A/N: Someone's on a roll...and that someone is expecting a complete burnout in a few chapters' time...
Mutiny
by Flaignhan
By their third day in captivity, Natasha has had enough. Breakfast passes with a number of dirty looks thrown in her direction - she has been promoted to buttered bread, and last night with dinner she was graced with some cold chicken. If she's going to be favoured simply to turn everybody against her, and if they'll turn on her without any real solid reason to other than jealousy, then she's going to make damn sure that she uses her favoured position to her advantage, the rest of them be damned. They're playing into Loki's hands, and she's sure they know that, deep down, but hunger creates monsters, especially when it comes to people who aren't used to such things - Tony, who has never wanted for a thing in his life, Clint, who has always been well fed, and rarely spent more than a night in a cell before escaping. Thor is quiet, probably well aware that hunger leaves him with a very short fuse, and Jane too only occasionally speaks, mainly checking in on Bruce, who is keeping his head down and getting on with things as best he can.
When the guards turn up to bring them lunch, Natasha stands up and approaches the glass. They hold back with her tray, which she smugly notes has a thick slice of ham laid out, as well as buttered bread, cheese, and a small bunch of grapes.
"I want a shower," she tells them. Her hair is lank and greasy, and she gestures to it, as though it is good enough cause for them to release her on the spot.
"Well only the king can allow that. We can pass the message on," one of them says to her, and he turns his spear in the lock, glass screen sliding away.
"Thanks," she says, knowing that rudeness will get her nowhere. She doesn't imagine the guards want to be holding them captive any more than Thor's friends do, but a job's a job and sometimes you just have to deal with it. She knows that as well as anyone.
Just as she's chewing on her last piece of ham, and feeling rather satisfied with what could be a nice lunch, were it not served up in a cell, Sif and Fandral arrive in the dungeons.
"Sif!" Thor says urgently, and Natasha hears him scramble to his feet. "What news?"
"Agent Romanov requested a shower," she says, avoiding his gaze. "We've come to escort her."
"But what about the rest of us?" Thor asks.
"If you want to wash you have to put in a request, and it all has to go through the king. I'm sorry Thor, it's just how it is."
Fandral unlocks the cell and the glass slides away, pausing when there is just enough room for Natasha to comfortably step through.
"You know I'm not asking about washing," Thor says impatiently. "When will we be released? When will he even talk to us?"
Sif sighs, her shoulders slumping. "Just give him time," she says softly. "You know how he is, he'll grow bored eventually."
"Talk to him, reason with him, please. Just, help us get out of here."
"Come on," Sif says to Natasha. "Let's go."
Thor calls after them, but the dungeon doors clang shut behind them, blocking out the sound of his begging. Natasha doesn't say anything as they climb the steps, her thighs aching from lack of proper use. When they make it above ground, she inhales deeply, relishing the sensation of fresh air in her lungs. She hadn't realised how musty it had been down there, and now she's out in the realm of the free, she knows it will be particularly bitter when she has to return to her cell.
"So er…" she begins, trying to ease the silence. "Loki as king, how's that one working out?"
Sif's lips twitch into a smile. "Surprisingly well, actually," she replies. "Isn't it, Fandral?"
Fandral hums in agreement, nodding his head. "The throne suits him well."
This is something of a surprise to Natasha. She had expected tales of subjugation, unfair judgements, ridiculous laws passed into action, but no, neither of them have anything bad to say about their king, and she's not sure that it's simply down to a loyalty that is required due to rank, rather than opinion. It does, however, explain a lot about why Sif seems unhappy to talk to Thor, to even entertain his requests for help.
"This is the same guy who tried to take over Earth with a shit load of aliens, right? Same Loki?"
"Same Loki," Sif confirms. "Same man, but it seems that his ascension has stabilised him. He seems…" she casts her eyes around, one hand held aloft, fingers clutching at the air as she tries to find the right word. "Happy."
"Happy…" Natasha repeats in disbelief. "Right. Well I guess I'd be happy too if I was king."
"Quite," Sif says, smiling a little.
