A/N: Part two for your enjoyment. Hope you like it! Part three might be tonight.
Inching Closer
by Flaignhan
"All the vodka," she says, slurring her words as she clings to the bar. "All of it."
The music is pounding in her ears, the bass vibrating up through her feet and pulsing somewhere in her chest. It's so loud that she can't think, which is good, and the vodka is helping her on that count. She doesn't know why she ended up here, only that she got home and had been ready to destroy her entire apartment, but had decided instead to put on a dress and show up to Marquee, bypassing the long line stretching all the way down the block and heading straight to the bouncer. He had let her in without question, much to the displeasure of those near the front of the line, but there are plus sides to being one of Tony Stark's friends.
"Honey, don't you think you've had enough?" the barman asks, leaning over the counter and half yelling so she can hear him.
"It's my birthday," she calls back. "And this afternoon I found out that I'm dying."
The barman pulls away slightly, his eyes scanning her face. "Seriously?" he asks.
She doesn't say anything, just raises her eyes to meet his as she tries to swallow the lump in her throat, and after a moment, the barman grabs the bottle of Zyr from the back shelf, then pours a large amount into a glass for her. He shovels a couple of ice cubs into it and places it down on the bar. Natasha pulls her card out of her purse but the barman catches her wrist before she can give it to him.
"No charge," he says, his face holding that same expression that Tony's had when he was promising her he'd find a cure. She doesn't like being looked at like that, but she appreciates the free vodka all the same. The barman places a gentle kiss on the back of her hand before releasing her, and Natasha picks up her glass, taking a small sip of her drink. It's a million times better than the cheap shit they've been dealing out so far at the bar, reserved most likely for celebrities with a vague idea about alcohol quality rather than the normal hoards of beautiful people permitted in the club.
"I should have started dying sooner," she says with a small smile. "Thanks." She downs the rest of the vodka, no easy feat given the barman's generosity, and by the time she sets her glass down he is down the other end of the bar, serving a group of baseball players she vaguely recognises.
Her head swimming, she saunters back to the dance floor, all her years of perfect poise paying off as she doesn't stumble once in her skyscraper heels. She doesn't recognise the song blaring out of the sound system, but it's got a strong beat and a melodic bass line, so she begins to dance, her eyes closed as she tries to ignore everything that happened before she entered the club this evening. She can't help but get flashbacks to the afternoon, snippets of conversation, brief glimpses of concerned gazes.
It's gonna rupture, it's a miracle that it hasn't already.
She grits her teeth and dances harder, her body moving synchronously with the music. No amount of vodka could ever see her dancing off beat, but she focuses more on what she's doing anyway, of each roll of her body, the sway of her hips. It's not long before some asshole starts grinding behind her, but a swift elbow to his gut sees him on his way and she is left alone for the next few songs, the heavy bass causing her insides to quiver unpleasantly.
It's nothing to be ashamed of.
Except it is. She's supposed to be at the peak of human fitness, she's supposed to be at the top of her game. She should be able to outstrip olympians in every respect. And yet here she is, getting drunk in some stupid, elitist night club because her god damn blood vessels are worse than pretty much everybody else's in the city. It's not fair.
It's her comeuppance, she supposes. All that red in her ledger had to go somewhere after she wiped it out. It's been biding its time, eroding away at her without her even knowing it. It scares her. She's always been aware of when she's been under threat, has always known when she's under surveillance, has always been able to tell when she's in immediate danger. Now it's her own body that's turned against her, and she can't run, she can't hide, and she can't bring out the big guns. All she can do is accept her fate. The worst of it is, she won't even have warning. There won't be a security alarm, the thundering of footsteps or the cold click of metal on metal as a pistol is cocked. One day, and soon, it'll spring up from nowhere, will be like a hammer to the skull, and then she'll collapse, maybe in the middle of a street, maybe while driving, or maybe while she's making herself some coffee. If she's lucky, she'll survive, and if she's even luckier, she won't be too badly brain damaged. She's always made her own luck though, and this is something that's out of her hands.
