallow as he starts to doze against her, skin beginning to bruise a little from their play today, it is so obvious that Natasha can feel it--warm and heat and a permanent glow in her chest.

With everything she’s come from, she has no way to explain how much being trusted means to her.

“Should I be worried about you and Tony getting along?” Natasha asks idly, running her hand through his hair.

He shifts a little, rubbing his face into her skin. A half rub, the brush of eyelashes as his eyes partially open, the tense of curiosity that makes him heavier against her for a breath. So close--always so close after these scenes that he barely needs to speak, and she isn’t sure the words are even in reach for him.

She revels in this; she did this, she brought him peace, crafted a space for him to simply be. This, she thinks sometimes, must be what religion is for other people.

Loki shakes his head, hums a low purr. Natasha chuckles, pressing a kiss to his head.

“What is that supposed to mean?” She smooths his hair away from his face, tilting her head to see if she can get a better look at him.

Loki shrugs, and his smile feels like joy where it presses into her skin when her chuckle turns to honest laughter. There’s another pleased hum as she briefly scratches her nails against his scalp, the flutter of his eyelashes shut against her throat.

“I should get you a collar. You’re nearly a giant cat.”

Loki freezes, muscles locking tight against her and the momentary heaviness of his curiosity returned a thousandfold as he stops breathing. His fingertips dig briefly into her, then there’s the flex in his spine as he starts to get ready to push away.

“No collar then,” Natasha says quickly, but she does not try to stop him as he sits up. He’s breathing again--unsteady, nearly as tight as the line between his brows. He doesn’t move farther away, only sits there, not quite looking at her, eyes focused on some middle distance.

Thinking.

She lets him, waits. His thoughts always go slow after a good scene--stop, she suspects, but it isn’t like she can know that for sure. It doesn’t matter; what matters is that he calms so deeply, a facet of him that she knows belongs solely to her. She will give him all the time in the world to think if it means she gets to see him this way.  

Natasha never claimed to be a good person.

“Perhaps,” Loki finally murmurs, eyes shifting up to look at her. “Perhaps.”

Natasha holds a hand out. He hesitates a moment, then eases back up against her side and half sprawls against her, bare skin on bare skin. Tension drains out of him as she trails her hands along the lines that crisscross his flesh, as she presses a kiss to his brow.

“Think about it,” she replies, and he sighs, eyes slipping closed again and the earlier peace returning.

How easy he trusts her.

Natasha smiles.

***

You’re nearly a giant cat.

(Beast. She meant beast.)

A collar. What is he to make of the suggestion? It seemed so idle, so harmless. Natasha did not mean ill, he knows she did not mean ill, did not mean it the way any Aesir would mean it if speaking of a Jotun.

(The way Thor would.)(Thor would not say such, not to him, not of him, not ev—)(--ven if you are cursed for now, isn’t that what Thor said, is that why Thor would not say such, because he has simply not recognized that Loki is Jotun and does need to be collared like some beast?)

“Hey, Papa Smurf, I thought you were supposed to be breaking things?”

Loki blinks, glances down at the phone in his hand. He’d forgotten. He presses his lips tightly, glares at the phone and then Stark. This should be easy, but—

--but it is so difficult to be angry the way he needs to be for ice, even with the usual curse that is this intolerable app that he still cannot best.

(he is so… unsure. Off-balance. Not furious, only confused and unhappy and mulling his way through.)

Perhaps, just perhaps, he could try asking Stark. When he speaks to Mrs. Jefferson and Natasha it near always helps, and even Pepper was helpful for all he only briefly really spoke with her.  

He glances up at Stark; Stark looks bemused and slightly alarmed--certainly more alarmed than he has any time that Loki has actually been infuriated. It’s… charming. Just as Stark always is, if only ever unintentionally.

“You know, I thought before was probably just a one off, but I really didn’t expect performance issues to be a common thing with you.”

On second thought, perhaps he should not. He wrinkles his nose in slight distaste, throwing the phone at Stark’s head. It’s really more a toss, certainly not hard, and Stark catches it, giving the phone a once over.

“Despite what you seem to think, I am not always angry,” Loki comments mildly.

(Who else can he speak to about this? Certainly not Thor (who he still can’t decide if he should murder or simply avoid), and Natasha is out of the question when so much of this relates back to her. Pepper is out of the question (too much (shame) embarrassment at how she found him)(besides, they are not friends, only two people who cross paths because of someone they both care about), and the idea of speaking to Mrs. Jefferson about this of all things is so mortifying that he’d almost rather talk to Thor.)

(Then there is the internet, but for all those… friends can sometimes be helpful, he is not sure that he could truly trust any who do not fully realize what is involved with this--but he does not think he could possibly reveal the details without someone realizing who he actually is.)

Stark is staring at him, half-expectant.

(It was only a suggestion. It should not matter so.)

Stark looks as if he is strongly reconsidering being in contact with Loki at all.

“Suppose,” Loki says, slow at first (he should not do this), “suppose that there were something which Pepper wished to do that, perhaps, struck too close to the bone.” He will not go into specifics, that is simple enough.

(Stark will be too embarrassed to speak to anyone else about this, surely, too awkward, and the startled deer look that Loki is getting at this moment only confirms it.)

