A/N: Not proofread because I'm heinously late for work. Will probably go through it later, but I don't think there are any glaring errors. Let me know what you think!
Golden
by Flaignhan
They get some looks when they walk through the lobby. Fussy middle aged women stare openly while their boat shoe wearing husbands raise eyebrows. Natasha just strides ahead, Loki skulking along beside her, his hands in the pockets of his jeans. When they reach the lift, the doors slide open straight away, and Loki steps in ahead of Natasha. She smirks. Obviously some of his entitled princely habits remain.
When they reach the room, she slides her card into the reader and as soon as the LED flashes green, Loki pushes the door open and goes inside. And then he stops. This one room, of hundreds in the hotel, is bigger than his entire apartment. Natasha feels something that might be guilt twinge inside her chest. The bed is covered with plump pillows and decorative throws, the material soft to the touch. It is ridiculously extravagant, but the SHIELD budget has always managed to stretch to good accommodation.
"If you wanna take a shower or have a bath or something, I can have them launder your clothes. There's a robe in there, I mean... just do what you want. Make yourself at home."
He wanders into the bathroom and soon she hears the sound of running water. He closes the door and reappears a few minutes later, clad in a fluffy white dressing gown, and places his neatly folded clothes on the bed. He gives Natasha a nod of what she assumes to be thanks, and then disappears again. Natasha takes the canvas laundry bag from inside the wardrobe and places his clothes inside, before pulling the drawstrings shut. She calls room service, and within thirty seconds, a maid is at the door.
She loses track of how long he spends in the bath, but she does hear him test out the jacuzzi jets, and then grow bored of them quite quickly. At long last, she hears the water start to drain away, and a few minutes later he appears in the doorway, his hair roughly towel dried, the damp strands clinging to his face. He looks healthier, and Natasha wonders if the shadows under his eyes had been exacerbated by dirt and grime. She can't imagine the shower at his place is particularly proficient at getting rid of the dirt that he must pick up just from being in his apartment. He's starting to look a little more human now, though she doesn't say that to him. If looks could kill, she knows that would be the thing to say to ensure her certain death.
He collapses onto the bed, not caring that his damp hair will soak the pillow, and crosses his long legs at the ankle. He stares at the ceiling, his hands resting on his stomach, clasped together, and Natasha watches him. She knows she will not sleep tonight. There's still a part of her that thinks he might try to kill her if he gets his chance, despite their handshake, their unspoken agreement.
There is a quiet knock at the door and Natasha pushes herself off of the sofa and goes to answer. It is the same maid, holding a clear bag with Loki's clothes folded neatly inside. Natasha thanks her, and reaches into her jacket to find her last few euros. She gives her the coins and the maid smiles gratefully, before curtseying and turning away.
Natasha unzips the bag and takes out Loki's t-shirt to put on one of the hangers in the wardrobe. It is soft, with a marl effect, the thin material flowing over her hands as though it were water. The thinness of the t-shirt however gives room for concerns about what he wears on the colder days, and soon, her finger finds one, two, three small holes in the fabric.
She turns to look at him, and discovers he is already asleep, his breathing deep and even. She glances up at the clock - it's nine thirty, there's still plenty of evening left. With that thought in mind, she picks up her bag, dips her head under the strap and adjusts it so it sits comfortably across her body. Then, she moves to the door, switches out the light, and leaves him to get his rest.
It's dark when she returns. He hasn't moved from his spot on the bed, though the room has grown cold since her absence, and so she folds the duvet over him. She's not sure he appreciates how frail his human form is, and she's not prepared to deal with an Asgardian's first bout of man flu. She has patience, but not that much.
She moves to the window and pulls it shut, careful not to make a sound. Then, she opens the wardrobe, takes one of the spare blankets, and settles down on the sofa, confident that she'll wake long before Loki does. She doesn't fall asleep however. She lays awake, wondering how many times Fury will say 'fuck' when he (inevitably) finds out about this. She wonders too what Clint would say, whether he would laugh at her for caring about silly things, or whether he would understand why she feels the need to prop Loki up when he is at his lowest, or, worst of all, whether he would find her actions unforgivable, given all that's happened in recent history.
Snarky remarks from Tony fill her head, and she can see Bruce's eyes, making a quiet, unbiased appraisal of the situation. And then there's Steve, who will try so hard to see what she sees, but even she can't really be sure of why she's doing what she's doing. What she sees is a broken child. She knows what it is to be lost, and worse, knows what it is to be lost to yourself. She's not sure how she can put that into words that the others won't laugh at. She learned long ago that by placing herself in the world of men, she is always walking a tightrope of credibility.
