AN: 01. This is long and was difficult to write. I apologize for the delay and hope the end result was worth it. 02. There is graphic adult sexual content in this chapter, including light D/s interplay. You have been warned (or intrigued). 03. The chapter title, of course, is a reference to Hamlet.

Instinct Blues

Part Six: To Be or Not To Be

By: Wynn

As the elevator descends, Loki plans. By now, Jarvis must have informed Thor of his impending arrival. How would Thor react to news of a visit? Would he look upon Loki's visit with any positivity, or would he view the turn of events with caution, perhaps even with suspicion? If he were smart, Thor would suspect Loki and his motive, he would even deny Loki entrance to his quarters, but intelligence never reigned supreme in Thor. Emotion did and always had. Why would this change now? An assault by the Destroyer had not diminished Thor's regard for Loki, his desperation to save him. Neither had his actions on the Carrier or in New York. If these could not, neither could a few harsh words said in a time of physical upheaval and mental trauma. Thor would look upon this visit with caution perhaps, but also, ceaselessly, foolishly, with hope.

So if hope prevailed, even in a muted form, how best for Loki to approach? Thor was correct in his assessment before: Loki does not lie as well as he used to. Perhaps he will again some day, Natasha, after all, excelling with deceit, but now he lacks the control that he needs to succeed. Any detectable sign of duplicity would shutter Thor more firmly than the doors to Odin's vault, and, if that occurred, Loki would fail to acquire the information that he needs.

Loki purses his lips as the elevator starts to slow. If he can't manipulate Thor with a lie, he'll manipulate him with the truth. He'll call upon Thor's regard for him, his desperate desire to help, and he'll ask. He'll ask Thor for aid. Thor will not be able to resist the lure of open and honest communication, of a direct and forthright chance to connect and to be, unbearably, as brothers again.

The elevator stops, and, after a brief pause, the doors open. Loki does not need to search far for Thor. He stands seven or eight feet before the elevator, far enough for Loki to disembark without growing uncomfortable at the lack of space. He wears jeans and another plaid shirt, but no shoes, a trait spanning to the early days of their youth.

Swallowing at the memory, Loki inspects the surroundings. The floor seemed comprised of only this room, spanning beyond Thor to the same view that Loki shared and also behind, an attempt, it seemed, by Stark to recreate the sweep of the quarters in the palace on Asgard. His own small rooms materialize in his mind, and indignation begins to burn within Loki, low and instinctive. He tries to quell it with a slow intake of breath as he returns his gaze to Thor.

Loki find Thor eyeing him, wary, but with the faint gleam of hope that Loki had anticipated. He does not, however, speak, waiting instead for Loki to do, and this gives him pause. Reticence and patience never appealed to Thor in the past. Neither had duplicity, until Natasha encouraged him to do so. Loki sees Natasha in this silence, too, and the thought of her coaching Thor on how best to deal with him, the extent of her manipulation of Loki, sparks the indignation within him to a irritation. His eyes narrowing, he says, "I know you look upon this as evidence of reconciliation. Let me assure you it is not. My feelings regarding dissociation have not changed."

Thor nods, the movement stiff, intended to convey acceptance, yet Loki sees the disappointment in Thor's eyes. "Then why do you come?" he asks, his voice low.

Loki allows himself a faint smirk, the better to convey displeasure. "The fates have a fiendish sense of humor, I fear. I come because I require your aid."

Silence follows his revelation. Thor stares at him, searching for something, sincerity most likely. Loki holds his gaze, direct and forthright yet disbelieving also at this unexpected development. After a moment more of examination, Thor nods again, conveying now his willingness to help, and Loki begins.

"Why?" he asks.

Thor blinks. "What?"

"Why?" Loki asks again.

"Loki, I do not—"

"Why do you wish to aid me?"

Thor tilts his head. "You asked—"

"After I stated I had no wish to reconcile with you. Yet you are still willing to help. Why?"

Thor does not respond. He watches Loki, still and silent, as dissimilar to the brash youth who courted war as Loki is from his former self. As he stares, Loki feels his gaze penetrate, he sees Thor see him, not the show Loki desires for him to see, but him. He freezes and then he tenses as he again detects the maneuverings of Natasha. How much had she and Thor spoken? Loki knows that they did once, the time Natasha convinced Thor to lie to him, but how much since then? Had Thor spoken of Loki to Natasha, too, had he revealed information about him and their past that aided her in her manipulation of him? Did they conspire together to achieve some aim, or did she work—

"What matters the reason?" Thor asks.