Stark lets out a breath, rights his expression once more, and gives a self-deprecating laugh.

“Really, you’re asking me for help with Natasha?”

“It is only a question.”

“What does she want you to do, cut your hair? Make friends with Thor?”

Loki presses his lips together tightly, his aimless uncertainty of before spurred to anger. (An idiot, to think that perhaps Stark of all people might have something worthwhile to say—)(and perhaps it would be easier, if being nice to Thor was all that Natasha asked, all Natasha suggested, but no, she suggested a collar, a beast, to treat him as he appears.)

“Nevermind,” he snaps. Silence descends and he turns away, wishing he had the phone so he could at least turn back to work and change the subject more successfully. Dum-e gives a mournful beep that has Loki shooting the robot a glare.

“It depends on what it was,” Stark says suddenly. “But I guess the problem is it makes you think that you’re… whatever the fuck Jotun is supposed to mean to Asgard?” Loki turns to look at Stark, shoulders itching at the awareness in brown and all too old human eyes.

“I’m like, the worst at relationships,” Stark continues, “so take this with enough salt to salinate the ocean, but if it just makes it easier to sleep at night? Gives me another way to draw a line from the person I was and who I try to be these days? I usually give it a shot, even if I think it sounds stupid. Pepper’s a smart lady. And I don’t know what Natasha’s suggested--and I don’t want to know, thanks, this is weird enough as it is--but Natasha’s probably the only other person I know smart as Pepper.” Stark looks away, shrugging.

Loki considers the human in the following silence--it is not terrible advice, for all that Stark has downplayed himself.

(But he must admit that this entire situation is indeed uncomfortable, and it is best to move on.)

Stark tosses the phone back.

“Thor ate all the peanut butter cookies we had in the kitchen. Couldn’t save you any,” Stark says.

Loki catches the phone, irritated and put out by the lack, by Thor’s thoughtlessness (as if Thor would know), and crushes the phone with one hand. It startles a laugh out of him, and then a moment laughter, Stark is laughing too.

***

“Let’s never speak of this again,” Stark says as Loki leaves.

“Speak of what?” Loki deadpans.

“Who knows,” Stark says, reaching out to pat Loki on the arm before wisely changing his mind.

***

One thing about Thor most people don’t realize: he can absolutely be silent on the approach. Natasha assumes that hunting on Asgard, or wherever Thor chooses to hunt, also means needing to know how to move silently, masking the unavoidable in the environmental noise.

Like many things about him, it’s preference that makes him the big and golden charming prince that he usually appears.

This is why she is mostly unsurprised when he not only tracks down where she’s hidden herself so she can finish some paperwork while waiting on Loki to finish working with Stark, but does so without her noticing until he’s cleared his throat and is purposefully making noise again.

Natasha just raises an eyebrow and gives him a once over. Thor very nearly looks humble, and there’s certainly a certain kicked puppy look to him, so clearly he’s got something he wants to ask.

“Do you perhaps have a moment, Lady Natasha?” Thor asks, all formality, so it must be about Loki.

“Sure,” Natasha says, leaning back in her chair and pushing the paperwork away. “I need a break anyway.”

Thor smiles and eases himself into the chair next to her at the boardroom table. He’s dressed impeccably, casual and dressy at the same time, and she takes a moment to admire the more toned down burgandy of his partially unbuttoned shirt--it’s a change from the more normal red.

“Tony introduce you to his tailor?”

“Clothing has come quite a ways,” Thor says. “It is still a bit lacking to what I am used to, but it certainly is comfortable. Stark seemed quite shocked that I knew nearly so much about clothing.”

Natasha rolls her eyes; Stark would forget just what being a prince means as far as wardrobes go, even if he himself is one in all but name. It gets a chuckle out of Thor.

“We should go shopping sometime then.”

“That would be most agreeable!” Thor says, lighting up a bit, and Natasha’s smile is genuine this time. There’s something a bit soothing to how easy and upfront Thor is about how he feels; while she knows it isn’t innocence, or even naivety, it’s still refreshing. It’s like Steve’s own faith in the goodness of others, that everyone can be redeemed if they want it--the two are different, of course, but Natasha still finds herself overly fond of the trait.

Maybe she should tell him to talk to Steve about Loki.

“What can I help you with?” Natasha says. “No offense, but I don’t think you hunted me down to talk clothes.”

Thor laughs, not in the least bit ashamed that Natasha knows he found her for a reason.

“Indeed, I did not. It is about my brother, though I doubt that surprises you either. You and he seem quite close?”

“You could say that,” Natasha says, keeping her tone neutral. Thor, however, only nods, not even a flicker of jealous or, well, anything dark--either he’s hiding it well or he really doesn’t mind.

Of course, considering it’s Thor, it’s entirely possible that for all he shoves his foot in his mouth around Loki, he is genuinely happy his brother has developed relationships in their time apart.

“Indeed.” Thor pauses, concentration flickering across his features. “Perhaps this will sound comical, as Loki and I did grow up together, were close for centuries, but pretty words have never been my forte, so I shall ask you this simply: how do you do it? It seems a miracle, with how often my brother and I were at odds since my banishment to New Mexico, that you could be so close--he has pushed me away at every turn such that I feared that no one would ever reach him.”