She doesn't need to speak, doesn't any sensory recognition, doesn't need to store visual memories…
The thought of losing everything that she values about herself causes her stomach to lurch unpleasantly, and her eyes snap open as acid rises in her throat. She staggers towards the bathroom, pushing her way through the crowds, ignoring it when she catches her heel on the toe of someone's shoe, her ankle twisting painfully. The door crashes open and she barges past the line of women waiting to use the facilities and stumbles into the most recently vacated cubicle, just in time for the contents of her stomach to land with a disgusting splash in the bottom of the toilet bowl. The disgruntled comments from the other women fade into insignificance as Natasha heaves again, a mixture of bile and vodka splattering against the porcelain. The door bangs and she hears several pairs of heels clicking their way out of the bathroom, only a few, hardier women remaining behind to take advantage of the suddenly shortened line.
When she's certain she's empty, Natasha fumbles with the silver handle affixed to the toilet and pulls it down, a whirlpool of water washing away her overindulgence and idiocy. She pushes herself awkwardly to her feet and pulls open the cubicle door, her mouth sour as she takes unsteady steps towards the sinks. She turns on the faucet, cool water gushing into her hands, and she splashes some against her face, ridding herself of that sickly sheen of sweat that leaves her skin crawling. She rinses her mouth out, spitting the water back into the sink, slightly discoloured from the remnants of bile clinging to the inside of her mouth, and, her head pounding and ears ringing, she grabs a couple of paper towels, pressing them against her damp face.
It's cool in here, the windows left ajar and letting in a pleasantly chilly breeze. She sinks down to the tiled floor, her back against the wall, and draws her knees up to her chest. She's a fool for getting so drunk. Alcohol won't keep her alive, and it won't even drown out the cruel reality that she can't escape from. She buries her head in her arms and breathes deeply, her eyes prickling at the edges as she tries not to think about all the things that she's yet to do. If she'd died on a mission it wouldn't be a problem, it would have been for the greater good and that's enough for her. But to have this death sentence hanging over her, rendering her a useless liability, she can't handle it. She can't handle the fact that one god damn blood vessel can not only deprive her of her work, but her life. There are things outside of SHIELD that she wanted to do, things that, once she'd settled her debts, she could have gotten involved in without any lingering feelings of guilt.
She's too young for this. It's not fair.
"Babe, are you okay?"
Natasha looks up to see a concerned brunette in a tight, sparkling dress crouching down awkwardly, her chunky platform heels setting her balance way off kilter.
"Fine," Natasha croaks in response. "Thank you."
"You want me to get you a cab?"
"No, really," Natasha tells her. "I just need a minute."
"Okay babe," the woman says with a soft smile, reaching out a hand to touch her gently on the forearm. "Let me know if you need anything."
Natasha nods and rests her head in her arms once more as the clomp clomp clomp of the woman's heels disappears into the distant blaring of music. She grips her hair, fingers squeezing it tightly, before she remembers that that's not going to do her blood pressure much good either. She chews on her lower lip as she comes to the slow realisation that short of laying in bed and watching very dull TV, there's nothing that she can do that won't make her situation any worse. She's faced with the prospect of waiting for Tony and Bruce's miracle cure, and spending what might be her last few days in a near vegetative state, or else making the most of her last moments on this earth, and ensuring that if nothing else, she won't be playing the waiting game for long. The latter is tempting, but she knows that if she even dares to consider it, Bruce and Tony will break the news to everybody, and she'll be put in a padded cell for her own good until they find a solution.
Part of her thinks that a bullet through the brain might be a better way to go. Quick and easy and she won't even notice it. There'll be no risk of spending the rest of her life being fed through a tube, because she's not stupid enough to administer anything less than a kill shot, and apart from that, she'd be the one in control. It would be her own choice, and she could choose the time, the place, and ensure that she's as ready as she'll ever be. She could go somewhere nice, somewhere that will calm her, just before she calls it quits.
She could even go home.
The bathroom door bangs open, and one of the girls applying lipstick in front of the mirror squeals in shock.
"What the hell d'you think you're doing?" another demands angrily, shoving her mascara back into her purse and rounding on the intruder.
"Get out," he says darkly, and the girls don't need telling twice. They scuttle out of the bathroom, casting a look over their shoulders at Natasha before they leave. She frowns as she waits for the trespasser to cross the threshold into the hallowed ground that is the ladies bathroom. When she sees him, she blinks, lets out a small, unamused laugh, and shakes her head.
"What are you doing down there?" he asks, his dark eyebrows drawing together in a frown.