She considers asking a few more questions, such as how long Sif estimates they'll be locked up, or whether Loki has even mentioned them during counsels, but it is the tentative smile that puts her off. She has laid the first few building blocks of a very unsteady bridge, and if she pushes too hard, too soon, it might just crumble before her eyes. At the very least, Natasha has learned that Loki not only has Thor's friends fooled into thinking he's a born again do-gooder, but from the sounds of things, the rest of the kingdom too. She doesn't know how he managed it, whether he played the prodigal son card and pled redemption, or perhaps he leaned heavily on his sacrifice for Thor, but either way, it's worked. She knows that neither Sif nor Fandral are under Loki's powers, knowing how Clint was before, his eyes distant and cold. There is a warmth to both of them, that can't quite be stifled by the unfortunate task they have been landed with.
"One of the household staff has drawn a bath for you," Sif tells her, pushing open a door that leads to a dimly lit room. Fandral waits outside, hands clasped in front of him.
"A gentleman now, are we Fandral?" Sif asks, raising an eyebrow.
"I am always a gentleman," Fandral replies, straightening his jacket. "Prisoner or not, I shall respect the lady's privacy."
Sif smirks, and as they walk inside, she mutters under her breath, "Loki advised that he didn't cross you."
Natasha almost smiles, and wonders if perhaps she is being kept sweet because Loki considers her to be dangerous, unpredictable. She'd take it as a compliment, if he ever actually admits it, but she knows that day will never come.
Considering she's a prisoner, however, this isn't exactly prison treatment she's getting. The bathroom is bigger than her entire apartment, and she doesn't imagine she'll be receiving a cold hose down in here. Not that she'd care to be honest, she's had worse, and as long as she can get her hair clean and rid herself of the stale smell of three days' worth of sweat, she'll be happy.
The bath is sunk into the stone floor, and she doesn't know how deep it is, but it is apparently deep enough to require a set of steps, carved into the side of it. It's more like a hot tub than anything else - completely round, the steam rising in spirals from the water, which is lapping gently at the edges, occasionally spilling up onto the floor and trickling down towards a grate set into the tiles.
"Everything you need should be here," Sif tells her. "Clean clothes." She gestures towards a neatly folded pile resting on top of a chair. "Towels." There are half a dozen fluffy beige towels stacked neatly in a cabinet. "All kinds of soaps and things, I don't know what half of them are…" She wrinkles her nose a little as she waves a hand vaguely towards the coloured glass bottles piled on a small shelf unit, in comfortable reach of the bath.
"Thanks," Natasha says.
"We'll come back in an hour or so," Sif tells her. "There'll be guards stationed outside if you need anything."
"Okay…" Natasha says uncertainly. As Sif heads for the door, she can hardly believe what's happening. She's being left alone in a room that's not particularly well secured, although she can see no obvious way out. They must be fairly confident that she won't be able to make a run for it however, otherwise they'd have Sif keeping watch on her while she bathes.
The door closes, and Natasha hears the familiar sound of bolts being drawn across, followed by the clanking of armour as the guards take position. Deciding she'd better make the most of her bath, and that any hygiene based escape attempts should wait until she has a clearer idea of how things are being run, she strips off her dirty clothes, tosses them into the corner, and steps down into the bath, the water so hot that it sears her skin. She immerses herself fully, dunking her head under, redness blooming under her skin due to the heat. She reaches out for the bottles, trying to work out which one is shampoo, and when she finds a fragrant, thick liquid, she empties a dollop into her hand and rubs it curiously with a fingertip. It starts to lather, and she takes that as a good enough sign, immediately slapping it onto her hair and massaging it in. She hates being dirty. She can deal with it if she knows she'll be going home to a hot shower, but stuck in that cell, she was never going to get even a basin of water and a cloth unless she asked for it. She's just grateful that whatever game Loki's playing is working in her favour, and as she scrubs her face with an interesting, gritty mixture that smells faintly of apricots, she can't find it in her heart to give a damn about everybody else. They're probably gossiping about her as she sits here, but it's not her fault that none of them considered that asking might be a way forward. Has Thor even requested a negotiation with Loki? No. Has he asked Sif to do all the hard work for him? Yes. If any of them dare pass judgement when she returns, she will make the biggest deal out of whatever food she's given tonight, regardless of whether she enjoys it or not.