Loki starts, pulled from his thoughts. Then the question processes, and he narrows his eyes. "The reason is everything."

"Then what is the reason for seeking my aid?"

The resistance begets a glare from Loki. At his glare, Thor merely raises a brow, impervious to the displayed displeasure, and the composure stirs Loki's irritation to anger. He breathes in again and says, a thin thread of tension underlying the words, "My need is the reason. I am mortal—"

Thor shakes his head, incredulous at Loki's claim. "You still persist in this belief that mortality means inferiority? After all you have experienced?"

"How can I not?" Loki asks, his ire rising. "After all, I was consigned to mortality as retribution for my actions."

"Mortality is not your punishment, Loki."

"Then what is it? A vacation?"

Thor shakes his head again. "No," he says. "It is an opportunity."

The words freeze Loki, the assertion an echo of Natasha from the day before. She had countered his belief of Midgard as hell, claiming instead that his time here was an opportunity. Now Thor parrots the same. Loki stares at him, fury burning quick and hot in his gut. First the lie, then the assessment, and now this. He knew Natasha manipulated him. She had from the first, from the moment he landed at the top of Stark Tower and she sashayed back into the building to torment his frenzied form. But this… Loki had rejected Thor, yet Natasha worked with him, because how could they not be working together, they spoke of same things, of opportunities and sentiment, of love. For this to occur, they must be working together, scheming to achieve some end concerning him: salvation, repentance, possibly regret.

The possibility felt like betrayal.

Loki thought that what had transpired between him and Natasha the past week transpired only between them, Natasha private in her deeds, Loki disinclined to interact with the other members of her team. But now… He shakes his head. What had he thought? What had he led himself to think, his mind muddled by mortality and the chaos of human hormones? He had been foolish to think this game existed solely between them. Foolish and deluded and mortal.

Loki closes his eyes. He clenches his hands to still the shaking. He hears Thor shift before him, the soft hiss of denim on the hardwood floor. "Loki?"

"Did she tell you to say this?" he asks, his voice low and honed sharp by anger.

Thor does not respond. Loki opens his eyes; he finds Thor staring at him, his mouth agape at the abrupt shift in their conversation.

"Did she?" he asks, taking a step forward.

"I— Who?"

"Agent Romanov."

Thor stills, his brows drawing together as he peers at Loki. "Why would she—"

"I don't know," Loki says, his control shriveling before the heat of his anger. "Why would she? Why would she?"

"Loki, I do not understand—"

"Of course you don't. You never have."

"Then ask me."

Loki whirls at the sound of her voice. In his rage, he had not even heard the approach of the elevator, yet she stands now between the open doors, a small bag by her feet. The jewelry and the lipstick are gone, but she still wears his jacket and the kohl around her eyes. One hand holds the button for the doors, keeping them open; Natasha makes no move to disembark, content to stand and stare at him from the confines of the elevator.

As with Thor, she stands composed, her gaze cool, which fuels his ire to fury.

"Do you follow me?" he asks, now moving toward her.

Natasha shakes her head.

Thor moves forward, stopping a few feet to Loki's left. "She comes at my invitation. I desired an update on your progress. Agent Romanov consented to come after her mission."

Loki cocks a brow at that. "Did she now? And how often has she consented to come?"

Neither Thor nor Natasha responds to him. Instead, they glance at each other and Natasha says to Thor, "Why did he come here?"

Loki moves between them, blocking Thor from Natasha's view. "Address your questions about me to me."

"Why?" she asks, turning back to him. "You haven't. You asked Steve what I thought about you yesterday. Maybe you're here to do the same."

"Why I'm here is none of your concern."

Thor glances at Loki, curiosity at their exchange clear on his face, yet he bypasses the mention of the Captain, instead responding to Natasha's original question. "Loki said that he needed aid."

Loki tenses at Thor's response. "I say many things. Most—"

"Concerning what?" Natasha asks, ignoring him in favor of Thor.

Loki grits his teeth. "Concerning nothing, Agent Romanov. I—"

Thor moves again, to the right this time, enough to bring Natasha into view. "He would not say."