"I wanted to sit down," she says simply.
"You've been crying."
She looks up at him, and were it not for his long, unkempt hair, he might fit in here. He's managed to find himself a smart pair of grey tailored trousers, and a jet black shirt, crisply pressed, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. With his tall slender frame and gaunt, symmetrical features, he's probably passed himself off as some sort of fashion model. When she doesn't say a word to him, he crosses the distance between them, crouching on his haunches so he can look her in the eye. After a moment's hesitation, he reaches out his hand, his thumb softly brushing away a solitary tear trailing down her cheek. She doesn't flinch at the contact. There is nothing that can scare her now. She hardly even cares what he's doing here, because at the rate she's going, it's not going to be her problem.
His hand is lingering against her face, and to have that physical contact, the warmth of his touch, to be anchored to life when she feels like she's so close to the exit already, is more comforting than she would ever admit. It seems like a stupid idea, but really, she has nothing left to lose. She moves forward, her fingers brushing a stray lock of hair out of his face. His brow twitches in confusion, but before he can say a single word, she closes the gap between them, capturing his lips in a soft albeit clumsy kiss. She's very conscious of the fact that she's just been sick, until moments later he reciprocates, his hand sliding into her hair as he sinks onto his knees, pressing their bodies closer together.
She doesn't give a damn that he's killed people. Nor does she give a damn that he tried to take over the world. It's become quite obvious to her today that the world couldn't give any less of a damn about her, so she's making the disinterest mutual, levelling the playing field. Why should she care so much if all it amounts to is an early grave because of something that she can't do a single thing about?
She breaks away from him, pressing her lips to his throat as her fingers fumble with the buttons of his shirt. If she's going to die, then she might as well go in a blaze of glory, and drunkenly fucking an alien god in the bathroom of one of the most exclusive clubs in New York City is nothing, if not a blaze of glory.
"This is unexpected," he murmurs, his fingers brushing softly against her scalp while his free hand finds her shoulder, his finger sliding under the strap of her dress and pushing it to one side.
"D'you have a problem with it?" she replies between kisses. She scrapes her teeth against the tender skin of his neck and he inhales sharply, closing his eyes and biting down hard on his lower lip. She reaches the final buttons of his shirt and pulls it off of him, tugging the sleeves over his toned forearms before she tosses it aside, her heart beating faster and faster with every moment that passes. She's sure she can feel it, deep within her brain, pulsating as her blood pressure increases, but she's beyond caring.
"You are drunk," he says, pulling away from her, a touch of colour rising in his pale cheeks. "And upset."
Natasha laughs hollowly, but her attention is caught by the chatter of voices outside the bathroom door. She braces herself for a dozen judgemental glares, but the door never opens, and the people never come.
"I put a sign up," Loki tells her. "Out of order."
It's rather fitting. She is broken after all, in more ways than one, and a glance in the full length mirror at the other end of the bathroom really brings it home just how much. Her mascara is smeared, thin black tracks lining her cheeks, her lipstick has been lost somewhere between the vodka and the vomit and Loki's lips, her hair is a mess, tousled, tangly, her parting uneven. And yet, as she looks at Loki's pale chest, more toned than she had expected, his shoulders broad, the hollow of his collar bone more inviting than the club outside, she decides that she would rather be a mess, in here, with him, than face the world that lies beyond those bathroom doors.
"I'm dying," she says abruptly. She doesn't know why she's telling him, of all people, when she can't even tell her friends. It's not like he even has any free vodka to give her either. She supposes she just wants him to know that there's a reason she's sinking to this level, that under no other circumstances would she ever be here, on the bathroom tiles, with her legs wrapped around him. Dying's a pretty good excuse for anything, really.
"I know," he says softly, and there is no malice in his tone, no smugness. He simply raises his hand, his thumb brushing against her cheekbone, wiping away the damp residue of long forgotten tears.
She doesn't question it. She just pulls him close, her lips colliding with his. He doesn't pull away this time, doesn't have any last minute flashes of conscience. Instead he raises her up, sliding the skirt of her dress up as Natasha tugs at his belt, relief washing through her when it comes loose and she is able to unfasten his trousers. It's not long before the pulsating in her head is forgotten, along with her fear of what the future doesn't hold for her.