Expressing any kind of emotion, or feeling, or any type of thinking that isn't sharp, cold logic, is the best possible way to ensure the rope snaps under her feet.
And yet, as she watches him, his fingers curled around the top of the duvet, the hollows of his eye sockets and the sharpness of his cheekbones thrown into sharp relief by the moonlight pouring through the gap in the curtains, she knows she cannot leave him to suffer for any longer. Not when she's seen him sob his heart out into a second hand pillow.
Morning comes slowly, and Natasha sits up, rubbing the stiffness out of her neck. To her surprise, Loki is already awake, and perusing the room service menu. Natasha smirks.
"We'll get breakfast on our way to the tower," she says. "We're not on vacation."
Loki shrugs and returns the menu to its place on the bedside cabinet. He then looks towards the shopping bags at the foot of the sofa and raises an eyebrow.
"I thought you could do with some stuff that doesn't have holes in," Natasha says quietly. "If you don't like it...well, it's tough. Beggars can't be choosers." She tosses the bags to him and he catches them deftly, his reaction speed not having suffered like the rest of him has. As he begins to pull the clothes from the bag, she feels almost embarrassed. She doesn't do nice things, and here she is, doing nice things for the guy that tried to kill her and her friends.
"I'm not gonna walk around Paris with you dressed like a hobo," she adds, and she gets up from the sofa, stretching her arms high above her head, arching her back until a few of her vertebrae crack quietly back into their preferred places. Tonight, she decides, she's going to get at least half of that bed.
"I'm going for a shower," she says, and she grabs a fresh set of clothes from her suitcase and disappears into the bathroom.
As the water cascades down her back, she tries to clear her head and focus on what she's here to do. An extra pair of eyes to scan the crowds at the tower will be useful, and she's positive that Loki has a talent for watching. He is the opposite of Thor in that; Thor who prefers to act first and think later, while Loki is cunning and calculating. Observing other people goes hand in hand with those traits.
The hair dryer provided by the hotel is lousy, and it takes forever for her hair to even begin to look presentable. Once she's satisfied, she quickly applies some lipstick, a little eyeliner, and some mascara, before sliding on her sunglasses and appraising herself in the mirror. She carries just the right amount of aloofness to be the sort of girl that'll spend the entire day lounging in front of the tower, but not so much that she wouldn't be seen dead sitting on the ground.
She exits the bathroom and closes the door behind her, turning to see Loki, holding up two new t-shirts in front of him as he regards his reflection in the wardrobe mirror. Natasha is pleased to see that his new jeans fit, and the fact that he's wearing his new trainers suggests that she guessed his shoe size right too. After much scowling at his reflection, Loki eventually tosses the white t-shirt to one side and pulls on the navy blue one. He turns, and blinks, apparently not having realised Natasha was watching him. She clears her throat and nods her approval at his chosen ensemble. He pulls on his new jacket, which although light, is leather and will keep the wind at bay come the colder months.
Natasha reaches into one of the bags still on the bed, and finds what she's looking for. She throws it to him, and he looks down, one eyebrow rising sceptically. However, he puts the sunglasses on and whirls around to look at himself in the mirror.
"You can't be a secret agent without shades," she says.
A muscle in Loki's jaw twitches, perhaps at the idea of being on the side of the good guys, perhaps at the fact that sunglasses must be ridiculous to him. He walks over to the desk and picks up the complimentary notepad provided by the hotel, and holds it out to her. She takes it, and looks down. What she sees surprises her.
Thank you for the clothes.
"You're welcome," she says, after a moment of processing his words. "It's fine. Really."
She passes him back the pad and he puts it down on the desk, then takes the key card and holds that out to her. She places it into the front pocket of her bag and zips it shut. There's nothing left to prepare now. She's about to go and do some spying with Loki Odinson.
As she opens the door to the corridor beyond, she knows that she may be about to embark upon the biggest mistake of her life.
Her iPad contains all the information that she requires for the mission, and so, after they have settled on a new blanket, a box of fresh croissants between them and a couple of lattes in paper cups, Natasha opens the photographs of the men they're supposed to be seeking. She shows Loki, who frowns at the images, swiping between them and committing them to memory.
He holds out his hand for the notebook but Natasha doesn't give it to him.
"Why here?" she asks.
He nods.
"Because who's going to pay attention to two men meeting in a crowd of hundreds? Who's going to get a good line of sight on them?"
His expression contorts into one of agreement, and he opens his mouth, as though to ask another question. The dark tongue moves but no sound comes out. Natasha reaches into her bag for the pad, another twinge of guilt making her stomach twist uncomfortably. Perhaps he has grown used to not talking because no one has been talking to him. And now, now he's in the middle of a conversation that holds some interest for him, he just can't stop himself from opening his mouth.
