Chapter One-Aftermath
Natasha doesn't ask many questions, and I'm glad of it. She can see in my eyes, no longer the frosty blue of possession and poison, how much I am hurt, and she understands that I have wounds to lick. And she can empathize when my wounds are licked by shooting things.
When it's over, and Thor has taken Loki back to their little world, golden Asgard, I have time to sit and think. Before, it was madness. There was no time to think and remember what had been done to me because of the attack. But now, as I sit unnoticed in a darkened bar, nursing some murky drink that was probably going to cost a lot, I had time to think about what had happened to me.
I remember shooting Director Fury, and I'm well aware that he'll probably make me pay for that by sending me somewhere stupid. Everything else is a painful, blinding blur, like a migraine. I'm aware of conversations that I had with him, Loki, but I don't understand the context or the reasoning behind those conversations. They're really just snippets of time. Moments that make no sense, but meant all the difference.
"This is absolutely essential...I need this."
"This...this cannot fail. I must win, I cannot be defeated."
Those last words were not meant for me to hear, I'm sure. I can remember the scared desperation in his voice.
I slam my drink on the counter. No. This is just his way of winning. He's just getting in my head to mess with me. I'm already in your head. I've been there, watching as you killed all of your own men.
He's back in Asgard, in the Norse mythology where he belongs, but he's still in my head. I wonder if I can get Natasha to hit my head again? Or maybe if I get drunk enough, his voice will go away.
There's a mirror behind the bar, with some brand of beer etched into the glass, and I stare at my reflection. There's no trace of that awful blue Natasha told me about. It's all me in those eyes. I look like hell, there's no doubt about it. But it's my own hell, not some bastard god's inflicted hell.
It's just been a long day, a long few weeks, I tell myself, willing it to be true. My mind is just screwing with me because I need some sleep, and I need to stop drinking. I finish of whatever swill I've been downing and then throw some cash on the counter, and I stand up to leave.
One last glance in the mirror, and he's there staring back at me with those hellish eyes and that smirk, and I know that we haven't beaten him. He's still in my head, pulling the strings, just for kicks.
I want to say something, or run. I should probably just bolt the hell out of there.
"Oh, your mind is almost as troubled as mine."
No. Get the hell out of my head, you lost. We kicked your ass off this planet.
"Let's have a drink and talk about our troubled, heartbroken minds."
And I sit, and I drink.