Chapter 3
Loki and Natasha
"Thou art all ice. Thy kindness freezes."
-William Shakespeare
Clint heard her coming, but he knew there was no sense in telling her so. It wasn't that she was trying to sneak up on him and he let her – nothing like that – it was a tacit understanding, a silent pact, an inner feeling of awareness of the other person born of years of high-peril work together, and perhaps something more.
"Hey, Tasha," he said, saying the nickname carelessly, but mentally savoring it like every other time he said it, knowing that he was the only one of the six – now seven, counting the thawed soldier – allowed to call her that without receiving a knife somewhere uncomfortable.
"Hey, Barton." His back was to her as he bent over his work in the floor: a couple trick arrows he was fitting with a miniaturized version of something similar to an arc reactor. He and Tony had been working on developing an improvement over his original battery-operated C.F. system-hacking arrow.
"Have you ever heard of such a thing as a table?" she inquired dryly, continuing to focus on the view of his back as he worked. "It's actually kind of nice, and not too expensive."
Clint grunted as he pulled a wire tight. "Yeah, heard of them once a long time ago, decided I wasn't really interested in checking them out. Not my kind of thing."
"You know you look like a nut case down there when most normal people work at tables."
"I'm not doing this for looks. The floor works better for me."
They sat in silence for a long moment, until Natasha finally asked, "So, what do you think of this?"
"This is nice. This is also sometimes kind of strange. Actually, this is somewhat nebulous – care to elaborate?"
She broke into a grin, and Clint turned in time to see it. "Cap. He's kind of nice."
"Only three months out of the ocean – I'd say he's doing pretty well. He is nice. Old-fashioned... but –"
"He won't stop calling me 'ma'am'."
"There." Clint sat back and held the tip up to eye level, examining the tiny area where it did not join flush to the shaft. He pulled out a fine file and set to work on it, replying, "It's funny."
"Not to me."
"He's used to treating ladies differently."
"I'm not a lady," glared Natasha.
"Yeah, we know," Clint drawled. He blew the dust off the file and examined his arrow once again. "This should do." He stood up, and pulled Natasha to her feet as well. "I'm going to go out and test this."
"At three a.m.? Everyone will wonder what in the world you're doing awake at this hour." Natasha crossed her arms.
"I might ask the same of you," Clint grinned. "You wanna come?"
She shook her head, her bright red hair falling in front of her face and obscuring it from view. "I'm going to try and get some shut-eye."
"Good luck," he said, and he wasn't joking. He had shared a room with Natasha since the Budapest incident, when they decided -for both their safeties- to avoid going solo. They were partners for a reason. Natasha insisted it didn't go beyond business, but sometimes Clint wasn't so sure. She told him things she never told anyone else, and he did the same for her. Her nightmares every night and her horrible insomnia had not been lost upon him – regularly she would wake up breathing heavily, drenched in a cold sweat, psychological baggage coming back to haunt her from her experiences in the infamous Red Room, or worse. Clint would rub her back and talk to her about something random until she was calmer, and although she never said thank you, he knew she appreciated him.
He felt the same way for her. He didn't trust anyone, except her. A tumultuous, abusive childhood, coupled with circus life and constant pranks, danger, and foolery had not made him keen on letting just anyone into his heart. It happened once, with Mockingbird, but that had ended in a disaster of his own making, and he would just as soon forget. But like it or not, he couldn't. Natasha knew. And Natasha understood. Maybe that's what was so special. She truly understood what it was like to be where he was, and probably always would be.
As much as Natasha valued her friendship with Clint, she hated it when people thought there was something more to their relationship. And it seemed as if she was fated to explain it a million times a day to the team, mostly just to Stark with his constant antagonism, and Thor, with his innocent assumptions. Loki was the only one who didn't question them, but Loki actually never said much. She knew the principles of who Loki was from his past actions, and from Thor's testimonies. He was the god of manipulation, trickery, and mischief, and she knew he craved the power of the Tesseract. That was no secret – no secret to a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, that is. They needed him for his intensity, his abilities, his silver tongue, and his brilliant mind. But beyond sheer facts, she just didn't get that guy.