She can hear footsteps approaching, and she knows it's him before he even steps into the room. She ignores him, far too content to be out of her cell to have the moment ruined by him. If he hopes to intimidate her just because she's naked, he's going to be sorely disappointed. She's not precious over her body, she has used it as a weapon far too many times to worry about who sees what. Nevertheless, she keeps herself well submerged; only an idiot plays their trump card in the first round.
She runs her fingers through her hair, glad to have it clean at last, and inhales the lingering scent of the shampoo. If she's ever freed, she is definitely going to take some of that stuff with her. She twirls a damp lock of hair around her finger and closes her eyes, leaning her head back against the edge of the bath as she hears him draw close. She can tell when he sits down on the floor behind her; it's as though a shadow falls over her, blocking the heat and the light from the torch behind them. She opens her eyes and looks up at him, his green eyes narrowed in curiosity before they trail down her face and neck, over her shoulders, until they meet the water.
"Can I help you?" Natasha asks softly, still twiddling with her hair, very aware of the moisture glistening on her skin in the low light. He seems aware of it too, because he's doing an awful lot more looking than she is used to, and so she allows her lips to curve into a small smile, tilting her chin upwards and exposing her neck. He's not dressed in his usual garb. He's done away with all the leather and metal and regal paraphernalia. Instead he is wearing a pair of trousers and a simple, light, tunic. It's green, naturally, and looks to be made of some incredibly soft material, almost like velvet but not quite. The v-shaped collar bares a little of his pale chest, and Natasha thinks he must be feeling quite cocky to come in here unprotected. Has he not heard that pride comes before a fall?
"Enjoying yourself?" he asks, his voice low. He trails one finger along her shoulder, and Natasha closes her eyes. If he wants her, he should just come right out and say it. She's his prisoner, he's the king, and he has a sense of entitlement that will only encourage him into thinking that he has every right to her.
"Glad to be out of there," she replies, opening her eyes to meet his gaze. "They're driving me insane."
He nods, as though he expected this, and Natasha casts her eyes over him, biting her lip. He has a dagger secured in his belt, which seems to be his only weapon, and she makes a mental note of it as she returns her eyes to his. She wonders how much her grip will be affected by wet hands, which of them might be faster, and if she fails, a prospect which she wouldn't normally consider, but this is a god she's dealing with, what the consequences will be for her.
He pushes up his sleeves and picks up the wash cloth, dunking it into the water with one hand and moving Natasha's hair aside with the other. He then proceeds to wash her shoulders, his touch gentle and delicate as the water trickles over her skin. She doesn't protest, and were he not her captor she might even enjoy it. She leans forward, allowing him greater access to her back, and he doesn't say a word as he washes her, moving the cloth in smooth, circular motions. She closes her eyes and inhales deeply, steam filling her lungs. She knows she should feel guilty, allowing him to touch her, dragging the whole scenario out while the others are sat in their cells, twiddling their thumbs and likely exchanging bullshit theories about her.
"Can I ask you something?"
"You can," he says, dipping the cloth into the water again before he resumes washing her.
"What's the deal with the food?" She thinks she knows the answer, but she'd rather hear what he has to say on the matter. She knows he won't be honest with her, but perhaps if she can discount what he says as a lie, that might leave her a little bit wiser about his plans and motives.
"All prisoners get bread and water. You can't come into my kingdom and expect a feast," he tells her. "That's just how it is."
Natasha frowns, ignoring the sensation of his warm breath fluttering over her skin. "But I don't get bread and water. I get cheese, apples. Everybody else gets bread and water. I get special treatment."
"You do?" His hand pauses in his ministrations, his face close to hers.
"Yeah," she tells him, knowing full well that the news hasn't come as a surprise to him.
"Well perhaps one of the guards has taken a shine to you," he murmurs, and resumes his washing. "And has decided that it would be tragic if you wasted away on bread and water. You are, after all, a sight to behold."
"You think?" She turns towards him, their faces only a couple of inches apart. She can see every detail of his face, every eyelash, every pore, the shadows cast over his haughty features by the flickering firelight. He raises a finger, trailing it along her jaw, his lips curving into a smirk.
"It must be hell for you down there," he says softly, tilting her face to one side so he can press his lips against her jaw. She leans in to his touch, taking one hand out of the water and resting it on top of his, her fingers curling around his palm.
"What d'you mean?"