At this, Natasha looks again at Loki. She studies him, attempting to unearth his motive, to piece together now with before when she stood in his room, the wry smile on her face as she donned his jacket and dared him to rise to the occasion. What thread connected she and then with Thor and now? He sees possibilities flit across her face, considered and then discarded, and he tenses, waiting, assessing his possibilities too, whether to continue, to confront Natasha now with her duplicity, or to retreat and regroup, but before he can decide, Thor says, "He did not say, but he did ask why I would aid him given what transpired between us," and then Natasha blinks, the connection snapping into place.

Loki watches as Natasha breathes in, as her lips part, revelation on the tip of her tongue, and the thought of Thor learning the truth of his doubt, about Loki the mortal, Loki the lesser, Loki the failure (who would want to know this, help this, save this), moves him forward, toward Natasha, where he shoves her back into the elevator. He hears Thor shout as Natasha throws out an arm to stop herself from slamming back against the wall, but Loki ignores him, stepping inside the elevator as the doors slide shut, leaving him and Natasha alone.

She pushes against the wall to regain her footing, watching him, waiting to see if he strikes at her again, but Loki stays by the doors, possessing enough rationality to realize the danger of fighting with her in an enclosed space. Instead, he says, "I'm curious, Agent Romanov. Who was it that decided you should whore yourself out to me in order to pacify my villainous tendencies? Was it you or Thor?"

His words hit their mark, snapping her composure long enough for Loki to see anger, confusion, and something else, something softer: pain. The sight disturbs him, as it had before, in the ashes of his failed seduction, when she feigned injury to prove his humanity. Loki turns from the sight, swatting at the button for their floor, for her floor, nothing here his.

The elevator lurches into motion. In the silence that reigns, Loki hears Natasha draw in a breath to steady herself. After another, she says, "Jarvis, tell Thor I'll contact him later." Jarvis assents, and the silence reasserts its dominance, Loki staring at the numbers ticking up, Natasha staring at him. A floor passes and then Natasha says, "I'm not conspiring with Thor. I have to talk to him because you won't. Did you think Asgard would just send you here and then wash their hands of you?"

"Yes."

"Then someone should tell that to Thor so he'll stop bothering me. How about you? You are his brother."

Loki spins back around. "I am not his brother."

Natasha lifts her chin. "And I'm not a whore."

Loki smiles, a sharp one, taunting her. "Not now perhaps. But you used to be. I know about Sao Paolo, remember? How exactly did you gain access to your turncoat's estate so that you could slaughter him and his family?"

The look Natasha sends him would quail a lesser man, no, a saner man, one with something left to lose. But rather than quail, Loki meets her gaze; he even takes a step forward. At his move, the change in Natasha is subtle, but detectable, a slight shift of her stance, a tensing of her muscles, preparation for a fight. In response, Loki clenches his hands, and they remain, on the precipice, for one second and then for two, before Natasha grits her teeth and draws in another breath. On the exhale, she asks, the words stiff, but lacking bite, "Is that what you think is happening now? I'm seducing you in order to kill you?"

"It's more plausible than this ridiculous story about wanting to help me." He starts toward her again, looming, placing his hands on the wall beside her head to pin her in. "I can accept a desire to repay your debt," he continues, his eyes fixed upon her face, "as absurd as the notion is that I actually helped you. But S.H.I.E.L.D.? Why would they ever want to help me? I destroyed your city. I razed your floating fortress and brought it to the ground. I seized Barton's mind and made him kill his own. I intended to conquer this planet and to rule. And you expect me to believe that S.H.I.E.L.D. would risk a reprisal by helping me?"

"Why not?" she asks, lifting her chin. "They did for me."

They arrive at their floor. The doors open, but Loki does not move. He stares at Natasha, unable to respond, her claim beyond belief, but she does not waver and the truth becomes difficult to deny. Yet he does, turning and striding from the elevator without another word. Loki turns in the hall and heads toward his rooms. He hears Natasha disembark, but she makes no further step and he knows she watches him retreat. The notion she proposed, S.H.I.E.L.D. viewing him the same as her, as a tool to use to further their agenda, worms its way into his brain, stoking his rage once more. In a quick pivot he turns and starts back toward her. "I have no intention of ever bending the knee to Fury."

She watches his approach, her face composed, but she draws in quick, shallow breaths, angry with him still for his mention to Sao Paolo. "No one expects you to."