He writes quickly, the flourishes of the pen less frequent as he hand speeds across the paper.
What have they stolen? And why are your people so interested? What do we do if we seem them?
"You don't need to know what they've stolen, or why we're interested," Natasha tells him firmly. "You're here to look for them. That's what you get your hundred euros for." From the corner of her eye, she's sure she sees Loki elicit a silent huff. "And if you see them, you let me know. And I go for a walk. You stay here. You guard the croissants."
Loki huffs again, but Natasha doesn't care. She makes herself comfortable and begins to watch.
The day passes without a sighting. There is a false alarm, which Natasha only has to get within twenty feet of to realise it's just a couple of clueless guys sitting on a bench. They return to the hotel that evening, after stopping off at a bistro for dinner, and Natasha makes sure to collapse onto her side of the bed as soon as they get into the room. Loki doesn't bat an eyelid, and toes off his shoes before making himself comfortable on the other side. Natasha grabs the TV remote and settles on the first unheard of 80s B-movie that she can find in English, and Loki seems content to sit and watch it. He doesn't ask any questions, he doesn't even ask for his money, and Natasha can't help but feel that something isn't right. It's unlike him to be so placid, so content with stillness. She can't get her head around it.
"Okay," she says, "What are you planning?"
He turns to look at her, and his eyebrows twitch into a frown.
"You're quiet," she says.
He pokes his tongue out pointedly and Natasha rolls her eyes, her stomach churning at the sight of it. "You know what I mean."
He shrugs and turns back to the TV, where a guy with a mullet is enthusiastically kissing a girl with a perm. He stares at the screen, his face expressionless.
"They've broken you, haven't they?"
He turns to look at her again, his green eyes piercing hers. He holds the gaze for a moment, then, when Natasha doesn't break the eye contact first, a muscle twitches in his jaw, and he turns back to the TV once more.
"Did you really think they'd let you die down here?"
He continues to stare at the TV, his jaw locked into place as he takes deep, steadying breaths. Natasha has the horrible feeling that his answer to her question, could he talk, and should he want to answer, would be 'yes'. Despite the fact that she knows it's not true, the biggest problem is, and has always been that Loki genuinely believes it.
Deciding that it's probably best to leave the subject alone, Natasha gets up, heads over to her suitcase and grabs her pyjamas, before going into the bathroom to get changed. When she returns, the credits are rolling on the movie, and Loki is scowling at the remote. He presses one of the buttons and a settings screen comes up. Natasha watches as he presses random buttons, trying to close it, and she tries not to smile. In the end he throws the remote down on the bed, lifts himself up to pull the duvet out from underneath himself, and then wraps himself tightly in it. Natasha shakes her head, picks up the remote and closes the settings menu. She moves over to Loki and crouches down, so she's looking him in the eye.
"That changes what you're watching," she says, gesturing to the up and down arrows on the left side of the remote. "And these ones change the volume," she adds, pointing to the arrows on the right side. "And this one," her thumb hovers over the red button at the top, "turns it off." She turns off the TV, places the remote on the bedside cabinet and walks around to her side of the bed.
"You're gonna have to give up some of that duvet," she says, tugging at the edge of it. He releases his grip on it and Natasha pulls enough over to cover herself, then switches out the light.
"Goodnight Loki."
In return, she receives a huff.
She smiles.
It's not until their fourth day of watching, when Natasha is so bored that she's resorted to playing arcade games on her iPad, her eyes scanning the crowds over the top of it, when something happens.
Loki drops his croissant, and it lands on the blanket with a soft flump. He grabs Natasha's arm, and the jolt makes the pin ball on her screen drop past her bottom two flippers. She sighs impatiently, but then she looks up. There is a group of school children in the way, but when they clear, their weary looking teacher shrugging and tucking his clipboard under his arm, Natasha can see a bench. There are two men sitting on it, both wearing dark glasses. One of them, however, has a distinctive brown birth mark on the side of his neck, and it's all Natasha needs to slowly get to her feet. She looks beyond them and sees a large queue for an ice cream stand, running parallel to the bench.
She squeezes Loki's shoulder then weaves her way through the crowd, trying to look as much like a clueless girl as possible. She sidles awkwardly around a family, her gaze never leaving the two on the bench. Eventually she comes to the queue for the ice cream and joins it, her ears trying to filter out the chatter of people around her, the shouts of children, and the sound of traffic in the distance.
"How much more do you need?"
Natasha takes a step forward as the queue moves down, her breathing slow and steady.
"One more should do it."
"And then?"
"Well, it'll take a little while but -"
"But you can deliver."