Natasha blinks. There are many things she would expect of Thor, many many things, but none of them involve him humbly asking her how the hell to not piss Loki off.

Though, considering that it’s been a solid three weeks of Loki nearly taking his nose off every time Thor tries to talk to him and Natasha carefully redirecting things, maybe it’s only been a matter of time.

“Of course, if you would—”

“Listen to what he says,” Natasha interrupts. It’s the most obvious thing she can think of. She holds a hand up before he can say anything, can see the objection already on his lips. He frowns, but settles back in his chair.

Maybe, just maybe, he’s got a chance after all.

“You’ve got to listen to him. You two think in entirely different ways, so you’ve got to listen to what he’s saying so you know what he isn’t saying. You know he doesn’t just come out and say what’s bothering him.” Natasha snorts. “He’s starting to learn, but he’s got a ways to go.”

Thor nods. Natasha considers him, can see him thinking--Thor does not hide himself in anyway, and his brightness is a force that swallows the room.

It’s no wonder Loki often attacks him--Loki’s drawn to him as much as anyone, but it smothers him in the same breath. Natasha’s seen it in action a few times now, knew it existed, but alone with Thor it’s easier to be smothered herself.

“I know words aren’t your strong suit, but you’ve got to be more careful with them. Loki’s hearing things that you don’t mean--but that doesn’t mean what he hears is any less true for him. Don’t shut him down when he says that you’re saying something you didn’t--listen to him. He wants the validation; the biggest thing I do is listen to him and don’t tell him he’s wrong unless he’s actually wrong. And then you’ve got to show him that he’s wrong. Be subtle about it.”

Another nod, Thor’s frown growing a little deeper. This is going to be work for him, but, well, it always was going to be. He must have known that.

“Our mother has said as much,” Thor murmurs.

“Smart lady.”

Thor smiles, all soft at the edges, and yeah--he’s not Natasha’s type in the slightest, but she can certainly appreciate the looks. A bear to Loki’s own whipcord panther.

“About his… state—”

“He’s Jotun.”

Thor blinks at her, stunned enough he hasn’t closed his mouth. Natasha keeps her face stony, stares him dead in the eye.

“Your brother is Jotun. If you want to fix things, you need to get that figured out. He’s already sorted it out while you were gone, and it’s a work in progress, but you’re hurting him if you refuse to acknowledge that he’s Jotun, always has been, that he’s been hurt by never knowing. You are hurting him, maybe not physically, but it’s never about the surface with Loki. You know that.”

“But—” Thor starts.

“If you won’t come to terms with it, then don’t even talk to him,” Natasha says flatly, let her features turn more towards ice.

Thor goes silent, and if the contemplation before was only that, now there’s the first sign of storm clouds. Maybe it’s been easier for him to consider this as a curse, as something to be undone, but it’s not going to work in the long term and he needs to know that.

“Thank you,” he finally says slowly, meeting her eyes again. “I… will give your words a great deal of thought.”

“Look up internalized racism,” Natasha suggests lightly. “It might give you somewhere to start. And how’s Friday at three sound for shopping?”

***

It is a choice.

This is what he keeps coming back to--it is a choice, a choice to make himself a beast should he let Natasha put a collar on him--and if he does choose such (he is less and less sure he will not choose such), then why not go the entire way?

If he chooses a collar, then mustn’t he also choose to be a beast? Doesn’t the very fact that he must choose mean that he is not a beast? That there is nothing inherently beastial to being Jotun?

At the least it should be worth the attempt, and if he changes his mind, then Natasha will think nothing less of him--and Natasha will be the only one that ever knew at all that he allowed himself to be collared.

(And if she should leave, should use it against him, tell—)

He stops by a pet store on his way home.

(She would not. Will not.

This he knows like breathing.)

***

“I just want you to check out her background for me. I like her, but—”

“You don’t need another me,” Natasha finishes with a small smirk. She snags the file that Pepper slides across the table to her and gives it a quick flip through. She’ll never envy Pepper’s need for a secretary and all the investigating that goes into that.

“Exactly. How was Bucharest?”

“Stifling.” At first glance nothing pings any warnings, which just means that Natasha is going to need to do a thorough looking--no one comes off so clean at first brush. “Late August is always the worst.”

Pepper makes a face, then nods to Natasha’s phone on the table.

“Do you need to get that?”

Natasha glances at it--a text from Loki. A quick skim reveals he just wants her to stop by, and while the language is pretty innocuous, it still gives her pause. His text when he was having the panic attack also didn’t suggest urgency, and she’s hesitant to ask if he can wait in case he lies.

But no--he’s promised to tell the truth. He has told her the truth, so far as she knows.

Trust goes both ways.

She sends him a text back asking if he needs her right now. A few moments later:

No hurry.

“It can wait,” Natasha tells Pepper. Pepper raises an eyebrow, but unlike nearly anyone else, just takes her at her word.

“You were going to say?” Natasha prompts, setting both phone and file back on the lunch table.

***

When Natasha does finally stop by, it’s starting to get dark outside and the city is beginning to light up. The view is spectacular--and would be more so if Loki hadn’t darkened the windows. She starts to go to Loki, but her eyes go more immediately to what’s sitting on the dining table against the wall to the kitchen.