"Then what do you expect?" he asks, breaking now, the questions coming fast, barbed in doubt and his desperation to know. Natasha retreats at his approach, easing back toward her rooms, but Loki pursues until once more he looms before her, her back to her door. "You claim a desire to help me, not simply to help me adjust to this mortal life, but to help me, to aid me in knowing myself, yet from the moment I arrived, you preyed upon the deficiencies of this mortal form, tormenting me at every turn. This I can understand given our previous interaction, but then you respond to my advances with equal desire. And then you speak to me of love. How am I to reconcile the contradictions you've presented to me? How am I to view all of this if not as the work of the Black Widow, intent on driving me to madness with your actions?"

His assault renders fissures in her composure, cracks that widen and shiver with her indrawn breath. Natasha licks her lips and looks away, but only for a moment. She does not fall. When she returns her gaze to his, Loki sees in her eyes the emotion that he feels, the chaos roiling in the deep. "Of anyone," she says, her breath coming fast, "I thought you would recognize signs of doubt."

Loki pulls back, his brows drawing together. "Doubt?"

Natasha nods. "I told you. I didn't anticipate you correctly. Not on the Carrier and not here." She pauses and the wry smile returns; she shakes her head softly and then begins, "Fury told you the truth about why he assigned you to me. Thor wasn't human long enough to be of any real help to you. Clint would try to kill you. Tony would try to get you to kill him so he could justify locking you up somewhere. And you would piss off Bruce enough to make him turn. So that left Steve and me." She arches a brow. "You know why Fury chose me."

The Carrier.

Natasha sees understanding in his eyes, so she continues. "So they assigned you to me, and you land at my feet with your cock so hard you can barely walk." She smirks at the memory, at Loki sprawled at the top of Stark Tower, under siege by his new human hormones, Natasha standing above him, watching the show. "How could I resist tormenting you?" she asks. "I couldn't. So I didn't. I taunted you. I baited you. I invaded your personal space. And then… and then I deigned to touch you."

Loki remembers. The lesson with electronics, how his head spun from the scent of her soap, how her shirt pulled tight across her chest, how she leaned into him and placed her hand on his, her skin warm and soft, and how Loki broke, shoving back from the desk, striding to his room, away from her.

"I thought you would push me away," she says, her voice soft now with reflection. "Comment on my inferiority perhaps. But you didn't. You walked away. You tried to regain control. And then you talked to me." She stops again, her expression sobering as she recollects the moment. "You knew what I had being doing and you confronted me about it. You were honest, even if it was to tell me I was on dangerous ground. I didn't expect it. I thought—" Natasha looks away.

"What?"

She hesitates, her teeth clenching and unclenching. Natasha shifts in place and then, abruptly, she meets his eyes again. "I thought maybe you would talk to me. That maybe I could help you. So I tried."

Loki peers at her, clarity dawning. "The clothes. Your olive branch."

Natasha nods. She hesitates again, this pause longer, a sign of impending revelation. Loki hangs in the silence, waiting as he did before, locked in the grip of panic, waiting for her to soothe him with understanding. He fists his hands to stop from touching her, from prodding her to truth, the wrong move sure to shutter her forever. Her breath catches in her throat. Another moment passes and then she looks at him and says, "And then you kissed me."

His pulse quickens at the memory. In the store, in her moment of distraction, in his moment of maximum advantage, he kissed her, wanting to make her as flustered as she had made him. A millennia of experience shuddered at her response, at the quick bite of his lip and her fingertips unsteady as they caressed his back.

"Why did you do it?" she asks. "What were you trying to achieve?"

The last of his rage bends before the look in her eyes, Natasha frank in her desire to know, but he sees her uncertainty in the compression of her lips. Loki steps forward again, not to pin her in but to bring her close. Bending his head, he breathes in her perfume, the same she wore with her dress and diamonds the day of their kiss. The scent intoxicates him now as it did then. He closes his eyes and succumbs to sensation, the feel of her hair against his lips, the sound of her breath, the gasp and the ragged exhale. His body stirs at the sound. "I did it," he says, the admission a murmur against her ear, "to make you feel what I felt. To make you feel desire."

Natasha shifts. Loki feels her hair brush against his lips again, and he pulls back enough to find her peering up at him. Even in the shadow he casts over her, he sees the pupils of her eyes now wide, not from the dimness, but from him. "I would say I succeeded."

She nods. "I thought about it afterward, during the mission. Why you did it. How I felt about it."

"How did you feel?"

"Conflicted." She pauses and a faint smirk appears on her face. "But then I was thrown across a gravel roof and needed to rectify that, so I couldn't think about it anymore. At least not until I returned."

