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.
The Small Print
A/N: Post-Avengers.
Not a word escapes them as they stare, waiting to see who will break first. They've been at it for hours now, seated across the table from one another, his lip curling in that maddening smirk. She blinks and he leans back in satisfaction, laughing quietly as she reaches for the shot glass, bringing it to her mouth and downing it as though she were just swallowing air.
Natasha doesn't know what she was thinking when she opened the door for him, invited him in for a drink. He's a killer, she reminds herself, the God of Mischief, the last person in any of the realms that she ought to be associating with. But, when Loki had stepped across the threshold, the assassin had been rather taken with the fact that he'd conjured wine and shot glasses out of nowhere, taunting her into taking the bait and playing his game. And now, as she sways, her vision growing fuzzier by the minute, she thinks that, perhaps, it hadn't been a good idea to make a bet with the devil.
She counts the glasses, noting that there are easily sixty of them spread about across the table. On her end, the spider finds that she's gone through more than half of them, whereas he's barely touched three. Teeth buried in her tongue, Natasha mutely curses his god's tolerance for alcohol. Assuming, of course, that he's playing fair.
A quick glance of the clock causes her heart to skip a beat, realizing that Clint will return at any moment from the gym. Her head hits the back of the chair and she moans aloud, slamming her hand on the table and causing the glasses to rattle. Natasha hears him laughing, condescension in the sound. She doesn't, however, hear the legs of his chair scrape against the floor.
"Looks like I win."
The assassin flinches, his hand coming to rest at the base of her throat. He's warm, she notes, remembering that she left the sliding door to the balcony wide open. Suddenly, she can feel the curtains fluttering in the cool wind, and grimaces as he leans over her shoulder, brushes red hair behind her ear and smiles. His breath ghosts across the side of her face in a whisper. She swears that he's close enough to bite.
"Don't worry, little spider. I'll come back to collect."
And then he's gone.
Natasha's eyes grow wide and she turns, catching the back end of his black coat as it disappears out and onto the balcony. Tipsy, she gets to her feet and runs to the door, leaning out and over the railing as wind and snow whistle through her hair. Her head swivels on her neck, looking back to the table where she finds that the glasses, and all trace of their little game, are gone.
She hears Clint's key in the lock, and Natasha sighs, closing and locking the balcony door before flopping backwards on the couch with a scowl.
That bastard will come back all right. She's all but signed her name on the dotted line. And the devil never once gave up that which he'd claimed as his.