Natasha walks over; Loki’s eyes don’t follow her where he’s lounging on the couch, still focused on the show that he’s watching. A quick look over proves that other than a slight tense, he isn’t waiting on her reaction. At least not with much anxiety.

Well, she supposes she did suggest the idea in the first place. He isn’t worried about being shamed by her.

It’s not a particularly fancy collar--black leather, thicker. Something she might see on a zoo cat being lead out for an exhibition or a larger breed of dog. It’s very supple; knowing leather, she knows this means Loki likely has spent some time working at it before she got here. She picks it up, turns it over in her hands. Loki is watching her now, and instead of ask the more obvious ‘what’s this?’, Natasha considers what to say.

“Are you certain?” she asks, meeting his gaze.

There’s a flash of adoration in Loki’s eyes that she can’t miss, the gratitude she is not pretending confusion or making him explain, only picking up where they last left the conversation off at. It softens all the lines of his face before he manages to tuck it back away, and not for the first time Natasha finds herself fond of how vulnerable he is with her.

“If I choose it, then it means that I am not what it implies. That it is something I must play at,” he tells her evenly; he’s certain. Certain as he can be before they try. He’s been thinking about this, possibly since she first mentioned collaring him.

Natasha nods, looking back at the collar. She loosens it from the clasp, holds it in both hands, and considers how best to proceed.

“Come here,” she says at last, letting her voice drift a little towards the coldness he’s used to when she doms. She doesn’t bother to look up to see if he’s listened--she can hear as much--only keeps her stance relaxed and full of casual power, makes it clear that not listening is not an option.

“Kneel,” she tells him, glancing up to meet his gaze. It gets a snort from him, but she doesn’t let herself smile, and slowly the amusement fades. He kneels down, the first flicker of active trepidation as his eyes focus on the collar she’s holding on her hands. “Move your hair.”

There’s a breath of hesitation, then he sweeps his hair out of the way.

“Last chance,” Natasha tells him, and behind it she leaves all the kindness she can offer--he does not have to do this to please her, does not have to risk what he has made of himself in an act that may undo his work, does not have to become the animal that he is so often afraid that he is because he is Jotun.

Loki’s laugh is short and sharp, his grin wicked and devil-may-care as he looks up at her, red eyes gleaming cleverness and nervousness in equal measure.

“I bought it, did I not? I know my own ways out, Natasha.”

Natasha lets a brief smile touch her lips--his own reassurance offered in return.

“Okay,” Natasha says, and slips the collar around his throat.

***

As it slides into place, weight resting against his skin, the tug and fasten of the buckle, Loki stops breathing and closes his eyes. Everything running through his head in the moments before is simply gone, cut off entirely in the sudden body shivering terror of what will happen now—

“Nat—” he starts, then stops she presses a finger to his lips. He opens his eyes, looking up at her; she has a brow raised

(beasts do not speak, not in words)

and he swallows; trembles, he realizes distantly. He’s trembling. Everything in him cannot move past the leather pressed against the skin of his throat, his pulse. Natasha slips two fingers between the collar and his throat, testing to be sure he has room to breath, and he only shakes more.

She runs her other hand through his hair, eyebrow still raised. Waiting.

He mewls, reaches up to tangle his hands in her shirt.

It’s utterly humiliating, but she smiles, pleased, and—

(it’s such an effort, it does not come naturally, he has to--how does a beast act, a cat that she seems to think he acts so like normally? He barely remembers, can hardly think around the weight of material at his throat, and yet he must because—)

“Does Lokitty want some milk?” she asks, sickly sweet, and he makes a face, shoving away from her and nearly choking as she has not unhooked her fingers from the collar. He starts to speak, remembers himself, and instead growls his displeasure.

Natasha bursts into laughter, letting him go, and strokes his hair again. She presses a kiss to his forehead, a hand pressing against his shoulder as he goes to stand—

(beasts do not stand)

--and he settles more fully into the mindset, starts to be able to think past the collar at his throat, to consider only what he would need and desire as a cat.

“Only teasing,” she murmurs against his skin, then lets go entirely and wanders off into the kitchen.

He hesitates a moment, then follows on all fours--attempts at grace for all he knows he looks ridiculous, and revels in the effort that this takes.

(How few thoughts there are to trouble him but the awareness of her collar, of her, of what he must do to maintain this pretense, that he is only this by choice.)

***

“What do you think?” Natasha asks him afterwards.

He searches for the words--words that grew so fleeting and distant the longer that time passed, the more he fell into the role expected of him. She always makes them so fleeting.

“It was… pleasant,” he finally says, rolling his shoulders and then his head, rubbing a little at where the leather rubbed against skin unused to any material these days.

Natasha snorts with a smirk, but she does not comment further. He raises an eyebrow, slides into her lap to peer curiously up at her face, so close their noses nearly touch.

“And you?” he asks.

“I enjoyed it,” Natasha says. “Though I wouldn’t mind keeping some of the other things that we’ve done around for other moods.”

Loki smiles, too languid to bother trying to reign in how easy it feels, how… open. Everything feels so… strangely soft at the edges, so calm. He feels so sure in himself now, so relaxed for the knowledge, and he cannot imagine trying to hide such confidence.