Loki steps back then, remembering the days of her absence, his unraveling at his doubt, whether she meant to torment him or to help. "What must you have thought when you returned and found me in the midst of the chaos that had been your quarters?"

Her smirk becomes a smile. "That perhaps I would let Tony throw you out the window." At his raised brow, Natasha shrugs. "I was hungry. I wanted to eat the lo mein you dumped in the sink, not the apple you left in my bathroom." The smile persists another moment before fading, before recollection resumes. "It was then I knew," she says, her voice soft. "That you were as conflicted as I was. That you didn't know if you wanted to kill me or bed me. Probably both, if my gun was any indication, which is why I thought that pursuing anything further would be too risky, for you and for me. So, when you woke, I tried to do my job. I tried to remain impersonal, but you—"

"Demanded revelation."

Natasha nods. "You saw the truth of the clothes and demanded an explanation. It affected me… It reminded me." She stops again, caught in the memory of her arrival at S.H.I.E.L.D., clad in her bloodied dress and her first offering of clothes, most likely by Barton. Loki watches, fascinated, at the interplay of emotions on her face, reading them as though they had been his because they had been: suspicion and desperation, defiance and acquiescence. Natasha blinks, shaking aside the memory. Her eyes find his once more and she says, "Steve wanted to transfer you after that. He said you were too volatile to be in the Tower. I convinced him to wait."

And there, in a simple, soft declaration, clarity.

Loki would ask how, but the how does not matter. Only the why matters. The Captain had given Natasha the perfect opportunity to curtail their changing dynamic, to avoid the dangerous ground upon which she walked with Loki, but she declined. She had chosen him, her interest in him and the possibility of them suspending her hesitations, if only for another day. Loki takes a step back, the enormity of her choice weighing upon him. He doubted she decided blithely. Consideration would have been given. It had been. Natasha had looked at Loki, caught in the throes of madness at his mortality, and she still weighed more reward than risk. She had let him into her quarters again, she had exposed her vulnerability to him, had let him touch her and deconstruct her. No wonder she'd been disappointed at his claim that he lacked humanity. She had rolled the dice in favor of the benefits of the game that had stopped being a game the moment he stepped into her bathroom and, with his hiss in her ear, it seemed as though she had lost.

Yet Natasha had not yielded. She proved to Loki that he felt something, something for her other than lust or loathing, and Loki all but confirmed humanity in his breakdown. How wary she must have been when he proposed sparring in place of yoga, wondering if he meant to retaliate against her for witnessing his weakness or to test himself as he claimed.

Yet again she had not yielded. She had tested Loki as he was testing her, and, unknowingly, he passed, intrigued more by her desire for him than her vulnerability.

He passed, so she pursued.

Natasha came to him, she again invaded his personal space, not to torment him this time, but to connect. Loki had understood that, in part, her touch gentler, though he had not understood why.

Not until now.

Now he looks at her. He had wanted her to yield to him, for her to succumb to his desire as she succumbed to his attack in the gym. Triumph over her meant triumph over mortality, over the chaos of his human form, and this meant triumph over Odin and Thor and Fury and all who had consigned him to such a wretched fate. It would mean they had not broken him. It would mean he remained, superior still.

And perhaps Loki still.

Yet as he looks at her now, he cannot say she yielded. Natasha chose. She chose to respond to his kiss. She chose to admit him to her quarters, she chose to help him soothe his panic, to fight him in the gym, and to come to him afterward to offer him her proposition: the same choice that she had made: to explore this, whatever this is they had stumbled upon in his rage and her torment. Loki understands the cost of yes, exposing and exploring and inspecting himself, sharing his life, his self, with her, rendering himself vulnerable to her keen, critical glance, but so does Natasha; she must share her life with him, she must expose and explore and inspect herself, too, and she still chose to say yes.

Natasha stands before the door, unafraid, her gaze both broad and sharp, taking in all of him, all the ruminations that surface upon his face, and following in exact, sure steps his train of thought. She arches a brow, the gleam of challenge lighting her eyes. Loki feels the tug of it in his gut, in his brain and in his cock, and perhaps, though the notion darts again to the shadows as soon as it comes to light, in his heart.

If she had not yielded, then neither can he.

Instead he must choose.

Loki slides his hands into the pockets of his pants and glances back over his shoulder at the dark kitchen halfway down the hall. "I believe you said something earlier about dinner," he says now, turning back to her, one brow raised in inquiry.