"Well," Loki says, smiling against her skin. "If the issue of food is concerning you, it can only be because the others are concerned about it."
Natasha freezes and looks down, her hand slipping away from his.
"Have they turned on you already?" He grins, and this is confirmation enough to Natasha that no guard has taken a shine to her.
"Well, I'm not gonna lie," she sighs. "You're proving more tolerable company than they are at the moment."
"I'd take that as a compliment if it weren't so blatantly obvious." He runs his fingers slowly through her hair, his fingertips soft against her scalp, and Natasha inhales, moving closer to him, almost closing the gap between them. He brushes his lips against hers, testing the water, and when she moves even closer to him, he captures her lips without hesitation. Natasha pushes herself up with her elbow, deepening the kiss, one hand coming to rest on his neck, but before she can get too carried away, he breaks apart from her, his lips moving to the tender skin of her neck. Her eyelids flutter shut and she lets out a breathy sigh, her fingers tangling in his hair and gripping it tightly, holding him close as he grazes his teeth against her. She gasps involuntarily, and feels his lips curve into a smirk as the atmosphere becomes headier, steam catching in her lungs. She turns her head, tugging him up so she can meet his lips again, water sloshing as she moves. She trails her hand down to the hem of his shirt, tugging it up, but his hand catches her wrist, his lips pulling away from her own.
"No."
Natasha tries to stifle her expression of genuine confusion, but fails miserably. Her head is all over the place, her skin burning from where he has touched her. "You don't wanna join me?" she asks, nodding towards the water.
"No," he says, as though that would be the most ridiculous idea he could have.
Natasha frowns, and sinks back into the bath until the water covers her shoulders.
"What's the matter?" he asks, sitting up straight. "Hasn't a man ever told you no?"
Natasha pulls a face. "Not really. But…I thought you wanted…" She shakes her head and draws her knees up to her chest, resting her chin on them. Her off the cuff plan has failed just as spectacularly as Clint's attempt at a breakfast escape, except this is rather less heroic.
He lowers himself down again so he can murmur into her ear. "I'm not an idiot," he says, his breath ghosting against her skin.
"What d'you mean?"
"Well," he says, his voice low and silky. "You're the kind of sadistic bitch who would have slit my throat before I came."
Natasha freezes, and he curls a tendril of her damp hair around his index finger.
"I wasn't planning on killing you," she says, and it's true. She wasn't.
"Which is of course why you paid such close attention to my dagger," he tells her. "And why you were so desperate relieve me of my clothes and leave me unarmed. That innocent face might work on lowlier beings, Agent Romanov, but don't insult my intelligence by using it on me."
"Fine," she says, shrugging her shoulders, still very aware of the loose grip he has on her hair. "I was planning on threatening you, but killing you would have made no sense. I wouldn't have made it out of this bathroom alive if I had."
He releases her hair and stands up, brushing his clothes down, his hand coming to rest on the hilt of his dagger and giving it a squeeze, as though he needs reassurance that she hasn't slipped it out from under his nose. She turns around as he walks towards the cabinet, pulling out a towel and roughly drying his hands, then presses it to his face, soaking up the excess moisture that Natasha has left behind. She watches him, arms folded on the edge of the bath, and she bites her lip, wondering if it is too soon, or whether she is just plain stupid, for the request she wants to make.
"Can I have another bath tomorrow?" she blurts out.
"Why?" he asks, slinging the towel into the far corner of the room for somebody else to worry about. "Because you enjoyed this one so much?"
"Because I like being clean," Natasha replies, her expression hardening. He narrows his eyes for a moment, scrutinising her, then glances down at her glistening body, his gaze lingering on the swell of her breast. Instinct tells her to lower herself into the bath, obscuring any show of skin from which he might glean some enjoyment, but her brain tells her to stay put, tilting her chin upwards just a little so the torchlight catches her at the most flattering angle.
"Yes, all right," he says. "Now get dressed. Sif and Fandral will be returning soon and they don't have all day to waste."
"Okay," she says, withdrawing to the other side of the bath and waiting for him to leave. He heads for the door, but pauses his hand on the knob, and turns back to her.
"Give my regards to your fellow detainees, won't you?" He smirks, and then disappears from the bathroom, leaving Natasha alone in the lukewarm water.