(Is this what everyone else feels so often? Is this the ‘normal’ that he hears so much about?)

“Of course,” he says, and kisses her. It gets a startled breath from Natasha before she returns it, and her smile feels like a victory against his lips.

“You’ve got an appointment with Stark tonight,” she reminds.

“Is that so?” he murmurs, opening his eyes to meet her own grey. “Then I best be on my way. Shall we?”

***

This late at night, the Tower is perhaps noisier than any other time of day; typically Loki prefers to avoid it for exactly that reason, but tonight he finds himself relaxed, not minding the particular noise of all of the Avengers roaming through the halls of their headquarters.

He parts ways with Natasha soon after they arrive, restrains himself from giving Clint a lazy smile (surely that would not go over well) and wanders his way towards Stark’s lab. Away from the main rooms (a movie night of some sort in progress) it is quieter, and he finds himself listening a little fondly to the trailing noise that he is leaving behind.

(How does one manage to maintain this sense of surety? Is there a trick to it? How has he never stumbled upon it before? Not even the satisfaction of a plan well-executed or spell well done ever comes close to this, ever lasts for so long. And it is not solely Natasha, he does not think (could not be, for was it not him that made the ultimate choice?)(how strange that he does not mind admitting that he is still not wholly behind the idea, that it does not grate—), because he has read enough to know that these things are only validated by others, not generated by them—

He is still mulling the thought over when he turns the last corner and sees Thor. It startles him as Thor looks up where he has been clearly waiting, and yet other than a brief irritation, there is no…

(he is glad to see Thor, an instinctive joy in his brother's presence, and has his brother’s mouth always been so unhappy of late? There are lines to his face that Loki does not recognize, and it’s painful to see any sign of such things on Thor of all people, who has only ever born smile and laughter lines in all the time that Loki has known him.)

… no fury. No need to flee.

And Thor only looks at him, considers before he smiles gently. He does not uncross his arms, does not step towards Loki despite how Loki has already braced himself for such, and he finds himself slightly wary beneath his general good cheer and calm.

“Do you have a moment to talk, Loki?” Thor asks, though clearly Thor was waiting on him. Loki is well aware that Thor is not half so dense or unclever as people (Loki) likes to make out.

Loki considers how often Stark has kept him waiting before (his curiosity that Thor is not acting the way Loki is so used to, the unhappiness and stress that touches Thor’s face) and gives a small smile.

“Why not? But perhaps not in the hallway.”

Thor smiles, still gentle, still lacking a little of its oh so golden glow.

***

They’re about fifteen minutes into the movie when Stark walks out of the elevator carrying enough food to feed the small army that is the Avengers. Natasha, curled up against Clint, immediately straightens, hitting his chin on the way, and does a headcount.

Loki hasn’t come back to the main area even though Stark has clearly not been there and Thor isn’t in the room.

Before she can say anything, Stark shoves a giant soda at her.

“I think you should sit this one out,” he says mildly, a touch of a manic grin making his eyes bright.

Clint grumbles, rubbing his face.

“I don’t know if this is all worth it,” he says. “I wasn’t planning on getting beaten up on my night off.”

Natasha’s eyes narrow as she considers them both.

“Look, if it was a bad idea, I’m pretty sure half the tower would be frozen by now,” Stark adds, settling down next to her. “Burger?”

***

They end up in a smaller meeting room--it always fascinates Loki just how many meeting rooms Stark has designed into the tower, as if he is aware that at any moment one might end up in the hallway and need to have a conversation out of it. For once, Loki finds himself leading the way, more familiar with this part of the Tower than Thor is.

It’s strange leading Thor anywhere, and it makes a little of his calm twist into tension between his shoulder blades, an itch that he cannot scratch (even if he could, it would not go away).

The room is small, which does not help, and one side entirely lined in windows that look out over the glittering sprawl that is New York at night. It makes his stomach drop for a moment before he manages to parse that it is only the city and not an endless fall of stars that cannot be reached, has him missing a step before he manages to right himself again and quickly turn away.

Only to be startled (again) by the fact Thor had started to reach for him--and then decided not to touch.

What in the realms is going on? Has he found himself in another universe without noticing? Surely he is not dreaming--as much as he longs for Thor not to touch, it is only that Thor ceases doing it without permission; part of him craves it so deeply (Thor is so golden his touch makes real) that he’s never dared breathe the thought even in sleep.

“Well,” Loki says, forcing his posture casual and unconcerned, “what is it you wished to speak of?”

Thor looks away a moment, a shadow flickering across his features (he is going to make me go back, but it’s distant, a panic that he cannot fully feel, almost ridiculous--what could Thor possibly gain by such), before he looks Loki straight in the eye (ever one to face any challenge head on).

“I wish to apologize to you.”

Loki feels his mouth fall open, blinking in surprise. He closes it, tries to find something to say, but he can think of nothing at all and so asks the obvious.

“For what?”

Thor, if anything, looks even more uncomfortable (humble, Loki’s brain supplies numbly, and he must check that his mouth has not fallen open again).

“For how I have treated you. Many times in the past, yes, but in particular for my treatment of you since I have returned and you were introduced--reintroduced to the Avengers. For not trying more to understand, for not listening to what you say, for— for.” Thor pauses and Loki watches in distant fascination as Thor steels himself, bringing his gaze, which has been drifting lower, up to meet Loki’s again.