There he was, standing alone by the glass windows of one of the conference rooms, silently watching the nightlife of New York city go on below him. In his hand was clenched something small and slender silhouetted against the back-lighting, and without knowing why she did it, Natasha entered the conference room, and silently approached.
Loki's glance didn't waver in her direction, but a small smile played at the corners of his mouth.
"It is quite a sight, is it not." He spoke in a low voice, slipping his hand into the folds of his coat, stowing whatever it was out of sight. "I can't get used to it. I'm really quite lucky to be here, and I know it."
"Well, good," Natasha responded, sounding like an absolute wet-blanket, but not really caring. "Surprised to hear that coming from you."
"Why?" He turned and looked at her and Natasha noted for the first time the intensity of his gaze and the constant smile he seemed to be hiding somewhere between his eyes and his chin. "Do you really think I am that much of a monster?"
"I don't really know, now, do I," she said in a patronizing tone. "I make a point of not getting into other people's business."
"'Now, I'm surprised to hear that coming from you,'" he mocked."Is it just me, or did you use to be a master spy, assassin, and double agent?"
"It's just you. I still am all those things. I just know when to pry, and when to walk away." She turned on her heel and began to stride out of the room, but suddenly he was at her elbow, a hand on her arm. His touch was cool – cold, almost, but not unpleasant.
"Let go of me," she said evenly. "Unless you really know what you are doing."
"I have no idea," Loki murmured. "But I thought you would."
"I don't know what you're talking about. Do you want something?" Natasha was beginning to be irritated. "What do you want?"
"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," Loki dropped his head, and drew a finger down the end of his nose. "Why should anyone believe me anyway."
"True. Out with it." Natasha put her hands on her hips. "Unless you'd rather just say goodnight here and call it quits. I've got nothing over you. Does it matter if I believe you or not?"
"There's nothing I want from you," he said in a low voice.
She snapped, "Don't believe you."
"Fine. I don't either."
Natasha furrowed her brow. "Quit being an idiot. You sound like Stark."
"To my knowledge I never was an idiot. I've always considered myself rather brilliant," Loki smirked. "At least that's the idea."
"Now you really sound like Stark."
Loki chuckled. "That was quite unintentional, believe me. Goodnight, Natasha." He swept past her and in a moment disappeared in the elevator, hesitating, and then pressing the button to the private chambers floor.
"Goodnight." she said in his wake, looking at the ground, and slowly unclenching her fists, hardly realizing when she had begun to clench them in the first place.
As the elevator raced up, beeping intermittently as it passed floor after floor, the beeps growing closer and closer together and then gradually slowing, Loki stood motionless with his arms folded across his chest, contemplating the interchange, and what sort of lasting effects it might have. True, she seemed to have no heart, but he knew better than that. Yes, indeed. After all, wasn't that what everyone said about him? That all he cared about was his goals – power, rulership, skill, absolute supremacy. He liked a woman with a bit of spirit. Natasha Romanov had more than a bit, but it was nothing Loki wasn't sure he could conquer being the master of magic and a first-class manipulator.
Natasha shifted her weight from foot to foot, watching the board light up above the elevator entrance, registering that it had unloaded its cargo at last and begun its descent. At least I didn't have to stand here and argue with someone like Thor or Cap to get them to shut their faces about the 'ladies first' tripe, she thought, wondering when the word "tripe" had entered her mental lexicon anyway. Probably when the Asgardians came around talking like the Knights of the Round Table. It was an improvement over Tony Stark's vocabulary at any rate.
She entered the elevator and stabbed the correct button, closing her eyes as she ascended. Bozhe moĭ, I'm tired, she thought. The moment the doors opened, she stalked out into the corridor, pass-coded her door, and entered, slamming it behind her, and flopping, fully dressed, onto the bed. Within moments, her eyes fell shut, and she was asleep.