The statement crosses the space between them, but Natasha resists. She eyes him, feeling out his change in demeanor, searching for, as with Thor, no doubt, his sincerity. Loki holds her stare, her hesitation understandable, and after another moment, she relaxes, releasing a soft exhale. "I did."

He makes a half turn and inclines his head toward the kitchen. "Shall we?"

Natasha dips her head in assent. Loki shifts, intending to complete the turn, but quicker than he could anticipate, Natasha moves, placing a hand on his chest and pushing him back into the wall. For half a heartbeat, Loki cannot move or think, frozen by the possibility that Natasha betrayed him, but then she is before him, the wicked gleam back in her eyes. "Later," she says as the hand on his chest wraps around his tie and she pulls herself up toward him to kiss him.

At the touch of her lips upon his, soft and lush, lust ignites within Loki. Natasha opens her mouth and her tongue caresses his bottom lip, entreating entry. He obliges, his eyes falling shut, and the kiss that unfurls is slow yet sure, deeper than their first though their bodies remain separate, his hands clutching the wall and hers by her side and still wrapped around his tie. Seconds pass, or maybe minutes, Loki doesn't know, her mouth now his world, the taste of mint and the sharp edge of a tooth as he pushes in. And then her hand cups his cock and squeezes and Loki jerks back, gasping, at the surge of desire that spreads through him, bright and hot like sunlight. His head would have smacked against the wall were it not for her grip on his tie, and her control unravels his; his hips buck forward, into her hand, where she squeezes his cock again. Loki bites down on the groan that wells within him, but then Natasha yanks him forward and murmurs into his ear, "No. I want to hear it," and she does, the groan bursting from his lips and echoing down the hall at her command. Loki hears her soft intake of breath at his gasp and it compels his hand; he reaches for Natasha, but she withdraws, releasing him and turning away.

He opens his eyes to find her opening the door to her quarters. In the archway, Natasha pauses and glances back at him. Her dark eyes and slick lips snatch his breath, but it is the smile that blooms across her face that quickens the pace of his heart. She regards him a moment longer and then she says, "Whenever you're ready," before turning again and disappearing inside her rooms.

Once alone, Loki leans back against the wall to catch his breath. But he can't, the thought of her hand on his cock and her mouth on his persistent, as demanding as she. He closes his eyes and licks his lips and then he laughs, at Natasha and himself and the twisted, doubtful path they have walked to arrive here, both breathless and high on desire.

Loki pushes off the wall. He takes a moment to adjust his pants, the act as perilous now as upon his arrival at the Tower, and then he follows Natasha inside, easing the door closed behind him.

Late afternoon light brightens the empty parlor. To the right, the bathroom door stands open. The thought of Natasha pressed against the shower wall, water running in rivulets down her chest as Loki fucks her as slow and sure as her kiss out in the hall, sends a wave of lust careening through him so fast that his knees nearly buckle. He remains standing, however, and continues forward, trying, again, to breathe.

In the bathroom, Loki finds the remains of the computer and apple that he smashed in a trashcan, he finds her shoes beside the cabinet, but he does not find Natasha. Instead, the door to her room hangs open. Flashes of his first excursion surface, the tease of her locked bedroom door, the gun in the bottom drawer beside her lipstick. As he removes his shoes, Loki hears movement beyond the door, Natasha there and waiting for him. He hesitates only a moment and then he strides forward, opening the door and stepping inside.

Natasha's bedroom is nothing and exactly like he expected, having considered all possibilities. He takes a few steps inside, his lust, for the moment, giving way to his curiosity. At the far end of the room, facing the east, Loki sees a mat on the hardwood floor beside a low table. Nothing else, however, resides in that part of the room, save for a bookcase spanning the shared wall with the bathroom and a plush chair close by. Books in multiple languages fill the shelves of the case, English and Russian primarily, a mix of fiction and other tomes. A few items decorate the blank spaces, but he cannot discern them from so far away. A large desk and a complicated computer system occupy the center of the room. To the right of the bathroom door, Loki sees two long closets, one locked with the same electronic mechanism that fastened the weapons cabinet in the gym, the other open, revealing a row of clothes, fronted by his jacket, the rest stretching off into darkness. Along the right wall lies her bed, covered in a thin navy blanket over pale blue sheets. Two tables flank the bed, silver and glass lamps on each, a gun, a book, and glass of water on the one closest to the locked cabinet. Above the bed hangs a large painting of two small ships sailing in the midst of a turbulent sea and sky.