(What does he see, Loki wonders, how much does it kill his golden brother to look up and meet the red eyes of a —

--a Jotun.)

(He has proven today that being a beast is no more innate to him now than it was when he was wore an Aesir skin, found it pleasurable, and he refuses to call himself such ever again. He is Jotun, and he finds his posture straightening a little as Thor meets his eyes with the knowledge of it.)

“For being unwilling to accept that you were and have always been Jotun, and the harm I have caused you by that action.”

And then, while Loki tries to orient around the words, tries to process that Thor is even aware of what he implied the other day, has implied every time they have spoken before this moment, Thor puts a hand to his chest and kneels, full and formal apology.

Loki stares down at him, mouth open once more and too stunned to try to resolve it. He turns the words over, again and again, tries to look for what Thor stands to gain from it, tries to understand how Thor could notice, tries to understand—

That’s it, of course, of course—

“Who are you? What have you done with Thor?” he demands, reaching down to pull Thor up--the imposter, because clearly—

Thor gives a sad laugh, enough that the thought begins to fade away.

He is not, perhaps, the only one has been changed in the time apart. This, at least, might explain why he has not seen Thor the last few times he has visited the Tower.

Thor stands again, and his smile is so mournful that Loki cannot stand to look at it. He shoves Thor upright, straightens his clothing, and steps away again, awkward and unsure.

“What do you want from me?” Loki finally asks when it becomes clear that Thor--Thor--is waiting on Loki. He stares down at the lines of his hands instead of risk looking at Thor, at how even still Thor has not made this about himself.

“To—” Thor pauses, then barks a dry laugh. “There is no way I can say without it being able to taken the wrong way.” He hears the rustle of Thor’s hair as he shakes his head, then Thor steps forward, hands careful as they move towards Loki’s. Loki watches, knows that in this moment if he were to pull back Thor would let him, and tries not to flinch or sink into the heat that surrounds his hands as Thor’s own wrap around them.

“Then say it anyway,” Loki says, staring at Thor’s hands and how Thor is not flinching away from the cold of Loki’s own skin.

“I miss my brother,” Thor says quietly. “And if you would wish, I would want nothing more than to have the chance--only a chance--to earn your trust once more.”

Loki laughs, shaken, and draws his hands away, steps away because he feels as if he can nearly not breathe. All of this is so much, too much, and he presses still too warm hands to his face for one last ghost of Thor’s heat before it vanishes. He does not risk looking up, seeing what he must look like reflected back in Thor’s eyes, just tries to breathe around the knot quickly welling in his chest and throat, making it so he cannot speak at all.

And (wonder of wonders) Thor only waits.

“Is that all?” Loki finally asks, tries for biting but he can’t muster the venom. He glances up at Thor, meets sky blue eyes just a few shades lighter than Loki’s own skin.

“It might be easier if you tell me when I do something spectacularly wrong.” Thor smiles, rueful.

Loki laughs, sharp and a little jagged--but then, he supposes he can’t help it. This is so much (too much) to handle at all once without being broken apart, lacks any of the care that Natasha uses to do the same.

(How like Thor--that has not changed.)

“I will see what I can do.”

There, then, is Thor’s smile, brilliant and radiant and all-consuming, brightening the cold fluorescent light of the meeting room to warmth, and it is just as sickeningly comforting turned fully upon Loki as it has ever been.

And Loki, a little unsure, gives his own slender and knife-like smile back.

***

Natasha is pretty sure that her eyebrows can’t climb any higher unless she draws them on when Thor and Loki both come in, Loki clearly still in a good mood and Thor nearly radiant instead of the kicked puppy he more normally is after a confrontation with Loki. Another quick scan over Loki as he pauses to take in where she’s sitting leaned against Clint before following to sit by… Thor and Stark? really?--only proves that he’s entirely shaken, if content with the world.

And isn’t that interesting.

“So what the hell did you do to him?” Clint asks quietly during a particularly loud explosion in the movie. “And how much are we going to regret it when he goes back to blowing shit up?”

Natasha shakes her head. As much as she cares about the archer, there are some things he just doesn’t need to know; at least not until he can deal with them. She suspects repeating she’s only extended Loki the same kindness Clint gave her once would make him sour, and there’s nothing about this moment she wants to sour at all.

Clint just snorts, messing her hair up in the process.

Natasha meets Loki’s eyes when he glances over at her and smiles. He’s lost in thought--or was, because it takes him off-guard. A beat, and he smiles back, small and that same confidence he had after she collared him still just beneath the surface.

She relaxes into Clint, earning another snort as Loki looks away.

“You two are gross,” he mutters.

Natasha pinches his side.

“Says the guy I’m cuddled up on.”

Clint just snorts again, arm tightening a little around her shoulders, and Natasha smiles wider.

***

It isn’t always collars--they still try new things, still sample among a wide range. She knows falling will make him panic, that knife play may be his favourite just behind anything with wax. It’s a slow map, a careful one, but it has not stopped growing despite the way collaring him does not expand it. The other play can happen at any time.

Collaring is….

