Disclaimer: I don't own The Avengers, or any of the characters used in this fic. They all belong to Marvel and their respective creators. I only own any original characters that I choose to include, as well as any original plot ideas.
Misery Loves Company
A/N: Post-Avengers; follow-up to "The Small Print."
"This is ridiculous."
Her head tilts, the diamond stud in her ear spinning as she turns it from the back, moving to squeeze it between thumb and forefinger to ensure that it won't come out. The point of the necklace she wears rests at the top of her breastbone, matching the v-neck of the dress. She hasn't worn it in some time, not since the last grand celebration offered by Tony as his very loud bachelor party. It doesn't matter now, but, in her professional opinion, it seems that the billionaire has had far too much time, and too much fun, being single. The party being no exception to that fact.
As she begins examining her reflection in the mirror, Natasha's gaze turns to him as he sits quietly upon her bead, smashing one of the pillows against his lap and yanking out the feathers. He holds one between two fingers, seemingly satisfied with this new game. Natasha turns off the light and stalks across the room, yanking the pillow from his grasp and flinging it back onto the mattress.
"Happy now?" she says, and the god looks away from the feather to stare at her.
It makes her sick, the way his lip curls up in that smile, blue eyes lit as though someone's struck a match within his skull. He stands, ushering her out of the room and towards the front door with a hand. She snatches her coat up off the counter as they go, glaring at him all the while.
The assassin is not pleased with this turn of events, is furious with herself for being so damned foolish before. Letting the snake into her home and playing drinking games with him, being bested by him and bound to her word to keep to the unspoken bargain. A killer she may be, but Natasha will not sink to his level and become a liar as well.
"For the record," she says as she turns on him, the coat sliding onto her shoulders, "you don't put wine in shot glasses."
Loki shrugs, pulls the door shut behind him as she whips out a key. "As I recall, you weren't particularly adverse to that mistake when it came about." His smile widens, and he takes her hand. "In fact, you enjoyed yourself immensely. You didn't seem too interested in correcting me, either."
She scowls, tucking the key back into her pocket as he leads her down the hall and to the elevator. Were there only some way to con him out of this charade, to save herself the embarrassment of being plastered to his arm for the whole of the night. As the elevator drops, Natasha's stomach follows suit, her head spinning with the things he could have planned for her. None of them, she notes with a sour taste on her tongue, are particularly thrilling.
Her eyes grow wide as the cold nips at her skin, the winter air of the city spiraling as she steps out of the building, his hand guiding her to the open door of a taxi cab. Natasha steps inside and scowls as it shuts, the driver peering over the seat as the other side opens and Loki slides inside. He reaches into his pocket and withdraws a slip of paper, placing it in the driver's hand before leaning back against the seat. The man looks at it and signals, pulling out into the street as Natasha feels his fingers curl around her arm.
The assassin squeezes her eyes shut as his arm wraps around her waist, as though she's little more than property. She tenses and he hushes her, whispering some sort of ancient gibberish into her ear in quiet tones. Natasha remembers the conversation she had with Clint before the invasion, the obvious confusion and irritation plain upon his face. The archer had told her that, could he but put an arrow through this bastard's eye, he'd be perfectly happy. She wonders, as he takes to tracing her throat, why the hell Clint isn't around to see this.
Clearly, Loki is having far too much fun playing pretend.
As the vehicle stops, he tugs, sliding her across the seat and out into the cold, his arm wrapping itself around her shoulders. Heat takes hold of her as they step through the doors, her eyes sweeping up and around to the lights that hang from the ceiling, the balustrades and railings that line the second floor as ladies and gentlemen at lavish dining tables peer over the sides while music fills the room, couples dancing smoothly upon the polished floor.
Natasha looks to him, oblivious to her stunned expression, and notes that he appears rather proud of himself.
"You dance?" she says in disbelief.
So easily she can see this man casting spells and growling threats, bringing people to their knees in death. But behaving as a gentleman? And dancing? It makes her want to laugh.
Loki grimaces then as he shakes his head, as though he's a bird whose had his feathers ruffled and pulled. "Not unless forced."
The answer takes her by surprise, and Natasha wonders why in the hell he'd go and waste his victory on bringing her to a place like this. He looks to her from the corner of his eye. Unless, of course, it's just another game.
Perhaps he wants to be forced.
"Well, in that case..." The coat disappears from her shoulders as he offers another paper to the stuck-up man at the counter, one of the boys at the door nodding to her with a smile as it is swept away to the closet down a narrow hall. She takes him by the sleeve and yanks it away, quickly tossing the coat to the boy before dragging the god across the room.
Loki stumbles after her, looking thoughtful as if he's suddenly realized that this isn't a good idea. But Natasha doesn't care, and takes to giving him a hard time as he plants himself in a nearby chair, one hand clinging to its back as she takes to pulling on the other. He won't move, she realizes, and smiles, perfectly content in settling herself on his lap for all the world to see. Satisfaction fills her as she smiles, his eyes growing dark as he stares at her, as if he's not sure what to think.
"Why did you bring me here?"
The trickster shrugs. "It seemed like a good idea at the time..."
"Did you think I'd put up a fight?"
He hesitates, stares at her a moment. "No doubt you are expecting the truth." A smile. "Well, I was hoping."
"Humiliation, then?"
"As a matter of fact..."
"Why me?" Natasha is serious now, not smiling, not gathering any enjoyment from the situation. She crosses her legs at the knee. "Why would you choose me?"
Through his pale eyes, the assassin can see the fire coming to life again behind them, the gears working in his head.
"Are we playing one of your mortal games, Agent Romanoff?" he says, and leans back. "If so, I'd much rather take my chances with a dare."
At that, Natasha smiles and gets to her feet, turning towards the door as she ushers to the boy to bring their coats.
"Challenge accepted."