Natasha soon reaches the front of the queue, buys two ice cream cones, then moves away from the stand, dawdling as she puts her purse back into her bag. She licks her own ice cream, and as she does so, she sees a folded note pass from one to the other. He tucks it into the inside breast pocket of his jacket, and Natasha moves as quickly as she can without being noticed. In seconds, she's back with Loki, and she passes him his ice cream.
"Okay Artful Dodger," she says. "You're up."
His eyebrows draw into a frown, but she ignores it.
"The guy with the brown jacket, inside pocket on his left side. There's a piece of paper that I need. You get that, and we're finished. You get that, and you get a thousand euros for all your hard work."
Loki licks his ice cream, catching a drip that's about to slide down the side of the cone. There is a pause, and then he nods, his eyes fixed on his target, who, after another short exchange with his contact, gets up from the bench, and heads towards the streets.
Loki rises gracefully, and as he wanders off, Natasha reclines onto the blanket, enjoying the heat of the sun on her face. She could go after the guy herself, but she figures that Loki needs to earn his keep. Plus, he's had a lot of practice picking pockets of late, and it would be a shame not to use his newfound skill.
Minutes pass, and Natasha tries not to chew on her lip. She knows that Loki has to wait for the right moment, knows that he can't just rush in, but even so, she would feel better if she knew the progress, could keep track of what he was up to, or even if she'd gone herself. Is the lure of a thousand dollars enough to make sure he comes back with the goods?
When half an hour has passed with no sign of him, Natasha tries to keep calm. How long does she wait? What if something's happened to him? What if his victim was armed? Her heart races, while all around, people stroll and take photographs and smile and laugh and she can't handle it.
And then she sees him. He's head and shoulders above most, his tall slender frame sticking out like a sore thumb, and she laughs, because he's really not the best person to send on a mission where discretion and the art of blending in is key. She can't glean any information from his expression, and when he reaches her, he grabs her by the arm, pulls her up, and without even stopping to collect the blanket or their coffees, he leads her away from the tower.
"What happened?" Natasha hisses. "Did you get it?"
She doesn't get an answer until they're a few streets away, and he tugs her into an alcove. From the pocket of his jacket he extracts two things - a folded piece of paper, and a brown leather wallet.
Natasha laughs and part of her wants to kiss him out of relief. She's not sure how that'll wash with him though, so she refrains, and keeps her joy to herself. She takes the wallet and opens it. There are credit cards, a driving licence, membership cards, all sorts of treasures that will go down well when she returns to SHIELD. There's also fifty euros in cash, and she hands that to Loki.
"Come on," she says. "It's payday."
Loki holds out his hand and gestures for the notebook. She gives it to him, and he rests it against the wall as he writes.
You owe me another one of those cones. I sacrificed mine to the cause.
Natasha smirks. "You can have all the ice cream in Paris for this," she says, holding up the wallet and paper. "I need to call Fury though."
Loki scowls at the mention of the name, and Natasha ignores it, pulling out her phone and dialling the number.
"It's a cellphone," Natasha says, once they're back at the hotel. She switches it on and passes it to him. "So you can keep in touch."
He holds it up to his ear and mimes talking (or tries to talk, she's not sure which), his expression brimming with sarcasm.
"Yeah I know," Natasha says exasperatedly, "But you can text. It's like writing a letter, but quicker." She takes the phone, opens up a new message and types the word 'Hi', then clicks on her own name, the only one in his contact list, and hits send. Seconds later, her phone bleeps.
Loki frowns.
"It's easy. You can contact me any time, and I can stay in touch with you as well. There's credit on there, and more'll get added each month. It'll come out of my account so you don't need to worry about that."
Loki nods, and then begins to write his first text message. It comes through to Natasha's phone quickly, and says just one word.
Thanks.
Natasha smiles. "You're welcome."
She zips up her suitcase, pulls on her jacket, and checks her bag to make sure she's got everything she needs.
"Well, I guess this is goodbye," she says.
Loki looks up from his phone, then raises a hand in farewell.
"Don't be a jackass..." Natasha says, then she moves forward and hugs him. She doesn't do hugs, not really, and if any of the guys saw her now, they'd be making childish 'ooooh!' noises. But, she figures that Loki could do with a little human contact, and she's not about to let her own narrow emotional range get in the way of his progression. At first, he holds his arms away from her, and after a few seconds he returns the hug gently, and awkwardly pats her on the back. She smiles and pulls away from him.
"Use it," she says, pointing at the phone.
He nods, and slips the phone into his pocket.
If she's being honest, half the reason she got him the phone is that she hopes, one day soon, it will ring, and she'll answer, and at the other end of the line, she'll hear his voice.