Collaring him is a center, maybe even the center for what they do. It’s for other reasons, soothes parts of him the way that their more strictly hurt and comfort can’t touch. There’s a confidence that he takes from being collared that she finds utterly fascinating, that makes him even more attractive than he already is to her. It isn’t his pretended confidence he sometimes gets when he’s unsure--she can spot that.

He never goes under as quickly as he does when Natasha puts a collar around his throat, gives up with as little fight; a year ago--already?-- she would never have guessed that this is what would come of her choice to take a chance on hiding him in her old safe house.

Let alone that this might ever last so long with little sign of ending any time soon.

***

He takes one step outside, nearly faints in the sudden swamp heat that is September in New York, and immediately returns back to the apartment. He’s still trying to get his breath back as he goes to the kitchen and lies down on the cool tile.

How he hates this--hates how trapped he is in what Natasha calls an ‘Indian Summer.’ He does not think even July was so hot.

(He should call Thor.)

(What will Thor say? Will Thor only think he is making excuses (that Loki does not wish—), will he insist on coming to Loki (he cannot, no one can, this is his space—

He pulls his phone out and stares at it for a few long minutes, then pulls up Thor’s number and (with only a minute tremble of hesitation) hits dial.

The ring is some ridiculous song or another--of course Thor would change the waiting rings to some song or another, or was that someone that Thor knows who did him the favour?--and he listens with growing trepidation, lets ice spread from his hand pressed flat to the floor and trails a finger over the slick spot.

“Loki?”

(Thor is so golden, even over the phone. Thor must adore this weather, the heat and wet press of it so like Thor himself.)

“It is too hot,” Loki says. He swallows before he can add anything else, any other explanations.

Thor is silent a moment, thoughts slow.

“Would rain help?” Thor asks after a while.

Loki blinks from where he has started to look for cracks on the ceiling.

“I don’t think I could make it cold without risk of hail, but rain may take some of the edge out of the heat, at least long enough for you to get here.”

“I…. perhaps.” Loki pauses. “You aren’t meant to mess with the humans’ weather.”

“Have you seen how atrocious their weather forecasters are? No one would suspect anything.”

Loki chuckles, unable to help it.

“I wasn’t aware you were willing to risk a scolding to see me.”

Thor laughs in turn.

“If it does not help, I will call,” Loki finally says.

“Then I will simply see you another day.” Thor’s cheer is forced, Loki can tell, but he is more surprised (delighted) that Thor is not trying to push it past this, not trying to force his way into Loki’s spaces--that he is trusting Loki to know his own limits and respecting them.

Accepting that Loki being Jotun simply means sometimes heat will be too much.

(What a marvel.)

“Very well,” Loki says, and he does not bother to hide his smile from his voice.

***

There’s a small collection of collars now. The first one, the only one Loki’s ever bought. A green dog collar she bought with gold metal, which Loki generally seems to dislike and so she never uses unless he’s being particularly snotty. A metal one that never gets used for very long because she hates trying to deal with the clasp after Loki’s skin has cooled it.

But these are normal. No, Natasha needs to know what to get him that will bring him to his knees--she never does anniversary presents, so it’s doubly important to get this one right.

Answer: Thor.

“So you have been together a year? Did you start… what is the word that you use here? Court? Date—”

“He wanted me to kill him,” Natasha says cheerfully and digs into her burger. Thor makes a distressed noise, chair creaking, but Natasha takes her time to chew and swallow. It’s important not to choke, after all.

“So…” Thor asks delicately after she does.

“I’m picking this for the anniversary of when neither of us died.” Natasha smiles at him. “I didn’t kill him, he didn’t kill me.”

Thor just shakes his head, looking bemused and starting to eat his fries.

“I am glad that is true then,” Thor finally says. “And so you wish to get him a gift?”

“I know what I’m getting him. The question is what it should look like--he doesn’t really buy things for himself without someone around, which means I haven’t the first clue what he’d want.”

“Because Loki is ever attentive to those with him and how he seems.”

“Exactly.”

Thor hums, frowning a little. For a few minutes, they eat in silence. Natasha’s more than happy to give Thor the time he needs to sort through Loki’s tastes; she can’t imagine that it was quickly gained.

Though maybe it was and it’s just old and half-forgotten--Thor did grow up with Loki.

The waiter has just cleared their plates away when Thor gives a quick glance over and then leans towards Natasha. Natasha has to hide a laugh, but she leans forward obligingly.

“You did not hear this from me,” Thor says. “You are clever enough Loki would believe you figured it out on your own, but if he thinks that you did not, then it was not I you learned this from.”

Natasha blinks then nods.

“Swear it,” Thor says, serious.

“I swear he won’t learn from me that you told me this.”

Thor frowns at her word choice, then nods.

“Gaudy. Flashy as possible, but not tacky. Well. Not quite.” Thor frowns. “He likes things that sparkle and gleam, likes best when they look rich. Wealthy. He enjoys looking the part of pampered prince.” Thor shakes his head, like he has no idea why that has any appeal at all--but then Thor’s idea of a good gift is a hearty brawl and beer with friends afterwards.

“So almost trashy, but not quite.”

“Yes. But elegant. It has to be elegant.”

Natasha smiles at Thor watching her to see if she understands or not.

“Thank you,” she says. “I think I know exactly what to get.”