Loki will ask her about it later, maybe, but not now. Now he looks at her. Natasha sits at the edge of the bed, leaning back on her hands, her legs crossed at the knee and her head tilted to the side as she watches him. Loki shuts the bathroom door and then approaches, stopping to the right of her legs. He waits for her to say something, perhaps an order of some sort, but Natasha stays silent, waiting, instead, to see what he will do, whether he will seize control as she did in the hall. He does, laying a hand on her left knee and parting her legs. Loki steps between them. His fingertips trace the outer seams of her pants up her thighs to her hips, as lush as her lips. He slides his hands around to cup her ass, unable to stop himself from squeezing, from feeling again the firm muscle that tormented and delighted him as he questioned and seduced her.

Then he pulls her to the edge of the bed.

He will yield. Gladly.

But not before she does.

Loki undoes the button to her pants and slides down the zipper, revealing underwear as red as her hair. He grabs the waist of her pants and her underwear and tugs, divesting her of both, tossing them to the floor beside her shoes when they clear her feet. Loki takes a moment to take her in, hair neat and dark, the surrounding skin pale and smooth, marred by a few thin white scars. His dick twitches at sight, anticipating the feel of her around him as he thrusts and she rises to meet him, but he does not cave to his desire and instead kneels before her.

"If you make one reference to mewling quim," Natasha says as she lies back on the bed, "I will break both of your kneecaps."

Loki grins. "As tempting as that may be, I have something on my mind other than mewling." He bends her legs, placing her feet on his shoulders, and then he moves in, his tongue flicking out to taste her. He hears Natasha gasp in response. He moves his free hand down to his cock, stroking once as he licks again, teasing, eliciting another gasp of breath. Then he moves his hand, parting her folds, and begins, darting inside and then up, lingering when the gasp becomes a moan, when one foot slides from his shoulder and down his back, her leg drawing him in. Loki finds a rhythm that makes her writhe, and he holds to it, each ragged pant, every quiver of her muscles a sign of his triumph.

Too soon for his liking, his tongue begins to ache, another sign of the limitations of mortality. He pulls back, his chest heaving, and then twists his hand, easing a finger inside. Natasha cries out as his finger thrusts, slick and sure, in and then out. Another cry and then Loki stands, needing to see her, to watch as she breaks. Eyes closed, Natasha clutches the blanket with her left hand; her right snakes up under her shirt to cup her breast. Her fingers work in time to his. Loki pushes at her shirt and bats at her hand, replacing it with his free one. At the feel of her breast, the weight of it, the hard point of her nipple, lust heats his blood. He thrusts forward, into the air, mimicking the motion of his hand, of her hips that rise and fall to meet him. Loki rubs his thumb against her clit and he feels Natasha shudder against him. He repeats the motion again and then again and then he guides a second finger in alongside the first, wrenching a moan from her that causes his hand to convulse around her breast. Natasha opens her eyes and looks at him, her face flushed, her back arching at the short, shallow strokes his fingers make inside her. She shudders again and Loki releases her breast, kneeling once more before her. He replaces his thumb with his tongue on her clit, and the renewed touch brings her legs again around his shoulders. The combination of fingers and tongue begin to tip Natasha over the edge. Her breath comes fast, and he holds, he holds steady, until Natasha begins to shiver, and then Loki moves his head to the top of her thigh and bites.

Natasha comes, shaking, the soft cry wrenched by his teeth and his tongue and his hand piercing him. With his free hand, he works open his belt and pants and eases out his cock, squeezing, sliding his thumb against the head, sticky now with need. As her shaking subsides, Loki withdraws his fingers, moving his free hand to her knee by his head and replacing it with the one wet from her. He strokes once and then twice, slicking his cock, breathing her in, licking at the red mark he left from his bite, and then she says, "Stop," the word a moan, yet the moan a clear command.

Loki stops. He lifts his head to find Natasha peering at him, her eyes bright, glazed with lust. She pushes up, the movement slow at first, her legs unsteady as she rises to kneel at the edge of the bed. Grabbing the hem of her shirt, Natasha pulls it over her head; Loki watches as she reaches around to unhook her bra. When free, she tosses both to the floor. The light of the late afternoon bathes her skin, tinting it golden and rose. She grabs the collar of his shirt and tugs; Loki stands, releasing his cock to steady himself on the bed. Natasha takes a moment, as he did, to take him in, still clad in his shirt and wrinkled tie, his pants open and clinging to his hips. Her eyes linger on his cock, curved toward her, ruddy with blood and slick still from her. Loki almost asks if she still finds him to be merely adequate, but then she turns and says to him over her shoulder, "Take off your clothes and get into bed."