Thor beams.

“Most excellent. Is there any other way that I might assist you?”

Natasha thinks for a moment.

“See if he’ll go to lunch with you that day.”

Thor blinks, but nods.

“I will ask.” And that’s all Thor says he will do, which says a great deal about how things are coming along between him and Loki--that Thor knows he can’t force Loki, that Thor won’t force Loki to go just for the sake of Natasha’s surprise. It makes Natasha happy to see what progress that they’ve made since Stark helped Thor get Loki alone to apologize.

“Thanks,” she says. “Where to today?”  

***

He is, perhaps, a touch more suspicious than he thinks he should be when he gets home from a light dinner with Thor.

(But Thor has never been good at keeping a surprise a, well, surprise.)

It is hard to be too bothered by it; whatever will happen will happen, and it is finally starting to cool enough outside that the heat is only a sticky humid and not so hot that he feels like fainting as soon as he walks outside. The trees are beginning to turn gold and red, his belly is pleasantly full of some rather delectable sushi, and soon he will have the entire night for only himself.

Perhaps it is a touch ridiculous, but it feels as if he has been needed somewhere everywhere of late, social obligations he does not want to set aside because he enjoys being able to attend them at all after the last bit of summer, but at the same time… well. It will be nice to simply rest, he can recognize that.

(Selfish as it is; not all selfishness is bad.)

The apartment is quiet when he gets in; perhaps Thor was simply smiling for another reason. It is possible. (Perhaps.) He starts to undo his shirt to pull it off, relaxing into the cool of the air conditioning, then stops as he notices that his laptop is not in fact on the coffee table.

(Did he leave it there, or the bedroom? No, he left it on the coffee table, it needed to charge--he left it on the coffee table, so where is it?)

“Natasha?” he calls softly, trying to dull a sharp worry that attempts to crawl into the silence. There is nothing to worry about; only she or Pepper have a key to this apartment, none of the others know where it is. (Perhaps he is misremembering.) He checks over the couch, peers into the kitchen. It’s dark there as well, a new cup on the counter.

“How was dinner?” Natasha asks from behind him.

He spins around, releasing a breath he did not realize he was holding, a smile coming to his face immediately and an answer ready on his lips--right up until his eyes see the flash of crystal dangling off one finger and his mind stops for a moment (horrified and intrigued in equal measure).

“Loki,” she prompts, and he can hear her smirk, but he still can’t quite remember what he had been planning to say because everything in him is focused on the… collar hanging from her finger.

It’s awful. It’s atrocious and gaudy and he’s offended that this is what she’s decided to get him--hundreds of small cut crystals with silver chain to create a collar he’s seen in a few older photographs of large cats on leashes, more a choker than a collar really, that catches the light no matter how little there is, entirely unsubtle and decadent and—

--and he adores it.

“I’m not normally one for anniversaries—” that’s why the date has been bothering him, and has it already be— “but I thought this was too nice to pass up.”

(As if he will believe she only saw it in a shop window and decided to buy it, not had it crafted, as if such a thing would just be laying around.)

“That is awful,” he manages to say, but he cannot hide the tremble in his voice.

(Norns help him, but he wants it. Right now, preferably.)

Natasha grins like a shark.

“Do you not want it?” She pouts a little, examining the collar. “I suppose I could take it back.” Her voice is so casual (what if she does, and a part of him is ready to mourn--)

“Don’t,” he says, then bites down on his tongue so hard he can taste blood. He manages to meet her eyes, tries to think of some way to salvage any dignity he might have had, and gives up in the face of the smile in her eyes--gentle and kind, so so aware of just what she’s done to him, and not a single grain of malice to poison the whole.

(He does not have to pretend to be more than he is--at least not always. Not with Natasha.)

“Do you want to wear it?”

This, he can try to salvage, even if the generosity might kill him.

“It is your gift, not mine--I seem to have misplaced the date, and so what you would choose to do seems the only gift I can offer in kind tonight.”

(Yes, he wants to say, he’d get on his knees and beg for her if she asked, it’s so terrible and he loves it, it sparkles so in the light, real cut crystal, he can tell by the way it refracts into dozens of rainbows any time it swings with the slightest movement, can picture it with a touch of ice to rim his skin and what a sight he would make and it is dizzying to imagine how thoroughly owned—

“Mm.” Natasha hums, holding the collar up at her own eye level to give a good look, then looks up at Loki. “I suppose…”

He absolutely does not hold his breath.

“Come here,” she nearly purrs, voice a low thrum in his ears, eyes half-closed and smile all too aware. She twists a hand through his hair, grabbing a fistful and nails brushing against his scalp as she looks down at him. He swallows (he barely remembers scrambling across the space and getting to his knees in front of her, just can feel the heat of her under his fingertips, pressing into his skin) and stares up at her.

“I think,” she finally says with a smile, “that you are still absolutely interesting.”

He smiles, desperation softened a little at the words and everything that they mean from her.

“You are still the most fascinating being I have ever the pleasure to know,” he replies, and (sentimental) presses a kiss to her stomach before looking back up at her again.

Natasha laughs.

“Move your hair, Loki,” she says, her laughter still ringing her voice and turned the grey of her eyes so warm, as she lets go of his hair to unclasp the collar.