He does, loosening and removing his tie, unbuttoning his shirt and slipping it off, and then easing down his pants before toeing off his socks. As he climbs onto the bed, he sees Natasha digging into a drawer in the bedside table and removing a small plastic bottle. She flips open the top and squirts a dollop of clear liquid into her right hand. Closing the lid, Natasha tosses the bottle onto the table and then she makes her way back toward him, where, without warning, she reaches out and grabs his cock, continuing where he left off.

The wave of pleasure that washes over him at the feel of her hand nearly knocks him flat. Loki tries to brace himself on her shoulders, but Natasha grasps his searching arm and instead guides him down to the bed. Flat on his back, he watches as she positions herself over him, one knee on either side of his hips.

"I dreamt about this. About you," she says, her stroke slow and tortuous. "Last night. After you left and after the call, when I should have been sleeping. Did you?"

Loki shakes his head.

"Have you?" she asks as her free hand reaches down and cups his balls.

Loki nods, speech impossible.

"Tell me."

Gasping, he draws in a breath. "You wore… helmet…" She bends down, and the word dissolves into a groan at the touch of her tongue on his dick.

"I don't have your helmet," she says, opening her hand and drawing her tongue up the length of him. His body burns at the caress, so hot he'll wonder if he'll ignite. "But I do have your jacket." She straightens then and stares at him. "Do you want me to put it on?"

Loki shakes his head, his hips jerking at the renewed movement of her hand.

Natasha arches a brow. "Why not?"

"Because then… you would stop."

Natasha laughs at that. And then stops. Loki narrows his eyes, prepared to glare at her, but he stops when he realizes her intent. She perches over him, two fingers on his cock, guiding him toward her as she aligns them. A wicked smirk appears on her face as she hovers, lowering just enough to brush against him, but Loki sees the gleam of anticipation in her eyes, how much she wants this, and the sight pulls the word from him, his lust biting at the consonants, but something else, something softer, prolonging the vowels.

"Natasha…"

Her name draws her down, onto him, it brings Loki into her, and he wants to watch, but his eyes close at the heat of her, at the feel of her, at the heat in him, flowing and swelling. Natasha shifts, easing forward, and then she begins to move, her body sinuous as she rides him. Loki clutches at the blanket, at her legs, and he knows he does not have long, his stamina poor in this as well, so slight against his ache for her. He forces open his eyes. Natasha stares down at him. They look at each other as she moves, as her back arches and her hips rock. He grabs her hand and tugs, and she leans forward, bracing herself on her right arm. The stroke deepens at the shift, making him gasp, making Natasha still for a moment over him. Loki reaches up and pulls her down, his hand threading into her hair as he kisses her, and in this moment, in the time of her distraction and his maximum advantage, he pushes up off the bed and flips them. Her legs clamp around his waist, but Loki pulls her left leg higher, deepening the thrust until she moans into his mouth, until her nails dig into his back, kindling the spark within him. Heat rushes through him, bringing her name to his lips again, but the name burns as he does, the orgasm ripping through him sharp and bright like her nails and her eyes and her cry that echoes as he pushes into her one final time, his body shuddering as he breathes in her perfume, their sweat, and their sex, but he hears his name as he comes, whispered harsh and ragged and sweet in his ear.

In the parlor, on the couch, they watch the sun set against the buildings of Manhattan, Pad Thai and spring rolls spread on the table before them. Loki watches as Natasha leans forward to dip one of her rolls into a small bowl of soy sauce. She wears a grey t-shirt and a pair of pale green underwear and nothing else. He lounges against the armrest, clad again in his pants, a bottle of ale in his hands that recalls for him the mead in Asgard. He doubts she intended the comparison. Loki could ask, he knows Natasha will answer, but he doesn't want to disturb the quiet that encompasses them, that permeates him for the first time in seven days.

He will not go so far as to call it peace.

But the quiet suffices. Later the questions will come, the revelations and the understanding, the definition of self, and later still, though he doubts, still he doubts, something other than lust and curiosity and the chaos that drives him on, something softer than hate and far more treacherous, something similar to love.

With Natasha, he's willing to find out.

Fin.